Читать книгу Fifth Formers at St. Clare's - Enid blyton - Страница 5

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That term there were a great many more girls at St. Clare’s in the younger forms, and Miss Theobald decided to engage an extra mistress, to take some of the work off the shoulders of the class-mistresses.

So, to the interest of all the girls, Miss Willcox appeared. She was present at Assembly the second day and looked round with vague, rather soulful eyes.

“Her name’s Miss Willcox,” the girls whispered to one another. “She’s awfully clever. She’s going to take English. She writes! She has had a book of poetry published.”

The girls all gazed at Miss Willcox with awe. They thought that any one must indeed be clever to have written a book. Miss Willcox gazed back at the girls, her eyes dreamy and far away. What could she be thinking of? Another book, perhaps?

It was always exciting to have a new teacher. What would she be like in class? Strict? Humorous? Lenient? Dull? Would she be a good one to play a few tricks on?

“I think she looks most interesting,” said Alison. “I do really. I think she looks as if all kinds of beautiful thoughts are passing through her mind.”

“She’s probably wondering what there will be for lunch,” said Bobby. “I always suspect those people that look dreamily into the distance. Anne-Marie does it sometimes, and I know jolly well that half the time she’s wondering if Felicity has remembered to get the cakes for tea, or something like that, and the other half she’s thinking of nothing at all.”

Anne-Marie wished she could think of something smart to say back, but she never could. Well—poets were always misunderstood, she knew that. People laughed at them, and jeered at their work—but then, years after they were dead, people said how wonderful they were.

“Perhaps Miss Willcox will know that I am a real poet,” she thought. “It would be nice to have some one on my side. I daresay if Miss Willcox reads my poems and likes them she will make the others change their minds. I’ll work awfully hard in her classes, and get on her good side.”

Miss Willcox’s lessons were certainly interesting. They were filled with plays and poetry, and the girls were allowed to debate anything they liked, so long as it had to do with literature.

There was no doubt that Miss Willcox “knew her stuff” as Bobby put it. She was very widely read, had an excellent memory, and really did know how to pick out things that would interest the girls, and make them think.

She was a strange woman to look at, though—untidy, vague and given to “bits and pieces” as Janet said. A scarf wound round her neck, a brilliant belt, a very striking handkerchief. She wore gold-headed pins in her black hair, and her dresses all had a drapy look about them. They did not really fit her.

She had an affected voice which rather spoilt her reading of poetry, for she pitched it deep and low, when really it should have been quite ordinary. She had graceful, dramatic gestures, which filled Alison’s romantic soul with delight.

Alison copied one or two of the gestures. She flung out her hand dramatically when she was telling Pat and Isabel something, and hit Bobby with the back of her fingers.

“Hey!” said Bobby. “Our feather-head is copying Miss Willcox!”

“Hey!” said Bobby. “Our feather-head is copying Miss Willcox! Alison, you’re not going to lose your heart to her, are you?”

Alison went red. She always blushed very easily, which annoyed her. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I admire Miss Willcox, I must say. Her knowledge of English literature is marvellous.”

“Oh, Alison!” groaned Bobby. “Don’t say you’re going to worship Miss Willcox. Haven’t you got over that silly habit yet? You never choose the right people to worship, either!”

“Why isn’t Miss Willcox the right person?” said Alison trying to speak coldly, though she felt very hot and cross. “She’s clever—she’s written a book of most marvellous poetry—she’s got a lovely deep voice, and I think she’s most picturesque-looking.”

“Untidy and messy, you mean,” said Bobby, in disgust. “Picturesque-looking, indeed! What an idiot you are, Alison. I think Miss Willcox wants smartening up and making tidy. Gold-topped pins in her hair—gosh, it nearly made me sick to see them.”

Bobby was going to extremes and did not mean all she said. She was such a downright, boyish person, she so much hated nonsense and show, that people like Miss Willcox made her “go off the deep end” and say more than she meant.

“Oh, Miss Willcox is not so bad as you make out, Bobby,” said Pat, seeing that Alison looked as if she was about to burst into tears. “And she’s not so wonderful as you make out, either, Alison. Anyway—for goodness’ sake don’t put on a worshipping act this term. You’ve been fairly sensible the last two terms or so.”

Alison turned away. “Remember Miss Quentin,” said Bobby, warningly. “Don’t make the same mistake again!”

Miss Quentin had been worshipped by Alison when she was in a lower form, and Alison had been bitterly hurt by her, because she had found out that the mistress was laughing at her behind her back. She had learnt a hard lesson then and had been more careful whom she gave her heart to. But now it looked as if she was going to start all over again!

“It’s no good trying to stop her,” said Pat, watching her cousin as she left the room, her head high in the air, and her cheeks burning. “You only make her worse, Bobby. She goes all loyal and intense.”

“Well, I’ve said my say,” said Bobby. “It wouldn’t matter a bit if only Alison would choose somebody decent, but she never does.”

“If Miss Willcox was sensible she’d nip Alison in the bud,” said Pat. “Miss Cornwallis soon nips any silliness in the bud! So do the other mistresses. I can see that Miss Willcox is going to encourage that awful Anne-Marie too.”

“Well—let her!” said Bobby. “If she wants the Alisons and Anne-Maries of the world sitting at her feet, she’s welcome to them. Come on—let’s go and see if the court is hard enough for tennis.”

They passed Alma Pudden on the way out. The girl looked rather dull and miserable. Pat felt sorry for her.

“Come and have a game!” she called. “Make up a four.”

“I can’t run,” said Alma, in her usual dull voice. “I’m too fat.”

“Well, it will get your fat down a bit,” said Isabel. “Come on!”

But no—Alma was almost as obstinate at refusing any exercise as Claudine was. Claudine got out of all games if she could, and even out of the nature walks. At first she had arranged matters so that Matron piled mending on her, which had to be done in games times—but Matron had got wise to this little trick after a time, and Claudine suddenly found that she had not enough mending to make an excuse for missing out-door life.

But Claudine was not to be defeated in anything. If she did have to put on games clothes and shoes, and appear on the field or court, she would be taken with violent cramps, or would feel sick, and have to go off. It was simply amazing how she managed to slide out of the things she disliked.

She and Carlotta were a real pair in their study. Carlotta would not do things she disliked either, if she could get out of them but she used open and direct methods, whereas Claudine really enjoyed getting her way secretly, putting on an innocent face all the time.

They both made war against Mirabel, who, to her intense delight, had been made sports captain for the school that term, as she had hoped. Gladys had been made vice-captain, and this pleased them both. Gladys was small, but very quick and deft on the playing-field or tennis court, and a fine little swimmer. Also, she was very good at dealing with some of the shy, younger girls, who were a bit afraid of Mirabel’s heartiness and drive.

Mirabel was a typical sports captain, loud-voiced, hearty in manner, strapping in figure, and not very sensitive to the feelings of others. She was always trying to make Alison, Claudine, Angela and Carlotta take more interest in the games, and they were just as determined not to. It annoyed her intensely when they would not turn up at practices she had arranged, or got bored on the field and talked.

“This Mirabel, she is a pest,” complained Claudine to her aunt, Mam’zelle. “Always she wants me to go to the field and make myself hot and dirty and untidy. Can you not tell her my heart is weak, ma tante?”

“Claudine! Have you a weak heart, my child? This you have never told me before!” cried Mam’zelle, in alarm. “Have you a pain? You must go to Matron.”

This was the last thing that Claudine wanted to do. Matron was the one person who constantly disbelieved all that Claudine said.

“No, I have no pain,” said Claudine, demurely. “Only just a little flutter here—and now and again when I run or go up the stairs.”

Mam’zelle looked at Claudine hard. She loved her dearly, but it did sometimes cross her mind that her niece might deceive her in order to gain her own ends. Claudine had pressed her hand over the place where she thought her heart was, to show where the flutter came—but unfortunately she wasn’t indicating the right place.

“Tiens!” said Mam’zelle, half-alarmed still but a little angry. “That is not your heart. That is your stomach. Maybe you need a dose of good medicine.”

Claudine disappeared at once. She was not going to have any of Matron’s good medicine. She made up her mind to find out exactly where her heart was, so that another time she would not make a mistake.

After a few days the fifth form settled down into their usual familiar routine. They tackled their new work, grumbled and groused, laughed and talked, played games and went to bed tired out. It was a good life, an interesting, full and friendly one. Sometimes the fifth formers felt a little sad when they thought that they had only one more form to go into—and then St. Clare’s would be left behind for ever.

There was to be a stiff exam. half-way through the term, which every one was to take, even Doris and Alma and Felicity, who felt absolutely certain they would not be able to pass it.

“But it won’t do you any harm to work for it,” said Miss Cornwallis, in her crisp voice. “If you could just get a Pass I should feel you had achieved something! I shall allow you to relax, all of you, after the exam. is over, but I must insist that you do your very best for the first half of the term, and really study hard.”

So there was some very hard work done in the little studies that term. Carlotta groaned over her maths and Claudine puzzled over grammar. Felicity tried to learn her English literature and to write essays which usually ended abruptly because she had suddenly thought of a new tune. Anne-Marie rushed through all her prep. except the English and then spent laborious hours over that, hoping to win approval from Miss Willcox.

Even Doris and Angela worked, though neither of them liked it. School was fun—but it was hard work too!