IN THE FALL OF 1912, WALLIS AND MARY ARRIVED at Oldfields boarding school in Baltimore to begin the final two years of their education among fifty-six of Maryland’s finest daughters. They were delighted to find they were sharing a room, and that Miss Rosalie Noland, another sister from the family who ran the summer camp, would be their tutor. Wallis had developed a crush on the Nolands’ thirty-five-year old brother, Philip, and he had long since supplanted Lloyd Tabb in her affections, but Mary still corresponded with Prosser, in an exchange of letters that was sweetly innocent. He wrote to her about the harvest, or the welfare of the farm animals, and she replied telling him of a new hat she had purchased, or a romantic novel she had read.
Wallis and Mary’s room had floral wallpaper, two iron-framed beds and a washstand with a Delft-pattern jug and ewer. On the door there was a sign printed with the school motto: ‘Gentleness and Courtesy are Expected at All Times’, and they soon realised this was posted on every door throughout the sprawling mid-nineteenth-century building, prompting some hilarity.
‘Allow me to gently pass you the cream for your coffee,’ Wallis joked at breakfast.
‘May I courteously offer you some butter?’ Mary riposted.
Wallis’s quick sense of humour soon made her popular amongst the other girls. She was a talented mimic who could capture the Scottish burr of the headmistress, Nan McCulloch, to perfection: ‘No talking after lights out, girrrls. And no drrreaming about boys.’ She could do a decent English accent too. One of the girls, Eleanor Jessop, was from England. Her family were visiting Baltimore for a year because of her father’s business interests and she was attending the school as a day pupil rather than a boarder. Wallis listened carefully to her accent, asking her to repeat phrases such as ‘My father can’t row boats’, until she had mastered the unfamiliar vowel sounds.
Sometimes, if Mary came upon Wallis chatting head to head or strolling in the grounds with another girl, she felt a quick stab of jealousy, but deep down she knew there was no need. Wallis would always wave her across to join them and make it clear that Mary was her best friend, her chosen one.
‘What’s it like to have sisters?’ Wallis asked one day.
Mary considered. ‘They can be annoying. They borrow clothes and books without asking, and my older sister Buckie is patronising. But I guess they have their uses.’
‘Am I like a sister to you?’ Wallis asked. ‘Are you as close to me as you are to Buckie and Anne?’
Mary shook her head firmly. ‘We’re much closer. I could never tell them half the things we talk about.’
‘We can be honorary sisters then,’ Wallis said, taking Mary’s hand. ‘Sisters who chose one another rather than ones we got stuck with because of the family we were born into. I like that idea. I don’t have enough relatives. There’s just Mom, Mr Rasin, Aunt Bessie, Uncle Sol and a few cousins – hardly any of us.’
‘Of course I’ll be your honorary sister.’ Mary beamed with pleasure. ‘I’d love to.’
Wallis wasn’t a rebellious pupil. Her grades were perfectly good, the teachers liked her and she didn’t get scolded any more than the next girl. What separated her from the herd, Mary thought, was that she had more imagination. She was always thinking of new projects and had the gumption to make them happen. Wallis was the one who smuggled in some cod liver oil and saw to it that they both held their noses and swallowed a spoonful every morning because she had read a magazine article that said it could help you lose weight. (Not that Wallis needed it: she was slender as a rake while Mary had a tendency towards plumpness.) Wallis was the one who got hold of some household bleach and applied it to the freckles on Mary’s nose, causing it to become red and sore, then invented a ridiculous story involving a tennis racquet and a suddenly opening door to explain the disfigurement to Miss Noland. Wallis was the one who asked Eleanor Jessop to give them a list of places one might meet Prince Edward if one happened to be in England, just so that Mary might have a chance of bumping into her idol one day.
‘He’s studying at Oxford University,’ Eleanor told them, ‘and he plays in the polo club there. According to the newspapers he simply loves polo.’
‘There you are!’ Wallis winked at Mary. ‘You just have to become an expert on polo, turn up at a game – are they called games? – and let him catch sight of your beauty. I do feel for poor Prosser, though. You’re going to give him his first lesson in heartache.’
‘Oh goodness, it’s not like that.’ Mary blushed. ‘We’re both too young for it to be serious.’
‘My mom always said you should take puppy love seriously. She told me: “If you step on a puppy’s tail, it hurts just as much as if you step on a dog’s.”’
Mary couldn’t tell if Wallis was joking or not, but she began to feel bad that she might be leading Prosser on. She wrote to him trying tactfully to explain that she enjoyed his friendship but that was all. Unfortunately, she was caught by Miss McCulloch as she slipped out of school to mail her letter. Writing to boys was strictly forbidden and Miss McCulloch decided to raise the subject at their devotions the following morning.
‘You are all young women of good breeding. When you are wed one day, your husband will want to be assured that he is the one and only . . .’ She gazed around the room, her hawk eyes resting on one girl after another. ‘I suspect you do not appreciate the seriousness of corresponding with a young man who is not a relative. It is an act that could have the most profound repercussions, and should never be undertaken lightly.’ She paused for effect. ‘Now it has come to my attention that one Oldfields girl has been writing to a boy she met at summer camp. I ask you all, if there are any others engaged in a similarly foolish correspondence, to confess now so that we may repair the situation before it is too late.’
Wallis was the first to raise her hand and, lent courage by her example, more followed, until all but two of the pupils had their hands in the air. Miss McCulloch’s face flushed and for a moment it seemed she might burst into tears, but she regained her composure.
‘I want to speak to each girl who raised her hand. In private. In my study.’
They queued to go in, one by one, and emerged several minutes later with downcast eyes. After her turn, Wallis made a beeline for Mary and described her private conversation with the head.
‘She wanted to know to whom I have been writing,’ she grinned, ‘and you should have seen her face when I told her it was none other than the Miss Nolands’ brother. She muttered, “He should know better,” so I guess she will put a stop to it.’ She shrugged. ‘But I don’t care. He’s too old for me anyhow.’
The scandalous disclosure that all but two of the pupils were writing to boys provided the subject for several weeks’ worth of entertaining chatter. Letters were passed around for comment and photographs shown in secret. Girls who had not been particular friends now had something in common. It rather livened up the winter of 1912–13 at Oldfields.
When, on 4 April 1913, Miss Rosalie Noland came to their classroom during an English history lesson and asked Wallis to accompany her to Miss McCulloch’s office, Mary’s first thought was to wonder what her friend had done now. Which rule had she transgressed? She couldn’t think of anything in particular, but the school had so many rules it was hard to get through a day without breaking a few.
Ten minutes later, Miss Noland returned and asked Mary to come with her.
‘What is it about?’ Mary whispered as they walked down the corridor.
‘Your friend needs you,’ Miss Noland replied, and her tone was gentle. That was odd.
Mary followed her to the bedroom the girls shared, where she found Wallis shoving some clothes into a leather weekend bag and sobbing hard, her eyes red and her face shiny with tears.
Mary ran to her, threw an arm round her, pulled her in for a hug. ‘My God, what happened?’ she asked.
‘Mr Rasin d-died,’ Wallis stuttered. Her breath was ragged, her chest shuddering.
‘No!’
‘H-how can I have lost two fathers by the age of seventeen?’ Wallis wailed. ‘What is wrong with me?’
She clung to Mary and wept with abandon, her skinny frame shaking, tears soaking the shoulder of Mary’s dress.
Mary didn’t know what to say. Wallis must be terrified. Who would support her and her mother now? Without Mr Rasin paying the fees, would she even be able to continue her schooling? Mary felt a pain in her chest, a tightness as if the grief were hers too, and she hugged Wallis even harder.
‘I’ll be your friend for life,’ she promised. ‘Your honorary sister. Always and forever, until the very end of time.’