It was a very quiet dorm that first night. Hardly a word was spoken as we each took our turn in the pristine luxury of the marble en suite bathroom; showering, brushing our teeth and changing into our winter pyjamas.
Portia appeared gorgeously cool in a pair of black tight jersey shorts with a pink lace frill and a matching long-sleeved, tight-fitting top that showed her athletic figure to greatest advantage.
Honey sashayed out later as if trotting down a catwalk in a flesh-coloured, slinky, lace La Perla nightie that was very grown up, sexy and see-through. I came out of the bathroom last so that they could witness together my madly un-posh, un-sexy, Hello Kitty flannelette pyjamas. ‘Oh bless,’ said Honey sarcastically. I had thought them adorable when I bought them with Star and Georgina at the Beverly Center over the summer, but now realised how tragically babyish they were. My parents might be proud as punch that I was almost a full year younger than everyone else in my year, but they weren’t the ones who had to endure the feelings of immaturity that went with it.
I dived into bed and pulled my lovely new goose-down double duvet up against my chin, trying to ignore the look Honey was giving me. A nasty look, pregnant with derision and loathing. I thought she was about to say something else, but she merely pulled her mauve silk eye mask over her eyes. I suppose she decided I wasn’t worth it.
Portia was reading another magazine: The Fencer, this time. I was exhausted from the flight, and I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier as I read Edith Sitwell’s English Eccentrics. Eventually I turned my light off and began to float off, thinking how different the atmosphere of this dorm room was compared to last term, when most nights held the excitement of a pyjama party. Eventually Portia said ‘Good night’, to which I responded, ‘Sweet dreams.’ Honey just ignored us even though I suspect she was still awake.
Lying in the quiet, I almost welcomed the tap, tap, tap sound of Miss Bibsmore’s stick as she made her way down the corridor in an odd series of little steps and shuffles. I could hear her giving warnings about ‘chatting after lights out’ to other rooms. And I listened to her dragging bins across bedroom floors to wedge the doors open so that she would hear any late-night chatting that wicked girls might try to engage in.
At ten-thirty, her odd little shape was silhouetted in our doorway. We already had our lights out which must have been a first at Saint Augustine’s because everyone always waits for the lights out rule to be enforced by the House Spinster. And let’s be honest, what room of girls would voluntarily turn their own lights out at fifteen years of age? Apart from when it was exam time maybe.
‘Lights out now, girls,’ announced Miss Bibsmore in her shrieky voice as she perversely turned our evil fluorescent strip lights back on.
I peeked out from under my duvet and watched her as she cast a suspicious eye over our room.
‘Wot’s that then on the floor by your bed, Miss Kelly?’ she demanded.
I leaned over and scanned the floor, but there was nothing on it. For once, my area was spotless. ‘I don’t know,’ I told her honestly.
‘Don’t know!’ she screeched, using her stick to lift one of my Hello Kitty slippers into the air with a circus performer’s agility, then dangling the offending slipper in my face. It was definitely time to get over my Hello Kitty stage. In three months, I would be fifteen and looking at my little pink slipper as Miss Bibsmore wobbled it on her stick made me feel like it was high time I grew up and got some cool nightwear like Portia.
‘It’s by your bed, madam, so I suggest you acquaint yourself with the item and identify it quick smart!’
‘It’s a . . . well, it’s a . . . a slipper. Isn’t it, Miss Bibsmore?’ I asked uncertainly. I could hear Portia struggling under her duvet to suppress laughter.
‘No, it’s not a ‘slipper’, Miss Kelly and well you know it.’
At which point, Portia pretended to have a coughing fit to disguise her giggles. Honey was silent, no doubt waiting for a chance to stick the knife in.
I was genuinely stumped. Maybe there was another term for slipper that I was yet to learn. As an American, I was always discovering new words for everyday objects. It had taken me all the first term of Year Seven to work out what vests were, and jumpers had me stumped me for a further year. So I asked cautiously. ‘Sorry, Miss Bibsmore, we call it a slipper in America.’
‘Well I call it your classic death trap. I can smell the stench of a dead girl just looking at it. Wot if there was a fire, an’ all? Wot if you had to evacuate at a moment’s notice? You’d dive out of bed, blind as a bat, and trip over this so-called ‘slipper’, and knock your ‘ead on a bed or the floor. You’d be out cold while the flames licked about your body. A slipper indeed! I’ve never heard such nonsense.’
This time I heard Honey suppress a laugh – only I think she was laughing at the tantalising thought of me burning to death rather than the absurdity of Miss Bibsmore’s rant.
‘Sorry, Miss Bibsmore,’ I replied.
‘Now in the future, I want all so-called ‘slippers’ under the bed. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal, Miss Bibsmore,’ I agreed obediently.
Miss Bibsmore patted me on the head. ‘Right you are then, sweetie. Off to the land of Nod with you now, little love. Say your prayers.’ I stuck my head deeper into my duvet, secretly delighted by her comforting words. ‘And sweet dreams to you too, Briggsie,’ she added gently.
Using an affectionate abbreviation of Portia’s surname and calling me ‘sweetie’ was a privilege I suspected Honey wasn’t going to enjoy.
‘Thank you, Miss Bibsmore,’ Portia replied.
She patted Portia’s head again. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum too. Sister Constance told me what happened an’ all. It can’t have been easy for you. I understand she was a proper angel with an ‘eart of gold and it’s a curse on those like me wot didn’t get to meet her.’
‘Thank you, Miss Bibsmore,’ Portia answered quietly.
‘I won’t mention her again, mind, but I felt I should say something. It’s only proper. I might be stern but I’m not made of stone, Briggsie. As for you, Miss O’Hare,’ she added, her voice changing tone as she shuffled back toward the door, ‘don’t think I’m not on to you, pretending to be asleep indeed. As if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. I’ve ‘ad a good look at your record, madam, not to mention your sister Poppy ‘oo I had up ‘ere two years past, so may the Good Lord Jesus Christ and the saints in ‘eaven protect you if I ever catch you up to anything.’
‘Whatever,’ Honey muttered.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’ Miss Bibsmore began and Portia, Honey and I joined her in a decade of the rosary.
By the time our lights actually did get turned out, it was eleven o’clock and the jetlag was seriously kicking in.