Rusty and her mother sat on a wooden bench on the station platform. It was a dark, grubby station with jagged gaps in the roof where bombs had shattered the glass.
‘You look quite the young English girl,’ said her mother brightly.
Rusty nodded numbly. She felt angry that her mother was sending her away again, and she felt helpless to do anything about it.
The previous evening she had been tempted to say, ‘I’m not going and that’s that!’ But she couldn’t bear being at her grandmother’s place either. Her life there consisted of making sure Charlie didn’t pick any more flowers in the back garden. Poor kid, he was so miserable. Since leaving Devon, he’d wet his bed every night.
Just then, a woman and a young girl wearing the Benwood House uniform appeared on the platform. The girl had short straight brown hair and a round face. Rusty sat up sharply and nodded to them as they walked past. The girl glanced briefly at her out of the corner of her eye and then looked away.
‘Of course,’ said her mother suddenly, ‘it’ll be a bit different from your American school.’
‘I know it,’ mumbled Rusty. ‘I told you before, the principal said it might be a little tough at first, but that I had a good head on my shoulders and I’d catch up soon.’
She stared down at her brown lace-up shoes. She hurt so much inside, she could hardly breathe.
A year ago she had begun her first semester at the junior high. She’d been so proud. She had had her own locker with its own combination. No more satchels. She had walked down the corridors in her sweater and plaid woollen skirt, from classroom to classroom, the new books in her arms, just as if she was in high school.
That was when Aunt Hannah and Uncle Bruno had let her have her own bedroom, with a real worktable of her own to do her homework on, and a corner in the studio and the workshop.
She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. It had a name-tape on it. It read ‘V. E. Dickinson’. Her grandmother had said that her mother ought to have had all the name-tapes marked ‘V. C. Dickinson’ so that when Charlie went to boarding school, she’d just have to cut the V off.
Charlie had got into a terrible state. ‘Are you sending me away, Mummy?’ he had asked frantically. Her mother had had to hold him on her lap for hours, comforting him. And her grandmother had said, ‘Well, really, he shouldn’t have been listening, should he?’
She blew her nose furiously and put the handkerchief back in her blazer pocket.
‘You’ll soon make lots of new friends,’ her mother said.
‘I guess so.’
‘Look, here come some more girls.’
But they passed with hardly a glance.
As the train pulled in, several schoolgirls were hanging out of the windows, waving to those on the platform.
‘Bag me a seat!’ yelled the straight-haired girl.
‘Already bagged,’ answered one of them.
Rusty picked up her Beanie and satchel and stood up. Her mother gave her an awkward peck on the cheek and ushered her to a door. As it swung closed behind her, she pushed down the window. ‘Don’t worry,’ Peggy said. ‘There’ll be someone to show you around.’
‘It’s O.K.,’ said Rusty dismally. ‘I can ask.’
The whistle blew and the train pulled slowly out of the station.
‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ said her mother.
Rusty nodded and hastily drew herself away from the window.
From a nearby compartment came the sound of shrieks and laughter. Rusty moved along the narrow corridor and slid the door aside.
‘Only Upper Fives,’ yelled the girls inside. ‘Scram!’
‘I’m sorry,’ began Rusty. ‘I’m new. I don’t know what an Upper Five is.’
At that, they all laughed. Rusty grinned. ‘What’s so funny?’
A tall girl with light-blonde hair and a long face leaned forward.
‘Upper Fifth,’ she explained curtly. ‘And what’s funny is your accent.’
‘Hardly funny,’ interrupted her friend opposite. ‘Frightful would be a better word.’
They all started laughing again and making comments. Rusty stood, perplexed, for she could hardly understand a word they were saying.
Eventually the blonde girl turned to her abruptly. ‘Didn’t you learn English at your school?’ she said. ‘Scram. This is our patch.’
‘Perhaps they haven’t got as far as having schools in America,’ added her friend.
Rusty flushed, slid the door shut, and opened the door of the next compartment. Four girls were seated on the edges of their seats, looking at holiday snapshots. They looked up and frowned.
Hi,’ said Rusty. ‘I see you have a spare seat. Mind if I join you?’ And with that she walked in and sat down.
The girls stared at her in disbelief.
‘This compartment is bagged,’ said the straight-haired one she had seen on the platform.
‘What?’
‘Bagged,’ repeated the girl. ‘Taken.’
‘But you have empty seats,’ said Rusty.
The girl sighed wearily. ‘Go and find somewhere else,’ she said. ‘We’re having a private conversation.’
‘Do you own this train?’
‘What a cheek!’ said one of the other girls. ‘Are you deaf or something? We don’t want you here. Or perhaps you can’t understand good English when you hear it.’
‘Don’t,’ said a girl in the corner, gently. ‘She’s a new girl.’
‘Bit cheeky for a new one, don’t you think? I’d never have dared answer back.’
Rusty snatched up her Beanie and satchel from the seat.
‘Ah, go stuff yourself,’ she snapped, and she flew back out into the corridor.
There was a section in the train where the carriages were joined. Through the gaps Rusty could see the earth and the rails moving underneath her. Even though it seemed dangerous standing there, it felt like her own territory. The rest of the train seemed to be claimed.
‘Now what?’ she whispered fiercely to herself.
As she stood there she remembered Uncle Bruno saying that when you started something new, like a business, and no one knew you, you were bound to have a lot of rejections at first, but that for every thirteen no’s, the fourteenth was sure to be a yes. So every time someone said no, it meant that you’d be getting nearer a yes. ‘I got twelve to go, Uncle Bruno,’ she muttered.
Rusty walked down the corridor, opening compartment doors. Every time she was told to go away, she smiled more broadly, for she knew she was getting closer to a yes. The yes came at the twelfth compartment.
Two small girls were seated by a window. One of them, a skinny, dark-haired girl with plaits, looked as though she had been crying.
‘Hi,’ said Rusty, sliding back the door. ‘You new?’
They nodded.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Of course not,’ they said eagerly.
‘Are you a prefect?’ said the dark-haired one.
‘A prefect?’ Rusty shook her head. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ said the other one, who was plump and fair-haired.
‘Uh-uh. I don’t feel so English, though.’
They giggled.
‘I lived in the States for five years. I only got back this summer. I was evacuated there.’
‘So you’re new, too?’
‘You said it.’
They all looked at one another and gave nervous laughs. The dark-haired girl looked away for a moment and then forced a smile.
‘There’s going to be someone to show us around when we get there,’ she said, ‘isn’t there? Mummy said there’d be someone.’
‘I guess so,’ said Rusty, ‘but we got each other. We can just follow everyone else or ask the way.’
The plump girl looked relieved. She leaned towards the dark-haired girl. ‘Do you know what form you’re in?’ she said.
‘Upper Third.’
‘A or B?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m hoping it’s A.’
‘Me too.’
‘What’s all this A and B stuff?’ said Rusty.
The girls looked pleased that they could impart information to someone.
‘Each year has two forms,’ said the dark-haired girl. ‘The As are for the bright ones. Bs are for the duds.’
‘Hey, watch it,’ said Rusty. ‘One of us might be in a B.’
The fair-haired girl looked expectantly at Rusty’s tie. ‘Oh,’ she said disappointedly. ‘You must be in Butt House. I’m in Curie.’
‘Well, let’s stick together anyway till we meet someone from our houses.’ Rusty grinned. ‘My name’s Rusty, by the way - what’s yours?’
‘Charlotte,’ said the fair-haired one.
‘Rosalind,’ said the other.
‘So listen,’ said Rusty. ‘About this class business. I’m in what you call the Fourth. I’m not too sure what that means. We have grades back home. I mean, back in the States.’
‘Which Fourth?’ said Charlotte. ‘Upper or Lower? A or B?’
‘I don’t know.’
Just then the train jerked to a halt, sending them flying.
‘These English trains sure keep you on your toes,’ Rusty remarked. ‘Or maybe I should say, your knees.’ She peered out at the station.
‘Only one more to go,’ said Rosalind quietly.
Rusty leaned with her back against the window for a moment. She suddenly felt sick. Maybe it was those tiny tasteless little cabbages she had been given at lunch time. Brussels sprouts.
The train began moving. The two Third-formers were staring at her.
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ she said, straightening up.
They both nodded.
At the next station they hung round one another like glue while hordes of chattering girls pushed past them.
Outside the station stood two double-decker buses. Rusty grabbed Charlotte’s and Rosalind’s hands and dragged them towards the front one. ‘Let’s go find a seat!’
As they scrambled on board, a commanding voice shouted, ‘No holding hands!’
Rusty glanced over her shoulder.
A tall girl of about sixteen indicated their joined hands with a disapproving shake of her finger. ‘No holding hands,’ she repeated.
‘Who says?’
The girl looked astonished. ‘I do,’ she said angrily.
‘Big deal.’ And she dragged the two small girls up the stairs so that they could sit at the front. It was a three-seater. Perfect. A solitary one-seater stood next to them on the other side of a tiny aisle. Rusty threw her Beanie on it and nudged Charlotte and Rosalind. ‘For another new girl,’ she explained.
They stared uncomfortably back at her, already sensing that they were breaking some unseen rule. At that moment a small, mousy girl, drowned in a voluminous blazer and felt hat, emerged from the stairway. She looked petrified.
‘Hey,’ yelled Rusty. ‘You a new girl?’
She nodded.
‘I saved a seat for you.’
The girl scuttled hurriedly towards them and sank gratefully into the seat.
‘I’m Rusty. This is Rosalind and Charlotte. What’s your name?’
‘Fiona,’ she whispered. ‘Are you the person who’s looking after us?’
‘Uh-uh. I’m new, too.’ Fiona had a purple stripe on her tie, which meant Nightingale House.
Just then two older girls came striding up to the front.
‘What a nerve!’ exclaimed one. ‘New girls bagging the front seats.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the other one, icily, ‘but front seats are a Fourth priority.’ It was the girl with the straight hair.
‘Well, how about that?’ said Rusty, enjoying herself.
The other new girls began to rise nervously. Rusty pulled them firmly down again.
‘As a matter of fact, I happen to be in the Fourth.’
The girl noticed the red stripe in Rusty’s tie. ‘Oh no,’ she said.
Her friend had the red stripe, too.
‘I guess we’re all in Butt House,’ said Rusty, and she broke into a fit of the giggles. Boy, she’d never keep a straight face saying that.
The two girls turned sharply away, muttering angrily.
Within minutes of the bus moving, Rusty began to relax. They passed hedgerows, fields and trees.
‘I have to remember every bit of this,’ thought Rusty. ‘I’ll take a snapshot inside my head so’s I can describe it to everyone when I write.’
Rosalind tugged at her arm. ‘Look,’ she cried.
Through the trees, across a field, they could see a large brick building.
The bus stopped and all the girls leapt down, still chattering noisily. They followed the crowd past a towering brick wall and up to a pair of high wrought-iron gates.
Ahead of them, a long drive led to the school. It was a little like a castle, Rusty thought, without the turrets. At the corners of the building were four wings. Rusty decided they must be the Houses. An arched entrance stood in the centre. Encompassing the entire building from top to bottom were rows of scaffolding and planks.
As they walked up the long drive, Rusty felt someone jostle against her. Immediately three other girls followed suit, sniggering. They were the four who had been looking at the snapshots in the railway compartment.
Rusty pretended not to notice.
‘You’re awfully brave,’ whispered Rosalind. ‘I’d die if anyone did that to me.’
They reached the archway and stepped into a vast hall. Rusty was transfixed by the wood-panelled walls, the large glass cabinets with trophies and shields in them, the oak staircase that swept up and curved around. She breathed in the smell of beeswax.
Charlotte and Rosalind tugged at her arm. ‘The new girls have to go and meet Miss Bembridge. She’s the Headmistress,’ whispered Rosalind.
A group of girls was huddled together at the foot of the stairs. Rusty was conspicuous by her height.
‘How old is everyone?’
‘I’m eleven,’ said Charlotte.
‘Me too,’ said Rosalind.
‘Eleven!’ gulped Rusty. ‘You’re only a year younger than me.’
Rusty looked around, baffled. She knew that her mother had been surprised by her height and that thirteen-year-old Beth was not as tall as most girls back in the States, but she thought that that was just Beth. Maybe all those oranges and sunshine everyone in England kept talking about missing had made her taller for her age.
A Fifth-former stood on the stairs.
‘Quiet, please,’ she said. ‘I’m going to call out your names, and I want you to form into pairs.’
‘Can’t we stay with who we want?’ said Rusty.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Those are the rules.’
She was about to comment, but Rosalind squeezed her hand. She looked so frightened that Rusty remained silent. When everyone had paired up, Rusty found herself alone at the end of the line.
On a landing upstairs, twenty-one chairs were placed against the wall. Rusty was put at the end, since all the other girls were Third-formers. They were told to sit down and remain silent.
The wait seemed endless. Somewhere along a corridor a clock ticked loudly. Along a passageway, sunlight poured through the windows, sending oblong patches of light on to the dark wooden floor.
‘Mind if I take a look out the windows?’ said Rusty, rising.
She strolled down the passage. There was a lovely window-ledge, wide enough for sitting on. She hitched herself up and gazed out over the grounds.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ whispered the Fifth-former angrily. ‘Get back to your chair.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rusty. ‘I thought it was O.K. You didn’t say not to.’
‘And you’re not allowed to use slang here,’ she added.
‘What are you allowed to do here?’
There was a gasp from the new girls who had been watching. Rusty sat down again. Gradually, several Fifth-and Sixth-formers drifted up the stairs to meet the new girls as they came out of the Headmistress’s study. When Charlotte, Rosalind and Fiona had disappeared with their escorts, Rusty took a writing pad out of her satchel. She had hardly written ‘Dear Skeet’ when she felt the girl in charge tap her on the shoulder.
‘Letter-writing day is Sunday,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Rusty.
‘You’re not allowed to write letters except on Sunday.’
‘You’re kidding!’
The girl sighed. ‘It’s one of the rules.’
‘Well, it’s a dumb rule.’
‘That’s an order mark.’
‘Huh?’
‘For slang.’
The door opened and another girl came out. Including Rusty, there were now only three girls left. Rusty pushed her writing pad back into her satchel, and when the girl in charge had turned her back she made a rude face at her, sending the other two girls into fits of giggles. The Fifth-former whirled round, only to find an innocent-faced Rusty and two red-faced girls looking hastily down at the floor.
Up the stairs came three more older girls. Rusty noticed that one of them was wearing a red cord around her gymslip and had a red stripe in her tie. The girl was tall and lean, with short, black, wavy hair. She had a smooth pink-and-white complexion. She glanced at Rusty.
‘Hi!’ said Rusty.
‘Quiet,’ said the girl in charge.
At last it was Rusty’s turn. Although her heart was beating, she opened the door with a firm hand.
The Headmistress was a grey-haired woman in her sixties. A pair of glasses hung on a black tape around her neck. She gave a nod and indicated the chair in front of her desk.
‘Hi,’ said Rusty. ‘I’m Virginia Dickinson.’
The Headmistress raised her eyebrows. ‘Sit down, please,’ she said.
Rusty did so and gazed about the room. It was just like an English movie. The windows, which were made up of diamond-shaped pieces of glass, were flung open. Old faded curtains with a horses-and-hounds design hung heavily beside them. Lining the walls were framed photographs of women wearing mortarboards and black gowns like the one the Headmistress was wearing.
‘Now,’ said Miss Bembridge. ‘I have your school report from your principal in Connecticut. She seems to think very highly of you. You were in what’s called junior high, I believe.’
‘Uh-huh. I mean, yes, Miss Bembridge. I was in seventh grade. I should have been in sixth, but they put me a year ahead.’
‘I see, by this, that you have done no French or Latin. Don’t they teach languages in American schools?’
‘Oh, sure. But we don’t start till high school.’
‘I see. Well, I’m afraid you’ll be a little behind here. I was thinking of putting you in a B form.’
Rusty felt herself grow hot. The Bs! That’s what Charlotte and Rosalind called the duds.
‘The B forms don’t do Latin and French. They tend not to take the School Certificate either, but your mother seems keen for you to be in an A stream so that you can eventually go on to take Higher and Matriculation.’
‘What’s Matriculation?’ said Rusty.
‘They don’t have matriculation examinations in America, I take it,’ she said slowly and somewhat wryly.
‘No, but they have other exams and tests. They’re nuts about ‘em.’
Miss Bembridge frowned. ‘Before I continue, it is a rule here that no slang is allowed.’ Before Rusty could say anything, she held her hand up. ‘The Matriculation Examination is what is required for entrance into university or college. If you wish to attain a university place, you will also be required to have Latin. To matriculate, you must pass a certain number of subjects which must include a language, like French or Latin, and mathematics.’
‘Oh,’ said Rusty. ‘It’s the same as the Regents exams. Alice took those. She graduated last semester. You should have seen her! She wore a gown, like yours only it was maroon and grey, and a mortarboard like in those photographs you have on your walls.’
Miss Bembridge cleared her throat. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, your mother has some idea of you going to university. A little on the ambitious side, I feel, but we’ll see what we can do.’
Rusty was surprised. Her mother had never mentioned anything about wanting her to go to a university. Rusty had always assumed she would do something more artistic.
‘This means,’ said Miss Bembridge, ‘that you are to be in an A form. I know that you’re used to being a year ahead, but I’m putting you into a form with girls of your own age. That will be Lower Four A. We’ll see how you progress this week and go on from there. Your mother also seems to think that you might need elocution lessons to eradicate your accent.’
Rusty rose from her chair, blushing.
‘Sit down,’ said Miss Bembridge. ‘I have dissuaded her. I think your accent will disappear of its own accord. But we’ll have to watch the slang, my girl,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ whispered Rusty.
‘It’s always a little difficult for a new girl at first, but once you join in the school activities, I’m sure you’ll be very happy. All our girls are. You’ll also learn that we have a system here of marks and points, which are based on the rules and regulations of the school. The rules are for your own protection, for the smooth running of the school, and are a way of learning to be a valuable and useful member of the community.’
She indicated the door. ‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘we don’t say semester here. We call them terms.’
‘Terms,’ repeated Rusty, and she backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.
‘Virginia Dickinson?’
It was the tall girl from her House.
‘I’m here to show you around.’
Rusty swallowed nervously. ‘O.K.,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
The girl frowned, swung on her heel, and headed for the stairs.