Spring came slowly, buds blurred on the misted trees where rooks wrenched off twigs and flapped away with them to build nests. I was eleven and I took an exam to see if I could win a scholarship to Mary Hall’s Girls School.
Mummy drove me to the school one watery March morning. I wore my camel coat. I hated it. The sleeves were too short and the fabric smelt of damp and scratched at my neck. I felt hot and cross and restricted. The sky was grey and heavy as the tarmac on the road as we crept towards Norwich in the mini-van. I glanced into the back of the car and cringed with embarrassment at the piles of sweet wrappers and old newspapers. A spare tyre, its inner tube hanging out like a bloated intestine, was wedged behind my seat, old socks and forgotten hats strewn across its black bulk. Shame, and a deeper shame of my shame, flushed over me, and I prayed that no one at the school would see our car.
Mummy was callously oblivious to the mini-van’s aesthetic faults, and indeed to her own, although she promised to take off her blonde wig as soon as we had driven through Aylthorpe. She had been stopped by the police a few weeks before for having orange nylon string spewing from the engine of the car. The police asked to see her driving licence. She didn’t have one. She stared blankly at the officers and was let off with a stern caution not to drive again. Jubilant at her escape, she came home and searched through a trunk full of hats until she found a stringy blonde wig brought to Mildney by someone in a transvestite phase. She wore it every time she went out and she looked like a madwoman. Her pale skin battled and lost with the brassy blonde tufts of the wig, and her own dark wiry hair puffed out from beneath it in a cloud. She completed the disguise with a pair of purple-tinted glasses left by another visitor and a big brown fur coat. Daddy saw her sallying forth and raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Can this possibly be my wife? My love, you will be locked up if you are seen like that.’
This morning she wasn’t wearing her dark glasses, but the wig was perched like a beret towards the back of her head and the fur coat was done up with nappy pins, their pastel pink and white heads protruding awkwardly from the thick brown pelt. ‘I’ll undo it when we get there,’ she soothed, accelerating to pass a pedestrian.
I looked out at the road. A cyclist hissed past in the rain. ‘Mummy, we’re going very slowly.’
As the words left my mouth the van groaned, shuddered and died. Mummy and I looked at one another and burst into nervous tears. We pushed the car to the edge of the road and sat on the bonnet. I leaned over and pulled the wig from her head; neither of us spoke. A great green car pulled up and a bald man with long leather riding-boots and a moustache got out of it.
‘Oh God.’ Mummy stiffened beside me. ‘Now we’re going to be murdered as well.’
The man stood in front of us. He towered over the little mini-van.
‘Where are you going?’ His voice was far more gentle than his appearance.
‘My daughter has an interview in Norwich at eleven o’clock,’ said Mummy, ‘and this bloody car has stopped.’
‘I’ll take you,’ said the man. ‘My name is John Leighton. I live in Melton.’
I wiped my nose on my sleeve – it was better than using the crisp packet which was all Mummy could find when I asked her for a handkerchief – and looked at his car. It was very shiny. The faint drizzle of rain, which on our mini-van had produced a viscous surface of slime, glistened in tiny clear bubbles along the green bonnet. We got in, sliding and squeaking across deep leather seats. The man drove us to Norwich not saying a word, chain-smoking long gold-tipped cigarettes. Mummy thanked him and he smiled and nodded his naked head before driving off into the shunting traffic.
‘How extraordinary,’ said Mummy. ‘I think it bodes well for your interview, don’t you?’ I didn’t answer. I couldn’t speak because my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.
The school smelt of polish; bright clean floors vanished around corners. All the doors along the corridors were closed. Behind one I heard a chorus of voices chanting Latin while industrious silence welled from others. I imagined hundreds of girls concentrating very hard, and I felt isolated and insignificant. We sat outside the headmistress’s office. I gazed vacantly at the neat white label; it said: ‘Miss Floyd’. I looked at my hands and noticed that all my nails were tipped with dark crescents of grease from the car. I clenched my fists. The ‘Miss Floyd’ door opened and a rotund lady came out. She had thin, fine hair brushed carefully into a peak to minimize the pink glow of her scalp. A few flakes of skin had settled on her shoulders. She was very small. She smiled and shook hands with Mummy.
‘Gabriella, will you please come with me,’ she trilled. Mummy kissed me and whispered, ‘Good luck, darling,’ and I followed Miss Floyd into her office.
The room smelt of sweet coffee and Marie biscuits. My stomach rumbled loudly. Miss Floyd waved me to a chair and sat down behind a huge desk, empty except for a horribly blank sheet of paper. I felt less nervous when I noticed that only her head and shoulders rose above the desk, and I sat up very straight so that I was almost taller than she was. She asked me a few boring questions about my present school and what subjects I liked best. Then she said, ‘And what are your hobbies?’
Mummy had prepared me for this question, and we had mapped out a charming, enthusiastic answer full of pony clubs, wild flowers and brass-rubbing. I was astonished to hear my voice, crystal clear and confident: ‘I am interested in the dead. I go to all the churches near home on my bicycle and I look at every grave and try to imagine the lives of the people who are buried there. My favourites, although they are the saddest, are the young men who were killed in the First World War, and the whole families of tiny children who must have perished through scarlet fever.’
Miss Floyd’s smile faded, her thin eyebrows rose into her thin hair and she fiddled with a pencil. Her confusion buoyed up my confidence; I told her everything Daddy had ever told me about history, and wildly ascribed these tales to people whose graves I said I had seen. By the time I reached the Gunpowder Plot (inventing a trip to London to see the Houses of Parliament) she had heard enough.
‘You have a lively imagination.’ Her voice dipped into a sour squawk and she disappeared behind her desk as she bobbed forwards to push her chair out. I craned my neck to see if she had to jump to reach the floor. ‘And history is indeed fascinating. Come. Let us join your mother.’
Beaming victory, I followed her out of the office to Mummy. We said goodbye and left.
With every step away from the school my confidence ebbed. I thought of the sour squawk and the chilly comment about my imagination, and shrank. I told Mummy what I had said and she was horrified.
‘What on earth possessed you? It isn’t even remotely true, is it?’
I shook my head. ‘It just seemed to be the right thing to say. I couldn’t help it, it just all came out.’
‘Never mind.’ Mummy stopped to hug me. Daddy was waiting outside in the Mercedes. Mummy had rung him and asked him to collect us. He saw our tight faces as we walked to the car.
‘I think we all deserve a treat now,’ he said. Mortified, I sat like a statue as Mummy told him about the car’s disgraceful behaviour.
I knew that Daddy and Mummy desperately wanted me to win a scholarship and that they couldn’t afford to send me to a good school if I didn’t get one. Longed-for virtue and my recent unexpected rebellion warred within me. I wanted another chance.
‘Shall I write her a letter saying I made it all up?’
I hoped Mummy would say no. She did.
‘What happened, my love?’ Daddy asked, but I didn’t answer because at that moment we were driving up a concrete ramp into a cavernous multi-storey car park. ‘There is a delicious Chinese restaurant in here,’ said Daddy.
‘How on earth do you know?’ Mummy was incredulous.
Daddy winked. ‘The world is full of unsolved mysteries, my dear Eleanor.’
‘I suppose you come here for indulgent little lunches when I take the children to the dentist.’
Daddy laughed. ‘The mystery is solved.’
The restaurant walls were lined with glass tanks full of drifting tropical fish. Between the tanks, thick glass panes gave a misty view into the car park. Daddy chose a table where we could look out at the Mercedes. Mummy yelped. ‘God. No wonder you like it here. Do we have to look at the car?’
‘You may look the other way,’ said Daddy, ‘but I want to look at the car.’
I had never been to a restaurant with just Mummy and Daddy. I felt sophisticated. The boys will be jealous, I thought.
Daddy lit a cigarette. ‘Was the school decent? Did you like it, my love? You shall not go there if you didn’t.’
‘I won’t get the chance.’ And I told him about my lies.
Daddy laughed. ‘I see you have a brain underneath all that hair.’
‘Are you angry?’ I blurted out.
Mummy and Daddy answered together. ‘No, of course we aren’t.’
‘You are a very clever girl,’ said Daddy, ‘and I can see no reason why you should have to go to school at all.’
Mummy glared at him, but he pretended not to see and ordered me a frozen orange with sorbet in the place of flesh.