Visitors for the Chalet School Read online

  Miss Denny and Juliet were sitting in the residents’ lounge on the second evening after their arrival when, to their surprise, they saw this lady come bearing down upon them. ‘You must be Sarah Denny . . . just had a letter from my cousin . . . friend of your brother’s at college . . . said you’d be staying here and asked me to introduce myself . . . How d’you do? . . . My name’s Bruce, Stella Bruce.’ She shook hands firmly with Miss Denny and looked towards Juliet. ‘Yes, of course . . . going to the Royal Holloway College, aren’t you,’ she stated rather than asked, when Miss Denny murmured Juliet’s name. ‘How d’you do? . . . Which course are you taking? . . . B.Sc.? . . . very good degree at London they tell me . . . Now, you were at the Chalet School, weren’t you? . . . Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it . . . my sister was governess for a while to that Belsornian child . . . Elisaveta what’s-her-name? . . . before she was sent to school there . . . And I’m going to be visiting the school myself quite soon.’

  Miss Denny and Juliet looked at her enquiringly. ‘Party of Sixth Formers from Grange House . . . that’s my school . . . going to stay in Briesau next month . . . hotel called the Stephanie . . . expect you know it . . . Ah, there’s the dinner-gong . . . better be going . . . delighted if you would like to sit with me.’

  At dinner they learnt that Miss Bruce was deputy headmistress and also head of the English department at Grange House School. She told them that she had been spending her holidays doing research in Anglo Saxon literature at the British Museum Library; and since Grange House was closed during the summer and her home lay some distance from London, she had taken a room at the Leighton Hotel.

  ‘Hope they’re looking after you here,’ she boomed over the roast mutton. ‘Not a bad place . . . suits me very well . . . quiet and fairly comfortable . . . no frills.’

  Juliet decided she liked Miss Bruce, although it was difficult to get used to her way of delivering pronouncements in a series of jerks. It was rather like a whale having hiccups, Juliet thought suddenly, biting her lips to suppress a smile.

  It was clear that Miss Bruce in her turn liked Miss Denny and Juliet. She made herself most agreeable throughout the evening and sealed her approval with an invitation to lunch the following day. She was expecting a visit from one of her pupils, Patricia Davidson, and would like the two girls to meet.

  ‘Your Juliet will be very good for Patricia,’ Miss Bruce announced to Miss Denny, after Juliet had departed to bed. ‘Patricia is a very gifted girl . . . not particularly in my subject, you know . . . Science is her line . . . but she’s got one of those stupid society mothers . . . thinks of nothing but her looks and her clothes’ (Miss Bruce clearly never gave a thought to either). ‘I don’t suppose the poor child will ever be allowed to do any serious study once she leaves us.’

  Patricia and Juliet took to one another on sight. Juliet had been finding things at the Leighton Hotel just a little dull after her busy life at the Chalet School, surrounded by friends of her own age. And Patricia, though well used to being on her own, was delighted to have a companion with whom she shared many interests. She escorted Juliet round some of London’s museums and historical buildings; took her shopping and out to Richmond Park; and finally she plucked up courage to ask her mother if Juliet might come to tea at Devonshire Close.

  ***

  Even now, Patricia winced at the memory of her mother’s icy reply; she shifted uneasily on her perch at the drawing-room window as she recalled it. ‘Now, Patricia, surely you must realise that it would be quite out of the question,’ Lady Davidson had begun. ‘We know nothing at all about this girl and you cannot invite just anyone to the house, even if it is only to tea.’

  Patricia had stifled a retort. She knew that her mother always emerged victorious from such exchanges. Instead of arguing, she secretly decided to enlist Miss Bruce’s help. And when a letter came, in which Miss Bruce introduced and warmly commended Juliet, Lady Davidson did reluctantly agree to the invitation being given.

  Not that friction between Patricia and her mother was anything new. During the past year they had been increasingly in conflict, particularly over the matter of Patricia’s future. Lady Davidson was immovably decided that her daughter would leave school at Christmas and make her debut in society during next summer’s London season. Patricia’s cherished ambition to study at university and become a doctor — a project which would have had Grange House’s full approval — she airily dismissed as ‘ridiculous nonsense’.

  It filled Patricia with despair that her mother totally refused to discuss the situation, or even to acknowledge that there was a question to be discussed. ‘If only she’d let me, just for once, try and explain my side of things,’ Patricia thought as she watched, without really seeing, two nannies, pushing gleaming perambulators, pass below her in stately procession. But discussion was not Lady Davidson’s way; she preferred to annihilate opposition by simply disregarding its existence.

  Still no sign of Juliet. Patricia gave a surreptitious glance at her watch; twenty-seven minutes past four — No! nearly twenty-eight past — Oh, hurry up, Juliet, hurry up, do!

  Out of sight round the corner, an agitated Juliet had at last succeeded in finding the right door. It did seem fair that the entrance to number 28 was not in Devonshire Close at all, but at the side of the house in Coverley Gardens. Beginning to feel thoroughly nervous, Juliet hurried up the steps and pulled the bell.

  As its distant clang reached the drawing-room above, Patricia’s tightly clenched hands relaxed. There was still half a minute to go before half-past four.

  CHAPTER II.

  AN UNCOMFORTABLE TEA-PARTY.

  THE sound of the bell had scarcely died away before the door was opened by a maid, unsmilingly efficient in her neat black dress, white frilled cap and apron. She ushered Juliet inside, took her hat and coat and led her upstairs to the first-floor landing. Here, having asked with a totally uninterested expression ‘What name shall I say, Miss?’, she threw open the drawing-room door and intoned: ‘Miss — Juliet — Carrick.’

  Juliet, a little dazed by all these rituals, tried hard to maintain the poise befitting a former Head Girl of the Chalet School. But she was already apprehensive at the prospect of meeting Patricia’s mother (whom Miss Bruce had described as ‘A decidedly chilly lady . . . Not a comfortable person.’). And, as she entered the broad L-shaped room and began moving across what seemed acres of Persian carpet, Juliet had a horrid feeling of having somehow acquired eleven legs, all imperfectly synchronised. It was a relief to see Patricia jumping down from the window-seat to greet her, although even she appeared somewhat ill at ease and her first words sounded unusually formal. ‘How do you do, Juliet? It’s lovely to see you. I’m so glad you could come.’

  The two girls smiled shyly at each other. Then Patricia turned to the good-looking woman, with elaborately waved platinum blond hair, who was sitting in a wing chair beside the fireplace: ‘Mother, this is Juliet Carrick, who knows Miss Bruce.’ She motioned Juliet forward with a gauche little gesture.

  ‘How do you do, Lady Davidson?’ Juliet had grown so accustomed to the continental way of greeting that, without thinking, she offered her hand, confidently expecting the usual handshake.

  While nothing in the older woman’s expression betrayed her disapproval, this minor breach of etiquette was one Lady Davidson did not choose to overlook. Her small china-white hands remained in her lap. After a short pause she said: ‘Good afternoon, Miss Carrick,’ with just the semblance of a smile; it moved her carefully painted lips a fraction but left her eyes completely expressionless.

  Juliet became uncomfortably aware that she was still holding out her hand. She withdrew it awkwardly.

  Perhaps it was as well that Patricia did not see this little incident. She had been occupied in bringing forward an armchair and Juliet was thankful to sink down into it.

  At all their previous meetings Patricia and Juliet had talked easily, always finding plenty of interest to discuss. Today, in the artificial draw
ing-room atmosphere, both girls felt a certain constraint.

  Lady Davidson, with practised skill, kept the conversation moving on trivialities. At the same time she was covertly sizing up Juliet, trying, as she would have phrased it, to ‘place her on the social scale’. This was a favourite ploy of hers, a game at which she excelled. However, Juliet puzzled her by not falling into any of the usual categories. (The voice and accent were pleasant; the girl was certainly English, after all; though it was unusual to have such very dark eyes with fair hair; skirt and blouse were plain and neat . . . not hand-tailored of course, not well-off then but apparently a ‘lady’.) ‘Have you known Miss Bruce for long?’ she asked.

  Juliet explained that she had first met Miss Bruce only about ten days ago, when she and Miss Denny arrived at the Leighton Hotel. Then, since rather more seemed to be expected of her, she continued: ‘You see, Miss Denny lives in Austria, quite near my old school; she’s come to London to be my chaperone until I start at the university, which won’t be . . . ’

  ‘Isn’t it most awfully odd, Mother,’ Patricia broke in hurriedly, ‘that our Grange House party’s going to stay in the very same place where Juliet went to school?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, very strange,’ assented her mother, though in tones that lacked any inflexion. ‘I suppose that must be a German school, Miss Carrick?’

  Patricia drew in her breath sharply, and Juliet, noticing something out of gear, hastened to reply: ‘I suppose it is rather surprising, but in fact it’s an English school. It was started by my guardian, Mrs Russell, when she went out to Briesau from England about two-and-a-half years ago.’

  Here Juliet became the object of a long speculative look: Lady Davidson was wondering, ‘Now, which Russells would those be?’

  ‘Patricia, dear, would you ring for tea?’ she said, while her light-blue eyes continued to scrutinise Juliet.

  ‘Of course there are girls at the Chalet School from lots of different countries,’ Juliet ploughed on, uncomfortably aware of the gaze fixed on her. ‘There are a good many Austrians, naturally, and some Germans; then there are quite a few English girls, including Jo Bettany, Mrs Russell’s young sister; and French girls and Italians . . . and one American . . . oh, yes, and some Hungarians too.’ She drew to a halt, conscious that she was rambling and that Lady Davidson did not appear much interested.

  Fortunately, at this moment the maid appeared, carrying an enormous silver tray; on it were a heavily ornate silver tea-service and fragile pale-green cups that seemed to float on the tray like water-lilies. The maid, her expression unvaryingly detached, put down the tray beside Lady Davidson. She then brought a silver cake-stand, with plates of paper-thin bread-and-butter, sandwiches and a magnificent Madeira cake. After placing a table by each chair, she departed.

  ‘How soon will you be going to the Tiernsee?’ Juliet asked, as Patricia handed her a cup of the fragrant China tea. ‘No, thank you, I don’t take sugar. And will you really be away till Christmas? It’s a bit unusual to be allowed all that time away from school during the term, isn’t it?’

  Before replying, Patricia passed the plate of cucumber sandwiches. ‘Oh, do take two or three, Juliet, they’re so tiny.’ She helped herself to a couple. ‘You see, it’s a bit different at Grange House. These trips actually count as being at school, they’re all part of the Sixth Form course. You know how lots of girls leave school at seventeen, sometimes even sixteen, and go abroad to be finished?’

  Juliet nodded vaguely.

  ‘Well, instead of doing that, the Grange House idea is that we stay on at school, but go off in a party and travel round the Continent for the whole of the Christmas term. I gather we get pushed off to loads of art galleries and museums and churches and all the rest of it; go to operas and things, you know; and we can practise our foreign languages —well, people who know them can, anyway! Our school’s mad keen on all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I see. But what made them think of the Tiernsee, then? I mean, Briesau’s a simply topping place, but it’s very small and there aren’t any galleries or theatres nearer than Innsbruck.’

  ‘Well, we’re only in Briesau for one month of the time and that’s to give us what “They” call “The Opportunity for some Healthy Outdoor Activities”.’ Patricia smiled and it was clear to Juliet that she was quoting. ‘Last year’s Sixth went to winter sports in Switzerland, and this year it’s to be mountain-walking in the Tyrol for us. I must say, I’m looking forward to it awfully. And especially,’ just for a moment she forgot her self-imposed ban on the subject, ‘as I shouldn’t be doing anything that matters in school-work this term anyway, since I’m not in the university group.’

  ‘They certainly couldn’t have chosen a lovelier place for you than the Tiernsee.’ Juliet’s tones were warm; she felt it best to skate quickly past Patricia’s last remark. ‘The scenery’s absolutely marvellous and the mountains are glorious, you’ll have a simply wonderful time. I’m sure you’re all going to love it.’ She carefully replaced the delicate cup and saucer on the table at her side. ‘When will you be in Briesau? I must write at once to the Chalet School people and tell them about your visit. I’m sure they’ll want to meet you.’

  Juliet accepted a second cup of tea and listened with interest while Patricia related some of the plans for Grange House’s journey. On the way to the Tyrol they were to spend ten days in Paris and three in Cologne; then, after the month in Briesau, they would visit Salzburg, Vienna and Buda-Pest.

  For some time Lady Davidson had been silent. She had worked her way through what was, for so fragile-looking a person, a surprising quantity of Madeira cake. Now she began to re-enter the conversation, making an occasional acid-flavoured comment, though always with apparent sweetness. Juliet found herself thinking that Miss Bruce was quite right in saying Patricia’s mother was not a comfortable person. Of course she was as pretty as a porcelain shepherdess, but it was disconcerting that her expression never seemed to change.

  When the prim-faced maid arrived to clear away the tea things, Lady Davidson, still curious about Juliet, returned to her gentle probing. ‘Have you always lived at this place in Austria, Miss Carrick?’

  ‘Well, no. I’ve lived there for just over two years, I suppose, since soon after the Chalet School was started.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Before that,’ Juliet hesitated and the expectant silence lengthened. ‘Before that, I lived in India. I was born there.’ A shadow crossed her face. Much of her early life, including the time when she was first at the Chalet School, had been unhappy; she had no wish to talk of it.

  Now Patricia may have lacked some of the social graces but she was exceedingly sensitive to other people’s expressions of face and voice. Jumping to her feet and muttering something about going upstairs to look at school photographs, she whisked Juliet abruptly out of the drawing-room.

  Without a word she led her up three flights of stairs, each narrower and steeper than the last, to her own sitting-room on the top floor of the house. Her bedroom was next door and, in the far-gone days when Patricia had a nanny, these two rooms had been the day and night nurseries.

  Patricia indicated to Juliet the corner of a shabby old sofa, where there was a comfortable-looking cushion. She herself dropped into an equally shabby armchair. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Juliet,’ she apologised with obvious embarrassment; ‘I’m sure my mother doesn’t mean to be . . . ’ Her voice trailed off, and Juliet hurried to change the subject.

  ‘Look, I’ve brought those photographs of the Chalet School and the Tiernsee that you wanted to see.’ She opened her handbag. ‘And you were going to show me the ones of your play last summer.’

  At last the two girls were able to relax and exchange light-hearted gossip about their schools and other topics without fear of adverse comment. After about half an hour Juliet stood up reluctantly. ‘I’ll have to be getting along now, I’m afraid, or Miss Denny will wonder what’s become of me. You know, Patricia, in no time now you’l
l be starting on your travels. Paris first, isn’t it? I’m going to miss you a lot; it’ll be nearly a week after that before I start at college.’

  Patricia had been idly tracing with her forefinger the outline of a rose on the faded chair-cover. She gave a deep sigh. Suddenly she burst out: ‘You are so lucky, Juliet . . . so very, very lucky. I’d give anything to be in your shoes. Oh, I know we’re going to have a simply marvellous trip, and anyway it’ll be marvellous to get away from here, but the time I’m just dreading is when we get back. You can’t think how much I’d love to be coming to university too.’

  ‘Would you? Really? But I didn’t know,’ Juliet said, a little taken aback. ‘You’ve never . . . ’

  ‘Oh, I hardly ever talk about it. It’s pretty futile saying anything when Mother simply won’t think of letting me. But I’ve always — always — wanted to study medicine.’

  ‘Medicine?’ Juliet sounded still more surprised. ‘You mean you’d like to be a doctor? But isn’t that rather unusual? For a girl, I mean.’

  ‘Not so very unusual,’ Patricia assured her. ‘I’m told there are quite a few lady doctors around nowadays. There was a simply marvellous one when I had my appendix out three years ago. She used to come and talk to me almost every day at the nursing home. I suppose it was meeting her that first gave me the idea. Or, as Mother would say,’ (this in cutting tones), ‘ “Put this ridiculously silly notion into your head.” ’

  After a short pause, in which Juliet could sense the conflict underlying her friend’s outburst, Patricia continued more calmly, ‘I’ve passed Matric in all the right subjects too. If I really tried, I think I’d have a good chance of getting into medical school. But it’s all absolutely hopeless. There doesn’t seem the faintest chance that my mother will ever agree to letting me.’