Spit And Polish

The Headmistress lived in Georgian splendour on Bridge Street, but only a discrete plaque by her porticoed front door announced who and what she was, for this was her private residence; her offices were elsewhere. Nevertheless the school prefects were encouraged to drop in for a chat on any weekday evening. If she were busy, Miss Ollenshaw told them, she would send them packing and no offence, but otherwise they would find a waiting armchair, and a glass of wine, and a confidential ear. Some of the prefects accepted her offer out of politeness; a few more came with matters too delicate for the prefects' meeting. Most were in awe of her, and saw no reason to bother her at all. Different from all these was Emma Green. She called frequently, made herself comfortable, and treated the headmistress like an old friend of the family.

'Miss Ollenshaw,' she said one evening in November, when the drinks had been poured and the fire encouraged with a poker. 'I have a confession to make. You're not going to like it.'

'Speak on.'

'You know you once said, that if you meet an unusual situation in life, to treat it in an unusual way?'

'I did.'

'I came across an unusual situation the other day … well, to be more specific I came across an unusual girl …'

'All girls are unusual,' said Miss Ollenshaw, 'If you look close enough.'

'Well … I suppose. Anyway, I treated this girl in an unusual way, as you said, and thought I'd been rather clever. Then she came back at me, in another unusual way. So I had another go at her, a bit more forceful-like, and … and I think I blew it, to be honest.'

'Oh?'

'Now she's rather got me over a barrel.'

'Hmm. I assume this is Miss Hargreaves you are talking about.'

'Oh dear,' said Emma.

'I have ears. Now tell me all. Start at the beginning and take your time.'

And so Emma told the story. She left out only her wager with Richie, which she regretted, and also what happened during the final act of both her 'sessions' with Anna; that was not suitable for adult ears.

Miss Ollenshaw sometimes smiled, sometimes frowned, and sometimes cleaned her spectacles. When the tale was over she said: 'Do you think she is serious about the photographs?'

'Until today I'd have said no. But I was taking Morning Parade …'

'Again? You seem to take it permanently.'

'I swapped it for my Saturday night duty.'

'Hmm. It's my own private opinion that you enjoy taking Morning Parade rather too much.'

'Well … it keeps me fit. So, Anna was on it, again…'

'I'm beginning to think she must enjoy it too.'

'No. I can safely say Anna doesn't.'

'What was she there for?'

'Swearing. You put her on.'

'I did? Ah yes. I did. It was a ripe one, too. Continue.'

'We're star-jumping away, and halfway through Anna just stops. She stands there looking at me, and there's such an expression on her face. I could tell exactly what she was thinking.'

'Ah.'

'I asked her to get to it again, and she did. But I didn't at all like that look …'

'And so you came to me.'

'Yes.'

'I'd have been very angry if you hadn't. Now, tell me, what is a star-jump, exactly?'

'It's, ah …' Emma put down her glass of wine, went to the centre of the room, and demonstrated the concept. The windows rattled.

'Thank you,' said Miss Ollenshaw, smiling. 'Yes, I remember doing them, a long time ago. I wasn't exactly fond of them, either.'

Emma returned to her seat.

'By the way, after break a few days ago,' continued the Head, 'I happened to hear, through an open door, and presumably from a recent victim of yours, the opinion that you are Hitler and the Marquis de Sade rolled into one.'

'I do everything they do,' said Emma primly.

'Oh, there's nothing wrong with pushing them a bit. That's what they're here for. But do remember that not everyone's an Amazon.'

She took of her glasses. Emma waited for judgement.

'Anna Hargreaves. Anna Hargreaves,' said Miss Ollenshaw, wiping. 'I had her in my class last year. Lazy. And tiresome. Usually late. Hair like a bird's nest. And then something would catch her imagination and she'd spend half the weekend in the library, judging by the essay she would turn in. I learnt a thing or two about Juvenal myself, from one of her pieces.'

'It's possible she invented them.'

No she didn't. That girl could do well if she pulled her finger out.'

'That's what I think. I want her for the Cadets.'

'And so you, er, laid about her with a wooden spoon. Ho! Ho! Interesting style of recruitment. I don't like girls doing such things to each other, Emma. In the case of Miss Hargreaves, I can't say I entirely blame you, either.'

'Except it didn't work.'

'Tch.' Miss Ollenshaw winked. 'When you meet a variation from the normal — this is the actual phrase, which you mangled — always meet him in an abnormal way.'

'I don't quite understand.'

'Anna doesn't strike me as a natural blackmailer. Does she you?'

'Not at all.'

'I'd expel her on the spot, if I thought she was. But these photographs were a defensive measure. That is forgivable. I'll bet you licked her some.'

'Yes.'

'I shouldn't think she'd like to use them. She has a sense of honour, I believe, and of … proportion. Unfortunately, we're nearing the end of a long term. Everyone's tired. I'm tired. You're tired. And I'll bet you anything you like that Anna Hargreaves is tired, after cleaning the barracks every day, and star-jumping, and getting whacked with spoons, and whatnot. If we push her too far, who knows what she'll do.'

'So we should just leave her alone? Hope for the best?'

'No. As long as she thinks she has the jump on us, there's nothing we can do for her. We'll have to smoke her out.'

'How?'

'By not leaving her alone.' Miss Ollenshaw's eyes twinkled. 'And that'll be interesting. Let's see what Anna Hargreaves does, when we do push her too far. Now listen and attend, Emma Green. This is your project. You've started it, you're going to see it through. I've not been entirely critical of your techniques to date — and I know you've done more things to her than you've confessed to me . That's all right. But try mixing in a bit of official, er, chastisement, with your own private methods. Don't use my name, though. I know nothing about this. Understand? Good. Let us see what happens. Off you go. Come back and make a report in a few days' time. Well … goodnight. You can let yourself out.'

*

Few prefects can have left a headmistress's house with instructions like these. Emma walked slowly through the streets, aware of the trust that had been put in her. She had been forgiven, and told to try again, and try she would. But how?

She took a pensive route, and found herself, without meaning to, outside Anna's house. Here all was quiet and studious. Prep was in progress. Emma stood on the path, looking up at the rows of windows. In each lighted square a head showed, bent over a desk. Emma's travelling eye saw blonde heads, and brown heads, and black heads; she saw hair still in pigtails and ponytails and Alice bands, or fluffed and towelled after a shower. But she didn't see Anna's untidy mop. Presumably Anna had a study, she thought. And presumably the study had a window. Emma walked around the house, hopping over a wall and skirting an oil-tank, and came to the new extension. She walked around this, checking every window. And there, on the ground floor at the far end, was Anna.

She was wearing an enormous pair of headphones which made her look like a monkey. She sat motionless, gazing blankly out the window, and seemed to be listening to the music not only with her ears but also with her eyes, which were swivelled upwards and to the left. Suddenly her lips moved percussively, her head waggled, and her hands beat a rhythm on the desk. It was like seeing a tin toy activated: a drumming monkey. Emma smiled. The sedentary dance lasted for several seconds, and then whatever had provoked it came to an end. (The chorus of a pop song? The climax of a symphony? Emma realised how little she knew about Anna.)

Anna glanced down at the homework in front of her, meanwhile reaching for an enormous bottle of coke. She took a swig while still trying to read, and plenty of it went down her shirt. She looked down, pulled a face, wiped herself with a hand, and said what was clearly 'fuck'. Emma laughed. Anna had such a strange mouth. Its wide-parted lips and too-large front teeth gave her an extraordinary facility with expletives. Emma remembered the string of curses that erupted as Anna had wriggled on her knee.

This brought Emma back to the business in hand: what to do next?

She could spank her again, and properly. Skirt up and knickers down. Anna would almost certainly use the photographs then. Why shouldn't she? This didn't strike Emma as very satisfactory. Something more subtle was required. Something more stalky. But what?

Anna took another swig of coke, and managed to get more of it on her white shirt. She made an exasperated gesture at own clumsiness, and shook her head in disbelief. What a klutz! she seemed to be saying. What a ditz! She rolled her eyes.

And this set Emma's mind on an entirely different line of thought. She lurked a while longer, saw Anna open a packet of crisps and absent-mindedly eat them as she frowned over her homework. Finally, with a large sigh, Anna uncapped her pen and started writing. The pen had a rubber monster on the end, and its arms wobbled and gesticulated as she wrote.

Emma went away to do some homework of her own.

*

Tuesday and Wednesday went by, and nothing extraordinary happened at Arlinghurst. Three girls were caught smoking. A physics teacher handed in his resignation. Moles pockmarked the second XI pitch. The Language Lab roof sprang a leak. And Sussex dormitory in New House was puzzled by a smell.

It was an elusive odour, difficult to categorise. It was mice, said one girl. It was armpits, said another. It was a junior, said Anna, who had crept under a bed and died. They opened the windows. The air in the dormitory freshened and sparkled and froze. After a few minutes, the windows were reduced to their customary two-inch gap. The girls got into bed, the lights were turned out, and soon the dormitory slept.

But in the morning the smell was back. Several girls complained of headaches, and the windows were flung up again while theories and accusations flew. But there was not much time before breakfast. The topic was soon forgotten again.

It was worse by bedtime. Anna Hargreaves clung to her theory that somebody had died. She instigated a search under the beds. More practical-minded girls were smelling their shoes, their clothes, their mattresses. The search was long and fruitless. A prefect came in to demand why the lights weren't off … and what was that smell? They told her as much as they knew, which was nothing, and the prefect officially took over the investigation. No good sniffing your own stuff, she told them. You can't smell yourself. She paired them off. Anna's neighbour, a girl of impeccable hygiene, pronounced Anna passable, and her bed passable, and her shoes borderline. But when she opened Anna's wardrobe she actually shrieked. The search was at an end.

Shamefaced Anna sat on her bed while the contents of her wardrobe were piled onto the floor. Nothing could be found to excuse the smell, no dead rat, no forgotten, mouldering chicken leg. The prefect cautiously put her nose close to a pair of Anna's stockings, and winced. It was the clothes themselves. It was Anna. When , they asked her, did she last do any washing?

Anna, in a very small voice, confessed it had been a while. She had been three years at Arlinghurst but the washing system still baffled her. There were different baskets, and different days of the week, for whites, and coloureds, and synthetics, and delicates. To her it was as incomprehensible as algebra. Even so, she said, she was sure her wardrobe hadn't smelt like that in the morning . Here she was sharply reminded that it had.

The head of house arrived, was appraised of the situation, and took charge. Every unwashed item of Anna's clothing was put into plastic bags and sealed. This included most of her school uniform and all of her informal clothes. Nothing was spared except for a few clean items which lay, still folded, on the shelves. It was a very barren wardrobe by the time they had finished. Just enough to go to class in, and not much more.

But there was worse to come. For the head of house, after supervising the tying of the bags, turned and said:

'I'm sorry, Anna, but I'm putting you on Inspection.'

It took a second or two for the dread words to sink in.

'What!' cried Anna. 'You can't do that!'

'Yes I can.'

'I'm not a Junior! You can't make me!'

'You can appeal to the housemistress if you like. Shall we go and see her now?'

Anna went red to the roots of her hair. She stamped her foot. Her mouth moved soundlessly. She glared at the floor.

'Listen, Lou…' she said.

There was a tut from a neighbouring bed, and a voice across the room said, 'Just do it, Anna.' Murmurs of agreement came from all around. They were out of sympathy with Anna.

'It's for everyone's benefit,' said Lou, consolidating her popularity. 'I'll put you down for a week…'

Anna groaned and buried her head in her hands.

'…And then we'll see. Half past six, in case you've forgotten. I'll tell Sharnaz to expect you.'

'To inspect you,' snickered a voice.

'I'm sorry Anna. Get into bed now!'

Anna miserably got into bed. Lou wished them all goodnight, turned out the lights, and left with the other prefect. They took Anna's clothes with them in two black plastic bags.

Now that Anna was inoffensive again, and facing chastisement of a most cruel nature, her dormitory-mates relented. Inspection wasn't that bad, they said. Sharnaz was a softie. It was only a week! She'd get her clothes back from the laundry soon. Was she mad at them? Anna? Anna?

Anna lay in the darkness, silently cursing them all, and trying not to cry. Only when everybody was asleep did she reach for her alarm clock and set it, by the light of her torch, for twenty past six.

*

It shrilled in the darkness. Anna woke immediately, hit it on the head, and wondered what essay she had to finish. She lay puzzled, thinking. And then the world gave a lurch, as if it had slipped off its bearings. Anna shut her eyes and groaned aloud.

She was on Inspection.

When girls arrived at Arlinghurst at a tender young age, most knew how to wash themselves, and were trusted to do so. A few, however, did not, or couldn't be bothered. It was for these that Inspection principally existed, but more senior girls were sometimes put on it. It was not quite a punishment and not quite a lesson in hygiene, but somewhere in between. Matron was meant to take it, but Matron liked her late nights, and this year the task generally fell to a motherly girl called Sharnaz, who relished it. Nursing College bound, and eager to get started, Sharnaz was the unofficial, and better loved, matron to the house. Still, she could be strict.

Miserable Anna put on her dressing-gown and descended through the pre-dawn gloom to the junior changing-rooms, thinking that of all the ways to start a day, none could be worse than this. The neon lights in the long downstairs corridor had been switched on, and she blinked in the glare and hum. From the changing-rooms came noise; the squeak of young voices, Sharnaz's low voice giving an order, and then a shower coming to life.

Anna paused, and went in.

There were eight girls, already naked, and Sharnaz in jeans and T-shirt. She looked up as Anna came in.

'Late, Miss Hargreaves!' she sang, with a friendly smile. 'I'll forgive you this once. Come on you lot. Stop staring. Never seen Anna before?'

'Never in here,' said one.

'Go and stand by the showers! All of you.'

'It's freezing.'

'I don't care. Off you hop!'

She sent them off. Squeals arose from the showerstalls, and loud complaints. Sharnaz meanwhile looked at her clipboard and studied it, as if to confirm that Anna's name really was there. Then she said brightly, 'Well … come on then, Anna. You can show them how it's done. Clothes off!'

Anna turned her back, and stripped off her dressing-gown and pyjamas.

'Well done!' said Sharnaz, who was always encouraging, and sent Anna to join the group of naked juniors. They were standing at the edge of the showers, occasionally putting their hand under the jet of water, to ascertain that it really was as cold as ten seconds ago.

'Right!' said Sharnaz, wading among them. 'You, you, and you!' She touched three bare shoulders. 'In, right now, no complaining! Three, two, one, go! I said go, Mary. Right under! Want me to help you? No? I will if you want. Good girl. And your hair. No, we are washing hair today, because we didn't do it yesterday. Go on, put it under and stop being so feeble. Well done. Well done, Sam. Cold enough for you is it? That's right. And … out you get, and come over here! We're going to do hair first. In the meantime, you, you and you, you're up next. Three, two, one, in you go!'

The three wet girls, shuddering violently and chattering their teeth, stood in line and held out a hand. Sharnaz squeezed a dollop of shampoo into each, and the girls rapidly began massaging it into their hair.

The three other girls were now squealing under the showers. 'As soon as you're wet all over, come out and I'll shampoo you up,' Sharnaz told them. 'That means your hair too, Bee. Why do I have to tell you every time? The quicker you learn, the quicker you'll be showering after breakfast, and believe me the water is much nicer. Right under! Right under! And hold … And out you all come! Well done! Now, anybody who's still dry — this is your big moment! In you hop!'

This meant Anna, and the two remaining little girls.

There is nothing more unpleasant than a cold shower at half past six on a raw November morning; at least, nothing that a civilised life should include. Anna, who was determined to get through the grim business without a fuss, nevertheless hovered on the concrete lip of the showerstall, and felt the water with her hand. She was astonished. She hadn't realised it would be cold like this . Stray splashes stung her legs.

'Well, come along, Anna!'

The other two girls were already gasping and squirming under the freezing torrents, one on either side of her, but Anna still hesitated. Then she put a foot under, and a leg, and that was torture. But when the icy water started tickling her hip and belly…

'Anna,' said Sharnaz, in a disappointed tone. 'I'm going to give you a three-two-one, and you'd better be in, or else. Three … two … one…'

'I'm in!' cried Anna. 'I'm in!'

She went under and gasped. Her hands immediately started rubbing her breasts, simply because they needed something to do. It was agony! She danced under the evil water.

'Hair, Anna. Don't forget your hair!'

Still wriggling, Anna put her head under, and a sledgehammer of cold hit her skull.

After three seconds she could take no more, and jumped out. But she was wet enough. She stood in line with her shower-mates, who came up to her shoulders, held out her hand, and received her allotment of shampoo. She saw that her nipples were standing erect, and all her shame, which the water had briefly expunged, now broke out again. Anna's nipples were very long when they stood up. One or two of the girls looked at them in wonder. Anna was womanhood itself, compared to these neophytes. She didn't at all like being the object of their gaze.

She bent over to wash her hair. She was poked in the hips by a sharp young elbow belonging to another hair-washer. It happened a second time. Anna snarled. She longed to be clothed, and wearing a stout pair of boots with which to kick the little runt into next week.

'Right into your scalp!' cried Sharnaz. 'Every last strand! Well done Mary. Are you done? Let me see!'

She ran a finger through Mary's thick hair. 'In you go then! Rinse well!'

One by one the girls went back to the showers to rinse their hair. 'Well done Vicky! Well done Becky! Well done Anna!'

The entire freezing cycle was then repeated for the main event: the soaping and scrubbing of their bodies. The scrubbing was done with flannels. Anna's washbag didn't include such an item.

'Who's going to lend Anna their flannel when they've finished? Jane?'

'That's unhygienic,' said Jane.

'Anna will wash it afterwards.'

'I don't want her to use it.'

Sharnaz gave Jane a sharp slap on the backside.

' Yoww! '

'Shouldn't argue when your bum's naked,' said Sharnaz. 'Not if I were you. Now if you've finished with your flannel, give it to Anna.'

Jane sullenly handed the flannel over. Anna took it just as bad-temperedly. She rubbed soap into it — greasy white school soap — glared at Jane, who was watching beadily, and bent down to scrub a calf. Jane followed the progress of her flannel up Anna's legs with bitter eyes. As it approached Anna's groin she said: 'I hope it's not going up there ! I've heard what she gets up to, up there…'

'Oh shut up you little shit!' cried Anna.

Jane got another smack on the backside, and Anna a warning. She was also told to get a move on.

So Anna cleaned herself between the legs with Jane's flannel. She hissed as the soap stung her sensitive skin.

'Getting off on my flannel,' mumbled Jane; and was spanked again.

'A good scrub, please, Anna. Anyone who isn't literally pink comes back for desserts.'

Anna scrubbed her belly, breasts, arms, neck, and, when instructed to, her face. When every raw inch of her was soapy and tingling, she was sent back to the showers for a third time to rinse off. Then she rubbed dry her shivering limbs, and thankfully wrapped the towel around her breasts. She was promptly told to remove it — because those were the rules. Naked, she combed her hair for fifty strokes, and brushed her teeth for two minutes, and put on deodorant.

Then came the inspection proper. The nine girls — Anna was the tallest — lined up in front of the basins. Sharnaz came down the line and went over them, one by one.

It was a lengthy affair. Sharnaz gave each girl her full and undivided attention. She looked between their toes, and between their legs. She had them turn around, and briefly parted their buttocks to have a peek. She looked under their arms, and ran a fingernail over their necks. She peered into their ears, looked at their teeth, their eyes, their noses. Those who passed went away to get dressed. Those who didn't were sent back to correct their mistakes. One girl was discovered to have grass stains still on her knees. Sharnaz sent her shower-wards, and gave her a light slap on the backside for good luck. Another had dirt under the fingernails. She got a slap too.

Sharnaz reached Anna. She winked at her with one dark eye. But there was to be no special treatment. Sharnaz squatted down to begin her tour of Anna's body.

Anna stood naked and prickling with shame. She felt her toes being parted. Then there was a hand on her leg. It was a shock to be touched like this. She felt Sharnaz's breath on her knees, and she could see the top of her head, her hair centre-parted and tied back. Sharnaz looked at Anna's bush, and cocked her head as though something about it puzzled her. Then she put her hands on Anna's hips — Anna flinched — and lightly twizzled her around. Anna felt Sharnaz's fingers light on her buttocks. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, as they were lightly eased apart. A thousand swear words coursed through her brain. But her arsehole passed muster, apparently, and the buttocks were reunited. She heard Sharnaz stand. A finger on her arm, asking her to turn around again. Anna did so.

Sharnaz got Anna to put her arms up, and looked beneath them, where there was stubble. For some reason, Sharnaz scratched at this with a fingernail. Ticklish Anna squeaked. She dropped her arms when bidden. Sharnaz put a hand on her bare shoulder, and stood on tiptoes to peer into her ears, and behind them too. She got her to smile, and inspected her teeth.

It appeared that Anna had passed — until Sharnaz ran a finger through her wet hair and discovered tangles. She proscribed fifty more strokes of the comb, and gave Anna a light slap on the backside too — 'Customary, you know.' She was perhaps a year older than Anna. Anna blushed and blushed as she combed her hair. She saw herself blushing in the mirror. Even her neck was red with shame. And the rest of her so white! Except for her nipples. These stood like obscene radishes. For ever after, she thought, this is how eight little girls will remember me. Oh for a stout pair of boots!

At last she was pronounced fit to leave. She put on her dressing-gown, bundled her pyjamas under her arm, and went. There was still half-an-hour to breakfast. Anna went to her room and made herself a cup of coffee. She drank it at her desk, and turned on the radio. A sense of normality returned. She was a grown-up again, not a little girl. But the more comfortable she became, the more she was reminded that this was only an interlude.

Five minutes before the breakfast bell she went back to the dormitory, to investigate what clothes had survived the cull.

There were good reasons why she hadn't worn any of these. Either they were items which appeared on the clothes list, and which her mother had insisted on packing despite Anna's assurances that she would never, ever, wear them; or they didn't fit. There was a pair of white knee-socks. There was last year's skirt, which was too tight. There were knickers that were too small, and a bra that was too big. And a short-sleeved, nylon shirt.

She sat on her bed in misery. She saw the other girls pulling on stockings and long culottes, and buttoning up cuffs — luxuries that Anna had taken for granted until this morning. She watched them leave one by one. When the dormitory was nearly empty she pulled on the first long white sock. It sat heavily on her lower leg. She picked up the other with a sigh…

The breakfast bell rang before she was even half-dressed. She put the skirt on, and found she had grown since she last worn it. Six inches of bare leg showed between the hem of the skirt and the top of her sock. She pulled the waistband down as far it would go, and the socks up, but to no great effect.

Then for the shirt. She had never worn this at all, for a good reason: it was hideous. Anna hated nylon, and she hated short sleeves, and here were both together. She undid the top buttons and pulled it on. The sleeves reached a couple of inches beneath her armpits, and then stopped, and her arms continued on their naked way without further assistance. She had to take her watch off, because it looked too ridiculous. The collar meanwhile scraped her neck, and the shirt-front squeezed her breasts. Anna took a few seconds to curse her mother, who had bought the hateful thing. 'Why don't they ever listen !' she cried, meaning parents in general, and stamped her foot. A priggish part of her brain told her it was hardly fair to blame her parents for her present woe. It also pointed out that she was five minutes late for breakfast. She'd have to slide in without the housemistress seeing. Anna usually achieved this successfully.

No such luck that morning, however. For when they saw Anna Hargreaves creep in at the door, all knees and elbows, every girl in the house shouted with laughter. Her housemistress saw her too, and Anna was summoned into her presence.

' This is a change of style,' murmured Mrs Slingsby, glancing at Anna's bare arms. 'Why are you late for breakfast?'

'I couldn't find my clothes,' said Anna.

'Then whose are you wearing?'

'Mine.'

'You've been up since half past six, haven't you? Yes, I know you are on Inspection. You've had ample time to sort your clothes out. You'll attend Morning Parade today.'

'Yes, Mrs Slingsby.'

'It's ridiculous, a girl of your age. Why don't you pull your bloody socks up, Anna Hargreaves?'

Anna grunted.

'Quite literally, too, please,' continued the housemistress, looking down. One of Anna's long socks had already fallen to her ankle. With a sigh she crouched and pulled it up.

'You'll need garters if you're going to wear socks.'

'I don't have any.'

'Then get some. Off you go!'

That breakfast Anna spoke only once, very quietly, to ask a neighbour if she could borrow a pair of stockings, until hers came back from laundry. The neighbour thought about this, and wrinkled her nose. 'Well, maybe not, Anna,' she said. Anna nodded. She didn't ask anybody else.

*

She presented herself at the gym at break, and went to find the prefect. It wasn't Emma, for once — a small mercy — but a girl who delighted in the name of Rafaela. Anna humbly told Rafaela that her leotard was at the laundry, through no fault of her own, so she had bought her games kit instead. Or she could come back when her leotard returned. Whichever. She didn't mind.

'Nice try Anna, but you know the rules.'

Anna had expected no less, but even so her heart plummeted.

'Oh come on, Rafaela,' she whispered. 'I'd really appreciate it…'

'Less talking, and more getting changed. Well, not changed, I suppose. And hurry up! Kick-off's in one minute.'

And so it came to pass that twelve girls in black leotards, and one in white underwear, stood on the gym floor and reached for the ceiling.

They stretched, and they bent. Anna, who had squirmed in shame when wearing her leotard last week, now envied every other girl. She felt cold air around the waistband of her knickers, and on her belly, and around her breasts. She thought, it simply doesn't get any worse than this.

But the gods of humiliation had barely begun their merry sport with Anna. News of her disgrace was spreading far and wide beyond the gym. It divided the school. The decent and kindly majority put their noses in the air and stayed away. The malicious and low-minded minority, however, now flooded into the balcony; and even a minority can do a considerable amount of flooding. They drank, and ate crisps, and passed loud judgement on various parts of Anna's anatomy. Only opera-glasses could have added to their pleasure.

Leotards are designed for exercise, but knickers and bras are not. The crowd watched in delight as wretched Anna star-jumped. They saw the straps tighten against her skin, and her flesh bulge. They saw her belly shake. They greeted with applause the first spider-like strands of hair to creep out between white knickers and white skin. After this, their attention turned upwards, where even more exciting things were happening. The oversized bra was slowly but surely sinking. Soon there might even be a complete disaster. There was considerable debate as to which side would come to grief first, if this event did occur. The argument grew loud and heated. So confident was one girl that the left would reveal itself first, that she staked her bottle of coke on it, and found a ready taker. Other wagers quickly followed. It was rare sport!

Poor Anna was painfully aware of the danger herself. After every few jumps she reached with a hand to pull the bra up, although it made her lose her rhythm. This upset the prefect.

'Leave it, Anna!' she said. 'If you pop out, you pop out.'

A cheer went up from the balcony at these words. Anna, in desperation, tried to land softly on her bare feet, to cushion the vibrations. Even so she felt the bra sink lower, and lower, and lower…

She gave a surreptitious tug.

'LEAVE IT ANNA!' cried the hardhearted girls of the balcony.

Rafaela glanced at her.

They continued jumping. The bra began slipping on the other side. Anna left it to the last moment. And then she hoiked it up again.

'LEAVE IT ANNA!'

'Do you want to come back for a week, Anna?' said Rafaela. 'Then do as I say, and leave it alone!'

The betting public was now on tenterhooks. First one, and then the other, side of the bra began inching ahead again — or rather, down. Some bit their fingernails, and some tapped their feet in excitement, Anna jumped … and a cheer exploded around the gym. Those who had betted to the right were on their feet and applauding. Those who had betted to the left groaned, and heaped abuse on Anna. Their side came in a few seconds afterwards, but too late for them.

Rafaela then called a halt. Anna was allowed to rearrange herself. She yanked her bra up and her knickers down, and gave a hate-filled glance to the balcony. The spectators saw it, and oooh'd at her. Rafaela also saw it, and relented. If Anna had learnt her lesson, she told her, she could go and put her games kit on.

Anna went to the changing-room, trying not to feel grateful. The remainder of the punishment was uneventful. The audience in the balcony, realising the fun was over, amused themselves in other ways. Down on the floor, twelve girls in leotards, and one in shorts and vest, sweated and strained in silence. They were let out a few minutes early. Anna got dressed and ran out of the gym.

A crowd of loiterers stood outside. They sent up a cheer as she appeared.

'Just popping out for a moment, Anna?'

'Hey, Anna! You looked a right tit in there!'

'You owe me a can of Coke, Anna Hargreaves.'

'You mean Anna Whore -Greaves.'

'Anna Greasy-whore!'

These pleasantries and many others followed her down the path. Only when she had rounded the corner did the flow of wit cease.

She hurried on, head bowed, towards her destination: the toilets in the quad. Anna had little sympathy with tears. Especially not in public. She hadn't cried officially since she was fourteen. Even so, at that moment she wanted nothing better than to find a cubicle and … be alone for a while.

It was not to be, however, because as she hurtled through the arch into the quad she went crashing into someone.

'Excuse me !' said the person.

'Sorry,' mumbled Anna, keeping her head down, and trying to get past.

'Anna? My God, it is you. I was just looking for you.'

Anna looked up.

'Oh,' she said. 'Hello.'

'Oh hello to you, too. Where are you going?'

'Nowhere.'

'No you're not. You're coming in here with me.'

'No.'

'Just for a minute.'

'I don't want to!'

'Yes you do !' said Emma, and pushed Anna through the door and into an empty classroom. Anna went to a distant desk and sat on it. Fate, it would seem, was going to deny her even the consolation of a weep.

Emma shut the door and turned.

'Well!' she said. 'Aren't we looking smart today! I didn't recognise you out there, for a moment.'

Anna glowered.

'What a stunning pair of socks! Nice pair of legs, too. Why do you keep them hidden all the time?'

'I can't tell you, Emma, how much I'm not in the mood. Have you got a point?'

'Very well. I merely wanted to inform you, that I am absolutely furious with Rafaela, for what she just did. Absolutely livid !'

'As if you care.'

'It's my job to humiliate you, and nobody else's. You might have mentioned that fact to her.'

'Slipped my mind.'

'Not the only thing that slipped, so I hear. Word is that Anna Hargreaves bared her soul during Morning Parade!'

'Just let me know when you're finished, Emma. Let me know when you've had your fun.' Anna had realised she was about to cry after all. She ground her fist into her mouth and glared at the floor.

'Good Heavens,' said Emma. 'What's on earth's wrong with you?'

'What do you think is bloody wrong with me?' said Anna, and felt large tears welling in her eyes.

'Oh, you silly fool!' said Emma. 'No point blubbing !'

She approached Anna. Anna jumped off the table and retreated to the back of the classroom, away from Emma. She pressed the sleeve of her blazer to her eyes and held it there for a good minute. After that she kicked the skirting-board several times with the toe of her shoe, very hard. Finally she turned.

'Tell me,' she said. 'Do you think the day will come when stuff like this stops happening to me?'

'Not in the immediate future. Why?'

'Oh, no reason.'

She kicked a chair, which fell over.

'This term,' she said, 'For the first time ever, I was almost happy here. A room of my own. Subjects I like. A modicum of respect from the teachers…'

'You still have those things.'

'And then you came along. Ever since you came along, everything's gone wrong.'

Here she kicked a table, which shunted a few inches across the floor.

'Do mind the furniture, Anna!'

'I mean, look at me!' shouted Anna, gesturing to herself.

'You look superb.'

'I look like a third-former!'

'Actually I've been dying to ask: why do we have the pleasure of seeing your legs today?'

'For the delight of filthy lesbians like you.'

This was going too far. Emma sped towards Anna, pushing chairs aside, face grim. Anna held up placatory hands, acknowledging her fault, and managed to halt Emma's steamroller progress just in time.

'You do ask for it, don't you?' said Emma, and raised her hand. Anna flinched. But they were tender fingers that ran through her hair.

Emma bent and smelt it as well. 'Ahh! School shampoo! Because you're worth it. You've even washed your face. What's going on?'

'Nothing.'

'Come on! Tell your Auntie Emma!'

'Why on earth should I tell you ?' growled Anna.

But Emma continued to press her, and Anna realised she did want to tell someone, after all. Even if it was her arch-enemy. She sat down in a chair and confessed the entire story — the whole domino-topple of humiliation that began with a pungent wardrobe, and ended with her bare-breasted at Morning Parade. She told of the confiscation of her clothes by the hateful Lou, the inspection of her every orifice by the impertinent Sharnaz, and her striptease, under the gaze of forty girls, at the insistence of vile Rafaela.

If she had expected sympathy she was disappointed. Emma chuckled throughout. But when she heard of the unruly balcony mob, she flung her head back and hooted with laughter.

'I'm so glad you find it funny,' said Anna.

'It's the funniest thing I ever heard!' said Emma. 'There was really betting?'

'Yes.'

'And which side won?'

'How could it possibly matter? The right.'

Emma stared at Anna, seemed on the point of saying something — and then howled with laughter all over again. She was speechless for an entire minute. Tears appeared in her eyes and had to wiped away.

Anna could only sit and wait. Caught in the jetstream of this golden blast of humour, she was forced to acknowledge that the story — to an observer — perhaps had a funny side. Misery still sat tight in her throat; but Emma's mirth severed it at the root and stopped it swelling, made it containable.

Still chortling, Emma picked up a plastic chair, twirled it around in one strong hand, and sat back-to-front in it, in the way she had. She put her hands on the back-rest, and her chin on her hands, and looked at Anna.

'You know what your problem is, Anna?'

'Chiefly, you,' said Anna. 'Also …'

'That's exactly it!' cried Emma. 'You put your finger on it at once! Every time something bad happens, you blame someone else! Every single time! No, listen. Don't talk. It's a trait that you share with petty criminals and the mentally deficient. You can't connect cause and effect. For example: you spend two years having a pop at the cadet corps. When the cadet corps has a pop at you in return, who's to blame? Anything I may have done to you, is entirely of your own making. And whose fault was it that you, er, made a boob of yourself just now? Trace it back! Cause and effect! Not Rafaela's, not your housemistress's, not Lou's. It was your fault, for not bothering to do your laundry.'

'But I do! Sometimes.'

'Denial,' sighed Emma. 'I didn't want to mention it before, but ... We've been a bit close on a couple of occasions, haven't we? I mean, physically. Now, I'm not saying "Anna Hargreaves is Skunk of the Year," or anything, but neither are you as rose-scented as one might wish …'

'Your fault for coming too close, then!' cried Anna.

'No … no … no!' said Emma, tapping Anna's knee with a fingertip. 'See how your mind works? It's not my fault. It's not anybody's fault, except yours. Cause and effect, Anna. Cause and effect. Losers never get the hang of it. That's why they're called losers. And there…' (for the bell was calling them to class) '… I must wrap up my sermon. Tch! I was just getting warmed up. Come on, then …. Give us a smile.'

'Not on your life,' growled Anna.

Emma pulled Anna to her feet. They left the classroom together and went out into the quad.

'Oh!' said Emma, as they slanted across the stones. 'I forgot to say! I did enjoy meeting your parents. What lovely people!'

'Yes,' sighed Anna. 'They liked you too. My mother wants to swap me.'

'Nice of them to come and see you like that.'

'I rather wish they hadn't seen me like that.'

'What? Oh, don't be squeamish! They've seen it all before.'

'When I was five. Looking on the bright side, at least now they can't say: "We don't get to see enough of you, Anna."'

'Very true,' said Emma. 'Very true. I'm for the science block. Here's where we part. Chin up, eh?'

As Anna headed for History she had to concede that Emma, while highly dislikable as a friend, did make a cheering sort of enemy. More cheering, at least, than a silent weep among toilet-brushes and loo-paper.

*

That evening Emma called on the Headmistress to make her report. Miss Ollenshaw sipped a sherry and listened to the tale without interrupting.

'Good grief!' she said, when it was over. 'Good grief! Emma, that is the most despicable thing I ever heard.'

Emma grinned. 'In my defence, she isn't the most hygienic of girls. I merely hastened the process.'

'And what was in this hellish concoction?'

'Ammonia Nitrate. Egg whites. Sugar. And one or two other things which, er … I forget. And loads of water. I didn't want to overdo it.'

'You didn't say who actually applied the foul potion to her things. Not you?'

'No. Certain friends of mine in Anna's house,' said Emma, scratching her stockinged knee with a fingernail.

'I see. So you brewed up like an old witch,' — Miss Ollenshaw hooted with merriment — 'Sat back and watched, then went and wiped Anna's eye for her.'

'You've no idea how guilty I felt when I saw her…'

'Nonsense. You don't know what guilt is. Not you. Maybe one day.'

'I almost felt guilty, then. But as I say, she did need a tidy-up.'

'Oh, no need to justify yourself. You done good. I can't wait to clap eyes on this sparkling new Hargreaves. But when she comes off … Inspection, is it? … will she have a relapse?'

'It's possible.'

'Hmm. Maybe we — meaning you — should contrive to keep her on it indefinitely… what's the matter?'

'It's rather a ghastly affair,' said Emma.

'If it works, it works. That's all I'm interested in. Now drink up, young Emma, and take yourself off to think up more villainy. I want another report very soon. The rest of the world brings me timetables, and budgets, and leaking roofs. You bring me Anna Hargreaves, and I know which I'd rather.'

Emma drained her wine and let herself out. Miss Ollenshaw crossed to the window and watched her disappear down the street.

'Who needs teachers,' she murmured, 'With girls like that around?'

She shook her head sadly, and wondered if she could get Emma to return to Arlinghurst as a mistress one day; doubted it greatly; and settled down to mark 4A's translations of Ovid, which were barbarous without relent.