Jean Ure - Secrets and Dreams

Mum and Dad drove me down to St With’s on a Sunday afternoon. Nat had to come with us on account of Mum thinking she was too young to be left on her own. We squabbled again in the car. Nat had found a new joke: instead of going to St Cheeseburga, I was now going to St Beefburga. She cackled uproariously as she said it. Several times. In the end I told her to shut up. She said, “You’re not supposed to speak to me like that.” I said I could speak to her how I liked, it was a free country. So then she said, “This is what happens when people go to posh schools – they get all big-headed.”

“Talking about big heads,” I said, “you’d just better be careful you don’t fall off your pony , when you get one, and knock all your brains out! Not,” I added, “that you have much in the way of brains to begin with. It’s mostly just sawdust.”

She then yelled, “ Beefburga! ” in a mindless kind of way, but before I could think of a suitable retort Dad told us both to be quiet, he was sick of the sound of our voices, while Mum said that if this was what having a bit of money did to us she’d almost be tempted to give our share to charity. She said Nat didn’t deserve a pony and I didn’t deserve to go to boarding school. Just for a moment I felt like saying, All right, then, I won’t!

The butterflies were flapping like crazy, all swooping and swarming. To be honest, if Dad had said, “Let’s just forget about it and go home,” I’d have been secretly relieved.

Miss Latimer, the Head of Boarding, was there to meet us when we arrived, sweeping up the drive in Dad’s new car. The first new car we’d ever had!

Miss Latimer said, “Zoe! I’m so glad you could make it at last.” She said it like she really meant it, like she’d almost been counting the days till I could come. I immediately felt a whole lot better. The butterflies had settled down and I couldn’t wait to get up to the dorm and start arranging my things.

Dad wanted to carry my bags up there, but Miss Latimer said it was all right, Mr Bracey would do that. I thought Mr Bracey must be a teacher, and I guess so did Dad cos he said, “No, no, that’s not necessary! I can do it.” But then Mr Bracey appeared and simply picked up the bags and went off with them, leaving Dad standing there. It was ages before I discovered that Mr Bracey was the man who did things around the school. He was like Dad! Dad was The Handyman, Mr Bracey was the school handyman.

Mum was eager to come and help me unpack, but I told her I could do it myself.

“Are you sure?” said Mum, sounding a bit worried. It was like suddenly she didn’t want to go off and leave me there.

I said, “Honestly, Mum! I can manage.”

I so didn’t want Nat trailing upstairs with us, making her stupid Beefburga jokes and ruining everything before I’d even started!

“We’ll take good care of her,” said Miss Latimer. “Don’t worry.”

I waved goodbye quite cheerfully to Mum and Dad and followed Miss Latimer into Homestead House. Homestead was where us seniors lived. The juniors were in the Elms. All the dormitories were named after flowers. Year Eights were Buttercup and Daisy, which was another reason I hadn’t wanted Nat coming upstairs with us. She’d already gone off into peals of insane cackles about it. She kept spluttering, “ Butter cups! Dai sies!” When Mum asked her what she found so funny she just cackled even harder.

“Personally I think it’s nice they have pretty names,” said Mum.

So did I! I didn’t care what Nat thought.

I was in Daisy, which meant I had a cute little lazy-daisy badge to pin on my sweater. There were six of us in there, three up one end of the dorm and three at the other, with a folding door in between. The Buttercups were further down the hall. There were also, Miss Latimer told me, six day girls, but of course they weren’t in school on a Sunday. She said the other Daisies had gone off on a school trip, except for someone called Fawn, who had gone home for the weekend.

I was a bit alarmed at the thought of the unknown Fawn. What kind of a name was Fawn? It sounded like a posh person’s name! Maybe my annoying little sister was right, and all the other girls would be smart and snobby and look down on me. I found that the collywobbles had suddenly come back.

“In case you’re worrying about being the only new girl,” said Miss Latimer, leading the way along the passage, “you’re not alone. Rachel’s also new. She arrived just a few minutes ago.”

Miss Latimer tapped at the door, and paused a second before opening it. I was well impressed! I am more used to people just barging in. Well, when I say “people”, of course, I mean Nat. She’d never learnt to ask if she could come into my bit of bedroom.

“Here you are,” said Miss Latimer.

A girl was standing at the window, leaning out at a perilous angle. She sprang round, her face lighting up. She seemed really pleased to see me.

“Rachel, this is Zoe Bird that I was telling you about. Zoe, this is Rachel Lindgren. The others are off on a school trip. They should be back in about half an hour, so they’ll bring you down to tea. In the meantime, you know where to find me if you want me?”

Rachel beamed and said, “Yes!”

“Good. In that case, I’ll leave you to get on with things.”

I waited till Miss Latimer had gone, then said, “ I don’t know where to find her.”

“In her room,” said Rachel. “At the end of the corridor.” She bounced on to her bed and sat there, swinging her legs. “I’ve had the chicken pox,” she said.

“Really?” I said. “Snap!”

Rachel giggled. She said, “ Snap? ”

“I’ve had it too! My sister gave it to me.”

Rachel giggled again. “On purpose?”

Darkly I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised. But I didn’t scratch! Did you?”

“No, cos my auntie told me it would leave marks. Why did you say ‘snap’?”

“Well – you know! Like the card game? When you say ‘snap’ if you both put down the same card?”

I thought everyone must have played Snap at one time or another. But Rachel obviously hadn’t. She was looking at me, with her brow furrowed.

“Are you Swedish?” I said.

If she was Swedish, then maybe that would account for it. Maybe in Sweden they didn’t play Snap. The reason I thought she might be was partly cos she looked a bit Swedish, like very pale with hair that was almost white, and partly cos of her name: Lindgren. I was quite proud of knowing that Lindgren was a Swedish name. I reckon not everyone would have done. I only knew cos a lady that used to live in our road had been called that and she came from Sweden. But the minute I asked the question I was covered in embarrassment and thought maybe I shouldn’t have. Sometimes it is considered rude to ask people where they come from. I once asked a girl at my old school where she came from, thinking she would say, like, the West Indies or somewhere, and she said she came from Essex. She was quite cross about it, though I was only trying to be friendly.

Fortunately Rachel didn’t seem to mind. She said that she wasn’t Swedish but her granddad had been.

“He was called Lindgren. That’s why I am.” And then she gave this shriek of laughter and cried, “Yoordgubba!” Well, that was what it sounded like. I only discovered later that it was spelt “Jordgubbe”. Rachel said it was Swedish for strawberry.

“And toalettpapper is toilet paper!”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that. “So do you speak Swedish?” I said.

She giggled again. She seemed to do a lot of giggling.

“ Hey ,” she said. “That’s ‘hello’. Hey! ” She held out her hand. She obviously wanted me to take it even though I’d already started to unpack and had my arms full of clothes. “Say it!”