Eva Ibbotson: The Dragonfly Pool

They went through a sandstone tunnel, and another one… and presently the train turned inland again. Now they were in a lush green valley with clumps of ancient trees. The air that came in through the open window was soft and gentle; a river sparkled beside the line.

The train slowed down.

“We’re here,” said Barney.

“Really? ” said Tally. “This is Delderton? ”

Her father had spoken of the peaceful Devon countryside, but she had not expected anything like this.

“My goodness,” she said wonderingly. “It’s very beautiful!”

Tally was right. There was no lovelier place in England: a West Country valley with a wide river flowing between rounded hills toward the sea. Sheltered from the north winds, everything grew at Delderton: primroses and violets in the meadows; pinks and bluebells in the woods and, later in the year, foxgloves and willow herb. A pair of otters lived in the river; kingfishers skimmed the water, and russet Devon cows, the same color as the soil, grazed the fields and wandered like cows in Paradise.

But it was children, not cows or kingfishers, that Delderton mainly grew.

Twenty years earlier a very rich couple from America came and built a school on the ruins of Delderton Hall, with its jousting ground and ancient yews, and they spared no expense, for they believed that only the best was good enough for children, and they were as idealistic as they were wealthy.

The new Delderton was built around a central courtyard; the walls were lined with cream stucco; the windows had green shutters; the archway that led into the building was crowned by a tower with a blue clock adorned by gold numbers and a brilliantly painted weather vane in the shape of a cockerel.

And the ancient cedar that had sheltered the lawns of the old hall was saved and grew in the center of the courtyard.

Inside the building, too, the American founders spared no expense. Each child had its own room: only a small one, but private. The common rooms had well-sprung sofas, the pianos in the music rooms were Steinways, and the library housed over ten thousand books.

But what was important to the founders was not the building, it was what the school would mean to the children who came to it. For Delderton was to be a progressive school — a school where the children would be free to follow their instincts and develop in a natural way. There would be no bullying or beatings, no competitive sports where one person was ranked above another, no exams — just harmony and self-development in the glorious Devon countryside. A school where the teachers would be chosen for their loving kindness and not their degrees.

And this was exactly what had happened. But now, twenty years later, the building looked… tired. The cream walls were streaked with damp from the soft West Country rain; the paint on the shutters was flaking — and the beautiful cedar in the courtyard was supported by wooden props.

And the nice American founders were tired, too. In the autumn of 1930 they sold the school to a board of trustees who appointed a new headmaster. His name was Ben Daley: a small, portly man with a bald head and a nice smile, who now, at the beginning of the summer term, was looking out of his study window at the pupils coming in through the archway from the station bus.

And at one pupil in particular — a new girl with straight fawn hair who had stopped and laid her hand on the trunk of the cedar as though she was greeting a friend.

“It’s three hundred years old,” said Julia, looking up at the tree. “The headmaster’s mad about it — if anyone climbs it or throws stuff into the branches he comes rushing out of his room. No one ever gets expelled here, but if they did it would be because of the tree. That top branch broke off because a horrible boy called Ronald Peabody climbed it, though it was already weak. He fell and broke his arm, but nobody cared.”

“I wouldn’t have cared either,” said Tally.

The rooms where the children slept were on corridors on either side of the courtyard. Inside, the building was divided into four houses separated by double doors. Each house had a room for the housemother, a common room, and a pantry. Tally was in the Blue House; her room overlooked the courtyard and the tree.

“You mean we each have our own room? ”

Julia nodded. “I don’t know for how much longer; I think the money’s running out a bit, but for now.”

Tally’s room was very small, but it had everything you could want: a divan bed, a washbasin, a bookcase, and a built-in wardrobe. The door of the wardrobe was somewhat battered and one desk leg was propped up on a wedge, but Tally was delighted. And it solved at once the problem of the feasts in the dorm. No one could have a feast in a dorm which was not there.

Julia was in the room next to hers; then came Barney, then two children she had not met yet. Kit was at the far end of the corridor.

As she was putting her things away there was a knock on the door.

“Do you need any help with unpacking? I’m Magda — your housemother.”

Magda was thin and very dark with large black eyes and wispy hair.

Tally shook her head. “No, I’m all right, thanks.”

“Good. Well, high tea’s in half an hour. You’ll hear the gong. And after that you’re to go along to the headmaster’s room.”

Tally looked stricken. She had not quite shaken off the memory of the books she had read before she came. “I can’t have done anything yet — I’ve only just got here.”

Magda smiled. “No, no. Daley likes to welcome new children individually. Julia will show you where to go.”

The headmaster’s study was large and light. One window looked out over the courtyard; another faced the terraced garden leading to the playing field and, beyond it, the rolling hills. Now, hearing a quiet knock at the door, Daley said, “Come in,” and a girl with a nibbled fringe and interested eyes came into the room.

“Ah, Talitha Hamilton, is that right? And they call you Tally.”

“Yes.”

Clearly this wasn’t a curtsying situation, though the headmaster sat behind an impressive desk, so Tally smiled instead and put out her hand.

The headmaster had a headache. He always had a headache for the first three days of term, but for a moment the throbbing grew less. For this child was actually on the list, she was expected, she looked intelligent — and she had taken notice of the cedar tree. And this was important because she was on a scholarship and he couldn’t console himself with thinking that she brought much-needed money with her. One child, however awful, provided the salary for a teacher for a term, or a year’s worth of books. He shouldn’t of course have given any more scholarships, but his friend Professor Mayfield had spoken so enthusiastically of the selfless work done by Tally’s father that he had agreed.

“Now,” he said, when he had welcomed her to Delderton, “have you any questions you wanted to ask me? ”

“Well, I do have. I mean, I thought I was coming to an ordinary school where girls lived in dorms and shouted, ‘Well played, Daphne!’—and all that… but this isn’t like that, is it? ”

“No.”

“I’m not reproaching anybody, but what is it exactly? People say it’s a progressive school and I know what progressive means — at least I think I do. It means going from somewhere to somewhere else. But where to? ”