J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“I won’t,” promised the fag, grinning cheerfully and not at all perturbed by the threat. Penelope was, apart from Amanda, the best fag-mistress in the school and serving her was a pleasure.

“Coo!” Penelope ejaculated. “I wonder what Cook’s got going. All this exercise’s given me an appetite.”

In other parts of the school, various preparations were being made. Amanda appeared to be everywhere at once. Like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she appeared in the various rooms and pollinated the working parties with her wisdom. She advised, praised, offered suggestions or requested corrections, all with her usual air of gentle, polite charm.

“It’s fortunate that we kept these, Amelia,” Miss Frithington-Babcock remarked watching the headmistress, Amanda and Penelope try on the uniforms of respectively a colonel, first lieutenant and corporal of the Women’s Royal Army Corps.

They had first worn the garments when, to help a friend of Miss Benkinsop’s, Amanda and Penelope had competed in an international Armed Forces’ athletic meeting. With Britain’s prestige at stake, the School Swot had won the discus and javelin—being careful not to quite set up world records in either—and the head girl had defeated even the massive contestants of the Russian Women’s Army in throwing the hammer. While the girls had had no right to wear their insignia, Miss Benkinsop had held the equivalent rank to full colonel while working for M.I.5 during World War II.

“Cor!” Penelope groaned, struggling to button her tunic. “This jacket ain’t ’alf shrunk since I ’ad it on last.”

“It’s not the tunic,” Miss Benkinsop corrected. “It’s all those cream cakes you’ve been eating between your meals.”

“I only ’ad six little chocolate eclairs, ma’am,” Penelope objected guiltily, conveniently forgetting the three T-bone steaks and their trimmings which had been supplied by Cook on her return from the jog-trot. “All that there exercise—”

“Yes, yes,” the headmistress smiled, realising as always that girls will be girls. “I know all about it.”

“You can’t get away wiv nuffing ’round ’ere,” Penelope protested, sotto voce to Amanda. “I bet that cat Lorraine Capone snitched on me.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Amanda replied, equally quietly. Not because she believed the words, but merely out of her unwillingness to think ill of anybody—even Lorraine Capone.

“We can move the buttons a little, Penelope,” Miss Frithington-Babcock offered, having studied the girl during her brief conversation with Amanda, “But I’m afraid, with the limited time at our disposal, we might not be able to do anything about the skirt.”

While the school had established an excellent reputation in training its pupils for artistic or commercial careers, Miss Benkinsop had never forgotten that some of them might wish to settle down and become ordinary housewives after graduation. So, no matter what the girls’ eventual specialisations might be, they all received a very thorough education in cooking, sewing, darning and other allied subjects calculated to lead to happy, contented married lives.

Miss Frithington-Babcock attended to the majority of the purely domestic training. Instructing in needlework classes was her particular delight and joy; and she always had a willing, responsive gathering of pupils at her disposal. However, as she had said, there might not be sufficient time for them to make the necessary adjustments to obtain a perfect fit for the head girl’s skirt.

“That’s all right, ma’am,” Penelope grinned, always willing to make the best of every situation no matter how trying. “I can manage wiv it. It’s not as if I’ve got to do any running about or any-fing in it.”

“Our documents are in order, I presume, Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Yes’m,” the School Swot confirmed, producing three Ministry of Defence Form 90’s correctly and suitably inscribed, from her blouse’s breast pocket. “If I may say so, Miss McCoy and the Thrifty Hands class did a really good job here.”

“I agree,” the headmistress concurred. “They will stand the most rigid and exacting scrutiny. Come, there are other matters requiring our attention.”

“Shouldn’t you wait in your study, ma’am?” Penelope inquired, sounding just too casual. “The Group Captain might want to talk to you about some-fing.”

“The contingency is remote,” Miss Benkinsop replied, scanning Penelope’s then Amanda’s faces. While both tried to appear nonchalant, she read their thoughts and did not know whether to be pleased or cross. “Come, girls.”

Going into the basement, the headmistress, Amanda and Penelope walked in on another vitally important piece of preparation. However, there was a spirit of levity which suggested that some slight inattention to accuracy might ensue. Frowning, Penelope went to where her youngest sister was the thief culprit.

“You watch what you’re doing,” the head girl warned, sotto voce “If my parachute doesn’t open. I’ll clip your ear-ole when I get back.”

“You’d be all right if you land on your head,” Lavinia answered, holding her voice down to her ‘big’ sister’s level. “And if you do clip me one, I’ll write and tell our mum.”

Wishing that Miss Benkinsop was not present, so that she could administer a disciplinary box on the ears, Penelope glared at her ‘little’ sister.

“They’re all quite satisfactory,” Miss Benkinsop pronounced, after examining the three parachutes. “You’ve all done very well, girls.”

Blushing with delight, Lavinia quickly poked out her tongue at Penelope. Then realising that her action had been observed by the headmistress, she tried to assume an innocent, pure-as-driven-snow aspect. The presence of Miss Benkinsop precluded any hope of taking appropriate reprisals, so Penelope contented herself with a muttered threat to see to Lavinia later and followed her companions to the room normally used by the Folk Dancing class.

“Cor, stone the flipping crows, Miss Benkinsop,” said Penelope’s lively Cockney dialect. “It wasn’t me what done it, was it, Amanda?”

“I’m afraid that I really must agree,” the School Swot’s gentle, innocent tones concurred. “Neither Penelope nor I were responsible, ma’am.”

“Then who, may I ask,” demanded Miss Benkinsop’s firm, commanding, upper-class voice, “did put the itching powder in Miss Dinks’ ‘hoisting knickers’?”

Although it would have beep impossible to detect by the sound alone, neither the headmistress, Amanda nor Penelope had said a word. They had come upon Miss de Vere rehearsing for what might prove to be a vitally important part of the scheme, Listening to her completely faultless impersonations, the small but highly critical audience burst into spontaneous applause. Miss Benkinsop and the girls joined in just as enthusiastically.

“That, if I may say so,” Miss Benkinsop enthused, “was superb, Miss de Vere.”

“Nice of you to say so, Miss Benkinsop,” the Drama Teacher replied, in Penelope’s voice. Then she changed to being Amanda and continued, “I’m sure that I will be adequate when the need arises.”

“Cor!” Penelope ejaculated. “You couldn’t ’alf’ve fooled me, Miss de Vere.”

“And I,” Amanda went on, which was the highest form of praise the Drama Teacher had ever received.

“’Ere, Miss Benkinsop,” Penelope said, respectfully, as they left the room. “What does Miss de Vere’s real voice sound like?”

“Do you know,” the headmistress replied, coming to a halt and looking over her shoulder at the door. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”