the hall from the place where they had breakfast. The entire school filed in silently, and sat in rows of hard chairs. Old Peepy read something from the Bible, and made an announcement about a nature ramble the following week. They sang a hymn called “Come Down, O Love Divine.” A thin lady with clip-on glasses played the piano.
It was quieter and more boring than assemblies at APS. Otherwise, it wasn’t too dramatically different, and Flora felt a little calmer. She was sorry now that she had fought with Pete. For some reason, she wanted this awful, headstrong girl to like her.
It was partly my fault
, she thought.
I didn’t have to call her a shadow
.
Before she had a chance to patch things up with Pete, however, Virginia Denning came up to them.
“Morning, maggot.”
A crowd of girls—now chattering just as loudly as any girls at a modern school—milled around in the hall, under the forbidding portrait of Dame Mildred Beak.
Flora said, “Hi, Virginia—I mean, hello.”
The older girl’s green eyes were friendly. “I hope you’re settling in.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Someone should’ve warned you about the French.”
“We did,” Pogo said.
“She didn’t listen,” said Pete.
“Hmmm, well, never mind. I’ve come to march you off to Matron—you three can scoot.”
“But …,” Flora began. She looked helplessly at Dulcie, Pogo and Pete. She hadn’t expected to be left alone, and she wasn’t sure she could cope.
Dulcie quickly patted her arm. “Don’t worry. Matron’s a darling.”
“Pete,” Virginia said, “your tie is at half-mast. Has someone died?”
“I’ve lost the top button of my blouse. And my collar keeps coming open and the knot keeps slipping.”
“You’d better sew the button back at first break, or Harbottle will have the vapors. Come along, Flora.”
Reluctantly, Flora followed her, feeling small and nervous without her three guardians. Virginia handed her over to a short, round woman with a puff of gray hair under a starchedwhite cap. Matron had a strong Scottish accent. She wore a very stiff white apron, and had gold-rimmed glasses on a long chain. Her room smelled exactly like the medical room at APS.
Flora wondered if there was any way a trained nurse could spot that she was from the future. All Matron said, however, was that Flora was “a wee bit thin.”
“Thanks,” Flora said.
Matron did not hear this. “Never mind. We’ll soon fatten you up.”
She made Flora take a spoonful of “tonic” that tasted disgusting. Flora did not want to be “fattened.” Wasn’t it good to be thin? How ghastly if this stuff worked, and she was fat when she got back to her own time.
The horrid taste of the tonic lingered in her mouth as she followed Matron back to the bedroom to unpack her boxes—or rather, the other Flora’s boxes. This was interesting. Once you got past the piles of vests and knickers, the other Flora owned some nice things. She liked the heavy fountain pen, and the writing case made of soft red leather. She also liked the small, rolled-up leather case full of needles and threads and stuff for sewing. Matron said it was called a hussif.
“And a very good one it is, too,” she said approvingly. “You’ll be mending your own clothes while you’re here.” She pointed to a hole that had somehow appeared in Flora’s stocking. “You can start with this—I expect you to show me a beautiful darn.”
Flora made a mental note to ask the others what a darn was.
“Now, put your writing things in your satchel.”
The satchel was made of brown leather. This was how she would carry her stuff around the school—like the backpack she took to APS.
When the unpacking was finished, Matron took Flora to her form room. “In you go, dear.” And she trotted away.
Flora took several deep breaths and pushed open the door.
Twenty heads turned round. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at her. Her head swam. She searched for her three friends, and the
It was quieter and more boring than assemblies at APS. Otherwise, it wasn’t too dramatically different, and Flora felt a little calmer. She was sorry now that she had fought with Pete. For some reason, she wanted this awful, headstrong girl to like her.
It was partly my fault
, she thought.
I didn’t have to call her a shadow
.
Before she had a chance to patch things up with Pete, however, Virginia Denning came up to them.
“Morning, maggot.”
A crowd of girls—now chattering just as loudly as any girls at a modern school—milled around in the hall, under the forbidding portrait of Dame Mildred Beak.
Flora said, “Hi, Virginia—I mean, hello.”
The older girl’s green eyes were friendly. “I hope you’re settling in.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Someone should’ve warned you about the French.”
“We did,” Pogo said.
“She didn’t listen,” said Pete.
“Hmmm, well, never mind. I’ve come to march you off to Matron—you three can scoot.”
“But …,” Flora began. She looked helplessly at Dulcie, Pogo and Pete. She hadn’t expected to be left alone, and she wasn’t sure she could cope.
Dulcie quickly patted her arm. “Don’t worry. Matron’s a darling.”
“Pete,” Virginia said, “your tie is at half-mast. Has someone died?”
“I’ve lost the top button of my blouse. And my collar keeps coming open and the knot keeps slipping.”
“You’d better sew the button back at first break, or Harbottle will have the vapors. Come along, Flora.”
Reluctantly, Flora followed her, feeling small and nervous without her three guardians. Virginia handed her over to a short, round woman with a puff of gray hair under a starchedwhite cap. Matron had a strong Scottish accent. She wore a very stiff white apron, and had gold-rimmed glasses on a long chain. Her room smelled exactly like the medical room at APS.
Flora wondered if there was any way a trained nurse could spot that she was from the future. All Matron said, however, was that Flora was “a wee bit thin.”
“Thanks,” Flora said.
Matron did not hear this. “Never mind. We’ll soon fatten you up.”
She made Flora take a spoonful of “tonic” that tasted disgusting. Flora did not want to be “fattened.” Wasn’t it good to be thin? How ghastly if this stuff worked, and she was fat when she got back to her own time.
The horrid taste of the tonic lingered in her mouth as she followed Matron back to the bedroom to unpack her boxes—or rather, the other Flora’s boxes. This was interesting. Once you got past the piles of vests and knickers, the other Flora owned some nice things. She liked the heavy fountain pen, and the writing case made of soft red leather. She also liked the small, rolled-up leather case full of needles and threads and stuff for sewing. Matron said it was called a hussif.
“And a very good one it is, too,” she said approvingly. “You’ll be mending your own clothes while you’re here.” She pointed to a hole that had somehow appeared in Flora’s stocking. “You can start with this—I expect you to show me a beautiful darn.”
Flora made a mental note to ask the others what a darn was.
“Now, put your writing things in your satchel.”
The satchel was made of brown leather. This was how she would carry her stuff around the school—like the backpack she took to APS.
When the unpacking was finished, Matron took Flora to her form room. “In you go, dear.” And she trotted away.
Flora took several deep breaths and pushed open the door.
Twenty heads turned round. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at her. Her head swam. She searched for her three friends, and the
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