first face she made out belonged to horrible, sneering Consuela Carver. Like many class cows, the Carver was the first person you saw because she was—in an evil sort of way—very pretty, with her bright golden curls and big blue eyes. The expression in those eyes made Flora feel slightly sick.
Miss Bradley—with a black gown over her tweed suit—was at the front of the class. “Ah, the new girl—come here, dear.”
It wasn’t a big room, but the walk up to Miss Bradley seemed to take ages.
“Girls, this is Flora Fox. She’s come all the way from India, and I hope you’ll do your best to make her feel welcome. Yours is the desk next to Dulcie’s.”
It was comforting to see Dulcie’s kind pink face. Flora sat down at the vacant desk beside her. It was the old-fashioned sort of school desk with a sloping lid. It had a few spots of ink, but nobody had written anything on it. At APS she shared a table with Yasmin, Jessica and Kylie.
On the veranda at home, there was an old card table with a green
baize top, and Fritz the monkey perched on the top step, chattering to himself and daintily eating a banana. They had to stop lessons when the sun was too hot and the sweat dripped off the ends of their pigtails
.
If only the other Flora would leave her alone—fighting off her memories was exhausting. It took all her effort, and she couldn’t think straight.
“You catch us in the middle of our history lesson,” Miss Bradley said. “We’re learning about the campaigns of the Duke of Marlborough.” On the blackboard behind her was written: “Blenheim—Ramillies—Oudenarde—Malplaquet.” It was all gobbledegook to Flora. Blackboards were yet another weird thing. When Miss Bradley wrote something, the chalk squeaked unpleasantly, and when she banged the felt board-rubber it puffed out white clouds of dust.
Miss Bradley caught her bewilderment. “Don’t worry, it’s all in the book. You can read the chapter for your prep tonight. What were you studying at home?”
“The Saxons,” Flora said. “And something about the Corn Laws.”
There were scattered giggles. Miss Bradley’s lips twitched, as if she were trying not to smile. “Something? That they were repealed, for instance?”
“I—I don’t know.” The heat rushed back into Flora’s face. The Corn Laws had come from the memories of the other Flora. She made an effort to remember her last history lesson with Ms. Stuart at APS. “We made a Saxon castle, out of cardboard.”
More giggles. It was so frustrating—they all thought she was completely thick, and didn’t realize her brain was split between two centuries.
“And—and we were going to do a project about the Second World War.”
After a second of astonished silence, the whole class erupted into shrieks of laughter. Consuela Carver was in absolute hysterics, and so were Pete and Dulcie and Miss Bradley.
The only person not laughing was Pogo, who was staring at her with a mixture of fascination and alarm. Flora suddenly remembered that the Second World War hadn’t happened yet. It wasn’t due to start for another four years—she was pretty sure it started in 1939, because they had a mug at home with the dates on.
This was so embarrassing. She wanted to disappear. Everything she knew was jumbled up with everything the other Flora knew, until she didn’t know which was which. And the frightening thing was that when she tried to concentrate on the future, she felt her memories of the twenty-first century rolling about chaotically, like beads from a broken necklace.
“All right, simmer down, everyone!” Miss Bradley was still chuckling. “I’m glad to say there has been only one world war, Flora, and nobody’s in a hurry to repeat the experience!”
The laughing stopped, and Miss Bradley began to talk about battles. She wrote some dates on the blackboard. Flora wrote them down in the notebook she had found in hersatchel, because this was what everyone else was doing, but
Miss Bradley—with a black gown over her tweed suit—was at the front of the class. “Ah, the new girl—come here, dear.”
It wasn’t a big room, but the walk up to Miss Bradley seemed to take ages.
“Girls, this is Flora Fox. She’s come all the way from India, and I hope you’ll do your best to make her feel welcome. Yours is the desk next to Dulcie’s.”
It was comforting to see Dulcie’s kind pink face. Flora sat down at the vacant desk beside her. It was the old-fashioned sort of school desk with a sloping lid. It had a few spots of ink, but nobody had written anything on it. At APS she shared a table with Yasmin, Jessica and Kylie.
On the veranda at home, there was an old card table with a green
baize top, and Fritz the monkey perched on the top step, chattering to himself and daintily eating a banana. They had to stop lessons when the sun was too hot and the sweat dripped off the ends of their pigtails
.
If only the other Flora would leave her alone—fighting off her memories was exhausting. It took all her effort, and she couldn’t think straight.
“You catch us in the middle of our history lesson,” Miss Bradley said. “We’re learning about the campaigns of the Duke of Marlborough.” On the blackboard behind her was written: “Blenheim—Ramillies—Oudenarde—Malplaquet.” It was all gobbledegook to Flora. Blackboards were yet another weird thing. When Miss Bradley wrote something, the chalk squeaked unpleasantly, and when she banged the felt board-rubber it puffed out white clouds of dust.
Miss Bradley caught her bewilderment. “Don’t worry, it’s all in the book. You can read the chapter for your prep tonight. What were you studying at home?”
“The Saxons,” Flora said. “And something about the Corn Laws.”
There were scattered giggles. Miss Bradley’s lips twitched, as if she were trying not to smile. “Something? That they were repealed, for instance?”
“I—I don’t know.” The heat rushed back into Flora’s face. The Corn Laws had come from the memories of the other Flora. She made an effort to remember her last history lesson with Ms. Stuart at APS. “We made a Saxon castle, out of cardboard.”
More giggles. It was so frustrating—they all thought she was completely thick, and didn’t realize her brain was split between two centuries.
“And—and we were going to do a project about the Second World War.”
After a second of astonished silence, the whole class erupted into shrieks of laughter. Consuela Carver was in absolute hysterics, and so were Pete and Dulcie and Miss Bradley.
The only person not laughing was Pogo, who was staring at her with a mixture of fascination and alarm. Flora suddenly remembered that the Second World War hadn’t happened yet. It wasn’t due to start for another four years—she was pretty sure it started in 1939, because they had a mug at home with the dates on.
This was so embarrassing. She wanted to disappear. Everything she knew was jumbled up with everything the other Flora knew, until she didn’t know which was which. And the frightening thing was that when she tried to concentrate on the future, she felt her memories of the twenty-first century rolling about chaotically, like beads from a broken necklace.
“All right, simmer down, everyone!” Miss Bradley was still chuckling. “I’m glad to say there has been only one world war, Flora, and nobody’s in a hurry to repeat the experience!”
The laughing stopped, and Miss Bradley began to talk about battles. She wrote some dates on the blackboard. Flora wrote them down in the notebook she had found in hersatchel, because this was what everyone else was doing, but
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