glance warily at the unfortunate Ethelberta, who has subsided into horrified blushes. “Be my guest.”
“You see, you’re ripping and all, but you’ve never ridden through a bush fire with a rescued baby kangaroo—”
“Joey,” fills in Kay Jones. I’m not entirely pleased to find myself at at the centre of a fascinated group of juniors drawing close.
“Don’t swank so, Kay. With a baby kangaroo,” Rhoda says firmly, “balanced over the pommel of her saddle. And fire bunyips screaming in her ears.”
“Did Cecily ever do that?” I ask, diverted.
There’s a murmur of enthusiastic agreement and vigorous nodding, especially from what I suspect is Cecily’s fan club in the second form.
“And she killed her first snake when she was eight. Her first poisonous snake,” Erica, another second former, assures me earnestly. “I bet it was a spirit snake, too.”
“She never said a word to me. Oh, I suppose that explains why she never has any hair ribbons when she needs them,” I say, knowing perfectly well I should be cutting off this conversation straight away—should probably have sat down properly on it in the beginning—and completely incapable of resisting. “Rhoda must take them to sleep with under her pillow.”
Rhoda turns a deeper red than as Mary as her friends dissolve into heartless jeering.
“Still,” says Kay, recovering from her squashing, “it was only an ordinary horse. Not a pegasus.” She beams loyally at me.
“My good girl, it would make just as much sense to be cracked on Ember as me,” I say briskly, coming back to a sense of my responsibilities. “Now, that’s enough of this nonsense, you understand? You’re not to talk such rubbish again. Go and change, now.”
There is a round of obedient nods and “Yes, Charley”s. I clap poor little Rhoda on the back, grin all around to show no offence taken, to the obvious relief of some of them, and make my way back into the School House, whistling.
I’m distinctly amused by the kids, if a bit abashed. Silly little things—just because I take them for hockey and have a fabled beast. I don’t remember feeling that way about Pam Carrington when I was in the bottom forms. I badly wanted her approval, but only because I wanted colours so badly. I wanted to be just like her, at times, but there was nothing sentimental about it. Stuff and nonsense. . .
It was rather sweet, for all that. They’re nice kids.
There’s a little sting under the amusement. I’m nearly up to my study before I place it. Playing at being in love with older girls, that’s all it is, just harmless fun and a stage a lot of babies go through. Passions for older girls and mistresses are simply a stage, before they grow up and turn their affections toward—toward forced uncomfortable kisses in the stables, toward thoughts of husband and marriage. It’s simply a harmless stage.
That, somehow, is exactly where the sting lies. Not that I’d want any of those kids to be serious, it’s just that, somehow, it feels all wrong that feelings for other girls are always playing. Never anything that means anything. I don’t know what I want it to mean.
Simply that everything is, in some indefinable way, wrong.
I push open the study door. Rosalind is curled in one of the easy chairs, a book open on her lap, the light turning her hair into a halo. She looks up at me, with something very clear and serious in the blue eyes behind those glasses, as if she can, uncannily, see straight into my thoughts. I bite my lip and look away, wondering is she’s a Sensitive herself.
Diana, at one of the desks, clicks her tongue in irritation, as if I was the one invading, despite the fact that neither Rosalind nor Valerie, who is sitting at my desk, belong there. The sound feels like a needle run against my nerves.
“Val, do you mind?” I say, more sharply than I intend. She gives me an outraged look, and I try to soften it a little. “I just need the full desk to
“You see, you’re ripping and all, but you’ve never ridden through a bush fire with a rescued baby kangaroo—”
“Joey,” fills in Kay Jones. I’m not entirely pleased to find myself at at the centre of a fascinated group of juniors drawing close.
“Don’t swank so, Kay. With a baby kangaroo,” Rhoda says firmly, “balanced over the pommel of her saddle. And fire bunyips screaming in her ears.”
“Did Cecily ever do that?” I ask, diverted.
There’s a murmur of enthusiastic agreement and vigorous nodding, especially from what I suspect is Cecily’s fan club in the second form.
“And she killed her first snake when she was eight. Her first poisonous snake,” Erica, another second former, assures me earnestly. “I bet it was a spirit snake, too.”
“She never said a word to me. Oh, I suppose that explains why she never has any hair ribbons when she needs them,” I say, knowing perfectly well I should be cutting off this conversation straight away—should probably have sat down properly on it in the beginning—and completely incapable of resisting. “Rhoda must take them to sleep with under her pillow.”
Rhoda turns a deeper red than as Mary as her friends dissolve into heartless jeering.
“Still,” says Kay, recovering from her squashing, “it was only an ordinary horse. Not a pegasus.” She beams loyally at me.
“My good girl, it would make just as much sense to be cracked on Ember as me,” I say briskly, coming back to a sense of my responsibilities. “Now, that’s enough of this nonsense, you understand? You’re not to talk such rubbish again. Go and change, now.”
There is a round of obedient nods and “Yes, Charley”s. I clap poor little Rhoda on the back, grin all around to show no offence taken, to the obvious relief of some of them, and make my way back into the School House, whistling.
I’m distinctly amused by the kids, if a bit abashed. Silly little things—just because I take them for hockey and have a fabled beast. I don’t remember feeling that way about Pam Carrington when I was in the bottom forms. I badly wanted her approval, but only because I wanted colours so badly. I wanted to be just like her, at times, but there was nothing sentimental about it. Stuff and nonsense. . .
It was rather sweet, for all that. They’re nice kids.
There’s a little sting under the amusement. I’m nearly up to my study before I place it. Playing at being in love with older girls, that’s all it is, just harmless fun and a stage a lot of babies go through. Passions for older girls and mistresses are simply a stage, before they grow up and turn their affections toward—toward forced uncomfortable kisses in the stables, toward thoughts of husband and marriage. It’s simply a harmless stage.
That, somehow, is exactly where the sting lies. Not that I’d want any of those kids to be serious, it’s just that, somehow, it feels all wrong that feelings for other girls are always playing. Never anything that means anything. I don’t know what I want it to mean.
Simply that everything is, in some indefinable way, wrong.
I push open the study door. Rosalind is curled in one of the easy chairs, a book open on her lap, the light turning her hair into a halo. She looks up at me, with something very clear and serious in the blue eyes behind those glasses, as if she can, uncannily, see straight into my thoughts. I bite my lip and look away, wondering is she’s a Sensitive herself.
Diana, at one of the desks, clicks her tongue in irritation, as if I was the one invading, despite the fact that neither Rosalind nor Valerie, who is sitting at my desk, belong there. The sound feels like a needle run against my nerves.
“Val, do you mind?” I say, more sharply than I intend. She gives me an outraged look, and I try to soften it a little. “I just need the full desk to
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