Sara said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Not nervous?’
‘No.’ Her mother looked nervous, she thought. Maybe she was herself, a little bit. She wondered how clever the other girls would be. It was a different sort of school altogether, girls who had all been clever enough to pass the exam. Where would she fit in? Would she be able to keep up?
They had both been to the school before, when Sara had been interviewed by Miss Jenkins, the headmistress. The headmistress was tall and thin and spoke a bit like the announcers on the wireless – what Dad called a plummy accent. Her mum’s voice had changed a bit when she spoke to the headmistress, got a bit more careful, not like she talked at home. Her dad didn’t seem to care, but her mum had changed the way she spoke since they came to London. She said parth instead of path and barth instead of bath, and she was getting Sara to do the same. She seemed to think it was important.
She had other things to think about. Inside her satchel were her newbooks, the ones they’d had to go to a special shop to buy: Maths and French and Latin. She stroked the smooth leather of the satchel. She seemed to see her way now as down a long, clear road. She didn’t see any obstacles. If she worked hard enough she would get there. Surely, if you worked very, very hard, and wanted something very, very much, it could happen? She had a simple belief that she could do anything.
Her mother took her in through the gates. The school yard was thronged with girls in blue and some of the younger ones had their mothers with them. None of the other mothers seemed to be as smartly dressed as hers, Sara thought. They were just in cotton dresses and a cardigan and no hat. She saw her mother looking at them.
They went into the entrance hall. A teacher was waiting there with a list in her hand. ‘All new girls come to me,’ she said. She already had a small group around her – several girls, all neat and wearing new clothes. She looked nice, Sara thought, nice and smiling.
‘This is Sara Lewis,’ Nora said.
The teacher smiled. ‘Just leave her here then, Mrs Lewis. Say goodbye to your mother, Sara.’
Nora looked as if she was going to kiss her cheek, Sara thought, but Nora changed her mind. ‘I’ll be here at four o’clock,’ she said. ‘Have a good time.’ She turned at the door and gave a little, nervous wave.
Sara looked around her, breathing in the atmosphere. The old building seemed to have a sense of things happening, of purpose. It had its own smell, of a nice kind of age and chalk-dust and furniture polish. A wide staircase led to the upper floors and down into the basement. She glanced around the other new girls. Were they all terribly clever? Would she be the dunce of the class? She wasn’t used to that.
Older girls stood in groups, talking and laughing, carrying lacrosse sticks and tennis rackets and satchels full of books. Some of them looked really grown up; sixth form girls, she supposed. One of them passed close by and she could smell the familiar scent of her shampoo. Her mother used it; ‘Friday night is Amami night’ was printed on the bottle. I’m here, she thought, I’m really here. They’re going to teach me everything. Excitement bubbled up and made her shiver.
They were shepherded to the locker room to leave their hats and blazers and change into their indoor shoes. She had worn hers aroundthe house at home for a bit, partly because it gave her a secret thrill, and partly to make sure they didn’t creak or anything. Her mother’s slippers creaked – you could hear them all over the house. That would have been terribly embarrassing. Her father had hammered little metal segs into the heels of her outdoor shoes so that they wouldn’t wear out so quickly. They made a little tapping noise but she didn’t mind that; that was outside and no one would hear.
‘Come along, girls.’ The locker doors clattered and banged and they followed the teacher to their form room.
‘Not nervous?’
‘No.’ Her mother looked nervous, she thought. Maybe she was herself, a little bit. She wondered how clever the other girls would be. It was a different sort of school altogether, girls who had all been clever enough to pass the exam. Where would she fit in? Would she be able to keep up?
They had both been to the school before, when Sara had been interviewed by Miss Jenkins, the headmistress. The headmistress was tall and thin and spoke a bit like the announcers on the wireless – what Dad called a plummy accent. Her mum’s voice had changed a bit when she spoke to the headmistress, got a bit more careful, not like she talked at home. Her dad didn’t seem to care, but her mum had changed the way she spoke since they came to London. She said parth instead of path and barth instead of bath, and she was getting Sara to do the same. She seemed to think it was important.
She had other things to think about. Inside her satchel were her newbooks, the ones they’d had to go to a special shop to buy: Maths and French and Latin. She stroked the smooth leather of the satchel. She seemed to see her way now as down a long, clear road. She didn’t see any obstacles. If she worked hard enough she would get there. Surely, if you worked very, very hard, and wanted something very, very much, it could happen? She had a simple belief that she could do anything.
Her mother took her in through the gates. The school yard was thronged with girls in blue and some of the younger ones had their mothers with them. None of the other mothers seemed to be as smartly dressed as hers, Sara thought. They were just in cotton dresses and a cardigan and no hat. She saw her mother looking at them.
They went into the entrance hall. A teacher was waiting there with a list in her hand. ‘All new girls come to me,’ she said. She already had a small group around her – several girls, all neat and wearing new clothes. She looked nice, Sara thought, nice and smiling.
‘This is Sara Lewis,’ Nora said.
The teacher smiled. ‘Just leave her here then, Mrs Lewis. Say goodbye to your mother, Sara.’
Nora looked as if she was going to kiss her cheek, Sara thought, but Nora changed her mind. ‘I’ll be here at four o’clock,’ she said. ‘Have a good time.’ She turned at the door and gave a little, nervous wave.
Sara looked around her, breathing in the atmosphere. The old building seemed to have a sense of things happening, of purpose. It had its own smell, of a nice kind of age and chalk-dust and furniture polish. A wide staircase led to the upper floors and down into the basement. She glanced around the other new girls. Were they all terribly clever? Would she be the dunce of the class? She wasn’t used to that.
Older girls stood in groups, talking and laughing, carrying lacrosse sticks and tennis rackets and satchels full of books. Some of them looked really grown up; sixth form girls, she supposed. One of them passed close by and she could smell the familiar scent of her shampoo. Her mother used it; ‘Friday night is Amami night’ was printed on the bottle. I’m here, she thought, I’m really here. They’re going to teach me everything. Excitement bubbled up and made her shiver.
They were shepherded to the locker room to leave their hats and blazers and change into their indoor shoes. She had worn hers aroundthe house at home for a bit, partly because it gave her a secret thrill, and partly to make sure they didn’t creak or anything. Her mother’s slippers creaked – you could hear them all over the house. That would have been terribly embarrassing. Her father had hammered little metal segs into the heels of her outdoor shoes so that they wouldn’t wear out so quickly. They made a little tapping noise but she didn’t mind that; that was outside and no one would hear.
‘Come along, girls.’ The locker doors clattered and banged and they followed the teacher to their form room.
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