Then we can have a little chat, Merode," she said, giving a sign for Miss Birks to follow so they could speak in the passage.
"I don't want anyone to see the child," Miss Marchbanks instructed, when they could not be overheard. "Not a soul, mind. Poor thing," she said. "It will go hard with her, I'm afraid, out and about the Park at night in those pyjamas."
"But you'd want me to call in Dr Bodle, naturally?" Matron enquired.
Miss Marchbanks pondered this. "You see," she replied, "it's not fair to ask a word in her condition. She must get herself straight, and then she can make an account. Because we don't want anyone to put ideas into her head. You know what girls are once they come together. Besides, there are the Rules. So my instinct is, not even Dr Bodle, though, of course, a doctor's different. Nevertheless, not unless she has a temperature. Yet I leave it quite to your discretion."
"Very well ma'am," Matron said, and obviously found this unfair.
"Don't let her speak until she sees me. I leave that particularly to your judgement," Marchbanks ended as she made off, having regularised everything, as she thought, for the best.
Matron unlocked a door leading to the bath corridor and then shut the girl into a cubicle. "There," she said from outside. "Mind you have it hot."
"Yes, Miss Birks," Merode replied, quickly turning on water so there could be no conversation. For, in her perplexity, she had resolved she would say not a word to anyone, whatever happened. Matron looked into the remaining cubicles to be sure there was no other child could get in touch with Merode, then left, locking the outer door into the passage. She said aloud, "Poor mite". After which she made her way to Mrs Blain, to see about something hot for the little wretch.
In next to no time the bath was run, with Merode stretched out under electric light and water, like the roots of a gross water lily which had flowered to her floating head and hands. This green transparency was so just right, so matched the temperature of the hidden blood, that she half closed her eyes in a satisfied contemplation of a chalk white body. She felt it seemed to sway as to light winds, as though she were bathing by floodlight in the night steaming lake, beech shadowed, mystically warmed.
Then came a loud whisper from somewhere, out of the air. So that she covered herself with her hands, exactly in the pose classic to plaster casts.
"Merode," it said, "Merode." She was too modest to answer.
"I'm talking through the ventilator, you fool. It's Moira." When she realised she could not be seen, the girl uncovered herself with a shy smile, looked up at that black grating in the wall. "I'm only on the floor above," the voice said, "that's all. Can you hear me?"
"Yes," she said, covering herself again.
"Then what on earth's happened?"
Merode did not say one word.
"It's made an awful stink."
"What has?"
"Why you and Mary cutting off like that. You didn't go down to the lake, did you?"
"No, why?"
"Because when Winstanley went to ask Ma if the staff could bathe there, she said better not."
Merode began to be frightened once more. She kept silent.
"Well you didn't, did you?" Moira repeated.
"Can't you hear me?" the same voice went on, when there was no answer.
"Are you all right?" Moira asked at last.
In reply there came a muffled sound of crying. In the bath beneath Merode pressed the wet back of her hand to a snuffling nose, under the light blue rubber cap almost enclosing her hair which, in this light, was dark honey coloured.
"Why don't be so ridiculous," Moira said. "You aren't to let those old women get you down, surely?"
Merode pulled herself together enough to say, "No."
"Then what did happen?"
"Nothing," the child insisted, in a trembling voice.
From above there came through the ventilator a low "Damn", followed by the echo of heavy footsteps, and a brief noise of scrambling as Moira made off fast. Then Merode was alone in warm silence. She rested.
"I don't want anyone to see the child," Miss Marchbanks instructed, when they could not be overheard. "Not a soul, mind. Poor thing," she said. "It will go hard with her, I'm afraid, out and about the Park at night in those pyjamas."
"But you'd want me to call in Dr Bodle, naturally?" Matron enquired.
Miss Marchbanks pondered this. "You see," she replied, "it's not fair to ask a word in her condition. She must get herself straight, and then she can make an account. Because we don't want anyone to put ideas into her head. You know what girls are once they come together. Besides, there are the Rules. So my instinct is, not even Dr Bodle, though, of course, a doctor's different. Nevertheless, not unless she has a temperature. Yet I leave it quite to your discretion."
"Very well ma'am," Matron said, and obviously found this unfair.
"Don't let her speak until she sees me. I leave that particularly to your judgement," Marchbanks ended as she made off, having regularised everything, as she thought, for the best.
Matron unlocked a door leading to the bath corridor and then shut the girl into a cubicle. "There," she said from outside. "Mind you have it hot."
"Yes, Miss Birks," Merode replied, quickly turning on water so there could be no conversation. For, in her perplexity, she had resolved she would say not a word to anyone, whatever happened. Matron looked into the remaining cubicles to be sure there was no other child could get in touch with Merode, then left, locking the outer door into the passage. She said aloud, "Poor mite". After which she made her way to Mrs Blain, to see about something hot for the little wretch.
In next to no time the bath was run, with Merode stretched out under electric light and water, like the roots of a gross water lily which had flowered to her floating head and hands. This green transparency was so just right, so matched the temperature of the hidden blood, that she half closed her eyes in a satisfied contemplation of a chalk white body. She felt it seemed to sway as to light winds, as though she were bathing by floodlight in the night steaming lake, beech shadowed, mystically warmed.
Then came a loud whisper from somewhere, out of the air. So that she covered herself with her hands, exactly in the pose classic to plaster casts.
"Merode," it said, "Merode." She was too modest to answer.
"I'm talking through the ventilator, you fool. It's Moira." When she realised she could not be seen, the girl uncovered herself with a shy smile, looked up at that black grating in the wall. "I'm only on the floor above," the voice said, "that's all. Can you hear me?"
"Yes," she said, covering herself again.
"Then what on earth's happened?"
Merode did not say one word.
"It's made an awful stink."
"What has?"
"Why you and Mary cutting off like that. You didn't go down to the lake, did you?"
"No, why?"
"Because when Winstanley went to ask Ma if the staff could bathe there, she said better not."
Merode began to be frightened once more. She kept silent.
"Well you didn't, did you?" Moira repeated.
"Can't you hear me?" the same voice went on, when there was no answer.
"Are you all right?" Moira asked at last.
In reply there came a muffled sound of crying. In the bath beneath Merode pressed the wet back of her hand to a snuffling nose, under the light blue rubber cap almost enclosing her hair which, in this light, was dark honey coloured.
"Why don't be so ridiculous," Moira said. "You aren't to let those old women get you down, surely?"
Merode pulled herself together enough to say, "No."
"Then what did happen?"
"Nothing," the child insisted, in a trembling voice.
From above there came through the ventilator a low "Damn", followed by the echo of heavy footsteps, and a brief noise of scrambling as Moira made off fast. Then Merode was alone in warm silence. She rested.
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