Read Online The Golden Day by Ursula Dubosarsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Ursula Dubosarsky
Tags: JUV000000
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and cut pieces of coloured paper and made pictures out of them.’
The little girls stared, at Miss Summers, at the squares of paper, out the window, at the ceiling, at the backs of each others’ necks.
‘Now,’ said Miss Summers with a frown, ‘who can tell me where Miss Renshaw keeps the scissors?’
Before anyone could answer, there was a knock at the door. All their eyes turned to the silver doorhandle, which was turning by itself as though there was a ghost pushing it. In walked the school chaplain, Reverend Broome, not in his normal blue-and-white chapel outfit, but in the black leather pants and jacket that he wore to ride his motorbike. The girls stood up automatically but they were disturbed. What was he doing here?
‘If I may take a few moments of your time?’ the Reverend Broome asked Miss Summers, stepping forward confidently into the room.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Miss Summers, taken aback. ‘Sit down, girls, and listen to what Mr Broome has to say.’
They sat. Mr Broome held his helmet in one hand and with the other hand he smoothed down his hair.
‘Let us pray,’ he said, rolling forward on his toes.
They bowed their heads, amid dictionaries and rulers and the smell of paint.
‘O God, by whom the meek are guided in judgment,’ intoned Mr Broome, who had an unusually loud voice, especially when he was praying. ‘Grant us, in all our doubts and uncertainties, the grace to ask what thou would have us do.’
Miss Summers did not close her eyes or even bow her head. She caught Cubby’s eye. Cubby looked away.
‘Amen,’ said Mr Broome.
‘Amen,’ said the eleven voices in response.
Mr Broome stopped rocking up and down on his feet and stood up very straight, like a soldier, looking out.
‘I can see every girl in this room. Every girl in this room.’
This was what he always said in chapel, but here it was less impressive. After all, it was not very hard – there were only eleven of them.
‘Has anyone got anything they would like to say?’ said Mr Broome.
Nobody did.
‘About what happened when you went out with Miss Renshaw?’
But what did happen?
‘I want you to think about it,’ Mr Broome went on, drenching each word with importance. ‘I want you to think, very hard.
Very seriously. Before it’s too late.’
Too late. The saddest words in the English language. Cubby had read that somewhere. But were they really? There had to be sadder words – like ‘Your whole family has died in a horrible plague,’ for example.
Mr Broome shook his head at the floor. The little girls waited. Soon he would go away. He couldn’t stand there all afternoon. They could last longer than him, much longer.
‘Too late,’ repeated Mr Broome.
Bethany slumped forward on her desk. The Reverend Broome looked across at her, hopefully.
‘Yes?’
It’s our little secret.
‘Nothing,’ said Bethany. ‘I just feel a bit sick.’
Mr Broome lost heart. There was something implacable about the eleven little faces in front of him – how could he hope to know their secrets?
‘At any rate, I have planted a seed,’ he murmured to Miss Summers. ‘Something may come of it.’
He shook her hand and smiled, then left the room quickly. They sat very still, listening to the sound of his big black motorbike boots clattering down the four flights of stairs.
The next day, a letter arrived at the homes of the eleven little girls. It was typed on a small sheet of white paper with the blue embossed school crest.
Dear parents,
You may have heard from your daughter that Miss Renshaw has been absent from school recently following a class excursion.
In the immediate future it seems unlikely that Miss Renshaw will be returning to her current position. However, we have now engaged Miss Merrilee Summers to take the girls in Miss Renshaw’s absence. You will be pleased to hear that she comes with the highest qualifications.
Yours sincerely,
(Miss) Emily Baskerville
Headmistress
ELEVEN
Hiding
The little girls stared, at Miss Summers, at the squares of paper, out the window, at the ceiling, at the backs of each others’ necks.
‘Now,’ said Miss Summers with a frown, ‘who can tell me where Miss Renshaw keeps the scissors?’
Before anyone could answer, there was a knock at the door. All their eyes turned to the silver doorhandle, which was turning by itself as though there was a ghost pushing it. In walked the school chaplain, Reverend Broome, not in his normal blue-and-white chapel outfit, but in the black leather pants and jacket that he wore to ride his motorbike. The girls stood up automatically but they were disturbed. What was he doing here?
‘If I may take a few moments of your time?’ the Reverend Broome asked Miss Summers, stepping forward confidently into the room.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Miss Summers, taken aback. ‘Sit down, girls, and listen to what Mr Broome has to say.’
They sat. Mr Broome held his helmet in one hand and with the other hand he smoothed down his hair.
‘Let us pray,’ he said, rolling forward on his toes.
They bowed their heads, amid dictionaries and rulers and the smell of paint.
‘O God, by whom the meek are guided in judgment,’ intoned Mr Broome, who had an unusually loud voice, especially when he was praying. ‘Grant us, in all our doubts and uncertainties, the grace to ask what thou would have us do.’
Miss Summers did not close her eyes or even bow her head. She caught Cubby’s eye. Cubby looked away.
‘Amen,’ said Mr Broome.
‘Amen,’ said the eleven voices in response.
Mr Broome stopped rocking up and down on his feet and stood up very straight, like a soldier, looking out.
‘I can see every girl in this room. Every girl in this room.’
This was what he always said in chapel, but here it was less impressive. After all, it was not very hard – there were only eleven of them.
‘Has anyone got anything they would like to say?’ said Mr Broome.
Nobody did.
‘About what happened when you went out with Miss Renshaw?’
But what did happen?
‘I want you to think about it,’ Mr Broome went on, drenching each word with importance. ‘I want you to think, very hard.
Very seriously. Before it’s too late.’
Too late. The saddest words in the English language. Cubby had read that somewhere. But were they really? There had to be sadder words – like ‘Your whole family has died in a horrible plague,’ for example.
Mr Broome shook his head at the floor. The little girls waited. Soon he would go away. He couldn’t stand there all afternoon. They could last longer than him, much longer.
‘Too late,’ repeated Mr Broome.
Bethany slumped forward on her desk. The Reverend Broome looked across at her, hopefully.
‘Yes?’
It’s our little secret.
‘Nothing,’ said Bethany. ‘I just feel a bit sick.’
Mr Broome lost heart. There was something implacable about the eleven little faces in front of him – how could he hope to know their secrets?
‘At any rate, I have planted a seed,’ he murmured to Miss Summers. ‘Something may come of it.’
He shook her hand and smiled, then left the room quickly. They sat very still, listening to the sound of his big black motorbike boots clattering down the four flights of stairs.
The next day, a letter arrived at the homes of the eleven little girls. It was typed on a small sheet of white paper with the blue embossed school crest.
Dear parents,
You may have heard from your daughter that Miss Renshaw has been absent from school recently following a class excursion.
In the immediate future it seems unlikely that Miss Renshaw will be returning to her current position. However, we have now engaged Miss Merrilee Summers to take the girls in Miss Renshaw’s absence. You will be pleased to hear that she comes with the highest qualifications.
Yours sincerely,
(Miss) Emily Baskerville
Headmistress
ELEVEN
Hiding
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