Miss Bondage. “It was the most popular activity we’ve run since ‘The Spottiest Girl In The School’ Competition.”
“The girls certainly have a violent streak,” murmurs Miss Honeycomb.
“‘Streak’!?” thundered Miss Murdstone. “They’re steeped in violence from head to toe.”
“Healthy high spirits, I prefer to call it,” says Miss Bondage, firmly. “All they need is their energy channelled into a public spirited activity.”
“Such as?” challenges Miss Murdstone.
“Such as a Combined Cadet Force,” says Miss Bondage triumphantly.
“You mean, soldiers?”
“Eventually. I think our proximity to Southmouth dictates that we start off with a naval section. The St Rodence Wrens. It trips off the tongue rather appealingly, doesn’t it?” “Knotty”, as the girls call her, has obviously been giving the idea a lot of thought.
“‘Trips’ is the right word,” says Miss Murdstone. I like Miss Murdstone. She is the only member of the common room who will stand up to Miss Bondage. Miss Marjoribanks and Miss Wilton run out of the door whimpering every time Knotty appears.
“The headmistress is enthusiastic about the idea,” steamrollers Miss Bondage. “I have been given authority to take the necessary steps.”
My heart sinks. Miss Grimshaw has been very over-tired lately and there have been fears about her health. The attacks of hiccupping and falling down in a dead faint have become more frequent. We are all terrified that she may have to retire and be replaced by Miss Bondage.
“What are you going to do?” says Miss Honeycomb. The hint of hysteria in her voice is not completely hidden.
“I have already done.” Miss Bondage sits back as smug as a moggy with a small, thin tail hanging out of its mouth. “I have been in touch with Naval Command at Southmouth and organised a trip round one of their destroyers. The Admiralty are enthusiastic about my initiative.”
“You’re not suggesting we take the girls?” Now Miss Murdstone sounds worried.
“Of course I am! What better way to fan the sparks of enthusiasm already kindled into a blazing fire?”
“I don’t think you can kindle sparks,” says Miss Honeycomb.
“Don’t quibble over semantics, Honeycomb!” warns Miss Bondage. “The world is full of hungry young English teachers.”
Miss Honeycomb yelps in terror and because she has shoved her needle into her thumb. “Do the Admiralty really understand what they are letting themselves in for? I mean the last school outing was hardly a raging success, was it.”
“Winchester Cathedral lost its right to be taken seriously once it became subject matter for that ghastly pop song,” sniffs Miss Bondage. “Anyway, most of the alms boxes were returned. I accept that it was unfortunate about the candlesticks being melted down but—girls will be girls.”
“That’s not what the magistrate said. He said it was the greatest single act of religious desecration since Henry the Eighth sacked the monasteries.”
“Fiddle faddle! Why do you always have to dwell in the past, Murdstone? Once we get these girls enthused, unchannelled violence will become as outmoded at St Rodence as your reactionary ideas. I can see them now, splicing the belaying pins and shivering their timbers.”
“My timbers are shivering already,” says Miss Murdstone. “You can take the girls on that boat if you like. I’d rather take a spin round the Pacific with a Kamikaze pilot.”
“Have no fear, Murdstone,” scoffs Miss B. “I had no intention of calling upon your fast dwindling reserves of energy. This project needs young blood.” She looks round the room and both Penny and I nearly lock shoulders in the doorway.
“Come back, gels!” booms Miss Bondage. “Your country needs you.”
“I’m frightfully sorry,” says Penny. “But I only have to look at a sailor to start feeling seasick. My mother once had a very distressing experience with an assistant purser on the way back from India. It was a choppy night in the Bay of Biscay and—”
“I’m not interested in that!” snaps Miss Bondage.
“Oh I am!” says Miss Honeycomb—putting down her petit point. “I like a bit of romance. I always think there’s too much violence and suffering in the world.”
“There’s going to be a little more if everybody doesn’t pull themselves together!” snarls Miss Bondage. “With the authority vested in me by Miss Grimshaw, I am telling you, Green and Dixon, that you have been seconded to the St Rodence Wrens!”
Of course, Miss Bondage is getting a bit carried away as usual, and when we depart for Southmouth dock we are still in civilian clothes. The trip is intended to give everyone an idea of life afloat with the tempting prospect of a naval section being set up when we come ashore. Knotty’s predictions about the popularity of the visit are more than borne out but it does not seem to be the martial aspects of the trip that are pulling them in. The girls sitting three to a seat and coquettishly trying to tip the Securicor men’s helmets over their eyes are wearing enough make-up to keep the Folies Bergères going for a year. As for the smell of perfume, it would be enough to kill the pong in a burning tyre factory. These girls are dressed to kill all right but it is our jolly jack tars they are aiming at.
“They’re always at their most dangerous when there are men about,” murmurs Penny. “And you know what sailors are like. This could be the greatest naval disaster since the sinking of the Titanic.” I don’t feel inclined to disagree with her but at least we have Miss Bondage with us. Responsibility for whatever happens will not be totally ours.
“Wave goodbye to Miss Grimshaw, girls,” says Penny loyally as the coach pulls away. Miss Grimshaw has not come down to the quad but is waving to us from the window of her room. It is unfortunate that the bottle of cold tea slips from her fingers and shatters in the courtyard below.
“Gosh! I hope none of the girls can lip read,” says Penny. “Miss Grimshaw must have been in the services, too. The Pioneer Corps, I should imagine.”
“Most of the girls can’t read books let alone lips,” I say. “Judy, leave that man’s truncheon alone, this instant!”
With Miss Bondage and the four armed Securicor men present, order is maintained until we get to the docks and I am almost looking forward to the visit by the time H.M.S. Trueheart hoves in sight. I have always had a soft spot for the Senior Service—and Players Naval Cut for that matter. It must have something to do with the names. Nelson, Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, Byng—and Frank Sinatra in On The Town. What girl has not responded to those great names of the sea? I remember how I cried when my first starfish began to curl at the edges.
“Look, girls! Sea gulls!” I say, seeking to awake in them the feelings of excitement that twist and turn through my own eager body.
“I think they saw us first,” says Fiona Fladger, indicating Roxane.
“Use your handkerchief! Don’t pick at it!” I tell her. Oh dear, filthy birds!
“Crumbs!
