out of the window and registered interest in the arrivals.
‘Goodness!’ said Ann to herself, awed, ‘I didn’t know there were so many chauffeurs left in England!’
Then she smiled in spite of herself, as a majestic Rolls moved away and a very small Austin of battered age drove up. A harassed-looking father emerged from it with a daughter who looked far calmer than he did.
As he paused uncertainly, Miss Vansittart emerged from the house and took charge.
‘Major Hargreaves? And this is Alison? Do come into the house. I’d like you to see Alison’s room for yourself. I—’
Ann grinned and began to type again.
‘Good old Vansittart, the glorified understudy,’ she said to herself. ‘She can copy all the Bulstrode’s tricks. In fact she’s word perfect!’
An enormous and almost incredibly opulent Cadillac, painted in two tones, raspberry fool and azure blue, swept (with difficulty owing to its length) into the drive and drew up behind Major the Hon. Alistair Hargreaves’ ancient Austin.
The chauffeur sprang to open the door, an immense bearded, dark-skinned man, wearing a flowing aba, stepped out, a Parisian fashion plate followed and then a slim dark girl.
That’s probably Princess Whatshername herself, thought Ann. Can’t imagine her in school uniform, but I suppose the miracle will be apparent tomorrow…
Both Miss Vansittart and Miss Chadwick appeared on this occasion.
‘They’ll be taken to the Presence,’ decided Ann.
Then she thought that, strangely enough, one didn’t quite like making jokes about Miss Bulstrode. Miss Bulstrode was Someone.
‘So you’d better mind your P.s and Q.s, my girl,’ she said to herself, ‘and finish these letters without making any mistakes.’
Not that Ann was in the habit of making mistakes. She could take her pick of secretarial posts. She had been P.A. to the chief executive of an oil company, private secretary to Sir Mervyn Todhunter, renowned alike for his erudition, his irritability and the illegibility of his handwriting. She numbered two Cabinet Ministers and an important Civil Servant among her employers. But on the whole, her work had always lain amongst men. She wondered how she was going to like being, as she put it herself, completely submerged in women. Well—it was all experience! And there was always Dennis! Faithful Dennis returning from Malaya, from Burma, from various parts of the world, always the same, devoted, asking her once again to marry him. Dear Dennis! But it would be very dull to be married to Dennis.
She would miss the company of men in the near future. All these schoolmistressy characters—not a man about the place, except a gardener of about eighty.
But here Ann got a surprise. Looking out of the window, she saw there was a man clipping the hedge just beyond the drive—clearly a gardener but a long way from eighty. Young, dark, good-looking. Ann wondered about him—there had been some talk of getting extra labour—but this was no yokel. Oh well, nowadays people did every kind of job. Some young man trying to get together some money for some project or other, or indeed just to keep body and soul together. But he was cutting the hedge in a very expert manner. Presumably he was a real gardener after all!
‘He looks,’ said Ann to herself, ‘he looks as though he might be amusing…’
Only one more letter to do, she was pleased to note, and then she might stroll round the garden…
III
Upstairs, Miss Johnson, the matron, was busy allotting rooms, welcoming newcomers, and greeting old pupils.
She was pleased it was term time again. She never knew quite what to do with herself in the holidays. She had two married sisters with whom she stayed in turn, but they were naturally more interested in their own doings and families than in Meadowbank. Miss Johnson, though dutifully fond of her sisters, was really only interested in Meadowbank.
Yes, it was nice that term had started—
‘Miss Johnson?’
‘Yes, Pamela.’
‘I say, Miss Johnson. I think something’s broken in my case. It’s oozed all over things. I think it’s hair oil.’
‘Chut, chut!’ said Miss Johnson, hurrying to help.
IV
On the grass sweep of lawn beyond the gravelled drive, Mademoiselle Blanche, the new French mistress, was walking. She looked with appreciative eyes at the powerful young man clipping the hedge.
‘Assez bien,’ thought Mademoiselle Blanche.
Mademoiselle Blanche was slender and mouselike and not very noticeable, but she herself noticed everything.
Her eyes went to the procession of cars sweeping up to the front door. She assessed them in terms of money. This Meadowbank was certainly formidable! She summed up mentally the profits that Miss Bulstrode must be making.
Yes, indeed! Formidable!
V
Miss Rich, who taught English and Geography, advanced towards the house at a rapid pace, stumbling a little now and then because, as usual, she forgot to look where she was going. Her hair, also as usual, had escaped from its bun. She had an eager ugly face.
She was saying to herself:
‘To be back again! To be here…It seems years…’ She fell over a rake, and the young gardener put out an arm and said:
‘Steady, miss.’
Eileen Rich said ‘Thank you,’ without looking at him.
VI
Miss Rowan and Miss Blake, the two junior mistresses, were strolling towards the Sports Pavilion. Miss Rowan was thin and dark and intense, Miss Blake was plump and fair. They were discussing with animation their recent adventures in Florence: the pictures they had seen, the sculpture, the fruit blossom, and the attentions (hoped to be dishonourable) of two young Italian gentlemen.
‘Of course one knows,’ said Miss Blake, ‘how Italians go on.’
‘Uninhibited,’ said Miss Rowan, who had studied Psychology as well as Economics. ‘Thoroughly healthy, one feels. No repressions.’
‘But Guiseppe was quite impressed when he found I taught at Meadowbank,’ said Miss Blake. ‘He became much more respectful at once. He has a cousin who wants to come here, but Miss Bulstrode was not sure she had a vacancy.’
‘Meadowbank is a school that really counts,’ said Miss Rowan, happily. ‘Really, the new Sports Pavilion looks most impressive. I never thought it would be ready in time.’
‘Miss Bulstrode said it had to be,’ said Miss Blake in the tone of one who has said the last
