to run round the field in the shoes he was wearing now, they were still rather wet. And, being warmed through, they were indeed exuding a slight but definite smell.
“Cheese,” murmured Simon Silverson.
Charles looked angrily down at his shoes. Nan had reminded him that he was in trouble over his missing running shoes. And she had spoilt his acting. He hated her. He was in an ecstasy of hate again. “Worms and custard and dead mice!” he said. Everyone stared at him, mystified. “Tinned peas soaked in sewage!” Charles said, beside himself with hatred. “Potatoes in scum. I’m not surprised your name’s Dulcinea. It suits you. You’re quite disgusting!”
“And so are you!” Nan shouted back at him. “I bet it was you who did those birds in Music yesterday!” This caused shocked gasps from the rest of 2Y.
Miss Hodge listened, fascinated. This was real feeling all right. And what had Charles said? It was clear to her now why the rest of 2Y had clustered so depressingly at the bottom of her list of suspects. Nan and Charles were at the top of it. It was obvious. They were always the odd ones out in 2Y. Nan must have written the note, and Charles must be the witch in question. And now let Mr Wentworth pour scorn on her scheme!
“Please, Miss Hodge, the bell’s gone,” called a number of voices.
The door opened and Mr Crossley came in. When he saw Miss Hodge, which he had come early in order to do, his face became a deep red, most interesting to Estelle and Theresa.
“Am I interrupting a lesson, Miss Hodge?”
“Not at all,” said Miss Hodge. “We had just finished. Nan and Charles go back to your places.” And she swept out of the room, without appearing to notice that Mr Crossley had leapt to hold the door open for her.
Miss Hodge hurried straight upstairs to Mr Wentworth’s study. She knew this news was going to make an impression on him. But there, to her annoyance, was Mr Wentworth dashing downstairs with a box of chalk, very late for a lesson with 3Z.
“Oh, Mr Wentworth,” panted Miss Hodge. “Can you spare a moment?”
“Not a second. Write me a memo if it’s urgent,” said Mr Wentworth, dashing on down.
Miss Hodge reached out and seized his arm. “But you must! You know 2Y and my scheme about the anonymous note—”
Mr Wentworth swung round on the end of her clutching hands and looked up at her irritably. “What about what anonymous note?”
“My scheme worked!” Miss Hodge said. “Nan Pilgrim wrote it, I’m sure. You must see her—”
“I’m seeing her at four o’clock,” said Mr Wentworth. “If you think I need to know, write me a memo, Miss Hodge.”
“Eileen,” said Miss Hodge.
“Eileen who?” said Mr Wentworth, trying to pull his arm away. “You mean two girls wrote this note?”
“My name is Eileen,” said Miss Hodge, hanging on.
“Miss Hodge,” said Mr Wentworth, “3Z will be breaking windows by now!”
“But there’s Charles Morgan too!” Miss Hodge cried out, feeling his arm pulling out of her hands. “Mr Wentworth, I swear that boy recited a spell! Worms and custard and scummy potatoes, he said. All sorts of nasty things.”
Mr Wentworth succeeded in tearing his arm loose and set off downstairs again. His voice came back to Miss Hodge. “Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. Write it all down, Miss Hodge.”
“Bother!” said Miss Hodge. “But I will write it down. He is going to notice!” She went at once to the staff room, where she spent the rest of the lesson composing an account of her experiment, in writing almost as round and angelic as Theresa’s.
Meanwhile, in the 2Y classroom, Mr Crossley shut the door behind Miss Hodge with a sigh. “Journals out,” he said. He had come to a decision about the note, and he did not intend to let his feelings about Miss Hodge interfere with his duty. So, before anyone could start writing in a journal and make it impossible for him to interrupt, he made 2Y a long and serious speech.
He told them how malicious and sneaky and unkind it was to write anonymous accusations. He asked them to consider how they would feel if someone had written a note about them. Then he told them that someone in 2Y had written just such a note.
“I’m not going to tell you what was in it,” he said. “I shall only say it accused someone of a very serious crime. I want you all to think about it while you write your journals, and after you’ve finished, I want the person who wrote the note to write me another note confessing who they are and why they wrote it. That’s all. I shan’t punish the person. I just want them to see what a serious thing they have done.”
Having said this, Mr Crossley sat back to do some marking, feeling he had settled the matter in a most understanding way. In front of him, 2Y picked up their pens. Thanks to Miss Hodge, everyone thought they knew exactly what Mr Crossley meant.
29 October, wrote Theresa. There is a witch in our class. Mr Crossley just said so. He wants the witch to confess. Mr Wentworth confiscated my knitting this morning and made jokes about it. I did not get it back till lunchtime. Estelle green has started knitting now. What a copycat that girl is. Nan Pilgrim couldn’t climb the ropes this morning and her name is Dulcinea. That made us laugh a lot.
29.10.81. Mr Crossley has just talked to us very seriously, Simon Silverson wrote, very seriously, about a guilty person in our class. I shall do my best to bring that person to justice. If we don’t catch them we might all be accused. This is off the record of course.
Nan Pilgrim is a witch, Dan Smith wrote. This is not a private thought because Mr Crossley just told us. I think she is a witch too. She is even called after that famous witch, but I can’t spell it. I hope they burn her where we can see.
Mr Crossley has been talking about serious accusations, Estelle wrote. And Miss Hodge has been making us all accuse one another. It was quite frightening. I hope none of it is true. Poor Teddy went awfully red when he saw Miss Hodge but she scorned him again.
While everyone else was writing the same sort of things, there were four people in the class who were writing something quite different.
Nirupam wrote, Today, no comment. I shall not even think about high table.
Brian Wentworth, oblivious to everything, scribbled down how he would get from Timbuktu to Uttar Pradesh by bus, allowing time for roadworks on Sundays.
Nan sat for a considerable while wondering what to write. She wanted desperately to get some of today off her chest, but she could not at first think how to do it without saying something personal. At last she wrote, in burning indignation,
I do not know if 2Y is average or not, but this is how they are. They are divided into girls and boys with an invisible line down the middle of the room and people only cross that line when teachers make them. Girls are divided into real girls (Theresa Mullett) and imitations (Estelle Green). And me. Boys are divided into real boys (Simon Silverson), brutes (Daniel Smith) and unreal boys (Nirupam Singh). And Charles Morgan. And Brian Wentworth. What makes you a real girl
