12 the days go by
jo got very little sympathy from anyone except a small first-former called deirdre. deirdre met her as she was coming up from the pool, still weeping.
“oh! what’s the matter, jo?” asked deirdre, in distress. “have you hurt yourself?”
“i’ve been practically drowned,” said jo, more tears springing out. “that brute of an amanda pushed me into the deep end, though she knew i couldn’t swim. she slapped me too—look! i shall tell my father.”
“oh, i should,” said deirdre, flattered at the way this second-former was talking to her, a first-former. deirdre couldn’t swim either, and she could quite well understand what fear jo had felt when she had been pushed into the deep end of the pool. “how wicked of amanda. nobody likes her and i’m not surprised.”
jo sat down on a ledge of rock, halfway up the cliff. she wiped her eyes with her hand. “i don’t feel well,” she said. “i feel beastly. i’m sure i’m chock-full of seawater. i shan’t be able to eat anything at all today.”
this seemed dreadful to jo, and almost as dreadful to deirdre, who had a very good appetite. she ventured to feel jo’s arm.
“you’re shivering,” she said. “you’d better go in. shall i fetch matron for you?”
“oh goodness, no,” said jo, at once. she had no more love for matron than matron had for jo. matron had too often seen through jo’s pretences and evasions. one of them was a bad headache on the afternoons when a long walk was prescribed!
“funny,” matron had said. “long walk—headache. the two always go together with you, jo. well, you can take your headache on the long walk. it’ll do it good!”
so jo certainly didn’t want any attention from matron on the morning when she had been “practically drowned”. all jo wanted was sympathy and a lot of it.
but the only sympathy she got was from the little first-former, deirdre. everyone else laughed at her.
“practically drowned!” said susan, scoffing. “you just went under and got a mouthful of water, jo.”
“i’ll hold you under for a lot longer if you really would like to know what being ‘practically drowned’ is like,” offered june, when she had heard jo’s laments about six times.
“jo’s been practically drowned at least twelve times,” said dawn. “i can’t think why she doesn’t try and learn to swim. then she wouldn’t keep on getting ‘practically drowned’!”
“i don’t know why you’re so mean to me,” said jo, looking pathetic. “don’t i share my sweets and cakes and everything with you? didn’t i tell you i’d just got five pounds from my aunt to spend on a birthday feast? you know we’ll have a jolly good time on my money. don’t i always . . .”
“be quiet,” said felicity, crossly. “don’t we all share our things with one another? you’re not the only one!”
“yes, but i get so many more things,” said jo. “look at that enormous cake i had last week—it lasted our table two days. and look at . . .”
“don’t keep on pushing your riches down our throats!” said june, exasperated. “and keep your cakes and sweets to yourself in future. i don’t want any. you keep on and on reminding us of them. eat them all yourself!”
jo’s eyes filled with tears. “you’re mean,” she said. “you’re all horrid. one of these days i’ll run away!”
“do,” said june. “it would be too wonderful for words to wake up one morning and find your bed empty. what a relief!”
jo sniffed dolefully and went in search of deirdre again. she knew deirdre would be sympathetic. and so she was—especially when jo produced a big box of chocolates that had come the day before, and which, so far, she hadn’t shared with anyone.
“i shan’t give the second-formers one single chocolate,” jo declared. “we’ll have them all, deirdre. go on—take half the box back with you. and when my next cake comes i’ll give you a quarter of it!”
deirdre had no mother to send her any cakes or sweets. she had only a father, who was at sea, and an old aunt who didn’t realize that little girls liked parcels at boarding-school. so she was very thrilled with the chocolates indeed. they were magnificent ones too, as jo’s always were.
“my family never get anything but the best,” jo said. she found that she could boast as much as she liked to deirdre, who drank it all in. “i wish you could see my bedroom at home, deirdre—it’s all red and gold—and i’ve got a little bathroom of my own too, done in red and gold.”
this was perfectly true. jo’s father was rolling in money. jo once boasted that there wasn’t anything her father couldn’t buy. june had inquired whether he had enough money to buy himself a few hundred “h’s”. jo had never forgiven june for that. for the first time she had realized that her father’s loud-voiced remarks were made all the worse by the way he continually dropped his “h’s,” and by his curious lapses in grammar.
amanda actually came after jo one morning to ask her if she would like her to coach her in swimming. she had felt rather guilty about pushing jo in, and had kicked herself for not finding out first if she could swim. jo turned her back rudely on amanda.
“no thanks,” she said curtly. “it’s a good thing for you i didn’t write and tell my father. anyway i wouldn’t be put through what you’re giving june for anything in the world. no thank you!”
sally was with amanda. she swung jo round by the shoulder. “now just apologize to amanda for your rudeness,” she said. “go on, quick!”
“no,” said jo, seeing the admiring deirdre nearby.
“very well,” said sally, whipping out her little punishment book. “you can learn any piece of poetry in your french poetry book, so long as it’s not shorter than twenty lines. and say it to me before wednesday next.”
“i apologize,” said jo, sulkily. french was not one of her best subjects.
“too late,” said sally. “the punishment stands. and take that scowl off your face.”
“no. hold it!” said belinda’s voice from the back, and out came her sketch book. “it isn’t often i get such a nice fine fat scowl! aha—see yourself, young jo!”
jo gazed in anger at the caricature of herself—wickedly like her at her most bad-tempered. she turned on her heel and slouched off, deirdre following her like a faithful little dog.
“that kid wants taking in hand,” said sally. “i hear from felicity that she gets parcels practically every day from home—really extravagant ones too. and the money she gets! if i catch her flinging it about i shall confiscate it or send her to matron. those lower-formers have got to stick to the rules where money is concerned. it isn’t fair to the others, who only have ten shillings a term to spend. she’s a pest, that kid.”
the interest in amanda’s coaching of june soon died down. june stuck it, though sometimes with a bad grace. amanda never praised—that was the worst of her. she found fault dozens of times, but even when june really did produce an ace of a serve, amanda’s only comment would be, “well, it’s pleasant to see a good serve at last!”
amanda herself soon proved to everyone that she was far and away the best in the school at tennis and swimming. she was put automatically into the first team for swimming and diving and the first tennis team too. it was a joy to watch her swim or play. darrell never ceased to marvel at the grace of her great hefty body on the tennis court or in the pool.
moira and amanda had many squabbles, especially over helping the younger ones. moira was very good about this, but amanda took no interest at all.
“tessie’s got to learn how to place her balls better,” she would say. or, “lucy would be better if she stopped yelling about at swimming and practised a bit more. she’d be good then.”
“well—what about telling tessie, and showing lucy what she should do?” moira would say, impatiently. “you always see what’s wrong—but you never want to put it right. except for june. she’s the only one.”
amanda didn’t answer. she didn’t seem to be listening and this always annoyed moira more than anything.
“that’s right. look away in the distance and think of the wonderful days when you’ll win everything at the olympic games,” sneered moira, going out of the room.
moira would have liked to be as good as amanda was at games. they were her greatest interest, much to the french girl, suzanne’s, perpetual astonishment.
“this moira, this amanda,” she said to mam’zelle dupont. “elles sont très dr?le!”
“speak in english, suzanne,” mam’zelle would say, severely. “how many times must i tell you this?”
“police?” said suzanne.
“you heard me,” said mam’zelle. “now—say what you said—in english, please.”
“this moira, this amanda—they—are vairy piggy-hoo-learrr!” said suzanne, earnestly.
mam’zelle stared at her. “what was that word?” she asked, astonished.
“piggy-hoo-learrrrrr!” repeated suzanne. “it is a true word, mam’zelle dupont. darrell tiched it me.”
“darrell taught you?” said mam’zelle. “ah, i must ask her what it is.”
it turned out to be “peculiar”, of course, and for some time after that everything queer was referred to as “piggy-hoo-learrrrr”! alicia took it upon herself to teach suzanne a few more words, which also astonished poor mam’zelle very much.
she taught the unsuspecting suzanne such words as “fiddlesticks!”, “piffle”, and “scrumplicious”, which, of course, was a mixture of scrumptious and delicious.
suzanne liked the words very much, and used them whenever she could. she described mam’zelle’s new lace collar as “scrumpleeeecious!” and amiably told her that in her opinion swimming was “peefle” and “vairy feedlesteecks” and didn’t mam’zelle agree with her?
“what is this ‘peefle’ and ‘feedle-steecks’?” mam’zelle asked suspiciously. “they are not words. alicia have you ever heard of them, tell me truly?”
“oh yes, mam’zelle,” said alicia, gazing innocently at mam’zelle. she caught sight of a hair-pin coming out of mam’zelle’s bun, and the sight made her remember the wonderful magnet. had june used it again? she must find out.
“peefle,” muttered mam’zelle, feverishly searching through the dictionary for it. “peefle. he is not here, this peefle. suzanne, take this dictionary and look through it carefully for me.”
“police?” said suzanne, politely. mam’zelle exploded.
“yes—look up your everlasting ‘police’, too!” she cried. “see what it means. one day they will be after you—the police! ah, you foolish girl. never will you learn to spik the english as he should be spoke.”
