‘Are either of you burnt at all?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Is that the truth, George?’
‘Yes, madam, not a blister. Only I thought you’d be interested to know, or I wouldn’t have rung you.’
‘I see. “Well, thank you very much, George.’
‘A merry Christmas, madam.’
Chapter 14
FIELD-WORK
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‘I don’t care what you say,’ said Alice, ‘although I think it’s coarse to talk like that, but I shall get married myself, later on.’
‘Why not?’ inquired Laura, flinging clothing out of a suitcase in the manner of a terrier flinging up earth from a hole where it thinks it has buried a bone. ‘Where the Hell are my bedroom slippers? Oh, Kitty, you lout, you’ve got them on!’
‘Well, teachers generally don’t,’ resumed Alice. ‘But I come from the lower classes where marriage is the rule, not the exception, and I’m not ashamed of it. What I mean…’
‘The glories of our blood and state, are shadows, not substantial things,’ remonstrated Laura, assuming the slippers lately snatched from Kitty. ‘I do not recognize class-consciousness, young Alice, so pipe down. Don’t be a snob.’
‘Anyway, I hope the Deb. stays until the end of our first year,’ said the denuded one, sitting on Laura’s bed with her feet up. ‘I don’t suppose I shall be able to go down to tea, Dog,’ she continued, surveying the ends of her stockinged feet. ‘I can’t find a thing of my own except the shoes I came in, and they’re all mud, from that foul path out of the station.’
‘Have mine. They were new for Christmas,’ said Alice, putting both hands into her hat-box. ‘Here you are.’
‘And don’t scuffle about in ’em,’ added Laura. ‘Incidentally, I suppose bedroom slippers at first tea are de rigueur?’
‘Mrs Croc. won’t be there, and anyway, it’s a free country,’ said Kitty, trying on Alice’s slippers and holding out one foot the better to admire it. ‘These from the boy friend, young Alice?’
‘I haven’t a boy friend,’ said Alice, blushing. ‘I was only stating my views in a general way about marriage. You needn’t laugh.’
‘You know, there’s something a bit Little Lord Fauntleroy about our Alice,’ said Laura. ‘I used to notice it last term. A kind of je ne sais quoi.’ She began to comb her hair.
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy?’ said Alice.
‘Yes. You know… she means where they stick a placard on his back to say he bites,’ said Kitty earnestly. Her friends gazed at her with fascinated admiration.
‘What she owes to her spiritual pastors and masters will never be known,’ said Laura. ‘She goes from strength to strength. When we were at school she thought Dickens wrote Under Two Flags.’
‘Well, I don’t see why he shouldn’t have,’ said Kitty sturdily. ‘Where’s my calendar? I want to mark off the days. I think I’ll mark today off straight away. It’s practically over. When’s half-term, Dog?’
The date was January 23rd. The Lent term had its own interests, did not include School Practice, and part of it would be devoted (as soon as the weather improved) to the various rambles and excursions which formed part of the First Year Course.
The scope and nature of the rambles depended largely upon the Advanced Subjects chosen; thus Laura, ignoring her gift for English, had elected to take Advanced Geography, and Kitty, having no particular preferences, had put her name down for the same group. Alice was down for Advanced Biology, and spent most of her time cutting sections and putting them under the microscope when she was not engaged upon Field Work.
For about the first five weeks of the term the weather was so bad that even some of the fixtures in hockey had to be abandoned. When March came, however, the wet and the heavy mists had cleared away, the sun shone, and the snappy, invigorating air seemed to invite the students out upon the moors.
One bright, cold, gusty afternoon, the Advanced Geography group, having been advised previously of the arrangements by the senior lecturer in the subject, collected after lunch in the Senior Common Room of the College with notebooks, pencils, cameras, geological hammers and Ordnance maps, ‘ready for fairies at the bottom of the garden or a full-scale invasion, or anything in between the two,’ as Laura put it, and prepared to set out upon an excursion.
‘What have we here, Dog?’ asked Kitty, as her friend consulted a business-like little notebook completely filled with writing, maps and sketches.
‘A pearl of great price,’ said Laura, lowering her voice. ‘My spies inform me that these bally outings or expeditions always follow the same course, year after year. Now this,’ she tapped the notebook, ‘was compiled, doubtless with much sweat, by one Tweetman of Athelstan, some five years ago. She left it to her junior, one Plumstead. Plumstead bequeathed it to a crony in the first year, y-clept Mason. Mason left it in her will to friend Cartwright (who informs me upon oath that the only reason she wasn’t sent down last term was because her First Year Advanced Geography (Excursion Section) notebook was so impressive). Cartwright, having crossed the Rubicon and having no further use for the treasure, has passed it on to me. You shall share, on condition you’ll edit your stuff so that it isn’t word for word like mine.’
‘What a godsend!’ said Kitty, eyeing the notebook reverently.
‘Not a word to young Alice, by the way,’ said Laura, warningly. ‘Her morals are not as sound as one would wish. She might think we oughtn’t to use the beastly thing.’
‘Good Lord! Why not?’ said Kitty. ‘A thing like that ought to go down to posterity.’
‘Well, it probably will,’ said Laura.
Kitty and Laura enjoyed their walk. Avoiding company, they strolled together, well in the rear of the party, conversing amiably and from time to time checking the geography of the landscape with the assistance of Miss Tweetman.
‘Points of interest,’ read Laura, standing still. ‘Two morainic mounds, one to the right of the road between the canal and the railway, and one between the road and the river on the left-hand side. Got that, duckie? Swing bridges over the canal. Well, we know all about bridges over the river! At least, I do. I’ll tell you what! Has it ever struck you to wonder where the deed was done?’
‘What deed, Dog?’ inquired Kitty, producing a paper bag and abstracting parkin, which she divided and the two of them shared.
‘Why, the murder of Miss Murchan. You heard about the Great Fire during the Christmas Vac, didn’t you?’
‘No. Where?’
‘Here in Athelstan, so far as I can make out. I searched for traces of it, but can’t find any. Mrs Bradley’s man was almost burnt to death.’
‘Doesn’t exactly show signs of it,’ said Kitty. ‘I saw him yesterday, turning Miss Hollis’s car for her. He looked all right to me.’
‘I am only repeating what I’ve heard. And another curious thing. You know that blighter Cornflake, who was at your school for School Prac.?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hasn’t turned up this term.’
‘Oh, I knew that. She’s got measles.’
‘Measles?’
‘Yes. Can be jolly dangerous when you’re grown-up, I believe. Somebody in Rule Britannia’s told me. I forget who it was. I say, keep your eyes skinned for a pub. They’ll still be open. We could get some beer.’
‘A scheme,’ said Laura, embracing it with some eagerness. ‘Don’t suppose the late Tweetman had the forethought to bung down anything useful like that in her notes.’
Kitty gazed at the landscape, and then sniffed the air.
‘I can give you the next bit without any notes,’ she said. ‘Gas works and a sewage farm, both on the left’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Laura, wrinkling her nose. ‘I suppose if we get gaol fever or typhus or anything, we can claim on the College. I shall tell my people to, anyway.’