My Friend Miranda Page 2

  In the morning I felt physically sick, and was incapable of eating anything. Nancy was nervous too, and was additionally in a foul mood because I was wearing her blazer and until mum got her another one she had to go to school in her duffel coat. She ranted about the unfairness of it all the way up to the bus stop, and then ignored me completely for the rest of the journey. There were some girls she knew waiting for the next bus in Piccadilly, but when it came and they asked her if she was going upstairs, she shook her head.

  “I would but I can’t.” She pointed at me. “I’ve got to look after her.”

  I couldn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t go upstairs on the bus, and I suspected Nancy was just using me as an excuse to avoid having to talk to them. However, I knew better than to say anything.

  We went past the Indian shops in Rusholme, where in happier times we had been given money to buy rich, condensed milk sweets, for consumption on the way home after my entrance exam. As our stop approached the girls on the top deck came pounding down the stairs, and Nancy gave me a gentle shove to indicate that I should stand up.

  En masse we turned into the side street, which was packed with cars and coaches, and little knots of shrieking girls. Nancy pointed out the entrance where we would normally go to put our coats in our lockers. However, as it was the first day we had to enter through the big doors at the front into the hall, where Nancy would find out her new classroom from a list on the wall, and I would be deposited to meet up with my new class.

  On our way over to the notice board, we met a buxom girl with blonde hair scraped into a high ponytail. Nancy was all smiles and friendly greetings.

  “Hi Margaret! Did you have a good holiday?”

  “Oh, not bad, not bad. We went to Lanzarote for three weeks, so that was pretty exciting. Good nightlife.”

  “It’s alright for some...Margaret, meet my kid sister, Janet.”

  Margaret beamed down at me. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Yeah, lucky me. Anyway, I’ve got to find her class for her and everything, so I’ll see you later.”

  “Ok. Good luck, Janet!”

  We were off again.

  “Is that one of your friends?” I asked, as I trailed behind Nancy’s bustling figure.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! She’s a complete slag. She hangs around with Esther Carney and that lot.”

  “Oh.” I was puzzled that Nancy would bother to be so nice to someone she hated so much. Clearly the social etiquette here was more complicated than at primary school.

  Nancy had reached the notice board and was staring at it in dismay. “Oh sugar! We’ve got Mrs Oldershaw. And E29. That’s not fair.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mrs Oldershaw is a complete cow and E29 is the classroom next to the one we had last year, which means we’re still on the top corridor.”

  I decided it was best to say nothing, seeing as all I seemed to do was put my foot in it.

  “Come on then!” Nancy muttered. ‘I suppose I’d better get rid of you. You’re in 1M, and you’ve got Mrs Mackintosh. She’s ok. Compared to Mrs Oldershaw, anyway.”

  She marched me over to the 1M sign pinned on the opposite wall. A few other girls were standing around nervously. The butterflies in my stomach got worse, and I tried to stop Nancy going by fussing about the arrangements for the journey home. However, she was clearly agitated and keen to go and establish herself among her friends.

  “Don’t look so worried, you’ll be fine!” she hissed. “I’ll see you later.” She walked off without turning round, and I was left, completely alone.

  I smiled weakly at the girl standing next to me, who was wearing one of the shapeless cotton summer dresses that were permitted up until half-term, and carrying a shiny black briefcase in her hands. She looked at me blankly, and tightened the grip on her case. On my other side, identical twins were pouring through sheets of instructions about something and chattering anxiously. We were suddenly descended upon by four or five girls who obviously knew one another, all talking at the tops of their voices and swinging their bags around with airy confidence. I was later to learn that they had come from the prep school.

  Five or so minutes passed, and a few more girls wandered over to the 1M sign. Besides the prep girls, there was another group who must all have attended the same school. An immaculately dressed blonde woman brought a girl over to them, and they all shrieked excitedly.

  “Emma! Are you in M too? That means we’re all together!”

  The blonde woman, who I assumed was the girl’s mum, was wearing a gold leather belt and gold pumps decorated with multi-coloured studs. It was a style of dressing I recognised from the rich Jewish women in North Manchester, and I decided that the girls were from one of the big Jewish primary schools.

  A dumpy woman in a big brown sloppy cardigan and a sack-like brown tweed skirt appeared at the edge of our group. She was probably only in her late forties, but her hair was already almost white, and it had the kind of part-wispy, part-curly look of a bad perm growing out. She saw me staring at her and gave me such a lovely smile that I felt mean for thinking nasty thoughts about her hair.

  It took a couple of attempts to get the class’s attention; such was the combined noise from the prep gang and the group of Jewish girls. However, eventually we were all facing her and listening.

  “Good morning girls...I’m glad you’re all so excited to be here! I’m Mrs Mackintosh, your form teacher. As you’ve obviously worked out, this year you’ll be 1M – the M is for Mackintosh. We’re going up to our classroom now, so is everyone happy and sure they’re in the right place?”

  One or two people looked rather doubtful, but no one actually said anything.

  “Great!” enthused Mrs Mackintosh. “If you can all just follow me then. Please no one get lost on the way!” She opened a side door out of the hall and set off through it and we straggled along behind her, clutching our bags and peering curiously at the art-work on the walls.

  Nancy was later to explain to me that Mrs Mackintosh was a soft touch. She was known for her cluckiness and inability to lose her temper, and was always given a first year class because she was so good at dealing with ‘the little ones.’ In fact, she would probably have been better in a primary school; her subject was religious studies, and although her first years always had a great time drawing pictures of various religious festivals and sampling the bits of matzo and communion bread which Mrs Mackintosh brought in, the older girls sometimes floored her with their heated debates about morals and ethics. It seemed unfair to me that Mrs Mackintosh did not enjoy great popularity within the school – Nancy said she was too wishy-washy and ineffectual – but on the other hand, she had no enemies either.

  We had to climb two flights of stairs to get to our classroom, which I hoped meant I was near Nancy. Mrs Mackintosh took the stairs at a leisurely pace, pausing on the landings to get her breath back, but even so, the very plump Asian girl bringing up the rear was gasping away by the time we reached our classroom. It was an unremarkable room: old-fashioned wooden desks with lids were arranged in rows, and there was a small platform and a blackboard at the front. The door was set in a wall lined with pin boards, all currently empty save for a fire notice, and along the other wall ran big windows with cast-iron radiators underneath. We wandered in and stood around uncertainly. Mrs Mackintosh mopped her brow and leant gratefully against the desk at the front.

  “Now, before you all sit down, I’d like to put you in alphabetical order. It makes it much easier for me to learn your names. If you can just sit in the desks I point you to...”

  Brandishing her list, she moved over to the desk just inside the door, on the opposite side from the windows. “Jasmine Allardyce. Is Jasmine here?”

  A tall gangly girl giggled awkwardly and shuffled over towards Mrs Mackintosh.

  “Ok Jasmine. So if you have this desk here...then it’s Naomi Bennett?”

  Naomi was one of the group from the Jewish primary school. She
left her friends reluctantly and sat down behind Jasmine. Mrs Mackintosh worked her way through the rest of the list, occasionally stumbling over a name or recognising someone with a sister already in the school. Having Pritchard as my surname I was on the window side of the central block of desks, with Amanda Parker in front of me, and Lisa Roberts behind.

  As we neared the end of the alphabet the twins looked increasingly agitated, and they were still standing at the front when the last girl, Emily Tate, had been seated. Mrs Mackintosh was very kind and sympathetic.

  “Now I don’t seem to have you two on my list, but don’t worry, we’ll soon sort it out. What are your names?”

  “Tina and Gina Milligan.”

  “I’ll just go and check with the other first year teachers whether you’re with any of them.”

  She bustled out of the room, leaving a charged silence behind. We eyed one another warily, and examined the graffiti on our desks. The two girls behind Naomi Bennett poked one another and giggled, and a small hum of conversation developed as introductions were made elsewhere in the room.

  I was just plucking up the courage to talk to one of my stony-faced neighbours, as I didn’t want to be left behind if everyone else was making friends, when Amanda Parker in front of me turned round. She informed me that she had been in the prep, that she lived in Timperley, near Altrincham, and that she thought Mrs Mackintosh had awful fashion sense. She had never heard of the area of North Manchester where I lived or my primary school, but my having a sister in the second year seemed to impress her. There wasn’t really much else I could think of to say, and I was relieved when Mrs Mackintosh returned.

  It turned out that the twins were supposed to be in the classroom next door with Ms Grant. They had not realised there was a notice board to be consulted and had assumed that 1M was the meeting point for first years whose surnames began with that letter. Mrs Mackintosh smiled wearily and kept up a cheerful monologue as she escorted them away. “Every year a few people get lost, and every year I say we should change the system. But do they take a blind bit of notice of me...”

  She toddled back to her desk on the platform and sank gratefully into her seat.

  “Phew! First days are always like this. Well at least everyone who’s supposed to be here is here. Now... I’d like you to keep these seats for form time with me and all your other lessons, unless another teacher tells you something different. It’s quite a challenge to get on top of all your names! Another thing I ask is that you fold a piece of paper, like this...and write your name on it. If you display it every morning I’ll get there much faster!”

  She gave a bundle of scrap paper to the girl in the front desk and told her to pass it round. Amanda Parker pulled an unimpressed face as she gave the paper to me.

  There was much peering around as our signs were erected, and I was able to establish that the freckly girl on my left was Sinead Murphy, and the girl with bushy eyebrows on my right was Karen Rosenburg.

  Mrs Mackintosh smiled round in approval. “Now, before we do anything else, did I pronounce everybody’s name correctly? And is there anyone who likes to be called by a different name?”

  A girl with unnaturally blonde hair stuck her hand up.

  “I’m Trisha Miss, not Patricia.”

  “Ok...”

  The girl behind her was waving her hand around too.

  “And I prefer Vikki to Victoria. That’s spelt V-I-K-K-I.” This was duly noted on Mrs Mackintosh’s list.

  “Anyone else?”

  The plump Asian girl whose name Mrs Mackintosh had previously struggled over raised her hand tentatively. “Me name’s Jamila, but they call me Honey.” This was muttered with a strong Oldham accent, and although the girls close by heard her and giggled, Mrs Mackintosh had to get her to repeat it.

  “Me name’s Jamila, but they call me Honey.”

  “Right...” Mrs Mackintosh was floored, but only temporarily. “What a lovely name. Well, let’s talk a bit about what we’ll be doing today.”

  At ten o’clock we went down to the hall for the first assembly of term. The first and second year girls filed onto benches in a balcony at the back, from where we had an excellent view over the rows of heads below to the polished wooden stage. It struck me that we resembled lumpy liquorice allsorts in our school uniforms, with our black jumpers and skirts, and yellow blouses the colour of the sickly coconut stuff that no one really likes. The A-line skirt was made from a stiff synthetic material causing it to stick out from the wearer in a rigid triangle, and I noticed that it was fashionable among the older girls to roll their skirts up several times around their waists. Although this revealed a provocative expanse of leg, the downside was the thick bundle of material which collected at the waist, but given that big jumpers were also fashionable (Nancy was pleading to be allowed an XXL from the menswear department at C&A) waists tended not to be much in evidence anyway. I made a mental note to start stretching my jumper at home; the trick was to hang it from the washing line wet and then swing on it.

  My neighbour dug me in the ribs. “Who are they?” She was gesturing at the five confident-looking older girls in their own clothes sitting in a row on the stage, smiling and whispering among themselves. I knew they were the prefects because Nancy had said so, but I wasn’t sure which was head-girl. Before I had time to tell her a hush fell in the room, and the girl in our class with horribly bleached hair, who I was later to know as Trisha Chalmers, received a sharp look from Mrs Mackintosh for talking. A white-haired woman wearing a navy blue dress the size of a small marquee mounted the steps to the platform, and took her place at the lectern. She introduced herself as Miss Moody, our headmistress, and read a passage from the Book of Job about the value of wisdom.

  “But where can wisdom be found?

  And where is the source of understanding?

  No man knows the way to it;

  it is not found in the land of living men.

  The depths of the ocean say, ‘It is not in us’,

  and the sea says, ‘It is not with me’.

  Red gold cannot buy it,

  nor can its price be weighed out in silver;

  It cannot be set in the scales against gold of Ophir,

  against precious cornelian or lapis lazuli;

  gold and crystal are not to be matched with it,

  no work in fine gold can be bartered for it;

  black coral and alabaster are not worth mention,and a

  parcel of wisdom fetches more than red coral.”

  When she had finished there was complete silence in the hall, except for the chomping noise Trisha’s jaw made as she chewed her gum.

  Afterwards, Mrs Mackintosh gave out school timetables and homework timetables and read out what we should fill in on them. The school timetable seemed to present great potential for confusion: every day the lessons were different, maths was just as likely to come last as first, and we had to move from classroom to classroom, presumably lugging all our books around with us. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the simplicity of my old routine, where we had stayed in the one classroom to do maths and English in the morning, and art, topic, PE and the like in the afternoon.

  The homework timetable was less complicated, although there was an awful lot of it: three or four subjects every night, and extra on Friday. A note at the bottom read ‘Miss Moody considers that no schoolgirl should work after 9pm, and begs the cooperation of parents in enforcing this rule’, and I wondered what would actually happen if you turned up without having done something and gave the nine o’clock rule as an excuse.

  By the end of that first day my head was swimming. There were just so many things we had to remember. Where to go for a start – we’d spent most of the day in our form room, but as from tomorrow we had to begin our nomadic wanderings around the school building. How would I know where everything was? And even if I did make it to the right place, I would be bound to have the wrong books in my bag and to have forgotten the teacher’s name.

  I was a
lso scared about what would happen when we started doing real work. Suppose I couldn’t keep up or the teachers assumed we knew stuff I’d never heard of? Amanda Parker said that they’d learnt French in the final year of the prep and she’d counted to ten to prove it.

  “Parlez-vous français?” she’d asked in her smug South Manchester voice, and I’d been forced to admit that the most I knew was ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Cabernet Sauvignon’.

  I voiced my fears to Nancy on the way home and she sneered just as much as I’d expected. “Don’t be such a wimp Janet. You’ll get used to it.”

  “But they all know French and I don’t!”

  “They’ll only be able to count to ten and say hello and goodbye. Don’t worry, half of the prep girls are really dense. The only reason they get into the main school is because they spend all their final year doing old exam papers. You’ll soon catch up.”

  “Oh,” I was momentarily reassured, but then I remembered my fears about the homework timetables and the classroom swapping and all the rest of it. “But how will I ever remember everything?”

  “You just will. When do you have to take your PE kit in?”

  My point was proven. “Tomorrow! But see, I’d have forgotten that already if you hadn’t reminded me.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes and started talking to the girl behind us about Mrs Oldershaw and the complete unfairness of it all.

  Before PE the next morning there was some interesting gossip from the prep girls about the weirdness of the PE department. Apparently the teachers were all heavy smokers, which was in fact borne out by the smoky fumes emanating from their private staff room, and at least half of them were lesbians, for which there was no conclusive proof. However, the prep girls were happy to oblige with stories of Miss Timpson’s tendency to watch them getting changed for swimming, and the time Miss Mackay gave Jasmine a hug after she twisted her ankle playing netball.

  When we got down to the changing rooms it emerged that three people had left their gym kits at home, but thanks to Nancy I was not one of them. I had hoped we might be playing netball, but it turned out we were having ‘kit inspection’, which was to make sure that we had acquired all the appropriate items of uniform and attached name tags to them. We had to space out round the gym and spread everything out, and Miss Timpson came round and ticked it off to her mantra of: