My Friend Miranda Page 4

  “It was a joke! Everyone knows Mrs Trotter is a witch from hell! Nancy said we should do it on pain of death!”

  Miranda gazed sullenly at the floor, and I sensed that I had somehow betrayed her.

  “But I don’t know. You’re probably right. How mad can she get about an exercise book? Especially when it’s our first lesson...”

  The bell went, and all around us chairs scraped as desk lids were closed and bags were hoisted onto shoulders. I prodded Miranda with my toe and she reluctantly hauled herself to her feet.

  “At least it’s chips for lunch afterwards,” I encouraged, having found mentioning food the most reliable way to shake Miranda from one of her depressions. She smiled weakly and trudged behind me down the dusty corridor to the needlework block, which from that week onwards would be referred to as ‘the tunnel of doom’.

  The needlework room was long and airless. A piece of black material had been pinned over the door because Mrs Trotter would not stand for ‘gaggles of girls peering in’ while a lesson was in progress. A central table was reserved for cutting out, and desks around the sides were topped with Singer machines in various states of decay. In addition, there were two spanking new electric machines with hosts of gadgets and special features; these were reserved for Mrs Trotter’s star pupils, and the rest of us would have been too scared to use them anyway. At one end of the room was an area with a screen and a mirror, where girls could don their creations and parade in front of the class. Unfortunately this was not optional.

  Upon our entry into the classroom that morning, there was a general scrum for the seats at the back of the room. Mrs Trotter, however, had other ideas.

  “Now don’t be silly girls! How am I going to see you back there? Everyone is to take a chair and sit around the middle table.”

  We obediently began hauling chairs around until we were halted by an inhuman screech. “AND DON’T DRAG THE CHAIRS!”

  Eventually we were arranged in a raggedy circle around the table. Miranda and I had managed to position ourselves on one of the far corners, where I hoped we would be relatively inconspicuous.

  Mrs Trotter launched into her introduction to needlework, a fair bit of which I missed because I was so fascinated by her fingernails, which were long and pointy and a virulent shade of purple. However, the gist was that we would be making three garments that year: first an apron (which we would wear for cookery next year, oh joy), then a skirt and finally a nightdress. Mrs Trotter had selected the patterns for the skirt and nightdress herself, and they were ‘highly fashionable’. We would be expected to work on our garments at home, and would also have a project to do, which was on cookers.

  “I know we won’t be doing cookery until next year, but we have to cover diet and nutrition then, so I likemy girls to get a head start...You can go to the gas and electricity shops to collect brochures, and ask your mothers about their cookers. One girl last year even did a section on microwaves.”

  The other thing was that anyone who broke the sewing machines was dead. It was a mark of how scared we were that no one sniggered or raised an eyebrow, even when the virtues of the girlie swot who’d done the bit on microwaves were extolled at length.

  Mrs Trotter said that there was no point sitting around like lemons and we might as well make a start on our aprons. But first of all she wanted to see our backed exercise books. Beside me, I could feel Miranda trembling like a frightened rabbit. Mrs Trotter started reading down through the register, having instructed that we should hold our books up as our names were called.

  “Naomi Bennett, Patricia Chalmers, Victoria Charlton. Ooh, nice paper! Lynn Docherty, Louise Evans. Hmm, a bit scruffy. Was that the best you could do dear?” Rachel Halliwell?”

  Miranda clutched my wrist and hissed into my ear. “What am I going to do? I’m dead meat!”

  I shrugged wildly and kept my eyes fixed on the front, afraid that even a sideways glance would be noticed by our eagle-eyed teacher.

  When she got to Janet Pritchard I raised my book with my hand carefully covering the wrinkled spine, and was grateful that no comment was made on my putrid ‘birds of Britain’ bedroom wallpaper.

  “Katherine Rendell, Emma Ritchie. I hope you didn’t buy that paper just for me! Karen Rosenburg...”

  In her nervousness Karen dropped her book onto the floor, and while she was fumbling around for it Miranda made a spur-of-the-moment decision. She grabbed my book and positioned it on the table in front of her.

  “Amber Smith, Miranda Sturdy...”

  The book rose majestically into the air, the birds of Britain resplendent in their browns and reds. There was a gasp of amazement from our nearest neighbours, who had watched the switch take place. However, for once Mrs Trotter’s thoughts must have been elsewhere.

  “Very nice dear. You can stop gawping, you with the ginger hair. Emily Tate?”

  Miranda shoved the book in my bag, and slipped me a wicked grin. I looked at her with newfound respect, suddenly aware of even greater courage than had been revealed during the banister-sliding escapade.

  Unfortunately Miranda’s luck ran out even within the space of that first lesson, during the cutting-out of our aprons. Mrs Trotter announced that she would do one first to show us, and made Gillian Mailer stand up to be measured. She measured the distance between Gillian’s shoulders and knees, added ten centimetres for good measure, and, spreading the paper pattern out onto the blue and white butcher stripe, performed some feat of drawing and cutting, purple nails flashing and pointed teeth set in concentration. Gillian took her material with obvious gratitude, and scuttled back to her chair.

  Next, Mrs Trotter cast around for a member of the class to prove that we had taken the demonstration in. Her beady eye alighted upon Miranda, who was still looking a bit too cocky for her own good following the exercise book incident.

  “How about you with the pigtails? What’s your name?”

  “Miranda Sturdy.”

  “Ooh yes. Rather an unfortunate surname for you dear!” She tittered spitefully. Mrs Trotter could never resist an opportunity for bitchiness.

  “Never mind. Stand up and let someone measure you.”

  Miranda rose reluctantly and I took the tape measure which was shoved across the table in my direction.

  “Eighty-four centimetres,” I muttered. “Plus ten, that’s ninety-four.”

  “Best add fifteen!” Mrs Trotter trilled gaily. “She looks like one who’s going to grow!” She pulled out the roll of material and handed Miranda the scissors and tailor’s chalk. Miranda uncertainly placed the pattern onto the cloth.

  “No, no dear. You’ve got your strips going horizontal. Not very flattering at all!”

  I gestured that Miranda should rotate the pattern through ninety degrees, and she finally caught on and did so. She jammed a few pins in, puncturing her finger with one, and then began to draw a wobbly outline with the tailor’s chalk.

  Mrs Trotter let her draw all the way round it before chiming in victoriously. “Now how did I draw my lines, Miranda? With the steel rule! You’ll have problems cutting along those wonky things.”

  Miranda floundered in a mire of indecision, bottom lip trembling. Was she supposed to redo her lines, or would it be better just to press on with the cutting out? She reached for the scissors and Mrs Trotter tapped her hand sharply. “The STEEL RULE, Miranda.”

  A solitary tear made its way down Miranda’s cheek and plopped onto the coarse fabric. The class watched in silence, on the one hand pitying Miranda, and on the other relishing her predicament; all the other teachers so far had gone out of their way to be friendly and welcoming, it was nice to have a bit of drama.

  Chapter 4

  The next week in form time Mrs Mackintosh told us about the school clubs. Some of them were the obvious things that you’d expect: the junior choir, the junior orchestra and the endless sports teams. Others sounded a bit more interesting, like the debating society, the science club, the friends of Hilton House and, most intri
guingly, the breakfast club.

  “What’s the breakfast club Miss?” Trisha asked. I was thinking the same thing, and given that I was quite hungry I was fantasising about bacon sandwiches and toasted muffins.

  Mrs Mackintosh looked doubtful. “I’m not too sure really. I think it’s something to do with textiles or fashion.”

  Trisha folded her arms and smirked with satisfaction. “Sounds like that’s the one for me. Suppose I’ll be doing inter-form hockey and netball as well.”

  Her smugness was irritating but unfortunately entirely justified: from what I’d seen so far she was probably the best at sport in our class.

  At home I asked Nancy which of the clubs I should join. “I’ve heard that in science club you get to make sherbet.”

  Nancy was dismissive. “Yeah, but you still shouldn’t hand over your two quid or whatever. You make sherbet in the first session, but it’s basically just icing sugar and bicarbonate of soda or something, and it tastes disgusting. Then after that they bring in geriatric guest speakers to talk about astronomy or evolution and it’s boring as hell.”

  “Oh, ok. What about the breakfast club?”

  I’d thought Nancy would approve of this but again I was wrong. She screwed up her face in disgust. “The breakfast club is some stuck-up group of slags from 3W swapping clothes and giving each other hideous make-overs.”

  It sounded like fun to me but I didn’t dare say so. “So why’s it called the breakfast club?”

  “Because it’s a film stupid! Don’t you know anything?”

  I gave it one last attempt. “So what should I join then?”

  “Well...I suppose you’ll have to play your cello in the orchestra...”

  “Yeah, I am. Miranda is too.”

  “...But you should come to Hilton House with me sometimes as well. It’s an old people’s home in Moston, you know, near the Olympic swimming pool? Mrs Donaldson organises a visit on the first Thursday of every month.”

  I had registered that Nancy was sometimes late home on Thursdays but I hadn’t realised where she was. Visiting elderly strangers seemed a most un-Nancyish thing to do. Still, if she could do it I could too, so I nodded and resolved to persuade Miranda to come as well.

  The first rehearsal of junior orchestra was a couple of days later. Miranda and I had to lug our cellos into school on the bus and we got all the usual comments from our fellow passengers.

  “What’s wrong with playing the recorder?”

  “Is that your lunch box?”

  “Got a body in there have you love?”

  The final comment came from a podgy man with a ginger moustache. Miranda smiled sweetly at him and replied “Oh God, has it started to smell already?” which took the fat grin off his face.

  The orchestra was conducted by Mrs Bingley. Miranda and I had told her we were coming but she still feigned ecstatic surprise when we shuffled in. “Miranda and Janet, I’m so pleased to see you! Last year we had no cellists whatsoever for junior orchestra and poor old Esmerelda had to be roped in!”

  Miranda and I had already encountered Esmerelda that morning in the instruments store-cupboard; she had marched in just after we put our cellos down and made a big fuss because there had been no room for hers in its poncey white case. She had long flowing hair and a big Roman nose and looked like she fancied herself badly.

  “Poor old Esmerelda,” Miranda said, smiling sympathetically, and fortunately Mrs Bingley was too dim to detect the underlying note of sarcasm.

  As the orchestra took their places it became obvious that there was the usual surfeit of violins and flutes and a sad lack of any brass instruments except for a single red-faced trumpet player.

  “I always wanted to play the trombone but they wouldn’t let me,” Miranda whispered. I gave this some consideration.

  “I think if I could play any instrument it would be the harp.” I had seen a harpist playing with an orchestra once and had thought she looked incredibly romantic.

  “How would you get it on the bus though?” Miranda pondered, and we giggled until Mrs Bingley tapped our music stand in a threatening kind of way.

  It soon emerged that we were going to be doing a lot of giggling in junior orchestra. No one was much good, for a start, and collectively we made a noise like a tape being chewed inside a tape recorder. I suspect that there were several people who had never played as part of an ensemble before, and they were just baffled by the whole business of following Mrs Bingley and counting themselves in and playing at an appropriate volume rather than as loud as they could possibly could. Unfortunately the trumpet player was among their number; Mrs Bingley had gone to a lot of trouble to find things with trumpet parts but was now clearly wishing she hadn’t bothered.

  Our music encompassed an eclectic mixture of styles and genres, linked only by the need for it to be fairly easy and the afore-mentioned requirement for a trumpet part. My favourites were some arrangements of Beatles songs and a piece calledPizzicato Polka. Mrs Bingley let us play Pizzicato Polka when she was desperate for a break from the blasting of the trumpet, as trumpets can’t do pizzicato, but she always regretted it afterwards.

  Basically, the point ofPizzicato Polka was to go as fast as you possibly could, but not right from the beginning. That would have been too predictable. Instead we would lull Mrs Bingley into a false sense of security by following her tedious time-keeping for a while, and then just when she thought she was safe Katie in the first violins would give us the signal and the acceleration would begin. To start with Mrs Bingley would try to keep up, her wooden baton jerking around furiously as she attempted to establish eye contact with the players at the front, but eventually she would be forced to give in and it would become a glorious race between the various sections. The limiting factor was the plucking speed of your index finger, and I thought the violins were at an advantage because their strings were thinner and therefore easier to pluck, but Miranda and I still managed to hold our own. Afterwards everyone would be exhausted and semi-hysterical and it would take Mrs Bingley a good few minutes to calm us down and persuade us to play her dreary favourite, Folksongs of England and Wales.

  The most fun bit of junior orchestra, and yet conversely also the cause of most stress, was sectionals. In sectionals we were divided up by instrument to go and practise our parts separately, and the fun bit was that it wasn’t considered worth getting the cello teacher in just for Miranda and me, so we were trusted to go and practise on our own. I don’t know what so great about messing around in a music practise room, given that it was what we did a lot of time anyway, but we seemed to be on a permanent giggly high from knowing that everyone else was scraping away diligently while we made silly noises and did Esmerelda impressions. We had the music out on our stands in case Mrs Bingley walked in and we did occasionally play it a bit, but there were just so many other amusing things to do.

  Our come-uppance came afterwards of course, when the orchestra re-assembled. Eager to hear what we had achieved, and probably also to check up on the unsupervised sections, Mrs Bingley would make us play our parts desk by desk. She would leave Miranda and me until last, and we would be sweating in panic even before the excruciating ordeal of scraping throughDown by the Sally Gardens, while the violins giggled and even the trumpet player felt quite smug.

  “Miranda and Janet,” she would scold us. “I don’t believe you’ve practised this at all.”

  “Honest Miss, we did,” Miranda protested. “But it’s harder than it looks. We have to go into fourth position and everything.”

  Mrs Bingley was never entirely convinced, but what could she do? Either she put up with us or she grovelled on bended knee to Esmerelda, who had sworn after the last junior concert that she would never endure such humiliation again.

  A couple of weeks later Nancy casually announced that she was going on a visit to Hilton House, and did Miranda and I want to come? By now I was a bit uncertain about asking Miranda, as I suspected that the average old lady might be somewhat taken a
back by her, but she was so keen when I mentioned it that I couldn’t turn her down. “Just go easy on them Miranda!” I warned her.

  The visit was organised by Mrs Donaldson, and although I was feeling quite nervous, it was worth it just to ride on the bus with her and bask in the warm glow of her Scottish presence. She said that Billy Connolly was her hero and she sang us her favourite Billy Connolly songs:The Welly Boot Song, I Wish I Was In Glasgow, and Last Train to Glasgow Central (I think she missed Scotland sometimes). Before I knew it we were level with the Olympic swimming pool and Mrs Donaldson was leading the way off the bus and through the doors of Hilton House.

  We stood in a huddle inside the hall. It was painted a virulent shade of orange, probably with misplaced intentions of brightening the place up, and there was a board on the wall that said ‘Today’s Birthday is...’ with a space to write someone’s name in. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday today. A fat woman wearing a white pinny came bustling out of the side door marked ‘Office’. When she smiled she revealed the worst set of teeth I had ever seen, slanting in all directions and with bits of black stuff in between the cracks.

  “Well, well,” she said, rubbing her hands together, and beaming down at me. “How nice to see such a good turn-out. The old peoplehave been looking forward to it.”

  I grinned back up at her but Nancy prodded me and whispered in my ear. “She’s lying. They hardly remember us from one time to the next.”

  Mrs Donaldson put Nancy in her place with a particularly dazzling smile and turned to the woman. “Where shall we go today, Matron?”

  “Well let’s see...we’ve had a bit of a to-do in the blue room, so probably no one in there at the moment. Perhaps a few in the yellow room upstairs, and a couple with the gentlemen in the mauve room. Oh, and I suppose you’d better send this one up to Mrs Ogilvie, seeing as she’s her favourite.”

  She was gesturing towards Nancy. I gawped incredulously. Nancy was someone’s favourite?

  “We’ll do the gentlemen in the mauve room,” Miranda said confidently.