So we lap up our sherry and pretend we like it.”
“Well, if that’s what they’re pouring, lead me to it,” Bobby said, trying to be agreeable. “I’m looking forward to meeting the other teachers.”
They walked out Cornwall’s front door into the sunny quadrangle. Laura pointed out buildings and classrooms in a desultory fashion. “The dorm next to yours is Manchester, where the fourth formers live. Over in Suffolk and Rutland we get the fifth and sixth formers. Essex is classrooms, with faculty quarters on the top floor.”
Manchester, Suffolk, thought Bobby. There was something familiar about those names. Aloud she asked, “The building names, are they—” and Laura finished, “Named after the counties of England, yes. Metamora prides itself on carrying out the public-school tradition of the motherland.”
Bobby gulped. She’d been about to ask if they were famous Metamora alumnae. Darn her ignorance!
Laura led the way across the quadrangle, following the looping gravel walk. “The faculty lounge is there, in Kent.” Laura pointed at a kind of medieval castle covered in ivy that stood at the east end of the quadrangle. “Mona lives in Devon, the little annex to Kent, next to Dorset. The dining hall is in Dorset. Miss Craybill has an apartment on the third floor of Kent. Miss Froelich lived there too—until this spring, of course.” She glanced at Bobby. “You’ve heard about Miss Froelich?”
“The math teacher? Mona told me she died last semester.” Bobby was craning her neck back to look up at the round tower, complete with slits for archers and a crenelated battlement, that rose from one corner of Kent. “Can you go up to the top of that tower?” Perhaps she could train herself to overcome her fear, a flight of steps at a time. But when she looked back at Laura, the other woman was staring at Bobby with an expression of shocked disdain.
“Wouldn’t that be a tad morbid?” she asked acidly. “Climb it if you want to—I’m going to have my sherry with the others.” Before Bobby could reply, she turned on her heel and stalked up the steps to the medieval front doors.
Is that artistic temperament? Bobby wondered. She followed in the footsteps of the moody Art Mistress, pausing to look at the white pedestal she’d seen from her window, which stood to one side of the steps, just below the tower. On closer examination it proved to be an old-fashioned sundial, worn and mossy, planted in a bed of pansies and bleeding hearts. The words “tempus fugit” were engraved around the edges.
What’s that mean? Bobby puzzled over the foreign phrase before moving on.
She climbed the steps to the double doors, all heavy wood and oversized wrought-iron hinges, and tugged it open. The capricious Art Mistress was nowhere in sight, but Bobby could hear a distant hum of conversation. She followed the sound down the cool, dim corridor to another medieval door, this time with a brass plate that said FACULTY LOUNGE. Pulling it open, she wondered how the sherry was holding out.
The faculty lounge was a spacious room with a vaulted barrel ceiling, like the dining hall of some ascetic order. The walls were paneled halfway up with dark wood, and a hoop-shaped iron chandelier hung at either end. The windows, thickly covered with ivy, let in a greenish light, giving the people grouped around the cavernous fireplace at the far end of the room the air of fish in an aquarium. Bobby went hesitantly toward them and was relieved when Mona swam forward to greet her.
“There you are! I was afraid you’d gotten lost.” Mona had replaced her capris and blouse with a gaily striped dress and a matching bolero jacket. Bobby wondered if she ought to have changed out of her drip-dry short-sleeved blouse and navy slacks.
Darn, I knew I needed more teacher-type clothes, she scolded herself as she told Mona, “I’m sorry if I’m late.”
“Where’s Laura? I sent her to show you the way.”
“She showed me as far as the building,” said Bobby diplomatically.
“That Laura! Well, I’m glad you found us. I’ll get you a glass of sherry.” Mona bustled away leaving Bobby standing next to the teacher Mona had been talking to, a hook-nosed woman, her black hair streaked with silver.
“I’m Bobby Blanchard, the new Games Mistress,” Bobby introduced herself.
“Concetta Rasphigi. Chemistry.” The older woman studied Bobby for a moment with cold, dark eyes, and then her gaze wandered away to rest on some point of interest above Bobby’s head. She wore an unpressed, sacklike dress of some heavy black material.
Unable to think of anything else to say, Bobby stole a glance at the assembled company. As far as she could see, Metamora’s teachers were all women, all talking animatedly, most of them wreathed in cigarette smoke. Bits of conversation drifted over from a group of Bobby’s new colleagues: “Greece was an extravagance, but as Goethe said, ‘Die beste Bildung findet ein gescheiter Mensch auf Reisen!’” “I got quite an education myself this summer. When the kids talked about a rumble, I thought, ‘Well, it’s all part of the continuum of experience.’” “What you should have done is sicced Munty on them as their sub-prefect!” The trio of teachers burst into laughter.
It all sounded like gibberish to Bobby, even the parts in English.
“Here you are!” Mona handed her a small glass of sherry with a radiant smile. Bobby took a sip. It tasted like cough medicine.
“I’ll introduce you around, shall I?” Mona gave Bobby’s arm a little squeeze, whether of encouragement or to assess the gym teacher’s biceps, Bobby wasn’t sure. “This is Concetta Rasphigi, Chemistry Mistress extraordinaire!”
“We’ve met.” Miss Rasphigi’s expression did not change.
“You must have really made an impression on Connie,” Mona whispered as she led Bobby toward the three women Bobby had been eavesdropping on. “It usually takes her a while to warm up to strangers. A brilliant woman, really brilliant, but she lives in a world of her own. Ladies, allow me to introduce our new Games Mistress, Bobby Blanchard. Bobby, I’d like you to meet Serena Rapp, our German Mistress, Alice Bjorklund, who teaches English, and Hoppy Fiske, Mistress of Current Events. Watch out Hoppy doesn’t draft you for one of her causes!”
“Shame on you, Mona!” The Current Events Mistress was as brisk and bright eyed as a squirrel. She waggled a playful finger at Mona before asking Bobby eagerly, “Are you registered to vote?”
“I—I think so,” Bobby stammered.
“Have you signed a petition in support of the Russell-Einstein Manifesto?”
“Genug!” interrupted the strapping German Mistress, tapping the ash off her gold-tipped cigarette. “Willkom-men! Welcome to Metamora, my little Games Mistress!”
“Thank you,” murmured Bobby. It was the first time in years she’d been called little, but it was true, the German Mistress topped her by several inches. She was like a…What did they call them? Not a Viking, but it started with a V. Think, Bobby! Bobby commanded herself. But before the word could come, Miss Rapp was asking her, “Where did you teach before? Wherever it was, I can promise you, Metamora will be a million times better!”
“This is my first teaching position.” To her dismay, Bobby felt herself blushing.
“Is Bobby short for Roberta?” asked the English Mistress in a gentle voice. She was rather dowdy and unathletic looking, but Bobby was grateful for a question she could answer.
“Yes, Bobby with a—” but Bobby’s explanation was cut short. A thin, older woman with gray hair cropped short poked her head into their circle. “Have any of you seen Madame Melville?” she asked urgently.
“Bunny, this is Bobby Blanchard, our new Games Mistress,” Mona said soothingly as she patted the newcomer’s arm. “Belinda Otis, our Latin Mistress, and Miss Craybill’s right-hand man!” Miss Otis gave Bobby a distracted nod.
“What do you want with Yvette?” boomed the German Mistress. “You know she never comes to these things!”
“But