O Caledonia

Looking back on this summer in later years, Janet saw it as the happiest time of her life, its intensity deepened by an elegiac quality. For who knew if ever such a season would come again to that northern land, and for Janet it could not. In the autumn she was to go away, to a girls’ boarding school.

In August the weather broke. Thunder rumbled through a leaden sky, sheets of rain obliterated the hills, the burn burst its banks and flooded the meadows. When the sun shone it shone weakly, the ground steamed and the air was dense with swarms of midges. Vera’s friends the Dibdins came to stay. Hector was annoyed. “You know I can’t be doing with them. They never stop talking, especially Melanie. Typical English.” Like Hector and Vera, the Dibdins had been blessed with several daughters and only one son. The youngest girl was about Janet’s age, the others older. They had jolly English names — Jill, Raymond, Gail, Hilary — and they were very good at sports. “And not only are they good at sports,” said Vera, looking hard at Janet, “but they are also something more important. They are good sports.” Francis sided with Hector: “They needn’t think I’m going to help entertain them. You’ll have to do it, Janet. Anyhow, Hilary will be a nice friend for you. After all, she’s going to be in your form at school. I bet they love Enid Blyton books.” Francis and Janet had only one bond these days: it was their scorn for Enid Blyton, and particularly for the Famous Five. They would stagger about convulsed with mirth, clutching each other, vying in quotations, “ ‘On the rocks,’ said Bill grimly,” “ ‘Food always tastes so much better out of doors,’ said Dinah,” and best of all, “Julian was pulling on his bathing drawers.” “What a pity Master Dibdin isn’t called Julian,” mused Francis. “And do you know where they live? A place called Dymchurch. Can’t you just imagine it? Thatched cottages and crematorium-style rose beds, I bet. And what a surname. The Dibdins of Dymchurch. Mon Dieu!

”

While Janet agreed that the Dibdins had a ridiculous surname she had nothing against the English per se.

After all, most of her favourite poets were English. And she thought that she might like people who talked a lot. No one talked much at Auchnasaugh, except about dogs, cats, and cars. She often felt that they all led such separate lives that any one of them could have been a murderer or a god come down to earth and not one of the others would have known. Besides, it would be interesting to meet some girls; she didn’t know any, apart from her sisters, who didn’t count. She had secretly started reading girls’ school stories, including (too shameful to admit to anyone) In the Fifth at Malory Towers and Summer Term at St. Clare’s, and she had hopes of being the madcap of the Fourth, or at least of having a friend or two. No one there would call her “Sissy,” or lie in wait for her in dusky corners, intent on rape or at any rate carnal knowledge. Janet had dealt with this new hazard in her life: she had perfected a technique of simultaneously seizing the assailant’s hair, walloping him on the nose, and kneeing him between the legs. Her virtue had remained intact.