O Caledonia

Then the sun came out and shone quite strongly and the sporting activities began. There was cricket, there was tennis, there was swimming. Luckily none of them rode. “We aren’t really keen on animals in our family. We’re more people people.” The Dibdin girls called their mother Mumsy and their father Poppa. Raymond called them Ma and Pa. The girls embraced both parents constantly; Raymond put his arm around his mother as though she might fall over at any moment, but managed to keep his hands off his father apart from the occasional virile slap on the back. The girls were kind to Janet but they did not understand each other. “Gosh, what fun it must have been for you, being the only girl among eighty boys,” said Hilary, eyeing Janet in a suggestive manner. “Not really,” said Janet. “Oh, why ever not?” “It just wasn’t.” “Oh.” But they assured Janet that she would simply love St. Uncumba’s. “We adore it. Such a funny name for a school. The dear old thing who founded it was really keen on education for women and votes for women and things; she was absolutely anti-marriage, so she called it after this weird mediaeval woman who grew a beard so that she couldn’t be forced to marry anyone. But it’s not a bit like that now, is it, Hilary, is it, Jill?” Tides of tinkling laughter. Raymond was at a boys’ public school in England. Then he would go on to Sandhurst, he was to be a soldier. “I hate war. I’m against war and I’m against armies. I’m a pacifist,” announced Janet, suddenly furious. She had never used this word before, but now she believed in it with passion. “What, you mean like those awful conshies? Traitors, they should all have been shot. My dear Janet,” said Raymond, turning red in the face, “I don’t actually think that at your age you know what you’re talking about. Things aren’t as simple as that.” “Yes, they are,” yelled Janet. “Killing is wrong and you’re wrong. You have no right, you make me sick.” She rushed out of the room, panting and shaking with rage.

Gail sprained her ankle, tripping over a crack in the tennis court while leaping winsomely up to a volley. They were all covered in midge bites; the drawing room reeked of DDT. Everyone was glad when the last full day of the visit dawned. The sun shone brilliantly from a cloudless sky. “Typical, isn’t it?” said Vera. “Never mind, let’s make the most of it while it lasts — and while we last!” beamed John Dibdin. “Outdoors, everybody!” Rosie was lame; Janet went down to the stables to bathe her swollen fetlock. She loitered about, putting off the time of return. She went for a wander upstairs through the forbidden and dangerous empty rooms and corridors which ran over all three wings of the building. They were lovely rooms with cornices and mouldings of grapes and flowers, the walls still washed in pink or blue, but the floors were decayed and the ceilings had gaping holes where rotten lathe sagged through. Fungi grew on the windowsills and swathes of cobweb hung about the corners. There was one little room, like a dressing room, off a larger chamber, which she had never been able to explore. The door was either locked or jammed. Today she thought she would try it. She pushed and pulled and shook at the door. Plaster fell on her head from the decaying frame. She kicked it hard. Suddenly it gave.

The tiny room was windowless and smelt of mushrooms and ammonia. Sunlight streamed in from the other room and in a moment Janet’s eyes adapted to the dimness. It was entirely lined by shelves full of ancient-looking leather-bound books. Her heart thumping with excitement, she carefully lifted one out and opened it. Aubrey Beardsley: Erotica was the title. It meant nothing to her. She turned the pages, stared, dropped it as if it had burnt her. Plate after plate, shielded by tissue, of the most unspeakable male and female goings on, far worse than Jim’s magazine had been. She pulled out more books; different titles, different authors but all the same theme as far as the lavish illustrations went. She pushed some back, dropped others. Surely there must be some sort of normal book here. Her eye lighted on a name she knew, P. Ovidius Naso; she had not yet read any Ovid, but she felt a Latin poet must be safe. In fact this was just as bad as the rest, and worse than some. It was called Ars Amatoria. Suddenly the hated voice of Raymond Dibdin was calling her from the courtyard. “Janet, Janet, where are you? Your ma wants you.” “All right, I’m up here, I’m just coming,” she shouted.