O Caledonia

Janet returned to school on the train, relishing the first two hours of the journey, when she was alone. She could still see the hills massed and remote to the west, to the north, guarding her dream kingdom. But already, even before they rattled over the Tay and into the flat coastlands, she was aware that she was slipping into that sense of half-life, of a two-dimensional existence. Troops of girls got on at Edinburgh. To her surprise they greeted her and some came and sat in her compartment. They chattered among themselves and Janet stared out of the window, thinking of what she had left, trying not to think of what lay ahead, trying not to think of Lila. She concentrated on Rhona, who had been forced to practise the piano for forty minutes every day during the holidays, including Christmas and New Year’s Day. Vera was determined that she was musical. Francis was musical, Rhona and Francis had so much in common, therefore Rhona must be musical. The fact that Janet was not musical didn’t count. Janet took pleasure in the memory of Rhona grimly thumping out a lugubrious melody whose title was “Myrtle the Turtle.” You moved on to “Myrtle the Turtle” after you had mastered “Rabbits in the Corn.” “Rhona tries hard but makes little progress” had been the piano teacher’s verdict at the end of the autumn term. It had been worse for Janet, who had not tried at all and had made no progress. “Myrtle the Turtle” had been her musical debacle.

Myrtle the Turtle is just a slow poke,

Myrtle the Turtle thinks life is a joke.

She would not, could not get it right. It made her feel ill. Finally she had knocked the sheet of music over and the piano lid had slammed down on her knuckles and she had burst into tears. The music teacher had also burst into tears and that very afternoon had persuaded Hector and Vera that Janet should give up piano lessons. Janet urged Rhona to do the same, but Rhona was not like that. “She’s a sticker,” said Constance. Janet laughed aloud now, thinking of nimble-fingered Rhona’s dismal fate. The other girls glanced uneasily at her, saw that she was not laughing at them, exchanged winks, rolled their eyes, and resumed their chatter.

But nothing could assuage the cold, familiar dereliction of night in the dormitory, with the sea booming below the cliff and the sea wind whipping the sleet against the windows. Then she could not ward off thoughts of Lila, the enormity of her exile and her own part in it, her treachery, her guilt.