O Caledonia

Janet’s last summer term at St. Uncumba’s passed swiftly, as examination terms always do. She completed her A levels and attempted maths O level for the fifth time. There was a total eclipse of the sun on the day the A levels ended. The girls believed it was a cosmic confirmation of their new adult lives; they sat out on the grass in the ghostly light and vowed that come what may they would meet together in seventeen years’ time, when the next total eclipse was due. There followed a period of elegiac lazing; the blue skies and the blue sea shimmered with the poignancy of farewell. The staff invited girls to tea, plied them with cakes, and revealed themselves as warm, witty human beings. Everyone suddenly liked everyone else. Cynthia and Janet, buoyed by the happy knowledge that they need never speak to each other again, wept and embraced at the prospect of their separation.

Just before the end of term Miss Wilson, who taught Latin, took Janet to a classical-verse-speaking competition at Glasgow University. Janet recited the passage from the Georgics which described Orpheus’ final loss of Eurydice. She was nervous beforehand and shook uncontrollably when she was on the stage. She spoke her lines overemphatically so that they seemed to be a harangue rather than a lamentation. Her teeth chattered in the pauses. Mortified, she sat with bowed head beside kind, comforting Miss Wilson and listened to the other speakers, many of whom were even worse than she. People sniffed and coughed and shuffled. There were too many entries. The air grew heavy with apathy. Janet longed for tea. Then suddenly there was absolute silence; the atmosphere was electric. Janet sat bolt upright, her spine tingling, her heart leaping. A boy was speaking Greek, Hector’s farewell to Andromache. Mournful and tender, cruel and foreboding, beyond all else noble, the beautiful voice rose finally to the tolling invocation of the gods and died away. People jumped to their feet, applauding wildly. Janet still sat, transfixed, staring at the boy’s dark face. She had fallen in love.

It is said that those who are visited by a vision are not to be envied, for they are thereafter haunted. So it was with Janet. She learned the passage of Homer by heart and nightly repeated it to herself, trying to conjure up the boy’s voice. She knew his name, for of course he had won the competition. She discovered that he had a cousin in her year at St. Uncumba’s. In the genial atmosphere of the end of term she persuaded this cousin to give her a photograph of him. She also found out his address and wrote to him — a simple, objective sort of letter expressing her admiration for his recitation and her hope that one day they might meet to discuss classical matters. He did not reply.

Back at Auchnasaugh the blue days of earlier summer were now obliterated by a pervasive mist which hung all day long, every day. In the evenings it dispersed, revealing a watery sky and fitful shafts of pallid sunlight. Janet was unconcerned. She kept to her room, reading love poetry and dreaming of Desmond (for this was his pleasing name). From her window she could see only a uniform whiteness, with the occasional spare suggestion of a branch. The glen was blotted out and silent but for the sound of dripping trees. When a bird sang out of the fog it startled her. Claws was depressed and stayed in with her; sometimes he shredded a page of her book to create a diversion. He could sense that she was abstracted. He sat on her shoulder and tweaked her hair, crying “Never mind” at her unresponsive back. One day he noticed the photograph of Desmond protruding from the Iliad. He pulled it out and threw it on the floor. So it was that the creature who loved her most brought about her destruction.

Vera and Hector were suspicious of Janet. Not only was she more than usually reclusive, but she had lost weight and her eyes had a feverish shine. Vera went to examine her room for signs of depravity and found the photograph lying on the bird-stained carpet. She carried it off and showed it to Hector. They resolved to have it out with Janet.

“We don’t know what you’re up to, Janet, but we know you’re up to something. What we do insist on knowing is the name of this young man and your connection with him.” A great tide of fury surged up in Janet. “I’m not going to tell you,” she said. “And please give me back that photograph. It’s my property.” “Don’t be insolent. And do as you’re told. We want his name.” “I’m not telling you,” Janet said again. They began to shout at her. Their faces were distorted with anger. Hector tore the photograph in pieces and flung them on the fire. Janet burst into tears and slammed out of the room. She locked her door and barricaded it with chairs. Then she sat weeping on her bed. She cradled Claws on her lap and rocked from side to side. “Poor little bird,” she sobbed. “Poor little bird.”