I don’t want to tell her my story. I have to say something. ‘Oh, you know. Nothing.’
‘As I suspected.’ She looks me up and down critically. ‘Where did you get your uniform from? Is it secondhand?’ She acts as if she might pass out on the floor, she is so offended by it.
‘I’m taking a stand against disposable fashion to try to save the planet.’
‘I see.’
Holly and Ivy snicker as she leads them into the hall. ‘Come on, girls. Time for me to get my starring role.’
They strut off ahead, their ponytails swishing in unison.
I loosen the horrible Witch Point tie and twist my skirt around the right way. My shirt is too small, and the skirt is too gross. I’m trying to be grateful to Mae for sorting it out at such short notice, but some unrepeatable words run through my head.
The walls are covered in dark pictures which watch me skulking through the corridors: standing stones and skies filled with corvids; a man in a fox skin holding a crescent-moon sickle and a tall-hatted witch-hunter general; a witch being tried by a judge; seven women dancing in a circle, with a horrible hag-like figure spying on them. I’ve known the legend of ‘The Witch Called Winter’ since I was little. I bet everyone in the world knows it. It feels closer here, where her story started.
I want to go home. To Dad’s. With my real own room and my view out over the changing sea. Perhaps I should cause trouble today and get kicked out super swiftly so I can home-school myself instead of having to do time here. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anyone. I am made of ice. I can teach myself astronomy by looking at the stars and Mae can teach me herbalism before I go. I won’t make an effort to make any friends here, because I definitely, certainly, won’t be staying.
A whirlwind of energy rushes up to me. It’s the girl with the popped cork hair.
‘Don’t worry about The Sleeks. They are like that with literally everyone. I’m Dorcas. Pleased to meet you. Your name is NOTHING compared to mine when it comes to bullying. BELIEVE. Can you speak Spanish? I’m learning. My birth dad is Nigerian, so he speaks Igbo, and my step-dad, he’s my proper dad really, is Indian and speaks Hindi, and my mum has travelled all over and speaks all sorts of languages. I’m also learning guitar, slowly. Too slowly, really, I’m thinking of giving it up for the flute. Sorry, information overload. I talk too much. Hola.’
She puts her hand out for me to shake it. I want to but feel self-conscious.
‘Don’t worry. You don’t have to shake hands. Lots of diseases are carried through hand contact, did you know that? You could get bubonic plague from an escalator handrail.’
My ice cracks a bit, because this is exactly the kind of fact I like. Could Dorcas be a kindred spirit? I’ve been looking for one for so long.
We shuffle to the end of the line, far away from The Sleeks, and sit on the floor. I hate sitting on the floor. It always ends up with someone having a squashed pea on their clothes, no matter which school you go to.
‘This should be fun. It gets us out of class anyway.’
Dorcas turns to talk to the boy on the other side of her, and I try not to feel conspicuous. The thick smell of gravy slides through the kitchen slats. Dust motes flitter in the sunlight. The world glitters outside.
Mr Ricketts arrives looking bothered.
‘Sir, are you alright? You look really hot.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Jemima.’
‘Can I give you some advice, Sir?’
He doesn’t answer. I don’t blame him.
‘A pink jumper doesn’t complement your complexion, Sir.’
‘What insightful advice, Jemima. I’ll be sure to put it into practice in my fashion-conscious life.’
Good for him. He asks for silence while he takes another register, even though we’ve only walked a couple of hundred yards.
‘Hand it over, please.’ He puts his hand out to Jemima and she gets up and walks to him stroppily. ‘I don’t know how many times I have to say it, Year Six. Phones are not allowed in school.’
At least I already fit with that.
‘But it’s my personal property, Sir.’
‘And, as I’ve told you a million times, you’ll get it back at the end of the day.’
‘That’s tantamount to stealing, Sir.’ She gives it to him and strops back to her place grumbling and making as much fuss as she can.
‘Settle down, please. Jemima Morgan, I said settle down.’
‘Sorry, Sir. It’s just it’s practically child abuse to expect us to sit on the floor.’
‘Enough.’
‘I’m getting a letter from home.’
‘I said enough.’
‘And a lawyer.’
‘Second warning of the day. I think that’s a record even for you.’
He scratches his neck and I can see he has psoriasis between his fingers. I bet it is caused by Jemima.
‘Now, Year Six, we are very lucky to have this brilliant opportunity, so I expect you to show respect for our esteemed guest and for each other. We’d like to extend a very warm Witch Point welcome to Gwyneth Fox-Rutherford.’
He starts the class off clapping, but most of them don’t need an excuse to make a noise. I join in and whoop a couple of times. It feels really good.
Once the applause has reached raucous, a woman so short and round she looks like an egg on legs, bursts into the room and bounces to centre stage with her arms open wide, as if she is going to ask us all to come in for a group hug.
‘Thank you. Thank you. Diolch, which means thank you in Welsh.’ She picks up her orange velvet skirt and curtsies.
The class stop clapping abruptly because this is basic Welsh, not worth the meal she is making of it. I feel bad for her, so clap again, then sit on my hands.
‘Thank you, Mr Ricketts. I am DEEPLY honoured to be here.
Did you see that children? How I reflected my feelings with the pitch of my voice. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Ricketts, I’m educating them already. I simply can’t help myself. It’s in the blood, isn’t it? Teaching. Such a noble cause.’
Mr Ricketts beams at her. He gives the class his best warning-without-words and leaves with Lewis in tow because, now he’s had his behaviour card signed, he is playing up and needs to be taken to Time Out.
‘Rapt audience. Well, you might be! For we are here to create art. Real art.’
‘Are we drawing, Miss?’
‘No, we are going to become thespians. Actors. Devisors. Playwrights and performers.’ She rolls her Rs and hits every consonant crisply. ‘Ah, I remember giving my King Lear at Sadler’s Wells. It was the first time a woman had played the role on that stage, I believe. It is one of many characters to which I have given birth…’
She begins to reel through a huge list of other parts. I’m disappointed she is more interested in sounding successful than in the characters she was playing. I think about the Globe Theatre in London. I went there once. There is no roof in the middle. It’s round and open to the skies, the clouds and the birds. The owl on the station platform. The jackdaw and the crow joining it. The weirdness I can’t lose.