The Scent of Apples (9 page)

The pain I must be causing him is etched on his face. He fidgets with his work jersey. I know that he can't carry on hanging around home every day just for me. I let out a sigh. I don't know if it's the thought of being sent away or the thought of staying home that scares me the most.

‘I don't care where you send me.'

I run out of the room and leave them staring at each other. I can't imagine surviving the long holidays ahead, let alone the distant future of the next school year.

The entrance to the boarding school is wrapped in a shroud of tall oak trees. We drive under an archway on which
Hunterview College
is spelt out in metal letters. The school crest has an allerion on it: a mythical bird I learnt about in English class, similar to an eagle but with no beak or claws. I strain to read the inscription on the banner below.
Strength of will and authority of mind
.

The stone buildings loom over the driveway. Each grey stone looks identical to the one next to it. Cut, moulded and cemented into place. I can't help but search the rooftop for gargoyles. I glance over at Mum. For the first time in weeks I see the hint of a smile.

‘Isn't this lovely?' she says, as she manoeuvres our four-wheel drive into a tight space by an office sign.

A cold wind whips at my face as I get out of the car. I wrap my bomber jacket tighter around me. The office building is a modern glass structure at odds with the stone buildings at the gate. We clatter across the slate tiles in the foyer. A reception desk takes up most of the back wall.

‘Morning ladies.'

‘Good morning. My daughter Elizabeth starts school here today.'

‘Wonderful.' A metal badge pinned to her suit jacket tells me that Mrs Carr is the office manager. ‘You must be keen, Elizabeth. Most of the boarders won't arrive until this afternoon. They need to be here by 4 p.m., but most will slide in the door about one minute before the hour.'

That's great. I probably live the closest and I get dumped off first. I glare at Mum, but she's too busy sucking up to the office lady to notice. I take my iPod from my pocket and am about to plug the earpiece in when she pulls my hand down.

‘Later,' she says through clenched teeth.

Mrs Carr is short and squidgy-looking, but she has a hardness about her. I can't work out if it's her small eyes or her thin mouth that give her away. When she says ‘If you need anything don't hesitate to ask,' I know she'll be the last person I'll bother.

Mrs Carr does a big rave about all the rules, and then takes my cell phone off me for the week. Apparently, new girls settle much better with as little contact as possible from home in the first term. Mum scribbles her signature on some forms, and we follow Mrs Carr along a concrete path. It snakes its way through a maze of buildings to the boarding dormitory. My suitcase bangs into my calf muscles twenty times as I lug it up a flight of metal stairs.

A sign above the door says
Victoria House
. On the landing, Mrs Carr points to a white building in the distance.

‘Over there is the dining hall and kitchen. The laundry is just behind. A bell will sound ten minutes before meal times. Matron will run through a few details and rules at tonight's assembly. Five o'clock in the auditorium.'

‘Auditorium,' Mum mouths at me when Mrs Carr's back is turned.

I shake my head. God, if only she knew what a loser she was.

We push on the swing doors and enter the dormitory. Most of the varnish has been scuffed off the wooden floorboards, especially down the centre of the room. Identical cubicles, two beds in each, line the walls. The ones on the right have windows overlooking a concrete yard.

A black and white striped mattress is folded in half on each bed, exposing wire-woven bases. I flick one of the mattresses down, and the sound echoes around the empty room. A dormitory without people is just wrong. Like a motorway without cars or a playground without children.

‘I'll leave you to get settled then. You know where we are if you have any questions you've forgotten to ask.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Carr. I'm sure we'll be fine.' Mum flicks down the other mattress. She brushes something off it before sitting down. She gazes around like she's in the Sistine Chapel.

‘You're just going to have so much fun here, Elizabeth. I know it.'

I slump down on my bed.

‘Did you know that Valerie Botham and Margaret Stillwater both went to this school as young girls?'

Valerie and Margaret, both in their sixties, came from local wealthy families. Mum had attached herself to them after some local charity fundraiser.

‘Really, how exciting for you.' She doesn't see me screw up my face as I turn away from her. How could that fact possibly have any impact on my future?

‘Why don't you unpack some of your things?'

A cabinet with two drawers sits beside each bed. The only other piece of furniture is a double wardrobe with no door. It has a pole to hang things on and a shelf at the bottom for shoes.

I flick the latches on my suitcase and hang up my school blazer and skirts. I only brought a few other clothes. The grey felt beret that is part of the uniform I put in the bedside cabinet with my knickers and bras. I slide the drawer back in, and see that
Beware of Matron
has been gouged onto the side of it. Someone has tried to cover it with a coat of fresh white paint.

‘It feels funny being here on my own,' I say.

‘You're not on your own. There are the ladies in the office, and the other girls will be here before you know it.' Mum flicks the sheets out on my bed and I cringe as she admires my childish pink duvet cover.

‘Why couldn't I just be a day girl?'

‘Because we think this will be better for you.' She tucks my pyjamas under my pillow and flattens out some creases on the duvet and then sits down again on the other bed. ‘You're just feeling nervous, Elizabeth.'

‘You wouldn't have a clue what I'm feeling.' I look out the window at the empty concrete yard. ‘Did your parents dump you at a school that's not even an hour away from your home?'

‘We're not dumping you. We're trying to help.'

She leans over, and even though we both know there's no one else in the room, she whispers. ‘Remember to take your pills. Keep them hidden if you can.' She wrinkles up her nose, like we've just swapped secrets. ‘Some girls would kill for this opportunity. You could shine here if you worked at it.'

‘Yeah, like a star.'

‘Don't be sarcastic.' Her eyes and mouth tell me not to push her any further, and yet I can't help it.

‘Yeah, you better get going. You've got a long drive ahead of you.'

Mum looks pissed off but ignores my comment.

‘Well, come on then. You can walk me back to the car and give me a kiss before I leave.'

The cold wind still whips around the car park. We peck each other on the cheek, our kisses as cold as the harsh wind. Mum opens her car door and slides in behind the wheel. She mouths
See you in a fortnight
from behind the closed window.

I stand like an idiot in the car park until the car disappears up the driveway. I turn and wander back past the empty buildings to the dorm.

Back in my cubicle, I search the side pocket of my suitcase, and find the wedding photograph of my grandparents. I rub my finger across the image before tucking it under my pillow.

It's only ten in the morning, but I climb fully clothed into bed. I curl up in a ball and squeeze my eyes and fists closed. The doctor at the hospital told me that I might feel sleepy on the pills until my system gets used to them. I concentrate on the heaviness of my eyelids and ignore the itch along my scalp.

*

Giggling wakes me up. Faces I don't recognise stare down at me. I quickly sit up.

‘What are you doing?' a girl asks. Like a girl sleeping is the craziest thing she's ever seen.

My heart starts pounding. I feel like I've just been caught committing a crime. She has two friends with her. One of them has her arms crossed over her chest and the other one has a frown on her face. Both look like they think they deserve an answer.

‘I got here early. I must have fallen asleep.'

‘Well, that's just weird. Who arrives early to boarding school?' She looks at the other two, who giggle in unison.

My interrogation is interrupted by squeals of delight from another cubicle. The three girls rush off to see what the fuss is about. Suitcases are dragged along the floor and a steady stream of girls passes by my cubicle.

One girl with flaming red hair stops and says hi. Someone calls out ‘Rachel!' and she moves on before I get a chance to reply.

The cubicle walls don't go all the way to the ceiling. All you have to do is stand on your bed to see into the next cubicle. A girl's head appears over the top of the partition.

‘Oh. I forgot it was you.' One of my interrogators from earlier disappears behind the partition.

I pull my school books and a denim pencil case from my bag. I've already written
Libby Morgan
on all of the front covers in black ink. I take my red pen and trace over the letters. No one interrupts my tracing. My name ends up being written with four different coloured pens. The sound of girls meeting up with their friends and nesting in their cubicles gets louder over the next hour.

A shrill sound rings out from the end of the room. I look at my watch and see that it is already ten to five.

‘Hurry up,' someone shouts out to me as they pass by.

I stuff my pens back in their case and join the line of girls. We twist and turn our way to the auditorium. The entrance to the foyer is on the other side of the glass office block.

I get sandwiched between two girls as we try and get through the doors at the same time. I smile at one of them, who looks more like a woman with her bobbed blonde hair and red lipstick.

‘What year are you in?' she asks.

‘Year nine.'

‘Well, year nines go last.' She tuts like I'm some idiot from the bush. I look around at the swarm of girls as they push past me. I have no way of knowing who's in what year. Many of them have lipstick and mascara on, making them seem way older than me. None of them seem to notice my existence.

A clap of hands and a ‘That's enough, girls' from the front of the hall is enough to stop most of the noise from nearly two hundred girls. Behind the podium stands a tall lady. Her hair is dead straight and clipped back at the base of her neck. Her hairstyle highlights a strong jaw line and a letterbox mouth. Her hands rest in prayer position on the stand. She waits for absolute silence before continuing.

‘Good evening, girls.'

‘Good evening, Matron,' echoes back through the hall.

‘I am proud to welcome you all here to Hunterview College for another year of positive learning. To our returning students, I trust you are well rested after the Christmas break and ready to settle back in. To our new students, I hope you take advantage of all the wonderful opportunities our school can offer you. I am a firm believer that you get out of life what you are willing to put in.'

She scans the room, like a predator stalking its prey.

‘Tomorrow is orientation day, and then the next day you will be joined by the day girls. Even though school will officially start on that day, tomorrow I expect to see you in full uniform, and the rule of no makeup and jewellery will apply. You will be assigned to your house groups, if you don't already have one. Tonight you are on free time, but when you wake in the morning, I expect you to be ready for the serious business of learning. Our aim is to have you all leave here with a toolbox full of the right equipment for you to become valued members of society. Dismissed.'

The racket that two hundred pairs of feet make as they thunder across a concrete floor is like the migration of wildebeest across the Serengeti. I follow people in front of me out of the building and back to the dormitory.

The rest of the night moves like it has a walking frame. I'm stoked when the lights go out at nine. Girls who are perched on the ends of other girls' beds scurry like rats back to their own beds. In the dark, whispered words are followed by giggles, and then someone yells out ‘Shut up!'

The bed across from me remains empty. Forty girls sleep beside me, and yet I feel like I'm the only person on the planet.

I bury my head in my pillow to muffle the sounds of my crying. I can't be homesick: the home where I felt safe and loved no longer exists.
Pull yourself together, Libby. Stop crying
.

My fingers search among the strands of my hair like they're seeking an old friend. The promise I made to myself – to not pull one hair out once I got to my new school – I break on my first night.

*

I'm still tangled up in my night dreams when I'm woken by the shrill ringing of a bell. Beside me on my pillow are strands of hair. I grab them, throw a dressing gown around myself, put them in my pocket and make my way to the bathroom.

Girls are already lined up in front of the mirrors. I panic when I see that all the toilet and shower stalls are full. The smell of deodorants and perfume is nauseating. I walk slowly back to my cubicle.

I tip biscuits from a tin that mum had bought on the way to school into the rubbish. I take the hair from my pocket, place it in the tin, put it inside my suitcase and then slide that as far under my bed as it will go.

Out my window, I see girls making their way to the dining hall. I grab my uniform and head back to the bathroom. It's emptied out a little bit. One toilet stall is free. The space is tiny, and I struggle in the cramped space to put my uniform on.

My blouse falls into a puddle of water on the floor about the same time the ten-minute bell rings for breakfast. I shake the blouse and put it on wet. My fingers shake as I tie my hair into a French braid and place the beret on top. I check my hair in the mirror on my way past, and pull the hat down a little lower.

I race along the path to the dining hall, holding on to the top of my hat. I stop to catch my breath before pushing open the doors into the dining hall. The noise inside is deafening. Like the high-pitched sound that cicadas make in the summer when the males are trying to attract a mate.

Long trestle tables stretch the length of the hall in seven rows. I have to walk the length of the room to the serving area at the top. An assortment of large plastic bowls line the buffet table. Most only have remnants of cereal in them, but one has a few plums floating in juice. I hate canned plums, but rather than look like a dick, I ladle them into my bowl.