Upper Fourth at Malory Towers (15 page)

Everything had gone so well at first! Her frightened mother had taken her straight home, after Mam'zelle had mentioned Gwen's strange heart fluttering and palpitations. She had made her lie down and rest, and she and Miss Winter had fussed over her like a hen with one chick. Gwendoline had loved every minute, and had at once produced the languid ways and the feeble voice of the invalid.

She was rather pleased to know that her father was away and not likely to be back at all that week. By that time Gwen hoped she would be established as a semi-invalid, would miss all the exam, and might then gradually get better, once the exam danger was over.

The doctor came and listened solemnly to Gwen's mother's frightened explanations. “I’m
so
afraid it's her heart that's wrong, Doctor,” she said. “The games are very strenuous at school, you know.”

The doctor examined Gwen carefully. “Well, I can't find anything wrong,” he said. “Nothing that a week's rest won't put right, anyway. She's a bit fat, isn't she—she could do with a bit of dieting, I should think.”

“Oh, but Doctor—there
must
be something wrong with the child's heart,” insisted Mrs. Lacy. “Miss Winter and I have been very troubled to see how she loses her breath, and can hardly get up to the top stair when she goes to her bedroom.”

“Well—why not get another opinion then?” said the doctor. “I should like you to satisfy yourself about Gwendoline.”

“I'll take her to a specialist,” said Mrs. Lacy, at once. “Can you recommend one, Doctor?”

The doctor could and did, and on Wednesday the languid invalid was carefully driven up to London to see the specialist recommended. He took one quick glance at Gwendoline and sized her up at once.

He examined her very carefully indeed, with so many 'hm's' and 'ha's' that Gwendoline began to feel frightened. Surely she hadn't
really
got something the matter with her? She would die if she had!

The specialist had a short talk with Mrs. Lacy alone. “I will think over this, and will write to your doctor full details and let him know the result of my considerations. In the meantime, don't worry,” he said.

On Friday the doctor got a letter from the specialist, and it made him smile. There was nothing wrong with Gwendoline's heart, of course, in fact nothing wrong anywhere at all, except that she was too fat, and needed very much more exercise. “Games, and more games, gym, walks, no rich food, no sweets, plenty of hard work, and no thinking about herself at all!” wrote the specialist. “She's just a little humbug! Swimming especially would be good for her. It would take some fat off her tummy!”

The doctor had to paraphrase all this considerably, of course, when he telephoned the news to Mrs. Lacy that there was nothing the matter with Gwen. “I should send her back to school at once,” he said. “It's not good for the girl to lie about like this.”

Gwen was angry and miserable when she heard all this. She laid her hand to her heart as if it pained her. “Oh, Mother!” she said. “I'll go back if you say so—but give me one more week—I feel so much better for the rest.”

Mrs. Lacy promised Gwen that she should not go back for another week or more. Gwen was satisfied. So long as she missed the exam she didn't mind!

Then her father arrived home, anxious because of his wife's letters and telephone calls about Gwen. Gwen lay on the couch and gave him a pathetic smile. He kissed her, and inquired anxiously what the specialist had said.

“What!
Nothing
wrong,” he said in astonishment. “I'll go round and see the doctor. I'd like to see the specialist's letter myself. I shall feel more satisfied then.”

And so it came about that Gwen's father actually read the candid letter—saw that Gwen was called a “little humbug”—knew very clearly indeed that once more his daughter had tried a little deception—a cruel deception, that had caused her parents much anxiety—and all because she had merely wanted to get out of working for the exam.

What he said to Gwendoline the girl never forgot. He was angry and scornful and bitter—and at the end he was sad. “You are my only child,” he said. “I want to love you and be proud of you like all parents. Why do you make it so hard for me to be proud of you, and to love you, Gwendoline? You have made your mother ill with this, and you have made me angry and disgusted—and very sad.”

“I won't do it again,” sobbed Gwendoline, terrified and ashamed.

“You must go back to school tomorrow,” said her father.

“Oh no, Daddy! I can't! It's the exam,” wailed Gwendoline. “I haven't done any work for it.”

“I don't care. Go in for it just the same, fail and be humiliated,” said her father. “You have brought it all on yourself. I am telephoning to Miss Grayling to apologize for taking you away, and to give her the specialist's instructions—games, more games, gym, walks—and most of all swimming!”

Swimming
! The one thing Gwen detested most of all. She dissolved into tears again and wept the whole of the evening and the whole of the way down to Cornwall the next day. What had she done to herself? She hadn't been so clever after all! It had all ended in her having to take the exam without working for it, and in having to go in for games more than ever—and probably bathe every single day in that nasty cold pool! Poor Gwen. People do often bring punishment on themselves for foolishness—but not often to the extent that Gwendoline did.

The exam began. Everyone was jittery—even Alicia, curiously enough. Day after day the work went on, whilst the bright July sun shone in through the open windows, and the bees hummed enticingly outside. The girls were glad to rush off to the swimming-pool after tea each day—then back again they went to swot up for the next day's exam.

Something curious had happened to Alicia. She didn't understand it. The first day she sat and looked at the questions, feeling sure they would be easy for her. So they were. But she found that she could not collect her thoughts properly. She put her hand up to her head. Surely she wasn't beginning a headache!

She struggled with the questions—yes,
struggled
—a thing the quick-witted, never-at-a-loss Alicia had hardly ever done before! She looked round at the others, puzzled—goodness, how could they write so quickly? What had happened to her?

Alicia had seldom known a day's illness. She was strong and healthy and clever. She really could not imagine why this exam was so difficult. She could not go to sleep at night, but lay tossing and turning. Had she been overworking? No—surely not—the others had worked far harder than she had, and had envied her for not having to swot so much. Well, WHAT was it then?

“Gosh,” thought Alicia, trying to find a cool place on her pillow, “I know what it must feel like now, to have slow brains like Daphne, or a, poor memory like Gwendoline. I can't remember a thing—and if I try, my brains won't work. They feel as if they want oiling!”

The others noticed that Alicia was rather quiet and subdued that week, but as they all felt rather like that, they said nothing. Quite a few of them went about looking very worried. Ruth looked white and drawn, Connie looked anxious, Gwendoline looked miserable, Daphne was almost in tears over the French—what a collection they were, thought Miss Williams—just like every other School Certificate form she had ever known, when exams were on. Never mind—it would be all behind them next week, and they would be in the highest spirits!

She glanced at one or two of the papers when they were collected. Darrell was doing fine! Gwendoline would be lucky if she got quarter marks! Mary-Lou was unexpectedly good. Connie's was poor—Ruth's was not good either. How strange! Ruth was usually well up to standard! It was doubtful if she would pass, if she completed the rest of her papers badly. And Alicia! Whatever in the world had happened to
her
? Bad writing—silly mistakes—good gracious, was Alicia playing the fool?

But Alicia wasn't. She couldn't help it. Something had happened to her that week and she was frightened now.

“It must be a punishment to me for always laughing and sneering at people who aren't as quick and clever as I am,” she thought, in dismay. “My brains have gone woolly and slow and stupid, like Gwen's and Daphne's. I can't remember a thing. How horrible! I'm trying so hard, too, that my head feels as if it's bursting. Is this what the others feel sometimes, when I laugh at them for looking so serious over their work? It's horrible, horrible, horrible! If only my brains would come back properly! I'm frightened!”

“Is anything the matter, Alicia?” said Darrell, on the last day of the exam. “You look all out.”

Alicia never complained, no matter what went wrong with her. “No,” she said. “I'm all right. It's just the exam.”

She sat next to Darrell for the exam. At the end of the last paper, Darrell heard a slight noise. She looked up and gave a cry. Alicia had fallen forward over her papers!

“Miss Williams! Alicia's fainted!” she called. Matron was called, and as soon as Alicia came round again, looking bemused and strange, she was taken to the san. Matron undressed her—and cried out in surprise.

“You've got
measles
, Alicia! Just
look
at this rash—I never saw anything like it in my life! Didn't you notice it before?”

“Well—yes—but I thought it was just a heat-rash,” said Alicia, trying to smile. “Oh, Matron—I'm so glad it's only measles. I thought—I really thought my brains had gone this week. I felt as if I was going potty, and I was awfully frightened.”

Alicia felt so thankful when she got in to bed and rested her aching head against the cool pillow. She felt ill, but happy. It was only measles she had had that awful week! It wasn't that her brains had really gone woolly and stupid—it wasn't a punishment sent to her for sneering at the others who were slower than herself—it was just—measles.

And with that Alicia fell asleep and her temperature began to go down. She felt much better when she awoke. Her brains felt better, too!

“I'm afraid you'll have no visitors or company this week, Alicia,” said Sister, who was in charge of the san. Matron had now departed back to school. “Just your own thoughts!”

Yes—just her own thoughts. Thankfulness that she wasn't going to be slow and stupid after all—shame that she had been so full of sneers and sarcastic remarks to others not so clever as herself—sadness because she knew she must have done terrible papers, and would surely fail. She would have to take School Cert. all over again! Blow!

“Well,” thought Alicia, her brains really at work again, as her strong and healthy body began to throw off the disease, “well—I'd better learn my lesson—I shan't be so beastly hard again. But I honestly didn't know what it was like to have slow brains. Now I do. It's awful. Fancy having them all your life and knowing you can't alter them. I'll never sneer at others again. Never. At least, not if I can remember it. It's a frightful habit with me now!”

It was indeed. Alicia was going to find it very hard indeed to alter herself—but still, she had taken the first important step—she had realized that there was something to alter! She would never be quite so hard again.

The exams were over at last! The girls went quite mad and the mistresses let them! The swimming pool was noisy and full, the tennis courts were monopolized by the Upper Fourth, the kitchen staff were begged for ice creams and iced lemonade at every hour of the day—or so it seemed! Girls went about singing, and even sour-faced Mam'zelle Rougier smiled to see them so happy after the exam.

Gwendoline wasn't very happy, of course. Miss Grayling had taken her father's instructions seriously, and Gwen was having more games, more walks—and more swimming than she had ever had before. But it was no good complaining or grumbling. She had brought it all on herself—it was nobody's fault but her own!

“Now we can have a good time for the rest of the term,” said Darrell, pleased. “No more swotting—no more long preps even, because Miss Williams says we've done enough. We'll enjoy ourselves!”

“It ought to be a nice peaceful end of term, with no horrid happenings,” said Sally. “When Alicia comes back, it win be nicer still.”

Sally was wrong when she said there ought to be a nice peaceful end of term, with no horrid happenings—because the very next day the Connie Affair began.

It began with quite small things—a missing rubber—an essay spoilt because a page was missing, apparently torn out—a lace gone from one of Connie's shoes.

Nobody took any notice at first—things always were missing anyhow and turned up in the most ridiculous places—and pages did get torn out of books, and laces had a curious habit of disappearing.

But the Connie Affair didn't end there. Connie was always in trouble about something! “Now my French poetry book has gone!” she complained. “Now my cotton has gone out of my work-basket.” Now this and now that!

“But, Connie—how is it that so many things happen to you lately?” said Darrell, puzzled. “I don't understand it. It's almost as if somebody was plaguing you—but who could it be? Not one of us would do silly, idiotic things like this—sort of first-form spite!”