No Talking after Lights by Angela Lambert Page A

prime suspect for the thefts. This stung, for Constance had been brought up to be scrupulously honest, according to her father’sold-fashioned code, and would no more have touched someone else’s things than made an apple-pie bed -the trick that was played on her one evening. Too proud to complain, and unable to make a joke of it, she spent the night curled up in the top half of her bed, cramped and uncomfortable, but with the satisfaction of knowing that the girls who had done it derived no pleasure from her humiliation. ‘Spoil-sport,’ someone muttered, but Constance knew it was one up to her.
    The books saved her from the misery which had smothered her first three weeks at school. In fact, to her surprise, she found that it was easier once her parents and Stella had left for Kenya, extinguishing the last small hope that she might somehow, miraculously, go with them after all. It even made the loss of her pen easier. The knowledge that her mother wouldn’t hear about it for weeks was better than having to confess within days. Constance said nothing, just in case it should somehow turn up in her desk, her locker, or blazer pocket, though she had searched them all.
    It had still not turned up when the Head summoned her.
    â€˜Ah, yes, Constance King,’ said Mrs Birmingham as Constance entered and sat down nervously on the far side of her imposing desk.
    â€˜You’ve made a very good start, my dear, and your teachers are very satisfied with your work. Well done. You seem to be settling in.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Constance, for it was true.
    â€˜Let’s see … English, history and geography seem to be your best subjects. Maths not so good, Latin not bad, considering you’ve never done it before. Biology not so good. Art…’
    â€˜I’m hopeless at art,’ said Constance. ‘I can’t draw for toffee.’
    â€˜Well, if you can’t draw pictures you’ll have to learnto write vividly, won’t you? I expect you’ll manage that. You seem to be good with words. But you ought to do something creative with your hands. There’s needlework, or dressmaking, or … would you like to take up pottery?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Constance. She had looked through the windows of the pottery hut and seen girls with squelchy worms of wet clay oozing through their fingers, and it looked fun. She’d seen their absorbed expressions. Yes, she’d like to have a go at that.
    â€˜Now, games. Good at athletics, not good at team games. Why’s that?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Constance. ‘I’ve never played rounders before. Or tennis. But I like swimming.’
    â€˜I should hope so too,’ said Mrs Birmingham. She smiled. ‘Everyone likes swimming. Now, what about your parents?’
    Constance, startled, drew down the shutters.
    â€˜They’re all right.’
    â€˜I’m sure they are. What about you? Still homesick?’
    â€˜I’m all right,’ said Constance, adding unexpectedly, ‘I’ve lost my pen. I’m dreading telling them. They’re going to be absolutely livid.’
    â€˜â€œLivid” is a much misused word. Its dictionary definition is dark blue, purplish. A bruise is livid. Do you mean your parents will be angry?’
    â€˜Furious,’ said Constance. ‘It was fearfully expensive.’
    â€˜I’m sure they won’t be furious. Perhaps it wasn’t your fault.’
    â€˜Last Monday I couldn’t find it, but I know it was in my pencil-box on Sunday because I used it to write home. It must have gone after that, and I’ve looked everywhere.’
    â€˜I’m sure you have, dear. Keep your fingers crossed that it’ll turn up. Have you tried looking in the confiscation cupboard?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Well, then. Now, what about friends? Have you made friends?’
    â€˜Not really. Sort of, a bit, with Rachel and Jennifer.