Screw Loose by Chris Wheat

either.
    â€˜She is a princess,’ Georgia’s mother interjected. ‘This school seemed more appropriate.’
    Ms Defarge beamed. ‘You’re not our first titled student,’ she said. ‘And what kind of course are you thinking of doing, Georgia?’
    No use beating around the bush. Hit them with the truth.
    â€˜Carpentry.’
    Ms Defarge flashed a look of alarm at Georgia’s parents. They registered nothing. Georgia had been the top student in Year 8 Woodwork. Her CD rack had been the best in the class, and she’d been given an A++ for it. She stretched back in the chair and put her hands behind her head. If she couldn’t do carpentry, she wouldn’t enrol.
    Ms Defarge tapped her lips thoughtfully. ‘A non-traditional subject.’ Her sparkle was fading fast. ‘We would perhaps have to arrange a school-based apprenticeship. We have a wonderful careers adviser.’
    â€˜Georgia is her own person,’ her father said.
    Ms Defarge leant across her desk. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in architecture?’
    Georgia’s mother supported her. ‘She wants to use her hands.’
    Her father, elegant in a mauve tie and matching mauve handkerchief, interrupted the headmistress. ‘The motto’ – he was looking behind her at the gilded shield on the wall – ‘if my schoolboy Latin still serves me, seems to say something like: I despise awful and profane people ?’ He looked at Ms Defarge in surprise.
    The headmistress giggled wildly and glanced at the large crest. ‘ Odi profanum vulgus et arceo is a trifle dated, I must admit, but we find the translation Shun really unpleasant people a little more appropriate in the twenty-first century. The school is a hundred and thirty years old, Maharajah. We have inherited things from the past that are now a little quaint, but we don’t discard them. Judges still wear wigs.’
    â€˜Quite right, too,’ nodded her father. ‘And the devices?’ Ms Defarge’s gaze fell lovingly on the school crest. ‘The crest bears the devices of a mirror in the top right, coins to the left and a hearth below, for beauty, wealth and a comfortable home.’ She paused. ‘It still speaks volumes to our girls.’ She clasped her hands and looked delighted. ‘We are a wonderful school. Our girls never want to leave.’
    Georgia’s father remained silent.
    â€˜Well … perhaps you’d like to see Mary Magdalene, Georgia?
    I’ve asked Tamsin Court-Cookson to take you on a short tour. She’s captain of Gwen Meredith House and – you’ve probably guessed from the surname – the Deputy Prime Minister’s daughter. We have a rich cross-section of the community here, Maharajah. One of our scholarship girls is the daughter of a postman.’ She laughed. ‘He used to pick her up from school on his little yellow postman’s motorbike until we stopped it.’
    Ms Defarge got up and went to the door. ‘Tamsin,’ she tinkled, ‘please come in and meet the maharajah, the maharani and their daughter, the Princess Georgia.’
    A tall girl with a shock of hair combed from left to right just like a boy’s stepped into the room. She had the most beautiful clear skin and the most defiant look in her grey eyes. In a whisper, Ms Defarge told Tamsin Court-Cookson to curtsy.
    She didn’t.
    â€˜I wonder if you’d mind taking Georgia on a short tour of the school? There will be flavoured milk and Tiny Teddies waiting for you both here in my office when you return in half an hour.’
    â€˜Certainly,’ said Tamsin, looking coldly at Georgia.
    Georgia followed Tamsin as she led the way into the windy afternoon. Tamsin was certainly imposing.
    Without looking at Georgia, Tamsin announced, ‘We’ll visit the chapel first; you may need to pray. Why on earth did you come here from India? You must be