The FitzOsbornes at War by Michelle Cooper Page B

she made two girls cry and another rush off to be sick, Henry was moved to the end of her table and ordered to stay silent during meals. Then, last week, her arch-enemy Loretta complained that Henry had been ‘staring at her sausages’ in an ‘accusing’ way. Henry has now been banished to the prefects’ table. This is meant to be a sign of deepest disgrace, but Henry says she much prefers this arrangement, because the prefects, being older, have far more interesting conversations than the girls in her year.
    I fear this is all our fault. Henry has spent so much more time with Veronica and me than with children her own age, and we included her in almost everything we did at Montmaray. Toby, in particular, has always indulged her shamelessly. And Veronica must have been a greater influence than we ever suspected, because Henry has recently started up a vigorous campaign – stirring speeches in the common room, letters to the headmistress, even a petition addressed to the school’s Board of Governors – for her portion of the school’s meat ration to be packaged up each week and sent to Carlos. She claims it’s a violation of her human rights to force her to eat animals, or to prevent her giving her ‘fair, legal share’ to anyone or anything that she chooses.
    I’m amazed she hasn’t been expelled yet, but I think the school likes saying that it counts a Royal Highness amongst its pupils. Also, the headmistress is still too intimidated by Aunt Charlotte to dare suggest to her that Henry might be better off elsewhere. That’s why I’m the one to whom the headmistress addresses all her complaints.
    Not that I mind, really – I did promise Henry I’d do whatever I could to make her school life easier. It’s just that I’m beginning to feel a bit weary of dealing with all these adult responsibilities. I keep saying to myself, ‘But I’m only nineteen .’ (Of course, whenever Aunt Charlotte tries to stop me doing something because I’m too young, I think, very indignantly, ‘But I am nineteen now, you know!’) When I was little, I longed to be older, except now I can’t recall what it was that I most keenly anticipated. Being allowed to stay up as late as I wanted? To wear or eat or read whatever I pleased? Well, I could do all those things now, but mostly I don’t – either because I have to get up early for work the next morning, or haven’t enough money to buy the outfit I really love, or for some other boring, grown-up reason. Also, children don’t realise what a huge proportion of adult life is used up worrying about things – from what to make for dinner and whether one’s sheets will get dry in time to make the beds that night, to whether one will ever manage to meet the right man and marry him. Shouldn’t being a grown-up be slightly more exhilarating ? Is this the fault of the war? Or is it simply how life is ?
    What a depressing thought . . . but hooray, the telephone’s ringing! With some exciting news, I hope!
    M UCH LATER, NEARLY MIDNIGHT.
    I wonder if God (or Fate, or whoever) was reading over my shoulder and thinking, ‘She’s always whingeing about how dreary her life is. Well, I’ll show her. I’ll give her exciting .’
    I would vow to stop complaining forever, if it meant I’d never again have to have a telephone conversation like the one this morning.
    ‘Is that Miss Sophia FitzOsborne?’ asked the voice, brisk and female. A nurse, I realised instantly, before I’d even grasped what that could mean. ‘You’re the next of kin of Simon Chester?’ she went on.
    ‘Yes,’ I managed, feeling all the blood draining from my face. ‘Yes, what’s happened?’ A horrible rushing sound filled my ears, engulfing most of her words. The name of the hospital, I caught that. Something about surgery and a doctor. Simon couldn’t be dead, then! They wouldn’t operate on a dead person, would they? But I couldn’t get my mouth to work, to ask the right questions. Thank Heavens