with the book and the torch.
Covering her head, Gillian began to weep quietly, not for her home, or her parents, or even for Tommy, but for her lost world: for Jane, for Helen, and for all the poor, unwanted girls at Lowood School.
“Are you crying for your mummy?” a voice whispered by her ear.
“I am not crying for my mummy! I’m crying for my book . Matron took it away.”
“How can you cry for a book? It’s just a story. It isn’t real. Don’t cry!”
After sending Fiona back to bed, Gillian stared into the darkness, thinking about what she had just said. Truly it was strange that Lowood seemed so real to her; more real than Deer Park. And how was it, she wondered, that she understood so well what people in books were feeling? She knew as if they were her own, Jane’s loneliness and anger, Pip’s shame and sense of inferiority in Great Expectations , the longing of the Forsaken Merman for his mortal wife in the poem they had read that day in English class, and the yearning, too, of the merman’s wife after she had returned home, for the little mermaiden she had left behind. She had never been in any of their situations, and yet she knew their inmost feelings. Why was that?
The next morning, when they were up and dressed, and the other girls had gone chattering off, Gillian saw that Fiona’s thin face, behind its curtain of stringy dark hair, was the colour of green olives, with purple shadows under her eyes. Her tie was crooked and her tunic on back-to-front. She drooped on her bed, sniffing and fiddling with her sash. To keep her out of trouble, Gillian persuaded her to come down to breakfast even though she knew she wouldn’t eat anything. She never did.
Later that morning, Miss Lamb, the English teacher, elegant in a chignon and a long black cloak, read aloud from a poem called “Pippa Passes.”
God’s in his heaven.
All’s right with the world!
she concluded with an airy wave of her hand, followed by a thud from the back of the class as Fiona fell off her chair in a dead faint.
At bedtime Gillian went to the sick bay.
“Ah, Gillian, the reading girl,” Matron looked up from her logbook. “I want to talk to you, dear. That poor little thing from your dormitory is breaking her heart. She’s not sleeping, and she won’t eat a thing. She’s just pining away for her mother.”
“Yes I know. Can I have my book back, please, Matron?”
Matron looked at her for a long moment over her glasses, sighed, and shook her head. “You may. I’m keeping the torch, though.” She handed the book to Gillian who stuffed it down the front of her box-pleated tunic, tying the sash tightly.
A few nights later, just before lights out, Gillian looked up in a daze from Jane Eyre , her eyes resting on Fiona’s empty bed. She wondered for a moment what was happening to her tearful little roommate, until the mystery of the demonic laugh through the keyhole of Jane’s bedroom door reclaimed her attention and she sank back into her book for the last precious minutes of reading time.
The next day she was summoned after classes to the sick bay. Matron was all starched up as usual in her white uniform, but she did not have her cheerful “How-are-we-today?” face on.
“Poor Fiona isn’t doing well at all,” she said. “She’s just breaking her heart. She still won’t eat or sleep, and I’m very worried about her.” She looked at Gillian with her head on one side, her soft dark eyes reminding Gillian of Mrs. Rosenberg. “Now then, Gillian, Fiona says the closest she has to a friend here is you, poor little thing, so I want you to go in and talk to her, and see if you can cheer her up a bit.”
Stung by that “poor little thing”, and resolving to try harder for Matron’s good opinion, Gillian nodded.
Fiona was lying back in a chintz armchair by the electric fire in Matron’s cozy sitting room, her eyes sunk in dark hollows and her cheekbones jutting out. She looked worse than
Covering her head, Gillian began to weep quietly, not for her home, or her parents, or even for Tommy, but for her lost world: for Jane, for Helen, and for all the poor, unwanted girls at Lowood School.
“Are you crying for your mummy?” a voice whispered by her ear.
“I am not crying for my mummy! I’m crying for my book . Matron took it away.”
“How can you cry for a book? It’s just a story. It isn’t real. Don’t cry!”
After sending Fiona back to bed, Gillian stared into the darkness, thinking about what she had just said. Truly it was strange that Lowood seemed so real to her; more real than Deer Park. And how was it, she wondered, that she understood so well what people in books were feeling? She knew as if they were her own, Jane’s loneliness and anger, Pip’s shame and sense of inferiority in Great Expectations , the longing of the Forsaken Merman for his mortal wife in the poem they had read that day in English class, and the yearning, too, of the merman’s wife after she had returned home, for the little mermaiden she had left behind. She had never been in any of their situations, and yet she knew their inmost feelings. Why was that?
The next morning, when they were up and dressed, and the other girls had gone chattering off, Gillian saw that Fiona’s thin face, behind its curtain of stringy dark hair, was the colour of green olives, with purple shadows under her eyes. Her tie was crooked and her tunic on back-to-front. She drooped on her bed, sniffing and fiddling with her sash. To keep her out of trouble, Gillian persuaded her to come down to breakfast even though she knew she wouldn’t eat anything. She never did.
Later that morning, Miss Lamb, the English teacher, elegant in a chignon and a long black cloak, read aloud from a poem called “Pippa Passes.”
God’s in his heaven.
All’s right with the world!
she concluded with an airy wave of her hand, followed by a thud from the back of the class as Fiona fell off her chair in a dead faint.
At bedtime Gillian went to the sick bay.
“Ah, Gillian, the reading girl,” Matron looked up from her logbook. “I want to talk to you, dear. That poor little thing from your dormitory is breaking her heart. She’s not sleeping, and she won’t eat a thing. She’s just pining away for her mother.”
“Yes I know. Can I have my book back, please, Matron?”
Matron looked at her for a long moment over her glasses, sighed, and shook her head. “You may. I’m keeping the torch, though.” She handed the book to Gillian who stuffed it down the front of her box-pleated tunic, tying the sash tightly.
A few nights later, just before lights out, Gillian looked up in a daze from Jane Eyre , her eyes resting on Fiona’s empty bed. She wondered for a moment what was happening to her tearful little roommate, until the mystery of the demonic laugh through the keyhole of Jane’s bedroom door reclaimed her attention and she sank back into her book for the last precious minutes of reading time.
The next day she was summoned after classes to the sick bay. Matron was all starched up as usual in her white uniform, but she did not have her cheerful “How-are-we-today?” face on.
“Poor Fiona isn’t doing well at all,” she said. “She’s just breaking her heart. She still won’t eat or sleep, and I’m very worried about her.” She looked at Gillian with her head on one side, her soft dark eyes reminding Gillian of Mrs. Rosenberg. “Now then, Gillian, Fiona says the closest she has to a friend here is you, poor little thing, so I want you to go in and talk to her, and see if you can cheer her up a bit.”
Stung by that “poor little thing”, and resolving to try harder for Matron’s good opinion, Gillian nodded.
Fiona was lying back in a chintz armchair by the electric fire in Matron’s cozy sitting room, her eyes sunk in dark hollows and her cheekbones jutting out. She looked worse than
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