“But I’ll be late for breakfast, sir,” Sophie said. “You said so yourself.”
“It won’t take long. I’m sure the others can get you something.”
Delphine and Marianne took the hint and made a dash for the refectory, Delphine mouthing “sorry” as she went.
Sophie tried to avoid Mr. Tweedie’s concerned gaze. He didn’t so much frown as crumple up his face when there was a problem. “It’s the sweater, Sophie,” he sighed.
Sophie tried to rearrange the offending knitwear so that the holes weren’t so apparent.
“And your shoes,” he continued. “Ballet shoes — the sort tied to your feet with ribbons — aren’t on the uniform list, are they?”
She shook her head.
“I wonder, Sophie, if you’ve written to your guardian yet about your clothes? We did agree you were going to do that, didn’t we?”
At the wordguardian, an image of Rosemary — a middle-aged woman with blonde-gray hair cut in a boyish crop, sitting poker-straight on a stool in her small, neat kitchen — flashed in front of Sophie’s eyes. She and Rosemary had nothing in common with each other, were not related in any way. But rain, a borrowed car, her widowed father’s tiredness, and an unexpected turn on a dark country road had all combined one night in a fatal cocktail to make Rosemary and Sophie lifelong companions. As the only friend of the family the authorities could reach after the accident, Rosemary had taken Sophie in as a temporary measure, until a relative of the newly orphaned child could be found. But Sophie’s father had not lived what Rosemary called a “settled life.” Sophie’s mother had died when Sophie was a baby, and her father had taken her to live in many different places. He’d talk about magical journeys, about the next place they would go. Friends were scarce and, it became apparent, relatives were nonexistent.
“Rosemary is very busy,” Sophie said, putting a finger into one of the smaller holes in the sleeve of her sweater and hooking it over her fingernail in an attempt to hide it. She looked up at Mr. Tweedie’s crumpled, kind face and smiled with more confidence than she felt. “She really does have a lot on her plate at the moment, and I don’t like to bother her …” Sophie didn’t want to add,when she is away. Better that the school didn’t know just how much time Rosemary spent out of the country. It would only cause problems.
“But it’s not just the sweater or the shoes, Sophie, it’s all your clothes.” Mr. Tweedie sounded strained. “Everything you wear is just so …” He stopped. “You must understand that it’s not that I mind, but it’s better for you if you blend in. Look in the Lost and Found.” Mr. Tweedie gave her one of hisI-mean-itfaces. “Before Mrs. Sharman sees you.”
In the refectory, Sophie took a thick white plate out of the plastic box stacked next to the counter, chose the least bruised banana and a glass of watered-down orange juice, and put it all on a tray. Then she joined Delphine and Marianne at the long trestle table. They were the last, and already the kitchen staff were moving around and clearing things away.
“What did Tweedie want?” Marianne had propped her physics textbook up against her bag on the table. Sophie remembered there was a test today. She’d completely forgotten.
“Sweater alert.”
“He does go on,” Delphine said. “You should just agree with everything he says. That usually stops him.”
“He’s got to do his job,” Marianne said, her eyes still scanning the page. “Did you know that the angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection?”
Delphine rolled her eyes.
“And didyouknow it’s the first of March?” Sophie said quickly, trying to distract Marianne. “That means the list should go up this morning.”
“What list?” Delphine took a small piece of butter and placed it on the edge of her plate. From this she put an even tinier piece on her knife and spread it on a minuscule fraction of toast. She then bit into the buttered toast, before repeating the procedure. Sophie calculated that at her current speed, it could take Delphine up to ten minutes to finish one slice. (Marianne, no doubt, would be able to calculate it to the second.)
“Where we’re going in the last week of term,” Sophie said, peeling the banana. “The class trip.”
Delphine shrugged. “You know we won’t get to go anywhere interesting or exciting. They save those for year twelve.”
“We’ll probably get Cooking Country-Style in Thomas Hardy’s England,” Sophie sighed.
“Or Franco-Belgian Battlefields,” added Marianne, raising her gaze from the textbook. “If we’re really, really lucky.”
“Well, that’s all right if you’ve only ever been to the coast of Cornwall,” Delphine said.
“But I love Cornwall!” Marianne protested.
“It’s just not verychic, is it?” Delphine went on. “Not like the Île de Ré, where you can wear tailored shorts and nice little canvas shoes.”
“I want to get on the Saint Petersburg trip,” said Sophie.
There. She’d said it. And she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t. She knew from experience with Rosemary that asking for anything was the surest way of not getting it. She bit her lip. There’d be no chance now. If only she’d kept her mouth shut for just a while longer.
“Dream on!” Marianne laughed, stuffing the textbook into her bag. “You know there’s no hope of that.” Deep down, Sophie knew she was right. Only those taking Russian for A-level exams had any chance of going.
“Anyway, why would anyone in their right mind want to go to Saint Petersburg before the summer?” Delphine shivered. “It will be far too cold in March.”
