The Following Girls by Louise Levene Read Free Book Online Page B

the Under 13s had ‘done their best’ but they had been trounced 14–1 by the superior fire power of the local convent. The fourth form sat on its hands and there was even some booing from the fifth (like Guernseys in a far-off field) but there wasn’t a peep of complaint from the goons: a blind eye; a deaf ear. The girls needed an outlet and it might, God knows, put a bit of heat under the Under 13s. Very Unschool , of course, not to clap, but no more than the eleven little slackers deserved. You could tell Julia thought so, as she grinned approvingly at the front row of the gallery.
    ‘But the good news,’ Julia raised her slightly husky voice, immediately stilling the outbreak of chatter, ‘is that Penny Drummond of Lower 5P has been picked to join the Surrey Under 16 ladies fencing team.’
    Frabjous abandon in the ranks, even though Penny Drummond’s skill with a foil owed bugger all to Mildred Fawcett and a very great deal to her long-suffering father’s willingness to spend his weekends driving to tournaments in draughty sports halls in places like Leicester and Ashton-under-Lyne.
    On and on it went. Out of the corner of her eye Baker could see Bunty stroking purposefully at the ladder on her knee, coaxing it down her calf. Bunty’s legs were nine out of ten (always something to strive for).
    ‘Very well done, Penny. Everybody,’ smirked Julia ‘didn’t she do well? Hip-hip?’
    ‘Ra-a-a-y!’
    ‘You can do better than that!’ Like some tosser in a pantomime. ‘Still can’t hear you!’
    Baker looked along the cheering row: schoolgirl complexions livid with spots, crooked teeth reined in by the sinister glint of their braces, crooked hair held in check by clips and slides and loops of elastic. A chemist’s shop aroma of (permitted) cough sweets and Victory Vs and Fisherman’s Friends. The proles in the very front row were wetting their little selves: shouting louder to please Julia. Young Steve Stott’s face was almost bruising with strain.
    ‘Hip-hip?’
    ‘R-a-a-a-a-ay!’
    And Julia was smiling now – her mouth was, anyway. Baker watched the older girl scanning the rows of screaming blue murder, then suddenly Baker caught her eye and Julia seemed to pause mid-grin and one sleek auburn eyebrow arched higher than the other. The practised move made her look smugger than ever. Baker pictured pinning the pale, pretty Julia to the garage dartboard, taking aim again and again and again, arrows sprouting from all over her stupid face. Treble twenty would be right between those unsmiling blue eyes.
    Mrs Mostyn was also watching Julia from behind her upswept spectacles while pretending to straighten the skinny ribbon bookmark in her hymnbook, marvelling at the girl’s unteachable gift for bending a crowd to her will. Look at them all: had them in the palm of her hand, eating out of it.
    When the storm had passed, the Mostyn rose effortfully to her feet. She closed her eyes and there was the hint of a chant in her lah-di-dah tones as she gave her godless recitation of a prayer selected from her other book, a brown one: leader snot; witch art; usual stuff. And Baker watched as Brian and the chaps made signs of crosses over their navy V-necks. They weren’t Catholic or anything – wouldn’t be in the hall if they were. Catholics bothered God in their own mysterious way Tuesdays and Thursdays in the first floor music room. Jews Mondays and Fridays. Jews. Were there hymns for Jews? wondered Baker. And if not, why not? There were all-purpose hymns surely? They weren’t all stood up, stood up for Jesus. And the God was supposed to be the same. Were angels kosher? The Old Testament had angels. Baker turned to ask Bunty but then remembered that she wasn’t speaking to her.
    There was a special board for house notices outside the assembly hall and Eliza Warner’s name was already in place on the list.
    ‘What happened to whatshername?’
    ‘Stole an eye shadow from Woolworths or something, so my little