What I Was by Meg Rosoff Read Free Book Online Page A

drawer; I put them on and settled into the unfamiliar squishy comfort of home. Although I’d been away nearly four months, nothing in my room had changed. In fact, nothing much had changed since I began my life of indentured education twelve years ago. Except me, of course, but I barely counted.
    The next morning I slipped back into my old skin like a seasoned panto actor slipping into a horse suit. I knew the drill here (the rules, the disguises, the proper responses) the same as everywhere else.
    Mother seemed pleased to see me, despite my disgrace. For the three weeks of Christmas break, she doted on me as much as she knew how, and when it came time to return to school, she and my father appeared stymied by my good cheer. Perhaps I was settling in after all.

10
    In company with the monarchy and the army, boarding schools of the 1960s comprised the last outposts of the poor shrunken British Empire – complete with a full set of nineteenth-century values. This meant we were ruled by a code of conduct that tolerated all flaws save those pertaining to loyalty and rank. Having violated neither, I was clasped on the shoulder and forgiven my previous term’s crimes.
    ‘Our relationships here are based on trust,’ Clifton-Mogg intoned. ‘We have been entrusted to educate you, and we trust you to behave with maturity and dignity. This term you have a chance to begin anew, and we have no doubt that you will uphold our trust like a man.’
    He sounded shifty, as if he didn’t quite believe the words he was saying, knew that I knew he didn’t believe them, and knew that I didn’t believe them either. Nonetheless, I set my features to indicate sincerity and could tell that he appreciated it; it made both our roles flow more smoothly. I, of course, had no trouble looking sincerely pleased; I intended to use this whole mutual trust business to clear off at the first possible opportunity. Tides willing.
    Tides were crucial. The journey from my dormitory to Finn’s hut took thirty-five minutes (twenty minutes along the footpath to the edge of the causeway, fifteen minutes to cross and reach the end of The Stele). There were, however, all manner of contingencies to consider. The footpath was slower than the road, but safer from discovery. There was a general limit of two hours on either side of low tide during which it was possible to cross from the island to the mainland (and vice versa) without getting soaked, though this varied according to the phases of the moon and the height of the tides. Add it all up, and I had four hours at the hut (maximum) plus seventy minutes travel time. Give or take a few seconds. Of course there was always the possibility of straddling two tides, crossing two hours after the low tide and returning two hours before the following low tide: twelve hours minus four hours plus travel equals nine hours ten minutes. Or staying all night and hoping for the best. But I wasn’t keen to try that again in a hurry. At least not without a more sophisticated plan in place.
    It may sound fanatical to time everything out so carefully, but minutes were what we lived by: stolen minutes, minutes between lessons, four minutes to smoke a fag, twenty minutes for a pint at the pub, free periods during which forged exam papers or contraband could be purchased. Every minute was crucial in the race from lesson to town shuttle bus, and from town to catch the last bus back (fifteen minutes) or be stuck hitchhiking (thirty-plus minutes), finding a taxi (up to an hour and a near-insane extravagance), or sprinting the four miles back from town (twenty-six to forty minutes, depending on fitness).
    And so, tide chart tucked neatly into my book of Latin verbs, I made the necessary calculations and planned my next campaign.
    This time I bought bacon and teacakes, two cans of baked beans, twelve sausages, a jar of Colman’s mustard, and matches. A schoolboy’s idea of necessities. In addition, I had a copy of Moby Dick and a fairly