I glare at the other girls when they try to tease me or patronise me or pick on me, and I’m glad to see that my glare works as well as ever. I get called names a lot, “Taffy” and “Thief” and “Commie,” as well as slightly more justified things like “Crip” and “Suck-up.” Commie is because they think my name is Russian. I was wrong in thinking it would mean nothing to them. They pinch me and thump me when they think they can get away with it, but there’s no real violence. It’s nothing, absolutely nothing, after the Home. I have my stick and my glare, and soon I started to tell ghost stories after Lights Out. Let them fear me as long as they leave me alone. Let them hate me as long as they fear me. It’s a pretty good strategy for boarding school, however it worked out for Tiberius. I said this to Sharon, and she looked at me as if I was an alien. What? What? I’ll never get used to this place.
I quickly rose to the top of the class in everything but maths. Very quickly. More quickly than I’d expected. Perhaps these girls are not as clever as the ones at the grammar school? One or two there gave us some competition, but here there doesn’t seem to be any of that. I soar above the others. My popularity, bizarrely, goes both up and down slightly because of the marks. They don’t care about lessons, and they hate me for beating them, but you get house points for exceptional marks, and they care a lot about house points. It’s depressing how much boarding school is just like Enid Blyton showed it, and all the ways it’s different are ways it’s worse.
The chemistry class, with a different set of girls, is a lot better. It’s taught by the science master, the only male teacher in the school, and the girls seem a lot more engaged by the subject. It’s the best thing on the curriculum, I’m really glad I fought for it. I don’t care that I miss art—though Auntie Teg would care. I haven’t written to her. I’ve thought about it, but I don’t dare. She wouldn’t tell my mother where I am—she’d be the last person to do that—but I can’t risk it.
Then yesterday I found the library. I’ve got permission to spend time here when I’m supposed to be on the playing field. Suddenly, being crippled starts to feel like a benefit. It’s not a wonderful library, but it’s so much better than nothing that I’m not complaining. I’ve finished all the books my father lent me. (He was right about the other half of Empire Star, but Empire Star itself is one of the best things I’ve ever read.) On the shelves here there’s The Bull From the Sea and another Mary Renault I’ve never heard of called The Charioteer, and three adult SF novels by C. S. Lewis. It’s wood-panelled and the chairs are old cracked leather. So far it seems to be deserted by everyone except me and the librarian, Miss Carroll, to whom I am unfailingly polite.
I’ll have a chance to keep up my diary now. One of the worst things here is how impossible it is to be alone and how people ask you all the time what you are doing. “Writing a poem” or “Writing in my diary” would be the kiss of death. After the first couple of days I stopped trying, even though I really wanted to. They already think I’m weird. I sleep in a dorm with eleven other girls. I’m not alone even in the bathroom—there are no doors on the toilet or shower cubicles, and of course they think lavatory humour is the height of wit.
Out of the library window I can see the branches of a dying elm. Elms are dying all over the place, it’s Dutch elm disease. It isn’t my fault. I can’t do anything about it. But I keep thinking maybe I could, if the fairies told me what to do. It’s the kind of thing where there might be something that would make a difference. The dying trees are very sad. I asked the librarian and she gave me an old copy of New Scientist, and I read more detail about it. It came from America on a load of logs, and it’s a fungal disease. That makes it sound even more as if it might be possible to do something. The elms are all one elm, they are clones, that’s why they are all succumbing. No natural resistance among the population, because no variation. Twins are clones, too. If you looked at an elm tree you’d never think it was part of all the others. You’d see an elm tree. Same when people look at me now: they see a person, not half a set of twins.
WEDNESDAY 19TH SEPTEMBER 1979
After prep and before supper, we have a free half-hour. Yesterday it wasn’t raining, so I went out in the dusk. I walked down to the bottom of bounds, the edge of the school grounds. There’s a field there with black-and-white cows in it. They stared at me apathetically. There’s also a ditch and a straggle of trees. If there are any fairies here, this looked like where they’ll be. It was chilly and damp. The sky was losing colour without any noticeable sunset.