11
Wednesday, 27 April 1966
Mary made a grab for the chain and pulled with all her might. Water thundered around the toilet bowl. She shrank back against the door, horrified by the crumpled lavatory paper dashing around and around. The water was rising and coming closer to the lavatory lid. The paper was still there. She shut her eyes and, her lips working rapidly, prayed to be saved. Her prayer was answered. With a hideous gurgle the water drained away and Mary pattered forward; she was relieved to see that the paper had disappeared. A new panic arose. Playtime was over. She was late.
She pulled at the bolt but it was stuck fast. She used both hands but could not get a grip; the sharp metal cut into her skin. She cast around the tiny cubicle for something to knock the bolt with but there wasn’t even a toilet brush like at home. The thought of home made things worse. She had no home.
The water was coming back. Mary shut her eyes and opened them. She was making it up. No, it was higher. It would stop, Mary told herself. It must stop. It was creeping to the top and not stopping. Mesmerized she fixed on the toilet as if she could work a spell. The words ‘Armitage Shanks’ were under water, the letters waving. The water was moving as if someone was stirring it with a giant spoon. It was getting closer and she couldn’t swim.
Mary reached up to pull the chain again, but then thought better of it because it would make more water. Her stomach churned. She teased Michael about his terror of falling down the toilet; now it was happening to her. She pulled and tugged and pushed on the bolt but it didn’t budge.
She heard a sound that chilled the heat in her cheeks. Liquid was spilling on to the tiles. It welled up to the rim of the toilet and seeped through the gap between the bowl and the seat. It took its time and gradually a puddle collected in a dip in the tiles and imperceptibly lapped towards her feet. Mary was helpless and when it touched the toes of her sandals could only stand on tiptoe, her back against the door.
‘Help! Get me out of here. I’m trapped. He-lp!’ Her shouts escalated to a scream.
Unlike Mary the water could escape. It flowed smoothly under the door like a snake going about its business. The toilet paper she had used when she peed floated out of the bowl and slopped down, soggy and twisted, one end like a fishtail in the gentle current. It shamed her.
The sibilant sounds of the cistern began as a whisper and then built in intensity.
‘I’m stuck!’ Her cries subsided and, defeated, she watched the veil of water slide over the rim.
Mary’s trance-like state was shattered by a hooter. She covered her head with her hands; the water was washing around her ankles.
Shouts from the playground. She had forgotten about the fire drill. First thing that morning, their teacher – Mary still did not know her name – had told the class that after playtime an alarm would sound and instead of filing back to the classroom, they must ‘congregate’ in the Sunken Garden for the register.
She heard guns and cannons; the booms and cracks were coming this way. If they peeped under the door they would see her sandals: she could not stand on the toilet. An explosion made her jump. Someone was thumping on the door.
‘Mary Thornton?’
She screwed up her eyes and didn’t answer.
‘Who’s in there?
‘Me,’ she admitted in a small voice.
‘Come out now!’ the voice ordered.
Mary grasped the bolt. It slid aside. Miss Crane, the headmistress, stood by the roller towel, water creeping towards her shoes.
‘So this is where you are hiding.’ She made a sweeping motion with her hand. Mary slunk out of the cubicle, treading through the welling tide.
‘I wasn’t hid—’
‘This is disappointing, Mary. The fire drill means we all do as we are told. You are the only one who has not. What if there had been a fire?’
‘I couldn’t get out.’ Mary spun around, splattering the woman’s tights. Water had reached the sinks and was stealing under the doors of the other cubicles. ‘I would have burnt alive,’ she said.
‘Don’t be rude.’ Miss Crane ushered her towards the door. ‘What a story. No trouble getting out when I called, I see!’
‘It’s not a story! It happened.’
‘Please don’t answer back.’ Miss Crane propelled Mary with a hand on the back of her neck. ‘Given that you are new, I’ll draw a line under this incident.’
Mary shrugged the hand away. ‘It happened.’
‘Everyone has been looking for you, wasting their time while you were hiding.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘What did I say about answering back?’ She made an arch with her arm by the door. ‘You have caused enough trouble. Go on back to your class.’
‘You’re answering me back.’ People had to answer if someone spoke. Mary stood immobile on the puddling floor.
‘That’s enough!’
Miss Crane yanked her around and swooped close with peppermint breath. ‘If it wasn’t for your sweet brother, I might consider asking your mummy and daddy to remove you. This is not a school for liars.’
I am not a liar!
The scene was in Technicolor. Mary grabbed at the bun and got a chunk of grey hair in her fist. She hauled Miss Crane to the overflowing toilet – the wet floor made it easy. Her legs stuck out of the cubicle like a doll’s. Mary jammed Miss Crane’s head into the toilet and pressed hard into her neck, keeping out of the way of the kicking doll’s legs. She stuffed toilet paper around the doll’s head and pulled the chain. Miss Crane was flushed away.
‘Blimey, what’s gone on here?’ Mary recognized the man with the mop. ‘I should have brought me rubber ring!’
‘I’m afraid we’ve had a flood.’ Miss Crane kept her hand on Mary’s neck.
‘The stopcock’ll have gone. I said they all need doing. ’Fraid these will be out of order for the rest of the day.’
When she edged out past him, he winked at Mary.
‘Miss Crane, it’s County Hall.’ The woman from behind the typewriter was waving a note. Miss Crane took it, read it and walked away down the corridor with the woman. She must have forgotten about Mary.
The little girl waited until both women were out of sight.
The man came out of the toilets. ‘You OK?’
‘I was locked in.’
‘Those bolts are a devil. There’s a knack: lift as you slide.’
Mary’s sandals squelched on the floor, leaving a trail of damp footprints. Her plan was taking shape.