03.5 Visitors for the Chalet School (27 page)

As she passed the window, Jo lifted a corner of the curtain. “Oh, golly, Patricia, just have a look!”

Patricia moved over and peered through the casement. The Christmas moon, now almost at the full, was sailing serenely above the snow-covered mountains. The ice-bound Tiernsee shimmered in the moonlight.

IN the deep blue of the sky below the moon, one star was shining.

“It’s beautiful,” Patricia said in hushed tones.

And Joey quoted softly,” ‘…as a star of smallest magnitude, close by the moon’ “.

“What does that come from?”

“Well, believe it or not, it’s Milton.” Jo let the curtain drop again. “It’s about the one bit I’ve ever liked much.”

“I’ll come downstairs with you, Joey.” And Patricia followed Jo out of the room. “You know, you ought to talk to Joan Hatherley about Milton; she’s mad about him. Perhaps she’d convert you. Or rather, you ought to
have
talked to her; you probably won’t see her now.”

“No, I don’t suppose I shall,” Joey said, with deliberately brisk cheerfulness.

While they were slowly descending the wooden staircase, a sudden thought struck Joey. “Patricia, you’ll be seeing Juliet when you get back to London, won’t you? Now
she’d
be on your side; you know she would.

Ten thousand per cent. Oh, but perhaps you won’t tell her either?”

“I probably won’t in the meantime. I’m scared of counting my chickens too soon.”

“Well, anyway, don’t forget to give her tons and tons of love from all of us. We still miss her heaps.”

“At the foot of the stair Patricia stopped.

“There won’t be much time to say goodbye in the morning. We’re leaving so early, there’s bound to be an awful scrum. I hate goodbyes, anyway.”

“Mm. So do I.”

Then Patricia, with the touch of old-world formality she sometimes showed, held out her hand. Jo shook it warmly.

“Goodnight, Joey. Thank you very much.”

“Goodbye, Patricia. And good luck – with everything.”

Very early the next morning, the Grange House party left Briesau. At Spärtz, they boarded the Vienna-Paris express; after a short night’s rest in Paris, they caught the boat-train for Calais.

It was a grey cheerless afternoon for their crossing of the Channel. Nevertheless, Patricia, Pamela and Joan decided to travel on deck; there was a cold wind outside, but the saloon was unpleasantly stuffy, and Pamela had a tendency to feel queasy.

They stood in the bows, leaning over the rail and scanning the grey horizon. Joan glanced at her companions: Patricia had pulled her hat down as far as it would go over her ears; Pamela had almost disappeared into her thick green scarf. “You two look a bit like tha tdreary picture, ‘The Last of England’,”

she remarked.

“And what would that be?” Pamela asked, in a voice muffled by tickly green wool.

“Well, it’s a very Victorian effort, a painting of some people all wrapped up to the eyes, standing at the stern of a ship and looking very souldufl. But of course
they’re
watching England disappear into the distance, which is the wrong way round; unless our ship’s pilot has gone barmy!”

“Perhaps we’ll be finishing up in Ireland,” said Pamela hopefully.

“Or perhaps we’ll suddenly find ourselves back in Austria, sailing across the Tiernsee,” Joan suggested.

“After all, it can look jolly rough and grey there sometimes.”

“Mm…almost like this.”

“Hasn’t’ it all been a simply splendid time?”

“Gosh, yes” Hasn’t it?”

Patricia said nothing. Then her long-sighted eyes caught the first indication of land, and she pointed it out to the others. They stood and watched as the cliffs of Dover cam slowly nearer. In the pale winter afternoon light they looked coldly beautiful.

It was dark when the train reached the outskirts of London. Bromley station flashed past, Dulwich… Herne Hill… Only a few minutes to Victoria.

Beside the railway line, the rows and rows of little houses that swarm all over the approaches to London were wrapped in merciful obscurity. Brave lights twinkled from the windows.

(She was no Florence Nightingale. But she knew now what she wanted. And with her godfather’s help she’d reach her goal in the end. No matter how long it took, she wouldn’t give up trying. Never!) The train puffed self-importantly into the station. Home once more! Everywhere was bustle and clang and hum. People pushing on to trains. People waiting patiently to meet their friends. Lights, smoke, noise. As carriage doors were flung open, the Grange House girls began pouring out of the train.

(Would she ever see Joey again? Or Madge Russell, or any of the others? Perhaps one day, in London?

And she’d never forget them. She’d learnt so much from that visit to the Chalet School).

With head held high, Patricia went down the station platform. Ready to meet the future, whatever it might bring.