Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon
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the edge of the tarpaulin and pop out at the feet of Ruben and Seth.
“How do, Miss Nixon,” says Seth touching his forelock and politely moving his straw to the side of his mouth furthest away from me. “I’m very much afeared that you will have to start the obstacle again. We can’t have anyone nangling the vole pelts.”
“Shut up, you fool!” I snap. “If you think I’m going back under that thing, you’re mad. Stark raving bonkers!”
“No need to get your furbelows in a tangle-wurzle,” says Ruben. “They be having a bit of fun that be all.” A glance at the tarpaulin suggests that he may be right. It is rising in the air like a handkerchief held over a group of excited frogs.
“They’re never going to get out,” I say. “You’ve got to stop it!”
“It baint really started yet,” says the elder Hardakre, winking at his son. “What say you we go and help sought them out, eh, son?”
“It ud be favourite, father.” Seth slowly unfastens the huge buckle on his enormously thick brown belt and scrambles under the tarpaulin.
“Scuse I.” Old Ruben nods to me. “See you come Thrap Moultling.”
He too disappears from view and the tarpaulin starts leaping into the air as if lashed by gale force winds. I listen to the happy gurgle and the shouts of the crowd and shake my head. Surely, sports day at Benenden can’t be like this?
“What a disaster,” says Penny.
“Yes. It was terrible,” I agree with her. “All that cheating and those terrible goings on under the tarpaulin. I didn’t know where to look.”
“Don’t be wet!” snaps Penny. “I was referring to the amount of money I lost on the eight by one hundred yards relay.”
“It was astonishing when that baton blew up, wasn’t it?”
“Astounding,” sneers Penny. “I was expecting that. What I didn’t expect was that the other batons would turn out to be leather pouches filled with frozen water. When they melted and started drooping it took some girls half a minute to effect a change over. That kind of twisted thinking defeats the whole concept of cheating.”
“Don’t worry,” I say soothingly. “It’s all over now. The last parent has been released from the san. and life can return to normal.”
“The ransom money was paid, was it? That’s good. I hate unpleasantness.”
I thought that Sports Day was a terrible flop but, apparently, it was one of the most successful in the school’s history. It was the first time ever that neither the police nor the fire brigade had to be called. Miss Murdstone is swift to take all the credit and to consider new fields to conquer.
“I think we need more occasions in which parents can play an active part in school life,” she says. “They do enjoy themselves so and it helps to give them a sense of belonging. They can actually see where their money is going.”
“Down the drain,” murmurs Penny.
“I find that the ability to lip read is one that can stand a member of the teaching profession in very good stead,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “You would do well to remember that, Miss Green.”
“Yes, Miss Murdstone.”
Miss M. folds her arms and sweeps her eyes round everyone in the common room. “It is a matter of continuing regret to us all that Miss Grimshaw continues to be in poor health. Her finger on the helm is sorely missed.”
“Amen,” says Miss Honeycomb.
“However, the life of the school must go on and I find it incumbent upon myself to make such decisions as seem to be in the best interests of staff and pupils.”
“We’re all jolly pleased that we now only have to have semolina twice a week,” says Miss Batson, eagerly.
“Thank you, Batson.” A slight frown plucks at the corners of Miss Murdstone’s mouth. “I was in fact referring to matters of slightly greater import.”
“Oh, gosh, yes. How stupid of me.” Batson is becoming Super Crawler. “It was just that the girls were so grateful and I thought that—”
“I think that the Amateur Dramatic Society should be reconstituted.”
A gasp of amazement goes up from around the room. “Do you really think so?” Says Miss Honeycomb. “I mean, after last time—”
“I think we are all agreed that Oh Calcutta was the wrong choice of play,” says Miss Murdstone evenly. “We can’t rely on the good offices of the misters Hardakre in every production.”
“But, Miss Murdstone. So many parents complained.”
“Only because they had to stand. When I say that Oh Calcutta was the wrong production, you must not misunderstand me. I was referring to the size of the parts.” Miss Honeycomb sticks her needle in her thumb again.
“Our girls need large parts.” Miss Murdstone beams round the room. “I like a good role myself and I’m certain that our pupils are exactly the same.”
“What did you have in mind?” says Penny at the end of a long silence.
“Well.” Miss Murdstone attempts to look bashful. “In the absence of finding anything satisfactory, I’ve fallen back on trying to fill the gap myself.”
“You’ve written a play?” says Miss Honeycomb.
Miss Murdstone touches her finger tips together lightly. “In a word ‘yes’. ’Tis a humble effort but all mine own.”
“What’s it about?” asks Penny.
“It’s a whodunnit set in a girl’s school.”
“What a brilliant idea,” says Miss Batson.
Miss Murdstone looks at her sharply before deciding that she probably means it. “Yes,” she says. “That way there will be no trouble making sure that all the girls get satisfactory roles.”
“Quite brilliant,” says Crawler Batson.
“What’s it called?” says Penny.
“The Rat Trap,” says Miss Murdstone proudly.
Penny shakes her head. “It’s amazing but that name rings a bell, somehow.”
“Me too.” I say. “It doesn’t feature a police inspector who arrives on skis?”
“Water skis.” says Miss Murdstone, firmly. “The school is built on stilts in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”
“Oh,” I say. “I made a mistake. This school was nothing like that. In fact it was a hotel.”
“Vole Trap? Guinea Pig Trap? Hampster Trap?” Penny snaps her fingers. “I know it will come to me in a minute.”
“You may possibly be thinking of The Mouse Trap by Miss Agatha Christie.” Miss Murdstone’s voice has more than a hint of scorn in it. “I can assure you that my piece owes nothing to that work. The similarity of title is purely coincidental—and I say that out of deference to Miss Christie. I was thinking of my play years before she first dashed pen to paper.”
“You mean she stole your idea?” says Miss Batson.
Miss Murdstone waves her arms about airily. “I would never dream of saying that,” she says. “It was just one of those occasions on which, unbeknownst to each other, two great artists were waking—I mean, working on the same idea.”
“Fascinating!” exploded Miss Batson. She looks round the room for support but everyone is gazing out