Lose the Flute by Kava Palava
2 February 2021 { General Fiction }
The wooden seat was deliberately uncomfortable, outside Sister Josephine’s study, but Lotte tried to sit up straight, tugging her cardigan over her blouse, a bit stretched in her 3rd year, and beginning to go at the cuffs, now she looked. The clock across the hall said twenty to, she’d missed the bus, but that might not be a problem – unless they were waiting for her.
Her duffle coat (not strictly uniform) and school scarf were on her lap, her bags at her feet, exercise books for tonight’s homework and her lunchbox in an army surplus bag and next to that, a grey case with a flute, the reason she was here.
The flute was the next level; a “second instrument”, after the entrance exam and the homework diary and the two buses to get into town and out again. The goal was to avoid the local comprehensive, but no one had considered how she’d manage the day to day of St. Hilda’s. No one from her primary, or even her area went there; some girls got on the bus a couple of miles up the road but, on her own, she was conspicuous, a target for bullies. Which was why she found herself summoned.
The green light above the door lit up – time to go. She gathered her bags and straightened her shoulders, smoothing down her skirt and trying to put, as Sister Josephine said, an intelligent look on your face.
Pushing open the door, she sank into the carpet, taking in the gracious windows, the polished oak desk, bone china teacup (no utility ware here) and general “impress the parents” décor. To the right sat a bright-eyed woman in her fifties, with a knitted jacket and a Liberty print scarf: Mrs Thomson, the steely Head of English. She didn’t teach the lower school, but Lotte knew her by sight.
Lotte hovered, feeling shabby, regretting the bravado of her CND badge and cheap shoes, feeling rebuked by this quietly expensive good taste. Reluctantly the nun looked at her and shook her head:
“Charlotte, I’m disappointed to see you in here.”
Lotte squirmed, as she was meant to.
“While you wear this uniform, you represent this school. What were you thinking, to make a show of yourself? You shouldn’t even know such words, let alone call them out in the street like a banshee.”
Lotte felt a lump rise to her throat. Please God, don’t cry.
“Do your parents know you consort with these new friends” “They’re not my friends”
An eyebrow arched in authority
“Not my friends, sister.” Lotte corrected herself
“Explain yourself”
She felt her palms sweat and her mouth dry. “They were on the bus and they started … saying things”. She ran out of words that could be used here.
“Things?”
“About”, she glanced at Mrs Thompson “about the flute.” She felt her fingers on the plastic, slippery now with sweat.
“What on earth could they say about a flute?” Sister Josephine was dismissive
What indeed? Lotte swallowed:
“They said, ‘I’d like to see you play’”
“Play? What’s the harm in that?” she demanded.
Lotte shot a desperate look at Mrs Thompson – please don’t make me repeat it. Not in here, with the Sacred Heart gazing down. But Mrs Thompson was not merciful. Lotte took a deep breath,
“They said, I’d like to see you play mine – give it a good blow, get the fingering/
Sister Josephine looked shocked
“We get the idea”, Mrs Thomson cut in smoothly “Thank you. But that is no excuse for such language, Charlotte. Or for the volume. You are not a fishwife, are you?”
“No Mrs Thomson, I’m sorry, I just lost my temper”
“Do not sink to their level: rise above it, child.”
Another injunction from the penguin paradise. Lotte looked down and sighed: it was alright for them, modelling themselves on the lives of the saints who rose above it like billy-o. They’d be thrilled for the chance to turn the other cheek, not shout “F*ck off you d*ckhead” across the street.
Mrs Thomson said, almost gently,
“They do it to get a reaction. You’ll only encourage them.”
Lotte’s Dad said this when Nick needled her. The rules were all for her, not them; ‘Don’t sit upstairs on the bus, keep your head down, ignore them’. Even if she fought back, she was the one at fault. The injustice of it, that she was fair game, just for walking home from a school she didn’t even choose. And what had she done to encourage them, apart from being younger, smaller, and alone? Does a seal pup cut off from the pack ‘encourage’ the eagle to attack?
Sister Josephine checked the clock, time to wrap this up.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I’m very sorry, Sister. It won’t happen again.”
“Indeed, it will not. I shall be writing to your parents about this”
“Oh, please don’t”
“And why not?”
Mrs Thomson set her saucer on the walnut side table:
“Sister, might I suggest an idea?”
Sister Josephine inclined her head, keeping an eye on the juicy seal pup before her. Mrs Thomson chose her words carefully,
“St Hilda’s is renowned for developing girls with breadth of character and team spirit”
Sister Josephine acknowledged this without looking away from Lotte, who dropped her gaze; hockey, she thought, they’re going to make me play bloody hockey. Great.
“As you know, it is the 500th anniversary of St Thomas A Beckett’s murder; although the school production of “Murder in the Cathedral” is not fully cast, several senior girls will take part. It would be a chance for Charlotte to learn from them, and to use her talents in the service of the school.”
“Talents?” the bride of Christ expressed doubt
“A God-given speaking voice and clear diction: she could certainly project to the back of the hall.”
True, but Sister Josephine looked suspicious, as though the seal pup might yet escape into the sea.
“Acting? Isn’t that a reward for such flagrant conduct?”
“It means staying behind two evenings after school, and Saturdays from half term. Rehearsals can be quite tedious, especially for an understudy. And TS Eliot’s celebration of our most famous saint is one of the great moral debates of the century.”
Sister Josephine frowned slightly: she never understood how the same fellow had come to write that thing about the Cats.
Mrs Thomson continued,
“The play enacts the personal sacrifice required to follow our conscience, rather than the promptings of the world, with all its power.”
Mrs Thomson enunciated the last four words slowly and with particular meaning. Lotte glanced at her and saw that she knew exactly what had happened and was offering her, if not a way out, then a way ‘through’ that was almost ingenious. But would the nun go for it?
Sister Josephine considered: she was a sharp one, Angela Thomson, but she got excellent results at A level, even coaching two girls through the Oxbridge entrance.
“Most edifying, Mrs Thompson”
She looked at Charlotte; these scholarship girls could take a while to find their feet. We all need a little guidance at times.
“What do you say, young lady?”
“Thank you Mrs Thomson”
“We rehearse Tuesday and Thursday; four ‘til six. Don’t be late.”
Mrs Thomson made to stand, the interview was at an end.
“Of course, there can be no dropping off in your academic work. You may need to rethink your other pursuits” she nodded at the flute.
“Of course. I’ll let Miss Morris know.”
“In fact, why don’t you leave it here for now? You can return it to the music block in the morning.”
Almost unable to believe her luck, Lotte looked at the grey case in her hand.
“That would be a – “
A warning glance from her saviour told her to tone it down.
“A most excellent solution. Thank you.”
She tried to look regretful as she laid the flute on the chair.
“Off you go. I trust you’ll give serious thought to your conduct.”
“I will Sister, thank you Sister, thank you Mrs Thomson”, she half bobbed a curtsey before she realised what she was doing and scooped up her things to leave before they changed their minds.
As the door closed, they saw her skid along the parquet in exuberant relief. She was still a child.
“’Murder in the Cathedral’?”
“Yes Sister: four thugs butcher an unarmed priest, in his own church, to please a vain King”
“Not the most uplifting story”
“He had the moral victory, Sister”
“’By your endurance you will gain your lives’ – Luke 21:19”
Did he mean your lives in heaven or here on earth? Mrs Thomson wondered, not for the first time. She looked at the Sacred Heart, a plaster image of the Christ, abandoned by his father to his fate and thought, wearily, ‘What do we teach these girls about the world: to use their brains? Or to hide them? Luke was a fine evangelist but there were limits to endurance: step one, lose the flute.
A step in the right direction.
“Goodnight Sister”
“Goodnight and God Bless.”
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