Beswitched Read Free Page B

in touch with them? How could they rescue her? Her stomach lurched with fear. She had a horrible, sick certainty that there was no way on earth her parents would ever find her here—wherever “here” might be. She didn’t even know how she should ask for help. Because there was nothing else she could do, Flora hurried back to the woman who seemed to know her. She was still hoping someone would explain.
    In the compartment, the woman was lifting two brown leather suitcases from the luggage rack. Flora was surprised and confused to see her own name—Flora Fox—on the labels.
Perhaps
, she thought desperately,
this is all something to
do with Penrice Hall, and this woman is Fiona, and I’ve lost my short-term memory—
    “Here you are,” said the woman who might be Fiona. “Poor thing, you’re awfully pale.” She handed Flora a hat made of dark green felt, with a ribbon round it that matched the striped tie. “We’re going to have a breezy drive in my car, so you’d better put on your mackintosh.”
    “My—what?”
    “Do try to wake up, Flora.” The woman swept a bulky green coat off the seat. “Your school mac.”
    Flora struggled into the coat and put on the hat. The train was lurching and shuddering to a halt. Clouds of steam hissed up outside the window.
    “And don’t forget your hockey stick!” The strange woman pushed a hockey stick into Flora’s hand. “I wish you’d managed to eat something—you’re as white as a little ghost, and you’ve missed lower-school tea.”
    “I think there’s been a mistake,” Flora said. “Are you from Penrice Hall?”
    “Come along. Best foot forward.” The woman strode out of the compartment, swinging the two heavy cases as if they had been filled with feathers.
    Flora hurried after her, down the corridor and out of the train. The evening air was cold on her face. Along the platform, a whistle shrilled. The train pulled out of the station—puffing loudly, like Thomas the Tank Engine—and away into deep silence. This was a very small station, marooned in a great lonely sea of dark nothingness.
    Out of the darkness a figure appeared. It was a brisk oldman in a peaked cap and little round glasses, whose mouth was invisible behind a large gray mustache. He wheeled two big wooden boxes on a trolley. In the gleam of light from the windows of the station building, Flora saw her own name painted on the boxes.
    “Evening, Miss Bradley,” said the old man.
    So this was the name of the woman in the suit.
    “Good evening, Watkins,” said Miss Bradley.
    “I thought your girls all came back yesterday.”
    “Flora is starting a day late,” Miss Bradley said. “Her parents sailed out to India this morning.”
    “Oh no—that’s wrong,” Flora said quickly. “They’ve only flown to Italy, and I think there’s been—”
    “It’ll be at least another two years before she sees them again,” Miss Bradley added.
    “Two years? Oh no, that’s completely wrong! They’re only staying for a few months!” Flora meant to speak very firmly, but her voice refused to obey her brain and came out as a toothless burble.
    “She’s dog-tired, poor little thing,” Miss Bradley told Watkins, as if she had not heard. “And no wonder, when she’s come all the way from Southampton.”
    “But I haven’t!” Flora protested. “I’ve come from London, and there’s been a terrible—”
    “I met her at Paddington,” Miss Bradley went on. She took a cigarette out of a packet that said “Sweet Afton,” and deftly lit it with a match she struck on the bottom of her shoe. “And she’s been jolly brave, I must say.”
    Watkins looked at Flora, and his mustache stretched into a friendly grin. “That’s the spirit, Miss. Keep smiling.”
    Flora said, “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I think you might be taking me to the wrong school.”
    This time, Miss Bradley heard. She chuckled kindly. “I’ve been at St. Winifred’s for eight years—I ought to