She's Leaving Home Read Free

navy mac, yellow andgreen scarf and hated green beret, or none of the school’s identity could be revealed. Every Blackburne House pupil dreamed of the final day at school when, in a ritual ceremony on the Mersey ferry, that reviled headgear would be cast onto the waters and would float away like so many shelled pea husks. Both girls flapped arms and ran fingers through their hair to get rid of the tell-tale odour of the Cavern.
    Helen walked back into school demure, in her first year of the sixth form, likely to be a prefect next year. With a bit of luck nobody would have missed her.
     
    Thursday afternoon. Not the best moment of the week: double period from two p.m. till three forty, to be utilised by science students on experiments in the laboratory. Monday and Tuesday afternoons were stolid drudgery, lightened only by her being still fresh after the weekend. Wednesday was survivable – the afternoon was wholly allocated to games for which Helen had little talent but which gave some enjoyment. Energetic exercise on a muddy pitch, hockey stick in hand, had its moments as long as she was not required to take the game too seriously. Friday was a short afternoon, especially in winter; she could leave early in order to be home before dusk. Thursday had none of these advantages.
    She sniffed as she climbed the stairs to the chemistry lab. The pong of hydrogen sulphide indicated that the juniors of the Marie Curie Club had been in there between lessons, probably trying to make primitive stink bombs. Miss Clive, the assistant teacher, thought it was fun to impart to the younger children a love of practical chemistry. Helen saw, however, as the teacher did not, that the little horrors simply adored spending their spare time on a cold day making a mess – and making life nastier for the older students who must follow.
    The long room was strangely quiet. A dozen girls in stained white lab coats loafed around uncertainly. Some, more daring, sat on the work benches. Near the fume cupboard where retorts and Petrie dishes should have been set out, Brenda Jones was perched. Chubby and bouncy, she was chattering to Meg Findlay, the tall intense girl who would compete with Colette for the top A grades in the year. The latter’s slight figure was seated nearby, her black hair hiding her face as she flicked through pages of her file. She had slipped in a moment or two earlier.
    Colette raised her head and winked as Helen entered. As ever, the greenness of her eyes was startling. Nothing could conceal Colette’s origins, any more than Helen’s own brown eyes and strong features could hide hers.
    ‘What’s up? No class?’ Helen asked. Brenda twisted around.
    ‘We have to wait. Miss Clive got an acid burn at lunchtime – one of the juniors was chucking the hydrochloric around, the idiot. She’s had to go down to the Royal Infirmary to have it dressed. And Mrs Egerton came in snuffly and has gone home with flu. We’re to stay and revise till we can make a decent escape.’
    Helen placed her satchel on the bench. She felt deflated after the released energy at the Cavern; the pulsing noise still vibrated faintly in her brain. Without the discipline of an adult’s supervision it would be hard to concentrate. ‘I haven’t anything much to revise, have you? My folder’s up-to-date.’
    Brenda considered. Light brown hair framed her rosy face. She would never attain the heights of fashion but her confidence and ebullience made her the self-appointed leader of the coterie, though Meg, bespectacled and angular, kept her in check with sardonic asides laced with veiled sarcasm.
    ‘You’ve been downtown, haven’t you?’ Brenda’s tone was not accusatory. ‘Who was on – any good?’
    ‘It was them – the best. The Beatles, of course.’ Helen sighed as theatrically as she could manage.
    ‘They ponce about. I prefer Gerry Marsden – he’s a better singer. Or Billy Kramer – nowthere’s handsome for you.’ Brenda made the