Out of step, p.1
Out of Step, page 1
OUT OF STEP
JANE CORBETT
First published in 1986 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd
Second edition published in 2022 by Beggar Books
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Copyright © Jane Corbett 1986
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The right of Jane Corbett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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ISBN: 978-1-910852-81-1
eISBN: 978-1-910852-80-4
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Cover image and design by Jamie Keenan
Typeset by yenooi.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
End of Term
Chapter 2
On the Town
Chapter 3
Abroad
Chapter 4
Encounter on the Beach
Chapter 5
Prisoner
Chapter 6
The Power of Music
Chapter 7
The Prodigal’s Return
Read the sequel
A Short History of Corsica
Also by Jane Corbett
About the Author
1998
1
END OF TERM
“Oh, before you go, Fleur, Mrs Miller wants to see you in her office after school today,” Miss Winthrop said brightly, refusing to catch Fleur’s eye. Miss Winthrop never liked to get involved with anything she suspected had to do with unpleasantness. If someone behaved rudely she simply ignored it, hoping, no doubt, to make them feel ashamed. Since this never worked, her classes frequently descended into a sort of free for all, with everyone shouting at once and no one listening. Sometimes Fleur felt sorry for her, but on that day the smug way in which she delivered her message put any such consideration out of her mind. Miss Winthrop gathered her books together.
“That’ll do for now, everybody. Go and get changed. Quietly now!”
Her voice was drowned by chairs scraping and desks banging as the class began to shove its way out of the room.
“Who’s Mrs Miller’s pet Flow-er, then?”
Jim Forbes leaned forward and stage-whispered into her ear, with a hopeless attempt at a Welsh accent. He sat at the desk behind Fleur’s and the mention of her name always aroused some sort of comment from him, like pressing the bell for Pavlov’s dog. Jim Forbes had recently put on a sudden spurt of growth which, together with the appearance of a faint, whiskery down on his chin, made him think himself a force to be reckoned with by the female sex. He stretched one leg forward so that he could run the toe of his trackshoe up and down the back of Fleur’s calf. She turned round on him in fury. He was wobbling his head on his skinny neck and leering at her, with a look that she presumed he took to be sexy. It actually made him look like one of those silly nodding dogs some people keep in the back windows of their cars.
“Just shut up, Big Mouth,” she hissed.
He leaned back in his chair and said in the authoritative tones of the Headmaster, “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to shape up or ship out, Materson, my girl.”
Betty, who was sitting next to Fleur, giggled. Jim grinned at her and, gathering his books up under his arm, swaggered out of the classroom.
“God, I can’t stand that posturing creep!” Fleur said furiously. “He’ll probably make Head Boy in a couple of years. Just the type!”
“He could do worse. So could the school!” Betty said frostily and walked off towards the door.
She’s touchy! Fleur thought to herself, hoping that it wasn’t because Betty was falling for the Forbes charm. She couldn’t seem to find the right tone with anyone these days. This whole term seems to have been one aggravation after another, she thought, and to cap it all I’ve got to see Mrs Miller at 4 o’clock. Thank God it’s nearly the summer holidays. In a week we’ll be in Corsica. It was to be her first trip abroad, and the prospect of it shone like a beacon on the horizon of her otherwise messy and dreary life.
* * *
At five past four she was standing outside the door of Mrs Miller’s office. On the surface Mrs Miller was all sweetness and feminine charm. But underneath Fleur knew her to be pure flint. She took a deep breath, arranged her face into a blank expression, and knocked at the door.
“Come in,” called a soft, reasonable voice.
She went in.
“Ah, Fleur, take a seat. I shan’t keep you a moment.”
Fleur looked round for the chair which was furthest from the desk and sat down. Mrs Miller was going through a pile of reports and signing them. Every now and then she sighed and shook her head in patient resignation, before adding her signature with a flourish. She was a mistress of the theatrical gesture. Fleur glanced round the room while she waited. Its impersonal, institutional look had been transformed by Mrs Miller’s little touches of domesticity. There were carefully tended pot plants on the desk and window sill, a tray with real china cups and teapot, a reproduction of one of Degas’s dancers on the wall, and Mrs Miller’s pink coat hanging neatly on a hanger behind the door. A sweetish, talcum-powdery smell hung in the air.
I wonder what Mr Miller’s like. A humble little man, tidied away into his armchair in front of the TV, rarely allowed to move in case he makes a mess. He probably even has his meals there; TV dinners served up still in their foil containers, that don’t require the fuss of cooking or washing up, and can be fitted into one of those special trays in beige plastic that attach to the arm of your chair. Poor bloke! A fellow prisoner, only his is a life sentence.
Mrs Miller replaced the cap on her fountain pen, folded her hands on the desk in front of her, and fixed her attention on Fleur. “Now, Fleur, why don’t you pull your chair a little closer? It’s rather difficult having a conversation with someone who’s so far away, you know.”
Fleur shifted her chair an inch closer. Mrs Miller sighed and pulled a report out of the pile. She glanced through it then looked up again.
“I have here your end of term report, and I felt that in all fairness I should have a little talk with you before sending it to your mother.” She paused to see the effect of her words. There being no response from Fleur, she continued with a resigned air. “Next term you enter the Fifth Year and have your O levels exams and C.S.E.s in front of you. One or two of your teachers say that you are not without ability, but what about this: Maths, ‘Inattentive in class’; Social Studies, ‘Could do much better… Spends too much time daydreaming out of the window’; German, ‘Less attention on the boy behind, and more on her work, might have made this term less of a waste of time.’ I’m afraid that unless there is a radical change in your attitude, you’re not going to have much success in the future. You see, I am the one who has to decide which set to place you in for next term.”
Fleur kept her face in a fixed expression but there was a rising feeling of nausea in her stomach.
“I didn’t get on very well with my German teacher. It was mainly a misunderstanding…” she mumbled.
Mrs Miller cut her off. “It’s not a question of who in your opinion you do or do not get on with, Fleur. It’s a question of buckling down to some serious work and showing yourself to be altogether more mature and cooperative. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you over the last couple of years, and I’m bound to say that what I’ve seen doesn’t inspire me with much confidence. Even your insistence that you wanted to play the saxophone didn’t come to anything. You’ve got to learn to stick at things.”
“I did stick at the saxophone. It wasn’t my fault I had to give it up. I didn’t have anywhere to practise, and then Mr Fish had to stop coming because of the cuts…”
“Ah, yes, the cuts! Anything can be blamed on them, can’t it? But if you’d been really determined, ways would have been found.”
“That’s not what I was told.”
Fleur felt close to tears but she wasn’t going to let Mrs Miller see that she’d got to her. It had been like this between them ever since Fleur had come to the school, a year later than everyone else. The reason for that was that after her parents had split up when she was five years old, her mother had taken her to live on a communal farm in Wales. They had not returned to London until Fleur was almost thirteen. She’d hated London after the rambling farm and the wild, beautiful hills of Wales. She hated its greyness and the dinginess of their cramped flat. But worst of all was school. In Wales she had attended the village school. It was a small, friendly place run by two elderly sisters, and all the children were taught together in one big classroom. The elder sister taught the older children and the younger taught the little ones. Sometimes Fleur and one or two of the older children helped with the little ones, which she always enjoyed (the other children at the farm were all younger than her), and there was always lots of singing, hymns and old Welsh songs, accompanied by one of the sisters on the harmonium.
Then suddenly Fleur had found herself in a school of twelve hundred pupils, doing subjects she’d never heard of, like Information Technology and European Studies. She stuck out like a sore thumb from the other kids, who laughed at her scruffy clothes and We lsh accent, and called her mother “Hippy”. One day one of the school football stars broke his leg on the pitch and had to go to the hospital. The girls in Fleur’s class decided to send him a huge Get Well card, and each of them had to write a message in it. When it came to Fleur’s turn, she had no idea what to put.
“Do I have to? I don’t even know him,” she pleaded. But they insisted.
“Just say, ‘Hello Gorgeous, from an Unknown Admirer!’” giggled one girl.
“No, I’ll tell you what to write,” said Fat Margot, and proceeded to recite a very rude limerick which caused them all to fall about in fits of laughter. Margot’s Dad ran a pub and she was always full of hilarious jokes and stories.
Everyone agreed that this was just the thing for Fleur to send and stood around watching and giggling as she wrote it down. With every word she wrote, she felt worse, but their acceptance of her was still too shaky for her to dare to refuse. Finally the thing was sent off but never reached the boy it was intended for because it was intercepted by Mrs Miller. Mrs Miller, shocked by the obscenity it contained, took it straight to the Headmaster, and Fleur, together with her mother, were summoned to an interview. The Headmaster asked Fleur if she had anything to say to explain her disgraceful conduct. But what could she say? That she’s been made to do it by the other girls? That wasn’t even strictly true. So she said nothing, and Mrs Miller had taken that as further sign of the general hardness of her character. Later she’d tried to explain to her mother, who thought that the best thing was probably to say no more about it and let the incident blow over. The trouble was that for Mrs Miller it never had blown over.
“So, after considerable thought,” Mrs Miller said, “I’ve decided to move you down a set for next year, at least to start with. Your progress will be carefully monitored and if you do well you will be moved up again. I hope you will look on this as a challenge. Have you anything you wish to say?”
Fleur had plenty to say, like whether Mrs Miller thought that picking on her all the time and branding her as a failure was really likely to encourage her to do better? But she didn’t trust herself to speak without giving away her feelings. She looked down and said in a surly tone, “What do my other teachers say?”
“They’ve been consulted of course. I have to admit that, well, not all of them thought it was the best course. But on balance there was agreement, and in any case the final decision always has to be mine. Adolescence is a difficult time and you have a number of crucial decisions in front of you. It is my job to try and ensure that you make the right ones. I assure you I am only thinking of your welfare, Fleur.”
Like hell you are! You think I’m the bad apple that’ll rot the whole barrel if you’re not careful, Fleur thought, but she said nothing.
At least some of her teachers had stuck up for her, and she knew who they would be. Mr Parker, the English teacher, and Miss Macnamee who taught Arts and Crafts and never had any trouble in her classes because everyone enjoyed them and wanted to work.
Mrs Miller stood up from her chair, fixing Fleur with her concerned, serious look.
“I hope you’ll think over what I’ve said to you during the holidays, and come back next term with a thoroughly positive attitude. That’ll be all for now, Fleur. Close the door behind you, would you please.”
Fleur stood up and, with a mumbled “Thank you,” shuffled out of the office. As she pulled the door to, she heard a ruffling sound behind it and thought with satisfaction that it must be Mrs Miller’s pink coat falling off its hanger.
She walked fast down the corridor, taking deep breaths to get rid of the acute feelings of anger and frustration that an interview with Mrs Miller always produced in her. She was certainly not going to spend her summer holiday thinking about Mrs Miller’s criticisms or trying to develop a “positive attitude”. She was going to wipe school from her mind, do nothing but sit on a hot beach in Corsica, drinking in the sun and enjoying the pleasures of life. The thought of Corsica reminded her suddenly of Jan, who would have been waiting for her at the school gates for the last half hour. She broke into a run, dived into the cloakroom for her jacket and schoolbag, and dashed out of the building.
Jan was Fleur’s closest friend and, like her, something of a social oddball in their school. Her father was an MP and her elder brother was about to go up to Cambridge. The family, however, believed in state education and all three children had been sent to local schools. Jan herself wasn’t particularly clever or in the least stuck up and, in addition to her having a pleasant, easy-going personality, she was slow to take offence so had been quickly accepted by the other kids. Fleur liked her because she had a good sense of humour and spoke her mind. She also enjoyed going to Jan’s house. It was big and roomy, always full of people who dropped in for a drink and a chat at any time of the day or night. They sat around, talking and drinking wine with Jan’s Mum, in a kitchen that resembled something out of a glossy magazine only more lived in, and smelled of garlic and wine stews; very French. The Taylors were keen on France and often took a house in the Dordogne for the summer. But this year they had decided to do something different.
“We’re going to Corsica and we’d love for you to come along too,” Mrs Taylor had said. “Johnny’s off to Crete with his pals, and Tony’s not much company for Jan, being only thirteen. Besides, they bicker all the time when they’re left on their own. You’d be doing us a real favour if you came along, and it might even improve your and Jan’s French before the O levels!”
Fleur had jumped at the idea. With the amount she could save from her Saturday job and what her mother could give her, she could just about afford it. The Taylors, with characteristic generosity, had at first expected nothing but the fare from her. But Fleur’s mother had insisted on making a proper contribution to her upkeep so in the end they’d given way. Fleur had spent six weeks drawing up lists of what she needed to take with her, and trying to imagine what the little town where they were staying would look like and whether she would be able to see the sea from her bedroom window.
“Its going to be fantastic!” she said to Jan.
“Let’s hope there’s some entertaining local talent,” Jan said. “It’s a good time I’m going for. Stuff the O level French!”
* * *
Jan was pacing up and down outside the school gates.
“What the hell’ve you been doing in there?” she exclaimed as Fleur panted up to her.
“Honestly, I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I was having the thumbscrews turned by Mrs Miller,” Fleur said.
“Oh God, what did the old harridan want this time?” asked Jan, forgetting her annoyance.
“She’s putting me down a set next term, for my moral improvement.”
“Still trying to turn you into a normal, decent person, is she? Well, she’ll never get away with it. Once you’re in the Fifth Year you’ll be out of her clutches. You’ll see, there’ll be plenty of other teachers who’ll stick up for you.”
“I hope so.”
“‘Course there will. Horrible old cow! Anyway, forget her. This year’s almost over. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go and get some chips.”
She linked her arm in Fleur’s and they set off down the road. Fleur was already feeling more cheerful as she always did in Jan’s company. She began to describe the interview in more detail, including her vision of Mr Miller in his telly chair and the fall of the pink coat. Jan laughed, delighted, and by the time they reached the chip shop, Fleur had got rid of her anger and was able to look at the whole incident more philosophically.
