Pointed Roofs · Chapter 3 (4/5)

She felt for the pedals, lifted her hands a span above the piano as Clara had done and came down, true and clean, on to the opening chord. The full rich tones of the piano echoed from all over the room; and some metal object far away from her hummed the dominant. She held the chord for its full term.⁠ ⁠… Should she play any more?⁠ ⁠… She had confessed herself⁠ ⁠… just that minor chord⁠ ⁠… anyone hearing it would know more than she could ever tell them⁠ ⁠… her whole being beat out the rhythm as she waited for the end of the phrase to insist on what already had been said. As it came, she found herself sitting back, slackening the muscles of her arms and of her whole body, and ready to swing forward into the rising storm of her page. She did not need to follow the notes on the music stand. Her fingers knew them. Grave and happy she sat with unseeing eyes, listening, for the first time.

At the end of the page she was sitting with her eyes full of tears, aware of Fräulein standing between the open swing doors with Gertrude’s face showing over her shoulder⁠—its amazement changing to a large-toothed smile as Fräulein’s quietly repeated “Prachtvoll, prachtvoll” came across the room. Miriam, after a hasty smile, sat straining her eyes as widely as possible, so that the tears should not fall. She glared at the volume in front of her, turning the pages. She was glad that the heavy sunblinds cast a deep shadow over the room. She blinked. She thought they would not notice. Only one tear fell and that was from the left eye, towards the wall. “You are a real musician, Miss Henderson,” said Fräulein, advancing.

Every other day or so Miriam found she could get an hour on a bedroom piano; and always on a Saturday morning during raccommodage. She rediscovered all the pieces she had already learned. She went through them one by one, eagerly, slurring over difficulties, pressing on, getting their effect, listening and discovering. “It’s technique I want,” she told herself, when she had reached the end of her collection, beginning to attach a meaning to the familiar word. Then she set to work. She restricted herself to the Pathétique, always omitting the first page, which she knew so well and practised mechanically, slowly, meaninglessly, with neither pedalling nor expression, page by page until a movement was perfect. Then when the mood came, she played⁠ ⁠… and listened. She soon discovered she could not always “play”⁠—even the things she knew perfectly⁠—and she began to understand the fury that had seized her when her mother and a woman here and there had taken for granted one should “play when asked,” and coldly treated her refusal as showing lack of courtesy. “Ah!” she said aloud, as this realisation came, “Women.”

“Of course you can only ‘play when you can,’ ” said she to herself, “like a bird singing.”

She sang once or twice, very quietly, in those early weeks. But she gave that up. She had a whole sheaf of songs with her. But after that first Vorspielen they seemed to have lost their meaning. One by one she looked them through. Her dear old Venetian song, “Beauty’s Eyes,” “An Old Garden”⁠—she hesitated over that, and hummed it through⁠—“Best of All”⁠—“In Old Madrid”⁠—the vocal score of the “Mikado”⁠—her little “Chanson de Florian,” and a score of others. She blushed at her collection. The “Chanson de Florian” might perhaps hold its own at a Vorspielen⁠—sung by Bertha Martin⁠—perhaps.⁠ ⁠… The remainder of her songs, excepting a little bound volume of Sterndale Bennett, she put away at the bottom of her Saratoga trunk. Meanwhile, there were songs being learned by Herr Bossenberger’s pupils for which she listened hungrily; Schubert, Grieg, Brahms. She would always, during those early weeks, sacrifice her practising to listen from the schoolroom to a pupil singing in the Saal.

The morning of Ulrica Hesse’s arrival was one of the mornings when she could “play.” She was sitting, happy, in the large English bedroom, listening. It was late. She was beginning to wonder why the gonging did not come when the door opened. It was Millie in her dressing gown, with her hair loose and a towel over her arm.

“Oh, bitte, Miss Henderson, will you please go down to Frau Krause, Fräulein Pfaff says,” she said, her baby face full of responsibility.

Miriam rose uneasily. What might this be? “Frau Krause?” she asked.

“Oh yes, it’s Haarwaschen,” said Millie anxiously, evidently determined to wait until Miriam recognised her duty.

“Where?” said Miriam aghast.

“Oh, in the basement. I must go. Frau Krause’s waiting. Will you come?”

“Oh well, I suppose so,” mumbled Miriam, coming to the door as the child turned to go.

“All right,” said Millie, “I’m going down. Do make haste, Miss Henderson, will you?”

“All right,” said Miriam, going back into the room.

Collecting her music she went incredulously upstairs. This was school with a vengeance. This was boarding school. It was abominable. Fräulein Pfaff indeed! Ordering her, Miriam, to go downstairs and have her hair washed⁠ ⁠… by Frau Krause⁠ ⁠… offhand, without any warning⁠ ⁠… someone should have told her⁠—and let her choose. Her hair was clean. Sarah had always done it. Miriam’s throat contracted. She would not go down. Frau Krause should not touch her. She reached the attics. Their door was open and there was Mademoiselle in her little alpaca dressing jacket, towelling her head.

Her face came up, flushed and gay. Miriam was too angry to note till afterwards how pretty she had looked with her hair like that.

“Ah!⁠ ⁠… c’est le grand lavage!” sang Mademoiselle.

“Oui,” said Miriam surlily.

What could she do? She imagined the whole school waiting downstairs to see her come down to be done. Should she go down and decline, explain to Fräulein Pfaff. She hated her vindictively⁠—her “calm” message⁠—“treating me like a child.” She saw the horse smile and heard the caustic voice.

“It’s sickening,” she muttered, whisking her dressing gown from its nail and seizing a towel. Mademoiselle was piling up her damp hair before the little mirror.

Slowly Miriam made her journey to the basement.

Minna and Elsa were brushing out their long hair with their door open. A strong sweet perfume came from the room.

The basement hall was dark save for the patch of light coming from the open kitchen door. In the patch stood a low table and a kitchen chair. On the table which was shining wet and smeary with soap, stood a huge basin. Out over the basin flew a long tail of hair and Miriam’s anxious eyes found Millie standing in the further gloom twisting and wringing.

No one else was to be seen. Perhaps it was all over. She was too late. Then a second basin held in coarse red hands appeared round the kitchen door and in a moment a woman, large and coarse, with the sleeves of her large-checked blue and white cotton dress rolled back and a great “teapot” of pale nasturtium-coloured hair shining above the third of Miriam’s “bony” German faces had emerged and plumped her steaming basin down upon the table.

Soap? and horrid pudding basins of steaming water. Miriam’s hair had never been washed with anything but cantharides and rose water on a tiny special sponge.

In full horror, “Oh,” she said, in a low vague voice, “it doesn’t matter about me.”

“Gun’ Tak’ Fr’n,” snapped the woman briskly.

Miriam gave herself up.

“Gooten Mawgen, Frau Krause,” said Millie’s polite departing voice.

Miriam’s outraged head hung over the steaming basin⁠—her hair spread round it like a tent frilling out over the table.

For a moment she thought that the nausea which had seized her as she surrendered would, the next instant, make flight imperative. Then her amazed ears caught the sharp bump⁠—crack⁠—of an eggshell against the rim of the basin, followed by a further brisk crackling just above her. She shuddered from head to foot as the egg descended with a cold slither upon her incredulous skull. Tears came to her eyes as she gave beneath the onslaught of two hugely enveloping, vigorously drubbing hands⁠—“sh‑ham‑poo” gasped her mind.

The drubbing went relentlessly on. Miriam steadied her head against it and gradually warmth and ease began to return to her shivering, clenched body. Her hair was gathered into the steaming basin⁠—dipped and rinsed and spread, a comforting compress, warm with the water, over her egg-sodden head. There was more drubbing, more dipping and rinsing. The second basin was refilled from the kitchen, and after a final rinse in its fresh warm water, Miriam found herself standing up⁠—with a twisted tail of wet hair hanging down over her cape of damp towel⁠—glowing and hungry.

“Thank you,” she said timidly to Frau Krause’s bustling presence.

“Gun’ Tak’ Fr’n,” said Frau Krause, disappearing into the kitchen.

Miriam gave her hair a preliminary drying, gathered her dressing gown together and went upstairs. From the schoolroom came unmistakable sounds. They were evidently at dinner. She hurried to her attic. What was she to do with her hair? She rubbed it desperately⁠—fancy being landed with hair like that, in the middle of the day! She could not possibly go down.⁠ ⁠… She must. Fräulein Pfaff would expect her to⁠—and would be disgusted if she were not quick⁠—she towelled frantically at the short strands round her forehead, despairingly screwed them into Hinde’s and towelled at the rest. What had the other girls done? If only she could look into the schoolroom before going down⁠—it was awful⁠—what should she do?⁠ ⁠… She caught sight of a sodden-looking brush on Mademoiselle’s bed. Mademoiselle had put hers up⁠—she had seen her⁠ ⁠… of course⁠ ⁠… easy enough for her little fluffy clouds⁠—she could do nothing with her straight, wet lumps⁠—she began to brush it out⁠—it separated into thin tails which flipped tiny drops of moisture against her hands as she brushed. Her arms ached; her face flared with her exertions. She was ravenous⁠—she must manage somehow and go down. She braided the long strands and fastened their cold mass with extra hairpins. Then she unfastened the Hinde’s⁠—two tendrils flopped limply against her forehead. She combed them out. They fell in a curtain of streaks to her nose. Feverishly she divided them, draped them somehow back into the rest of her hair and fastened them.

“Oh,” she breathed, “my ghastly forehead.”

It was all she could do⁠—short of gas and curling tongs. Even the candle was taken away in the daytime.

It was cold and bleak upstairs. Her wet hair lay in a heavy mass against her burning head. She was painfully hungry. She went down.

The snarling rattle of the coffee mill sounded out into the hall. Several voices were speaking together as she entered. Fräulein Pfaff was not there. Gertrude Goldring was grinding the coffee. The girls were sitting round the table in easy attitudes and had the effect of holding a council. Emma, her elbows on the table, her little face bunched with scorn, put out a motherly arm and set a chair for Miriam. Jimmie had flung some friendly remark as she came in. Miriam did not hear what she said, but smiled responsively. She wanted to get quietly to her place and look round. There was evidently something in the air. They all seemed preoccupied. Perhaps no one would notice how awful she looked. “You’re not the only one, my dear,” she said to herself in her mother’s voice. “No,” she replied in person, “but no one will be looking so perfectly frightful as me.”

“I say, do they know you’re down?” said Gertrude hospitably, as the boiling water snored on to the coffee.

Emma rushed to the lift and rattled the panel.

“Anna!” she ordered, “Meece Hendshon! Suppe!”

“Oh, thanks,” said Miriam, in general. She could not meet anyone’s eye. The coffee cups were being slid up to Gertrude’s end of the table and rapidly filled by her. Gertrude, of course, she noticed had contrived to look dashing and smart. Her hair, with the exception of some wild ends that hung round her face was screwed loosely on the top of her head and transfixed with a daggerlike tortoiseshell hair ornament⁠—like a Japanese⁠—Indian⁠—no, Maori⁠—that was it, she looked like a New Zealander. Clara and Minna had fastened up theirs with combs and ribbons and looked decent⁠—frauish though, thought Miriam. Judy wore a plait. Without her fuzzy cloud she looked exactly like a country servant, a farmhouse servant. She drank her coffee noisily and furtively⁠—she looked extraordinary, thought Miriam, and took comfort. The Martins’ brown bows appeared on their necks instead of cresting their heads⁠—it improved them, Miriam thought. What regular features they had. Bertha looked like a youth⁠—like a musician. Her hair was loosened a little at the sides, shading the corners of her forehead and adding to its height. It shone like marble, high and straight. Emma’s hair hung round her like a shawl. ’Lisbeth, Gretchen⁠ ⁠… what was that lovely German name⁠ ⁠… hild⁠ ⁠… Brunhilde.⁠ ⁠…

Talk had begun again. Miriam hoped they had not noticed her. Her Braten shot up the lift.

“Lauter Unsinn!” announced Clara.

“We’ve all got to do our hair in clash⁠ ⁠… clashishsher Knoten, Hendy, all of us,” said Jimmie judicially, sitting forward with her plump hands clasped on the table. Her pinnacle of hair looked exactly as usual.

“Oh, really.” Miriam tried to make a picture of a classic knot in her mind.

“If one have classic head one can have classic knot,” scolded Clara.

“Who have classic head?”

“How many classic head in the school of Waldstraße?”

Elsa gave a little neighing laugh. “Klassisch head, klassisch Knote.”

“That is true what you say, Clarah.”

The table paused.

“Dîtes-moi⁠—qu’est-ce-que ce terrible classique notte? Dîtes!”

No one seemed prepared to answer Mademoiselle’s challenge.

Miriam’s mind groped⁠ ⁠… classic⁠—Greece and Rome⁠—Greek knot.⁠ ⁠… Grecian key⁠ ⁠… a Grecian key pattern on the dresses for the sixth form tableau⁠—reading Ruskin⁠ ⁠… the strip of glass all along the window space on the floor in the large room⁠—edged with mosses and grass⁠—the mirror of Venus.⁠ ⁠…

“Eh bien? Eh bien!”

… Only the eldest pretty girls⁠ ⁠… all on their hands and knees looking into the mirror.⁠ ⁠…

“Klassische Form⁠—griechisch,” explained Clara.

“Like a statue, Mademoiselle.”

“Comment! Une statue! Je dois arranger mes cheveux comme une statue? Oh, ciel!” mocked Mademoiselle, collapsing into tinkles of her sprite laughter.⁠ ⁠… “Oh-là-là! Et quelle statue par exemple?” she trilled, with ironic eyebrows, “la statue de votre Kaisère Wilhelm der Große peut-être?”

The Martins’ guffaws led the laughter.

“Mademoisellekin with her hair done like the Kaiser Wilhelm,” pealed Jimmie.

Only Clara remained grave in wrath.

“Einfach,” she quoted bitterly, “Simple⁠—says Lily, so simple!”

“Simple⁠—simpler⁠—simplicissimusko!”

“I make no change, not at all,” smiled Minna from behind her nose. “For this Ulrica it is quite something other.⁠ ⁠… She has yes truly so charming a little head.”

She spoke quietly and unenviously.

“I too, indeed. Lily may go and play the flute.”

“Brave girls,” said Gertrude, getting up. “Come on, Kinder, clearing time. You’ll excuse us, Miss Henderson? There’s your pudding in the lift. Do you mind having your coffee mit?”

The girls began to clear up.

“Leely, Leely, Leely Pfaff,” muttered Clara as she helped, “so einfach und niedlich,” she mimicked, “ach was! Schwärmerei⁠—das find’ ich abscheulich! I find it disgusting!”