by Pet Jeffery
As the train rattled out of Lancaster, my attention was caught by the raucous laughter of teenage girls. They were dressed in identical scarlet T-shirts and shorts. One or two also wore stout jackets of the same colour. Where I could see their feet, they were shod with hiking boots. Two young women sat near the girls; they wore similar clothes, but in primrose, and they didn't appear best pleased. I guessed one of the women in yellow to be in her late twenties, the other perhaps in her mid-thirties.
"Pipe down you lot!" the younger of the women called. "We can hardly hear ourselves think."
"Who knitted you?" asked one of the girls in red. By way of further comment, she poked out her tongue.
"I remember you from last year, April Stevens! When we get to the camp, I might have a word with Mrs Adams."
This remark quickened my interest. I was on my way to Mrs Adams' summer camp, in which I had agreed to care for some of the teenage girls. My hope was that I'd be assigned to troubled youngsters, and that the experience would form a gateway into social work. I had a degree in sociology, but had been repeatedly refused entry into the profession. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that my understanding of social issues was too theoretical, and that I was too immature. Eventually, in response to my badgering, one of the gatekeepers to my chosen career had arranged an interview with a camp trustee. I had yet to meet Mrs Adams.
"Have as many words with her as you like," April Stevens said. "Mrs Adams was lovely to me last summer. When I sprained my ankle, she-"
"I'm sure Mrs Adams knows how to instil discipline. You do realise, Miss Stevens, that for most of the year she's the headmistress of Althorpe Ladies' College, an exceptionally fine boarding school?"
"If she's anything like my old headmistress," the older-looking of the women in yellow said, "she'll have a nice swishy cane for bad girls."
"Oh, yeah!" April Stevens responded.
However dismissive the girl sounded, she and her companions lowered their voices. Could Mrs Adams be a disciplinary tyrant who caned girls on the least provocation? Although I attempted to dismiss this idea, the possibility lurked at the back of my mind, intermittently disturbing me for the remainder of the journey.
A few minutes later, the train halted at Carnforth. I stared out of the window, wondering why the name seemed familiar; the station was shabby and grimy; the small town beyond was nondescript. We were on our way again before I placed Carnforth. Brief Encounter had been filmed there.
Soon, enchanting woodland fringed the railway. It was, I considered, the sort of place in which one might glimpse a fairy. The teenage girls appeared to have entered a competition to identify their worst boyfriend. An anecdote concerning noxious bodily gases spoilt my ethereal mood. Silverdale station appeared to be located in the greenwood, with no sign of human habitation, which struck me as strange. Perhaps, I thought, in spite of the girls' unedifying conversation, we really were in the realm of faerie.
We arrived in Grange much quicker than I expected. Little separated Arnside and Grange stations, apart from a viaduct across an expanse of glistening sand, through which a trickle of water descended into the bay. At such short notice, I wasn't ready for my destination. Fortunately, the girls in red delayed the train with dangerous-looking antics, while I extracted my suitcase from the luggage rack. Otherwise, I would have been carried on to the next station. April Stevens swung from the doorframe as though it were a piece of gymnastic apparatus.
Once the girls had disembarked, they broke into a sprint. I might have missed the waiting coach had not one of the teens collided with another. They laughed as they rose to their feet; I was able to trot past and on to the elderly vehicle. The driver was dressed like the girls, except that her shorts and T-shirt were sky blue. She gazed at me enquiringly.
"This isn't the bus," she said. "It's the transport for a girls' summer camp."
"I know," I replied. "I'm Kate Rivers." I held out my hand for her to shake; she kept her hands on the steering wheel. "Mrs Gilchrist interviewed me, and-"
"Mrs Gilchrist!" the driver repeated, a note of contempt in her voice. "I don't suppose she had a uniform for you?"
"No. In fact, until just now, I didn't know there was a uniform."
"Well, let's hope Mrs Adams has one for you." Her scrutiny swept from my head to my feet. "Nothing you're wearing is suitable." I was dressed in a pink skirt and floral-patterned blouse. "You do know that the camp's all about outdoor activities?"
"Yes, Mrs Gilchrist said-"
"Never mind what fussy-knickers Gilchrist said. I suppose we'll have to make do with you. Take a seat."
Before I could sit down, she threw the coach into gear. I use the word 'threw' advisedly; she shifted the gear lever so violently that the coach lurched, and I stumbled into the lap of the older woman in a yellow uniform.
"Watch it!" she protested.
I mumbled an apology, staggered to my feet, almost fell into the nearest vacant space, and placed my suitcase on my lap. My seat was next to one of the red clothed teenagers. She gazed at me with obvious interest. When she spoke, it soon became clear that she'd listened to my conversation with the driver.
"Hello, Kate," she said. "I'm Laura. You were packed off to camp by someone called fussy-knickers Gilchrist? Is she one of your teachers?"
"No," I replied, "she's..."
"Some do-gooder, I suppose. A similar woman packed me off to the summer camp last year. I was a bit put out at first, but I ended up having a lot of fun. You'll like it. As I was saying to Angela on the train..."
Laura had plenty to say, and paused to permit only the briefest of responses. She obviously believed that I was about her age, which I guessed to be fourteen. Did I really look a decade younger than my actual years? If so, should I be pleased or affronted? The fact that the girl hardly allowed me time to reply meant that I lacked the opportunity to correct her misapprehension. I wondered what had created the illusion of youth. My clothes? My slight stature? The way in which the driver had spoken to me? After five or ten minutes of our rather one-sided conversation, the moment seemed to have passed in which I might have rectified her mistake. I hoped that Laura would not be amongst the girls assigned to me. Otherwise, I would surely need to make explanations.
Eventually, Laura gave me an opening in which I might have corrected her error. "Which school do you go to, Kate?"
"I don't go to school," I replied truthfully.
"You bunk off? You're a bad girl, Kate Rivers."
The strong note of admiration in her voice made it difficult for me to explain that not only had I left school, but had graduated from university. In reality, I had never been a bad girl and, throughout my schooling and college days, as long as I'd been well enough to attend, I hadn't missed a single hour of tuition. Now, I took pleasure in assuming my supposed character of teenage rebel.
"I think I know as much as I'll ever need to know about English, maths, science, history, geography, and all that stuff," I said. While this might be true, my words were also deliberately misleading.
As the journey progressed, Laura allowed me more opportunity to speak. I carefully avoided any remark that might give her the idea that I was in my twenties. But why should I wish her to continue to view me as fourteen years old, or thereabouts? Increasingly, I deliberately misled her on the subject of my age; my motivation was a mystery to me.
"You're a bad girl, Kate Rivers," Laura repeated. "Doesn't anyone ever spank you?"
"Not as much as they should," I replied.
My answer was not only misleading, but implied that spanking was sometimes justified. Was that really my opinion? What did I know about it? The truth was that nobody had ever spanked me. I had been orphaned when I was very small. My Aunt Elisa had raised me and, while she sometimes smacked her own daughter, Susan, she had never slapped me. My feelings were complicated by the fact that my aunt had also hugged Susan frequently, while I felt starved of physical affection. Was my remark merely to say that I hadn't been hugged as often as I should, or did I think that my aunt should also have spanked me?
I was still pondering that last question as the coach made a sharp left-hand turn and clattered its way along a drive formed of rubble, but without a tarred surface. Trees grew to either side of the track; through gaps between the trunks, branches and foliage, I could see wooden cabins. A flag flapped atop a pole: a red device on a yellow field.
The driveway debouched into an open space large enough, I supposed, for the coach to do a three-point turn. Not that I knew how much room that would require. I hadn't learnt to drive a car, much less a larger vehicle.
The coach squealed to a halt. Thereafter, a brief respite was filled with birdsong, before the driver raised her voice. She read from a clipboard.
"Theresa Wilson, hut three. Emily Last, hut nine..."
As she read, passengers took their backpacks and hurried from the coach.
Eventually, she called, "Laura Driscoll, hut six."
I slipped into the aisle to allow Laura to pass. She raised her hand in farewell.
"See you in mischief, I expect, Kate."
"Likewise, Laura."
Eventually, only the driver and I remained.
"Well, Kate Mischief..."
"Kate Rivers," I corrected her.
"You're not on my list under either name. If you think you belong here, you need to speak to Mrs Adams in the office." She pointed with her thumb to a hut, the door of which was marked with the words 'Camp Office' in large red letters. Her gesture reminded me of someone hitchhiking.
"Thank you for your help," I said sarcastically.
"Before you go, Laura's friend Kate, you should know that I'm Mrs Adams' deputy, Miss Reynolds. While we like high spirits in our girls, we don't appreciate out-and-out mischief. I think I heard you say that you haven't been spanked as much as you should."
"You heard that?" This was a stupid question; obviously she had. "I'd have thought the noise of the engine..."
"I have sharp ears, young Kate, and so does Mrs Adams. Remember that, if you don't want to catch up with your spanking backlog."
"Yes, Miss Reynolds," I replied, as though I were a little girl, and she my teacher.
As I emerged from the coach, I saw that the red design on the yellow flag was a stylised girl's head. Her plaited hair suggested a younger child than the teenagers with whom I'd travelled.
I wondered whether Miss Reynolds had been joking. Did she or Mrs Adams really spank naughty girls? It seemed improbable and yet, so far from the city bustle, to which I was accustomed, I could half believe it. Who knew what went on in the back of beyond? In any case, I wasn't one of the girls; I was here to care for them. If I was to take charge of a group of rowdy teens, would I be expected to spank them on occasion? This last question troubled me more than the prospect of receiving a sore bottom.
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