Secrets and Lies. Jaishree Misra
bench-mates for a few years now, both choosing to inhabit the last row for completely different reasons—Bubbles so she could hide behind girls cleverer than her, and Anita so she could read novels during the maths and science lessons. They had eventually managed to overcome an initial mutual suspicion of each other to become unlikely friends, mostly because it massaged Anita’s ego no end to have Bubbles so desperately need her crib-sheets to keep from flunking every exam.
An hour later, Mrs Menon was droning on, drawing geometric shapes on the blackboard that made scant sense to most of the sixteen-year-olds seated before her, when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. All heads were raised as the principal walked in, a girl wearing a patterned smock and sandals following a few paces behind.
‘I am so sorry to interrupt the lesson, Mrs Menon, but I wondered if I might take my session early. I’d like to introduce a new girl to the class.’
‘Yes, of course, of course, Miss Lamb,’ Mrs Menon said, hastily putting her chalk stub down and backing away. ‘I was just finishing anyway. Please, please do come in.’
Anita had often wondered at the nervousness Miss Lamb seemed to evoke in most of their teachers, speculating on whether it was merely because she was principal or whether her being British had something to do with it too. Old Lamboo had always seemed to Anita to be like someone who had fallen out of an E.M. Forster novel, her foreignness accentuated in a curious way by her not having left India when most of her countrymen and women had. The first time Anita had the opportunity to use a carefully learned big word had, in fact, been with reference to Miss Lamb, when—soon after winning the St Jude’s scholarship as a seven-year-old—she had informed her amused father that the new school principal was ‘quintessentially British’.
Anita now watched while Miss Lamb waited politely for a harassed Mrs Menon to collect her books and bags. The new girl stood behind Miss Lamb, wearing an impassive expression on her face. She was tall, like Lamb herself, and athletic and astonishingly pretty, Anita thought, sneaking a glance at Zeba and her best friend, Natasha, sitting in the third row, who had always fancied themselves as the school beauties. It satisfied her to see that they were gazing at the newcomer in open-mouthed wonder too. This girl was much lovelier than either of them, her skin tanned to the kind of gold that was rarely achieved by white skin, quite unlike Miss Lamb’s florid summertime pink. Anita saw too that the girl’s eyes were a strange blue-grey colour, their only flaw being that they were set a little too close together in a heart-shaped face that ended in a pointed chin. She didn’t look pure British, more likely Anglo-Indian, as someone had surmised earlier. Their eyes met for an instant and Anita was shocked at the sudden frisson she felt run through her, which was followed by instant revulsion. She knew a lot of girls at school often developed crushes on other girls but, even as a junior, she had prided herself on never having been at either end of such ridiculous infatuations, saved from them—she would have been the first to admit—by being scrawny and bespectacled and not sporty at all.
Mrs Menon departed in a flurry of apologies and chalk dust and Miss Lamb now stepped forward, clearing her throat in the way she did when she wanted their total attention. This was not a problem today as the class sat rapt before her, silenced by their curiosity. The last new girl this particular batch had received was Natasha Walia, whose father had been posted back to India after a long stint abroad in the diplomatic service—and that had been a good six years ago.
‘This, my dear girls,’ Miss Lamb said to them, ‘is Lily D’Souza. Lily is new, not just to our school, but indeed to Delhi, having just moved here from Sacred Heart convent school in Mussourie. I know some of you are quite familiar with Mussourie, travelling up there for your summer holidays, so I do not need to tell you what a big change this is for Lily, who has never been to Delhi before.’
Anita noticed that the girl next to Miss Lamb remained unsmiling, plucking absently at the canvas strap of the bag she was carrying slung across her torso as though it were a guitar.
‘My dear girls,’ Miss Lamb continued, ‘I know I don’t need to tell you to make Lily comfortable and welcome. Now, where can we find room for Lily to sit?’ Miss Lamb scanned the room and nodded approvingly as she saw the dependable Samira move up on her bench in the front row to make room. As the principal gestured, Lily walked hesitantly towards the rows of girls, unslinging her bag and holding it ahead of her. Anita observed Sam smiling warmly, even using her tissue to clean Lily’s side of the desk, but she could now no longer see the face of the new girl, only a ponytail of straight brown hair that hung down her back all the way to her waist. The girl sat down, shoving her bag between herself and Sam, and, as the bell went, Miss Lamb opened her tattered copy of Macbeth to begin her lesson.
Anita’s concentration was poor in the hour that followed, even though Lamb’s classes were always the high point of her school day. Today the principal was wittering on about the nature of ambition and did not seem to be quite herself either, gripped by a preoccupied air that was infecting the whole class with a kind of listlessness.
When the bell finally rang for the lunch-break, Miss Lamb looked as relieved as everyone else, setting the group an essay on the banquet scene as homework, before leaving for the dining hall. Anita got up and stretched with a loud groan. She scanned the room. Sam seemed to have taken the new girl under her wing already, opening up her foil pack of cheese sandwiches and offering her one.
Anita and Bubbles joined the small group that had already gathered around Lily and Sam’s desk.
‘Are you related to Miss Lamb?’ Natasha was asking the new girl.
Anita saw Lily hesitate for a minute before a set of invisible shutters descended over her face. She pursed her lips, suddenly acquiring a mean expression as she said with more vehemence, ‘No, we’re not related. I’m nothing at all to that horrid old bat.’
There was a collective horrified intake of breath. No one ever spoke about Miss Lamb in that tone of voice. Even the nickname of Lamboo, used by generations of St Jude’s schoolgirls, was only ever employed affectionately.
Sam hastily changed the subject. ‘Oh, Bubs, one of your pimples has just burst,’ she said.
Attention turned to Bubbles, who clamped a piece of tissue, spotted with blood, back to her chin. ‘Oh God,’ she mumbled through her clamped jaw, ‘I had just two pieces of cashew burfi last night, y’know, and see the reaction!’
‘Let’s have a look,’ Zeba said, ‘I may have some Clearasil in my bag.’
Bubbles gingerly removed her hand, eliciting a chorus of moans.
‘Christ, that’s a prize one,’ Natasha said.
‘And look, there’s a new one sprouting right next to it.’
‘Clearasil won’t work, those need Dettol.’
‘Or DDT even!’
Sam’s ruse had successfully drawn everyone’s attention away from the new girl and Anita noticed that even Lily was now smiling, although she couldn’t tell if Lily’s subsequent attempt at humour was malicious. ‘Etna and Krakatoa, that’s what those two are,’ she said.
‘Who?’ Bubbles enquired, nonplussed, but Lily shook her head, smiling to herself.
Anita stepped in to rescue her friend. ‘Okay, everyone, stop treating Bubs like a prize exhibit. We’re off to the dining hall now, if anyone wants to join us for some five-star world cuisine.’
Victoria Lamb decided not to join the throng in the dining hall, as was her usual custom. Instead, she walked down the southern corridor and past the music room, where the sound of a trombone was blaring tunelessly over the lunchtime hubbub. She had this morning given Lily money to buy a hot lunch in the canteen but would herself return to her cottage, which lay on the far side of the rambling school grounds. Lakhan would rustle up a sandwich for her, which she would eat quietly in her study overlooking the rose garden. She deserved a little peace and quiet after the traumatic events of the past few days, not made any easier by Lily’s difficult behaviour.
Victoria unlatched the small wicket gate that led to the rose garden