St. Mallory's Forever!

3. ABBY - Meet The Inma - I Mean, Students

Teresa and I sat by the window for a few more minutes, watching out for familiar faces and snickering every time we saw some poor over-laden father skittering after a squeal of daughters. However, before long, the Don and I got the fidgets and decided to head for the penthouse suite, as we call our private quarters, to see how many of our fellow inmates had survived the mad crush outside. Up two flights of stairs we went, and onto a long corridor lined with low doors.

Yes, I did say doors. Discard your medieval mental images of Ye Olde Communal Dorm where twelve teenage girls sleep side by side in a big round room with nothing but a curtain and a tiny chest of drawers between them.

Here in the twenty-first century, we have worked out that people actually need space to store suitcases, clothing and creature comforts. Thus, the invention of the cubicle – or cubie, for short. A bed, a wardrobe, three drawers under the bed, as well as a larger sliding drawer for bedsheets, spare towels and such, a desk with a totally inadequate number of plug sockets and an Ethernet point.

Oh, and a window with the usual assortment of sill-dwelling spiders.

But I'm wittering.

Amidst all the hugs, squealing and babbled tales of holiday misadventures, Don Pedro spread the news about the new students, and before long all six dorm-mates (that is to say, the six who weren't still mired in packing or lost at Heathrow airport) were sitting on my bed animatedly discussing the new arrivals.

"Do you remember that awful French girl we had in the Upper Fourth?" the Don asked. "The one who used to bang on all the doors to ask who was in the cubies?"

"How could we ever forget dahling Fleeeur," Philippa giggled.

Pip's another old hand from the Fourth form, though most of the Lower Fourth are taller than her. She makes up for it though, and I challenge anyone to have a conversation with her and not laugh. "I swear the T-ster nearly had a fit when she found her washing her hair at midnight," Pip continued.

"It was ten to midnight, actually," said the Don.

"Pedant," said Pip, pulling a face.

"Peasant," countered Don Pedro, to a round of giggling from the others.

"I'm sure the new girls won't be that bad," I said, cutting across the playful bickering. "And, come on, it'll be nice to see some fresh faces, right?"

"Too true," muttered Pip. "I'll go mad if I have to spend another minute surrounded by your ugly mugs."

"Oi!" I did my best impersonation of our surly Deputy Head, Mr Tuftt. "Mind your manners, you scurvy ruffian!"

This, however, only made everyone laugh louder. Although not loud enough to drown out the booming voice from below.

"Middle Fifth!"

It was Mrs O'Kallaghan, the House Matron. She's not a very tall woman – even I'm taller than her! – but her voice carries like anything, even on the corridors. "Would anyone care to come down and meet the new girls?"

Despite the phrasing it was an order, not a suggestion. Matron has this wonderful way of making us think we have options when there is only one choice.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends!" Pip struck the pose we'd used in the play last year (think Superman meets Usain Bolt and you'll get the idea). No matter how many times we'd burst out laughing at it, batty Miss Cantrip insisted it was perfect for the powerful nature of the line. Personally, I reckon Shakespeare would have choked on his metaphors from chortling so hard if he saw it, but none of us complained.

Fun Fact: It was also during that year that we'd given Teresa the nickname of Don Pedro, after another of Shakespeare's characters. What can I say? Aspiring thespians, the lot of us.

And so, in yet another red-faced state of muffled hysterics, we thundered down the stairs and into the house foyer to meet the newest additions to the Middle Fifth of Marylebone House at St. Mallory's.

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