Lowewood Academy

The dull toll of the morning bell broke through my sleep with the finesse of a wrecking ball.  Headmasters are not supposed to have emotions.  Headmasters are not supposed to have weaknesses.  Headmasters are supposed to rise from their repose and transform instantly into their professional, scholarly and austere personas.  Not this one.  This one dragged his unwilling body out of bed by a force of will only marginally stronger than the opposite pull of the warm sheets.  Just like every day of the seven years of his headmastership.  If only Mr Letchmostly hadn’t run off with Morris Minor all those years ago, life might have been easier.

But as consciousness gradually displaced somnambulism, I remembered that today was not just like every day, and my appetite for it grew.  Today was to be Speech Day, and the last day of term: a day of emotion and lasting memories, a day of moment.  I could still remember my own last day of school – not, as some of the girls would have it, before the invention of the motor car, but nevertheless a good few decades ago – and the realisation that for all the girls and boys who were leaving us, today’s memories would live with them throughout their lives, even after most of them had lost touch with each other, was touchingly poignant.  The Last Day, like the distant wave of a lover left quayside by a parting ship, is the abiding memory which encapsulates all the highs and low, dramas and tears, friendships and fights, romances and adventures of whole years of schooldays.  Do our final year pupils leave the school, or, as they each follow the path life has set out for them, does the school leave them?

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“Oh my God, we look amazing!”

The four of us crowded together in front of the full-length mirror in Gabby and Pippa’s room and I couldn’t help agreeing with Lydia’s summary.  One redhead, one blonde, two identical brunettes; all wreathed in grins, hair swept up and pinned, ballgowns brushing the floor in a rainbow of colour.  Pippa looked gorgeous in flowing powder blue chiffon; Lydia was stunning in a strapless sheath of purple satin, so dark it was almost black.  And my twin and I wore matching dresses: strapless taffeta gathered at the waist in a rose motif before dropping in a waterfall cascade of material to the ground.  Gabby’s was a dusky pink, mine in lilac.  Our accessories were reversed – cruel, I know!  But for this, the last big dressing-up event of our time at Lowewood, the Delameres were going as a team!

A rap at the door drew a round of girly squeals!

“Our dashing knights have arrived!” cried Pippa.  “Come hither, dashing knights!”

The handsome quartet joined us, each proffering a single, fragrant red rose to his partner for the evening.  Miss Marwood would be proud of them!

I don’t know what it is about a tux, but guys just look so different when they’re all dressed up too.  Much more…grown up.  Alex ap Iorwerth led the parade, sweeping Pips into his arms, all full of manly charm.  Sweet David hesitated only a moment in working out the Delamere conundrum before greeting the correct twin first!  Ned took Lyds on his arm with all his usual rakish ease.  And Chris, my lovely Chris, had eyes only for me…

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Public humiliation: nobody does it better than Lowewood.

I supposed, I thought grimly, I should stick to just feeling grateful I was back at school at all.  Getting sent home early from Chamonix had led to all kinds of fears that Tim and I would be rusticated.  That had not, thank God, come to pass.  After a couple of days’ purgatory, confined mostly to my room at home, I was reunited with everyone back in Dashwood on cue for the second half of term.  Escaping from mum’s heavy sighs of disappointment and daddy’s horrified lectures was a huge relief!  I realised we’d be hearing plenty more about it though, and Tim and I hardly dared smile at one another under this kind of scrutiny.  It was pretty miserable…

But it was still kinda hard to feel all that grateful in our current predicament.  Mr Shaftebotham had chosen not to inflict the full wrath of a Headmaster’s Report on us: having been caned already last week, he’d simply docked the 200 housepoints each instead, to effectively complete the job.  That would be detention and another dozen on Saturday then…Juliet was gonna fry me. Meanwhile, though, we had more pressing concerns, in this special sixth form assembly he had called, for which Tim and I formed part of the set.  Mr S had decided that our behaviour indicated a need to address the overall moral welfare of his senior pupils in a special bonus edition of his Personal and Social Education lessons.  And here we were.

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