Out of politeness.
You wouldn’t say, “You’ve got the crappest eyes I’ve ever seen. Your eyes make me feel physically sick.”
But on the other hand, say someone did have really crap eyes, you might distract them by mentioning a good feature to make up for it. Like their ears or something.
Maybe he was distracting me from my knees by mentioning my eyes.
Oh, I don’t know.
And second of all he had pushed me off the branch.
Which in anyone’s language is not what people do to grown-ups.
So…
And also what about Ben?
Even if I didn’t want to go out with him, I wanted him to want to go out with me so that I could say sadly, “I’m afraid my heart is with another. I am wedded to Heathcliff, or Alex, as I know him.”
That night as the owls hooted outside, I read about Wuthering Heights in my study notes about the Brontës. It said that Emily and Charlotte and Anne had to pretend to be blokes so that they could get their books published.
They had to display Northern grit.
As I lay there with my squirrels and my budding corkies, I decided something.
I am going to display Northern grit. Like the Brontë sisters. I’m not going to be put off by a bit of, “You’re useless.”
I bet they wouldn’t be.
When Emily went into her publisher and said, “I’ve written a book about some madman who lives on the moors. There’s a lot of moaning and so on, and then the girl dies. I shall call it Wuthering Heights.”
And they said, “Go home, love, and tell your sister not to come back with another story about a girl called Jane Eyre, because that will be rubbish as well. Get tha sen a little dog.”
I wrote in my notebook: I’m going to laugh in the face of fear, like the Brontë sisters.
She laughs in the face of fear
I dreamt all night that I was out on the moors like Cathy after she died. Trying to find Heathcliff. I was singing a special song: “I’m out on the moors, the wild moors.” I’m going to write the lyrics in my notebook.
It took me ages to decide what to wear because you never know when you might bump into, um, someone’s brother. We’ve got our first ballet class today so I need to have leggings and my special ballet shoes.
I am enjoying my special ballet shoes.
Looking at my special ballet shoes in their special ballet shoe box.
And I am enjoying them.
Special ballet shoes.
I put my special ballet shoes on. They feel good.
I feel like doing ballet!
I will improvise a ballet. I will think of being Cathy, flitting about in ballet shoes on the moors, lashed by cruel gales, looking for Alex – I mean, Heathcliff.
I sang from my notebook and danced, danced on the moors:
I’m out on the moors, the wild moors,Let’s roll about in rockpools.
Oh, it gets lonely without you,I hate you, I love you.
It’s Cathy, trying to get in your Windoooooow ow ow ow…
There wouldn’t be a bedside lamp on the moors. But if there was I bet I could find it with my shins.
It was funny not going to meet Vaisey.
Also, to be honest, it meant that I didn’t have an excuse to hope that Alex was about. As I began to walk across the bridge and up the lane to Dother Hall, I was thinking, I bet they all had a pillow fight in the dorm last night and lashings and lashings of ginger beer. And as I was feeling a bit left out I saw Ruby skipping off to her mates. Yes, quite literally skipping. She saw me and shouted, “Oy, squeeze you later!!!”
It was like having a mad little sister. Which I’ve never had before.
And I had nice new friends.
And I had been kissed.
Also my corkers are on the move.
And I’ve still got the chance to do something to impress everyone at Dother Hall.
With my secret hidden talent.
That was secret.
And hidden.
Secretly.
It was a beautiful day, so I thought that I wouldn’t wear my crash helmet on the imaginary Harley. I was riding along with the wind rushing through my hair, but then, nearly at the gates of Dother Hall, my lovely country drive was spoiled. I had to squeal to an imaginary halt because out of a bush jumped Vaisey, Jo, Flossie and Honey.
Vaisey said, “Were you driving your imaginary Harley Davidson?”
I nodded.
Honey said, “Can you give me a wide? I’m weally exthauthted.”
The ballet class was another low spot of embarrassment. When I tell you that the high spot was putting my special ballet shoes on, you’ll get the picture.
Madame Frances hobbled in to her usual chair and adjusted her hot water bottle. “Aaah. The ballet is the only true art. Before I had my accident I…”
I said to the girls under my breath as she rattled on about her bad feet, “Is there anyone in this place who hasn’t had an accident?”
This is the ballet.
We had to point our feet and go up and down. And then put our legs on bars, still pointing our feet, and go up and down. Then we had to hold each other’s legs and go up and down. Pointing our feet. And then we did a bit more pointing and going up and down.
How can that be a good thing?
I said to Flossie, who had had to selloptape her glasses to her head with all the pointy leg business, “When did this get invented? It’s not proper dancing.”
Flossie looked at me, “Lullah, I don’t want to be unnecessarily rude, but I have seen your Irish dancing.”
At the end we had to do jeté which essentially means you leap up in the air with pointy feet.
Honey was really good at ballet. Really elegant and floaty. Even Flossie was good, although I think the sellotaped glasses spoiled the total effect. Jo was good armwise but could only leap about an inch off the ground. When it was my turn, I was pleased because I went higher than everyone. I did it again and then noticed that Flossie and the others looked like they were having a fit.
Flossie said, “It’s just that, it’s just that…”
And then she started laughing uncontrollably.
I said, “It’s just that what? I was leaping quite high.”
Jo said, “I know, I know, the leaping is good – it’s just that when you leap you make a rabbit face.”
Madame Frances was crying into her flask as we went out.
Despite a lot of protests from the girls, I