Biology, or Tabitha Tickham and the Elasticated Waistband

Prologue: class and claustrophobia

"In Vallée les Vaches, you know, where our ski chalet is, you know, it is ever so pleasant, said Annabelle Haugh-Frost, The skiing is pluperfect and there are so many chic boutiques, and you can spend a whole day sometimes and not hear any French at all."

I sighed. I was sure that pluperfect was not what she meant, but not sure enough of what it actually was to try to explain it. Do you want help with this French prep or not?

Rather not than. Surely I can do without it?

If you had studied over Christmas ...

"I studied carving turns and waffles with sirop d’erable. And Paulo at the ski school. I have taken lessons with him since I was little so he is quite old now, but he has dyed his hair blonde and he is quite de luxe."

If you had not left it until the last minute ...

So you are saying you cannot help me? Or you won’t.

I shrugged. I had nothing better to do, that rainy January lunchtime, but I would rather have been doing nothing. Annabelle was trying on a sort of wheedling charm just at that moment because she suddenly felt the shadow of neglected French prep looming over her, but she had generally been rather less than friendly since the beginning of term. More inclined to fire barbs than flatter with compliments, especially when egged on by her cackling coterie or coven. She is not so bad on her own. Perhaps I should have gone skiing with her – keep your enemies close – but I did not find myself interested enough in carving turns nor in peroxide ski instructors, however de luxe, to put up with her constant undiluted company for the whole holiday, or to negotiate with Mother over the cost of the trip. I should have given the second excuse when she invited me, back in November, but I gave the first, and Annabelle took offence, which had perhaps been my intention. Anyway I got what I wanted, or deserved, which was a dull three weeks at home with Mother and Kitty and now a vengeful Annabelle inflicting herself on me again. It usually takes pretty strong medicine to keep that persistent pox at bay for long, but this time the effort of engaging with French was enough: she huffed off to join Fenella and Tilly who were snickering at Clarissa Weedley and making pirate noises sotto voce because they know she does not like it and they are vile hags.

Pas mon problème. I left scholarship day-girl and perennial victim Clarissa to her fate, and lit out for the stables on the far side of the school grounds. As you might know, I had no pony there anymore. I sometimes had a ride on ‘Gingerbread’, the school’s spavined old gelding, but there was little spirit in him for jumping, and not much adventure in an amble around the school grounds. The stables contained memories of Starlight, and that was painful, but the dim dusty light and the sweet smell of hay and oiled leather, and the musk of horses and their quiet listening, was still more a comfort than not. There is a nook, between the tack room and the stacks of straw and hay bales, which is not really secret but feels private. From there a girl can see the soft noses of the horses seeking over their doors, snuffling for molasses or polo mints, and be lulled by their gentle, bored kicks against the wood and their whiskery puffing, and she can take a moment to draw herself back in, un-jangle her nerves and spread balm on whatever it is that teenage girls use for a soul.

On that occasion, I spread the balm thickly enough to weigh down my eyelids, and there was a danger of soft snorts and whickering sighs rising from my direction too. A spikey piece of straw poking at me from the bale I was sitting on, and the tickle of dust and hay in my nose, stopped me from sleeping as such, but I will admit to a doze.

Which put me in a difficult position when Annabelle and her witches swooped in. Not unexpected – despite their infighting and backstabbing they are bound together by their love of ponies. As they came in, Fenella, always first among the hippophiles, was expounding on her chances at the next gymkhana. She was confident that her mount, Firefly, could not fail to impress the judges. The creature in which she puts so much faith looks like a pit pony to me. Nothing wrong with that, and the stolid boy does not seem to mind her festooning him with ribbons and bows, but she insists that he is in a different class to the darlings of her sisters.

You can’t buy good breeding, Mother says – but of course, with a horse you can. What does that mean, though, ‘good’? Pit ponies have a purpose; carthorses have a purpose; thoroughbreds have a purpose. Each has an ancestry as long as the others. Snotty jumped-up daughters of bankers have a purpose too I suppose, as much as do downtrodden heirs of solid county families – but so far it is not clear what that purpose is. While we wait to find out, we jump the expected fences, patiently wear our ribbons and bows, and hope for rosettes.

There is a whole complex of divisions and sub-divisions in school that is unspoken (most of the time) but acutely felt. The divide between town and country, though we are all somewhat in enforced rustication at old St Audrey’s, set in front of fields on the very edge of a small town, ringed by marshland that forbids flight. A more obvious distinction between boarders and day-girls, and a finer one between week- and term-boarders; a brutal exclusion from civil society of the scholarship girls, as much because of as despite the exhortations of our teachers and appeals to Etheldreda herself as an example of sisterly kindness. And so on into infinite cuts: sports bros versus library geeks, riding club (‘Jumps’ in school jargon) versus those whose parents preferred to afford cars and holidays, academics versus show ponies.

Having begun as a day girl in the lower school, become a week-boarder, then suffering the joint humiliations of dropping back to day-girl and losing my pony; being advanced a year and  unavoidably thrown in with the academics but game enough to huff and puff my way around the hockey pitch, my status is uncertain and I have a degree of freedom, and I flatter myself that I have some insight into the system. Even when I was ‘Jumps’, I was never really a full member of the coven; but then again, I have been unable to escape the shackles that have bound me to Annabelle since our first encounter in the sandpit aged four and five.

Whatever secular superstructure is imposed upon it, whatever advantage can be gained by a sporting success or a strategic friendship, the real social divide is by money of course, and the quantity of it matters more than the quality. Ever so egalitarian, our little school model of society. We no longer fine by class but by means. Worse luck for your friend Violet, as us Tickhams appear to have no ready money, though we do have land (if alarmingly eroded since the golden age), and a grand house, be it never so crumbling. And Mother, of course, tall and haughty as Garton Grange itself, and in better shape. But we do not talk about such vulgar things as titles, my dears, do we?

I digress. There I was, resting my eyes and listening to the contented munching of horses, when Annabelle and cohort clattered in chattering about tack (Fenella), skiing (Annabelle), cuticles (Sunita), daddy’s new car (Tilly, very new money that one).

Awkward for me if seen. I eased down off my prickling straw seat, pressed myself back against the stack of hay. The bale behind me shifted a bit. The girls were still chattering, in the stalls with their steeds, curry-combing and mane-plaiting. I pushed again, and the bale shifted further into the base of the stack. The bales were piled rather hit-and-miss, not tight – by turning round and pushing with my feet, I was able to shove it far enough under to make a little cave, into which I backed myself. It was not that I was really so concerned about being discovered that I had to hide: it just seemed to happen. The bale shifted, the door, so to speak, swung open and in I went. It was close and ticklish in there, and only by bending my legs could I get right inside. I had to be properly hidden, if hidden at all. I mean, sitting out in the open alone could have been shrugged off. La fille sans cheval, but still with her dignity. Now, nestled into a burrow like a hibernating groundhog, there was no laughing it off if I was found. The mockery would continue well into spring.

The girlish chatter was still distant. I wriggled out of my burrow. Even then, I could have emerged unwitnessed, strolled out past the coven, ignored any remarks about the state of my uniform and the straw in my hair. Laughed their laughter to scorn. Instead, driven by some odd wintry instinct, I scurried about gathering an armful of loose hay and backed into my tunnel again, pulling the hay after me to cover the entrance.

Just in time. The gang of them rounded the corner into the nook. I could see their legs, bottle green in winter tights, through my fragile doorway.

Shame about V’s Starlight, said Annabelle, I mean, it was no Binty, but the creature could actually jump, even with her on its back. Would have helped us out in the team comp.

I blinked. Dust in my eyes.

She’s not so bad as all that, Fenella replied. There were grudging noises of assent. Perhaps she could ride Gingerbread.

They paused, shocked by their own ascent into decency as much as I was. I had to bite back a reply, then fight down a cough.

He is not very strong these days, began Tilly, cautiously.

And Violet has grown lately, put in Sunita.

The lot of them cackled, pleased to be back on familiar ground.

Don’t want his back broken,

I doubt she can get into her jodh’s anymore,

We could stuff an old jumper with leaves and strap that on his back instead.

Chuckling to herself, Annabelle fetched the long-handled pitchfork and began nudging at a bale at the top of the stack.

I’ll climb up and give it a shove, Fenella offered.

No, it’s coming, stand back, Annabelle said. She was on her tip-toes right in front of my hiding place. There was a hole in her tights at the ankle.

The bale tilted then stopped. Annabelle tried to snag the twine with her fork but could not quite reach. She poked at the bale beneath, trying to shake her target loose. I could only see her feet, making little jumps, and feel the tremors passing down through the stack. It suddenly felt very warm in my cave. My skin prickled. More a trap than a refuge. I sneezed. Annabelle managed to snag the bale. The front face of the stack leaned, poised like a wave above her head, then rocked back. I felt the weight of them settle, as though gathering for a push forward. There was time enough for Tilly to declare, Whew, that was close, be careful! before the stack swayed forward again, and this time kept going. The pressure above me lifted suddenly and then my whole world turned to dust and hay as the wave broke past my head and tumbled down around Annabelle.

I was suddenly in the open, uncovered. I stood, shedding loose hay, like a sea-monster surfacing. By the time I blinked my eyes clear, the only trace of Fenella, Tilly and Sunita was the sound of their retreating hoofbeats. In front of me was a chaotic tumble of hay bales, filling the space where I had been sat in peaceful contemplation, rising up against the wall of the tack room.

Somewhere under that tumble was Annabelle.

I stopped coughing long enough to listen. A nervous snort from one of the ponies, nothing else. I heaved at the haybale in front of me, then stopped as the rickety pyramid trembled. There was a muffled squawk, ... ‘nella ... ‘nita ... Tilly...

They’ve gone to get help, I shouted into the stack. Annabelle’s voice came back stronger,

Not likely. Not that lot. They’ll be arguing over who gets to be Jumps captain now I’m dead.

You’re not dead, Annabelle.

No? I feel dead. It is very dark. She coughed piteously. If I do die, tell Binty I love her.

Bending down, I could see a way in underneath the bales: that was where her voice was coming from. Can you wriggle out? I asked.

I can’t see.

Come towards my voice.

There is a haystack on me, idiot.

Well. I could have strolled off after the other girls. No more than she would have deserved. Except I had a small feeling that the collapse of the haystack may have been a little bit my fault.

I’ll go to fetch help, I shouted into the dark. And no doubt cop a large share of the blame.

The bales settled and shifted. Annabelle squeaked. Don’t go away. I’ll be squished all on my own. You have to save me.

Damn. Noblesse oblige, or old St Audrey, would not let me turn away.

You are my only real friend, V. You know that, sobbed Annabelle. Yes, don’t I know it. Considering the weight and darkness smothering her, her tears may have been genuine.

Can you crawl? I called.

I’m on my back, stupid, of course not.

I pursed my lips. There could not be more than a dozen bales in the heap. She must be almost within reach. I dared not climb up to shift the top bales in case the pyramid fell in on Annabelle, and pulling any out from the base might do the same thing. She seemed to have plenty of air for now, but a collapse could entomb her permanently.

If you can’t move, I’ll try to pull you out, I said. Perhaps I could find an arm or a leg. I lay down and reached into the dark. Nothing. The space was wide enough for me to get my head and one shoulder inside. I still could not reach her. I came halfway out, then went back in with both arms. It was close across my shoulders. The bales shifted a little as I wriggled in. I paused. Nothing came down. It was completely dark in there. My lungs were full of dust. I could still push with my knees, but my arms were useless in the narrow space. I flapped a hand about: it seemed the way was wider ahead. Nothing for it – I pushed further in. A bit snug around the hips, but now I could get some purchase with my elbows. I crept forward. It was hot. I wished I had thought to take off my blazer, which was suddenly impossibly tight, stopping me breathing. I started to push back in a panic and my skidding palm knocked against the sole of Annabelle’s school shoe.

V, is that you?

I did not answer, but tugged at her ankle.

Pull me out, she demanded. No chance of that.

Can you turn over? I croaked. So hot, and my arms were going numb.

No, there is a haybale on my tummy. But she could turn over, when I twisted her ankle hard enough, and then she could begin to back out, with me hauling on her feet. When she got to the wider chamber she got her knees under her and started to rush backwards, crowding me just as I reached the bottle’s neck. My hips were stuck, and my blazer rucked up over my back. I shoved against Annabelle’s looming behind, locked my elbows and let her pressure uncork me. My legs, then my hips, then my shoulders were through the narrow spot