“I say, Poll,” said the voice from the bed. “Potty nearly caught you tonight. You’d better hurry.”
Polly Carroway froze, one leg over the window sill of the Blue Dormitory.
“No, it’s all right,” said the voice, which belonged to one Marjorie Redwing, small red-haired creature of some fifteen years. “There’s no one here now. But you’d better get into bed quickly. She might come back in a minute. She spent far too long looking suspiciously at the bolster.”
Polly scrambled hastily into the room and almost fell through the curtains of her cubicle. There she examined the aftermath of the night’s work. It wasn’t good. Her curly brown bob was a mess, her shoes and stockings were covered with mud and, she realised as she undressed, there was a large tear in her tunic.
“Bother!” she said, buttoning up her pyjama top and wondering whether it would be possible to mend the tear before the rising bell the following morning. She thought not. And there was the mud! Oh, what would Matron say?
“Marjorie,” she whispered through the curtain. “You don’t by any chance have a spare tunic in your trunk? An old outgrown one?”
“Of course not!” said Marjorie, sticking her head into Polly’s cubey. “Oh, Poll, what have you done now?”
“It’s ripped,” said Polly in despair, showing the tattered garment to her friend. “And even if I could mend it by tomorrow, it would show. Oh, Marjorie, what shall I do? Potty will be in a fearsome bate!”
A door slammed somewhere outside. The two girls stared at each other for a horrified second, then both lept for their beds. Polly shoved out the bolster which had been taking her place for the evening, and snuggled down under the covers. And not a moment too soon. A moment later, the door of the blue dormy opened and someone walked in. Miss Potts, the much-feared house-mistress.
Polly closed her eyes and tried to look as asleep as possible. Please let Potty just look around and go. Please let her not open the cubey curtains….
The curtains opened. Potty was looking in. She was walking up to the bed. She was looking straight at Polly’s face. Polly could feel it. She was…
…grabbing Polly around the neck and pulling her out of the bed.
Polly’s eyes flew open. It wasn’t Miss Potts. It was Miss Cunningham, the maths mistress. Whose lifelesss body had been found in the grounds two weeks ago. And who, it seemed, was now a vampire.
“Polly Carroway,” said Miss Cunningham, a smile on her distorted face. “How – unnnngh!”
For Polly had thrown her old maths teacher over her head, sending her smashing into the bedside locker.
“Why Miss Cunningham,” she said politely. “How nice of you to come back and visit. But Miss Potts is on duty tonight. Shouldn’t you be in the North House?”
Miss Cunningham snarled and lept over the bed. Rolling her eyes heavenwards, Polly stuck out an arm and grabbed the teacher’s wrist.
“Really, Miss Cunningham, if you’re going to be like that…” And with her other hand she reached beneath her pillow and drew out a wooden stake. As Miss Cunningham struggled to get free, Polly plunged the stake into her heart.
“Oh bother,” said Polly. “Now my bed is all covered with dust too. That’s all I need.” She sighed and sat down on the bed.
“Is it gone?” said a quavery voice from the other side of the curtain.
“Yes, she’s gone,” said Polly. “It was Miss Cunningham.”
“I say, what a horrible surprise,” said Marjorie, cheering up slightly now that the danger was gone. “I mean to say, it must be bad enough being jumped on by a vampire, but when it’s a horrid maths mistress as well, well, that makes it all the worse.”
“I know,” said Polly. “Oh well, at least it wasn’t Potty.”
“Thank goodness Daphne and Isabel are in the San,.,” said Marjorie. “I know they’re a bit stupid, but even they would have noticed that fight.”
“Well, we’ll be lucky if everyone in the House didn’t notice something,” said Polly. “Oh! I’m so tired.”
“I bet Miss Giles is fast asleep,” said Marjorie. “She always seems to be out of the way when things like this happen.”
“I know,” said Polly, falling back on her bed. “And she won’t be the one who gets into trouble tomorrow because she has no clean stockings and a ripped tunic. It’ll take me forever to mend that tear!”
“I’ll mend it, Poll,” said Marjorie. “You know you’re an absolute duffer at needlework.”
“Would you really, Marjie? Thanks awfully,” said Polly gratefully. “Gosh! Look at the time. Three in the morning. We’ll be no use for anything tomorrow.”
To Be Continued....
See, I love school stories, and I love the idea of the history of slayers, and I wanted to combine the two. I toyed with making it A Slayer at the Chalet School, but the whole cross-over-ness was too cheesy, even for me...