Room 2D

A St Angela’s story from Roué 6 It was afternoon, sunlight shone through the lofty windows of the classroom, dust particles floated as if weightless in the slanting streams of light, and a girl stood stumbling over her words at her desk as she groped hopelessly for an excuse to offer which would explain the completely blank page in her exercise book which should have contained yesterday’s prep. She subsided into silence, eyes frightened, knuckles white as she wrung her hands behind her back. The teacher raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘So in other words miss, you haven’t done your prep because you couldn’t be bothered. Is that right?’ ‘N-no sir. It’s just that — that — I couldn’t make time sir, I mean, my other prep, had to be d-done sir, an — and —’ ‘And you felt that the work I had set you could wait — is that it?’ ‘No sir — only I ran out of time sir — and my other prep was for Mr Soames sir, an — and if you don’t do Mr Soames’s prep, sir — y-you get whacked sir — ‘ The smile

Letter by R.T.M. of Hatfield (the prolific R.T. Mason I believe) from Roué 5 The footsteps were, of course, those of Mr Evans as Julie knew. He closed the door behind him, then after a moment’s hesitation, quietly locked it. ‘Mmm… Miss Williamson. Yes, let’s see, I remember; jostling in the corridor, wasn’t it?’ In fact it had been two other girls who had been pushing each other around, but just as always, Julie had been singled out by Mr Evans as the most attractive one present simply as an excuse to get her knickers down. But one didn’t argue at St Angela’s. Arguing with a master was unheard of, however unfair the incident, and she answered submissively: ‘Yes, sir. I  —  I’m sorry sir.’ Submission was everything at St Angela’s. ‘And you will be sorry, Miss, I’m afraid. Yes  — ’ Evans’ eyes, greedy behind his spectacles, took in the pretty blonde teenager, noting the firm breasts under the regulation blouse. It was a chance he had been waiting for. He had not caned pert Mi

The very first St Angela’s story, from Roué 3 It was at the far end of the school, next room but one to the Principal’s study. The corridor which led to it was long and narrow and smelled faintly of wood preserver. The parquet flooring clicked and squeaked under your feet. It seemed about a mile long when you’d been sent to room 2D. Along the walls of the corridor were depressingly bright prints of Braque and Matisse and other people. They stared at you bleakly as you passed. Room 2D was down a little flight of steps to the left at the end of the corridor. Four steps. Then, if 2D was occupied, you waited. You put your hands behind your back and stared dismally at the institutional green of the door, and avoided looking at the solitary picture which hung at the apex of the corridor you’d just come down. Van Gogh’s  Chair . It stood on its rickety-looking legs and reminded you of the chair in Room 2D, the one they’d probably put