Free The Friday Tree by Sophia Hillan Page A

hold on, the hand eased away, and she was left empty.
    Over her head other hands, bigger, not gentle, placed something about her neck. Brigid, startled, looked down. From her there hung, suspended on a green ribbon, a square pink card. She turned it round so that she could see it. Black letters spelled her own name, just as she had learned to write it with her mother: Brigid Arthur . Then her mother, reaching cooler, kinder hands to the back of Brigid’s neck, adjusted the card so that it felt comfortable. She did not know why it was hung around her neck. She was a dog, with a collar. Then, a wide shadow covered her, and a large person said: “I’ll take her now, Mrs Arthur,” and, unbelievably, Brigid was handed over to the stranger and led away to join other children standing by the wall. Some of them were crying. Brigid, frozen, was unable to cry. All her effort was concentrated in the hope that something would happen to prevent her being left here. Incredulous, she watched her mother walk slowly away, as if she had forgotten something but could not remember what. She herself must be what had been forgotten. Then, Brigid saw her turn round at the gate and, heart leaping, made ready to run from the line. Instead, with one brief salute of her gloved hand, her mother, back straight, head high, walked away. Still, Brigid did not cry. Instead, she watched the empty place where she had last seen her, listening for the clicking of her heels on the pavement, until there was no more sound.
    There was a sharp report. The large person clapped her hands, not loudly, but firmly, and said: “Infants! Over here.”
    They were the infants. Brigid had just time to take in this indignity before the large person began to move them, all the bewildered children, into a straggling line. Bigger girls, nearly women themselves, took them by the shoulders. Some were gentle, some pushed the children. Somehow, they were herded inside the dark building, instructed to hang up their coats on hooks, which a number could not reach, then taken into a square room with high windows and green walls. They were told to sit at wooden desks, set out in rows. The room smelled of pencils and paper, of dust that caught in the throat, and drains. It was at once too warm and too cold.
    In the endless time that followed, Brigid learned that the large person was their teacher. She was “Miss”. Some girls cried, but no one came. Then they were given small glass bottles of milk and paper straws and told to drink. The milk was warm and unpleasant, and the straws felt like candle wax. There were more puddles on the floor. All the children were lined up and brought to the huts outside, but Brigid held back and managed not to go in. They were herded back, and instructed to put their heads on their desks and go to sleep. Brigid could not sleep. It was daytime.
    When they were allowed to sit up, the door opened and there entered a lady, immensely tall, in a long, bunched skirt. Perhaps she was a queen. Wooden beads dangled from her broad belt, and a vast hat like a white butterfly shadowed her face. Perhaps she came from long ago. Perhaps Brigid had wandered into a story, or was dreaming: all this might end any second.
    Then Miss said: “Children, stand up, in silence.”
    The butterfly lady said she was the Principal. They were to call her “Sister”. Sister said they were welcome to the school, and that, above all else, they must work hard and learn to be good, honest and useful girls. She told them to sit down, and then she went away.
    All that morning, Brigid believed she would never be allowed to escape. She had been left there forever. Her parents must have found out about Miss Chalk, who was not suitable: this, on top of cutting her hair, her unwillingness to read, and the many transgressions of her life so far had proved too much. She had been sent away. Ned Silver had been sent away to a school where he had to stay except for holidays. Perhaps this was one of