There was a conversation a few days ago on the M.R. James Appreciation Society FB page. It inspired this story. There are a few in-jokes so don't worry if some things seem a bit weird...
BITCHES
Miss Jowens
was cross. She had had enough of these young girls and their unladylike
language and behaviour. Mind you, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Even at
the interview she had been shocked by the way Miss Hayes the headmistress had
talked about them. Oh yes, she plainly remembered, Miss Hayes had perused her
CV and references with a favourable eye before asking if she, Miss Jowens,
would require a residential position.
“Well, I am
quite prepared to consider it, Headmistress, but I have found a small cottage
on the edge of the moor which would be quite suitable for my needs. Unless the
position specifically requires me to live upon the premises, I think I should
prefer to live off-site”. Miss Jowens replied.
The
Headmistress smiled and nodded,
“Not at
all, Miss Jowens. I completely understand. In fact, I think it would be an
excellent idea for your first few terms, at least until you feel you have
settled in. Many teachers find the girls to be quite exhausting in the evenings
and tend to leave abruptly. You cannot imagine, Miss Jowens, what little
bitches these girls can be.”
Miss Jowens
had been shocked that a headmistress would use such terminology for her charges
but she had forgiven the lapse of decorum and accepted what seemed to be a
rather splendid job.
The school
was situated on a moor in the south of England. The young ladies, although she
now gave pause as to whether some deserved the title, seemed good students and
extremely energetic (although they could be sloth in the morning). The regular
teaching staff seemed friendly and very professional, the pay was good and the
hours amenable. A few hours literature classes a day and a little history, then
a bracing cycle trip home for an evening by the fire. Very agreeable, or so she
had thought.
Her initial
reception had been the usual mixture of caution, fascination and a few little
challenges, the usual things like feet on the desk, saucy attitudes and uniform
infractions; nothing she didn’t expect or couldn’t handle. What had slowly
begun to grate on her nerves was one particular class which contained a
particular clique of upper form girls, the leader of which, a young madam by
the name of Danni Murphy seemed to have a penchant for high skirts, tousled
hair in the morning and the mouth of a street urchin, not that any of the
others members of the gang were far behind.
One of the
earliest conflicts had come about Miss Murphy’s use of language. With the
clanging of the lunchtime bell, Murphy had an annoying habit of jumping up and
shouting, “Feeding time, bitches!” to a whoop of delight from her cronies. As
the group had headed for the door, Miss Jowens had ordered the girl to remain
behind and sternly lectured her about such behavior and language in her, Miss
Jowen’s, presence. Amidst the usual teenage eye-rolling and eye-avoiding pouts,
Murphy had mumbled something about it being a name she and her “homies” used
amongst themselves and no insult was meant by it. Ever after, the impudent
young madam had paused before uttering the offensive phrase in time to say
something like, “Meal time… ladies!” in her sing-song voice.
Over the
next few weeks, it became apparent that there was some tension between Miss
Jowens and that particular class of girls. Even some of her colleagues had
approached her in the staffroom or taken her aside and advised her, in hushed
tones, to watch her step. It seemed that even the staff referred to the clique
as “The Bitches”. Miss Jowens, although a little perturbed at the nickname,
assured her colleagues and herself that her professionalism would rise above it
all.
Time
however, took its toll. And Miss Jowen’s nerves were becoming seriously frayed
at the behavior and attitude of these stroppy young besoms. This morning had
been a near breaking straw when she had come in to teach an early history class
about Templar monuments (which had received whistles of derision) only to find
the infuriating Murphy sitting on the desk with her skirt pulled high,
revealing a scratch across her thigh to her friends.
“I assume,
Dannielle, that there is some explanation for such bawdy behavior?” Miss Jowens
had demanded. The girl stood, letting her skirt fall back to its full length.
“Yes, Miss.
I was showing the girls some scratches I got during a cross-country run last
evening when I tried to put my leg over a fence.” She smirked. Miss Jowens
ignored it.
“Yes, well
thank you, Lorraine, but a history class is not the place for such things…”
“No Miss,
sorry Miss, I don’t suppose you’re into getting your leg over things,” came the
taunting reply, followed by another comment from a girl behind,
“That would
be ancient history!” This remark brought giggles from the class and the
declaration of a one hour detention for the entire group that evening. The
sentence brought moans and protests,
“But Miss,
we’ve got cross-country tonight!”
“Then
you’ll miss it, won’t you?” Miss Jowens declared triumphantly. A class of
sullen heads bent over the text books and several pairs of angry eyes glared
under their fringes at the teacher.
The
detention classroom was ready and the girls filtered in slowly and sullenly.
There were several books of short stories placed at the desks, Miss Jowens
having just finished a literature class on early 20thc supernatural fiction.
Lorraine Murphy slouched in and picked up one of the volumes with a whoop.
“It’s M.R.
James time, Bitches!” and the rest of the class cheered.
This was the final
straw. In a voice of sheer fury, Miss Jowens ordered them to leave the books
and to take their places. How dare they disgrace the work of the master with
such behavior. They were not fit to read such fine works. And Dannielle Murphy
was ordered to the front of the class. She stood, defiant.
“Make me!”
she taunted. Miss Jowens fixed her with a glare,
“When I
whistle, you’ll come to me my girl!” she replied in a hard voice. The girl
moved slowly to the front of the class to stand before the enraged teacher.
“Good, now face the class”. With a heavenward
eye-roll, she turned slowly only to receive two lightning hard whacks
across the back of her thighs with a pointer. She yelped and jumped around to
face Miss Jowens with a savage stare.
“Don’t
worry, Miss Murphy, those two won’t go down in the pointer’s diary… but if
you’d like some more… otherwise, sit down while you can!”
Seemingly
defeated, the sulking girl limped towards a desk. The class was silent, in a
state of shock. There was only a mild response when it was announced that Miss
Murphy’s behavior had earned them an extra hour of detention. One or two girls
pointed out they would miss their evening meal but otherwise the rebellion
seemed to have lost heart. Miss Jowens wrote up the detention assignment and
sat back, satisfied.
The double
detention had meant that the sun was setting as Miss Jowens began her usual
cycle ride down the unlit moor road. She wasn’t worried as she had a good light
and the weather was mild. It was a straight road and there was no chance of
getting lost. But it did occur to her that this was the first time she had
crossed this area at night.
Around ten
minutes into her ride, she thought she heard the sound of running. Looking
around, she saw nothing, although it was so dark that she couldn’t have seen if
anything was there. Still she heard a drumming sound like the pounding of feet.
Perhaps there were sheep of moor ponies attracted to her light, she thought.
However, despite such attempts at comforting herself, she pedaled faster. The
road snaked into a broad bend just before the stream bridge and she seemed to
hear the running veer off to one side. She sighed in relief but continued to
increase her pace as she approached the little flat bridge.
The hard,
heavy bulk crashed out of the dark and sent Miss Jowens flying from her trusty
bicycle, into the stream which gurgled under the bridge. Struggling to stand,
she turned towards the bridge to find a large black canine confronting her with
red eyes and a slavering snarl.
Miss Jowens
had heard local legends of black dogs but had dismissed them. Legendary or not,
however, there could be no mistaking the size and ferocity of the beast before
her. She attempted to scramble up the stream bank only to find her way barred
by another canine, this time with a lighter coat. Looking over to her right, a
third creature was likewise barring her escape whilst baring its fangs.
Miss Jowens
choked a scream for help and began to run, stumbling along the length of the
stream, often falling and rising, drenched to continue her fruitless attempt to
escape. The two lighter beasts ran alongside the stream and then, suddenly,
with a great snarling and splashing, she heard the black one charging up the
waterway behind her.
Slipping
and stumbling, the terrified teacher clawed her way up the shallow bank and
began to run across the moor. The thundering of the canine pads came hard and
fast as the black dog jumped at her back, bringing her face down into the mud
and peat. The other two hounds grabbed her arms in their jaws and dragged her fast
and roughly across the sharp, abrasive surface of the moor. Through the pain
and the banging of her head the bloodied woman became aware of several other
dogs running alongside, barking joyously. The blessed darkness of
unconsciousness spared her more.
“Did you
enjoy the cross country run?”
The
familiar voice crept into her ear, pulling her from the sweet darkness. Her
eyes flickered open and through the blurred vision Miss Jowens began to make
out a new face, canine, with burning eyes and an almost impertinent grin to its
fanged mouth. Miss Jowens shivered as the face came nearer, licking her across
the face and thrusting its nose into hers. She shuddered, waiting for the snap
of jaws. The animal seemed to snort in amusement and turned its back on the
terrified woman.
As her
eyesight adjusted, Miss Jowens became aware that this dog, seemingly the leader
of the pack which surrounded her had a two toned coat; the upper part around
the body being dark but the hind legs being pale, almost white but with two
fierce red lines across the back of them. The snarling face turned to gaze at
her.
“Kneel,
Jowens” came a voice, a singsong, almost human voice. The teacher choked back a
cry and stared, quivering as the beast turned to face her. Raising herself onto
her knees, Miss Jowens sobbed a final word…
“Dannielle?”
she croaked.
The upper
lip curled and the eyes rolled upwards before honing in on Miss Jowens’s
widening pupils. The other dogs whined excitedly as the cry came,
“FEEDING
TIME, BITCHES!”
"The Witches of Kyiv" by Orest Somov: a collection of short stories from Ukraine.
