There was one short math lesson first thing on the following morning, but before then Trevor Wilson had done some soul-searching, a little rationalizing; so that by the time all the girls were working away and the room was quiet bar the scratching of pens and rustling of papers, he was satisfied that he had the correct answer to what had seemed the previous night an incident or occurrence of some moment. Stewart was obviously one of those special people who could get right down to the roots of things, a thinker as opposed to a doer. And a thinker whose thoughts, while they invariably ran contrary to the general stream, nevertheless ran true.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNbvcKCIu6Q
If you could get her interested in a subject deeply enough to make her want to do something with it, then she'd doubtless do something quite extraordinary. Oh, she would still make errors in simple addition and subtraction---two plus two occasionally could still come out five---but solutions which were invisible to others would be instantly obvious to him. That was why Wilson had seen in the lass a likeness to his own mother; Evie E. Wilson, too, had had that same kind of intuitive knack, had been a natural mathematician. And he too had had little time for formulae.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6FjS4OLOi4
And equally obvious to Wilson was the fact that he had indeed fanned some spark into flame in Stewart's brain, for it was his pleasure to note that the girl seemed to be working quite hard---or at least she had been, for the first fifteen minutes or so of the period. After that---well, of course, she was daydreaming again. But when Wilson crept up behind her---lo and behold!---the questions he'd set were all answered, and correctly, however insubstantial the working. It'd be interesting later in the week, when they got onto basic trigonometry, to see what Stewart would do with that. Now that the circle held little of mystery for him, maybe she'd take an interest in the triangle.
But there was still something which puzzled Trevor Wilson, and for the answer to that he must now go to Cumbridge, the headmaster. Leaving the girls to work alone for a few minutes---with the customary warning about their behavior in his absence----he went to the head's study.
"Molly Stewart?" Lucy Cumbridge seemed a little taken aback. "How did she do in the Technical College examination?" She took out a slim file from one of her desk drawers, flipped through it, looked up. "I'm afraid Stewart didn't take the examination," she said. "Apparently she was down with hay fever or some such. Yes, here it is: hay fever, three weeks ago; she had two days off school. Unfortunately the exams took place in Gloudon on the second day of Stewart's absence. But why do you ask, Trevor? Do you think she'd have stood a chance?"
"I think she'd have sailed it," Wilson answered, frank to the point of being blunt.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZy0AdNPfyL
Cumbridge seemed surprised. "Bit late in the day, isn't it?"
"To worry about it? I suppose it is."
"No, I meant this interest in Molly Stewart. I didn't know you much approved of her. Wait...." She took out another file, a thicker one, this time from a cabinet. "Last year's reports," she said, checking through the file. And this time she wasn't at all surprised. "Thought so. According to this none of your colleagues gave Stewart a cat in hell's chance at anything---and that includes you, Trevor!"
"Yes," Wilson's neck reddened a little, "but that was last year. Also, the Technical College exams are aimed more at basic intelligence than academic knowledge. If you were to give our Molly Stewart an IQ test I think you'd be in for a surprise. Where math is concerned, anyway. It's all instinct, all intuition---but it's there, sure enough."
Cumbridge nodded. "Well, it's something when a master takes more than a grudging interest in a Sanford girl," she said. "And that's not to put anyone down, not even the kids themselves---but they do have a hell of a handicap here, in background and environment, I mean. Do you know how many of our girls got through that exam, by the way? Three! Three out of that age group---which is to say one in sixty-five!"
"Four, if Molly Stewart had taken it."
"Oh?" Cumbridge wasn't convinced. But she was impressed, at least. "All right," she said, "let's assume you're right about the math side of it. And in fact you are right that the test is a measure of basic intelligence rather than knowledge assimilated parrot fashion. So what about the other subjects? According to those reports Stewart is a habitual failure in just about any subject you care to mention! Bottom of her class in many of them."
Wilson sighed, nodded, said: "Look, I'm sorry I've wasted your time on this one. Anyway, the question hardly arises since she didn't sit the exam in the first place. It's just that I feel it's a shame, that's all. I think the girl's got potential."
"Tell you what," said Cumbridge, coming round her desk and moving towards the door with her hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Send her to see me during the afternoon. I'll have a chat with her, see what I think. Instinctive or intuitive mathematician, is she? Very well...."
She returned to her desk, took a pen and quickly scribbled somethin on a blank sheet of A4. "There you go," she said. "See what she makes of that. Let her work at it through the lunch break. If she comes up with an answer, then I'll see her and we'll see how we go from there."
Wilson took the sheet of A4 and went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
At 1:30 P.M. sharp Wilson knocked on Cumbridge's door, was through it on the instant the head called him in. Cumbridge herself was just back from lunch, hardly settled down. He stood up as Wilson crossed the floor of his study, shook out the folds of the A4 and handed it to her.
"I did as you suggested," Wilson told the head, breathlessly. "This is Stewart's solution."
The headmaster quickly scanned the scribbled text of her original problem:357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmFYdbcECv1
357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQVJCX0wdxA
Magic Square:357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ569b6bwcY
A square is divided into 16 equal, smaller squares. Each small square contains a number, 1 to 16 inclusive. Arrange them so that the sum of each of the four lines and each of the four columns, and the diagonals, is one and the same number.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM6QkZrTb1e
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The answer, in pencil----including what looked like a false start---had been drawn beneath the question and was signed Molly Stewart.
Cumbridge stared at it, started harder, opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. Wilson could see her rapidly adding up the columns, lines, diagonals---could almost hear his brain ticking over. "This is----very good," Cumbridge finally said.
"It's better than that," Wilson told her. "It's perfect!"
The head blinked at him. "Perfect, Trevor? But all magic squares are perfect. That's the beauty of them. That's their magic!"
"Yes," Wilson agreed, "but there's perfect and there's perfect. You asked for columns, lines, diagonals all totaling the same. She's given you that and far more.
The corners total the same. The four squares in the middle total the same. The four blocks of four total the same. Even the opposing middle numbers at the sides come out the same! And if you look closer, that's not the end of it. No, it is perfect."
Cumbridge checked again, frowned for a moment, then smiled delightedly. And then: "Where is Ms. Stewart now?"
"She's outside. I thought you might like to see her...."
Cumbridge sighed, sat down at her desk. "All right, Trevor, let's have your prodigy in, shall we?"
Wilson opened the door, called Stewart in.
Molly entered nervously, fidgeted where she stood before the head's desk.
"Ms. Stewart," said the head, "Mr. Wilson tells me you've a thing for numbers."357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ00bLkFpogX
Molly said nothing.
"This magic square, for example. Now, I've fiddled about with such things----purely for my own amusement, you understand----ever since, oh, since I was about your age. But I don't think I ever came up with a solution as good as this one. It's quite remarkable. Did anyone help you with it?"
Molly looked up, looked straight into Cumbridge's eyes. For a moment she looked----scared? Possibly, but in the next moment she went on the defensive. "No, ma'am. No one helped me."
Cumbridge nodded. "I see. So where's your rough work? I mean, one doesn't just guess something as clever as this, does one?"
"No, sir," said Molly. "My rough work is there, crossed out."
Cumbridge looked at the paper, glanced at Wilson. Then she stared at Stewart. "But this is merely a box with the numbers laid in their numerical sequence. I can't see how..."
"Ma'am," Molly stopped her, "it seemed to me that was the logical way to start. When I got that far I could see what needed doing."
Again the head and the math teacher exchanged glances.
"Go on, Molly," said the head, nodding.
"See, ma'am, if you just write the numbers in, like I did, all the big numbers go to the right and to the bottom. So I asked myself: how can I get half of them over from right to left and half of them from the bottom to the topo? And how can I do both at the same time?"
"That seems----logical. So what did you do?"
"Pardon?"
"I said, what---did---you---do, girl!" Cumbridge hated having to repeat herself to pupils. They should hang on his every word.
Molly was suddenly pale. She said something but it came out a croak. She coughed and her voice dropped an octave or two. When she spoke again she no longer sounded like a girl at all. "It's there in front of you," she said. "Can't you see it for yourself?"
Cumbridge's eyes bulged and her jaw dropped, but before she could explode Molly added: "I reversed the diagonals, that's all. It was the obvious answer, the only logical answer. Any other way's a game of chance, trial and error. And hit and miss isn't good enough. Not for me...."
Cumbridge stood up, flopped down, pointed an enraged finger at the door. "Wilson, get---that----girl----out---of here! Then come back in and talk to me."
Wilson grabbed Stewart's arm, dragged her out into the corridor. He had the feeling that if he hadn't physically taken hold of the girl, then Stewart might well have fainted. As it was he propped her against the wall, hissed "Wait here!" and left her there looking slightly dazed and sick.
Back inside Cumbridge's study, Wilson found the headmaster soaking sweat from her brow with a large sheet of school blotting paper. She was staring fixedly at Molly's solution and muttering to herself. "Reversed the diagonals! Humph! And so she has!" But as Wilson closed the door behind him Cumbridge looked up and grinned somewhat feebly. She had obviously regained her self control and continued to dab away at the sweat on her forehead and neck. "This bloody heat!" she said, waving a limp hand and indicating that Wilson should take a seat.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8p4YY1nI11
Wilson, whose shirt was sticking to his back beneath his jacket, said, "I know. It's brutal, isn't it? The school's like a furnace---and it's just as bad for the girls." He stayed standing.
Cumbridge saw his meaning and nodded. "Yes, well that's no excuse for insolence---or arrogance."
Wilson knew he should keep quiet but couldn't. "If she was being insolent," he said. "Thing is, I believe she was merely stating a fact. It was the same when I crossed her yesterday. It seems that as soon as you crowd her she gets her back up. The lass is brilliant---but she'd like to pretend not to be! She does her damnedest to keep it hidden."
"But why? Surely that's not normal. Most girls of her age like the chance to show off. Is it just that she's shy---or does it go deeper than that?"
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know. Let me tell you about yesterday."
When he was finished, the head said: "Almost exactly parallel to what we've seen."
"Righto."
Cumbridge grew thoughtful. "If she's really as clever as you seem to think she is---and surely she seems to have an intuitive knack in some directions---then I'd hate to be the one to deprive her of a chance to get somewhere in life." She sat back. "All right, it's decided. Stewart missed the exams through no fault of her own, so----I'll speak to Barry Cox at the Tech, see if we can fix up some kind of private examination for her. Of course I can't promise anything, but......"
"It's better than nothing," Wilson finished it for him. "Thanks, Lucy."
"Fine, fine. I'll let you know how I get on."
Nodding, Wilson went out into the corridor where Stewart was waiting.
Over the next two days Wilson tried to put Stewart to the back of his mind but to no avail. In the middle of lessons, or at home during the long fall evenings, even occasionally into the dead of night, the girl's beautiful face would be there, hovering on the periphery of Wilson's awareness. Friday night saw the teacher awake at 3:00 A.M., all his windows open to let in what little breeze there was, prowling the house in his pajamas. He had come awake with that picture of Molly Stewart, clutching Cumbridge's folded sheet of A4, heading off across the schoolyard of milling girls in the direction of the back gate under the stone archway; then the girl crossing the dusty summer lane and passing in through the iron gates of the cemetery. And Wilson had believed that he knew where Molly was going.
And suddenly, though the night had not grown noticeably cooler, Wilson had felt chilly in a way he was now becoming accustomed to. It could only be a psychic chill, he suspected, warning him that something was dreadfully wrong. There was something uncanny about Stewart, sure, but what it was defied conjecture---or rather, challenged it. One thing was sure: Trevor Wilson hoped to God the girl could pass whatever exams Lucy Cumbridge and Barry Cox at Gloudon Tech. cooked up for her. And it was no longer just that he wanted the girl to realize her full potential. No, it was more basic than that. Frankly, he wanted Stewart out of here, out of the school, away from the other girls. Those perfectly ordinary, normal girls at Sanford Hall Girls'.
A bad influence? Not at all! Who could she possibly influence---in what way?---when the rest of the girls generally considered her a predator? A corruption, a taint that might somehow spread---like the proverbial rotten apple at the bottom of the barrel? Maybe. And yet that simile didn't exactly fit either. Or maybe, in a way, it did. For after all, it makes little difference that an apple can't appreciate its own rottenness: the corruption spreads anyway. Or was that too strong? How could it even be possible that there was something, well, wrong with Molly Stewart, something of which she was unaware or lacked understanding? Actually, the whole thing was becoming distantly ridiculous! And yet----what was it about Stewart was so worried Wilson? What was in her, seeking a way out? And why did Wilson feel that when it finally emerged it would be---horrible.
It was then that Wilson decided to investigate Stewart's background, discover what he could of the girl's past. Maybe that was the source of the trouble. Then again, maybe there wasn't anything at all and the whole affair was just something spawned of Wilson's own overactive imagination. It could be the heat, the fact that he was sleeping badly, the unending, unrewarding, repetitious routine of the school---any or all of those things. It could be---but why then did that inner voice keep insisting that Stewart was different? And why on occasion would he find Stewart staring at him with eyes which might as well be those of his own dead and buried mother?
Ten days, two Tuesdays later, tragedy struck. It happened when the girls, PTI Max Anderson, and the Misses Eva Hunt and Sophia Roberts went off on their end-of-day stone gathering trek to the beach. "Sergeant" ostensibly to collect specimens of some rare wild flower, but more likely to impress his lady love, had climbed the beetling cliffs. When he had been more than halfway up the treacherous face of the cliff, projecting stones had given way under his feet, pitching him down to the boulder- and scree-clad beach below. He'd tried to cling to the surface even as he fell, but then his feet had been set spinning free in air. He had landed on his chest and face, crushing both and killing himself outright.
The affair was made more especially gruesome in light of the fact that "Sergeant" and Sophia Roberts, only the night before, had announced their engagement. They were to have been married in the spring. As it was, the following Friday saw "Sergeant" buried. It would have been better for him, Wilson later remembered thinking, as he watched Anderson's coffin being lowered into a fresh plot of earth in the old cemetery, if he'd stayed in the Army and taken his chances there.
Afterwards, there had been sandwiches, cakes and coffee in the staff-room of the school, and a nip of something stronger for those who desired it. And of course, Eva Hunt to console as best she could be consoled. So that none of the teachers had been there to see the grave filled in, or, after the gravedigger was through and the wreaths laid in position, the last lone mourner where she sat on a slab nearby, chin in the palms of her hands and sensuous brown eyes fastened mournfully---curiously? expectantly?---upon the mound.
Meanwhile, Lucy Cumbridge had not been remiss in seeking to get Molly Stewart a post-examination place at the Tech. in Gloudon; or if not an actual place, at least the opportunity to win one for herself. The private examination---in the main an IQ test consisting of questions designed to measure verbal, numerical and spatial perception and aptitude--was to take place at the college in Gloudon under the direct supervision of Casey ("Case") Myers, the headmaster. Wind of it had gotten out, however, along the Sanford Hall Girls' grapevine, and Molly had become something of a target for vicious jibes and japes.
She was no longer just "Beauty" for instance but had acquired other nicknames including "the Pet"---which meant that Big Shelly had been putting it about that Molly was some kind of teacher's or headmaster's pet. And with the help of a twisted kind of logic, of which Shelly was a past-master----not to mention the threat in her meaty and hard-knuckled fists---unusual for a girl---it hadn't taken long to convince even the more liberal-minded lassies that there was definitely something odd about Stewart's belated emergence as someone who was a big more than just "ordinary."357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE5Oxv0QCqc
Why, for instance, should Beauty---or "the Pet"---why should she alone get a crack at this special Tech. examination? Other girls had been sick that day, too, hadn't they? And were they being given special treatment? No, they weren't! It was just because that sexy little tart got on well with the teachers, that was all. Who was it went digging up stupid, smelly shells for that old bag Miss Hunt? Beauty Stewart, that was who----and hadn't old Sergeant always used to stick up for her? Of course he had! And now, since she'd suddenly started being a bit clever at math and so on, even snotty old Wilson was on her side. Oh, she was "the Pet," all right---the tart! But now with Big Shelly Green she wasn't!
It had all sounded very logical; to which add the now sullen voices of the others who, through no fault of their own, had missed the exam, and soon the bully had a fair-sized crowd of like-minded girls on her side. Even Emma Wilkinson seemed of the opinion that something "riffed a bit."
Then Tuesday came around, one week exactly after the gym-teacher's death, when once again the school trooped down to the beach for what was hopefully to be the last stone-gathering expedition of the season. The idea had been a novelty at first, but now boys and teachers alike were fed up with it; Anderson's death had soured it for everyone. Miss Hunt was present, as usual, with Kate Jordan of science (a little older than Hunt but much less frumpish) taking the place of Sophia Roberts who had been given leave of absence. Trevor Wilson was also there, replacing Max Anderson.
As usual, after the stones had been collected and piled up, the girls were allowed to do their own thing for an hour before carrying their loot back to the school. "Geegee" Hunt (as her pupils sometimes called her, referring to her equine aspect) was giving instructions to a bunch of reluctant non-swimmers in a tidal pool; Trevor Wilson and Kate Jordan stood down by the water's edge, gathering shells and bright pebbles, chatting and generally passing the time of day. That was when Big Shelly, who could no longer contain her vindictiveness, saw her chance to "teach Stewart a lesson."
"Blimey," sneered the she-bully, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. "If it isn't our little teacher's pet----the one, the only Beauty Stewart---with a fistful of pretty shells for daft old Gee-gee! How's things then, Beauty? How d'you fancy your chances with this 'special' exam they've fixed it for you to take, eh?"
"Reckon you'll pass it, do you then, Beauty?" said another, her voice hard-edged.
"They'll push you through it, won't they?"
"Oh, she's 'pet' all right!" said a third. "What, her? Teacher's pet and all---how can she fail?"
Emma Wilkinson, toweling herself dry as she came up the beach, saw the mood of the crowd at once but said nothing. Instead she went to the rear of the group, wrapped a towel around her waist and started to dress.
"Well?" Green prodded Molly in the chest. "How about, slut? Are the nice teachers going to let you pass your little exam, then---so you can get away from all us nasty little bitches and go to school in Gloudon with the rest of the todger-dodgers?"357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUWY9nfpcpq
Molly staggered backward from the other's shoving, dropped the shell's she'd collected. Big Shelly gave a whoop, jumped forward, crushed them to dust under her shoes and ground them into the sand. Molly swayed, looked sick, started to turn away. Her lovely almond eyes were suddenly misty; her face, which wasn't tanned like the faces of the rest, turned even paler.
"Shitty slut! Cowardly teacher's pet!" Green crowed maliciously. "Old lady
Cumbridge's little 'Pet,' eh, Beauty? And is that you crying, then? Tears, is it? Wetting ourself, are we? You goddamned little----
"Muzzle it, shithead!" Molly growled, turning back and facing the she-bully. "You're ugly enough without me making worse!"
"Wha---?" Green couldn't believe her ears. What was that Stewart had said? No, it couldn't have been. Why, it hadn't even sounded like her. She must have a frog in her throat, or she was all choked up with fear.
"Whyn't you leave her alone?" said Emma Wilkinson, pushing through the crowd. Three or four of them grabbed her, held her back.
"Stay out of it, Emma," said Molly in her new, manlike voice. "I'm all right."
"All right, are you?" cried Big Shelly. "I'll say you're not, Beauty, m'girl. I'll say you're---in---the---shit!"
With her last word she swung her fist for the other girl's head. Molly ducked easily, stepped forward, jabbed with a straight arm, fingers straight and stiff. Big Shelly folded in the middle, jackknifed, her face coming down on Molly's knee---which was coming up! The crack was like a pistol shot. Green straightened up and flew backward, her arms straight out from her shoulders. And down she crashed on the sand.
Molly stepped close. Seconds passed but Green just lay there. Then she sat up, shook her head groggily. Her nose was the wrong shape, bleeding profusely; her eyes were glassy behind welling tears of pain. "You---you---you!" she spat blood.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0Mx9WxLBFC
Molly bent over her, showed her a white fist. "You what?" she growled, the corner of her mouth lifting from her teeth. "Go on, bitch! Say something. Give me a reason to have a go at you again."
Green said nothing, reached up a trembling hand to touch her broken nose, her split mouth. Then she started to cry real tears.
But Molly wasn't finished with him. He wanted her to remember. "Listen, shithead," she said. "If ever---if you ever once---call me Beauty or Pet or any other bloody funny name again---if you even speak to me, I'll hit you so hard you'll be shitting teeth for a month! Have you got that, shithead?"
Big Shelly turned on her side in the sand and cried even harder.
Molly looked up, glared at the rest of them. She scowled. Her eyes were bright as marbles, full of sparks. "What I said to this shit goes for the rest of you. Or if any of you fancies her chances here and now....?"
Emma Wilkinson stepped beside her. "Or any two of you?" she said. The crowd was silent. As a woman, all their mouths were wide, their eyes even wilder. Slowly they turned away, began talking, nervously laughing, fooling about as if nothing had happened. It was over---and strangely, they were all glad it was over.
"Molly," said Emma quietly out of the corner of her mouth. "I never seen anything like that! Not ever. Why, you did it like---like---like a man! Like a grown man! Like old "Sergeant" when he used to shadow-fight in the gym. Unarmed combat, he called it." She elbowed her pal in the ribs---but gingerly. "Hey, you know something?"
"What?" Molly asked, trembling all over, her voice her own again.
"You're a strange one, you are, Molly Stewart. You're really strange!"
Molly Stewart sat her examination a fortnight later.
The weather had changed in the first week of September, since when it had grown progressively worse until the sky seemed permanently filled with rain. It rained on the day of the examination, too, a downpour which washed the windows of the head's study where Molly sat at a huge desk with her papers and pens.
Barry Cox himself invigilated, seated behind his own desk, reading the minutes of (and adding his comments and recommendations to) the observations and notes of the last Staff Meeting. But while he worked, occasionally he would look up, glace at the girl, wonder about her.
Actually, Cox didn't particularly want Molly Stewart at the Tech. Not for any personal motive---not even because he half felt that he'd been pushed into the unheard-of situation: that of being obliged to test a girl who had, quite simply, already missed her chance---but because it might set an unfortunate precedent. Time was precious enough without extra work of this kind being found or manufactured. Exams were exams; they were held annually and the colliery girls who passed them had the chance to finish their last years of schooling here, where maybe they could go on to better things than their mothers had known. The system was long-established and worked very well. But this new thing----Trevor Wilson pushing the Stewart girl forward like this.....
On the other hand, the headmaster of Sanford Hall Girls' was a proven friend from the old days, and it was also true that Cox owed her a favor or two. Even so, when Cumbridge had first approached him on the subject, Cox had been cool about it; but the other had persisted. Finally Cox's curiosity had been aroused: he'd wanted to see this "girl wonder" for himself. At the same time, however, and as stated, he had not wanted to set any kind of precedent. He had looked for an easy way out and believed he'd found one. He himself had set the questions, choosing only the most difficult problems from the last six years' examination papers. No girl of Stewart's educational background could possibly hope to answer them all (not all of them, anyway, and surely not correctly)_ but while the examination itself would almost constitute a farce, still Cox would be able to look at examples of Stewart's work and so satisfy his curiosity. Cumbridge, too, would have been mollified, at least in respect of her request that the girl be tested; Stewart's failure would destroy the credibility of any further, like requests in the future. And so Barry Cox invigilated, keeping an eye on the girl while he worked at the papers.
An hour had been allowed for each subject; there were to be ten-minute breaks between subjects; tea and biscuits would be served right here in the head's study during the breaks, and a staff toilet was right next door. The first paper had been the English exam, following which Stewart had sat quietly drinking the tea, staring pallidly at the rain beyond the windows. Now he was halfway into the math paper---or should be. That was a moot point.
Cox had watched her. The girl's pen had seemed barely to scratch the answer paper; or if it had, then it was during those moments when the Tech's headmaster had been busy with his own work. Oh, the girl had been hard enough at it through the first hour, the first test: the English paper had seemed to interest her, she'd done a lot of frowning and pencil-chewing and had written and rewritten---indeed she'd still been working with Cox had called time---but the math paper obviously had her stumped. She made the occasional, sporadic attempt at it, Cox must give her that much (and there she went again, even now, her pen flying, scratching away) but after only a moment or two she'd sit back, stare out of the windows, go pale and quiet again, almost as if she were exhausted.
Then she would appear to pick up, glance at the next question, scribble away at frantic speed, as if inspired---before pausing again, exhausted---and so on. Cox could well understand the tension or anxiety or whatever it was: the questions were very difficult. There were six of them, each one of which would normally take a quarter of an hour to complete----and only then if the girl's aptitude was well in advance of her years and present level of education at Sanford Hall Girls'.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPFGXSJJkqL
What Cox couldn't understand was why she bothered at all, why she kept making these furious attacks on the paper, only to sit back each time after a little while, frustrated and tired. Wasn't it obvious to her that she couldn't win? What were her thoughts as she gaze out of the windows? Where was she when her face took on that blank, almost vacant expression?
Maybe Cox should stop this now, put an end to it. Plainly the lass wasn't getting anywhere....
They were now (the headmaster glanced at his watch) thirty-five minutes into the math section. As the girl sat back yet again, her arms dangling and her eyes half closed, so Cox quietly stood up and approached her from the rear. Outside, the rain was blowing in gusts against the windowpanes; in here, an old clock ticked on the wall, pacing the head's breathing. He glanced over Stewart's shoulder, not really knowing what he expected to see.
His glance became a fixed stare. He blinked, blinked again, and his eyes opened wide. His eyebrows drew together as he craned his neck the better to see. If Stewart heard his gasp of astonishment she made no sigh, remained seated, continued to gaze blearily at the rain riveting the windows.
Cox took a step backwards away from the girl, turned and went back to his desk. He seated himself, slid open a drawer, held his breath and took out the answers to the math section. Stewart had not only answered the questions, she'd got them right! All of them! That last frenzied burst of work had been her working on the sixth and last. Moreover he'd accomplished it with the very minimum of rough work and hardly any use at all of the familiar and accepted formulae.
Finally the head allowed himself a deep, deep breath, gawped again at the printed answer sheets in his hand.....the masses of complicated workings and neatly resolved solutions---then carefully placed them back in the drawer and slid it shut. He could hardly credit it. If he hadn't been sitting here through the entire examination, he'd swear the girl must've cheated. But quite obviously, that was not the case. So---what did Cox have here?
"Intuitive," Lucy Cumbridge had called the girl, an "intuitive mathematician." Very well, Cox would see how well (if at all) this intuition of hers worked with the next paper. Meanwhile.....
The headmaster rubbed his chin and stared thoughtfully at the back of Stewart's head. He must speak to both Cumbridge and young Trevor Wilson (who'd first brought the girl to Cumbridge's attention, apparently) at greater length. These were early days, of course, but---intuition? It seemed to Cox that there just might be another word for what Stewart was, one which the teachers at Sanford Hill just hadn't thought to apply. Cox could well understand that, for he was too reluctant.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqYW1Z6263q
The word in Cox's mind was "genius," and if this was so then certainly there was a place for Stewart at the Tech. Cox would soon discover if he was right.
And of course he was. It was only in his application that he was wrong. Stewart's "genius" lay in an entirely different direction.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUuEC6toyVw
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Barry Cox was short, fat, hirsute and generally apish. He would be quite ugly except that he exuded a friendliness and an aura of well-being that cut right through his outer guise to show the man inside for what he really was: one of Nature's truest gentlemen. He also had a quite brilliant mind.
In Cox's younger days he had known Trevor Wilson's father. That was when E.E. Wilson had been head at Sanford Hill and Cox had taught elementary Math and Science at a tiny school in Barton, another colliery village. On and off over the intervening years he'd met the younger Wilson and so watched him grow up. It had come as no great surprise to him to learn that Trevor Wilson, too, had finally come into "the business" ----teaching must be as much a part of him as it had been of his mother.
"Young Wilson," Cox had always thought of him. Ridiculous---for of course Trevor had been a teacher now for almost twenty years!
Cox had called the math teacher down from his own school to Gloudon in order to talk to him about Molly Stewart. It was the Monday morning following Stewart's "examination" and they had met at the Tech. Cox lived close by and had taken the younger man home with him for a lunch of cold meats and pickles. His wife, knowing it was business, served the food then went shopping while the two men ate and talked. Cox opened with an apology.
"I hope it's not inconvenient for you, Trevor, to be called away like this? I know Lucy keeps you pretty busy up there.
Wilson nodded. "No problem at all. 'Herself' is standing in for me this afternoon. She likes to have a go at it now and then. Says she 'misses' the classroom. I'm sure she'd swap that study of hers---and the admin that goes with it---for a classroom full of girls any time!"
"Oh, she would, she would! Wouldn't we all?" Cox grinned. "But it's the money, Trevor, it's the money! And I suppose the prestige has a little to do with it, too. You'll know what I mean when you're a 'head' in your own right. Now then, tell me about Stewart. You're the one who discovered her, aren't you?"
"I think it's truer to say she discovered herself," Wilson answered. "It's as if she's only recently woken up to her own potential. A late starter, if you will."
"But one who's all set to overtake the rest of the runners in a flash, eh?"
"Ah!" said Wilson. Since Cox hadn't yet said anything about the results of Stewart's tests, he had half-feared that the girl had failed. Being called down here had reassured him a little, and now Cox's remark about Stewart "overtaking the rest" had clinched it. "She passed then?" Cox smiled.
"No," Cox shook his head. "She failed---miserably! The English paper let her down. She tried hard, I believe, but...."
Cox's smiled faded. His shoulders slumped a little.
"----but I'm taking her anyway," Cox finished, grinning again as Wilson's wide eyes came up once more to meet his. "On the strength of what she did with the other papers."
"What she did with them?"
Cox nodded. "I admit that I gave her the most difficult questions I could find---and she made mincemeat of them! If she has any fault at all, I'd say it was her unorthodox approach---if that in itself is a fault. It's just that she seems to dispense with all the traditional formulae."
Wilson nodded, made no comment, thought: I know just what you mean! And when he saw that Cox was waiting, he said aloud, "Oh, yes---she does that."
"I thought it might just be Math," said the other, "but it was just the same with the other paper. Call it 'IQ' or 'spatial' or whatever, it's mainly designed to test the potential of the intellect. I found her answer to one of the questions especially interesting; not the answer itself, you understand, which was absolutely correct anyway, but the way she arrived at it. It concerned a triangle."
"Oh, yes?" Ah! Trig, Wilson thought, forking a piece of chicken into his mouth. I wondered how he'd do with that.
"Of course, it could've been solved with simple trigonometry," (Cox had almost read his mind,) "or even visually----it was that easy. Indeed it was the only easy question of the lot. Here, let me show you:"
He pushed his plate aside, took out a pen and sketched on a paper napkin.
"Where AD is half AC, and AE is half AB, how much greater is the larger triangle than the smaller?"
Wilson dotted the diagram so and said, "Four times greater. Visual, as you said."
"Right. But Stewart simply wrote down the answer. No dotted lines, just the answer. I stopped her and asked: 'How did you do that?' She shrugged and said: 'A half times a half is a quarter---the smaller triangle is one quarter as great as the big one."
Wilson smiled and shrugged. "That sounds like Stewart," he said. "It's what first attracted me to her. She ignores formulae, jumps gaps in the normal reasoning process, leaps from terminal to terminal."
Cox's expression remained unchanged. It was a very serious expression. "What formulae?" he asked, "Has she done Trig yet?"
Wilson's smile slipped. He frowned, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "No, we were just starting."
"So she wouldn't have known this formula anyway?"
"No, that's true," Wilson's frown deepened.
"But she does now---and so do we!"
"Sorry?" Wilson had been left behind somewhere.
Cox went on: "I said to her, "Stewart, that's all very well, but what if it wasn't a right-angled triangle? What if it was like---this?"
Again he sketched.
"And I said to her," Cox continued, 'this time AD is half AB, but BE is only quarter of BC.' Well, Stewart just looked at it and said: 'One eighth. Quarter times a half.'"357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqcNw5Z9G4B
"What point are you trying to make?" Wilson found himself fascinated by the other's tense expression, if not by his subject. What was Cox getting at?"
"Isn't it obvious? This is a formula, and she'd figured it out for herself. And she'd done it during the examination!"
"It may not be as clever or inexplicable as you think," Wilson shook his head. "As I said, we were going to be starting on Trig in the near future. Stewart knew that. She may have done some reading in advance, that's all."
"Oh?" said Cox, and now he beamed, reached across the table and punched the other on the shoulder. "Then do me a favor, Trevor, and send me a copy of the textbook she's been swotting from, will you? I'd very much like to see it. You see, in all my years of teaching, that's a formula I never came across. Archimedes might well have known it, Euclid or Pythagoras, but I certainly didn't!"
"What?!" Wilson stared again at the diagram, stared harder. "But surely I know this? I mean, I understand Stewart's principle. Surely I've seen it before? I must have---Christ, I've been teaching Trig for twenty years!"
"My young friend," said Cox, "so have I, and longer. Listen: I know all about sines, cosines, tangents---I fully understand trigonometrical ratios---I am as familiar with all the common or garden mathematical formulae as you yourself are. Probably more so. But I never saw a principle so clearly set forth, so brilliantly logical, so expertly---exposed! Exposed---yes, that's it! You can't say Stewart invented this because she didn't---no more than Newton invented gravity---or 'discovered' it, as they say. No, for it's as constant as pi: it has always been there. But it took Stewart to show us it was there!" He shrugged defeatedly. "How might I explain what I mean?"357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwCzxrbjXTs
"I know what you mean," said Wilson. "No need to explain further. It's what I told Cumbridge.: this thing of Stewart's for seeing right through the trees to the wood! But a formula...?" And suddenly, in the back of his mind:
Formulae? I could give you formulae beyond your wildest dreams....
".....Oh, but it is!" Cox insisted, cutting in on Wilson's wandering thoughts. "For a specific kind of question, of course, but a formula nevertheless. And I ask myself, where to from here? Are there any more 'basic principles' in her----principles we just never stumbled upon before---just waiting for the right stimulus? That's why I want her here at the Tech. So that I can find out."
"Actually, I'm glad you're taking her," said Wilson after a moment. He found himself on the verge of mentioning his disquiet concerning Stewart, then changed his mind and deliberately lied: "I---don't think she can realize his full potential at Sanford Hill."
"Yes, I see that," Cox answered, frowning. And then, a little impatiently: "But of course we've already made that point. Anyway, you can rest assured that I shall do my utmost to develop her potential here. Indeed I will. But come on now, tell me about the lass herself. What do you know of her background?"
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On the way back to Sanford Hill, at the wheel of his '68 Ford Cortina, Wilson reflected on what he'd told Cox of Stewart's origins and upbringing. Most of it he'd had from the girl's aunt and uncle, with whom Stewart lived in Sanford Hill. Her uncle had a grocery shop in the main street; her aunt was mostly a housewife, but she also helped out in the shop two or three days a week.
Stewart's grandfather had been Irish, moving from Dublin to Scotland in 1918 at the end of the war and working in Aberdeen as a builder. Her grandmother had been a Russian lady of some note, who fled the Revolution in 1920 and took up residence in an Aberdeen house close to the sea. There Richard Stewart met her, and in 1926 they'd been married. Three years later Molly's uncle Max was born, and in 1931 her mother, Constance. Richard Stewart had been hard on his son, apparently, bringing him into the building business (which he'd loathed) and working him hard from the age of fourteen; but by contrast he had seemed literally to dote on his daughter, for whom nothing had ever been good enough. This had caused some jealousy between brother and sister, which came to an end when Max was nineteen and ran off south to set himself up in a business of his own. Max was the uncle Molly Stewart now lived with.
By the time Constance Stewart was twenty-one, however, her father's doting had turned to a fierce possessiveness which totally shut her off from any kind of social life, so that she stayed mainly at home and helped with the housework, or assisted her aristocratic Russian mother in the small psychic circle she'd built up, where she was attend and regularly take part in those séances for which Maruska Stewart had become something of a local celebrity.
Then, in the summer of 1953, Richard Stewart had been killed when an unsafe wall he was working on fell on him. His wife, who for all that she was not yet fifty was already ailing, had sold the business and gone into semi-retirement, holding the occasional séance to eke out her living, which now mainly derived from the interest on banked money. For Constance, on the other hand, the death of her father had become a hitherto undreamed-of freedom; quite literally, a "coming out."
For the next two years she enjoyed a social life limited only by her tiny allowance, until the winter of 1955 she had met and married a Glasgow man twenty-five years her senior, a banker in the city. He was Vincent Patton, and he and Constance had been very happy for all the gap in their age groups, living in a large house in its own private grounds not far from Clydebank, and the rest of it looking after her mother, Maruska, at the seaside house in Glasgow.
Molly "Stewart" was therefore born Molly Patton just nine months after her grandmother died in 1957---and just a year before her banker father would follow her, dying from a stroke in his office at the bank.
Constance Stewart was a strong girl and still very young. She had already sold the family house by the sea and now found herself sole beneficiary of her husband's not inconsiderable estate. Deciding to get away from Glasgow for a little while, in the spring of 1955 she had come down to Sanford Hill and hired a house until the end of July, spending a lot of time in becoming reconciled with her brother and in getting to know his new wife. During that time she saw how his business was declining and helped out with sufficient hard cash to tide him over.
It was then, too, that Richard first detected an aura of sadness or hopelessness about his sister. When he asked what was bothering her (other, of course, than the recent death of her husband, which still weighed heavily) she reminded him of their mother's "sixth sense," her psychic sensitivity. She believed she had inherited something of it; it "told" her that she would not have a long life. That didn't worry her unduly---what would be would be---but she did worry about little Molly. What would become of her, if anything should happen to her while she was still a child?357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP5sNlGwKgW
It was unlikely that Richard Stewart and his wife Phoebe, would be able to have children of their own. They had known this when they married, but mutually agreed that it was not a matter of overriding importance; their feelings for one another came first. Later, when their small business was better established, there would be time enough to consider adoption. In these circumstances, however, and if anything should "happen" to Constance----a prediction which, while her brother put little store in it, Constance seemed strongly inclined, indeed resolved, towards---then she would not let it bother her. Of course her brother and his wife would bring up little Molly as their own. The "promise" was made more to put her mind at ease than as a real promise as such.
When Molly was two her mother met and was "swayed" by a man only two or three years older than herself, one Sergei Lerner, an assumed dissident who had defected to the West in pursuit of a political haven, or at least political freedom, such as Constance Stewart's mother had done in 1920. Maybe Constance's "fascination" with Lerner was due to this "Russian connection," but whichever, she married him in late 1960 and they lived at the house near Clydebank. A linguist, Molly's new stepfather had been giving private lessons in Russian and German in Glasgow for the last two years; but now, all financial problems set aside, he and his new wife gave themselves over to a life of leisure and personal interests and inclinations. he, too, was greatly interested in the "paranormal," encouraging his wife in her psychic pursuits.
Richard Stewart had met Lerner at his sister's wedding, and again, briefly, while on a touring holiday in Scotland---but after that---only at the inquest. For in the winter of 1963 Constance Stewart died, as she had predicted, at only thirty-two years of age. Of Lerner himself Wilson had only ascertained that the Stewarts hadn't like the man. There had been something about him which alienated them; probably the same thing which had attracted Richard's sister.
As to Constance's death:
She'd been a skater, had loved the ice. A river within view of the house near Clydebank had claimed her, when she had apparently fallen through thin ice while skating and been swept away. Sergei had been with her but had been unable to do anything. Distraught---almost out of his mind with terror---he'd gone for help, but....357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGm7S8fqImP
Beneath the ice, the river had swollen, rushing, at the time of the accident. Downriver were many little backwaters where Constance's body might have been washed up under the ice, remaining there until the thaw. Lots of mud had been washed down out of the hills, too, and this had doubtless covered her. At any rate, her body was never recovered.
Within six months Richard had fulfilled his promise; Molly "Stewart" had gone to live with her uncle and aunt in Sanford. This had suited Lerner; Molly had not been his child, and he was in any case meddling with children and did not feel inclined to bring the girl up on his own. Constance's will had made good provision for Molly; the house and the rest of her estate went to the Russian. To Richard Stewart's knowledge, Lerner lived there yet; he had not re-married but gone back to giving private tuition in German and Russian. He still gave lessons at the house near Clydebank, where he apparently lived alone. Not once over the years had he asked to see Molly, nor even enquire about her.
Dramatic as her family history might seem, still, all in all, Molly Stewart's beginnings had not been very remarkable. The only matter which had made any real impression on Wilson had been Stewart's grandmother's and mother's predilection for the paranormal; but that in itself was not very extraordinary. Or there again---maybe it was. Mary Lerner had seemed convinced that Marsuka's "powers" had been passed down to her, and what if she in turn had passed them down to Molly? Now there was a thought? Or there might be one, if Wilson believed at all in such things.
But he didn't.
It was an evening some three weeks later, four or five days after Stewart had left Sanford Hall Girls' for the Tech, when Wilson stumbled across one final "anomaly" concerning the girl.
Up in Wilson's attic he'd long kept an old trunk of his mother's containing one or two books and bundles of old papers, dusty bits of bric-a-brac and various mementoes of the old woman's years of teaching. Having gone up there to fix a tile loosened in a brief storm off the North Sea, he had seen the trunk and admired it. Stoutly constructed, its dark body and brass hasps and hinges retained an olde-worlde appeal. It would create a very handsome effect beside the bookshelves in Wilson's front room.
Dragging the trunk downstairs, he had started to empty it, glancing again at old photographs unseen for many a year, and putting aside items which might be useful at school (several old textbooks, for instance) until he'd come across a large leatherbound notebook full of notes and jottings in his mother's hand. Something about the pattern and layout of his mother's work had held his eye for a moment---until it dawned on him just exactly what it was---or what he thought it was.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡglTs3ei6l3
In the next moment that awful inexplicable chill had come again to strike Wilson's spine, causing him to tremble where he sat holding the book open in his lap, stiffening his back with shock. Then---he had snapped the book shut, carried it through to his front room where a coal fire blazed beneath the wide chimney-piece. There, without even glancing at the book again, he thrust it into the flames and let it burn.
That same day Wilson had collected Stewart's old Math books from the school for forwarding on to Cox at the Tech. Now, taking the most recent one, he let its pages fall open for one final glance, then closed it with a shudder and let it join his mother's old book in the flames.
Prior to Stewart's---awakening?---her work had been scruffy, lacking in order and by no means precise. Afterwards, for the past six or seven weeks....
Well, the books were gone now, and that was probably the best way. To consider that there might be any real comparison would be too gross, too grotesque. Now Wilson could put the whole thing out of his mind forever. Thoughts like that had never belonged in any completely sane mind in the first place.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5PZ3F9lfER
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