Spying on Miss Muller Read Online Free PDF Page A

away.
    â€œThe all-clear,” Old Rose called, in case we were too far gone to remember how it had sounded in the practices. She was standing on the bottom step, beaming down on us. “We shall have to give heartfelt thanks to the Almighty at morning prayers.” Old Rose had been in amateur dramatics when she was a girl, and she never missed the chance to declaim.
    We jumped off the bunks, cheering and clapping and hugging one another. “It’s over. It’s over.”
    Someone started singing, “We’re gonna hang out the wash on the Siegfried Line.” It was a Gracie Fields song that made fun of the Germans’ first line of defense, which was supposed to be so strong nobody could get through it. And suddenly the boys came rushing up, singing and cheering too.
    There was a new frosty note in Old Rose’s voice. “Children, children. This is not the way to behave. Get into orderly lines, girls at the front, boys at the back.”
    Too late. We were squashed together in the shelter like bananas in a bunch and we were mingling. Mingling in our pajamas. They were under our coats, of course, but still we were in our pajamas. It was the most astonishing part of the whole astonishing night.
    Old Rose was standing on the big Red Cross box now, tottering a bit, holding on to Miss Gaynor’s shoulder. Her face was flushed with fury. “Mr. Atkinson, control your boys.”
    And then, with a little hiss and a squeak, the basement lights went out.
    There was a moment of silence and the noise doubled. The boys surged closer to us and we surged closer to them. There was more mingling than any of us had ever dreamed of.
    In the dark it was hard to tell boy boarder from girl boarder, except by the feel of the coats. Ours were woolen, soft and prickly. Theirs were Burberrys, smooth, slick raincoats.
    â€œWho’s this?” I asked, my fingers slithering across the lapels of someone’s Burberry.
    â€œIt’s Curly Pritchard. Who’s this?”
    â€œJessie Drumm.”
    â€œHiya, Jessie.” He grabbed me and tried to kiss me, but I turned my head so he got my ear. Curly Pritchard was in my geography class. He was a twerp and a sneak. Just my luck to get him.
    â€œWhere are you?” he growled. “What part of you was that?”
    â€œI’m gone,” I told him, stepping back on somebody’s toes.
    Teachers’ flashlights clicked on and roamed across the mass of pushing, trampling boarders. None of us was daft enough to put on
our
flashlights and spoil the first good, dark mingling we’d ever had. Even the little first and second formers were giggling and singing, “We’re gonna hang out the wash on the Siegfried Line, Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear?”
    Old Rose’s voice shrieked through the noise, accompanied by the all-clear, which was still wailing outside. Either it was supposed to go on a long time, or it was stuck.
    â€œI will not have this,” Old Rose screamed. “This is a serious, life-changing experience.”
    It surely was. Us and the boys.
    â€œEach one of you climb onto a bunk and stay there,” Old Rose shouted.
    From out of the dark a boy’s voice called, “Lie down quietly. One boy and one girl to each bunk, please.”
    Old Rose sounded as if she was having a conniption fit. “Who said that? Mr. Atkinson, I demand to know which of your boys made that ugly suggestion. I want him severely punished.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss Rose. I have no way of ascertaining,” Mr. Atkinson said.
    â€œBoys.” That was Mr. Bolton. “Please remember you are gentlemen.”
    And then Mr. Guy. “Come on, boys, relax. Let’s behave.”
    His flashlight slid across a scene that looked like the Saturday-night dance at the Palladium without music.
    I caught a glimpse of Ada next to me. “Isn’t this great?” she said. “It’s the first good thing