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normally expected to see being pulled out proudly by slimmers of the year in mumsy magazines at the dentist. Glands , they usually said, or big bones . How big? There was a skeleton in the Biology lab and it was hard to picture it inside Rosemary McReadie. That neat, bleached pelvis would be lost underneath those forty-six-inch hips (‘death helped me shed twelve stone’).
    Brian and the lads preferred to wear everything on the small side: skirts on the short side, shoes on the high side, purse-belts pulled unlunchably tight, in hopes that wolves would whistle at them. But nothing too rebellious, nothing detention-worthy and all very much as per The List which was pinned inside the special glazed noticeboard on the wall of the entrance lobby along with the names of governors and where to muster should the whole putrid place go up in flames. The List told you where to buy it, how many to get, which styles were acceptable, but it was quite an old list because it still had ‘gymslips’ as an option.
    The only shop in England authorised to sell the uniquely terrible outfit worn by the girls of Mildred Fawcett didn’t find there was much call for gymslips and finally stopped stocking them in 1969 (stopped stocking stockings too), but they were still on the blessed List and the local Oxfam shop had them: only 20p; irresistible; one step closer to the St Trinian ideal.
    Baker’s stepmother hadn’t minded the gymslips – pleasantly traditional; safely girlish; undeniably practical – and she said as much in her reply to Mrs Mostyn’s letter which had heavily hinted that a skirt be bought.
    It had been two years now since anyone had worn a hat but, like gymslips, they still featured on The List: felt in winter; straw in summer; which was fine if Daddy drove you in but an incitement to riot on the top of a local bus and the School Council vote against had been unanimous. Mildred Fawcett MBE, would be turning in her grave.
    The current head (Desiree Mary O’Brien MA Oxon, PhD Lon) generally excused herself Tuesday assemblies. The excuses varied but whatever it was – important calls, pressing matters, other business (a cigarette by the open study window) – appeared to involve a great deal of strong tea and shortcake biscuits. Proceedings were directed instead by the dreaded Mostyn, Snog Monster and all round graffiti-magnet. This morning the deputy head was a vision in violet Crimplene beneath a crumpled nylon wig.
    ‘Looks zackly like Ted Heath in drag.’
    Baker and Stottie had begun a silent game, safe in the knowledge that Miss Gleet would never dare pull them up for it. ‘Talking in assembly’ was a recognised crime but ‘playing Scissors Stone Paper’ definitely wasn’t. Braver souls than Miss Gleet had been known to go for ‘mucking about’ but it still looked pretty bloody feeble spelled out on the printed pink detention form.
    They carried on with the game. Baker could see the slightly alarmed look on the mistress’s face as, count after count, their two hands made identical shapes – until it dawned on the silly cow that the three shapes were coming round in order: stone, paper, scissors, stone . . .
    Baker altered her strategy: scissors, scissors, scissors, scissors, to leave her mind free to wonder what the hell Bunty was playing at, while Stottie alternated stone and paper and the Mostyn got stuck into one of her god-awful readings.
    Dr O’Brien usually liked to rustle up her morality tales from scratch, using raw ingredients from the Daily Telegraph . Not the juicy bits – like the story about the jilted lover who posted baby rats through the letterbox while her rival was away on the Norfolk Broads for three weeks. Nothing fruity. Just common-or-garden tales of polio victims playing the oboe.
    Mrs Mostyn preferred the ready-made musings to be found in Gladsome Minds , a slim green volume packed with convenience food for schoolgirl thought, homely homilies that could be relied upon to bridge the