Mija’s Room

Category: writing

Self-Parenting, a poem

Posted on By Mija

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I wrote this two weeks after surgery (more on that later) as I sat in bed crying because the news sucks,  there was another form to fill out, I found out I couldn’t go to the Vegas party this weekend, and plus I couldn’t wash my hair. I formatted it as an image to post on Twitter and Bluesky, but then forgot to do it.

It really is, still, shocking to me that whether or not I’ve eaten and what I’ve eaten has such an effect on me, especially since I’m rarely hungry. I know I’m not alone in this. I have a friend who told me that whenever she and her dad would be in a discussion/disagreement and it started to get heated her dad would say something like “I’ll continue this after we’ve both eaten an apple.” This seems like a really good idea.

Since I’m only cooking for me these days and I’m home recovering I can forget to eat or remember but it seems like too much trouble / easier just to go to sleep.  Especially if, say, I’ve been writing some Inez stuff or reading or practicing calligraphy. Just about anything is less boring than cooking1When I say cooking here I mean the day-to-day keeping myself fed kind of stuff. More elaborate cooking and baking is different and interesting. and eating.

Clearly my more responsible inner self needs to keep better tabs on what I’m eating when because there’s always time for a protein shake.

Text version for those who use Readers:

Self-Parenting

Me: I’m sad & everything sucks.
Me: Nothing will ever be right again.
Also Me: That’s terrible. Have you eaten?
Me: You think that’s why I’m sad? Food?
Also Me: Was it dinner last night?
Me: <rolls eyes> Lunch.
Also Me: But I made dinner.
Me: It’s still in the microwave.
Also me: Eat something now. You’ll feel better.
Me: I won’t. I’ve just eaten something. You’ll see.
(15 minutes & one protein smoothie later)
Me: Shit.
Also me: What?
Me: Everything still sucks but I’m okay.

~by Mija

  • 1
    When I say cooking here I mean the day-to-day keeping myself fed kind of stuff. More elaborate cooking and baking is different and interesting.
discipline

The Seduction of Anne Kelley: Part II, Correction Made Plain

Posted on By Mija

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Many thanks to the helpful beta readers The Preacher’s Wife and @paulatnorthgare. They both say this is fine, so any remaining mistakes anyone (Becca)) finds are obviously their fault. I thank them for sticking their… necks… out so kindly. 

Seriously. though, I currently need eagle-eyed proofreaders even more than usual as I’ve had to have reconstructive surgery on my ankle and tendons with less than a week to prepare. More on that later, except to say that there has been too much of the not-fun-kind-of-pain Because of said pain there has also been some narcotic pain medication. Oh and the discovery that being on temporary disability (apparently I can’t teach on heavy meds with my foot higher than my heart) is way more stressful and at least as much work as doing my job.

More whining about that later. 

Introduction

The papers gathered here belong to the wider Saint Clare archive and sit alongside the documents already familiar to readers of the Inez de Vries sequence: detention essays, staff memoranda, prefect minutes, household logs, and the private writings that have a habit of surviving precisely because no one quite knows what to do with them.

The Seduction of Anne Kelley draws from the Kelley–de Vries correspondence, preserved in the Blue Prefect Study papers, where material that is neither wholly private nor entirely official has long been kept. You will find letters meant to be burned, copies retained “for reference,” and drafts that should by rights have been torn up but were instead saved, retied, and filed under headings of optimistic vagueness. Some pages are neatly typed, as though the truth might be made more palatable by proper margins. Others arrive in the swift, unsteady cursive of someone writing under pressure, or in a place she very much ought not to be.

The sequence opens, deliberately, near the middle of things. In July 1955, Anne Kelley, a Saint Clare’s English mistress, writes a letter to “Gwennie” with the ease of long practice. Only afterward do we return to the beginning, to see how their correspondence formed, why it was encouraged, and what it made possible.

Readers are invited to take up the archivist’s task, and the investigator’s pleasure, of weighing what people say they intended against what they were, in fact, doing. Much will be implied. Little will be stated outright. Those accustomed to the School’s “special friendships” may notice familiar patterns resurfacing in adult form: the same hierarchies, the same alliances and intimacies, and stakes rather higher than dormitory gossip ever required.

These letters trace the development of that correspondence, from proper parental enquiry to something more deliberate, conducted quietly over time in the familiar idiom of the School. For those who prefer their archives with a guide, a brief introduction to the principal actors has been provided, in the manner of a proper dramatis personae. The archive remembers. And so, of course, does Inez.

Previous “Seduction of Anne Kelley” posts:

Comments are warmly welcomed. While I enjoy seeing them on Bluesky and Twitter, those left here become part of the archive proper, where they may quietly shape what follows. I cannot promise the archive is obedient, but it is, as ever, attentive.

Having trouble reading? Try the plain text version.

Archivist’s Foreword

The letters that follow were written in early 1948. By then the novelty of beginning school at Saint Clare’s had worn thin, and routines had settled enough to reveal their effects. Correspondence between Lady Gwendoline de Vries and Anne Kelley was established and less formal. Outwardly, their subject remains Lady Gwen’s daughter, Inez de Vries, recently returned from her Christmas holidays. 

Readers may already sense a shift. Attention moves, almost imperceptibly, from conduct to pattern, from incident to structure. The exchange remains courteous, but its purpose a bit sharper.

These letters are preserved among the Blue Prefect Study papers, arranged in neat stacks, organized by year, tied and retied with faded green silk ribbons, and filed under “Private.” They are offered not as evidence of misdeeds or indiscretions, but as records of how trust develops through encouraged affection.

 

Lady Gwendoline de Vries

Abbey House

 

2 February 1948

Dear Nancy,

   I trust your Christmas was a delightful affair, suffused with its usual gaiety and good-natured merriment. Forgive my intrusion regarding my daughter, Inez. I have some small concerns following her brief return home for the holidays, and wondered whether you had observed any corresponding change as she settles again into Saint Clare’s.

   During her time here, the household staff observed that Inez was less attentive to her room than has been her habit. In some respects, her standards appeared to have slipped rather than improved, falling below those she maintained even two years ago. The housekeeper remarked that she seemed uncertain how to make her bed properly or to hang a dress as expected. Her punctuality, too, was less exact than usual, a change I noted myself. None of these lapses were of any consequence in themselves, but their consistency was sufficient to attract comment and to create unnecessary work for others.

(more…)

correction corner

Correction Corner #2 – January 12, 2026

Posted on By Mija

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A brief pause at the archive desk for housekeeping, mending, and the occasional discreet pinning back of a hem.

First, handwriting. I have been revisiting earlier entries to make the use of cursive fonts more consistent, and, more importantly, more readable. Lady Gwendolyn and Miss Anne Kelley’s writing now appear in hands that suggest legibility as well as character. Flourish has its place, but Saint Clare’s has never been a school that prized ornament over clarity, except perhaps in the prospectus and certain prize-day speeches.

Second, the forewords and afterwords. I am also tidying these across the MP Visits sequence so they speak to one another more neatly. The School itself is perfectly capable of generating three contradictory accounts of the same event, plus a fourth in pencil that insists the first three never happened. The archive, however, ought to provide at least a stable frame in which to enjoy the confusion.

Third, a practical matter, now happily resolved. Paul, our longstanding and long suffering Stylesheet Beak,1A Beak, as any public school pupil will tell you, may sound like a gentle bird, but is not to be trifled with, particularly where fonts are concerned. has fixed the vexed matter of the comment box, which on some browsers (Safari, I am looking at you) displayed readers’ words in a size apparently intended for smuggling under a blotter, or for writing the Lord’s Prayer on a grain of rice. The situation is now in hand.

Fourth, and this is a correction still in progress, I have been remiss in providing plain-text versions of posts that rely heavily on handwritten fonts. Not all readers find cursive easy, and while Saint Clare’s has a long tradition of expecting girls to decipher one another’s notes at speed (often by torchlight, and often with consequences), the archive should be more accommodating. Plain-text versions will be added going forward, and to earlier posts where possible. Consider it accessibility rather than a collapse in standards.

Finally, a word about illustrations.

Some readers will have noticed a change. Earlier Saint Clare/Inez entries often came with drawings that leaned toward coloured pencil and watercolour, the sort of thing one might expect in a storybook, a school annual, or the margins of a Latin exercise when the mistress’s back is turned. Changes in how image generation now behaves on ChatGPT have made that style increasingly difficult to produce reliably. The results tend, of late, toward the photographic, the over-polished, or the alarmingly literal, which rather defeats the point.

For the time being, I will be relying on simpler artwork and on drawings I already have, with the occasional experiment when circumstances allow. I may yet pull out my coloured pencils in a pinch, but no promises. The point has always been suggestion as much as illustration, and I trust the archive can manage with a little less gloss and a little more imagination.

Thank you, as ever, for your patience, your sharp eyes, and your willingness to notice when the filing system has been quietly adjusted. Corrections, like discipline, work best when administered early and with a steady hand.

  • 1
    A Beak, as any public school pupil will tell you, may sound like a gentle bird, but is not to be trifled with, particularly where fonts are concerned.
fiction

The Seduction of Anne Kelley: Part 0, An Introduction

Posted on By Mija

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Introduction

The papers gathered here belong to the wider Saint Clare archive and sit alongside the documents already familiar to readers of the Inez de Vries sequence: detention essays, staff memoranda, prefect minutes, household logs, and the private writings that have a habit of surviving precisely because no one quite knows what to do with them.

The Seduction of Anne Kelley draws from the Kelley–de Vries correspondence, preserved in the Blue Prefect Study papers, where material that is neither wholly private nor entirely official has long been kept. You will find letters meant to be burned, copies retained “for reference,” and drafts that should by rights have been torn up but were instead saved, retied, and filed under headings of optimistic vagueness. Some pages are neatly typed, as though the truth might be made more palatable by proper margins. Others arrive in the swift, unsteady cursive of someone writing under pressure, or in a place she very much ought not to be.

The sequence opens, deliberately, near the middle of things. In July 1955, Anne Kelley, a Saint Clare’s English mistress, writes a letter to “Gwennie” with the ease of long practice. Only afterward do we return to the beginning, to see how their correspondence formed, why it was encouraged, and what it made possible.

Readers are invited to take up the archivist’s task, and the investigator’s pleasure, of weighing what people say they intended against what they were, in fact, doing. Much will be implied. Little will be stated outright. Those accustomed to the School’s “special friendships” may notice familiar patterns resurfacing in adult form: the same hierarchies, the same alliances and intimacies, and stakes rather higher than dormitory gossip ever required.

These letters trace the development of that correspondence, from proper parental enquiry to something more deliberate, conducted quietly over time in the familiar idiom of the School. For those who prefer their archives with a guide, a brief introduction to the principal actors has been provided, in the manner of a proper dramatis personae. The archive remembers. And so, of course, does Inez.

Comments are warmly welcomed. While I enjoy seeing them on Bluesky and Twitter, those left here become part of the archive proper, where they may quietly shape what follows. I cannot promise the archive is obedient, but it is, as ever, attentive.

Archivist’s Foreword

This document, a letter from Anne Kelley, English teacher and housemistress for Inez and Clarissa, is written on Saint Clare’s letterhead and dated 12 July 1955. The reader will recall that 12 July 1955 was the day of MP Gerald Charrington’s visit, the sort of day the timetable insists is perfectly ordinary right up to the moment it becomes legendary, and when poor Clarissa learned that a man may promise to “conclude matters at home” while concluding them perfectly well in the Headmaster’s study. Despite the letterhead, this document is not a school report. It is not, in fact, an official communication at all. It is, strictly speaking, the sort of thing the writer hopes will be burned, mislaid, or eaten by the dog before anyone has the bright idea of filing it.

Fortunately for this archivist, and for you, dear reader, it was saved and filed.

The reader may recall that earlier, in Miss Kelley’s own journal, there is a line about “enough of this ink-spilling” and the need to “take up a clean sheet” in order to write to “Gwennie” about the day’s events.[1] This is that clean sheet, or at least one of them. Saint Clare’s, as we are learning, produces duplicates with the same ease it produces contradictory rules.

The letter was later found among Lady Gwendolyn’s papers in the Blue Prefect Study archives, as part of a bundle tied with green ribbon and optimistically labelled “Williams, G., Misc. 1955.” It is marked, in spirit, for your eyes only, which in any archive, even Saint Clare’s, is less a boundary than an invitation.

[1] One further note, offered as an observation rather than judgement: the salutation of “Gwennie” is not the sort a young schoolmistress generally addresses to either a countess or the mother of a pupil. And yet Anne Kelley is generally so very professional and proper. Curious, that.

 

Saint Clare’s School for Girls

12 July 1955

My dear Gwennie,

   You asked to be told when anything material touches Clarissa; what follows is for your eyes only. I was correcting essays at the outer desk by the Head’s study when Mr. Charrington arrived with Miss Gladys Williams. I will not pretend I did not linger. One can hear perfectly well from that chair if one is so inclined. (more…)

fiction

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part IX – Statement of J. Fowler, Chauffeur

Posted on By Mija

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Banner of "How to Read Inez of the Upper iV"The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

Archivist’s Foreword

The following document is a statement by J. Fowler, chauffeur to Mr Gerald Charrington, MP, covering the journeys of 12–13 July 1955.

Unlike the diaries and letters elsewhere in this sequence, Fowler’s account is procedural rather than reflective. It records times, routes, meals, weather, and behaviour with the precision of a man accustomed to being accountable for vehicles, schedules, and other people’s movements. Emotional interpretation is minimal; judgment, where it appears, is plainly marked as such.

It should be noted that although styled as a log, this document was not drawn from an official motor book. It survives as a copied statement, taken down after the fact and retained alongside other materials relating to the Saint Clare incident.

That it exists at all is, perhaps, the more interesting fact.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Statement of J. Fowler, Chauffeur

12 July 1955 – Outward Journey
Departed St Albans residence at 9:00 AM driving Mr Charrington, with Miss Williams also in the car. Sky overcast, Traffic heavy, but cleared past High Wycombe. Arrived Oxford at approximately 11:30 AM. Topped up petrol. Stopped at Lyons Corner House for tea. Miss Williams appeared late, having missed breakfast; expressed dislike of the buns.
Resumed journey at 12:00 noon.
Conditions improved past Oxford, skies clearing, weather warm. Miss Williams requested windows down; request refused on account of disturbance to Mr Charrington’s papers. She sighed and appeared out of sorts, but did not argue.
Proceeded via Gloucester and Hereford. Checked radiator water near Hereford at approximately 1:30 PM. Opened housekeeper’s hamper for luncheon. Miss Williams dissatisfied with contents, suggesting we stop at a tearoom. Mr Charrington and myself found the sandwiches and biscuits satisfactory. We still had a long drive ahead.
Progress steady thereafter. Arrived Shrewsbury at approximately 3:30 PM. Weather warm, skies bright. Entered North Wales by the trunk road; roads narrow but passable. Arrived Saint Clare School at approximately 4:45 PM.

12 July 1955 – At Saint Clare
Mr Charrington and Miss Williams proceeded inside. I remained with the motor and drove into the village. Took refreshment at the Crown public house (pint and pie). Proprietor’s boy fetched me when called for; returned to the school with the motor at approximately 5:30 PM.
Departed Saint Clare at approximately 5:45 PM with Mr Charrington and Miss Williams. Weather fine, sun still high, clear visibility. Proceeded back via Shrewsbury. Miss Williams silent for most of the journey. Mr Charrington read papers.
Stopped at petrol station near Oswestry at approximately 7:00 PM. Checked oil and tyres. Continued without incident. Arrived Charrington residence (Bryn Derwen) at approximately 8:15 PM. Motor garaged in the carriage house.
Supper taken at table. Hot meal provided by housekeeper. Mr Charrington ate well and expressed approval. I was given a place and did the same. Miss Williams declined supper and took only tea, stating she felt unwell from the travel. (more…)

fiction

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VIII – Mustn’t Grumble Gladys

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

 

Archivist’s Foreword

The following entry was written on the evening of 12 July 1955, after the party from Saint Clare had arrived at Bryn Derwen.

Unlike the previous document, which was composed under some pressure and at speed, this account was written in a place that ought to have been familiar and consoling, but was neither. It does not revisit the events of the Headmaster’s study (those are recorded elsewhere, and at some length), but concerns itself instead with what lingers once the official business is concluded, everyone has been properly seen to, and there is nothing left but supper, accommodation, and, possibly, tears at bedtime.

Former pupils may find the tone uncomfortably recognisable.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Gladys’s Diary

12 July 1955

Evening (at Bryn Derwen)

The scene in the Head’s study was the worst of it. The rest of the day wasn’t as loud or dramatic, but it sat on me just as heavily. I cannot remember feeling so weary, so empty.

I never did drink the Head’s tea. Even the sandwiches looked poisonous, the bread curling at the edges, the ham shining faintly in the heat. I watched Gerald eat, cool as a cucumber. When the Head returned, he thanked him as if nothing more awkward than a recent school report had been discussed.

(more…)

discipline

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VII – Ghastly Gladys

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next..

Archivist Foreword

The document that follows was written in the back seat of a carefully maintained Humber on the afternoon of 12 July 1955, shortly after its author had been summoned to the Headmaster’s study at Saint Clare’s. Although Gladys Williams was no longer a pupil of the school, this distinction proved to be of limited practical importance.

Readers familiar with the school story will recognise the situation without difficulty. A former girl returns, meaning well, and finds herself required to explain her conduct, to wait, and to remain present. The rules, once learned, are not easily forgotten, and are applied with particular confidence to those who ought to know better.

This entry does not attempt to set out the facts of the incident in full; those are recorded elsewhere, and in proper order. What Gladys provides instead is a running account of the afternoon as she experienced it: the Headmaster’s study, the formalities observed, the tea tray, the silences, and the journey that followed. She writes quickly, with feeling, and at some length. This too will be familiar to readers of school diaries.

With this entry, the Saint Clare record pauses. Lessons resume, bells ring, and the school continues. The account that follows travels on.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Gladys’ Diary

12 July 1955

Later (the Head’s Study; continued in the car)

I won’t forget today, no matter how old I get or how many pages I scribble. Ghastly. Utterly ghastly. There were so many awful bits I can’t even decide which was the worst, nor which to write first. Now that we are back on the road I am writing as fast as I can, partly so I don’t have to look up. If I don’t look at him, perhaps Gerald won’t speak to me. I can feel him watching me over the tops of his papers, but I go on as if I were completely absorbed.

Instead of letting me slink away after that wretched drive up from London, Gerald marched us straight down the dim corridor to the Head’s study. The cabbage smell clung to the walls and our shoes echoed like a sentence already passed. He opened the door, stood back, and waited for me to go in first, as if I were being presented for inspection. We weren’t expected — not then — but he behaved as if the place had been waiting for him all along, papers under his arm, that terrible air of purpose he puts on when he’s decided something. I think Miss Kelley tried to say something, but I barely caught her eye before I was all but pushed into the Head’s office.

Mr Lewis blinked at us from behind his spectacles, plainly surprised to see a party from London descend on him without warning. Gerald merely inclined his head and said, smooth as you please, “A word, if you please.”

The Head invited us as if we had not already imposed ourselves, and then, almost absurdly, rang for a tea tray with sandwiches .

These niceties over, Gerald turned on me, using that dreadful low voice of his, the one that weighs more than shouting ever could.

“Miss Williams,” he said, quiet and clipped, “I wish you to tell the Head exactly what you have done.”

There was nowhere to look. My heart sank straight through my shoes. I am not a pupil; I have not been one for years. And yet there I stood, spluttering and stammering like a schoolgirl hauled up for passing notes. Gerald would have none of it. I had to admit everything: Clarissa’s letter with Inez’s enclosed, the request to send it on to her mother, my saying yes, my writing a cover note and posting them off to Lady de Vries. I told it in silly little scraps, and every bit felt worse once the Head had heard it. The words slid out like stones, and the room, large though it was, felt very small as the shelves of books seemed to close in around me.

When I finally finished, Mr Lewis did not address me at all, but remarked, almost to the furniture, “Ah, so that is how she knew.” The “she” was certainly not me.

Then, more formally, he straightened in his chair and addressed us both. He was polite, firm but almost apologetic, and said the School could not possibly condone letters carried privately. He paused and added (as I could have told him) that as I am no longer a student, my part in the matter was not his affair, but one to be settled between my brother-in-law and me.

Gerald nodded, but replied that he wished the matter on record, and asked that Clarissa be called.

Mr Lewis went to the door and asked Miss Kelley to have a prefect bring Clarissa to his office. We heard her give instructions to “Fairfax” — a prefect, I suppose — just as one of the kitchen maids came in with the clattering tea tray. Then, adding to the whole Lewis Carroll feeling of the afternoon, the Head apologised for the tray’s “meagre fare,” offhandedly blaming our sudden appearance for leaving the kitchen unprepared.

What followed was an extreme bout of conversational awkwardness. He talked about anything except what we were really there for: the heat, the gardens, the fête already past, the coming holidays. His small talk sounded thin and nervous to me. Gerald answered in kind, dry but courteous, as he ate sandwiches and drank two cups of tea. I never touched mine. No one seemed to notice. Everyone else was fed. The silences between the men grew longer and heavier until they felt like stones piling up. Despite the tea, my mouth was completely dry, and I contributed nothing.

After what felt like hours, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, Clarissa arrived, walking through the doorway as if to her doom, her legs so embarrassingly bare and vulnerable in her field hockey skirt, grass stains still on her knees. I saw the shock on her face when she took in Gerald and then me, sitting there together. Her eyes were huge and round. I heard Miss Kelley say something low to the prefect as Clarissa crossed the threshold. Mr Lewis remained at his desk.

Gerald didn’t waste a moment. After the briefest of greetings, he took Clarissa through the same wretched confession he’d forced out of me, making her tell the Head exactly what she had done. My stomach clenched and I was glad I hadn’t touched the tea. I felt her eyes on me, begging for help, but I couldn’t meet them.

I won’t pretend I listened to every word. I heard her first stumbles, the brave little resolves, the determined refusal to betray Inez. Clarissa would not, could not, name her. Gerald repeated my admissions for her benefit and scolded her for involving me, his voice dry and clipped, as if this were all part of a lesson that needed to be properly understood. Mr Lewis sat very straight in his chair and said nothing, nodding only occasionally.

When it was done, the Head stood, cleared his throat, and spoke with that careful, official politeness of his, saying he was satisfied he understood the situation. He added that the School could not be party to further discussion of family discipline, and that Gerald was welcome to make use of the study. Then, murmuring something about other duties, he left the room.

The door shut behind him and, just like that, the air changed. We were alone.

(more…)

Saint Clare

The MP Visits Saint Clare, Part VI – Inez’s Diary, 13 July 1955

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next.

Foreword

The following diary entry was written by Inez de Vries during the night of 12–13 July 1955, after visiting Clarissa Charrington in the infirmary. It was not intended for circulation and does not appear to have been shown to anyone, the author having taken the precaution—elsewhere noted—of invoking a suitably comprehensive curse against unauthorised readers.

It is reproduced here without alteration as part of the Saint Clare materials relating to the events of that week. The entry does not describe the incident itself, which is documented at length elsewhere, but records Inez de Vries’s role in the aftermath.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

13 July 1955 – after midnight

I went to the infirmary after lights-out, waiting until Matron’s rounds had slowed and the house settled again. It didn’t seem right to go while things were still actively happening.

Clarissa was awake. She looked different, the way people do when they’ve stopped performing. Smaller, younger — or simply unfinished. She tried to sit up and then thought better of it. Good move.

She wanted me to stay (even asked me)  and I didn’t know what to say. Stay?

But I sat down and we talked a little. Well, I talked a little. Clarissa talked a lot. It more or less balanced out. She’s still very young, new to school, new to boarding. She hasn’t yet learned that what girls say rarely matters, and that everything passes — and quickly.

Two months is nothing. I’ve been here for years now. (more…)

Guest Story – Naughty Arabella’s Just Desserts

Posted on By Mija

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Introduction:

What began as a playful observation on Bluesky (that the name “Arabella” is destined to belong to the naughtiest girl in any school) has now grown into a small constellation of stories. Mine took a folkloric turn with Saint Clare’s and Krampus; this one, shared here today, takes its own wonderful path.

So enjoy this spirited take on Arabella: The Patron Saint of Bad Behaviour Everywhere written by a fellow participant in the thread who wishes to remain unnamed, at least for now.

Again for clarity – this is a guest contribution to that Arabella-led challenge. It is entirely outside the Saint Clare universe. This is simply a wonderfully cheeky contribution inspired by the same mischievous spark: the girl Arabella whose name alone hints at trouble. I’m so delighted to be able to share it.

Guest Story – Reposted Here with the Author’s Permission. 

 

Naughty Arabella’s Just Desserts

Was it even real? Did that really just happen?? I slid my claw along the gilded edge of the envelope in my pocket as I threaded my way through the throngs of teenagers toward Mr Climbover’s class.

It felt real enough. But it could be a trick. Arabella had never noticed me before – not that I minded but – she was the coolest girl in school, everyone knew her name and when she walked through the halls the other kids made space for her and her trail of lackeys trying to kiss her perfect butt.

Most of us dragons, if we bother to shapeshift, stick with other animals. It’s easier. Not her.

Arabella stayed in her human form indefinitely, as far as anyone knew. There were even some rumors she was actually human who somehow sneaked into the conclave’s boarding school – how else did she get the form so perfect??

All of her lackeys tried to mimic her, of course, with varying degrees of success. Her simpering entourage looked more like humans going trick or treating. Cheap costumes even. None of us dared say anything because the comet they followed could make or break anyone’s social standing with a single sneer.

As I settled into the hard wooden student desk, I reached for my stashed envelope again. I slid it out of my pocket and smoothly slipped it into my history text book on my desk. Its golden filigree edge peeked out of the heavily thumbed pages, a sparkle of hope for my own social standing.

An invitation to Arabella’s birthday party! With my name on it!

(more…)

discipline

NEW STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – A Krampus at Saint Clare Story

Posted on By Mija

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Foreword:

Every so often, a Saint Clare story arrives from an unexpected corner—this one came from an offhand comment on Bluesky about how “Arabella” is the name of a girl who is absolutely up to mischief. That joke blossomed into an open challenge to write a story with “Naughty Arabella” somewhere in the title.

https://bsky.app/profile/mija-again.bsky.social/post/3m754wu5vrc2n
This is my offering.

Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – Winter 1925 at Saint Clare’s takes place firmly within the larger Saint Clare universe, but outside the Inez of the Upper IV arc. It introduces an earlier generation of girls—and a long-standing bit of school folklore involving a seasonal visitor who is, essentially, OFSTED with hooves. Krampus pays annual calls to Saint Clare’s, but this year he meets his match in Arabella Fairchild: blonde, brilliant, catastrophically charming, and overdue for supernatural accountability.

The result is part school-story romp, part institutional mythmaking, and wholly Saint Clare’s.

 STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack

Chapter I – In Which Saint Clare’s Watches a Drama Unfold

Saint Clare School for Girls slept beneath a frosty moon in the winter of 1925, its chimneys puffing industriously and its corridors stretching away into dim, draughty mystery. Most of the Second Form were fast asleep in their flannel nightgowns, except for those peering nervously from their beds, listening to the unmistakable CLONK–CLONK–CLONK of something decidedly not school-sanctioned approaching.

Arabella Fairchild, however, was not in her nightgown.

Oh no.

Arabella stood at the centre of the corridor, dressed in her full uniform—immaculate gymslip, snowy white shirt, hair ribbons neat at either side of her head—because Arabella firmly believed that if one must face the supernatural, one should at least look as though one were about to captain the lacrosse team.

She was, as the Headmistress had once remarked in a despairingly admiring tone, “the sort of blonde beauty who, in six years, during her first season, will oblige her father to consider hiring armed guards1Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think). in addition to the usual chaperones.”

Arabella knew this.

Arabella relied on this.

But Arabella’s beauty had never yet faced Krampus.

Girls Who Watched

Behind her, in the rows of narrow iron bedsteads, half the Second Form crouched behind blankets, whispering furiously.

“She’s done it again,” hissed Primrose Pembury, who had once taken the blame for Arabella’s practical joke involving a frog in the Latin master’s hat.

“And she’ll get away with it again,” muttered Clara Dawlish, who had written one hundred lines after Arabella persuaded her to switch name-tags on the exam papers.

“I’d like to see her caught. Just once!” whispered Lottie, who had been given detention when Arabella accidentally (on purpose) set off a smoke-bomb during sewing.

Little Sally Billings (who had been framed for the “ink-in-the-cocoa” incident) clutched her hot-water bottle and breathed, “Look at her! Smirking like she owns the place!”

The girls’ resentment simmered in the cold air.

This was the year Arabella Fairchild would receive her comeuppance.

They could feel it.

(more…)

  • 1
    Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think).
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