How many more rooms were they going to be shown? Dozens of doors had been opened, showing classrooms, art rooms, a music room, sewing room, a 'deportment' room ... all so dull, dull, dull. Even the art room seemed devoid of colour with a few inexpertly created portraits adorning the walls. Her father's fingers dug into her shoulder as he propelled her behind her mother who was taking in all the formidable head mistress said about how she would get an education suitable for a young lady of the nobility.

That morning she had been told they were going to view a school, one that would knock the Collingwood edges off her, refine her accent, teach her to comport herself in English society. Her mother had put out an expensive outfit, a sailor suit, heavy and uncomfortable, her long black hair had been pulled back and secured with a white ribbon, and her new shoes pinched. Oh, what she would give for the old pinafore she had run around in back home.

"Of course," the headmistress looked down her nose, a Baron he may be but he had an Australian accent and was un-cultured, "we expect our young ladies to be well read, to be able to quote Shakespeare, the poets, so, this is our library."

Phryne looked up, books she loved, had always loved. When Janey had disappeared and her parents kept her close at home she had lost herself in any book she had got hold of. Adventure books written for boys, romances, tragic tales, anything to take her away from the loss of her sister and the dark, malodorous streets of Collingwood. When her father had come into the title of Baron and she was told they were moving to England, at first she had been excited. At least she would escape the grinding poverty, possibly the beatings her father meted out when he came home the worse for drink, but then, the stifling pomposity of English society threatened to drown her. Then, she was to be sent to school and as they walked round she felt the walls closing in on her.

The door opened, an almost golden light filtered out, dust speckles hung in the air - it was beautiful, magnificent - Phryne gasped, now this was more like it. She was allowed to enter and gaze upon the walls lined with shelves housing books on all subjects. Great classical literature, history, geography, art ... the list was endless. To the young girl this was paradise. Down the centre of the hall, it was too big to be just a 'room', were globes, clocks in display cases leading to a portrait of some serious looking eighteenth century gentleman. There were pillars of dark wood, twisted like barley sugar supporting a balcony where she could see yet more books. A series of domes in the ceiling let in light, this would be her sanctuary.

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The library aside The Honourable Phryne Fisher was not looking forward to school. "Still," she told herself, "if I have low expectations I might be pleasantly surprised."

She wasn't.

The dormitory was cold, the sheets too well starched and the blanket inadequate protection against a cold English winter. The other girls in the dorm looked down on her for her 'sloppy' vowels and the fact that, when pushed, she could swear like a wharfie, though some did admire her for this. Her bed was frequently sabotaged, especially when they found out she hated spiders. After a month or so of such tortures she decided she had to retaliate in spite of what her parents had told her, to rise above any of that kind of teasing. In order to hit the mark she had to get the ringleader - a tall blonde girl, who had a cohort around her of similar minds - not particularly impressive minds when it came to their studies. One thing Phryne did excel at was languages. She had quickly caught up in French, translating the texts given accurately if not neatly. Her tormentor struggled in this and had been forcing the cleverer girl to give her the translations they had to do. One night, after being cornered in the corridor she had passed a sheet of paper with the translation written on it, in pencil. She said it was her draft work and she wanted it back.

Lettice, for that was the tormentors name, snatched it and gleefully ran off to share the goods with her little group. Phryne hid her smile and headed to the library where she found the book she wanted and sat, cross-legged on the balcony continuing her education into the best French cursing she could. This, she found, was the reason there was an upper layer to the room - the 'forbidden' texts were stored there.

This was the best place to sit reading. The light through the skylights spread out round the domed ceilings, throwing shadows over the shelves and the globes and clocks. When she wasn't studying foreign swear words she would turn a globe, put her finger on it to stop it and wherever that finger landed she would go and find a book about that place, and sit in her favourite spot, out of the way of the bullies and spiders. If she was caught reading she wasn't in trouble, this was the reason she had caught up so well in her studies.

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The books were handed back, marked in red ink, praise given where it was due but ...

"Lettice 'artley-Jones!" Mademoiselle Clément boomed. For a small woman she had quite a voice, she reminded Phryne of Aunt Prudence, back home in Melbourne. She always missed the aitch sound at the beginning of words and rolled the 'arh' with venom. "Ici, maintenant!" (Here, now!) she waved the girl's book in the air.

Lettice looked round at her friends, unsure as to what she had done. She had copied Phryne's sheet and handed it back, no knowing Phryne had both erased the pencil and burned the paper in the kitchen stove.

"... et tes petits amis," M'elle never spoke in English in a lesson.

The rest of the girls sloped up, obviously they had done something very wrong, not just made a mistake, M'elle was red in the face with anger.

"C'est un blague, oui?" (this is a joke, yes), she held the book open in front of them, "vous voulez faire un fou hors de mademoiselle?" (you wish to make a fool out of miss?) She tapped the page with her perfectly manicured and painted fingernail.

Apparently this was beyond their comprehension. Lettice looked round at Phryne who was studiously reading the comments in her book, full of praise from M'elle, but understanding exactly what was being said. She wondered how big the spider would be that night.

M'elle Clément continued her tirade as Lettice and her friends hung their heads in shame. The one part of the verbal onslaught they did understand was "...rester derrière après la classe et re faire le travail!" (stay after class and redo the work!")

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"Phryne," a voice hissed, "what did you do?" Catherine Windlesham dragged her by the elbow into a corner, "whatever it was, was brilliant."

"Really?" Phryne gasped, "hey, how do you know it was me?" she pulled her arm away and glared.

"Honestly, she gets you to do all her French work, who else?"

Phryne's shoulders slumped, getting caught was her greatest fear.

"No, honestly, she deserves to be taken down a peg or two," Catherine insisted, "but what did they write?"

"Come to the library," Phryne looked round the corner, "we can talk there."

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Up, out of sight, Phryne showed Catherine the books she had found and told her what she had given Lettice to copy. Her eyes were like saucers as she listened to the most offensive description of the teacher, with some language she had never heard, in English, never mind in French.

"I'm going to get it, from her and the others, though," Phryne muttered, "spiders, cold custard in the bed ..."

"No you won't," Catherine smiled, "not this time."

"Who's going to stop her?"

"We are," she put her arm over her new friend's shoulder, "you, me, Lavinia, Charlotte, Enid ... we all hate her and have been on the receiving end of her charming ways since she arrived. Together, with you, we will be a force to be reckoned with, Phryne Fisher."

"Ok," Phryne sat back and looked at her, "if we do, stick together, will you do something for me?"

"If I can, yes," Catherine wondered what this resourceful Antipodean could want from her.

"Help me lose the accent," Phryne looked at her, "I know I'm getting better, but it slips, when I'm angry or upset."

"Deal," Catherine laughed, "now, Enid has some chocolate cake she sneaked from the kitchen, come on, to the folly."

"It's out of bounds, during the week," Phryne reminded her.

"Since when did that bother you, oh mighty linguist," Catherine pulled her along, "there are lots of things that are out of bounds, all that matters is that we aren't caught."

Phryne giggled, feeling much more relaxed than she had of late, or indeed since she started at this prison camp. She followed Catherine to the folly, keeping low behind a hedge and dodging into the trees in the beautiful grounds she had not had time to explore, yet.

Enid and the others were sitting on some blankets on the floor a delicious looking chocolate cake in front of them. She looked up with surprise when Catherine rushed in with the newest member of the group.

"Girls, listen, you know Phryne, new girl, well guess what she did ..." her eyes glistened with tears of laughter as she related what had happened and by the end of the story all had declared Phryne Fisher a thoroughly good egg and an absolute asset to their little gang.

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With her position in the school assured, she and her friends were the ones who looked out for the newer, shyer girls, the ones who were likely to get bullied by Lettice and her cohort, kept them under their wing and showed them how to avoid being tormented.

Phryne added zest to the group. While they could smuggle cakes and biscuits out to the folly, she would sneak cigarettes and alcohol into the school in her trunk each term. She taught herself to smoke at home, downstairs with boots, tried all her parents wine, whisky and brandy to find out which she preferred and how much could reasonably be taken without it being noticed and taught her friends the same.

It made her schooldays more bearable as she and the little group played pranks on others and found ways to sneak down to the local village after the days lessons or after lights out.

Years later, she would occasionally sit with a whisky at night and remember these times with fondness, and raise a toast to 'The Anglers', the group name they gave themselves. Perhaps the things they got up to had been what made her so resourceful as a Lady Detective.

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A little glimpse into the possible schooldays of our dear Phryne, I imagine it wouldn't be easy for a young Australian girl from the wrong end of Melbourne to fit into an English girls school in the early part of the 20th century.