16 felicity’s first match

felicity came to see darrell the next day about the match with wellsbrough school. she looked with bright eyes at her fifth-form sister.

“i say! fancy me playing in the fourth school team! i thought perhaps i might by the end of the term, with luck—but next week! thanks awfully for putting me in, darrell.”

“well, actually—it was moira who insisted on putting you in,” said darrell. “i wanted to—and yet i just wondered if i was thinking favourably of you because you were my sister, you know. then moira said you must certainly go in, and in you went.”

“june’s awfully disappointed she’s not in,” said felicity. “she’s been practising like anything, darrell. she pretends she doesn’t care, but she does really. i wish she wouldn’t say such awful things about you fifth-formers all the time—she really seems to have got her knife into you. it’s horrid.”

“she’ll get over it,” said darrell. “we don’t lose any sleep over young june, i can tell you!”

“will you be able to come and watch the wellsbrough match?” asked felicity, eagerly. “oh do. i shall play ever so much better if you’re there, yelling and cheering.”

“of course i’ll come,” said darrell. “and i’ll yell like anything—so just be sure you give me something to yell for!”

the first-formers prayed for a fine day for their match. it was to be at home, not away, and as it was the first time they had played wellsbrough fourth team, they were really excited about it.

the senior school smiled to see the “babies” so excited. they remembered how they, too, had felt when they had the delight of playing in an important match for the very first time.

“nice to see them so keen,” said moira to darrell. “i think i’ll get my lacrosse stick and go and give them a bit of coaching before dinner. i’ve got half an hour.”

“i’ll fetch your stick,” said catherine at once, in her usual doormat voice.

“no thanks, saint catherine,” answered moira, “i’m still able to walk to the locker and reach my own stick.”

the day of the match dawned bright and clear, a magnificent october day. the trees round the playing fields shone red and brown and yellow in their autumn colours. the breeze from the sea was salty and crisp. all the girls rejoiced as they got up that morning and looked out of the window. malory towers was so lovely on a day like this.

the happiest girls, of course, were the small first-formers, excited twelve-year-olds who talked to one another at the tops of their voices without stopping. how they ever heard what anyone else said was a mystery.

miss potts, the first-form mistress, was lenient that morning. so was mam’zelle who was always excited herself when any of her classes were.

“well, so today is your match?” she said to the first form. “you will play well, n’est-ce pas? you will win all the goals. i shall come to watch. and for the girl that wins a goal . . .”

“shoots a goal, mam’zelle,” said susan.

“shoots! ah yes—but you have no gun to shoot a goal,” said mam’zelle, who never could learn the language of sports. “well, well—for the girl who shoots a goal i will say ‘no french prep tomorrow’!”

“but, mam’zelle—that’s not fair!” cried a dozen voices. “we’re not all in the match—only felicity and susan and vera.”

“ah, i forgot,” said mam’zelle. “that is so. then what shall i say?”

“say you’ll let us all off french prep for the rest of the week if we win!” called felicity.

“no, no,” said mam’zelle, shocked. “for one day only i said. now, it is understood—if you win your match no french prep for you tomorrow!”

“you’re a peach, mam’zelle,” called a delighted first-former.

“comment!” said mam’zelle, astonished. “you call me a peach. never have i . . .”

“it’s all right, mam’zelle—it’s a compliment,” said felicity. “peaches are wizard.”

mam’zelle gave it up. “now—we will have our verbs,” she said. “page thirty-five, s’il vous pla?t, and no more talking.”

the wellsbrough girls arrived at twenty past two in a big coach. they were rather older than the malory towers team, and seemed much bigger. the malory towers girls felt a little nervous. the two captains shook hands and the teams nodded and smiled at one another.

the games mistress blew her whistle and the teams came round her. the captains tossed for ends.

the teams took their positions in the field. felicity gripped her lacrosse stick as if it might leap from her hand if she didn’t. she put on a grim expression that made everyone who saw it smile.

her knees shook just a little! how she hoped nobody could see them. it was silly to be nervous in a match—just the time not to be!

“good luck,” whispered susan, who was not far off. “shoot a goal!”

felicity nodded, still looking grim.

darrell and moira and sally were together, watching. most of the other fifth-formers were there, too, because many of them helped the younger ones and were interested in their play. a good sprinkling of the other forms were also there. wellsbrough was a splendid school for sport and usually sent out first-class match-teams.

“your small sister looks pretty fierce,” said sally to darrell. “look at her! she seems to do and dare all right!”

the match began. the ball shot out down the field, and the girls began to race after it, picking it up in their nets, throwing it, catching it, knocking it out again, picking it up, tackling one another and making the onlookers yell with excitement.

the wellsbrough team shot the first goal. it went clean into the net, quite impossible to stop. the twelve-year-old goal-keeper was very downcast. one to wellsbrough!

felicity gritted her teeth. wellsbrough had the lead now. she shot a look at darrell. yes, there she was, never taking her eyes off the ball. felicity longed to do something really spectacular and make darrell dance and cheer with pride. but the wellsbrough team was tough, and nobody could do anything very startling. always there was a wellsbrough girl ready to knock the ball out of a malory towers lacrosse net as soon as it was there!

and always there was a wellsbrough girl who seemed to be able to run faster than any of the home team. it was maddening. felicity and susan became very out of breath and panted and puffed as they tore down the field, their hearts beating like pistons!

and then susan shot a goal! it was most unexpected. she was tearing down the field, far from the goal, with two wellsbrough girls after her, and felicity running up to catch the ball if susan passed it.

susan took a quick glance round to see if felicity was ready to catch it. a wellsbrough girl ran up beside felicity, a tall girl who would probably take the ball instead of felicity, if it was passed. blow!

on the spur of the moment susan flung the ball at the distant goal. it was a powerful throw, and the ball flew straight. the goal-keeper rushed out to catch it—but she missed, and the ball bounced right into the very middle of the net!

cheers rang out from the spectators. darrell yelled too. then she turned to moira.

“a very lucky goal. those far throws don’t usually come off—but that one did. one all!”

she caught it deftly in her net

it was almost half-time. one minute to go. the ball came to felicity and she caught it deftly in her net, jumping high in the air for it.

“good!” yelled everyone, pleased to see such a fine catch. felicity sped off with it and passed to rita. she didn’t see a big wellsbrough girl running up to her and collided heavily. over she went on the ground and felt an agonizing pain in her right ankle. it was so sharp that she couldn’t get up. things went black around her. poor felicity was horrified. no, no, she mustn’t faint! not on the playing-field in the middle of the match! she couldn’t!

the whistle went for half-time. felicity heaved a long shaky sigh of relief. five minutes’ rest. would her ankle be all right?

she wasn’t going to faint after all! she sat there on the grass, pretending to fiddle with her lacrosse boot till she felt a little better. susan came running up.

“i say—you went over with a terrific wallop. did you hurt yourself?”

“twisted my ankle a little,” said felicity. she looked very white and susan was alarmed. the games mistress came up.

“twisted your ankle? let’s have a look.”

she undid the boot quickly and looked at felicity’s foot, pressing it and turning it.

“it’s an ordinary twist,” she said. “horribly painful when it happens, i know. you’d better come off and let your reserve play.”

felicity was almost in tears. darrell came running up. “has she twisted her ankle? oh, she often does that. her right ankle’s a bit weak. daddy always tells her to bandage it fairly tightly—round the foot just here—and walk on it immediately, not lie up.”

“well, i’m agreeable to that if felicity can stand on it all right, and run,” said the mistress. “it’s up to her.”

susan brought felicity a lemon quarter to suck. she began to feel much better and colour came back into her cheeks. she stood up, testing her ankle gingerly. then she smiled.

“it’s all right. it will be black and blue tomorrow, but there’s nothing really wrong. in a few minutes time it will be better.”

the games mistress bound the foot up tightly, and felicity put on her boot again. the foot had swollen a little but not much. chewing her lemon, felicity hobbled about for a minute or two, feeling the foot getting better and better as she went.

“nothing much wrong,” reported the games mistress. “a nasty twist—but felicity’s a determined little character, and where another girl would moan and make a fuss and go off limping, she’s going to go on playing. it won’t do the foot any harm—probably do it good.”

the whistle went again, after a little longer half-time to give felicity a chance to recover. the girls took their places, all at the opposite ends this time.

susan was a marvel that second half. she saved felicity all she could, and leapt about and ran like a mad march hare! everyone cheered her.

felicity’s foot ceased to hurt her. she forgot about it. she began to run again, and made another wonderful catch that set all the spectators cheering. she tackled a wellsbrough girl and got the ball away. she ran for goal.

“shoot!” yelled everyone. “shoot!”

but, before she could shoot, the ball was knocked out of her net and a wellsbrough girl was speeding back down the field with it. she passed the ball on, and it was caught and passed again, and shot straight at the malory towers goal.

“save it, save it!” yelled everyone in agony. the goal-keeper stood there like a rock. she made a wild slash with her lacrosse stick and miraculously caught the hard rubber ball, flinging it out to a malory towers girl at once.

“no goal, no goal!” sang the girls in delight. “well saved, hilda, well saved!”

“looks as if it’s going to be a draw,” said moira, glancing at her watch. “only two minutes more. felicity’s limping just a bit again. plucky kid to run on as she did.”

“she’s got the ball!” cried darrell, clutching moira in excitement. “another marvellous catch! my word, practice does pay! she catches better than anyone. look, she’s kept it!”

felicity was running down the field with the ball. she was tackled by a wellsbrough girl, dodged, turned herself right round and passed to susan. susan caught it and immediately passed it back to felicity, seeing two of the enemy coming straight at her. felicity nearly didn’t catch it, because it was such a high throw, but by leaping like a goat she got it into the tip of her net, and it ran down safely.

then off she went, tearing down the field, her face set grimly.

“shoot!” yelled the girls. “shoooooooot!”

and she shot, just as the stick of an enemy came crashing down to get the ball from her. the ball shot out high in the air, and the goal-keeper rushed out to get it.

she missed it—and the ball bounced and ran slowly and deliberately into a corner of the goal, where it lay still as if quite tired out with the game.

“goal!” yelled everyone, and went completely mad. moira, sally and darrell swung each other round in a most undignified way for fifth-formers, bill and clarissa did a kind of barn-dance together, and as for the lower school, they began a most deafening chant that made mam’zelle put her hands to her ears at once.

“well—done—felici-teeeeee! well—done—felici-teeeeee!”

the whistle went for time. the teams trooped off, red in the face, panting, laughing and happy. felicity was limping a little, but so happy and proud that she wouldn’t have noticed if she had limped with both feet!

darrell thumped her on the back. “you got the winning goal, my girl! you did the trick! gosh, i’m proud of you!”

moira thumped her, too. “i’m glad we put you into the team, felicity! you’ll be there for the rest of the term. you’ve got team-spirit all right. you play for your side all the time.”

june was just nearby. she heard what moira said, and felt sure she was saying it so that she might hear. she turned away, sick at heart. she might have been playing in the match—she might even have shot that winning goal. but felicity had instead. june couldn’t go and thump felicity on the back or congratulate her. she was jealous.

felicity was too happy to notice little things like that. she went off with her team and the wellsbrough girls to a “smashing” tea. anyone seeing the piles of sandwiches, buttered and jammy buns, and slices of fruit cake piled high on big dishes would think that surely it would need twenty teams to eat all that!

but the two teams managed it all between them quite easily. what fun it all was! what a noise of shouting and laughter and whole-hearted merriment.

“school’s smashing,” thought felicity, munching her fourth jammy bun. “super! wizard!”