“I say,” said Mary Cotter, one of the most sexually experimental girls in the fifth form, as she brushed Mary Simpson’s ripe-corn-coloured hair one morning, “Morale is a bit low in St Elmo’s since last week’s mysterious shooting incident. We haven’t even beaten up any Germans in yonks. Perhaps someone should organise a school outing for the Christmas hols?”

“I am indeed having an even better idea,” said Mary Goebbels excitedly, glancing up from her carefully-underlined copy of Machetes Monthly. “There was a poster in Mr Twitch, the school psychiatrist’s, office yesterday advertising some sort of flower show in Dublin on the eve of the New Year. Why do not all of us along to go?”

“Of course, the spiffing musical evening featuring Hothouse Flowers, Aslan and The Dubliners! Crowds of festive young people so drunk that they’ll probably be willing to snog even me!” cried Mary Field, who had recently contracted some nasty facial sores from Bob Brisket, the stable boy.

“It’ll be heavenly!” laughed Cotty, as she skipped towards the dormy bathroom. “Whoops, careful with that carving knife, Goebby! You nearly sliced Fieldy’s ear off. And er, bring that jar of potted meat and the Christmas candle in here, would you, Simpy?”

DRUG HABIT

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, the Four Marys and the rest of the fifth form chugged out of St. Elmo’s railway station, chattering excitedly. They hadn’t chugged very far when Fieldy, one of the most perceptive girls in the fifth form, noticed that they had left without the train, so they chugged back and waited for it to start. Meanwhile, Mary Simpson handed round some mince pies she had baked in Madame Ratatouille’s home-economics class.

“Simpy, delicious!” exclaimed the girls in unison. Simpy murmured thanks and modestly dropped her eyes. Cotty picked them up from the carriage floor and returned them with a coy smile.

Many hours later, the train reached the end of its geographically improbable journey from East Sussex to Tara Street and the girls piled out.

“Goodness Goebby, whatever is in that huge cannon-shaped bag you’ve brought with you?” enquired Fieldy, as they breathlessly reached the venue.

“Why, it is only, eh, sandwiches,” replied Goebby. “And a big flask. Look, here a nice stretch of empty carpet is being. Why do not we sit in a downward manner and rest awhile as we wait for the activities to commence, ja?”

The Four Marys languished on the floor, while some of the other girls in the fifth form strolled off to explore their surroundings. Esther Droop, who suffered from acute psychosis as a result of an ill-fated experiment in Miss Albumen’s biology laboratory in which her pet rabbit, Fluffy, grew a second head, decked herself in tinsel and spent the evening trying unsuccessfully to drown in an extra-large coke. Alma Enormous, in addition to being rather plump, had developed a chronic drug habit following the traumatic refectory-bombing affair of two years ago. She lurched awkwardly towards a group of young men in plaid shirts from whom she hoped to score.

Simpy, stroking Cotty’s neck lightly, gazed at Goebby with a sudden air of thoughtfulness. “You know, Goebby, sometimes your accent sounds a little unusual. You’re not,” she wrinkled her nose in distaste, “German are you?”

“Why no, I am merely at the moment a slight cold having,” replied Goebby pleasantly. “And I was brought up in Cornvall.”

“But you know, Simpy,” murmured Fieldy lazily, “I’ve been doing some thinking lately. Why is it, that although we’ve been in this school since 1958, we’re all still in the fifth form? I’m fifty two now, older than all the teachers with the exception of Mr Jurassic, the history master. And I still fail Trigonometry every year.”

“I’ve been wondering about something too,” said Cotty, gently removing her hand from Simpy’s thigh which she’d been carressing. “Considering this is our thirty-fifth Christmas at school, why do we still call each other by our surnames?”

“Because we’re all called Mary, silly,” laughed Simpy.

“But that’s just the point. My name is actually Phyllis. I only said it was Mary because on my first day in school you told me your name was Mary. And what’s more I happen to know that Fieldy’s real name is Raquel.”

“I never liked the name Mary much, to be honest,” mumbled Fieldy in agreement.

“Well cripes!” exclaimed Simpy, “Do you mean to say I’m the only one of the Four Marys who’s actually called Mary? Goebby, what’s your real name?”

“Helga,” answered Goebby.

“That sounds a bit German,” murmured the other three darkly.

“It’s short, for, um, Jane,” answered Goebby hurriedly.

“Lobster lobster lobster!” chuckled Sally Dali, one of the most surreal girls in the the fifth form, as she skateboarded past, naked.

“Quite,” snapped Simpy, who was gettng a little tired of the post-modern slant that had unexpectedly crept into the conversation. “Let’s just stick to addressing each other by cute abbreviations of our surnames, shall we? And poking fun at German people of course,” she added merrily.

“Hear hear!” cried the others.

NITE SPOT

“Look, why not we to go somewhere a bit quieter where loud noises of the banging variety can be made, ja?” interrupted Goebby suddenly.

“What ho, that sounds super!” laughed Fieldy. “There’s a chap over there with a journalistic notebook in one hand and a bottle of very cheap wine in the other who’s been winking at me for the past few minutes and probably wouldn’t be averse to making a few banging noises out in the carpark...”

“Nein, nein!” squealed Goebby impatiently.

“Crumbs, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think nine bouts of rumpy pumpy might be enough to over-stretch even my prodigious talents, Goebby,” said Fieldy, shaking her head sadly. “I am fifty two, you know.”

“You have me much mistaken,” said Goebby. “I merely meant that such doings of a moist and physical nature were not to what I was referring. I thinked rather it would be fun if we could leave these crowds behind and by ourselves be.”

“Cripes yes, we could eat those delicious sandwiches you brought in that abnormally large cannon-shaped bag of yours,” agreed Fieldy.

“Oh yes, you shall feeled the full force of the contents of my bag alright,” cackled Goebby fiendishly . . .

“Did you notice that fiendish cackle coming from Goebby’s direction just now?” Simpy asked Cotty concernedly as they walked arm in arm behind the others in search of a secluded spot. “When I mentioned poking fun at German people, she didn’t even join in with the gusto normally associated with the girls of St Elmo’s. I know she’s new to the fifth form, but there’s something decidedly fishy about Mary Goebbels.”

“Helga,” corrected Cotty.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Later, as Goebby waited for Simpy and Cotty to come out of the women’s toilets, Fieldy rushed over and breathlessly explained that the man with the journalistic notebook who had been winking at her had promised that he would arrange for them all to sit on the side of the stage. In return, Fieldy would accompany him to a popular Dublin nite spot once the concert had finished.

“Wunderbar!” exclaimed Goebby.

“What was that?” said Fieldy, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice.

“It is, er, an old Cornish expression, meaning, it is a prospect more scrumptious than a large bowl of clotted cream,” replied Goebby. “Look, here the others are coming. Let us to the stage go!”

DETECTIVE WORK

Within minutes, Cotty, Simpy, Goebby and Fieldy were only a few feet from Hothouse Flowers, who had launched into a spirited version of ‘Don’t Go’.

“I wonder if it’s entirely safe for Alma Enormous to be trying to shoot up drugs while climbing that very tall stack of amplifiers?” Cotty mused. “Still, I’m sure all those rolls of unsightly flab will cushion the impact should she fall. I say, where are you off to, Fieldy?”

“I’m going to ask that nice chap to play a song for me,” explained Fieldy.

“Something by k.d. lang?” asked Simpy hopefully.

“I think a more festive tune might serve our purposes better,” said Fieldy.

“Whatever is going on?” said Simpy, as in response to Fieldy’s request, Liam O’Maonlai encouraged the audience to join with him in a fiddle-and-didgeridoo rendition of ‘Silent Night’.

“A-ha, just as I suspected!” shouted Fieldy over the din. “Goebby is singing the German version of ‘Silent Night’, or, as she would know it, ‘Stille Nacht’! For, unless my hunches are mistaken, Helga Goebbels is not of Cornish descent at all, but is, in fact, a Kraut!”

“No!” gasped Simpy and Cotty in horror.

“Ja, ja, it is true!” cried Goebby defiantly. “I am not from Cornvall. I have even visited never that scenic part of your country. I am from Munich! And it is I who shot Mary Radleigh, in retaliation the killing of for my mother, Frau Strudel the cook, who up was blown in the unfortunate refectory-bombing incident two years ago!

“And now,” she continued, “I shall you kill too!”

With that, she ran onstage, and opened her large bag to reveal – horrors! – a cannon, which she lit and pointed in the direction of the three startled fifth-formers. But – hurrah! – Liam O’Maonlai, momentarily mistaking the cannon for his didgeridoo, swung the dangerous piece of weaponry around till it was pointing in the direction of Alma Enormous, who was hanging precariously from the stack of amplifiers behind them.

KER-BLAM! Alma Enormous seemed to hover, motionless, in the air for a moment, before landing squarely on top of Helga Goebbels.

“Crumbs, I think that’s pretty much finished Helga and Alma off,” said Fieldy decisively, as the Hothouse Flowers burst into ‘Feet On The Ground’.

“That was jolly good detective work, Fieldy. No wonder you’re known as one of the most perceptive girls in the fifth form,” said Simpy admiringly.

“Thanks, it was nothing,” shrugged Fieldy modestly. “Well, what say we all toddle off to that nite spot now?”

“Super!” nodded Simpy and Cotty in unison.

MIGHTY CHEER

As they walked up Grafton Street later, Fieldy playfully blistered the skin of homeless people with the blow-torch she had borrowed from Mr Sparky the metalwork teacher, while her new journalist friend staggered a few steps behind. Suddenly, cathedral bells pealed and a mighty cheer rang out as the clocks struck midnight.

“Gosh, it’s 1994,” remarked Fieldy. “Our thirty-sixth year at St Elmo’s. I wonder what further adventures could possibly lie ahead of us?”

“Who knows, but I bet you’ll still fail Miss Perpendicular’s Trigonometry test next term!” laughed Cotty. “Oh well, roll on the new year! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!”