South Riding (41 page)

But the effort had been too much for Black Hussar. As he gathered himself together for the gallop to take the gate, he faltered. He limped. Carne reined up gently, started again, felt the limp, halted, and quietly slid to the ground. With the rein over his arm, he lifted his crop in salute to the stand, and led the horse away, plodding as easily as though he were crossing his own grass field, out of the ring.

“What was it?” gasped Mrs. Beddows.

“Strained muscle, I think.”

“Too heavy.”

“Tendon slipped.”

“He’s done for now. He’ll never compete again,” said a man behind him.

But the crowd roared its sympathy with bad luck, its admiration of a fine performance.

Mrs. Beddows felt hot tears of disappointment pricking her eyeballs.

He might have had just that success, she thought. He might have been allowed just that.

From his lower privileged seat among the big wigs Jim saw and waved to her—his gesture of communication of victory. He had won a free champagne lunch, a ringside seat, and a conversation with three titled landowners, all because he was Jim Beddows, best judge of corn in the South Riding. He was in his glory.

Emma waved back. She could not disappoint him. But at that moment she would have liked to box his ears.

F
OR THE
thirty-fourth time that afternoon, there was a knock at Sarah’s door.

“Come in.”

She pulled herself together. She was tired. The last week of the summer term was always wearing, but this year, what with the measles, the quarantine, the trouble about the school fund, and the perpetual guerrilla warfare against the governors which must be disguised by flattery and appeal, it had been worse than ever.

Yet I
like
responsibility, she told herself, almost as though she needed reassurance.

Miss Jameson entered.

Deceptively, Sarah smiled at her.

“Well, how are things going, Miss Jameson?”

She need not have asked. The thundercloud on Miss Jameson’s face spoke for her.

“I have to speak to you, Miss Burton. You know I never complain unless I must. But some things even
I
cannot tolerate.”

“What is it?”

“Miss Parsons. It’s insufferable. Apparently when she was sorting letters two days ago there was one addressed to me which got separated. Into her lot, or so she says. She may have her own reasons for holding up my letters. It’s an old trick, I believe, with these embittered middle-aged spinsters.”

“Yes, I know you have odd theories about middle-age and virginity, Miss Jameson. They don’t convince me. But I suppose we must all speak from our own experience.”

Don’t be a cat, she warned herself. It’s no use. Dolores Jameson flushed. Actually she was Miss Parsons’ junior by only five years, but Pip’s devotion gave her, she considered, a complete alibi in all charges of frustration and virginity. Sarah watched her, realising this.

Miss Jameson continued: “And when she had discovered it twenty-four hours late, if you please—instead of bringing it to me and apologising, or at least putting it in the hall with the other letters, she gave it to the serving maid to put on the staff table and there’it got covered with newspapers, so that I only found it now—too late. It was making an appointment, and I’ve missed it.”

“I’m sorry. That was exasperating. Can you telephone—or wire?”

“What’s the use now? It’s too late.”

Often before Sarah had infuriated her colleagues by suggesting remedies instead of grievances. She had not yet recognised the human preference for complaint.

“I’m sure no one will be sorrier than Miss Parsons. Of course it was an accident. She’s probably rather flurried and exhausted. I think we shall have to make allowances for her. She’s had an awful term.”

“That doesn’t excuse her. And it doesn’t give me back my lost appointment. It’s all very well for you to be tolerant, but you know she’s a born muddler. Oh, I shall be glad to get out of this teaching profession. It’s all very well for you. You don’t have to spend day after day in the staff room, with the Sigglesthwaite groaning on one side of you, and the Parson chirruping on the other.”

“Neither do you. You have your own rooms, you know. What did you want me to do?”

“Talk to Miss Parsons. Impress upon her about the letters. Or take them out of her hands. This isn’t the first time that there have been muddles.”

“I’ll see her.”

When Dolores Jameson had flounced away, Sarah scolded herself.

I manage her badly because I despise her. I let her be familiar and impertinent because I dislike her so much that I don’t even trouble to keep her in her place. Heaven send that Pip never tires of his engagement! If only he’d marry her this summer.

Sarah sighed.

She sent for Miss Parsons, expecting fluttering repentance. But far from displaying contrition for her negligence the matron broke in quivering with a grievance of her own.

“It’s no use, Miss Burton. I’ve tried and tried! An archangel himself couldn’t manage all I have to do with an untrained housemaid for the serving. What do you think the girl’s done now? I
told
her to put round the clean linen in the boarders’ cubicles, with the towels folded
inside
the sheets and pillowcase, so that there’d be no question of them blowing away as Gwynneth said
hers
did, earlier this term, and would you believe it? When I went my rounds there was the linen put on the beds with the towels wrapped round
outside
each bundle!”

“And what
did
you do?” asked Sarah, genuinely eager to learn why Miss Parsons appeared perennially overworked.

“Of course I went round with her and made her refold all the bundles with the towels
inside.
But she was very
sulky
, and
most
impertinent, and if I have to spend my whole time redoing her work for her, I might as well have no help at all!”

Sarah looked at Miss Parsons. She was a woman ten years older than herself, who might have been any age over fifty— gentle, loyal, devoted, but a born muddler, with a muddler’s irrational spurts of vindictive anger.

She said quietly, “Of course, it’s your own department. You must run it your own way, Miss Parsons. But don’t you think next time it might be a good idea just to tell the girl what’s wrong and how you want things done, but to spare yourself the exhausting business of doing it all over again?”

But the muddler’s obstinacy shone in Miss Parsons’ eye. She was sure that she was right, and she spent ten minutes explaining to Sarah just why no other methods except her own were practicable.

Sarah was patient. She knew that the matron was near the end of her tether after a gruelling term, and that her fussy incompetence with domestic routine was a negligible disadvantage weighed against her real devotion to the school, the girls, even to the dilapidated buildings, and her unselfishness in times of illness and crisis. Quarter of an hour spent in ventilating grievances was not time wasted.

When the storm was momentarily checked, she observed amicably:

“There’s just one other thing I wanted to ask. Exactly what is the procedure with the staff letters, Miss Parsons? You take the whole bag from the postman, don’t you? You sort them— and then—just what happens?”

The matron flushed.

“I suppose Miss Jameson’s been here. Well. She’s second mistress, and no doubt she has a certain right to report misconduct among her inferiors. But even
I
have my dignity, Miss Burton. I may not have a university degree and all that, but I have my dignity. I am not an office boy to carry messages.”

“No, of course not. I was only going to suggest that when a letter has been accidentally delayed, it would be better perhaps to send it immediately to its owner.”

“Accidentally. So she admitted to you it was an accident, did she? She wouldn’t to me, Miss Burton. She seemed to think I did it on purpose. Really, she’s insufferable. She was bad enough before she became engaged, but ever since she’s been
impossible
.” The facile tears swam in the matron’s eyes. Her round indeterminate face crumpled. “Now I suppose I’m talking exactly as she thinks I talk. She’s always sneering at unmarried women. She seems to think that either we all envy her her wretched little fiancé, or that we’re frozen and inhuman and all riddled with complexes. It’s not kind and it’s not nice and it’s not good for the girls.”

“I agree with you,” said Sarah. “I agree entirely. There’s too much fuss about virginity and its opposite altogether. And I think Miss Jameson may have been reading too many of those rather silly books that profess to serve up potted psychology. It’s very silly. But you know,”—her voice grew soft and persuasive—“I’m rather sorry for Miss Jameson. I feel that we shall have to be a little tolerant with her. She’s not a young girl, you know, and this engagement seems to have gone to her head a bit. I understand that she’s waited two years now for this young man’s promotion and there’s still no word of it. It must be very trying for her—tiresome for us too, perhaps. But what I feel is—there’s probably a very real fear of loneliness and old age behind all this pose of superiority. You see, she’s not naturally a very lovable person, is she? If she doesn’t marry, I’m afraid she may one day feel terribly isolated.”

“Oh,” said Miss Parsons, sitting down and looking across the desk at Sarah. “Oh—I—I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You see.” Sarah smiled, subtle, honey-sweet. “I expect it’s rather difficult for affectionate and motherly natures like your own, Miss Parsons, which find it perfectly natural to love and be loved, to realise how desperately and fiercely possessive a lonely egotist feels about any symbol of attractiveness she may acquire. Miss Jameson’s engagement ring is a tremendous thing to her. A sign that someone really loves her and wants to live with her, and that she returns that love. I shouldn’t be surprised if this young man were the only creature whom she has ever loved. So it’s not wonderful that she clings to him and all he stands for, with a rather pathetic vehemence. It’s very real and terrible—to fear an unloved old age. A woman like you, perhaps, can hardly realise. I don’t suppose you’ve ever bothered, have you, about loneliness?”

“No,” muttered the matron. “No. I don’t believe I have.”

Lord, what a prig I sound! thought Sarah ruefully. But it’s the only way. I can’t have that harridan ruining my staff. And it’s true. God knows it’s true.

“You see—I know better than you do because I’m an egotist myself,” she confessed disarmingly. “I like people to do what I want and they generally do it. So that being with others doesn’t mean constant sacrifice for me. I expect that for unselfish people, it’s rather a pleasant change to be alone, isn’t it? I mean, then you can indulge in all your own little likes and dislikes—have the windows open or shut as you please, and choose the biggest strawberries, and all that?”

“Why—yes,” said Miss Parsons in mild surprise, seeing herself now, not as Miss Jameson saw her, an envious, embittered and frustrated spinster, but as Miss Burton saw her, a woman of warm heart, naturally lovable and loving, the generous friend of those dear naughty girls.

The Parson, they called her. Good old Reverend. She smiled at the thought of them. She had been their slave for twenty years, but the fingers that she had bandaged, the tears that she had dried, the cough lozenges and cod-liver oil that she had bought with her own money to give to day-girls— since she was too scrupulous to dose them with boarders’ medicines—all became part of an unconscious insurance by which she had bought freedom from the fear of loneliness.

For of course she had never dreaded retirement; the thought of being alone held no terrors for her; it was a luxury. All her life she had loved and served and given, so that her own company meant not deprivation, but a little relaxation in which she might pander to her own neglected preferences. She knew exactly how she would live when she left the High School. She would have her pension. She would have her memories. All her human appetites for love and self-sacrifice would have been amply satisfied. She would take a little cottage, or rooms with some nice woman; she would have a wireless set, a dog, a subscription to Boots’ Library. Old girls would come to tea, and she would give them iced cakes and strawberries in summer time. Sometimes they would invite her to attend speech days and school concerts. They would bring their babies or young men to see her. When she was alone, she could muddle along happily in her own way. She could eat bread and treacle for supper when she fancied, wear bedroom slippers all day if she felt like it, and rest, after her long and faithful service.

Miss Jameson was wrong. She had not been frustrated. She had loved and served and feared and hoped and given. She had enriched herself immeasurably by the renunciation of possessions. All over Yorkshire, in farm-houses and shops and villas, lingered the memory of her unstinted service. Miss Parsons knew that in a hundred homes women thought of her, and would think, with affection—a little amused, a little critical perhaps, but they were grateful to her. Good old Reverend. She had her reward. She wondered that she had never thought much of these things before. She smiled radiantly into the light intelligent eyes of her head mistress.