Mrs S


 
 
 
 
 
 
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 4th Estate
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 This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2023
 Copyright © K Patrick 2023
 K Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
 Cover design by Jo Thomson
 Image © Getty Images/joelclements
 Quotation by Hilda Doolittle, from Collected Poems, 1912–1944, copyright © 1982 by The Estate of Hilda Doolittle. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp and by permission of Carcanet Press, Manchester, UK.
 A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
 This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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 Source ISBN: 9780008560997
 Ebook Edition © June 2023 ISBN: 9780008561017
 Version: 2023-04-24
 
 
 Epigraphs
 You are clear
 O rose, cut in rock,
 hard as the descent of hail.
 I could scrape the colour
 from the petals
 like spilt dye from a rock.
 If I could break you
 I could break a tree.
 If I could stir
 I could break a tree –
 I could break you.
 H.D., ‘Garden’
 You are not made by yourself, but by the thing that you want.
 Fanny Howe, ‘Catholic’
 
 
 Mrs. S
 She argues with the gardener. Her voice is not raised. I stop to watch them. Stood opposite one another in her grand driveway, branches from a dark-green shrub in his wheelbarrow. He does not know he is being argued with, he does not know how to read the angles of her body. One foot taking aim, the other carefully sets her balance. Chin, skyward, it rips through the overhead pine tree. Her hand – I want more detail, I can’t have it – throws his gaze towards the flower beds. He lifts his shirt almost to his nipples to wipe his face. Thinks he is putting his masculinity to good use. Flashing his hard work. His bellybutton too. The size of a fingertip, refusing to be eclipsed by muscle. An unregulated softness. He is vulnerable. There is nothing he can do. Her energy is concentrated and precise, light through a magnifying glass. Left standing with his shirt balled into his fist. He pushes the wheelbarrow away, back into the garden, to face his mistake. Oh, she is vigilant, she knows she is not alone. I am discovered, I burn. Like her I stand my ground. Dare her to wave, to give that hand to me.
 Miss Miss Miss. What else could I ask them to call me? Matron is the job title. Strange as it is, that might sound better, a nice word to wear. At least I could taste a little butch in it, a pair of crossed arms, a dramatic mole, a stiff back. No, Miss instead. The Girls repeat it all day long. They flirt with me, with each other, with the reverend who blushes in his long black robes. I don’t remember possessing this adolescent power. They make eye contact and hold it steady.
 A bust of the dead author sits cold on a plinth. As The Girls walk in from church they dart to kiss her head, to tap her nose, to tickle her chin. The Housemistress does nothing, I do nothing. The ritual feels hard-earned. Especially in this weather. Spring flowers rotting in the cold snap. Clouds pinned to our shoulders. The Girls press chilled mouths, chilled fingertips, to the marble. I blow into my hands. When one Girl traces the dead author’s lips with her tongue, I interrupt weakly. Hey, hey. Don’t do that. Recently I’ve learned not to say please.
 She emerges from her office. Mrs S, the headmaster’s wife. She prefers luxurious fabrics. Today, in honour of the unexpected frost, a cashmere polo neck. As she sees The Girls she smiles and tugs on her sleeves. Her nails are painted maroon. Last week they were bright red. Fingers have the poise of a conductor’s. Morning Ladies. Good morning, they echo. Each shifts quickly away from the dead author’s head. The Girls respect Mrs S’s beauty. She is tall. From a few feet, the closest we have been, I notice I am taller. Only just. Her face tricks me into familiarity, lifted from a painting, a feminine ideal. Cheekbones that stun. She knows it. Smiling, pulling them tighter. Surely rich like the rest of them. Her job is vague, a counsellor of sorts. She has a large office in which The Girls are invited to drink tea and talk through their weeks. I have never been inside.
 The Girls shake off their blazers, the same style for over two hundred years. Rain drips onto the worn red tiles. The whole uniform is done in an awful blue. A cheapened summer sky. Tights, shirts, tie, hair ribbons, pleated heavy skirt, all blue blue blue. Mrs S stops to chat with The Girls. I catch her eye. She looks at me briefly, expectantly. Luckily a Girl needs her attention and I am freed.
 The school is haunted by the smell of breakfast. I used to love breakfast. Now it has been intensified beyond pleasure. A tray of scrambled eggs leaking water. Bacon with shimmering, rubberized fat. Damp toast. Soft apples. Pears with snakeskin. I slip a banana