South Riding by Winifred Holtby

Author:Winifred Holtby
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781446416464
Publisher: BBC Digital
Published: 2011-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

3

Sarah Looks Out of a Window

FOR 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.

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