Confessions of a Gym Mistress. Rosie Dixon

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      “Blast!” says Miss Grimshaw.

      Round a corner of the building stream about twenty girls wearing shorts and blouses. There is a collective shout of triumph and the prostrate man rises on his elbows and starts trying to crawl towards the house we are standing in. Miss Grimshaw throws herself at the window and wrenches up the sash.

      “GET BACK!!” she bellows. “BACK! I say.”

      The leading girls have now nearly closed with the man who has stopped crawling and curled himself up like a hedgehog. They stumble to a halt and stare up at the window resentfully.

      “Back to your rooms!”

      There is a moment’s hesitation and then the girls begin to split up into groups and file away. The man picks himself up and raises an accusing finger towards our window.

      “I want to see ’ee, Miss Grimshaw.”

      “Later, Hardakre.” Miss Grimshaw slams the window down and shakes her head. “Sport plays an important part in our lives here,” she says. “That was the Hare and Hounds Club simulating a kill.” She takes another swig of cold tea. “What was I talking about?”

      “About the railways,” I say.

      “Erosion of modern values … duty to uphold law and order … Capital Gains Tax …” Miss Grimshaw sways and collapses into her chair. “It’s those pills I have to take for my hay fever.”

      “They’re terrible, aren’t they?” I say sympathetically.

      Miss Grimshaw shakes her head and picks up a letter with “final demand” typed across the top of it. “Was Geography your only subject at Mingehampton?”

      “I think there must be some mistake,” I say. “I came about the job of gym mistress.”

      Miss Grimshaw waves a hand at my words as if they are distracting insects. “We can’t have you incarcerated in the gym all the time—anyway, we don’t have one. These days, during the grave shortage of teachers and—er, money considerations prompt us to double up as much as we can. I don’t think you’ll have any problem teaching Geography. After all, you did find your way here.” Miss Grimshaw laughs at her little joke and stretches out a hand to where the bottle of cold tea used to be.

      “Well, if you really think—I don’t have any qualifications.”

      Miss Grimshaw smiles knowingly. “Don’t worry too much about that. Many of our longest serving members of the staff don’t have any qualifications.”

      It all seems too good to be true. Miss Grimshaw is talking as if I already have the job. I must appear keen.

      “Pen—Miss Green mentioned the ‘Survival In The Seventies’ Course.”

      “Ah yes.” Miss Grimshaw leans forward and places the palms of her hands together. “That’s a project very dear to my heart.”

      I flash on my “tell me more” expression but it is unnecessary.

      “I think it absolutely vital that we prepare our gels for the world that they are going to have to live in. A world in which oil, coal and even food are going to be in increasingly short supply. Here at St Rodence we bring our gels face to face with these realities from the earliest possible moment. Sometimes a meal is dropped without notice and I have discontinued the oil deliveries so that we can use the raw materials existing in the grounds.”

      “I saw some girls sawing up trees,” I say.

      “Exactly. And then there’s Miss Bondage’s Open Cast Coal Mining Class. At all levels we’re trying to back up the government’s economy measures.”

      “It must save a lot of money, too,” I say.

      Miss Grimshaw looks up sharply. “Money. Yes, I suppose that must be a consideration to some people.” The way she says it makes me feel ashamed. How could I have been so clumsy?

      “I didn’t mean—” I say hurriedly.

      “Don’t.” Miss Grimshaw fans herself with a letter from a firm called Humpbach, Straynes and Croucher. “We live in venal times. It’s understandable that the thought should occur to you. For somebody of my ascetic temperament money hardly enters into the scheme of things.” I nod, wishing that I could understand. Maybe, after exposure to this remarkable woman—“I believe you’ve worked with Miss Green before?”

      “Yes, we nursed together.”

      “Splendid gel. Her pupils worship her stud marks. I think we’ve got all the makings of a great hockey team this year. Probably our best since the palmy days of Mabel Atherstone-Hinkmore. A big girl but so light on her feet. She moved like a great fairy.” Dad often says the same thing when he is watching the telly. “I think we’re really going to give St Belters a game, this year.”

      I nod vigorously and try and make my eyes glow with enthusiasm. Miss Grimshaw’s eyes are glowing with enthusiasm—or something.

      “I’d certainly like to help.” I say.

      “Good gel!” Miss Grimshaw tries to rise to her feet and then falls back into her chair. “You cut along and take tiffin with Miss Green. She’ll show you the ropes. I must get on with preparing my weekly jaw on current affairs.” Her hand stretches out towards a copy of Sporting Life. “Goodbye, Miss Nixon. Nixon—” Miss G. shakes her head quizzically “—it’s funny, I’m certain I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Miss Grimshaw obviously has a very dry sense of humour. I have read about people like her.

      “How did it go?” says Penny, when I eventually find my way to her room.

      “Jolly—I mean, very well,” I say. “I think I’m in.”

      “What did I tell you? This place would employ the Boston Strangler if he kept his nails short.”

      “Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I say. “And, talking of flattery, Miss Grimshaw spoke very highly of you.”

      “I suppose she was pissed out of her mind, was she? In that mood she loves everybody.”

      I like Penny but she can be very cynical sometimes.

      “Are you going to take the job?” she says.

      “You bet.”

      “Right, let’s go out and eat.”

      “Go out?”

      “Yes. I don’t want you to change your mind.”

      “Don’t you have to eat here?”

      “I’ve got a free afternoon. Come on, we’ll go down to the village. I feel like a good natter.”

      She also feels like four large gin and tonics as I find by the time I am on my second cider—it is strong, too. Not like the stuff Dad gets in at Christimas.

      “I feel I should have spent more time at the school,” I say.

      “You’ve СКАЧАТЬ