Confessions of a Gym Mistress

“Don’t worry, darling. At this place you usually get the job by bothering to telephone. There’s a chronic shortage of teachers you know. Most of them have got more sense than to work at Dothegirls Hall.”

“Dothegirls Hall?”

“You remember Dotheboys Hall? It was in Nicholas Nickleby or Great Expectations or Biggles Flies East—I can’t remember which. I’ve stopped taking English this term.”

“English? I thought you were games mistress.”

“Oh I am, but you have to be flexible here. When Miss Carstairs ran off with the man who came to mend the boiler I had to fill the gap that he was filling—if you know what I mean.” Penny turns to me and winks and we narrowly miss a furniture van.

“Is there a large turnover of staff here?” I ask.

“Yes and no,” says Penny. “There are the elderly dead beats who stay here because they know they will never get a job anywhere else—and can’t be bothered anyway—and the dynamic young graduates who want to turn the educational system upside down and leave, disillusioned after two weeks.”

“Which lot do you fit into?” I ask.

“Oh, there’s a third category of escaped convicts, murderers and retired female impersonators—nice countryside, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” I say. “I gathered from your letter that you’ve met a few locals?”

“Yes, the area isn’t badly equipped hunk-wise. One of my little chums hangs out over there. Do you want to pop in and say hello?” Penny indicates a collection of low, ramshackle buildings with a sign outside saying Branwell Riding Stables.

“I don’t think I’ve got time,” I say. “Miss Grimshaw is expecting me at twelve.”

“Don’t worry about that,” says Penny swinging the wheel over. “She’ll expect the train to be half an hour late. Anyway, I bet she’s already started glugging down her lunch. You don’t usually get much sense out of her after ten o’clock.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, darling. This isn’t Queen Adelaide’s. We live life at a slower pace down here—oops! Did I get it?” I watch the chicken dive under the barn door and shake my head.

“This guy is called Guy Hark-Bach,” continues Penny, unperturbed, “I met him at the hunter trials.”

“Did they get off?” I ask.

“You’re terribly unspoilt, aren’t you?” muses Penny after a moments silence. “Come on, let’s squeeze a quick G. and T. out of the old horse dropping.”

I don’t know what she is talking about but I meekly follow her into a building that looks like a good pull-in for tennis court marking machines—like primitive.

“Penelope, mon ange, what scented zephyr wafts you into my aegis?”

For a moment I think that the fella must be speaking manx. Then I grab the peakless cap pulled low over the nose and the hounds-tooth hacking jacket and I realise it must be Penny’s mate.

“Guy, if I didn’t know you well I’d think you were an idiot. And if I did know you well I’d be ashamed of myself.” Penny smiles sweetly. “While you think about that I’d like to introduce you to someone I used to nurse with at Queen Adelaide’s. Rose Dixon.”

“Not another outbreak of food poisoning, I hope?” murmurs Guy, brushing the back of my hand with his lips.

“Rosie has come to teach, not nurse,” says Penny. “There’s no need to be unkind about the school cuisine. Just because you found a fly in your soup when you had supper with us.”

“It wasn’t the fly I was worried about,” says Guy. “It was the cockroach that was eating it.”

“Guy has an exquisite sense of humour as you can see,” purrs Penny.

“‘Sense of humour’ nothing!” spits Guy. “The farmers round here haven’t forgiven your girls for the last outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease.”

“They were carriers?” I ask.

“They were originators.”

“Absolute nonsense!” snaps Penny. “Foot and Mouth Disease can’t be transmitted by human beings.”

“You want further proof?” says Guy.

“Guy, don’t be ridiculous. These stories about the school are totally without foundation. The minute the Health Inspector came out of the maximum care unit he said that reports of a smallpox epidemic were vastly exaggerated.”

“Yes, but he was delirious at the time.”

“That’s a lovely horse,” I say. Shrewd readers will observe that I am trying to do a mum and steer the conversation into less controversial waters.

“What? Oh yes. Yes, he is a handsome beast, isn’t he? Served a few mares right in his time, I can tell you.”

“Uuuhm,” says Penny. She sucks in her breath. “I always find gees very sexy, don’t you? Steaming flanks, all that sort of thing? Guy can tell you some fascinating stories about his time with the R.H.G., can’t you Guy?”

“I’d love to hear them,” I say, wondering what the R.H.G. is or are. “But I do think I ought to be getting along to the school.”

“Rosie is incredibly conscientious,” says Penny.

“Yes.” Guy studies me thoughtfully through cornflower blue eyes. He is a very tall man with strong features and a fuzz of down on his cheeks. I don’t usually go for upper class types but there is something reassuring and rather sexy about his riding breeches and highly polished boots. I can see what Penny saw in Mark What’s-his-name. I wonder if he is still around? She has not mentioned him. Probably better not to ask.

“Why don’t you drop in for a drink this evening?” says Guy. “A few of the locals are popping round for a quick noggin.” That must be some kind of game, I think to myself. I hope it’s not like skittles. I was useless when Geoffrey took me ten pin bowling. I even managed to get one of the balls on someone else’s lane.

“Not one of your rowdy evenings, I hope?” says Penny, raising an eyebrow.

“I sincerely hope not,” says Guy. “Do you remember how long it took us to catch the horses last time?”

“And Fanny Scutterbuck fell in the cow byre—in every sense of the word.” They both laugh lightly.

“Well, it’s here if you want it,” says Guy.

Penny touches his arm. “I know. And it’s a great source of comfort to me.”

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” says Penny as we speed on our way. “We might drop in there later.”

“Yes,” I say. “Tell me, Penny. All that talk about food poisoning and epidemics. That was just a joke, wasn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Penny. “You have been immunised against the Black Death, haven’t you?” She sees the expression on my face and laughs. “No, seriously. Reports of creaking tumbrils bearing the dead away from the school gates have been vastly exaggerated. There was a spot of bother with the cook, but once he stopped doubling up as biology master that soon resolved itself. I always wondered why the frogs legs tasted of formalin. And as for the school cat, well, I hated the bloody thing anyway, so—what’s the matter?”

“Just trying to get a window open,” I say, struggling desperately. “I find it a bit stuffy in here.”

“Yes, it is a bit niffy, isn’t it? I think we must have stood in something at the stables.”