Matricide at St. Martha's

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Sandra cast upon Amiss a smile of approval. Before either of them could speak, the Reverend Cyril returned to the charge. ‘As I was saying, about parochial history, there is still a lot of work to be done on the records of the parish of Athelstan. And in my spare time—of which I have little, you understand, for a man of the cloth is always on call and even scholarship must give way to the demands of his congregation—I try to make my modest contribution. It is not an easy path that I have chosen, but I have my moments of relaxation and when I have I like to continue with work on my monograph.’

  ‘No doubt you too have your scholarly interests?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Amiss. ‘I’m completing my Ph.D thesis on the incidence of flatulence among choirboys in the parish of Chipping Campden in the late seventeenth century.’ As he said it he was appalled by his own rudeness; either the Bursar’s habits were catching, he thought, or the whisky and gin were getting to him. Fortunately the Reverend Crowley was unfazed.

  ‘Oh ho ho,’ he said. ‘I see we’ve got a jester here. Jolly good. Jolly good. I often think a little healthy humour is perhaps needed. The ladies can be a tad serious, you know; they’re just a little prone to be serious. I often say to them, “You should rest more, relax more. Get around the piano and have a good old sing-song. You can’t be always labouring over these scholarly tasks, you know.”’

  A thin green soup was slammed in front of him by a slattern with a walleye, a hump and an exaggerated limp. The soup tasted of weed. Amiss observed the Bursar reaching inside her jacket and emerging with a small bottle, the contents of which she proceeded blatantly to empty into her soup plate. Covertly, Amiss scrabbled in his pocket, took out the little bottles therein, found the sherry and followed suit; if he was going to listen to a lecture on Henry VIII in Yorkshire, he reasoned, he might as well be entirely pickled. For most of the rest of the meal he listened to the Mistress, who addressed him coherently on the subject of the advan tages and disadvantages of single sex colleges.

  ‘Why did you decide to become mixed?’ he asked, when there was a lull.

  ‘We haven’t. Well, that is, only in a couple of special cases. We had to have a male chaplain and we couldn’t seem to find anyone else to take up the two statutory positions that Dr. Pusey and Mr. Franks have. Or, to be precise, Dr. Pusey has and Mr. Franks had.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Why, Dr. Pusey is the Fellow in Womanly Arts.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Amiss. ‘And Mr. Franks was your Fellow in Household Management.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that to outsiders it is a little odd,’ said the Mistress, ‘but the founder was very anxious that the tradi tional skills should not be lost simply because the girls were being given higher education, and frankly, there are very few people these days who are sufficiently qualified in either of those subjects and who are also highly qualified academically. We were really rather fortunate to find those two.’

  ‘They have to have good degrees?’

  ‘I am not prepared to tolerate a diminution in standards,’ said the Mistress firmly. ‘This college rests or falls on excel lence. We do not all necessarily see eye to eye on this, but I am determined that we shall reach new heights when the Alice Toon bequest is put into effect.’

  Soup gave way to shepherd’s pie, with nut cutlets for the vegetarians. It was followed by a surprisingly good mature cheddar. In the case of the Bursar, the sherry had given way to wine but Amiss had had a failure of nerve and—unable to bring himself to produce the quarter bottle of Bordeaux under the Mistress’s nose—had gone on miserably sipping the tap water.

  The Mistress had ceased to keep his attention; there seemed no chance of stopping her from talking about the need to restore palaeography to its original position as the jewel in the college’s crown. He observed that Miss Partridge was looking a lot less cheerful than she had been at the beginning of the meal. The neighbour on her right, a sour-looking woman in her fifties, was reading a book, and Miss Partridge was enduring alternately the Reverend Cyril’s orotundities—bellowed across the table—and, from her left, a disquisition from Pusey on the subject of his passion for order, method and lists. He had, it appeared catalogued his books, objets d’art, his clothes and—naturally—all his research notes on the history of eighteenth-century West phalian embroidery.

  ‘And then, of course,’ Amiss overheard him saying, ‘there are my own little works of art. You must come and join us one of these evenings, we have such fun, and I’ll make some thing for you.’

  ‘I’m not very domestic, I’m afraid,’ Miss Partridge said nervously, only to be interrupted by another hoot from the Reverend. Amiss feared the quality of conversation on high table was not perhaps all she had hoped for.

  Chapter 5

  At 8:15 the Mistress rose and headed for the door. The assembled company began to shuffle after her. Amiss lagged behind to catch the Bursar, who was scoffing another piece of cheese and taking a slug of port from a small bottle.

  ‘Hope you enjoyed the cheese,’ she said. ‘I’m responsible for that. I provide it myself as otherwise I’d starve to death.’

  ‘Fat chance of that. What I want to know is a) why do you have a waitress who looks like a female version of Quasimodo?’

  ‘Cor, don’t let the Dykes hear you use a word like “wait ress”: she’s an “attendant”. Poor old Greasy Joan. It’s all that Fens inbreeding.’

  ‘Greasy Joan as in “Greasy Joan doth keel the pot”?’

  ‘Good lad. I’m glad someone’s literate. Mind you, I don’t recommend your addressing her as that. She might be hurt. Stick to Joan. And the answer to your question is that she comes exceedingly cheap, being dim as well as undecorative.’

  ‘b) do I have to attend this ghastly event?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And c) how do you get away with drinking alcohol in front of all of them?’

  ‘Because old Maud Buckbarrow chooses not to notice and the others wouldn’t dare say anything. The oleaginous Crowley hinted something once and I told him it was a matter between me and my doctor. That shut him up. Blasted old hypocrite. If he had his way, every penny of Alice Toon’s would go on luxuries for C. Crowley.’

  ‘Now come on, put a brave face on it. You’re supposed to be a bloody ally, not a wimp. Your job is to weigh up the opposition and help me to develop a foolproof strategy.’ She jumped up so energetically that the chair fell over. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I should have thought that a woman of your gifts could swat these enemies with one mighty blow,’ said Amiss, as they hastened out of the dining room.

  ‘I probably will,’ she said carelessly. ‘But in any case, a girl needs an admirer to look on and applaud her valorous deeds.’

  Gloomily reflecting that this adventure was turning out to be more boring than he had been promised, Amiss decided on another quick anaesthetic. A swift search of his pockets revealed that the Bursar’s bounty had amounted to—in addition to the small bottle of wine he had been too pusil lanimous to open at table—a miniature brandy.

  Amiss liked to think of himself as a civilized social drinker; brandy was for consuming slowly after dinner. However, with Henry VIII and Yorkshire in mind he swallowed the contents of the bottle in two gulps, entering the senior common room choking and coughing. Sandra rushed up to him full of con cern and indicated by her body language a sympathy with whatever congenital disadvantage had brought this on.

  When he was able to speak again he muttered bravely. ‘Asthma. Old childhood complaint.’

  ‘Do you want to sit here?’ she asked solicitously, pointing towards an empty chair in the front row. Simultaneously, Amiss observed the Bursar gesticulating wildly from the back row.

  ‘Sorry, Sandra, I wish I could, but the Bursar seems to want me for something. I’d better do what I’m told.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Clearly one could not get too wimpy to lose Sandra’s sympathy. Amiss saw his role clearly: he must seriously work at being
a New Man and extremely unhealthy to boot.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed sotto voce to the Bursar as he sat down beside her. ‘We’re not supposed to be friends.’

  ‘What?’ she asked loudly. ‘Say that again. I didn’t hear you.’ He glared at her.

  ‘You’re so neurotic. Now look here, I want you to come over to my office afterwards. We’ve got some administrative details to sort out and I’m all tied up on college committees tomorrow. We really should cut this lecture…’ Hope flickered. ‘But we won’t.’

  ***

  A moment later the Mistress, who had been chit-chatting in an intense sort of way with Miss Partridge, ushered her to a chair at the head of the table, sat down on the other one herself and said, ‘Colleagues and students.’ Amiss was impressed by her considerable presence. She spoke with the confidence of one who knows silence will instantly descend on the word of command. Even Bridget, who had been expressing herself forcefully to a dishy-looking black woman in the front row, shut up instantly.

  ‘Now, I want to introduce to you my old friend, Miss Primrose Partridge, who is joining us for the term as School-mistress Fellow. She is a most distinguished old girl of this college, who in 1952 pulled off the treble of the Agatha Runcible Essay Prize, the Daisy Shrubsole Prize for Greek Iambics, and, if I may introduce a personal note, with our Senior Tutor, our Bursar, our friend Amy Braithwaite—alas, long lost from us to Canada—and myself, the Winifred Wristbardge Ladies’ Rowing Challenge Cup.’

  ‘You, no doubt, were the cox,’ whispered Amiss.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent. I, of course, was stroke.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bursar.’ The Mistress’s tone was icy. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Sorry, Mistress.’ The Bursar looked almost abashed. ‘I fear I was enlarging to our young friend here on our girlish exploits.’

  There was a small ripple of well-bred laughter from the older Fellows. ‘A little nostalgia is no doubt in order on such an occasion,’ said the Mistress indulgently. ‘However, we must get on with more serious pursuits.

  ‘Miss Partridge has been fighting the good fight for traditional excellence in transmitting to the cream of York shire gels a veneration for some of the greatest treasures of civilization. I refer of course to the classics, to the tongues of Plato, of Aristotle, of Homer, of Pliny, of Thucydides…’ Seeming to recognize that she was going off into a veritable laundry list of distinguished Dead White European Males, she paused.

  ‘But that is not all that Miss Partridge has accomplished. She has never been a narrow specialist. As a gel it was always her delight in her leisure time to read of the glories of our past, to visit our royal palaces, our great cathedrals, our fortifications, our noble architectural heritage.’

  ‘Since she went to live there, she has made Yorkshire her own. She will have much to tell us while she is amongst us, but tonight she will concentrate on her most recent series of fascinating discoveries about the links of Yorkshire with King Henry VIII—as expressed in its architectural fabric.’

  The Mistress turned and smiled at Miss Partridge, who had been slightly nervously shuffling what Amiss saw to his alarm were extensive notes. She stood up. ‘Thank you, Mistress, for that warm welcome. I can’t tell you what it means to be back in the old spot once more. Quis custodias ipsos custodes? so often comes to mind when one reflects on those in charge of education today, but not when one thinks of this great college, where our Mistress is a custodian who needs no supervision.’ There was a polite titter from three or four of the audience.

  ‘So now, ladies and gentlemen, if I may…’ There was a loud scraping of a chair and Bridget Holdness jumped up.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  Miss Partridge looked flummoxed. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to register a protest.’ Miss Partridge looked at the Mistress.

  ‘What is it, Dr. Holdness?’

  ‘Well, for a start I resent being addressed in that offensive manner.’

  Amiss was interested to observe that Miss Partridge’s jaw actually dropped. She gazed helplessly to her left.

  ‘Dr. Holdness,’ said the Mistress levelly. ‘Miss Partridge is a guest and I think we should accord her the courtesy of an uninterrupted hearing.’

  ‘Oh no no,’ said Miss Partridge. ‘I…I wouldn’t want to upset anybody. Please, somebody tell me what I’ve done.’ She sat down.

  ‘“Ladies and gentlemen” is a form of address which is totally out of order.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

  ‘“Lady” is a condescending term, designed to keep women in the position of servants.’

  Seeing Miss Partridge’s baffled expression, Sandra piped up helpfully. ‘You see, Ms Partridge, the word “lady” implies that women are ornamental—not involved with the work-place. It’s a way of keeping us out of things, you see, like we’re not equal. It oppresses us.’

  ‘So what are “gentlemen”?’ Miss Partridge’s brow was furrowed with an effort to understand. ‘Surely the same applies there?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sandra. ‘“Gentlemen”, well, it’s you know, well…classist…or like that men are gentle, and that’s wrong because just look at their violence against women.’ Bridget helpfully took over. ‘These are anachronistic terms which reinforce stereotypes,’ she said crisply.

  ‘Well, what do you suggest I say instead?’

  ‘Men and women, people, or colleagues. Unless of course there are some non-colleagues in the audience who might feel marginalized.’

  The Mistress no longer seemed to be paying attention. Amiss assumed that she had gone off into some erudite day-dream.

  ‘Very well then,’ said Miss Partridge. ‘Now may I continue?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridget Holdness, ‘but there is a more substantial issue here. What the Mistress said about the classics is deeply offensive to our new Fellow, Ms Denslow’—she gestured to the black girl beside her, who was staring at the floor—‘who should not hear Western civilization described as if it were in some way superior to others.’

  This was too much for the Bursar. Flushed with gin, wine and port, she leaped to her feet and bellowed. ‘Mary Lou’s a bloody American. What do you think that means if it doesn’t mean Western civilization?’

  ‘Mary Lou,’ said Bridget, ‘is an Afro-American, which means that she hails from a civilization probably older and greater than anything understood in this ethno-centric institution.’ Mary Lou continued to inspect the rug. ‘And moreover, as women, we are all insulted by the very memory of Henry VIII. I find it extraordinary that a gathering of sisters can be subjected to the insult of being asked to listen to an address on a white serial murderer of women.

  ‘It is time,’ she said, raising her voice for the benefit of the undergraduates who were clustering round at the back, ‘that this institution examined its own ethno-centricity, neo-colonialism and slavish aping of patriarchal attitudes.’

  She turned her back on her victims and addressed the audience. ‘Sisters, this college was founded by a paternalistic capitalist whose mission was to contain the female subversion that threatened the male establishment. Have we learnt nothing from the last hundred years? Are we to go on accepting our own inferiority, using the language of the oppressor, enduring the racial insults to our black sisters, addressing ourselves to the cultures of female-hating societies like Greece and Rome when there are the great matriarchal societies and the history of invisible women to explore and celebrate? Are we to bury ourselves in the past? Or will we go forth into a future where empathy replaces scrutiny, independence replaces subservience and above all—universality takes the place of elitism.’

  A ragged cheer went up from some of the students. Bridget Holdness smiled, turned round again and said, ‘I’m sorry Ms Partridge, but I cannot remain to experience further affront.’

  She had positioned herself neatly at the end of a row so her walk-out was unimpeded. Sandra and Mary Lou trailed in her wake,
followed by a couple of dozen students. Miss Partridge put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  ‘It’s all right, Primrose,’ said the Mistress, awkwardly patting her on the back. ‘If you’d rather, we’ll have the paper another night.’

  Miss Partridge lifted her head and gazed round the audience. ‘But I thought I was coming home. Getting away from all those philistines.’

  ‘I fear,’ said the Mistress, ‘that in higher education these days, philistinism is rapidly becoming a dogma.’ ‘Tempera mutantur,’ sobbed Miss Partridge, ‘I should have known not to come back.’

  The Mistress looked around the remnants of the audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ll postpone this lecture to another evening.’

  ‘I’m going to kill that bitch one of these days,’ said the Bursar to Amiss. ‘Now come along to my room and we’ll talk over how to do it.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘I suppose you could try using that elephant gun,’ said Amiss, gaping in awe at the great blunderbuss on the wall of the Bursar’s sitting room.

  ‘Can’t get the ammunition nowadays. I’m told Rigby’s gave up manufacturing them a few years ago no doubt owing to the shortage of elephants. Drink?’

  ‘Unwise.’

  ‘Listen, since Franks got chucked out, I’m surrounded by carrot-juice drinkers, teetotallers and oh-well-I’ll-have-a-small-sherry-seeing-as-it’s-my-birthday types. Don’t go all pi on me.’ She waved the whisky bottle at him.

  ‘Oh, very well then, but a very small weak one. I have to find my room, deal with my cat and try to behave like a New Man to any virago I meet along the way.’

  ‘What’s a New Man?’

  ‘My God, they’re right about you being out of touch with the times.’ Amiss settled back comfortably in the vast armchair. ‘New Men read the Guardian, change the nappies, bond with their babies, share their emotions with their part ners, recognize the inhibiting aspects of their maleness and explore their own femininity, if you follow me.’