wondered,
was the human condition so damn bloody?
Four
ROZ FOUND THE local convent with the help of a
policeman. ‘That’ll be St Angela’s,’ he told her. ‘Left
at the traffic lights and left again. Large red-brick
building set back from the road. You can’t miss it.
It’s the only decent piece of architecture still standing
round there.’
It reared in solid Victorian magnificence above its
surrounding clutter of cheap concrete obsolescence,
a monument to education in a way that none of the
modern prefabricated schools could ever be. Roz
entered the front door with a sense of familiarity, for
this was a schooling she recognized. Glimpses through
classroom doors of desks, blackboards, shelves of
books, attentive girls in neat uniforms. A place of quiet
learning, where parents could dictate the sort of education
their daughters received simply by threatening
to remove the pupils and withhold the fees. And
whenever parents had that power the requirements
were always the same: discipline, structure, results.
She peeped through a window into what was obviously
the library. Well, well, no wonder Gwen had
insisted on sending the girls here. Roz would put
money on Parkway Comprehensive being an unruly
bedlam where English, History, Religion and Geography
were all taught as the single subject of General
Studies, spelling was an anachronism, French an extracurricular
activity, Latin unheard of, and Science a
series of chats about the greenhouse effect. . .
‘Can I help you?’
She turned with a smile. ‘I hope so.’
A smart woman in her late fifties had paused in
front of a door marked Secretary. ‘Are you a prospective
parent?’
‘I wish I were. It’s a lovely school. No children,’
she explained at the woman’s look of puzzled enquiry.
‘I see. So how can I help you?’
Roz took out one of her cards. ‘Rosalind Leigh,’
she introduced herself. ‘Would it be possible for me
to talk to the headmistress?’
‘Now?’ said the woman in surprise.
‘Yes, if she’s free. If not, I can make an appointment
and come back later.’
The woman took the card and read it closely. ‘May
I ask what you want to talk about?’
Roz shrugged. ‘Just some general information
about the school and the sort of girls who come here.’
‘Would you be the Rosalind Leigh who wrote Through the Looking Glass by any chance?’
Roz nodded. Through the Looking Glass , her last
book and her best, had sold well and won some excellent
reviews. A study of the changing perceptions of
female beauty down the ages, she wondered now how
she had ever managed to summon the energy to write
it. A labour of love, she thought, because the subject
had fascinated her.
‘I’ve read it.’ The other smiled. ‘I agreed with very
few of your conclusions but it was extremely thought-provoking
none the less. You write lovely prose, but
I’m sure you know that.’
Roz laughed. She felt an immediate liking for the
woman. ‘At least you’re honest.’
The other looked at her watch. ‘Come into my
office. I have some parents to see in half an hour, but
I’m happy to give you general information until then.
This way.’ She opened the secretary’s door and ushered
Roz through to an adjoining office. ‘Sit down,
do. Coffee?’
‘Please.’ Roz took the chair indicated and watched
her busy herself with a kettle and some cups. ‘Are you
the headmistress?’
‘I am.’
‘They were always nuns in my day.’
‘So you’re a convent girl. I thought you might be.
Milk?’
‘Black and no sugar, please.’
She placed a steaming cup on the desk in front of
Roz and sat down opposite her. ‘In fact I am a nun.
Sister Bridget. My order gave up wearing the habit
quite some time ago. We found it tended to create an
artificial barrier between us and the rest of society.’
She chuckled. ‘I don’t know what it is about religious
uniforms, but people try to avoid you if they can. I
was the human condition so damn bloody?
Four
ROZ FOUND THE local convent with the help of a
policeman. ‘That’ll be St Angela’s,’ he told her. ‘Left
at the traffic lights and left again. Large red-brick
building set back from the road. You can’t miss it.
It’s the only decent piece of architecture still standing
round there.’
It reared in solid Victorian magnificence above its
surrounding clutter of cheap concrete obsolescence,
a monument to education in a way that none of the
modern prefabricated schools could ever be. Roz
entered the front door with a sense of familiarity, for
this was a schooling she recognized. Glimpses through
classroom doors of desks, blackboards, shelves of
books, attentive girls in neat uniforms. A place of quiet
learning, where parents could dictate the sort of education
their daughters received simply by threatening
to remove the pupils and withhold the fees. And
whenever parents had that power the requirements
were always the same: discipline, structure, results.
She peeped through a window into what was obviously
the library. Well, well, no wonder Gwen had
insisted on sending the girls here. Roz would put
money on Parkway Comprehensive being an unruly
bedlam where English, History, Religion and Geography
were all taught as the single subject of General
Studies, spelling was an anachronism, French an extracurricular
activity, Latin unheard of, and Science a
series of chats about the greenhouse effect. . .
‘Can I help you?’
She turned with a smile. ‘I hope so.’
A smart woman in her late fifties had paused in
front of a door marked Secretary. ‘Are you a prospective
parent?’
‘I wish I were. It’s a lovely school. No children,’
she explained at the woman’s look of puzzled enquiry.
‘I see. So how can I help you?’
Roz took out one of her cards. ‘Rosalind Leigh,’
she introduced herself. ‘Would it be possible for me
to talk to the headmistress?’
‘Now?’ said the woman in surprise.
‘Yes, if she’s free. If not, I can make an appointment
and come back later.’
The woman took the card and read it closely. ‘May
I ask what you want to talk about?’
Roz shrugged. ‘Just some general information
about the school and the sort of girls who come here.’
‘Would you be the Rosalind Leigh who wrote Through the Looking Glass by any chance?’
Roz nodded. Through the Looking Glass , her last
book and her best, had sold well and won some excellent
reviews. A study of the changing perceptions of
female beauty down the ages, she wondered now how
she had ever managed to summon the energy to write
it. A labour of love, she thought, because the subject
had fascinated her.
‘I’ve read it.’ The other smiled. ‘I agreed with very
few of your conclusions but it was extremely thought-provoking
none the less. You write lovely prose, but
I’m sure you know that.’
Roz laughed. She felt an immediate liking for the
woman. ‘At least you’re honest.’
The other looked at her watch. ‘Come into my
office. I have some parents to see in half an hour, but
I’m happy to give you general information until then.
This way.’ She opened the secretary’s door and ushered
Roz through to an adjoining office. ‘Sit down,
do. Coffee?’
‘Please.’ Roz took the chair indicated and watched
her busy herself with a kettle and some cups. ‘Are you
the headmistress?’
‘I am.’
‘They were always nuns in my day.’
‘So you’re a convent girl. I thought you might be.
Milk?’
‘Black and no sugar, please.’
She placed a steaming cup on the desk in front of
Roz and sat down opposite her. ‘In fact I am a nun.
Sister Bridget. My order gave up wearing the habit
quite some time ago. We found it tended to create an
artificial barrier between us and the rest of society.’
She chuckled. ‘I don’t know what it is about religious
uniforms, but people try to avoid you if they can. I
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