At last it was time for recreation. She gave the order to
cease working, and in some way or other got her class out of the
room. Then she faced the disorderly litter of blotted,
uncorrected books, of broken rulers and chewed pens. And her
heart sank in sickness. The misery was getting deeper.
The trouble went on and on, day after day. She had always
piles of books to mark, myriads of errors to correct, a
heart-wearying task that she loathed. And the work got worse and
worse. When she tried to flatter herself that the composition
grew more alive, more interesting, she had to see that the
handwriting grew more and more slovenly, the books more filthy
and disgraceful. She tried what she could, but it was of no use.
But she was not going to take it seriously. Why should she? Why
should she say to herself, that it mattered, if she failed to
teach a class to write perfectly neatly? Why should she take the
blame unto herself?
Pay day came, and she received four pounds two shillings and
one penny. She was very proud that day. She had never had so
much money before. And she had earned it all herself. She sat on
the top of the tram-car fingering the gold and fearing she might
lose it. She felt so established and strong, because of it. And
when she got home she said to her mother: "It is pay day to-day, mother."
"Ay," said her mother, coolly.
Then Ursula put down fifty shillings on the table.
"That is my board," she said.
"Ay," said her mother, letting it lie.
Ursula was hurt. Yet she had paid her scot. She was free. She
paid for what she had. There remained moreover thirty-two
shillings of her own. She would not spend any, she who was
naturally a spendthrift, because she could not bear to damage
her fine gold.
She had a standing ground now apart from her parents. She was
something else besides the mere daughter of William and Anna
Brangwen. She was independent. She earned her own living. She
was an important member of the working community. She was sure
that fifty shillings a month quite paid for her keep. If her
mother received fifty shillings a month for each of the
children, she would have twenty pounds a month and no clothes to
provide. Very well then.
Ursula was independent of her parents. She now adhered
elsewhere. Now, the 'Board of Education' was a phrase that rang
significant to her, and she felt Whitehall far beyond her as her
ultimate home. In the government, she knew which minister had
supreme control over Education, and it seemed to her that, in
some way, he was connected with her, as her father was connected
with her.
She had another self, another responsibility. She was no
longer Ursula Brangwen, daughter of William Brangwen. She was
also Standard Five teacher in St. Philip's School. And it was a
case now of being Standard Five teacher, and nothing else. For
she could not escape.