In a rural English boarding school, against a prim background of straw boaters, hymn books and the distant thwack of tennis balls, repressed sexuality and antiquated systems of power dominate the foreground of this taut debut novel. Glasgow-based writer K Patrick elegantly marries the personal and the political in their exploration of both genderqueer identity and patriarchal hypocrisies, where lust and oppression writhe together one languorous summer. 

The central character is a butch 22-year-old who has left behind Australia and now works as matron in the elite all-girls school. Only referred to as ‘Miss’, she befriends the lesbian housemistress, an ally in the otherwise rampantly heteronormative school. Pupils are briskly encouraged to be demure, violently competitive and, ideally, brimming with shame. Before dancing at the social, they get hectoring instructions from the religious nurse to stay one foot apart from boys. There’s also a farcical (yet weirdly plausible sounding) annual tree-slapping sports ritual up a hill which takes on a gory, sinister twist. 

Patrick’s slow-burn narrative builds thrilling tension as Miss and the headmaster’s wife Mrs S begin a cautious flirtation that finally melts into a thirsty, clandestine affair. The dragging out of their closeted desire not only works as a vivid erotic device, it also reveals the incredibly slow, agonising peel back of layers that Miss must allow in order to find her real self, instead of a performative or self-censoring one. Patrick is deft with choice metaphor, and self-consciously acknowledges it with a sheepish, endearing line from Miss: ‘I rely on metaphor, I rely on signs. I forgive myself.’

From Mrs S and Miss transferring pollen on their fingers as they create new hybrids of rose, to the suave headmaster killing a queen wasp with a can of pesticide after losing his cool, Patrick’s strong symbols circle around constantly. Power structures need toppled in this bizarre yet completely recognisable institution, but Miss finds them as rock solid as the marble statue of a famous female author that the girls stroke and lick on their way to lessons.

This is a place where someone exploring gender identity or even mildly different self-expression will be very politely crushed into submission, so woe betide anyone drawn to psychedelic drugs or sex toys. The starched skirts may be regulation knee-length and the dinner times choreographed according to age-old tradition, but an undercurrent of violence and danger is strong from the off. Deliciously paced with machismo, decorum, idolatry and feminine grace all going under the surgeon’s knife, K Patrick uses an outsider’s awkwardness to slice through the bullshit in this bubble of Christian conservatism. 

Mrs S is published by 4th Estate now.