She was a bit of a cliché – a skinny, dyed-blonde, designer-labelled woman with a harsh Essex squawk. Her pale blue eyes were icy, her tone abrupt and she allowed no sympathy to leak out in anything she said. If anyone annoyed her, she never forgot; when we sat in the office at lunchtime, she would recount the small misdemeanours of other people, with bitterness.
Initially, I wondered how she seemed to have so many friends, because she was so swift to take offence at all and sundry. Our lunchtimes were often a furious rant against slights or wrongdoings that she felt she had endured, particularly our current management.
She seemed very insecure - always on a strict diet, to keep that skinny shape. She was always dressed carefully, never scruffy or even casual, and I never saw her without full makeup, except once. One of her rants had brought her to tears. They washed away her black eye-liner, mascara, her rosy blusher and tan-effect foundation - revealing wrinkles and tired, anaemic skin. She was mortified, even though I was the only one there and she set about repairing her face as soon as she realised what had happened.
She had a softer side, but
she usually kept that well hidden. As the senior welfare officer in a large
comprehensive school, she had a great deal of work and she was never one to
waste her time. Any malingerer trying to avoid a lesson by reporting sick would
receive no sympathy. She used the whip of her words and sent them back to their
fate, without mercy.
But should a child appear
with a genuine problem, whether it was a boy being bullied, a young diabetic
feeling dizzy or even one of the teachers needing a heart-to-heart talk to
unburden themselves – then, she gave herself willingly. She understood. She had
a lifetime of experience. She was a shoulder to cry on, warm arms to comfort
and a fierce champion for the wronged. Despite all her sharp-tongued
complaints, I grew very fond of her.
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