Miss Reed’s Academy
In her previous profession as a dominatrix she had learned
the necessity of control. She was at the top of her game; feared, fearless and
fantastic when age forced her hand. One small slip, one small nap when the
client was satisfyingly bound and closeted had led to suffocation and social
ignominy.
Unable to face the prospect of life as a second class
hooker, calculatingly she took the lemon scented professionalism that had so
pleased her clients into the thalweg of education.
A small private school, in the backwaters of rural life and
therefore little possibility of running into past endeavours, was swiftly
chosen. Past endeavours had their uses though; one particular sweetie with a
predilection for fur coats and pureed carrots sat firmly astride the governing
body, ideally placed to enable a lateral slide into the real world.
One last favour for one last spoonful.
So, Miss Reed and her tweed; crisply shirted and shortly
crisp began her new career.
Awash with viraginity, she knew success was based on
surrounding herself with weakness; simultaneously terrifying and enthralling,
she began weeding with Jekyll like patience ruthlessly removing or subduing
every last piece of individuality from her team, slowly manicuring a masterpiece
of grey uniformity and inducing, much like a Daisy, a fear of growing too tall.
Change, noted Miss Read was the basis of control. She set
about stirring the pot, disturbing the academic ants so they were constantly
striving to maintain their balance on the decreasing icebergs of reason in a
sea of plethoric rhetoric.
Men were an easy target and she had the usual range to play
with; the pseudo intellectual, the idle charmer, the socially ambitious ‘bit of
rough’ and the whippet-like Rottweiler devoted and slavering, all were soon quivering
with anticipation for the next kick of affection.
In an effort to appear to promote sisterhood, one or two women
were allowed; the fat, the unsure, those lacking appeal and definitely the socially
inept. They wobbled and sobbed through the corridors in her testosterone
fuelled wake, gamely nodding in agreement to cover up their chattering
nervousness.
Monday morning, Katya, one of the few favoured women in the
circle, lay in her overly decorated room, awash with ribbons, frills and
scatter cushions reluctantly contemplating the coming day with a familiar sense
of foreboding. As a Senior Teacher, she was responsible for staff training or
CWT (continuous work training) as they now had to call it. She knew the staff
had better things to do and bitterly resented the (Complete Waste of Time) in a
small, hot stuffy room pointlessly moving through tasks that wouldn’t tax a
government minister let alone a busy teacher.
CWT was generally introduced by the Heads of Department who
would arrive in a flurry of baffled confusion clutching some hastily
photocopied rubbish from the web, dance about in front of the assembled staff;
annoy and patronise them in a frenzy of jargon before handing over to Katya and
sloping back to their offices to listen to music and chat about how busy they
were. Katya knew that today would be no different.
Her day began as always with the awful reality of sharing
the small house with her ex fiancé, an Australian hunk who cycled everywhere
and took photographs of bizarre objects from strange angles. Katya was as frustrated
by the arrangement as she was in love with him whilst he was frustrated by the
lack of opportunity to bring his girlfriends back to his room. Katya haunted
the small terraced house looking for the ghost of her Mr Darcy with a Miss Havisham
like determination. She was a most effective contraception.
She wistfully washed his cup and cereal bowl, stroking the
handle of the spoon whilst running over the coming day in her head. She knew it
would end in tears, it always did and the more she sucked up to Miss Reed and
Anthony (at her father’s insistence) the less popular she became. Father said
it was just jealousy on the part of others and not to worry; she had just
enough self-awareness to realise this wasn’t so but insufficient honour to
change it.
Arriving at school in her little car (Pip) she was, as
always, first. She enjoyed the peace and quiet of her own little office and
reassuringly ran her fingers over the door, the telephone, her books and little
dried flower displays before picking up her own special cup and making a cup of
fruity herbal tea with her own kettle. Sitting at the computer, she checked her
FB page with a pang of guilt that she should really be writing emails but let
it pass. She had her own office; she was an ST and could choose how she spent
her time. No messages and only one person had liked her status; not a good
start.
A few minutes later, her room mate Fennella arrived. Tall,
willowy and intelligent, Fennella had quickly realised that the fastest way to
win Miss Reeds approval was to cling onto Katya and simper in agreement. Miss
Reed did not like smart people, especially women, and to date, her strategy had
been most effective, allowing her to move from the cattle stalls of the staff
room to the quiet peace and delineation of the little office, even if she did
have to share it with Katya and her pink, fluffy pen.
Fennella noticed that Katya was yet again on the brink of
tears. So over promoted and out of her depth, Fennella pitied her but was
unable to reason why she had the job when it was so obviously beyond her.
“Hello”, she said, “Looking forward to today”?
With a lip as wobbly as her backside, Katya shook her head;
her girlish flower hair grip, sliding towards her ear as she did so.
“Don’t worry” Fennella said, “It’ll be better this time”.
Katya smiled with relief at her friends support, hoping it
was true.
“I do hope so” she said, “Miss Reed wasn’t very impressed
with me last time” and privately thought even Anthony had looked a little bit cross
with her. The last session had been a disaster.
She was supposed to explain to the staff how to use the new
grading system called PLANK (Pupils Local Attainment of Necessary Knowledge).
It had been a disaster; she had been unable to answer anyone’s questions,
couldn’t work the computer equipment, didn’t have enough handouts (even after
most of them had walked out) and felt awkward when her bra strap kept slipping
down the exposed and generous upper arm squeezing out from her flowery Top Shop
frock like the toothpaste on her brush earlier that morning.
She gave a little quiver and pulled her skirt down; it was
no good, she knew it would be terrible but she just didn’t have the knack of captivating
people, couldn’t talk easily about anything other than her subject specialism,
her parents and her yearly holiday in the Canary Islands where she drank
copiously and slept with every man she met. When talking about the Canary Isles
however she kept strictly to the scenery and enthused at length on the local
cuisine.
Desmond bounded into the office, already sweating profusely,
he gave the obligatory leer at her legs and generous shelf of bosom before
sitting down in Fennella’s chair, legs spread wide to enable his fat thighs to
fit on the seat. Several inches of trouser rose up his leg demonstrating again
his Northern origins; brown shoes, blue socks, hairy calf and black suit.
“Hey Katya, how you doing blossom”? “Got all my paperwork
ready” he boomed, the tacky gold chain around his neck flexing and stretching
with the pressure of his chins.
“Oh yes, Desmond, it’s all here” she simpered. He had a
certain appeal thought Katya and despite his being married to a Eastern Block
ex-shot putting champion, often seemed to be hinting at something more exotic
than photocopying. He had initially been thought to be gay, or at least a fence
hopper; there was something very feminine about him despite his bulk and gutter
humour. Katya thought she might stoop that low in an emergency.
Desmond leered back, taking another long look at her
cleavage.
“Thanks blossom, can always rely on you” he said, “pop it up
to the room and turn the computer on will ya, I need a cup of coffee before we
begin”
Desmond was famous for his obsession with coffee, almost as
much as his obsession with alcohol but that was mercifully still kept mostly out
of the workplace; just the hangovers came to work with him. Desmond was a
coffee snob; like many undereducated commoners, he believed that coffee began
and ended at Starbucks, so brought in his own special blend for his own special
coffee machine. The coffee it produced was as awful as his taste in ties but
having his own machine gave him an as unrivalled a sense of superiority as
having a secretary to fetch the water for it did.
“Of course Desmond” Katya said but Desmond was already
focussed on someone else; a young NQT from the maths department with legs up to
her armpits and a winning smile. Desmond grew redder and began to breathe like
a man who has had too many plates of chips.
Katya was again deflated. Watching Penelope spin and flirt
with Desmond but having no interest in the outcome depressed her even more.
Penelope could have any man in the school but had her own boyfriend already; he
was in a rock band, not famous yet but still, cooler than anyone else’s
boyfriend.
“Come on” said Fennella, “Let’s get this stuff up to the
room and sort it out”.
Fennella had no interest in the CWT or PLANK but it was a
good opportunity to show herself off in front of Miss Reed.
Fifteen minutes later, they were stood in the classroom
staring as the staff trickled in. Some came early and bagged the best seats at
the back, others slunk in and had to sit nearer the front. All brought coffee
cups, some bacon rolls from the canteen; two even brought marking to do. One or
two smiled at Katya and Fennella, most just gave each other sympathetic looks
and chatted.
Tweed suit and sharp shirt immaculately matched, Miss Reed
strode into the room and impatiently tapped the desk. Reluctantly all turned to
face the front just as Anthony, Desmond and Simon entered from a side door,
puffing and grinning with the thought of another day of having little to do.
Miss Reed or Stella to her birth certificate was not in the
best of moods.
The long meeting last night had tired and frustrated her;
unable to tie up and subdue her colleagues when they irritated her she was
forced to compromise over the departmental budget; something quite alien to her
nature.
A chance meeting with her previous endeavour and benefactor in
the corridor had set her thinking of the old days and her heart sank as she
realised that those days were gone forever.
She adjusted her expression and smiled at her staff,
welcoming them to the event. Briskly outlining the purpose of the CWT and
urging them all to make full use of the training, she finished as usual with
the less than subtle reminder that their jobs depended on results and that
‘measures would be taken, albeit reluctantly’ for anyone who failed to come up
to standard. Nervous shifting and readjusting of double thick glasses was
witnessed in the science section, many of whom were already balanced on the
thinnest end of the wedge.
Miss Reed urged them all to enjoy themselves and with a
warning look shot clearly across Katya’s bow, left. Desmond, Anthony and Simon
stepped to the front.
“Today” said Anthony “will be useful for us all and after an
initial introduction from us, will be expanded on by Katya, who has prepared
the information for you”. Simon, the Departmental Head of Performing Arts
scratched his balls and looked out the window, whilst Anthony, Departmental
Head of Classics sat down and nodded off. Desmond hauled himself to his feet
and began pacing up and down in front of the assembled staff.
For several minutes he spoke a mixture of random
gobbledegook and odd, suddenly remembered jargon thrown in for effect. The more
jargon he remembered the more pleased he became, particularly when Penelope
crossed her legs offering him a full and tantalising glimpse of her inner
thigh. Desmond went very red and stopped talking.
There was her cue, the redness. Desmond the ex photo-copier
salesman and now Head of Health and Social Care, a move that had produced much
hilarity in the staff room, was red in the face through the exertion of trying
to remember what he was doing. Katya thought she really should have a
stethoscope as she thought his heart rate was climbing dangerously close to
fatal, his shirt was stretched over his enormous belly as tightly as the staff
wages budget and he had the look of a man who really had to pee. Only the
sudden sound of heavy breathing jolted her into action.
Katya stood up and moved towards the staff. “Thank you
Desmond” she sweetly trilled in her best Emma voice.
“Now, I’m going to go into a little more detail and then we’ll
do some group work on this, have you all got your post-its” she trilled, whilst
the assembled throng of teachers eyed her in the same way a man enjoys the
combination of a woman, a shoe shop and a credit card.
Desmond, Anthony and Simon slunk off to their office,
brightening the mood a little but leaving Katya as exposed as a lone wildebeest
on the Serengeti plain.
Katya shuffled through her notes, not confident enough to
say what she wanted and desperately trying to remember what Miss Reed had told
her a thousand times. “Stand up to them, they’ll soon learn who’s boss” she recalled.
The crowd began to shuffle, restlessly whilst the smell of damp
from the leaking roof permeated the air. “Lunch is at 12.30pm” said Katya, “and
it is complimentary” she added. They all groaned knowing that this could only
mean cold, burned pizza and mass produced tasteless muffins in cellophane.
More shuffling of staff and paperwork induced in her a
rising sense of panic; she read from her crib sheet; monotone and monotonous.
Religiously, for she was, she felt, a good Christian girl, she recited the
latest government mantra on SMART targets and assessment methods.
Two got up and left without a word, more looked enviously at
the door left tantalisingly ajar. Soon, nearly a third had left pleading
important telephone calls, urgent meetings and other tasks.
Tears pricked the back of Katya’s eyes and trickled down her
cheek. She stood; slightly lumpen in her new Marks and Spencer Mary Janes,
Florence and Fred necklace and Primark frock waiting for a moment of silence so
she could bring it all to a close and run back to her office with its
reassuring air and comforting objects.
“OK, that’s all there is on SMART targets, does anyone have
any questions” she ventured.
All eyes immediately scanned the room for Hesta; large,
slightly old fashioned like a refugee from a 1940’s war movie detailing the
exploits of the RAF, she always had a question. Like the inevitability of the
bus on ice, Hesta raised her hand. Groans, barely stifled, echoed around the
room, just as Miss Reed strode into the room and perched like a vulture on the
end of the middle row.
Katya brightened and shrank simultaneously. This was
dangerous and opportunistic. A good question and answer session could benefit
her; a poor question and even more muddled answer, would set her stock
plummeting below a level even her father couldn’t rescue her from.
…..
Back in the classroom, Katya began to shake. Hesta had asked
a question she couldn’t answer; it was a perfectly reasonable question
regarding the percentage mark required to enter the fast stream ‘Gifted,
Intelligent, Talented’ programme or ‘GITs’ as it was lovingly known.
Katya thought rapidly, but came up blank. Fennella wanting
to save her friend and maximise the opportunity right in front of her, stepped
forward. “Didn’t you say earlier it was 80% Katya”.
Katya smiled gratefully
“Yes, I did, that’s right Fennella”, “thank you”, she added.
Stella Reed stepped to the front of the group. “Thank you
Fennella, well remembered”. Fennella simpered, Katya frowned in dismay and
confusion, what had just happened, how had Fennella ended up in the spotlight?
A few more words of mixed threats and encouragement and the
staff were released for lunch. Most, despite hating the lunch ate it because it
was free, some went to smoke and a few walked into town to the local M and S.
