For Starkey

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.