Read Online Losing Me by Sue Margolis - Free Book Online Page A

and tell the rest of the staff for me? I’m not sure I can face doing it.”
    “Of course I will. Now, then, why don’t I make us a cup of tea?”
    “I don’t have time. I’ve got a class to get to.”
    “Forget the class. I’ll find somebody to cover for you.”
    “Thanks, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather go.”
    “OK . . . but if there’s anything else I can do . . .”
    Barbara nodded.
    “You’re strong,” Sandra said, putting her specs back on. “You’ll pick yourself up, find a new direction. I know you will.”
    Barbara blew her nose and left.

Chapter 3
    B arbara made her way back to her room and sat at the table staring at the wall. Bastards. After all her years of hard work, how could they do this to her? Discard her like an old dishrag. Some bean counter who knew nothing about the lives these kids led and probably cared even less had put a stop to her doing the job she loved—had put a stop to her trying to make a difference. Bastards. And had Sandra really gone into bat for her, or had she simply done as she was told? Barbara suspected she’d probably written a formal letter registering her “disappointment and regret” at the council’s decision, but little more. And that comment she’d made about Barbara being strong. That said it all.
You don’t have to worry about Barbara. She always copes. She’ll bounce back.
    Barbara wiped her eyes and glanced at her watch. Still a couple of minutes before the next group arrived for a lesson. She took her phone out of her bag and hit Frank’s number. Voice mail. She sent a text. Need to speak to you. Call me during lunch.
    She finished her last class of the morning a few minutes early. That gave her time to run up to the staff room and collect her coat without being seen. By now Sandra would have started spreading the word. Barbara couldn’t face all the teary hugs and condolences. Instead she would skip lunch and take a walk. She needed to get some air.
    She ended up in the middle of the Orchard Farm Estate—breathing in the poverty and the piss, avoiding the dog shit and litter. She headed for the children’s playground, which seemed bright enough, if a bit battered, and sat down on one of the red metal benches. Somebody had carved “Stacey is a slag” across the back of the seat.
    It was getting colder now, and it had started to drizzle. Barbara wound her scarf around her neck and surveyed the concrete low-rise blocks, their walkways clogged with abandoned supermarket trolleys, the walls festooned with old satellite dishes. Around her, bits of tissue and foil stained with crack drifted in the breeze like autumn leaves. A couple of teenage lads loped by, their jeans slung so low that they reminded Barbara of toddlers with overfull diapers. A few yards away a couple of surly-looking teenage mothers with hooped earrings pushed their toddlers on the swings.
    The boys in jeans headed to the cage-windowed mini-market, where they sold single cigarettes for ten pence each. It was the only shop left on the estate. The rest were long gone, boarded up, covered in graffiti. The social center had closed down, too. It had been opened with such fanfare—a scaled-down version of the Jubilee relaunch. The social center was going to stop the kids getting up to no good in the stairwells and get them playing football, taking drama, dance and music classes. But the funding dried up. Youth workers were let go. Volunteers kept the place running for a while, but with no money for equipment, teachers or sports coaches, they couldn’t deliver. So they gave up.
    Barbara was certain there was some erudite literary term for when physical surroundings reflected the watcher’s mood. She’d been taught it at university. But of course she couldn’t bring it to mind. Three years she’d studied English Lit. She must have used it dozens of times in essays. She was still trying to remember what it was when Frank called.
    “Hey, I got your message. Sorry I