didn’t get back to you straightaway, but I’ve been in meetings all morning and I had my phone switched off.”
“I’ve been made redundant.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. They’ve given me a term’s notice.”
“But you’re one of their best teachers. Why would they get rid of you?”
“Cuts. A job had to go. I was the closest to retirement, so they chose me.”
“Bloody hell. . . . How are we going to manage without your salary? You’re going to have to find another job.”
“Frank, you’re not listening. You know as well as I do that they’re making cuts all over the place. There are no jobs. And even if there were, who’s going to take me on at nearly sixty?”
“You’ll have to find something else—outside teaching.”
“I don’t want to find anything else. This job has been my life for nearly forty years. I love it. I love the kids.”
“Barbara, you’re going to have to forget all the emotional stuff. We need the money. You’ll just have to take what you can get.”
“My career has just come to an end, and that’s all you’ve got to say? That I need to forget the ‘emotional stuff’? How do you think you’d feel if nobody wanted your films anymore? You’d feel like your heart had been ripped out.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why isn’t it the same? Because you make important, socially relevant TV documentaries and win awards and I just have this little teaching job?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Look, you’re upset. . . .”
“Of course I’m
upset
. I’m devastated.”
“And you have every right to be. I’m sorry if I sounded unsympathetic, but it’s a shock for me, too. I just panicked—that’s all. Let’s have a proper talk when I get home.”
“OK. Try not to be late.”
“I’ll do my best. And don’t worry. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She had half an hour before the start of afternoon school. She found herself walking over to the group of teenage mums. “Excuse me. Do any of you happen to know where Tiffany Butler lives?”
One of the girls pointed. “Over there. Ground floor. One with the blue door.”
Barbara thanked her. Despite Sandra’s warning not to tread on social services’ toes, she found herself walking the couple of hundred yards to the building. Small chunks had been chiseled out of the paint-blistered door. It looked to Barbara as if the locks had been changed. She tried the bell. Dead. She tapped on the door. There were footsteps, the sound of a baby crying.
Tiffany opened the door—Lacie in her arms—wearing a white toweling dressing gown covered in tiny pink hearts. Her trademark eyebrows hadn’t been painted in. Ditto the black eyeliner. Her hair hung loose and unwashed. Without her armor, she looked childlike and vulnerable. She also looked done in.
Tiffany took one look at Barbara and rolled her eyes like a surly adolescent. “What do you want?” she said, bouncing Lacie in an effort to soothe her. “I told you I don’t need your help. Why can’t you stop interfering and just piss off and leave me alone?”
“Tiffany, Troy’s got cigarette burns on his arms.”
“It was an accident.” Her voice was full of defiance. There was some fight left in her after all. She turned away and began blowing raspberries on Lacie’s cheek. The child started laughing.
“I don’t think it was an accident. Please can I come in? Maybe we could have a chat?”
“Look, it’s all sorted. Wayne’s gone, OK?”
“That’s good, but maybe we could talk anyway. Please?”
“Whatever.” She stood to one side and let Barbara into the flat. They walked down the narrow hallway—regulation lino tiles, walls painted tangerine in a failed effort to brighten the place up.
“Tiffany, it’s freezing in here.”
“Wayne fucked off with all my cash. I haven’t got money for the electric meter. Me and Lacie have been staying in bed to keep warm.”
The new
“I’ve been made redundant.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. They’ve given me a term’s notice.”
“But you’re one of their best teachers. Why would they get rid of you?”
“Cuts. A job had to go. I was the closest to retirement, so they chose me.”
“Bloody hell. . . . How are we going to manage without your salary? You’re going to have to find another job.”
“Frank, you’re not listening. You know as well as I do that they’re making cuts all over the place. There are no jobs. And even if there were, who’s going to take me on at nearly sixty?”
“You’ll have to find something else—outside teaching.”
“I don’t want to find anything else. This job has been my life for nearly forty years. I love it. I love the kids.”
“Barbara, you’re going to have to forget all the emotional stuff. We need the money. You’ll just have to take what you can get.”
“My career has just come to an end, and that’s all you’ve got to say? That I need to forget the ‘emotional stuff’? How do you think you’d feel if nobody wanted your films anymore? You’d feel like your heart had been ripped out.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why isn’t it the same? Because you make important, socially relevant TV documentaries and win awards and I just have this little teaching job?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Look, you’re upset. . . .”
“Of course I’m
upset
. I’m devastated.”
“And you have every right to be. I’m sorry if I sounded unsympathetic, but it’s a shock for me, too. I just panicked—that’s all. Let’s have a proper talk when I get home.”
“OK. Try not to be late.”
“I’ll do my best. And don’t worry. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She had half an hour before the start of afternoon school. She found herself walking over to the group of teenage mums. “Excuse me. Do any of you happen to know where Tiffany Butler lives?”
One of the girls pointed. “Over there. Ground floor. One with the blue door.”
Barbara thanked her. Despite Sandra’s warning not to tread on social services’ toes, she found herself walking the couple of hundred yards to the building. Small chunks had been chiseled out of the paint-blistered door. It looked to Barbara as if the locks had been changed. She tried the bell. Dead. She tapped on the door. There were footsteps, the sound of a baby crying.
Tiffany opened the door—Lacie in her arms—wearing a white toweling dressing gown covered in tiny pink hearts. Her trademark eyebrows hadn’t been painted in. Ditto the black eyeliner. Her hair hung loose and unwashed. Without her armor, she looked childlike and vulnerable. She also looked done in.
Tiffany took one look at Barbara and rolled her eyes like a surly adolescent. “What do you want?” she said, bouncing Lacie in an effort to soothe her. “I told you I don’t need your help. Why can’t you stop interfering and just piss off and leave me alone?”
“Tiffany, Troy’s got cigarette burns on his arms.”
“It was an accident.” Her voice was full of defiance. There was some fight left in her after all. She turned away and began blowing raspberries on Lacie’s cheek. The child started laughing.
“I don’t think it was an accident. Please can I come in? Maybe we could have a chat?”
“Look, it’s all sorted. Wayne’s gone, OK?”
“That’s good, but maybe we could talk anyway. Please?”
“Whatever.” She stood to one side and let Barbara into the flat. They walked down the narrow hallway—regulation lino tiles, walls painted tangerine in a failed effort to brighten the place up.
“Tiffany, it’s freezing in here.”
“Wayne fucked off with all my cash. I haven’t got money for the electric meter. Me and Lacie have been staying in bed to keep warm.”
The new
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