Bang! bang! It’s cold outside but I’m not letting her in. She’s early and I need to do my breathing exercises first. In through the nose then slowly out through the mouth … and repeat. Bang! Bang! She can wait out there until my heart rate slows, and the frenzied clamour of the day gives way to calmness. I just need two minutes to find and release the inner airbag of tranquillity that will absorb all fear … BANG! BANG! BANG! On second thoughts, I’ll let her in early.
They say it’s the size of the fight in the dog that counts. Tiffany’s mum might be small but she embodies the predatory aggression of a pack of urban hyenas roaming a rundown shopping centre after dark.
Everything about her is a threat. Her thin frame sheathed in a metallic-blue hooded coat with a faux fur trim is a threat. Her chapped hands and her pinched face studded with piercings are a threat. She wears the tattoos on her neck like old battle scars.
I flash her my most disarming smile. It’s the one I used on Mrs Eddison after I forgot to mention that I was going to the Steel City Beer and Cider Festival. It didn’t work then and it’s not working now. The face glowering back at me reminds me of The Picture of Dorian Gray. I’m seeing Tiffany’s future and it’s showing significant signs of wear and tear.
Experience tells me that it’s best to begin a difficult parent-teacher consultation by hiding some of the negatives under a carpet of positives. Tiffany is as bright as a star (and as remote and distant). She has intelligence (but not the emotional variety). Her workbooks show she is capable (of throwing them across the room). But our conversation doesn’t get that far.
Shooting from the lip
Mother, like daughter, shoots from the lip and comes out all guns blazing. Tiffany hasn’t got behaviour problems. If she refuses to work, then I’m to blame. If she’s violent, it’s the other kids who wind her up. And everything else is the fault of this crap school and the crap teachers in it.
And even when the storm blows itself out and she starts to cry, she continues to fight. Because fighting is what she does. Even when it’s just fighting back tears.
It’s embarrassing to watch a grown woman cry, until you realise she’s not a grown woman. She’s just Tiffany 16 years down the line. A lot more shit has happened in her life but the choices are the same. You either give in and go under or kick out at somebody.
And if that certain somebody just so happens to be a teacher, then so what? At least a teacher is unlikely to be drunk, or to return abuse with abuse, or to beat the crap out of you, or to piss off into the night.
Love in a cold climate can be fierce, and it comes armed with more in the way of teeth than tenderness. But then anger at least heats up the blood, and is a lot warmer on a cold winter evening than a thin metallic-blue hooded coat with a faux fur trim.
Steve Eddison teaches at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield
