Fridays always give me a little thrill: everyone chats about their weekend plans in the staffroom and there’s an air of optimism.

But this week, things are a little different. There’s a stir where the large band of teaching assistants and special educational needs and disabilities (SEND) teacher hang out. Amid morning coffee and canteen cookies, there are audible gasps, as we learn that our special needs coordinator (Sendco) is in hospital and won’t be back for a few months.

Discomfort percolates through our team, as a long list of her duties is gone through: child-protection issues, vulnerable students, cases of bullying, health and care plans…the list goes on and on.

The SEND teacher is the obvious choice to step in, but she has her own job and needs as much help as she can muster. There’s no suggestion that teachers from other departments could possibly stand in. Most of them are battling with 25 hours’ teaching per week and mountains of preparation.

A heavy silence falls, as a long-standing TA becomes trapped by the gaze of all our eyes. With a weary, unsurprised sigh, she says: “OK.” She’s appointed as our new deputy Sendco. This is no mean feat: ours is a school with a higher number of SEND students than the national average; we’ve got four TAs on probation and two of the team off sick. It’s not a job for the faint-hearted.

Despite now being drenched in admin and extra duties (as well as the demands of her own job), our new deputy Sendco makes time to organise a whip-round for flowers and even arranges scheduled visits to the hospital.

From our sick boss’ hospital bed, emails bark out expectations to TAs and it’s almost like she’s still in the office. But the text fades into cyberspace, as we look to our capable colleague for instructions.

Proving her worth

Fast-forward a few weeks, and the school is calmer, a world away from the micromanagement of our currently incapacitated boss.

You see, once the initial shell shock depleted and the paraphernalia for each day was sorted out, our team pulled together and enabled us to concentrate on what’s important: our SEND pupils.

Consequently, the boss’ initial dread of things going wrong in her absence may well be replaced with a dread of things going right. Devised activities happen on the hoof; there’s a successful juggling of shifting timetables; and the new deputy Sendco’s already special connection with pupils has become second nature.

Extra responsibility has meant extra stress for our TA extraordinaire, but it has also been an opportunity for management to hopefully appreciate her skills.

It’s ironic that the lowest-paid workers in the school bear the brunt of a “crisis” and are left to get on with it. By Christmas, the school will have saved thousands of pounds - given that the TA is not being paid a deputy Sendco’s salary.

Throughout the process, it struck me that TAs are not deployed in a way that harnesses their personal strengths. Obviously, there needs to be more investment in TA training, but at a time of cutbacks and budget slashing, this is no more realistic than the hope of TAs having a liveable wage.

Clearly, not every TA might be a good fit for diving into a Sendco role; some might be strong in a specific subject, others might be naturally good at behaviour management. But TAs appear to be consistently thrown a “one size fits all” approach and it shouldn’t take a crisis for their skills to be recognised.

What can we take from this situation? The Sendco being off sick shouldn’t have created such a crisis. Had there been an evaluation of TAs’ skills with training in place and a temporary up-the-ladder salary to match, the initial panic wouldn’t have arisen. But while schools know they can rely on the goodwill of TAs in times of “crisis”, the required funds and training are never going to materialise.

Incidentally, our still-sick Sendco, among others, was keen to tell TAs how the school couldn’t function without us. Now we all know that’s true.

The writer is a learning-support assistant in the UK