I became Eastbrook’s school secretary on 2 September 1996.
The title sounded grander than the office. The office was still two desks, filing cabinets, a typewriter and a telephone that rang whenever both of us were occupied.
The previous secretary retired at the end of the summer term. I had been at Eastbrook for four years by then. Pauline encouraged me to apply.
‘You already do half of it,’ she said.
‘Which half?’
‘The half people notice when it goes wrong.’
The new role meant more hours, more pay and responsibility for admissions, attendance records, orders, correspondence, dinner-money totals and the weekly collection of information other people had promised to supply by Friday.
Most records were on paper. Pupil details sat in files. Registers arrived from classrooms. Letters were typed, copied and sent home in book bags. Parents returned forms folded, stained or unsigned. Some returned the wrong half.
On my first day in the role, a new pupil arrived without the completed admission form. His mother had filled in his name and date of birth, then left the remaining sections blank because she said the school already knew the rest.
We did not.
I asked the questions while Pauline found a temporary file. Address. Telephone number. Doctor. Emergency contact. Allergies.
The boy stood beside the desk and corrected his mother twice.
By ten o’clock, a teacher needed exercise books ordered, the kitchen wanted a pupil total and the headteacher had dictated a letter about parking outside the gates. The parking letter required three versions because each version sounded either too polite or likely to start another argument.
I chose the least troublesome one.
The job suited me. I liked knowing where records were and what had been agreed. I liked finishing letters before they became conversations. I did not enjoy every telephone call, but I became less likely to apologise for asking people to wait.
Pauline remained beside me, which prevented the promotion from turning into a performance. If I became too pleased with a new procedure, she asked whether it would still work on a wet Monday with two staff absent.
That was a useful test.
At home, Claire was ten and Michael seven. They understood that I worked at a school, but they remained unimpressed by the title.
‘Are you in charge?’ Michael asked.
‘Of the office.’
‘So not the teachers.’
‘No.’
He nodded. The limits were clear.
By the end of the first week, I had signed letters as school secretary, balanced the dinner account and dealt with a parent who wanted a lost jumper found before home time.
We found the jumper.
The dinner account took longer.