Miss Crossbank stood on the dais at the front of the class like an actor on a minimalist stage, her blackboard, desk and chair her only props. Every day, another controlled improvisation, another captivating performance. A roll-call of interchangeable pupils’ names but just one enduring, enviable actor.
We children considered Miss Crossbank old but I knew that Mum and Dad thought her young. She was the first adult whose dress I had noted: a buttoned cardigan, a knee-length skirt, flat shoes, hair in a bun and no make-up that I could detect. She radiated warmth, certainty, fairness, modesty. Through her, I recognised the power of dress: dress as communication, as armour, as shape, as projected persona.
When I reached the age at which I noticed breasts, I prayed to have discreetly sticky-out breasts like Mrs Crossbank’s and not embarrassingly protuberant ones like Mum’s.