Mrs.Searle

    She looked me intently in the eye, as if searching hard to find the truth. I realized uncomfortably, that this woman could read minds, the way a mother can read her children's. 
I guess when you've taught for over 40 years, your barometer for reading bullshit, gets pretty dam accurate.
“Did you at least read the book?” she asked me the same question she’d asked my two ragbag mates.
     Mrs.Searle was over 60 I guess, this is something I figure out years later, as a kid you don't think someones a specific age. You just see adults as old and old people as ancient.
“No.” I answered cringingly. 
 My voice was full of regret. It was my third week in her class and my fifth year at Nundah State School. I was now starting to realise that Mrs.Searle wasn't the sort of teacher to cross. 
“Right, lets get you sorry lot down to the library before it shuts. The three of you can each pick out a book, I want it read and I want a one page essay on my desk by this time next week. Have you got that? she barked.
She looked at our sullen faces over her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting for an answer. “Yes Mrs.Searle!” we parroted in harmony.
    It was about 3:30 and the librarian was about to close the library, but she thought better of it, when she saw Mrs.Searle barreling down the verandah towards her, with us three in tow.
“Right get on with it!” she roared. “We haven't got all day!” 
I saw her roll her eyes at the mousey  librarian out of the corner of my eye.
I galloped down the middle aisle of the dark and book-musty room. I can't remember what drew me to the book, but it was one of a series, so I figured if I liked it I could read more.
    As it turns out I loved it, fell in love with it from it the first page. I loved the mystery and the adventure. I loved the not knowing and the drama that jumped off the page at you and wouldn't let you go till the very end. I loved the sadness I felt at the end when there was no more to read, but then remembering it was one of a series.
    Mrs.Searle certainly looked a bit dry and crusty on the outside, but after I read her comments on my essay, I warmed to her instantly. I no longer saw the stiffness or the fierceness that others saw. I no longer thought she smelt funny or noticed her frumpy dresses.  I now noticed the warmth in her eyes and the sweetness in her laughter.
    She loved children, well the ones that did what they were told at least.She was a Mrs., but she never spoke of herself much, or not that I took in. I just remember the generosity that she showed me, when I shared with her my enthusiasm. I've thought often, that I wish I could go back in time and tell her how often I've  gone over that afternoon she kept me back, all those years ago. I wish I could go back and do something for her, to say thank you. Even at the time I knew she’d saved me, saved me from myself, my ignorant, selfish self.