Mrs Williams had pointed breasts and soft fluffy jumpers. Pink or light pastel blue. And one time I remember, a kind of peachy colour. That suited her hair that one. She had black hair. Really shiny with red when the light took it. She smelled nice too and her face was lovely. Proper lovely I mean. Not make-up. Proper lovely. Proper sweet to look at she was. Like a picture of something beautiful her face was. Mrs Williams spoke a soft Welsh cadence and only said nice things and if you did something wrong she didn’t ever shout at you but just showed you how to do it right. I can hear her sweet voice now.
Miss Violet Miles had flat breasts, if she had any at all underneath her dress and her dull cardigan. Dark green or brown her cardigans were. I can’t remember her hair. I can’t remember what she smelled like either but I just know for absolute certain that she didn’t smell nice like Mrs Williams did. Miss Violet Miles might not have had pointed breasts but she had a pointed face. Pinched. Like she sucked lemons. She shouted, screamed even, if you got something wrong and she hit your fingers with a ruler. And then looked at what your face did, like she was enjoying it if tears came. I can’t recall Miss Violet Miles voice except that it was screechy high.
It would be nice to forget Miss Violet Miles but sadly I can’t because the memory is a shared one with Mrs Williams. Thank goodness for Mrs Williams.