'The Dinner Lady Goes Above and Beyond' by Paul Thompson

The hungry children never ask for more. Instead, they steal from plates, pretend to eat from empty lunch boxes, watch the bins at the rear of the kitchen.

They wait for her at playtime — a tug on her apron, an unprompted cuddle. Sometimes she smuggles in food of her own; twice caught and disciplined for violating health and safety.

The headteacher tells her — this is your final warning.

Autumn is hungry season. More children seek her out, in corners of the playground, where she offers them her fingers — a small suck, a paper cut of nourishment. They take her nutrients, her warmth; invigorated for the rest of the day.  

This regular breaktime treat — a boost, a supplement - is soon no longer enough. They need more than a slither. She obliges — hiding the evidence within her winter boots. Pin pricks of missing flesh, her skin a coral sponge. Tiny pieces of her to chew on, to lodge between teeth, to melt on the tongue.

Soon they are under her apron — the tender fat and choicer cuts. Small portions, invisible layers, peeling from her like strips of paint. It is unsustainable — her body uneven, chewed at the edges, pale and transparent. A stain on the tooth of a child is what gives her away — the headmaster asking her to leave, gross misconduct.

The commotion results in a break-out at the school. Children pushing past the staff and over the iron railings. She is unable to run from them — her body weak, slow with a limp. Her only defence is her whistle; they line up behind her, single file, their reaction automatic.

She leads them away from the school, the children marching in her wake, following her home for their dinner.