Читать книгу Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret. - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 11

‘Ah. You’ll be here about Carl Stead,’ Donald said, glancing up and smiling sheepishly as he shuffled some reports on his desk.

‘Spot on,’ I said. ‘You’d like me to have him, I hear.’

He motioned me to sit down. ‘If you feel able to, Casey. I know you’ve got quite a demanding bunch already. Not that I anticipate him giving you too much trouble,’ he added quickly. ‘Yes, he’s disruptive and inclined to fisticuffs, but Julia and I both feel he’ll be a lot less so in a smaller group.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘So what’s his background? Do we already know much about him?’

‘A bit,’ he said. ‘Truth be known, he did come with something of a track record. He has mild learning difficulties and a penchant for being cheeky, getting into rough stuff in the playground, that sort of thing, but you know what it’s like – sometimes these boys just outgrow their environment, get too big for their boots being top dog in primary …’ He grinned. ‘And being back at the bottom of the heap here settles them down. Which was what we’d assumed might well happen with this lad, so we thought we’d see how we went with mainstream classes, but unfortunately it seems to run deeper than that.’

‘But it’s only his third day today,’ I pointed out. ‘Just how bad can he have been, Don?’

He picked up his glasses and held them slightly in front of his eyes as he scanned the papers in front of him. ‘Let’s see. He was sent out of his registration group on day one, and by the looks of it, he’s disrupted just about every other class he’s been in since.’

‘Class clown type of stuff,’ I asked, ‘or worse than that?’

‘A bit worse. And, yes, it is more than that, Casey,’ Donald said. ‘It’s also the state he is coming to school in. I know some parents can’t afford the whole kit and caboodle – uniform, decent shoes, PE kit and so on – and Carl’s mum evidently falls into that category. His clothes are clearly second hand, perhaps passed down by an older relative, or maybe from a charity shop, but it’s not just that he looks shabby; he comes to school dirty and obviously having not washed. The things he says, too; inappropriate things – a couple of teachers have remarked on it. I don’t know, Casey, there’s just something. Which is why I want him to spend most of his time with you rather than just going to Learning Support.’

‘To what end? Do we have a specific plan? To try to find out if there’s more to it than just moderate learning difficulties? To visit his mum at home? Or just to try to get him into a learning frame of mind and work on his behaviour?’

‘Just the kind of questions I knew you’d ask, Casey, and yes to all of them. If there’s something underlying then there would be no point in trying to modify his behaviour to suit us, would there?’ Donald smiled. ‘And I know you have a knack with these things.’

So that was that. Directly after morning break, I would be taking charge of a fourth child to make my mix of students even more ‘dynamic’ than it already was. That was the kind of result ‘having a knack’ with things got you.

‘Settle down!’ I called out as the school bell rang out, and Ria and Cody came flying into the room. Cody was sort of galloping and making loud shrieking noises while Ria – surprise, surprise – was busy egging her on. Kelly and Darryl followed them, in an altogether quieter manner, Darryl close by Kelly’s side and marching in with his head down.

By now, I had pulled two tables together and placed five chairs around them. I knew that for the time being Kelly would have to sit with Darryl, and I thought the best course of action was to get them all together to start with, and then decide if and when I needed to split them up.

‘Just before we start,’ I said, as everyone grabbed pencil cases and automatically went to sit down, ‘we have another boy joining us now. A year 7 student called Carl Stead. Hence the extra chair. Ria, perhaps he can sit by –’

‘And what’s wrong with this one?’ she asked, a look of derision on her face.

‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ I said, locking gazes with her. ‘Why should there be?’

She shrugged, and looked around her. ‘Because, apart from me, miss, there seems to be something wrong with everyone who comes here.’

‘Not funny, Ria,’ I said with a warning glance. ‘One of the few rules of this classroom is that we don’t say things that would hurt the feelings of someone else. Now then,’ I added, turning my attention back to the group and handing out blank workbooks, ‘can you all please take out a pen or pencil and write your names on the front.’

‘Ah, perfect timing, I see,’ said a voice from behind me. ‘And I see there’s a place already prepared.’ I turned around to see Donald ushering in our new boy, a steering hand placed on each shoulder.

‘Good morning, Mrs Watson,’ he said, in his usual Dickensian boom. ‘This here is young Master Stead.’

I could see Ria’s lip curl in amusement. ‘Carl,’ Donald added, giving the boy’s shoulders a final squeeze. ‘I shall now leave you in Mrs Watson’s capable hands, lad – and I hope to hear good reports about you, okay?’

Carl looked up at him and nodded shyly before walking the few steps to the vacant seat.

‘Come and sit down, love,’ I said, noting that he didn’t seem to have a school bag. ‘Do you have a pen or pencil?’

He nodded and whipped a chewed pen from his trouser pocket as he sat down. And then immediately started using it as a tool with which to scratch his head.

‘Great stuff,’ I said and then turned my attention to everyone. This would be their first Unit activity and was designed to both ‘bed them in’ – as in working on something focused on themselves, something fun and not too taxing – and to help me find out a little more about them. ‘So what I’d like you to do first,’ I explained, ‘is to open your work books and write down ten facts about yourself. Anything you like – and the more interesting the better. Things I can’t necessarily see by looking at you. And once you’ve done that, you can help yourselves to any of the art materials over there –’ I pointed. ‘And use them to create a self-portrait.’

There was a murmur of approval at this, just as I’d expected, because I knew what at least three of them were probably thinking. That this didn’t really feel like work at all. And there was another burble of appreciation – also to be expected – when I told them that, while silliness and shouting would not be tolerated at any time, quiet chatting amongst themselves as they worked would be fine. Which wasn’t to say it was a state of affairs that would necessarily continue (if things kicked off I’d obviously have to rein them in, sharpish), but for a group of kids for whom the classroom had become more battlefield than place of learning, to be trusted to behave and encouraged to interact was an important part of what a spell in the Unit was all about.

It also gave me a chance to observe them, particularly my new boy. I could see Ria trying to size him up, just as I was doing, and I wondered, if we compared notes, what she’d made of him. He was big for a year 7 boy, tall, though not chubby, and my guess was that he’d just had a bit of a growth spurt. And Donald had been right. He was extremely unkempt. Many of the boys were sporting long, straggly hairstyles at the moment – walk down the corridors some days and you could think you were in a seventies time warp – but in Carl’s case it seemed more like accident than design; I doubted his hair had seen either shampoo or a hairbrush in a long time. No wonder he scratched at it all the time.

Carl’s clothes had the same air of dishevelment. His trousers were too long for him, and had accordingly scraggy bottoms, and both his shirt and jumper were frayed and worn and dirty. I immediately warmed to him and felt a rush of sympathy that his mother would let him come to school in such a state, my neglect antennae quivering, asking why?

But Carl’s demeanour, in contrast to the backstory he’d arrived with, seemed as bright as his shirt cuffs were grey. He was a smiler, and was smiling now, presumably at being the subject of Ria’s attention, and having her lean in and accept him as a confidant. But my pleasing reflection was quickly replaced by another; that the smiles and the giggles had a less welcome root – they were busy tittering at the two across the table. It was also odds-on that whatever Ria was saying to make Carl need to stifle giggles was probably not very nice. Perhaps it was my cue to make the two of them first on the hit-list for the life-space interviews I would now get underway.

The term ‘life-space interview’ was a bit of educational jargon that was presumably beloved of whoever coined it but was essentially nothing more complicated than sitting a child down with me – on my bean bags, if they preferred, for reasons of informality – and letting them talk freely about themselves and how they were feeling. It was one of the first things I did whenever I got a new student or, in this case, a batch of them, and because the idea was to let them talk uninterrupted and without judging them, it was invariably both instructive and enlightening.

I say usually, because I’d obviously yet to encounter a ‘Ria’, the first name I had on my mental list.

‘Look,’ she said when I asked her to tell me a bit about herself, ‘I’m struggling to find ten interesting facts even to write down, so I doubt there’s anything else you’re going to get out of me.’

Round one to Ria, then. ‘I’m not trying to get anything,’ I explained. ‘I just want to get to know you a little, that’s all. How about you tell me about home, then? Brothers? Sisters? Do you live with Mum and Dad?’

‘Well, yeah – doh – course I live with mum and dad. Who else would I live with?’ She arched a single brow. A clever trick that, sadly, I couldn’t do. ‘But no,’ she said, ‘it’s just me. No brothers. No sisters.’ She smirked, then began picking at her nail varnish, which was chipped. ‘I think I was probably enough for them.’

I waited. She waited. Another question was obviously required. ‘That’s a nice colour,’ I said, nodding towards the pale, translucent polish. ‘I’d be wary about Mr Moore seeing it, though, Ria. He’s quite strict on the no-make-up rule, as you no doubt already know.’

She let her nails alone and ran a hand through her hair. It was mouse-brown and beautifully cut into a short geometric bob. Then she stared at me. ‘My nail varnish? Really? Okay then, it’s called Coral and it belongs to my mother. She likes to paint my nails when she’s bored. Sometimes I don’t let her. Sometimes I do. As long as it’s a pale colour. I draw the line at nail art.’

I had to work really hard not to laugh, though I did allow myself to lean back against the cushions and smile. Despite her cocky attitude, and her trying so hard not to be liked – not by the likes of me, anyway – I decided I could easily warm to Ria Walker. She was clearly intelligent, sharp-witted, and full of personality, and something of a conundrum as well. Judging by her designer school bag and the salon-shiny hair, this was a girl who came from a background that was probably the polar opposite of someone like Carl’s. The word ‘disadvantaged’ clearly didn’t apply here. Nor did ‘special needs’, ‘neglected’, ‘bullied’ or ‘bully’ or any of the other tags that normally brought children here.

I held up my hands in submission. ‘Fair enough, so we won’t talk nails, then,’ I said. ‘So how about you just tell me what your parents do, and what you like to do when you’re not at school.’

If possible, she looked even more bored. ‘My mum is an accountant,’ she trotted out, ‘and my dad’s an engineer. And pretty much the only thing I do besides school is take my dog out for walks – she’s called Luna, if you want to make a note of it – and I also play hockey for a club near where we live.’

‘Hockey? Wow. I’m impressed,’ I said, pleased with this admittedly small measure of progress. I’d dredged up some facts. ‘Seriously, that’s interesting. We don’t do hockey here, do we?’

Ria shook her head. ‘No, miss, we don’t.’

‘D’you know why?’

‘Don’t you?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t. And you’ve been here longer than I have so perhaps you can tell me.’

‘It’s no biggie, miss,’ she said. ‘Just an injury.’ She touched her forehead. ‘A girl got a ball in the head. Cracked her skull. So that was that.’

‘And she recovered?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, back on the polish again. ‘She’s fine.’

It was like pulling teeth, but I felt I had a grip on a molar, so I pressed on. ‘So now you play hockey in your spare time.’

She nodded. ‘Though I’m not bothered too much. Just, you know, like twice a week. I mostly like walking my dog.’

‘Who’s called Luna. What breed is she?’

‘Just a Heinz 57. We got her from the rescue centre. Big. Sort of Labrador-ish, Alsation-ish, I s’pose.’

‘And your best friend, I’ll bet.’

She stuck a thumb up. ‘You got it.’

Except, I didn’t quite. Not as yet. There was no doubt about it. Much as I was warming to her, I was struggling to make a connection with Ria. Not just to connect to her, but to make a connection between the child and the background, and the behaviour being witnessed in school. She was an isolated child; that much felt intuitive – though I had a strong sense that it was a choice rather than something being forced on her. From what I could see, and had been told, she had always been extremely popular; something of a leader. She’d certainly always had a large group of friends orbiting.

Why then did she feel the need to act out in class? It couldn’t be for attention – she clearly had that in bucket loads. Maybe it was home, then. Maybe her parents were generous with their money but not their time. But that didn’t ring true; she had a mother whom she ‘allowed’ to paint her nails. That didn’t sound like a mother who starved her of love. So what was it? I was stumped. For the moment, at least. And I doubted I’d get much further today.

‘Well, it’s been nice getting to know you a little better,’ I said, smiling. ‘You can go back now and wrestle with those ten things again. And see? That wasn’t hard, was it? So I’m sure you’ll do fine. And send Carl up? You and me can catch up again another day. Though no girly chit-chat, I promise,’ I added, winking.

Her look as she left me was pure gold.

Carl, as I’d expected, was a completely different prospect, nervous and fidgety and with the unmistakable expression of a boy for whom one-on-one sit-downs with teachers were a thing to be approached with extreme caution. He was also busy scratching his head again.

‘Sit down, love,’ I said, pointing to the pile of cushions that Ria had just vacated. He lowered himself onto them and into them as if they might be booby-trapped. ‘And don’t look so worried, pet,’ I reassured him. ‘You’re not in any trouble, we’re just going to have a get-to-know-you chat, that’s all.’

Carl bit his lip with his teeth and continued to scratch. And scratch with a ferocity that could only mean one thing – lordy, just what we needed: he had nits. I’d have put money on it, and also on the absolute inevitability that if I didn’t concentrate hard I’d soon be scratching too. I shoved my hands under my thighs and tried to focus. We’d have to talk about it, but it didn’t seem terribly polite for it to be the first thing I asked him about himself.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you live with Mum, right? Any brothers or sisters?’

‘I don’t got a dad, miss, but I got a brother. Sam. He goes to primary school an’ he’s just gone in year 5. He’s only little. Am I getting excluded, miss? My mum’ll batter me if I am.’

I shook my head. ‘No, no, you’re not getting excluded, love. Heavens – you’ve only just started! But that’s kind of why you’re here, too. To make sure that nothing like that happens. So you don’t get into any trouble or fights.’ I lowered my voice. ‘You got into lots of scrapes at your last school, didn’t you?’

Carl nodded and scratched his head again; a sudden, frantic action. ‘It was all the other kids, miss.’

I smiled. ‘Carl, you know that’s what they all say. But go on, try me. In what way? I’m here to listen, after all.’

‘Names an’ stuff. They always called me and my brother names and stuff. An’ it’s like, not too bad when it’s just you getting it, is it? But when they’d start on my brother …’

‘It used to make you angry?’

‘Like, tampin’, miss. So I’d always end up losing my rag.’ He looked anxiously at me, still sawing away at his scalp. ‘But I swear I’m tryin’ to be good this time, like I told Mr Brabbige –’

‘Mr Brabbiner.’

‘Yeah, him. An’ I mean it.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do …’ I replied, struggling to keep my eyes off his hair, and what I thought I could see lurking within it.

‘Love, does your head itch?’ I asked him, finding myself unable not to, such was the ferocity with which he was currently attacking it.

‘It’s the nits, miss,’ he said, confirming my worst fears with disarming candour. ‘I can’t find the nit comb nowhere – I’ve been looking and looking – an’ we haven’t got no lotion left at home.’

‘Does your mum work, sweetie?’ I asked, struggling not to start attacking my own head again.

‘Nah, she’s on benefits. She said we’re on the breadline.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what that means exactly, but I think it means we’re pretty poor, don’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s what it usually means,’ I agreed. ‘But I tell you what. Do you want me to ask the school nurse for some lotion for you to take home with you today? Would your mum would be okay with us doing that?’

Carl beamed at me. So much so that I might have been offering him a new bike. ‘Really, miss? That would be well good, that would.’

He looked so gorgeous when he smiled that I had to mentally sit on my hands. It was far too soon for hugs, but oh, I wanted to scoop this child up.

‘Go on then, that’s it,’ I said instead. ‘For now, anyway, because the lunch bell’s due. We can sit down and have a chat again later. But I’ll ask nurse for some stuff for you. Sort those pesky nits out.’

Which had my hand immediately heading towards my head all over again.

The bell for lunch duly buzzed, cueing a mass scraping of chairs, and a sharp rise in decibels as my little crew busied themselves gathering coats and bags. Well, bar Carl, of course, who apparently had neither. Leaving Darryl to get his coat on, Kelly joined me at my desk. ‘Well, Sherlock,’ she whispered, ‘did you uncover any exciting mysteries this morning?’

‘Only one,’ I said, finding my hands drawn inexorably towards my head. ‘The mystery of why you must rip your scalp to pieces at the thought of someone else having nits!’

‘Oh, gr-eat,’ she said. ‘Thought as much. We’ll need to get that sorted, won’t we? Anyway, I’m going to dash. Want to get Darryl down to the lunch hall early. See you in the staff room in a bit?’

I shook my head. ‘Possibly not. I have to head off to the medical room; see if I can get some magic potion.’ I grinned. ‘And then catch up with Mr Love potion number 9. Sorry,’ I added. ‘I should stop doing that, shouldn’t I?’