Читать книгу Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret. - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 9

Alone again, I did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, taking in the evidence of the previous term’s industry, which, bar the odd precious thing that the odd pupil went away with, was still displayed in glorious technicolour around the walls. And all of which now had to come down. It was one of the worst parts of the year for me. Sort of like January at home, when the Christmas tree and decorations had to be taken down and put away, leaving the rooms they’d adorned looking all bare and forlorn, echoes of happinesses past.

It was the same in my classroom, which by the end of the academic year was positively bristling with art and design work. And not just that; all the little things that naturally started amassing on odd bits of wall space – a poem about one thing, a diagram about another; even the random instructions I had the kids render in felt pen on fluorescent card. All had become part of the fabric of the classroom, all contributing to its sense of light and energy.

And the feel of the environment I created really mattered. I don’t think it really hit me quite how much it mattered till I started the job. It soon did, though, and now it was super-important to me that we had a bright, comfortable room in which to work – and the less like a regular classroom it was, the better. Inevitably the kids that came to me, for one reason or another, needed the Unit to be a happy place – a calm, nurturing and peaceful place where they could feel safe enough to open up and – hopefully – blossom a bit. And I strived to provide that above anything else.

Still, I had the luxury of two whole days in which to do it, since I wasn’t getting my ‘newbies’ till Wednesday, so if I cracked on now I’d have the luxury of a good day and a half in which to plan the first week or so’s lessons.

I was standing high on a wooden ledge, trying to reach the end of a poster to tug down, when I heard Kelly Vickers come into the room.

‘Whoah! Casey, don’t do it! It’s not worth it!’ she cried dramatically. ‘And besides,’ she added, plonking her bag down on my desk, ‘jumping from that height would only get you a sprained ankle.’

I climbed down and added the poster, minus a corner, to the pile I’d been amassing. ‘Just in time,’ I said. ‘Perfect. You’re a few inches taller than me, so you can grab that bit for me.’

Kelly grinned as she climbed up to take my place on the top of the line of cupboards that housed art materials and stationery, and the kids’ individual work trays. ‘Everyone is a few inches taller than you, Casey,’ she said as she pulled down the piece I’d failed to reach. ‘Anyway,’ she said, jumping down again, ‘I need to hear what’s happening. What on earth is going on with Gary?’

‘Going on?’ I asked. ‘Why, what’s he up to now, then?’

‘Something,’ she said, nodding as I gestured with the coffee jar. ‘Something fishy, if you ask me. I’ve just walked past his office and, no word of a lie – it smells like the perfume counter at Boots in there. You should have seen him – gurning at his reflection in the bookcase and splashing aftershave all over himself … I was going to go in and check on his wet patch but I didn’t dare, seeing that.’

‘Didn’t dare? Why ever not? It’s not like we don’t spend half our time preening and primping, is it?’

‘Oh, you know what I mean. He’d have been mortified if he knew I’d seen him. Anyway, the point is why? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gary pay attention to how he looks, ever.’

She was right about that. Gary was in his mid forties, but he still dressed as though inside him there was a devil-may-care student half his age trying to muscle out. In fact, half-muscled out already; he invariably looked if not as if he’d been dragged through a hedge, at least like someone had shoved him against one. He just wasn’t a suit and tie man – much more a chinos and checked shirt one. Which was fine. While Mike Moore and Donald Brabbiner looked ever the ‘executive’ part, as befitted their status as head and deputy, nobody minded that Gary’s look was more understated or that his hair was of the too-long-for-school style. It was all fit for purpose. Some roles had a more relaxed dress code and Gary’s – which often required him to be approachable, on-side and unthreatening – was just right for the sort of work he had to do. The kids liked him, pretty universally, and that was the main thing. And as he’d once commented, having that extra half-hour in bed was something he rather liked as well.

‘Agree,’ I said. ‘And, as it happens, there is something going on.’

‘What?’ she squealed delightedly. ‘Tell me, tell me!’

I passed her a mug of coffee and sat down at the nearest table with her. ‘Ah, that I can’t tell you because I don’t yet know myself. He’s going to spill the beans at lunchtime. Actually,’ I said, remembering, ‘he didn’t use the word “secret”. He called it “gossip”. So don’t worry – when I do know, I’ll have absolutely no compunction about passing any intelligence on.’

‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I have a wall-stapler and I’m not afraid to use it. Anyway, crack on with your own gossip because I haven’t got long. I’m supposed to be back in learning support in ten minutes. I only came to drop the files to you from Julia.’

So I did. We spent an enjoyable few minutes having a proper debrief about the summer holidays (Kelly’s sounding achingly carefree compared with my carefully edited highlights), and once she’d gone I got back to clearing the classroom walls and stapling up new backing sheets ready for the new term. But my eye kept being drawn back to the folder of photocopies in front of me, and in the end I succumbed to what I really fancied doing, which was taking a proper look at the three kids I had joining me.

The first child on the pile was one we’d not yet discussed, but I wasn’t in the least surprised to see the name on the top; it was a fourteen-year-old girl, now in year 10, called Ria Walker. Ria had already earned herself something of a reputation of late, for becoming – to use the jargon – a bit of a nightmare. The stats were all there to prove it, as well. In the last year she’d been sent out of at least one lesson per day, for disruption – and now she was starting her GCSE courses proper, it was essential the school get a grip on what ailed her so she had a fighting chance of reaching her potential. And she had a lot of potential too; she was academically very able and, up till a year or so ago, she’d also been a model student. She was popular, outgoing, intelligent and capable, and no one could seem to find out why the slide had started happening, least of all her supportive, caring parents.

Was she too able? Not being stretched enough? No one seemed to think so. She just seemed to be permanently irritable and pugnacious, and when quizzed she was apparently as unable to find a reason as anyone else. I smiled as I turned the page. Having Ria in the Unit would be a challenge, but one I relished. Getting to the crux of a child’s difficulties was what I was there for, after all. It would also be nice to have an older girl come into the mix, given Cody. No, we’d be fine, whatever attitude she brought along.

I then started to read a bit more about Cody herself – the girl Julia had referred to as ‘strange’. No doubt I’d soon get to see her odd behaviours for myself, but right now I was more interested in taking a look at the records from her previous schools and foster placements. She’d had a shocking start to life it seemed (being locked up by her mother apparently only a part of it), so it was no wonder she had a personality disorder. And as I read on, it became clear that she was destined to be a very temporary pupil; we were simply the interim and the place at which she’d get the full assessment that would finally see her in a school where they could better meet her needs. In fact, I was mostly to be a ‘facilitator’, helping organise and support her while a series of meetings with the educational psychologist took place.

So a pretty clear brief, even if the child herself was complex – as I suspected would be the case with the youngest of them, Darryl. I was naturally drawn to working with kids on the autism spectrum and felt confident I could help Darryl settle in and find his way. He sounded like a poppet, too – though very vulnerable – so my heart automatically went out to him. I was very much looking forward to meeting him.

And it seemed I was about to, much sooner than I’d thought. When the bell went for break I decided to stay put and continue reading. I had a computer terminal in my office and had plugged it in and fired it up, so I could research some of Cody’s behaviours. I was just doing so when there was a rap at the door.

Kelly popped her head round. ‘You okay for a quick visit, Mrs Watson?’ she asked. The formal address signalled that she must have a child in tow, so I shut the screen off.

‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m always up for visits. And who might this be?’ I added, turning my attention to the skinny little lad who she was now ushering in.

He looked pristine and nervous, so I pegged him as a year 7. Stiff shirt, brand new blazer, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives, and he’d yet to raise his gaze from the floor.

Kelly closed the door behind them. ‘This is Darryl, Mrs Watson,’ she said. ‘And he wanted to come down as he’s been feeling a bit anxious about being able to find his way here come Wednesday.’

In reality, he’d be brought to me by either his form tutor or a prefect, but I knew how autistic kids needed to iron out life’s anxieties, so it was a shrewd move to get this one out of the way.

‘Darryl?’ Kelly was saying gently, squatting down to shrink herself a little. ‘Are you going to lift your head up and say hello to Mrs Watson?’

I also made myself smaller and leaned towards Darryl, offering my hand for him to shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Darryl,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy working in here. Well, once you get settled in, which I’m sure you soon will.’

The boy gave me the briefest of glances then looked away, flinching slightly as I shook the hand he shyly proffered. He then began nodding, increasingly quickly, and shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Yes. I’m Darryl,’ he said, still avoiding my gaze. ‘I’m Darryl Davies who lives at number 18 Summersdale Court.’ The foot movements became more obvious and he then started rocking. ‘Hmm,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Is that the time? It’s two minutes until the bell and we need to get back. Numeracy starts in four minutes.’

I glanced at Kelly then checked my watch, impressed. ‘Spot on,’ I told him. ‘That’s some trick you’ve got there.’ But Darryl continued to stare at the floor.

Kelly grinned. ‘Darryl counts the seconds in his head,’ she explained. ‘Loves to live by the clock, don’t you, lovely?’

‘Time is of the essence,’ Darryl added, though, again, without looking up. And in the same monotone he’d used for the rest of his little speech.

‘Well, okay,’ I said, rising. ‘I guess you’d better skedaddle then. See you Wednesday.’ Another nod, and he was herding Kelly out of the door.

I watched them leave and felt a familiar prickle of excitement. It looked like I was going to be in for an interesting term. Kieron’s Asperger’s – the kind I knew about – was nothing like this. Time for a refresher course, perhaps, I thought, returning to the computer monitor. While my son was only just over the line that put him ‘on the spectrum’, Darryl seemed to be in a completely different place.

And it seemed he wasn’t the only one. When I got into Gary’s office I realised Kelly hadn’t been exaggerating. The place really did smell like a perfume factory outlet.

‘Wow!’ I said as I pushed the door open. ‘Kelly was right. You really have been splashing on the cologne!’

Gary groaned as I sat down, making elaborate sniffing noises. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘How does she know about it?’

‘Difficult not to,’ I said. ‘Gary, you can smell it half way down the corridor! Anyway, more to the point, what’s the gossip? Go on – spill.’

But Gary didn’t really need to, because his blush answered for him.

‘Oh my goodness,’ I said, watching him. ‘You’ve met someone, haven’t you?’

‘Actually I have,’ he said, glancing past me, presumably to check I’d shut the office door. Which, of course, I had. A pause arrived and lengthened.

‘And?’ I prompted.

‘And today’s the day I am going to meet Mum and Dad.’

I nodded, and then, taking my cue from his expression – which was an odd one – I stopped and digested it further. Mum and Dad. Why would meeting Mum and Dad be such an issue? Gary was in his forties, and presumably his new girlfriend was too. Unless … hmm. Perhaps the girlfriend was younger. Considerably younger. Or there were complications of some sort, such as …

I nodded again. ‘And?’

He shifted in his seat. ‘And it’s quite a big deal. Casey, I know it’s not something we’ve ever discussed but …’ Another pause. ‘Casey, you’ve already worked out that I’m gay, right?’

Dropped into the conversation so quietly, so entirely undramatically, the statement should have simply landed and settled. Should have been absorbed into the conversation like any other bunch of words. Except it wasn’t. Because I’d really had no idea. Most of us – well, the few confidantes I chatted to, anyway – had Gary pegged as the school’s George Clooney character, a charismatic confirmed bachelor. Though one minus a pet Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. Well, as far as I knew.

‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I mean, well, I suppose I never thought about it that much. I suppose –’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose it never really crossed my mind either way.’ Then I smiled, feeling his tension dissipate, and mine along with it. The truth was that there was plenty of gossip in the staffroom – who was happily married, who less so, who might be having a fling with whom. But Gary was never part of it; he had always seemed immune from it almost. But then he’d always kept his private life private – as did I, really. In our peripheral roles we tended not to get involved in much of the socialising that went on among the more sociable of the teaching staff. It was the way I liked it, keeping my work life and home life largely separate, and Gary did too. And with perhaps even more motivation than most, because, despite all the sterling work being done to change the status quo, a school could still be a cruel place to be if you were perceived as ‘different’ – and that very much included the teachers.

So it all began to make sense. And now it had, it was also clear why Gary might be anxious. Meeting a partner’s mum and dad was hard enough for young heterosexuals, and for gay guys of Gary’s age, whose parents could easily be into their seventies, it might be all the harder. I certainly knew from friends’ experiences that, for the older generation, just the business of a son or daughter being gay might be a very big hurdle to jump in itself.

But that was a big conversation to be having, and perhaps not one for today. ‘So,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘a bit of a watershed, then. No wonder you’re on pins.’

‘You said it,’ Gary agreed. ‘I mean, I know it’s ridiculous. But at the same time it’s not, because Paul – that’s his name – had a partner before me who was pretty long term, and when they broke up last year it was all very difficult, because he was very much part of the family, and his mum and dad really missed him, and … well, as you can imagine, I’m very conscious that …’ He paused to draw breath.

I leapt into the space. ‘Conscious that you’ll be compared to him and be found wanting,’ I finished for him. ‘Which is pretty much the same scenario for anyone in your shoes. And about which you can do nothing, bar what?’

Now I paused, waiting for him to supply the answer.

‘Be myself,’ Gary supplied. Then he broke into a grin. And stood up. ‘Yes, but the burning question is, do I look like the sort of guy who regularly wets himself? Be honest! Do I look like I have? Do I smell of damp dog? Come on. The truth. Do I? Because I reckon I have about seventeen minutes’ free time left in which to zip to Asda and grab some new chinos.’

At which we both could do nothing else but fall about, giggling.

With enormous guilt I conceded that although there was no smell (well, aside from the bordello one), there was an obvious water mark. ‘So go to Asda, and please let me pay –’

‘Absolutely no way.’

‘Well, I owe you a drink then. But hang on. Before you go, the important part. Do I get to see a picture? I’m keen to see what kind of character would fall for a reprobate like you.’

So out came the phone. And up came the picture. Of a sweet-looking guy, with a smidge of designer stubble and a goofy expression on his face.

‘A teacher?’ I asked him.

‘No, he’s a youth justice worker.’

And if there was any justice, one with parents who would take one look at Gary and know their son had struck gold.

I said so. Then we both went our separate ways. Gary, in a mad rush to find replacement trousers, and me, more reflectively, in pursuit of a sandwich – the smile glued to my face all the way.