Читать книгу Don’t Tell Teacher - Suzy K. Quinn - Страница 23

Lizzie

I’m early for school pick-up today.

It’s been a few days since I saw the van, but it’s put a picture in my head that I can’t shake.

There are no other parents here yet. Standing on the pavement by the black railings, I watch the eerily silent school building, willing the time to pass.

As I wait, the headmaster heads across the playground. He’s wearing another smart suit, jet-black today, and his peculiarly boyish face is stretched in a smile.

‘Mrs Kinnock,’ he says, approaching the gate. ‘Hello again. You’re here early. Is there something I can help you with?’

I try for a smile. ‘I should have said before, Mr Cockrun, but I’m Miss Riley now. You must know that Tom’s father and I are separated.’

‘Yes,’ says Mr Cockrun, all earnest and sincere. ‘I’m always sad when families separate. Let’s hope Tom isn’t too badly affected.’

‘It was for the best in our case,’ I say, surprised by my fierceness. ‘By the way, I need to apologise. My mother said she paid you a visit. I never asked her to. She … doesn’t always read social situations very well.’

Mr Cockrun frowns in thought. Then he has a flash of recollection. ‘Ah yes! I remember now. Tall woman. Nicely spoken. Rides horses.’

My mother doesn’t ride horses, but she’ll say anything to impress people.

‘I enjoyed meeting her,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘We were in complete agreement when it comes to children’s schooling. Wasn’t she in education herself at some point?’

‘Um … no. She wasn’t. I did tell her not to visit again without me. I know schools are busy.’

Mr Cockrun ignores me. ‘“Act the best and you’ll be the best”– that was her motto. A very astute woman.’

I laugh. ‘My mother certainly knows how to make things look good.’

‘You were very early again this morning.’ Mr Cockrun raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘I saw you from my office. And now early again for pick-up.’

‘I like to be on time.’ I lift my chin. ‘This is a new start for us. A new life. I want everything to be perfect.’

‘Best not to get here too early.’ Mr Cockrun notices a dandelion growing in a crack in the tarmac, frowns, pulls it up and pushes it under a shrub in the flowerbed. ‘The teachers like a bit of peace and quiet, and so do I.’

‘I just—’

‘Now, since you’re here, let’s have a quick word about Tom.’ Mr Cockrun turns serious eyes on me. ‘His form teacher will want a chat shortly.’

‘About what?’

‘About the standards here. The behaviour we expect.’

‘Yes, I—’

‘We were happy to make space for Tom at such short notice. But if he disrupts other children, we have a problem. A big problem. He’s already got a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker.’

Troublemaker. What?

‘My Tom? But he never gets into trouble.’

‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way but parents always think that. They never think it’s their child.’ He gives one of the railings – a rusty-looking one – an experimental tug. When he finds it a little loose, he takes a notepad from his pocket and scribbles something, shaking his head. ‘I’d have a word with him if I were you. Sooner rather than later.’ Then he strolls away.

I stare at the entrance door as it creaks closed.

Around me, other parents begin arriving. The school bell rings, long and loud. Five seconds of calm.

Then, in one great rush, children spill out into the playground.

I look for Tom and see him trudging among the other children, shadowed by an eerily calm-looking teacher, who is walking with a hand on his shoulder.

The teacher has short, salt-and-pepper hair cut in a jagged, youthful style that actually makes her look older, highlighting her wrinkles and large ears. Her hips, which carry a good twenty pounds of excess weight, strain in an unflattering black trouser suit that would be more at home on a London legal professional.

All in all, it’s the look of someone out of place. She doesn’t fit in, but she’s trying.

Her name is Mrs Dudley, I think. Yes, that’s right.

When Tom sees me, he runs and throws his arms around me.

Oh God … what happened? What happened?

I can feel Tom’s chest heave as he sobs into cotton.

‘Sweetheart,’ I whisper. ‘What’s the matter?’

Mrs Dudley gives me an empty smile. ‘Mrs Kinnock? May I talk to you?’

A hundred faces turn in my direction, and I hear someone suck in their breath.

‘I’m Miss Riley,’ I say. ‘And yes. Of course. Shall I … should I follow you inside?’

‘No.’ Mrs Dudley smiles politely, but her expression is firm. ‘We don’t let parents into the classrooms. For safeguarding reasons.’

‘So where should we—’

‘Oh, we can have a quick chat here.’

I pull Tom close to my hip. ‘Talk about my son in front of everybody? Can’t you see he’s upset?’

‘We’ll wait until everyone leaves,’ Mrs Dudley says.

I look down at Tom. ‘How are you, Tommo? What happened?’

Mrs Dudley flashes me pale grey eyes. ‘Give everyone a minute to clear out before we get into it.’

Tom doesn’t answer. Just stares ahead, red-eyed and sniffing.

When the crowds have dispersed, I crouch down. ‘Tom?’ I say.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispers.

‘Are you okay, Tom?’

‘I got in trouble.’ Tom wipes at tears. ‘But I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember? How come?’

‘I just don’t.’

‘Your teacher and I will have a chat.’ I kiss his head and stand up tall. ‘We’ll get all this sorted out, don’t you worry.’ I tilt my head at Mrs Dudley. ‘So what’s going on?’

‘Well, I have to tell you, Miss Riley, we had … an issue today.’

‘What sort of issue?’

‘This goes no further, but you do need to be informed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Two boys were fighting in the playground.’

‘Tom was fighting?’

‘Not me, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘Pauly and Lloyd. Pauly had to go to hospital.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Tom wasn’t involved in the fight,’ Mrs Dudley fills in. ‘But a little girl asked him about it and he attacked her.’

‘Tom attacked someone? A girl? My Tom? No – there’s been some mistake. Tom would never do anything like that.’

‘The girl had to go to the nurse’s office. She was very shaken up. Miss Riley, this behaviour is absolutely unacceptable. It cannot happen again. The school’s reputation means a lot to us. Pupil behaviour is key.’

‘I don’t believe this happened.’ I shake my head.

‘I saw it,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘The attack came out of nowhere – totally unprovoked. And things like this cannot happen here. You have to understand. We won’t tolerate it. Not when it puts the school’s image on the line.’

She gives a meaningful pause. A pause that says: We don’t like taking on social services children. Keep Tom in line or there’ll be trouble.

Then Mrs Dudley’s voice softens and suddenly she sounds just like Mr Cockrun. ‘Look. We need parents on the same page. Singing from the same hymn sheet. The appropriate discipline at home. And then we’ll say no more about it. Pretend it never happened.’

Pretend it never happened …

‘I’ve never known Tom to hurt anyone.’

‘We’ll forgive and forget, Miss Riley. As long as it doesn’t happen again.’

I think of my mother, suddenly. And Olly. The perfect image. Make everything look good and to hell with what’s really going on.

‘Someone has made a mistake.’ Upset rises in my chest. ‘I mean … Tom just doesn’t do things like that. He’s not an angry child. I’ve never even seen him get cross, let alone … He’s very kind to other children. He gets stressed but never angry …’

‘Miss Riley—’

‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘This is so hard to believe.’ My eyes wander to Tom, who still has his arms around me. ‘I’ve never known him hit anyone, let alone a younger child.’

‘Let’s say no more about it.’ Mrs Dudley glances at the headmaster’s office.

‘Tom must have been confused,’ I counter. ‘He had a seizure. Did the office tell you?’

Mrs Dudley watches me for a moment, then says, ‘A seizure? Is he epileptic?’

‘We don’t think so. No one knows why it happened. But the hospital thinks it was a one-off. An oddity.’

‘What sort of seizure did he have?’ Mrs Dudley is watching me intently now and pulls a notepad and pen from her suit pocket.

‘Well, I … I don’t know. How many sorts of seizures are there?’

‘Was he fitting? Or just confused? Dazed?’

‘He was … I mean, he had a fit. He was convulsing.’

‘Convulsing.’ Mrs Dudley nods and scribbles on her pad. ‘Anything else?’

‘Um … I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Was he confused beforehand? Disorientated?’

‘Well, now you come to mention it, yes. Yes he was. What difference does it make? Why on earth are you making notes?’

‘The headmaster insists records are kept.’

‘I already phoned the school about it. Tom wasn’t absent but I thought you all knew he’d been in hospital.’

‘“Absent”.’ Mrs Dudley mock shudders and gives a little laugh, flipping her notepad closed. ‘That’s a word we don’t like here. We like to maintain a good attendance record.’

‘Tom was in hospital!’ I realise I’m shouting the words. ‘And why did you want to know those details about his seizure?’

‘It’s … a seizure is unusual,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘We make a note of anything unusual for Alan. He has his reasons. Good reasons. We just have to trust in him. Have faith.’

I stare at her, heart thumping in my chest, a sickly feeling in my stomach. For her to be so callous about Tom’s seizure … so clinical … This is the woman I’m leaving my son with all day?

‘Tom.’ I look down. ‘What happened?’

Tom replies without looking up. ‘I really don’t remember, Mum. Honest. I don’t think I did it.’

Mrs Dudley frowns at him, then says: ‘Work with us, Miss Riley. Semper Fortis. Always strong.’

‘Come on, Tom.’ My hand tightens on Tom’s shoulder.

As we walk away, Mrs Dudley calls: ‘And please don’t discuss this incident with anyone else, Miss Riley. Remember the school’s reputation.’

Tom and I walk home in silence, his usual chatter absent.

‘Tom,’ I say, as we near the house. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Now Mrs Dudley isn’t listening?’

‘I just don’t remember anything,’ says Tom, with a very adult shrug. Then he starts to cry, forehead crumpling into frown lines. ‘I don’t like being in trouble.’

‘I know, sweetheart. Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’

Tom shakes his head. ‘Honestly, Mum. Nothing. Except … maybe someone else did it and they thought it was me. And Mrs Dudley wasn’t there.’

‘Someone else did it? Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

I heat cans of tomato soup and toast bread for our dinner.

We don’t talk like we usually do. No matter how many ways I try to lure Tom into conversation, he only offers one-word answers.

After I’ve put him to bed, I find myself sitting with my head in my hands again.

Is Tom being bullied? I know sensitive children are vulnerable to that kind of thing. Soft targets.

It will get easier. It must get easier. We’ve been through enough.