Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘We don’t like changing staff either, Leanne,’ I say, following her up the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘It’s bad for everyone when people leave. But it’s just the way things are at the moment.’

  ‘Alice is here,’ says Leanne, lowering her slow voice to a whisper, and showing me a clean, relatively tidy baby room with five large boxes of Pampers stacked in the corner.

  Baby Alice is asleep in a white-wood cot with a mobile hanging overhead. The room smells fine – unlike the landing, which has a faint odour of urine.

  ‘I know it smells,’ says Leanne, as if reading my mind. ‘Joey’s still wetting the bed. The doctor says he’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘How did this happen?’ I ask, pointing to a hole in a chipboard bedroom door.

  Leanne blinks a few times, then responds: ‘Lloyd did that. I’ve told the housing people. They still haven’t been round to repair it.’ She adds, ‘It wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Has Lloyd started counselling yet?’ I ask. ‘He should be nearing the top of the waiting list by now.’

  ‘No.’ Leanne’s face crumples. She looks at me then, brown eyes filled with pain.

  I know what she’s saying. I can’t cope. And suddenly I want to hug her.

  But we’re not allowed to do that with adults.

  ‘Lloyd talked with the last social worker about coping strategies,’ I say, following the official line. ‘Boxing at his cousin’s gym? Has he been doing that?’

  ‘I’m his punch bag,’ Leanne says. ‘He’s getting so big now, I can’t stop him. I’ve asked them to take him into care. No one listens. He’s going to kill me one of these days.’

  ‘Let’s talk about how you can set boundaries. Look into some parenting classes—’

  ‘I’ve been to them.’

  ‘No. They were organised for you, but you didn’t attend.’

  ‘I couldn’t get there. I don’t have a car.’

  ‘I’ll set up some more classes for you. Maybe I can look into having someone drive you there. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m taking it.’ Leanne’s eyes dart to the floor. ‘But I lost some. Can you tell the doctor to give me more?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him yourself. Let’s talk about your partner. Are you still with him?’

  ‘Why do people always ask about him? What has he got to do with anything? I’m allowed to have a boyfriend. I’m a grown woman.’

  ‘He’s living here, isn’t he?’

  Leanne thinks for a moment, eyes rolling around. ‘It’s my house,’ she says. ‘Why is it anyone else’s business who lives here? Look, can’t you take Lloyd into care, just for a bit?’

  ‘I can’t pick up a child and place them in care just like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because they have to be deemed at risk of immediate harm. And Lloyd is more of a risk to others than in danger himself.

  Lizzie

  ‘So how was school?’

  Tom is quiet, head down, kicking stones. I squeeze his hand in mine.

  We’re walking home along the country path, me shielding my eyes against the low sun.

  My little boy seems so small beside me today. It’s funny – when he started school in London, he grew up overnight. But now he seems young again. Vulnerable.

  He hasn’t grown much this year, even though he’s nearly nine.

  ‘It was all right,’ says Tom. His school jumper is inside out, so he must have had sports today. He never has quite got the hang of dressing himself. ‘Were you okay at home?’

  I laugh. ‘I was fine, Tom. You’re such a lovely boy for caring. High five?’

  Tom slaps my fingers, but doesn’t smile.

  ‘Do you need me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘You look tired.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Tommo?’

  ‘What?’ Tom turns to me, eyes dull. He looks … disorientated.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He nods.

  ‘You don’t look okay. What’s up, Tommo?’

  ‘Just tired.’

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Tom’s words are soft now – almost slurred.

  My heart races, but I keep my questions calm. ‘Nothing? Not even what you had for lunch? Tom … you don’t look too well. Maybe you should have a lie-down on the sofa when we get home.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His feet trudge over stones.

  I remember chatting with another mum in London once.

  Usually, I kept my head down at the school gates, the quiet, downtrodden wife. But this mum sought me out. Forced me into a conversation.

  She told me her son, Ewan, never remembered what happened at school. She said it was common.

  I’d nodded, feigning agreement. But actually, Tom always remembered his school day. Our walk home was filled with chatter about reading books, school dinners and gold stars.

  ‘Okay, champ.’ I ruffle Tom’s hair, the words catching. ‘A little rest. And then I think a trip to the doctor’s would be a good idea.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tom stumbles a little, his black school shoe turning under itself.

  ‘Tom?’ I take his arm.

  He gives a languid blink. ‘Maybe … maybe I’m getting a cold. Everything looks blue today.’

  I stiffen.

  When things were especially bad between Olly and me, Tom became fixated on colours. How grass wasn’t really green, but green, yellow and brown. And the teacher’s skirt was ‘turquoise like Daddy’s sweatshirt’.

  A sign of stress, the doctor said.

  We approach our sleeping house, the curtains drawn. They’re made from thick, heavy velvet, and I hung them the very first day we moved.

  Heavy curtains are a necessity for anyone running from someone.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ I unlock the front door. ‘I bought some biscuits. You can have a snack and I’ll take your temperature.’

  ‘I don’t want a snack,’ says Tom, heading straight through our messy living room and throwing his coat and bag over the bannisters. ‘Biscuits are too brown today.’

  Too brown.

  He hasn’t mentioned colours since we left London …

  ‘I just want to sleep,’ says Tom.

  ‘Can’t we just have a little chat?’

  Out of the blue, Tom snaps: ‘Leave me alone! I hate the new school, okay? And I hate you.’

  I stare at him, utterly stunned. He’s never talked to me like that. Ever.

  ‘Maybe you should go upstairs and rest,’ I say sharply.

  ‘That’s what I just said,’ he retorts.

  Clump, clump, clump.

  Tom stomps up the stairs, head bowed. Then his bedroom door slams.

  I follow him upstairs and find him sitting on his bed, playing with his Clarks shoes. He pulls the Velcro back, then sticks it down. Rip, rip. Rip, rip.

  ‘Tom? Please let’s talk. I know this is hard.’

  Tom looks up, and as he does his head begins to loll around.

  Then my little boy slides to the floor, his body totally rigid, twisting, biting, drooling.

  ‘Tom!’ I stare, terrified, as he snaps his teeth at thin air. One hand is still locked to the Velcro on his trainer, his body a stiff crescent, fingers refusing to yield. ‘Tom!’

  I see the whites of his eyes as he shouts, ‘School grey.’

  ‘I’m phoning an ambulance,’ I shout, dashing downstairs two steps at a time.

  My fingers are shaking as I dial 999, my words rushed when the operator comes on the line. ‘Help, please,’ I sob. ‘My son is having some sort of fit. Please send an ambulance. Hurry!’

  Lizzie

  I have nausea – the sort brought on by overwhelming fear and anxiety.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  Tom lies on white cotton sheets. They’re the same sheets I used to strip down in hospitals before I got pregnant. They should feel familiar and safe, but today
everything is wrong.

  My eyes are wide, barely blinking. ‘Why did this happen?’ I ask the doctor. ‘He’s a healthy child. He’s healthy.’

  Tom stopped convulsing when the ambulance came. He is now drowsy and confused, barely conscious. A seizure – that’s what they’re calling it. Nobody knows why it happened.

  ‘Could he have taken anything he shouldn’t?’ the doctor asks. ‘Medication, anything like that? It’s quite unusual for this to happen with no history.’

  ‘No. We keep paracetamol, cough syrup. He has painkillers for migraines … but Tom wouldn’t take anything without asking. He’s very sensible for his age.’

  ‘Normal painkillers wouldn’t have caused something like this.’

  ‘Tom,’ I whisper.

  ‘Mum,’ Tom says.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ I stroke his forehead.

  Tom murmurs, ‘I want to sleep. Please, Mum.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten. The sooner you eat, the sooner we can get home to your own bed. With all your Lego.’

  ‘Red Lego. Want to … sleep.’

  ‘Tom, the doctor wants to know if you took anything. Medicine – anything like that.’

  Tom shakes his head, eyes bobbing closed.

  When the doctor leaves, Tom sleeps until teatime.

  He wakes to eat three forkfuls of hospital meat pie and one spoonful of strawberry yoghurt.

  While I’m clearing Tom’s dinner tray, a nurse says: ‘You’ll be discharged later. Just as soon as the doctor comes back.’

  I nod, shelving the empty tray in a metal trolley.

  ‘Tom will be in his own bed tonight,’ the nurse continues. ‘And back at school tomorrow. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But actually, the thought of school … it frightens me.

  Kate

  What’s the time? My watch hands point to 7.10 p.m., but the computer says 7 p.m.

  The computer is right, of course – I always set my watch ten minutes fast. Col calls this my mega efficiency.

  I see Tessa in her office, stuffing Nespresso capsules into her handbag.

  ‘I need you here first thing tomorrow,’ she commands, striding past me. ‘Did you get the Kinnock file closed down yet?’

  ‘Tom Kinnock’s mother still hasn’t replied to my letter. She’s had it over a week now. I need to pencil in an unannounced visit. See how Tom’s settling into his new school before I close the case down.’

  ‘Don’t forget your twenty-nine other children.’

  ‘Thirty children now, Tessa. And yes, I know.’

  ‘Don’t cancel anything you shouldn’t.’

  There is a secret code in social services. Some appointments absolutely can’t be altered. Some shouldn’t be altered, but have to be.

  It all comes down to greatest need.

  ‘Okay, listen. Why not forget about Tom Kinnock for the time being?’ Tessa suggests. ‘You have a cast-iron defence if anything goes wrong – blame Hammersmith and Fulham. They should have passed it over sooner.’

  ‘I need to make a start,’ I say. ‘Get some sort of order. The file has passed through ten different social workers – the notes are an absolute mess. Pages and pages of reports, everything out of order. It needs straightening out.’

  ‘Hammersmith and Fulham sound worse than this place,’ says Tessa. ‘Can you imagine? Somewhere more chaotic than here?’ She snorts with laughter and heads towards the swing doors. ‘Well. Night then.’

  I put my head in my hands.

  At university, I was always ‘Sensible Kate’ or ‘Aunty Kate’. The one with a good head on her shoulders. I never broke down or got overwhelmed. But right now, I’m stressed to the point of collapse.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  My head jerks up, and I see Tessa lingering in the doorway.

  I feel embarrassed and pat my cheeks. ‘Fine. I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘You’re not all right, are you?’ Tessa backtracks, perching her large behind on my desk. ‘You’re killing yourself. Staying late every night. This can’t be doing your love life any good. What does your boyfriend think about all this?’

  ‘Husband.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I can never get my head around that. At your age.’

  ‘Col’s getting used to my working habits. I used to text him if I’d be home late. Now I text if I’ll be home on time.’

  Tessa guffaws. ‘Sounds about right. But how long will he be understanding for? A lot of relationships break down here. Partners get fed up of being second best.’

  ‘Col and I are solid. We support each other.’

  ‘Listen, with a caseload like yours, you’ve got to put some of them on the back burner.’

  ‘Tell me, Tessa – how can I put a vulnerable child on the back burner?’

  Lizzie

  Mum is visiting today. She wants to talk about Tom’s first week at school. Make sure he’s settling in okay.

  Two things will happen.

  She will be late.

  She will criticise me incessantly.

  I’ve made vegetable soup with organic parsnips and carrots, and just a little bit of crème fraîche, plus (I won’t tell my mum this) a squirt of tomato ketchup. Pumpkin seed and olive oil bread warms in the oven.

  I have been up early, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting. The house looks great, actually. A real step forward. I’ve laid the breakfast bar in the big, beautiful conservatory using freshly laundered napkins and antique wine glasses.

  But I know it won’t be enough. Nothing ever is for my mother.

  It’s 1 p.m., and Tom waits in a clean shirt, face scrubbed, hair shiny. He tried to get out of brushing his teeth (‘I’ll do it later, Mum’), but I managed to bribe him with a fruit Yoyo and the promise that he doesn’t have to give Grandma a kiss.

  Now we’re sat on the sofa, listening for the click click of my mother’s high heels.

  A car slows outside. I hear footsteps, then a hard knock at the door.

  This is her.

  I open the door to a cloud of rose perfume and Mum’s glossy, denture-perfect smile. She looks like a Fifties movie star – red lipstick, bright green pashmina and Jane Mansfield coiffed black hair.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Mum kisses me on both cheeks, leaving traces of lipstick, which I surreptitiously rub off. She glides into the house, sharp, green eyes inspecting. ‘How is my little grandson?’

  ‘He’s much better now,’ I say. ‘They didn’t keep him overnight in the end. They think the seizure could have been a one-off. Just some unexplained childhood thing. Tom, say hello to your grandma.’

  ‘Hello, Grandma,’ says Tom, back straight, knees together. ‘That’s a very nice red bag.’

  ‘Have they put him on any medication?’ Mum asks.

  I hesitate. ‘Yes. Yes, they have. Blood-thinning meds, just in case. He’s going to be on them for the next few months and then they’ll reassess.’

  ‘So he’s on prescription medication?’ Mum qualifies. ‘It must be serious, then.’

  ‘I … yes. He’s still not quite himself.’

  ‘How are you settling into school?’ Mum asks. ‘Are you keeping up with your school work?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘It’s harder than London, but it’s all right.’

  ‘Did I mention, Thomas – I met your new headmaster?’ Mum slides leather gloves from her hands and pats his head. ‘I liked him very much. Behave well for him, won’t you? We don’t want people thinking you’re from a bad family. How are you doing in class? Still at the top?’

  ‘No,’ says Tom. ‘Not here. But I don’t mind.’

  ‘You need to work hard, Tom,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t be lazy. You were top of the class before. The headmaster is such a nice man. Very high standards. He’ll be disappointed in you.’

  ‘Tom has never been lazy,’ I say. ‘He’s just not competitive. He doesn’t care about being the best. That’s just not who he is.’

  ‘Not like his father then.’ Mu
m raises an eyebrow. She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. ‘So this is where you’re hiding the mess.’

  It’s true – there’s a raggle-taggle heap of objects stuffed inside the lower cupboards. Things I didn’t have time to sort through and stuffed out of the way to look tidy.

  ‘You’re not coping, Elizabeth,’ Mum says. ‘I knew you’d struggle alone.’

  ‘I’m doing my best. We’ve only just moved. You should have seen the house yesterday.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have left your husband. And now it’s too late.’

  That last remark cuts like a knife.

  ‘You’re saying I should have stayed with Olly?’ I glance to check Tom isn’t listening, then whisper, ‘You know what he did.’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth, children don’t always tell the truth. You hardly ever did.’

  ‘You should have come to court, Mum,’ I say, teeth gritted. ‘And heard the full story.’

  ‘This is too much for you, Elizabeth. The house. A young child. Why won’t you come and live with me?’

  I hold back a shudder. ‘I’m not sure we’d get along as adults,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get on well when I was a teenager, did we?’

  ‘You were difficult,’ says Mum. ‘Always criticising. Trying to start arguments. And so solemn.’

  ‘I looked after you much more than any thirteen-year-old ever should,’ I say, meeting her eye.

  Mum turns to open kitchen cupboards.

  Deflect.

  Ignore.

  Put it in a box and let it explode another time.

  That’s how things are in our family.

  I wonder if Mum has genuinely forgotten her overdose. And the fall-out afterwards. Or just pretends.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, changing the subject. Slotting in, being a shadow.

  My mother’s lips pucker. She manages a few tears. ‘How could you say we don’t get along, Elizabeth? I did everything for you. I gave up my whole life. Stayed with your adulterous pig of a father. For you.’

  Inwardly I feel tired. It’s just so much easier to placate my mother than tell the truth.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  Mum goes to a recent picture of Tom on the mantelpiece. I took it when Tom’s new Steelfield School uniform arrived. I needed him to try it on, so let him pose with his school bag at the bottom of the stairs.