Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  The uniform was oversized – and still is – but he’ll grow into it.

  ‘Is that his new school uniform?’ Mum asks. ‘Very smart.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and then pre-empting a criticism I add, ‘It was big on him, but better than too small.’

  ‘What are the children like at your new school, Tom?’ Mum asks. ‘They come from good families, don’t they?’

  ‘He’s eight years old, Mum,’ I say. ‘How can he answer a question like that?’

  ‘The headmaster says the school has an outstanding status,’ Mum continues, ignoring me. ‘Very high-achieving. I imagine the children are well-behaved. Come from the right stock.’

  ‘Most of the children are good,’ says Tom. ‘Except Pauly and his brothers. They have a gang.’

  I turn to him. ‘What do you mean, a gang?’

  ‘Lloyd is the general,’ Tom explains. ‘Pauly is general number two, Joey and I are the soldiers. We like red – red is our gang colour.’

  Colours again.

  ‘Lloyd’s mental,’ Tom continues. ‘Mental.’

  ‘Sounds like he needs discipline,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure the headmaster keeps him in line.’

  Tom nods. ‘Lloyd doesn’t dare do anything when Mr Cockrun is around. He’s too scared of…’ Tom stops himself then, as if he’s said too much.

  ‘Are many of the children scared of Mr Cockrun, Tom?’ I ask gently.

  Tom hesitates.

  ‘Children should be scared of their headmaster,’ says Mum.

  ‘No they shouldn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe they’re not scared,’ says Tom quickly.

  ‘But you started to say Lloyd was,’ I insist. ‘Why is Lloyd scared?’

  Tom shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Speak properly, Tom,’ Mum snaps.

  ‘You should stay away from those Neilson boys, Tom,’ I say. ‘They sound like bad news.’

  ‘What’s your teacher like, Tom?’ Mum asks.

  ‘She’s like a robot,’ says Tom. ‘She just says everything the headmaster says.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Mum retorts. ‘Stop being so silly.’

  ‘He’s tired,’ I say. ‘Remember he was in hospital last week.’

  There is a silence long enough for Mum’s handsome face to crumple. Then she says, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t call me.’

  I want to say, ‘Of course I didn’t call you. You’d have made it all about yourself.’ But I don’t. I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I tell her the truth.

  ‘We’ve been through this, Mum,’ I say. ‘Tom didn’t stay overnight—’

  ‘But it was a seizure.’

  ‘Yes. And it was terrifying for both of us. But I’m trying not to dwell on that.’ I say the last words through gritted teeth.

  Mum cups Tom’s face in her hands, then pulls him into a dramatic, perfumed chest-hug.

  Tom accepts the hug limply, without pleasure.

  ‘I handled it okay by myself,’ I say. ‘I’m not as useless as you think.’

  ‘A seizure. Oh my God, Elizabeth. How on earth could something like that have happened? Could there be something genetic? On his father’s side, perhaps?’

  My heart races as I wait for the next inevitable question. And then it comes.

  ‘Has he seen Oliver since you moved?’ Mum’s eyes roam around my living room.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I told you what Olly did.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have tried counselling? I always thought your father and I should have given that a go.’

  I let out a shocked laugh. ‘It went way beyond counselling. Olly has deep-rooted psychological issues. Good God, I wish you’d been there at the court hearing.’

  I turn then, realising Tom might be listening. But he’s frowning at a school book – something he used to do when Olly and I were together. Shut himself away.

  ‘You don’t even give Olly visitation,’ says Mum. ‘That would give you a few hours to yourself, at least.’

  ‘Olly will never see Tom without me being there,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Not while I’m still breathing. I failed Tom before. I won’t fail him again. Anyway, Tom doesn’t want to see his father. They can’t make him if he doesn’t want to.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘But you need help. You can’t do this alone.’

  ‘What time did you book your taxi for, Mother?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company?’

  Mum gives me sad, disappointed eyes, and I feel my inner strength dwindling. ‘I was hoping we’d have a nice lunch. I’ve come a very long way.’

  My mother was the first shadow I found myself standing in.

  At least Olly noticed me from time to time.

  Lizzie

  ‘You are absolutely stunning.’ Olly lies back on the sofa, broken leg propped up on a coffee table made of wine corks.

  His leg is still in plaster, and I know it’s itchy, uncomfortable and driving him mad, especially at night. Sometimes he scratches inside the plaster with a knitting needle.

  The plaster has been on for a few months now.

  Typical Olly – he’s made his leg plaster cool, getting an artist friend to felt-tip a multi-coloured effect on the bandage, copied from a Ride snowboard design. He’s even cut pairs of Boma jeans to accommodate the plaster.

  Olly is indisputably handsome, with blond hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He could dress in a business suit, sports clothes or as he does – in scruffy surfer clothes with hair messy and long around his ears – and still look like a model. I suppose it’s the years of snowboarding. He’s so fit and healthy.

  I’m wearing a floaty, daisy-patterned summer dress, something I picked out from Snow and Rock – one of Olly’s favourite shops. It’s not my usual sort of thing, if I even have a usual sort of thing, but I feel relieved and happy that Olly likes the choice.

  Olly never tells me how to dress. Not overtly. But I’ve learned what he likes and what he doesn’t.

  We got together so quickly. Sometimes I think about how Olly doesn’t really know who I am, and that if he did he’d leave me. I’m still insecure about it, so I try and be everything I think he wants me to be.

  We’re at Olly’s flat in Earl’s Court – three storeys up and with its own roof terrace. It’s a big place, especially for this part of London, and is what you’d call a ‘bachelor pad’.

  There is a mini-fridge full of beer in the living area, a snowboard propped up behind the sofa and a chair made of recycled Coca-Cola cans.

  Olly’s friends are round often, playing on his old SNES, making jokes about his leg, drinking beer and smoking joints until the small hours.

  I prefer the days when his friends aren’t round, but it’s not my flat so it’s not my place to say who comes here.

  We’re in that weird in-between stage, Olly and I, where I’m not officially living with him, but most of my things are here. I haven’t committed to making this my address, but Olly keeps asking me to move in and talking about marriage.

  We love each other. Desperately, at times. We can’t stand to be apart and when I’m working Olly calls me ten times a day.

  Most people think I’m lucky to be in this situation – living in West London, adored by a champion snowboarder.

  So why do I feel, sometimes, like I’m losing myself?

  Music is playing – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The proper vinyl version. Olly has a turntable and boxes of records – all given to him by his mother.

  ‘I never know what to wear to your friends’ parties,’ I admit, rummaging in my makeup bag for my turquoise earrings.

  All Olly’s female friends are so pretty. Effortlessly so. Hardly any makeup. A lot of them snowboard too, but only one is pro.

  ‘Do you know what?’ Olly pulls himself up on the bed, dragging his plastered leg onto the sheepskin rug. ‘I’m not really in the mood for this party. I shouldn’t drink right now. And getting across
London with this leg … So if you’re not up for it either, why don’t we do something else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Jump in the camper van, head down to Devon, camp, have a BBQ, hang around on the beach. It’s supposed to be amazing weather this weekend.’

  ‘Olly, I don’t think camping with your leg is a good idea.’

  A flash of annoyance passes over Olly’s handsome face. ‘It’s only a broken leg, Lizzie. I haven’t got cancer.’

  ‘Yes, but you should keep the plaster dry and clean. And what about your meds?’

  ‘Bloody hell. What, I can’t even go camping now?’

  ‘You shouldn’t. Not until your leg heals. I’m only saying this because I care about you.’

  ‘And how long is the healing going to take? Every time I see the specialist, he adds on another month.’ Olly thumps the duvet. ‘I feel so trapped. I need to get back out on the slopes. I need to. Life is slipping away.’

  I sense another argument coming on, so I say, ‘I know’, and sit on the bed, taking his hand. ‘But I’m here. We’ll make you well again. Okay? Just give it time.’

  Olly’s blue eyes turn clear. ‘You really are an angel, do you know that? Looking after me. Playing the nurse. Putting up with me and my moods.’

  My dad used to call me that. An angel.

  I kiss Olly’s cheek and slide my hand into his. ‘I love you, Olly Kinnock. And you’ll heal. Just give yourself time.’

  Olly turns to the window then. ‘Will I? I’m not sure. I’m forgetting who I used to be. What if I become this moody person forever?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘How do you know? How do you know who I really am?’

  I suppose we’ve only known each other a few months. Four seasons, that’s what my father used to say. You have to be with someone for four seasons, good and bad, before you really know them. I think he was making a comment about marrying my mother.

  ‘I love you,’ I say. ‘That’s enough for me.’

  Suddenly Olly says, ‘I love you too, Lizzie Nightingale. Will you marry me?’

  Just like that.

  I laugh.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Olly says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you. You get me. Even when I’m like this. We’re meant to be together.’

  ‘Olly, we’ve known each other less than three months. We’re not even properly living together yet.’

  ‘Oh, so what?’ Olly kisses me, and for a moment everything is okay. Maybe we can get married and live happily ever after.

  But then I pull back. Things with Olly have been good. But they’ve been bad too. He’s pushed me before – a great, big, open-palmed shove when he was wobbling around drunk, trying a new pair of skis. He said it was an accident. He didn’t mean for me to fall. But …

  ‘Olly—’

  ‘Are you rejecting my proposal, Lizzie Nightingale?’

  ‘It’s just … what’s the rush?’

  ‘Why wait?’

  ‘Maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet,’ I say.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Anxiety hits my stomach.

  I know the signs of his mood swings by now. And I become a child again, desperate to keep the peace.

  ‘Please, Olly, I didn’t mean it like that. I love you. Of course we’ll get married one day.’

  This is what I used to do when my parents fought. Do anything to make it okay, forget myself, humiliate myself. Anything to stop the ugliness growing. And then one day my dad met someone else and left. It was all for nothing. So why do I feel compelled to carry on the same behaviour?

  ‘If you don’t want to be with me, just say so,’ Olly snaps. ‘Because I think you either know or you don’t. And if you’re not sure, then that means no. Call it a day.’

  I clasp his hand, scared of losing him to the other, angry person. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just, your leg is still broken.’ I try for a laugh. ‘I don’t want our wedding photos to be spoiled by that big multi-coloured plaster.’

  Olly looks at me for a minute, then he laughs too. ‘Is that why you said no? Just because of the wedding photos? What is it with women and photos?’

  We laugh together then, and everything feels okay.

  I’ve done it.

  I’ve averted disaster.

  Just like I used to do with Mum.

  I catch a glimpse of my bare back in the mirror. ‘Could you do up these buttons?’ I ask.

  Olly does.

  My breasts feel tender, I realise. Sore. We’ve never been careful, Olly and I. Not really. So often caught in the heat of the moment. Suddenly I have such a strong feeling.

  Oh God.

  What if I’m pregnant?

  Ruth

  I was supposed to meet Kaitlyn for tea this afternoon, but I cancelled.

  ‘I visited Elizabeth this morning,’ I told her, with a gay little laugh. ‘And my daughter needs to make a good impression with the other mothers. She’s in desperate need of home-wares. I’m staying in town to do a bit of shopping. Can we reschedule?’

  Sometimes, I despair of Elizabeth.

  Tatty old furniture, mismatched curtains and nothing on the mantelpiece. Tom’s started at an outstanding school and she’s a single mother. What will the other parents think?

  ‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘Your daughter needs to stand on her own two feet.’

  Kaitlyn is one of the few friends who understands just how unlucky I’ve been with Elizabeth. Other mothers have children who take them to lunch. Elizabeth doesn’t think about me at all.

  I’m at Fenwick department store on the High Street. It was recommended by a well-dressed woman in town, and she was right – there are lots of lovely things here.

  I take a net basket from a young assistant and click around the homeware department, imagining how much better I’ll feel when Elizabeth has some lovely ornaments on display.

  Most likely, I’ll get no thanks for it. All Elizabeth ever does is criticise.

  ‘I was in your shadow,’ she says. ‘You made me feel invisible.’

  Perhaps now she realises how difficult it is being a parent.

  Elizabeth never excelled at school. Didn’t try hard enough. In truth, she never applied herself. Tom was top of his class in London, so maybe my grandson will be the one to make me proud.

  As I’m examining a china cat with a lace collar, a smiling grey-haired assistant approaches. She has dreadful makeup. Eyebrows far too heavy.

  ‘Oh, that’s one of my favourites,’ she says. ‘It looks just like my cat, Sherbet.’

  I slide the cat back on the shelf.

  ‘Shopping for something in particular?’ the assistant asks.

  I notice her neck, loose with wrinkles.

  ‘Things for my daughter,’ I say, with a grand smile. ‘She’s just moved into a new home.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says the assistant. ‘Is she married or single?’

  I pull my smile tight. ‘Married,’ I say. ‘Her husband is a champion snowboarder. And she has a little boy. Tom. My grandson. He’s a bonny little lad – very well-behaved. A model pupil at school.’

  ‘Not like my grandson then,’ laughs the assistant. ‘He’s a terror, but we love him all the same.’

  I smile kindly. ‘Maybe it’s the school that’s the problem. My grandson goes to Steelfield School. They’re really on top of discipline there. The headmaster is very ambitious.’

  The assistant shudders. ‘I’ve heard about that place. Kids quiet as mice. Teachers so perfect they’re like robots.’ She glances at me then. ‘Sorry to speak out of turn, it’s just what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can tell a lot from the inspector reports,’ I counter. ‘The official people who assess the schools know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘I always think the most important thing is that the kids are happy.’

  I wander towards a colourful collection of cookware, but it’s far too bright.
I’ll never understand this modern trend for childish, primary colours. What happened to elegant florals?

  The assistant is tailing me. ‘How old is your grandson?’ she asks.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in a hanging frying pan. I look a good fifteen years younger than this assistant, although I’d guess we’re around the same age.

  ‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘He’s very bright. The teachers think he’ll pass the grammar school exam.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be good,’ says the assistant, not really understanding.

  ‘My daughter Elizabeth went to grammar school,’ I say. ‘She passed her exams and studied at Cambridge University. She’s a qualified doctor now.’

  ‘Well done her,’ says the assistant. ‘Does she work part-time? Now she has her little boy?’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘Her husband takes care of everything. She doesn’t have to lift a finger. She even has a cleaner.’

  ‘Wish I had one of those,’ says the assistant, winking. ‘In my house, I’m the cleaner.’

  ‘Elizabeth is a wonderful daughter,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends. She’s always inviting me over. Or taking me to lunch.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ says the assistant, with a kind smile.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Lizzie

  We’re early for school today. I’m so determined to be a terrific, organised single parent that I’ve excelled myself.

  Tom’s only been here a few weeks. We’re still the new family. Still need to prove ourselves.

  Mr Cockrun stands outside the gates when we arrive, scrubbing at some graffiti on the school sign. His rubbery cheeks are red with the effort, hand moving frantically.

  I make out some faded spray-paint letters written after Mr Cockrun’s name: CH and then what looks like a faded E and A and another letter so faint as to be nothing but paint speckles.

  As Mr Cockrun scrubs the sign clean he notices three approaching schoolgirls. ‘Blazers on properly, please, girls,’ he says. ‘And let’s get the ties nice and straight. If you’re neat and tidy the school is neat and tidy.’