Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  Col used to love that about me.

  Now, perhaps, he’s not so sure.

  Lizzie

  Monday morning.

  Mr Cockrun’s office is neat and tidy, with some unusually secure touches.

  There is, of course, the two-way glass and bars at the windows and the medicine cabinet locked with a huge padlock. But there is also a Kensington lock holding Mr Cockrun’s computer screen to the desk and a PIN entry system on a side door, which I assume to be a stationery cupboard.

  A CCTV camera is mounted in one corner. On a long desk under the window is a CCTV screen, flashing with different images of the school – an empty playground, an empty corridor, an empty school field …

  The children are in school right now, but you’d never know it.

  There is also desk space for another person with a penholder and swivel chair.

  The plants are plastic.

  He says he wants to keep the children safe, I think. But what’s he really afraid of?

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if we make this quick, Mrs … Miss Riley,’ says Mr Cockrun, offering me a chair and smiling his spiky jester smile. ‘I know this is important to you so I’ve made time, but … well, look, how can I help?’

  He takes a seat opposite and looks attentive, but I get the distinct impression he doesn’t want to help at all.

  I hear myself say, ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me,’ already beaten into gratitude.

  Mr Cockrun moves his computer mouse around and squints at his computer screen. ‘Where is he? Thomas, Thomas, Thomas … Kinnock.’

  ‘Thomas Riley,’ I correct. ‘He’s Thomas Riley now. The name should have been changed.’

  Mr Cockrun looks up, nodding and smiling automatically. ‘Yes, sure, sure. We’ll get that changed. You’ve cut your hair.’

  ‘My husband liked long hair,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘Now we’re separated, I have more choices.’

  Mr Cockrun’s eyes fall back to his computer. ‘So what’s the issue?’

  ‘I’m extremely concerned,’ I say. ‘Tom came home from school with marks on his arm last week. They looked like injection marks. Blood spots with little bruises around them. He doesn’t remember how he got them. Or if he does, he won’t tell me. But Tom always tells me things. So I think he honestly doesn’t remember. School is the only place he’s away from me.’ I leave a meaningful pause.

  Mr Cockrun looks at me then, and for a moment his blue eyes swim with fear. ‘Have you discussed this with anyone else?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m telling you my son had strange marks on his arms. They looked like needle marks.’

  Mr Cockrun’s expression shifts to mock concern. ‘Mmm, yes. But … perhaps your imagination is running away with you just a tad?’

  For a moment I’m wrong-footed and unsure, just like I was with Olly. ‘That’s what the marks looked like,’ I insist. ‘The nurse in the drop-in clinic was concerned enough to make a report.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you, Tom didn’t get any marks like that here.’ The headmaster stands. ‘So if that’s all—’

  ‘He must have got those marks here,’ I persist, resisting the urge to stand too. ‘Tom is with me every moment of the day. This is the only place he’s out of my sight.’

  ‘It simply couldn’t have happened here,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘I just checked Tom’s records. There’s nothing. No mention of an injury.’

  ‘Are you saying you watch over each and every child every minute?’

  ‘We keep a very good eye on them.’

  ‘What about his teacher? Maybe she knows something.’

  ‘We’re a little short on time, Miss Riley, so if you don’t mind—’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Tom’s teacher,’ I say. ‘Can you bring her in here, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid—’

  ‘I won’t leave until you do,’ I say, my new haircut giving me strength.

  The headmaster hesitates. Then he says, ‘Fine, wait here. I’ll get Mrs Dudley.’

  He darts out of the office and returns with the greyish-haired woman I met before. Today she’s just as awkwardly dressed in a pencil-skirt suit that makes a giant pear of her sizeable behind, feet large in mismatching brogues and a fashionable hoop necklace that would look better with jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘Mr Cockrun says you have some concerns.’ Although Mrs Dudley’s words seem calm, I sense tension behind them. ‘But we cleared everything up the last time we spoke.’

  ‘This isn’t about the playground incident,’ I say. ‘Tom came home with marks on his arm. Very odd-looking pin-prick type marks.’

  Mrs Dudley and Mr Cockrun exchange a meaningful look.

  ‘It’s impossible marks like that could have happened at school, isn’t it?’ says Mr Cockrun.

  Mrs Dudley forces a concerned frown. ‘Yes, impossible. Absolutely impossible.’

  Mr Cockrun shakes his head. ‘I mean, injection marks – the implications are very heavy indeed.’

  Mrs Dudley’s concern is mask-like. ‘Have you asked Tom how he got them?’

  ‘He doesn’t remember,’ I say. ‘And I believe him. Tom is used to blocking things out. If you knew his father, you’d understand.’

  The sentence hangs in the air, an unswept cobweb.

  ‘Well, I hope we’ve put your mind at ease,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘Something like that couldn’t have happened here.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Mr Cockrun again, his voice firmer now. ‘We have extremely high levels of safeguarding. You only have to look at the building to know we keep the pupils protected.’

  ‘Mr Cockrun works very hard on safeguarding,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘He’s turned this school around. Four years ago we were failing. Now we’re exceptional. So let’s not start accusing the school of ... well …’ She glances at Mr Cockrun. ‘Silliness. It won’t do anyone any good.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Mr Cockrun.

  ‘Some of the parents were talking about bullying,’ I say.

  ‘Every child here is successfully managed,’ Mr Cockrun interrupts. ‘No matter where they come from.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs Dudley quickly agrees. ‘We’ve eradicated bullying in the school.’

  ‘Tom must have got those marks at school,’ I say, hands on hips.

  ‘It’s simply not possible,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Look, I don’t see what we can do to reassure you further.’

  ‘There’s nothing more we can say.’ Mrs Dudley glances at Mr Cockrun for approval. ‘My advice is that you talk to your son again.’

  I glare at them.

  Mr Cockrun puts his hands together and tilts his head. ‘Listen. Sometimes, when children start a new school, parents feel anxious. It’s a big change. You’re probably still adjusting yourself. I’ll bet in a few days you’ll think of an explanation for these little marks. Or Tom will tell you himself.’

  ‘They looked like injection marks.’

  Mr Cockrun nods understandingly. ‘Probably as simple as brambles on the path. Something like that.’

  ‘Brambles would cause a scratch. The marks were nothing like that.’

  ‘Mrs Dudley will keep an extra close eye on Tom in class. Put your mind at ease.’

  ‘Of course, Alan,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Miss Riley. Support us and we’ll support you. I imagine Tom just needs to settle in.’

  ‘We’d better get on with things now, Miss Riley,’ says Mr Cockrun, sitting and placing a hand on his computer mouse. ‘Mrs Dudley will show you out.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘If you still have concerns in a month or so, we’ll talk again.’ He doesn’t look up.

  Suddenly it feels like before. With social services … and no one believing me.

  I’m not going to let that happen again.

  You’re not taking this seriously. You all need to take this seriously …

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re not finished. My son got the
se marks in your care. Yes, okay, there could be an explanation. Something less sinister than an injection needle. But until I get that explanation, I will be watching this school closely.’

  Mr Cockrun smiles tightly. ‘Well, that is your right as a mother. But most of the parents here feel grateful their child has a school place.’

  After I’m shown out the back entrance, I wander down the country path in a daze.

  I think of Olly and everything he put us through. How fear can keep you from seeing the truth. And how the counsellor warned us that children with troubled pasts can become victims all over again.

  Is someone frightening Tom into silence?

  My phone bleeps and I see a text message.

  Oh God. Olly’s mother, Margaret. She’s asking to see Tom. We haven’t met up since the move. It’s been months. Too long, really.

  Tom loves Olly’s mum and so do I.

  Margaret is very understanding about what we’ve been through, because she went through something similar with Olly’s father. She was on our side in court. She knows Olly needs help. And she and Tom are best friends when they get together, laughing and gossiping.

  I’d better arrange a visit.

  Lizzie

  The intercom buzzes. It’s Olly’s mother – coming for her weekly visit.

  When I met Olly, I assumed he was from a typical snowboarding rich-kid family.

  But it’s not true. Olly’s family are ordinary. His mum lives in East London and works as a cashier on Bethnal Green Road. Her partner is a cab driver.

  I’ve never met Olly’s real dad, but I know he was a heavy drinker. Olly thinks he lives in France now, but he doesn’t know for sure.

  Olly and I used to bond over our messed-up parents. Two kids with hard upbringings. He always made me feel my mother was worse than his father. That I was more messed up. I used to believe him.

  I don’t any more.

  Olly grins at the intercom. ‘All right, Mum! I’ll come down.’

  He heads out of the flat, and a moment later I hear the clatter of Margaret coming upstairs.

  ‘And then they tried to charge me an extra fifty p for one of those little plastic things of butter, so I said …’

  ‘Come on in, Mum.’ Olly’s accent changes when his mother is around, losing its clipped edges. It’s another unsettling reminder that sometimes I don’t really know who he is.

  I wonder where he got his other accent – the more refined one he uses with his snowboarder friends. When he started university? Or with the Olympic squad?

  ‘Hi, Margaret.’ I give an awkward wave.

  ‘Hello, love.’ Margaret is all smiley blue eyes, happy beneath a straw-yellow dyed fringe. ‘How are you feeling? I brought you some ginger biscuits for the morning sickness.’

  ‘She’s fine now,’ says Olly. ‘She hasn’t been sick in weeks.’

  ‘Oh, you men don’t understand how it comes and goes. She might be fine one minute, in the loo the next. I’ll leave the biscuits here. Just in case. So, what have you two been up to this morning?’ Margaret looks around the flat. ‘A bit of tidying up?’

  Olly and I look at each other, this morning’s fight stomping around the room like an elephant.

  ‘Yeah, just trying to clean the house up a bit,’ says Olly.

  It’s true – Olly did clean the bathroom earlier. Before collapsing on the sofa in pain. I dithered in the living area, unsure what to clear and where to clear it.

  If I put things in the wrong places, Olly shouts.

  ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Margaret says, giving me a big wink. ‘Wish his dad had been a modern man. The only help I ever got was a telling off if dinner was late. And sometimes a clip around the ear.’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll say this for your stepdad, Olly. At least he’s never laid a finger on me.’

  Olly and I share an awkward glance.

  Olly’s father was violent to Margaret. I suppose aggression runs in the family. Margaret left him for a cab driver called Freddy. Freddy is a rude, sexist pig, but he doesn’t hit women, so in Margaret’s eyes he’s wonderful.

  ‘I brought you boiled eggs for lunch,’ Margaret announces, rummaging in her huge shopping bag.

  ‘You’re staying for lunch?’ I ask, feeling myself smile. I like Margaret being here. Olly is always on best behaviour when his mother visits. ‘That’s lovely.’

  Margaret smiles back. ‘How’s the nurse’s training going, love? Still sticking at it?’

  ‘I gave it up,’ I say. ‘I was slipping behind so I had to make a choice. Helping Olly recover is more important.’

  Olly says tightly, ‘You slipping behind is nothing to do with my leg.’

  ‘I didn’t mean … Oh, never mind.’ I shake my head.

  Margaret looks between the two of us. ‘Well, I hope Olly is looking after you,’ she says. ‘You’re doing a lot. Taking care of the house. And being pregnant makes you tired enough.’

  ‘He does look after me,’ I say, my eyes finding his. ‘Most of the time.’

  Olly’s gaze softens. ‘I just want to get better, Lizzie. That’s all.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  I manage a smile. But it’s a dishonest one. Pretty gift wrap for ugly feelings.

  Secretly, I want to tell Margaret how Olly is behind closed doors. That he might be much more like his father than she realises. That aggression runs in the family …

  Would she believe me? Would she stand up to him?

  I don’t know.

  Kate

  3.47 p.m.

  ‘Leanne Neilson’s boyfriend has just been done for assault,’ says Tessa. It’s casual, as if she’s telling me it’s going to rain later.

  I look up over rectangular glasses, fingers tightening around my biro. ‘Oh no. What? When?’

  ‘It was in the newspapers. Didn’t you see?’

  ‘No. I don’t read the news. I have enough drama at work.’

  Tessa snorts. ‘Too right! You’ll need to speak to the Child Protection Unit. John Simmons is the one you want.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to him. After Lloyd put Pauly in hospital. We’re still working out next steps. I’ll call him again.’

  ‘How did the Tom Kinnock visit go?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to make the visit yet.’

  ‘I suppose he isn’t in any immediate danger.’

  ‘Actually, there’s been a report from the Radley Road dropin centre—’

  ‘It shouldn’t have even been transferred over to us.’ Tessa raises her voice to drown me out. ‘They should have shut it down at the London end. The father has supervised visits. It’s done and dusted. Get it off the books and you’ll be down to thirty cases.’

  ‘No, listen,’ I say. ‘There’s been new information. From a nurse at the Radford Road drop-in centre. The information came late, just like everything else around here. The drop-in centre is overworked too. Anyway, the nurse found marks on Tom’s arm a few days ago – the sort you get from an injection needle. The mother thinks it happened at Steelfield School.’

  ‘Surely not.’ Tessa narrows her eyes. ‘Are you certain you’re not getting the records mixed up? You said yourself they were a mess.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the nurse.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t tackle the Neilsons today, you’ll be on a disciplinary, I’m telling you. It’s got statutory obligation written all over it.’

  ‘But Tom Kinnock has suspected needle marks,’ I say. ‘If I have to work late, I’ll work late. He needs a section forty-seven—’

  ‘Risk of significant harm?’ Tessa snorts. ‘Over a few pin pricks? What if he did them himself with a biro? Listen, Kate. You’re young. New here. But you need to prioritise. Or you’ll burn out, just like Dawn and Kirsty. They worked late every night too, you know.’

  ‘All the children in my caseload are important,’ I say. ‘I can’t choose one over another.’

  ‘You’ll learn.’ Tessa slots a tablet into her Nespresso machine and waits while hot water
steams and bubbles.

  She has never once offered me a cup of tea or coffee, despite me making her countless cappuccinos.

  ‘I should talk to Tom’s teacher,’ I say.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ says Tessa. ‘Parents always blame the school, the doctor, the child minder – anyone they can think of. But look at the facts.’

  ‘I can’t totally rule out the school,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard odd things about Steelfield from Pauly and Lloyd Neilson. The headmaster doesn’t sound quite right.’

  ‘Those Neilson boys are trying to blame the school too. I told you, they all do it.’

  ‘So how could Tom Kinnock have got needle marks?’

  ‘Maybe he’s a self-harmer,’ Tessa suggests. ‘He’s come out of a messy divorce, hasn’t he? Angry father. Lots of stress. Listen – the Neilsons are your priority. I’m telling you, if that mother overdoses with the boys in the house, there’ll be national press coverage. We’ll be shaken upside down for it. Disciplinary hearings, left, right and centre. The new government even want prison sentences.’

  ‘I can’t ignore this drop-in centre report either. We’ll be shaken up and down for that too. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.’

  ‘Welcome to the public sector. You can’t do it all, Kate. You just can’t. Take it from someone who knows. Any minute now, your phone will ring and you’ll have to deal with some emergency or other.’

  Tessa stalks off towards the doughnuts. She grabs two, taking a big bite of one as she walks away. Tessa is on a diet today, but she seems to think food eaten with her back to people doesn’t count.

  A sad part of me knows Tessa is right about prioritising. If I keep working like this, I’ll end up with chronic fatigue like Kirsty.

  I’m about to book the Tom Kinnock visit into the computer diary when the phone rings.

  It’s Lloyd Neilson, calling from Leanne’s mobile. Leanne has locked herself in the bathroom. Lloyd is worried she might have taken another overdose. He’s distraught, crying and hysterical.

  ‘Please … help us, Kate. Please.’

  This is a side of Lloyd most people don’t see. He loves his mum, despite the fact she couldn’t care less about him. And he loves his brothers too, even though he occasionally beats the living daylights out of them.