Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  I listen to Lloyd, while simultaneously attempting to book the Tom Kinnock appointment into the diary.

  Then my screen goes black.

  The system has gone down again.

  ‘Bloody buggering hell!’ Tessa shouts from her office. ‘When are they going to upgrade this software? That’s just what we need. A lost day of work.’

  I stare at the blank screen, resisting the urge to pick up the computer and throw it out the window.

  Calm down, Kate. You can’t damage office equipment. We don’t have enough resources as it is.

  Lizzie

  ‘Have you travelled far?’ Margaret offers a cautious smile, pouring tea from a brown-speckled pot. She’s wearing a long, ankle-length floral dress. Bleached-blonde hair flows around her shoulders.

  Olly’s mother has never left the 1970s, fashion-wise. I suppose it was the decade she felt her best. Before everything went wrong with Olly’s father.

  It’s Saturday and we’ve agreed to meet in the Hyde Park pavilion – miles from Olly’s flat, and miles from my new house, although Margaret doesn’t know how many miles.

  Neutral ground.

  Anonymous.

  ‘Not too far.’

  A young waitress in jeans and a black apron clinks another teapot onto the table. ‘Fruit tea?’ the waitress asks.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And there was a juice too.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ The waitress puts a hand to her forehead. ‘For the little boy. Sorry. I forgot.’

  Tom sits on Margaret’s lap playing with Duplo bricks, sorting them into colours. Tom’s too old for Duplo now, but these are the only toys the café has and he’s a good boy, not making a fuss.

  Tom talks about colours as he sorts: ‘This one is green. Another blue.’

  Margaret gives me a look. She knows what colours mean. ‘Are you feeling a bit out of sorts, Tom?’ she asks, cuddling him extra tight. ‘Must be a bit strange. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and now we’re meeting up in this new place.’

  ‘I like the café,’ says Tom. ‘I’ve missed you, Granny.’

  Margaret gives the waitress a joyous smile. ‘This is my grandson.’

  The waitress feigns interest. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Isn’t he lovely?’ says Margaret. ‘I’ve really missed him.’ She turns to me. ‘And I’ve missed you too, Lizzie. I been worrying so much. It’s a lot you’re taking on: new house, new life. I’ve been where you are, love. Making a new start. It’s hard. How have you been?’

  ‘Really busy,’ I say. ‘With the house move and everything – it’s been hard to keep on top of things.’

  ‘So, have you moved out of London?’ Margaret asks.

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. In case you accidentally mention something. I don’t want Olly knowing where we live.

  ‘I’d never tell Olly where you are. You know that, love.’

  ‘I know. Not on purpose. But sometimes things slip out.’

  ‘You cut your hair. That’s a big change. It looks lovely.’

  ‘Yes.’ My hand goes to my new short haircut. It’s been neatened by the hairdresser and I’m growing more pleased with it by the day. It suits my face, actually. I have delicate features, like a ballet dancer. I was drowning in the long hair Olly liked.

  ‘This isn’t such a bad place, is it?’ Margaret gestures to the café, with its huge windows and wrought iron tables. ‘A bit expensive, but you can’t have everything.’

  ‘We can’t stay long,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Tom has a doctor’s appointment later.’

  ‘Oh?’ says Margaret.

  ‘We’re still trying to find out why he had the seizure.’

  ‘I thought they said it was a one-off.’ Margaret rearranges Tom so she can dig into a huge shopping bag placed by her plimsolls.

  ‘Yes. But he hasn’t been right since he had it. He’s dazed sometimes. Disorientated. Zonked out. He goes to bed so early and he had a terrible nosebleed.’

  ‘I’ve got a few bits and pieces in here,’ says Margaret. ‘Transformers magazine. A few other things. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘Tom,’ I say. ‘Say thank you.’

  Tom blinks blue eyes. ‘Thank you so much, Granny. You always get me the best things. You always know.’

  Margaret’s face crumples. ‘Have you missed your old Granny then?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘You’re like a big rainbow. All different colours.’

  ‘Oi, less of the big!’ Margaret chuckles. ‘How long do I get to see you today? Is there time for a play in the park?’

  Tom looks at me, and I give the tiniest shake of my head. ‘We have to see the doctor.’

  ‘Sorry, Granny,’ says Tom.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Margaret colludes. ‘Just a little play.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Margaret,’ I say. ‘We’ll arrange a longer visit soon. We’ve just been so busy.’

  ‘All right, love. I know it’s tough, fitting everything in.’ Margaret arranges her presents on the table. ‘How’s your new school, Tom? Making lots of friends? Have you got yourself a best mate yet?’

  ‘Sort of,’ says Tom. ‘There’s this boy in my class – Pauly Neilson. He’s looking out for me.’

  ‘He’s a little thug,’ I say.

  ‘He’s okay,’ Tom insists. ‘I just have to keep on the right side of him. The kids that don’t … his big brother comes after them.’

  ‘They’re trouble, Tom,’ I say.

  Tom’s pale forehead creases. ‘They’re not really. Well, not much. They’re too scared of the headmaster.’

  ‘You should stay away from those boys, Tom. Meet some other kids.’

  ‘Is he a bit cheeky then? This Pauly?’ Margaret probes, grinning and showing black spaces around her molars.

  Tom takes a big sip of juice. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like your mum says, just stay out of trouble,’ says Margaret, wagging a finger. ‘Your dad was a bit naughty at school, you know.’

  Tom’s juice carton slips from his fingers. It falls onto the table, watery orange squirting from the straw.

  ‘Sorry.’ Margaret clutches Tom tight. ‘I shouldn’t have … Sorry. So, this new school of yours, Tom, it’s an academy or something, isn’t it? How does that all work? Do you learn the same things?’

  Tom slides off Margaret’s lap and comes to sit with me, his hand taking mine. I hold it tight to stop it shaking.

  ‘It’s hard to remember,’ says Tom, voice quiet. ‘I think … we have to say things over and over again sometimes. Like about honour and promising to follow the rules. And … I don’t remember.’

  ‘And you’re well, are you, Tom?’ Margaret asks.

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom.

  ‘He hasn’t been totally well,’ I say. ‘Not since the seizure.’

  There’s an awkward silence, and I know Margaret wants to tell me something.

  ‘Sweetheart, do you want to find more Duplo bricks?’ I ask Tom. ‘While Granny and I chat?’ Obediently, Tom hops down and begins quietly sweeping Duplo bricks together. ‘Come on, Margaret,’ I say, trying for a smile. ‘Out with it. I always know when you want to talk about Olly.’

  ‘I saw him last week,’ says Margaret, eyes apologetic. ‘I know he’s done wrong, but he misses Tom terribly.’

  ‘That’s his problem. He should have thought of that before he did what he did.’

  ‘I know,’ says Margaret, kind eyes meeting mine. ‘I know that. I’m on your side. But he’s getting help.’

  ‘From what I hear, people with anger issues rarely change.’ I don’t mean to raise my voice, but for goodness sake – she was there in court. She heard all the details.

  Tom’s head snaps in our direction, and I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Tom still has nightmares about Olly. He’s terrified of him, and rightly so.’

  ‘I know you’ve both been through the wringer,’ says Margaret. ‘I know he did wrong. More than wrong. But forgiveness—’

&
nbsp; ‘As long as I’m still breathing, Olly is coming nowhere near my son,’ I say. ‘Tom doesn’t want to see his father. And it’s his right to decide. Social services and the courts assured us of that. There is no way I’m setting up visitation. I’m getting organised. The house is coming to order. I’m doing everything on my own. We’re leaving the bad times behind us.’

  ‘Maybe in time you can forgive,’ says Margaret.

  ‘Forgive?’ I snap. ‘You know what happened to Tom under Olly’s care. I’ll never forgive him. Or myself.’

  I break down then, words choking in my throat.

  Margaret looks at her white fingers, clenched tight around her tea mug. I know she feels bad about Olly’s upbringing. ‘I’m sorry I brought it up,’ she says. ‘It was thoughtless. You’re right. You can’t forgive and forget. Not after what he did.’

  On the way home, we stop at the shopping precinct. There is a little pharmacy here, next to a flower shop.

  I’m often picking up bits from the pharmacy, but this time I buy something new – a box of platinum-blonde peroxide.

  We’ve moved house. I’ve changed my clothes. Cut my hair. Now it’s time for something bolder.

  It’s only a change in hair colour. But it symbolises something bigger.

  I am a new person without Olly. Capable. Confident.

  This is a fresh start.

  Kate

  6.38 p.m.

  Mascara. Should it be all stiff and gritty like this? Does makeup have a sell-by date? I suppose I haven’t used it in a while. Probably not since university, now I come to think about it. Oh well.

  And this lipstick … it’s bubble-gum pink, given to me by a blonde friend years ago. I don’t think it suits me, but I’m not about to go and buy a lipstick. I only ever wear it a few times a year – today being one such special occasion.

  Happy Birthday, Kate. Twenty-six today.

  Monday isn’t the ideal day for a birthday but Col and I are making the best of it with a rare night out.

  I assess my reflection in the work toilet mirror.

  Harsh strip-lighting, coupled with a lack of windows, gives my face a ‘cyber ghost’ effect, turning my skin ash-white and eyebrows see-through. It’s impossible to see where ‘plain’ ends and ‘too much makeup’ begins.

  Col, of course, is unlikely to notice my makeup. He notices very little about my appearance, except when I’m wearing a particular green jumper he likes – one that’s tight around the bosom.

  Right. Makeup (badly) done. Now to change in the toilet cubicle.

  I can’t use the extra-large disabled cubicle, since I’m not disabled. So I opt for the normal-sized one and end up noisily bumping my elbows and knees against walls, trying to climb into my dress.

  Yes, I’m wearing a dress.

  But it’s just a plain shift with no patterns or embellishments.

  I don’t have any sheer or tan tights, so I’m wearing the same thick, black tights I wear to work, coupled with flat black sandals. Technically, the sandals are summer sandals and should be worn with sheer or no tights. But they are the nearest I have to going-out shoes.

  I think I can get away with it. It’s nice having a husband with low standards. He’ll be delighted just to see me showing my legs.

  Right.

  Beside me, I hear a cubicle door open and close, and then the sound of a woman huffing and puffing, sitting heavily on the loo.

  Tessa.

  There is an audible groan, then what sounds like a bucket of pig slops being emptied into the toilet.

  I hurriedly strap on my shoes and leave the cubicle, unnerved by this unexpected intimacy with my red-faced manager.

  Do I need to wash my hands? I’ve entered a toilet cubicle, although not used the toilet. I hate it when there’s no clear protocol.

  I decide on a quick hand-wash. But before I’ve managed to use the snazzy new vertical hand drier, Tessa comes crashing out of the cubicle, even redder in the face than usual.

  She gives a little start when she sees me. ‘I thought you’d gone for the day,’ she says, busying herself with hand-washing. ‘What on earth are you doing still hanging around? You’re going out this evening, aren’t you?’ She looks me up and down and snorts. ‘To a funeral, by the looks of things. I thought you church-goers were supposed to like bright colours. What have you got – a church social or something?’

  ‘It’s my birthday, actually,’ I say. ‘We church-goers have them too.’

  ‘Oh, stop being so touchy,’ Tessa replies. ‘Can’t you take a joke? For goodness sake. I’m starting to feel sorry for that boyfriend of yours.’

  ‘Husband.’

  ‘I hope he can take a joke. Now listen – before you shoot off, remember the meeting tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp.’

  ‘What meeting?’

  ‘The strategy meeting. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten. That meeting is on Friday.’

  ‘No. It got moved. Didn’t Gary tell you?’

  ‘No. He didn’t tell me. Tomorrow morning I’m booked in to visit Tom Kinnock—’

  ‘You can’t miss the strategy meeting. The paediatrician can’t do any other time and he’s vital.’

  I stare at myself in the mirror, feeling the stupidity of makeup. No evening out for you, Kate. Not even on your birthday.

  ‘I’ll have to do the Tom Kinnock visit now then,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ Tessa demands.

  ‘Tom Kinnock. I’ll need to visit him this evening. It’s six o’clock. There’s still time.’

  ‘What’s your boyfriend going to say about that?’

  ‘Husband. I imagine he’ll be upset, Tessa. But not half as upset as if I end up on a disciplinary for failing in my duty of care.’

  Lizzie

  A knock at the door. I’m perched on the Chesterfield sofa-arm, laptop on my knee.

  Tom dozes beside me. He fell asleep in front of the TV, zonked out after a long Monday at school, so tired these days.

  ‘Who is it?’ I call out, voice stiff and suspicious.

  ‘Mrs Kinnock?’ It’s a woman’s voice. An official-sounding woman.

  I stand on elephant slippers, as I push my laptop onto the bookshelf.

  With some trepidation, I open the door.

  A girl with curly black hair stands on the doorstep. I’m surprised by how young she looks, given the maturity of her voice. She wears an odd mixture of clothing – a smart, sleeveless shift dress, cheap charm bracelet, thick black tights and summer sandals. There’s something about her makeup that reminds me of a little girl playing dress-up.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  ‘Hello, Miss Riley.’ She reaches out to shake my hand. Her voice is clipped and direct. No nonsense. ‘My name is Kate Noble. I’m from Child Services. Excuse the unannounced visit, but the phone number we had for you didn’t work. I did send a letter. Can I come in?’

  I return her handshake, my fingers stiff. ‘I’m Lizzie.’

  ‘Did you get our letter?’

  ‘I did get something in the post,’ I admit, remembering the brown envelope from a few weeks ago, still unopened and shoved next to the bread bin. ‘I haven’t read it yet. Sorry.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ Kate rearranges her leather folder. ‘There are a few things I’d like to discuss.’

  ‘I’m guessing about the walk-in clinic? Yes, I’d like to discuss that too.’

  Kate meets my eye. ‘Can I come inside?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have someone else with you? A family support worker or something?’

  ‘No. Not for a standard visit.’

  I step back. ‘Okay. Well, come in. Tom’s sleeping on the sofa.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Kate looks around. ‘This is beautiful. Very light. I love the sweeping staircase. And all the plants.’

  Realising that the only furniture we have to sit on is the occupied sofa, an island on a parquet-wood sea, Kate says, ‘I’ll just sit on the floor.’

&
nbsp; ‘I can get you a chair from upstairs?’

  ‘No, honestly. It’s fine.’ Kate kneels in front of Tom, crossing her sandals awkwardly under herself. ‘Okay. Let’s start from the beginning. What do you like to be called? Elizabeth? Miss Riley?’

  ‘You can call me Lizzie.’ I perch back on the sofa arm.

  ‘The original plan was to do a sign-off visit,’ Kate explains, ‘just to check how you were coping on your own. And then bring this case to a close. But we had a report I’d like to talk about. The drop-in clinic report. I’m sure you’re aware, the nurse noticed some unusual marks on Tom’s arm last week.’

  ‘Yes. I know. I’ve spoken to the school, but no one will tell me anything. Tom hasn’t been well since he started at that place. And he’s been acting so strangely.’

  ‘Children can act up when they’re stressed,’ says Kate. ‘Starting a new school is scary. Before you know it he’ll be a teenager with his shirt hanging out, acting more strangely than you could possibly imagine.’

  ‘This school is scarier than most. Trust me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how he got these marks?’

  ‘None. And believe me, I’ve considered every possibility. School is the only time he’s away from me. I’ve spoken to his teacher. The headmaster. They’ve just sort of written the marks off. “Couldn’t possibly have happened in our care.” The school … it’s a funny place. Ideally, I’d like to move him somewhere else.’

  Kate frowns. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that. I’m sorry to put it this way, but if you moved your son again so soon, it would look like you had something to hide. Troubled families often move a lot. I’m sure you don’t want to be tarnished with that brush.’

  ‘No. I absolutely don’t.’

  ‘Has Tom seen his father since you moved? He’s supposed to have supervised visitation—’

  ‘Tom doesn’t want to see his father. That supercedes everything.’

  ‘So there’s no relationship?’

  ‘Olly doesn’t even know where we live.’ I look at my tea mug, brown liquid quivering against porcelain. ‘He’s dangerous.’