by Suzy K Quinn
I want to speak with Tom’s teacher, Mrs Dudley. I need answers.
Today.
Kate
8.13 p.m.
Tessa is annoyed with me. She hasn’t said so explicitly, but every time she passes my desk, she huffs like an angry rhino.
I can imagine her inner monologue: I told her not to do that school visit. She’s far too behind on her paperwork. We’re already overwhelmed …
‘What are you doing now, Kate?’ Tessa is behind me suddenly, frothy cappuccino in hand. ‘Not wasting time messing around on the Internet, surely?’
‘Looking up incidents of self-harm in children,’ I say. ‘Just getting an idea of frequency and presentation.’
‘You think Tom Kinnock’s been poking himself with needles?’
‘I’m considering every possibility.’
‘Oh, you’ll never get that Tom Kinnock file straight now. There’ll always be a black mark over it with the paediatrician’s report missing. Tom Kinnock needs to be tucked away in a back drawer somewhere and you need to get the Neilsons in order.’
‘The boy had possible injection marks, Tessa,’ I say. ‘I’m not tucking him away anywhere.’
That silences Tessa for a moment, which is a rarity. Then her face turns smug and she waves a finger. ‘But that’s never been proved by a doctor, has it? It could be sewing-needle marks for all you know.’
‘It’s more than just the marks. Tom’s been late to school a few times. And he’s tired. He’s fallen asleep in class before.’
‘I bet the father’s still on the scene,’ Tessa barks. ‘Causing chaos. Probably the boy is kept up at night by his parents rowing. I’ve seen it a hundred times. The mother goes back for more abuse. It’s not our fault or obligation. Let the mother clear up her own mess.’
‘Lizzie says she hasn’t seen Tom’s father since they moved.’
Tessa puffs her chest out, triumphant. ‘She’s lying. Not our problem. If the mother is too stupid to do what’s good for her …’
‘I suppose it’s possible she could be seeing the father,’ I admit. ‘But when I talked to her, her objective seemed to be hiding from Olly Kinnock. Making sure he didn’t find out where she and Tom lived.’
‘She could still be lying.’
‘And why injection needle marks? There’s never been any history of drug abuse. There’s something else too – Tom had a seizure recently. I found out from the medical records.’
‘That’s serious. How was the home visit?’
‘The house was a bit chaotic, but no other alarm bells. Although the mother seemed anxious.’
‘Most people are when social services knock at the door unannounced. How long did you have with her? An hour?’
‘Half an hour. She didn’t seem like a child abuser.’
‘Child abusers rarely seem like child abusers. Maybe she’s tired. Fed up. Taking her frustrations out on the little boy.’
‘Logically, she’s the only person who could be hurting him. Unless something’s happening at school.’
‘What about the bullying angle?’ asks Tessa. ‘Tom goes to school with the Neilsons, doesn’t he? If he’s anywhere near Lloyd Neilson, he probably gets stabbed with sharp objects regularly.’
‘I need to track down the father,’ I say. ‘And schedule another home visit.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Tessa barks. ‘With a caseload like yours—’
I hold up a placating hand, which makes Tessa’s face flush with fury. ‘This is my decision, Tessa.’
‘If you mess up deadlines for my department, Kate, there will be hell to pay.’
‘It’s my department too, Tessa,’ I say. ‘And it’s more important that I do my job than fill out a load of forms.’
‘What’s got into you?’ Tessa asks. ‘You used to be a proper rules-body.’
‘I’ve decided I’d rather help children than tick boxes.’
Tessa lets out a loud snort. ‘This place is about keeping your head down and covering your backside. Doing a decent job is a long way down the list.’
‘Not for me it isn’t.’ I rub tired eyes. ‘I’m making a cup of tea, do you want—’
‘Nespresso cappuccino!’ Tessa trills. She marches back to her office, shouting over her shoulder, ‘Just pop it on my desk!’
I head to the office kitchen, trying to work out how on earth I’m going to track down Tom’s father and do another home visit when my calendar is booked up for the next month.
Lizzie
The smart, navy coat? Or is that too formal? Makeup always looks heavy on my delicate features, but if I wear no makeup at all … is that not smart enough, verging on disrespectful?
Tom’s teacher agreed to meet me at 6 p.m. for a ‘talk’.
Okay. Navy coat it is. Jeans – well, it will have to be, my smart skirt is in the wash. And a plain jumper.
I grab my patchwork bag from the door hook and wave at the babysitter – a beautiful, willowy teenager called Chloe, who lives two doors down and is studying for her A levels.
I don’t like leaving Tom, but needs must.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I say, heading out the door.
‘Okay, no worries.’ Chloe is cross-legged on the sofa, reading a psychology course book. She’s a clever girl and studies all hours. Not like a normal teenager. I’m sure she’ll get top grades.
I hurry onto the street and, realising it’s too wet to use the country lane, half walk, half jog the slightly longer road route.
When I finally reach the school, I’m only just on time. My heart pounds. There’s something eerie about the playground, silent in semi-darkness. For once the gates and main door are open, and I walk straight into the reception area.
It’s spotlessly clean, without any of the usual children’s drawings that decorate school walls. Almost as if kids are an inconvenience to the headmaster’s orderly vision.
I hover there, not sure what to do with myself. Then Mrs Dudley appears from the school office. She’s wearing an odd combination of smart trouser suit with very shiny black Mary Janes.
‘Ah. There you are, Miss Riley. We’ll have to chat here in reception – everything is locked up now.’
‘Don’t you have keys?’
She smiles as if this is a silly question, and shakes her head.
‘What about the school office?’ I ask.
‘We don’t allow parents in there.’
We take seats in the reception area – woolly chairs clearly meant for passing visitors, not parent meetings.
‘I’d like to discuss Tom,’ says Mrs Dudley.
‘Mrs Dudley.’ My voice is firm. ‘I called this meeting. And I have something specific to talk about. Tom’s medicine has been going missing. I found an empty bottle in his school bag, and—’
‘Medicine?’ says Mrs Dudley, sitting up very straight. ‘Are you saying Tom’s been taking medicine from school?’
‘No. Of course not.’ What an odd question. ‘Tom took medicine from our box at home. I think he has been bringing it in for someone. He’s being intimidated.’
‘It sounds like you’ve taken two and two and made twenty, Miss Riley.’
‘I found an empty bottle in his school bag. It was full before.’
Mrs Dudley becomes very stern, benign smile vanishing. ‘Miss Riley, I think we’re all getting a little tired of these accusations. I don’t know what’s happening at home, but I can assure you this school is a very good establishment with well-behaved children. No one is being intimidated. If Tom is taking things from home and putting them in his school bag, I’d suggest you take a long, hard look at how you’re parenting him.’
I bristle. ‘I’m a good parent, Mrs Dudley.’
‘Well. I’m glad to hear it. Now, if you’ve finished—’
‘There’s something else, too,’ I say. ‘We got the school photos back yesterday. Tom was by Pauly Neilson. I noticed some marks on Pauly’s forearm. Similar to the marks Tom had.’
‘Miss R
iley—’
‘The marks I talked to you about. The ones that looked like injection marks.’
‘We’ve already cleared that up. No one has even seen these marks.’ Mrs Dudley crosses her arms.
‘The drop-in nurse—’
‘And I’m amazed you could see anything so detailed in a school photo of thirty-one children.’
I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t overly clear, but—’
‘Then we mustn’t jump to far-fetched conclusions. Miss Riley, Tom is lucky to have a place here. Very lucky. A hundred other parents would be delighted. All we’re hearing from you are wild accusations.’
‘I’m not—’
‘This sort of discussion … the headmaster wouldn’t stand for it and neither will I.’
‘My son came home with marks on his body!’ I shout. ‘Do you expect me not to be worried? And I found an empty medicine bottle in his school bag. Should I say nothing about that too?’
‘Please calm down or I’ll have to ask you to leave. Your son’s school bag is nothing to do with us. And I hear social services are dealing with this supposed bodily markings issue.’
I stiffen. ‘This isn’t to do with social services. This is to do with my son getting marks in your care. And taking medicine into school.’
‘Tom did not get the marks in our care. We’ve explained to you over and over again.’
‘Mrs Dudley, listen to me. Something is happening at school. Tom is … different. He won’t talk to me any more. He’s taking medicine from home. I think this Pauly Neilson friendship could be something to do with it.’
‘Mr Cockrun works very hard to help every child fit in here and achieve our high standards of behaviour. If your son is making friends with children you consider to be unsuitable, perhaps you should ask yourself why.’
I feel like I’ve been slapped. ‘Are you saying there’s something wrong with Tom? He’s new to this school, Mrs Dudley. Coming into fully formed friendship groups. And he’s vulnerable. He’s not going to be picky about who he’s friends with – of course he’s going to pal up with anyone who shows an interest.’
‘All I can say is that as a teacher, Tom’s friendships have nothing to do with his problems.’
‘What problems?’
‘Tom is struggling to meet our academic requirements, Miss Riley. His work just isn’t up to scratch. Is he getting enough rest at home?’
‘What? Tom’s brilliant at school. Naturally bright. He picks up everything so quickly …’
‘I’ve asked the special needs teacher to do a few tests. Just to see if he’s processing things in the normal way. She feels he might have some emotional problems.’
I suck in a breath. ‘He has emotions to deal with. Given our background. But that doesn’t mean—’
‘And Tom’s been getting angry at school too. Struggling to control his temper. Yesterday, he threw his exercise book on the floor.’
‘Tom? My Tom?’
‘We don’t tolerate bad behaviour here. How do you deal with anger at home? Do you have good discipline structures in place?’
‘Tom doesn’t get angry at home. Well, very rarely. He’s a good boy. Usually well-behaved. But when he isn’t, I certainly tell him off. His father used to get angry …’
Memories of Olly flash and burn.
Mrs Dudley watches me for a moment, and I can see the cogs turning.
She’s wondering if I’m lying. I imagine quite a few parents swear blind their home life is perfect, when in fact there are lots of issues.
I feel tears on my cheeks.
Mrs Dudley watches me without a hint of human understanding. ‘We’d really like Tom to spend time with the special needs teacher. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this behaviour.’
I sit up straight. ‘Mrs Dudley, I’m going out of my mind, trying to understand how Tom got those marks on his arms. And he’s not himself. I know something’s going on at school. Drugs or something …’ I let the sentence drift away.
It sounds ridiculous and we both know it.
‘There are no drugs here,’ Mrs Dudley says, her voice low. ‘Now, your social worker visited yesterday.’ She eyes me meaningfully. ‘What would she think if I told her you were causing trouble like this?’
I stare, my breathing growing shallow.
‘Steelfield School has an outstanding reputation,’ Mrs Dudley continues. ‘We expect parents to help us maintain that reputation. Act strong, be strong.’
Act …
‘So what are the Neilson boys still doing here?’ I ask. ‘If you want the school to look so perfect?’
Mrs Dudley glares. ‘I can assure you that every child in this school knows how to behave.’
I swallow tightly.
‘Miss Riley? Do we understand each other?’
I give a quick nod.
And once again, I feel that sharp pang. The one that tells me I’m not strong enough to do this alone.
I chase the thought away.
I am strong enough. I am a good mother. And I will get answers.
Lizzie
‘It’s chaos in here,’ Olly shouts, and I stiffen, bracing myself for the onslaught. Olly used to love me. He caught me when I fell. Now, my many weaknesses are abhorrent to him.
This is how it goes: peace for a while. Then a flare-up, followed by heartfelt apologies. One big cycle. Only the cycle is getting tighter.
I keep telling myself he’ll change when the baby comes. Only a few weeks now. Or it might come early. They say stress does that.
Sometimes, I think about leaving Olly, but I know I’m not strong enough to have a baby alone. My mother has drummed it into me since my own birth. How weak I am.
So I’m trapped.
We’re in Olly’s apartment and it is a mess. It’s hard to tidy because I never know where Olly wants anything and he keeps buying new things – vinyl records, an electric toothbrush, a Velcro strap for his leg, snowboarding DVDs.
It’s worse than usual, the stuff. And for my part, I’m struggling to throw anything of my own away.
The terror I feel at being pregnant has made me verge on hoarding. What if we need those magazines when the baby comes? What if we need those leaflets about double-glazing?
Even things that are clearly rubbish, like the many takeaway pizza boxes littering the flat, give me a sort of hysterical feeling. If I tidy those, what else will I need to organise? The kitchen? The bedroom? My life?
Right now, I’m standing at the island sink, paralysed, not knowing where to start, how to begin to tackle this mess.
‘I’m trying,’ I tell Olly, my heart beginning to race.
‘You’re at home all day,’ says Olly. ‘Doing nothing.’
But I’m not doing nothing. I’m thinking obsessively, worrying about when this baby comes. The anxiety is crippling. So much so, I can barely get out of bed some days. Doesn’t he understand how his behaviour affects me?
‘I’ve tried to get a job in a hospital,’ I say. ‘But it’s hard now I’m pregnant. And since I didn’t finish my training …’
Olly limps into the kitchen area. ‘Meaning?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I know it’s tough,’ says Olly. ‘Time for both of us to grow up, right? You’re a wife now.’
We’re married now, did I mention?
Olly took me to a 1960s diner in Soho, then kneeled in front of my half-eaten Caesar salad and offered me a turquoise diamond ring.
I said yes.
Of course I did.
How could I say no in front of a restaurant of people?
And anyway, Olly is the father of my child. Who else is going to support me when this baby comes? I’m not qualified for anything.
Yes, Olly shouts and rages. And sometimes other things happen. Things I just want to shut away and pretend never happened. Things that cannot be acknowledged, for my own sanity.
After I accepted Olly’s proposal, I threw up in the toilet.
Hormones, probably.<
br />
The wedding ceremony took place the next day, after a short interview at the registry office.
A thunderbolt wedding, Olly called it.
Exciting. Romantic. Just like us.
Except I’ve never liked thunder and lightning.
None of my friends were there, since the only friends I have are ex-boyfriends and Olly is jealous. My father died when I was sixteen, so I had nobody to walk me down the aisle. But my mother came.
Mum turned up in a cream dress and matching pillar-box hat, smiling like a velociraptor.
‘But I’m a terrible stay-at-home wife,’ I say.
‘You just need practice,’ says Olly. ‘Try harder at being organised.’
‘Olly, I’m so down right now,’ I say, gesturing to the messy kitchen. ‘This baby wasn’t planned. I get anxious. You shouting at me doesn’t help.’
‘You’re going to be a mother,’ Olly says. ‘You have to work all this out, Lizzie. This self-obsession. Someone else is going to come first soon.’
‘I’m self-obsessed?’ I laugh, and it sounds like knives. ‘I moved into your house. I gave up my nursing course. I’m having our baby—’
‘Oh, don’t give me that. You didn’t give up your nursing course for me. You were failing exams left, right and centre. You were happy to give it up.’
‘Nursing gave me a sense of … a sense of something. That I’m more than just a shadow. I feel that way sometimes, Olly. Invisible. Like I’m nothing in my own right. That I’m only real as part of someone else.’
‘You’re not a shadow.’
‘Yes. I am. My mother’s little shadow, that’s what she used to call me.’ Tears well up. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to cope with this baby.’
‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.’ Olly grabs my arms. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘But I’m scared. I feel trapped.’
Olly looks at me then, his eyes clicking back and forth. ‘Just admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘Tell the truth. Admit you don’t want this baby. That this is a mistake.’
‘I love you. I just …’
‘Just what?’
‘It’s not how I would have planned things, that’s all.’
