Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘You don’t plan anything. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘And your life is so much better?’ I say. ‘With all your planning and your ambition and your Olympic dream? Life happened and where did planning get you?’

  It’s a low blow and I know it. But I’m fed up with Olly criticising who I am. Picking away, forcing me to admit all my failings over and over again.

  ‘Shut up!’ Olly’s fingers tighten. ‘Do you hear me? Just shut up! What do you know about anything? You made me worse. If it weren’t for you, I’d be able to walk normally. You did everything wrong. You’ve ruined my life.’

  I stumble sideways, adopting my usual duck and cower position. But there is no onslaught.

  When I look up, I see Olly limping in circles around the living area.

  I grip the marble counter, shaking.

  Olly will get better. He’ll calm down when the baby comes.

  If he doesn’t … oh God, that doesn’t even bear thinking about. A single mother with no money or support. I couldn’t bear it. I’ve always been so certain I’d give my children a better upbringing than the one I had. Stability. Happiness.

  Olly will change. He has to change and this has to work out.

  What else can I hope for?

  Lizzie

  It’s ten at night and I’ve just put the washing on. I’ll have to wait up for the cycle to finish, then hang the washing out so it’s dry for tomorrow.

  I keep going over my meeting with Mrs Dudley yesterday. Replaying it over and over.

  Tom is fast asleep, following a miserable evening. We ate dinner in silence, then he went to bed early without being asked.

  I should go to bed too. But instead, I’m on the Internet, posting questions on Mumsnet. I did this a lot when I was with Olly – going onto medical websites and posting question after question about his broken leg.

  But this time I want to know about children’s friendships. My question is:

  My son started a new school this term and is angrier than usual, keeping secrets, not talking. I’m worried. He seems to be getting in with the wrong crowd. Normal??

  I’ve had a few kind replies telling me I have nothing to worry about. But one mother had a similar experience and moved her son to another school: ‘He’s much happier now. We all are.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ writes another mum. ‘All perfectly normal … My daughter made all the wrong friends at first, but has some lovely ones now.’

  Most of the answers say it’s probably just a phase, don’t worry, kids change friendship groups all the time, they go through moody times, maybe he’s just tired, and so on.

  But … I am worried.

  Tom is changing.

  My eyes wander to the kitchen, where the new heavy-duty security box sits in a kitchen cupboard. It holds our medical supplies now and I keep the key close to my body at all times.

  There is a spare key sticky-taped to the bottom of the bin. But I know every wrinkle and crease of the sticky tape, and check every day to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with.

  Leaning back in my chair, I cup my eyes with my palms.

  Okay. Okay. Maybe we can move schools … Maybe that’s the solution to all this. Run away and hope all our problems disappear.

  Deep down, I know that’s not really an option. Kate Noble said social services take a dim view of children being moved around. The last thing I need is another black mark against us.

  But maybe if we moved to a school within the area … I do a quick search for schools within fifty miles.

  The word ‘oversubscribed’ comes up over and over. I knew that already – social services pulled a lot of strings to get us into Steelfield School.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I decide to stop my obsessive Google searching and check my emails before bed.

  There are three ‘parent update’ messages from the school, and I feel guilty that I haven’t opened them yet. I might have missed something important.

  I click open the first email, scanning the news:

  Jess Parker in Year 1 has lost her school cardigan. The label is marked JP. If anyone finds it, would they please hand it in to the school office.

  I continue to scan, rubbing tired eyes. Nothing important, nothing important … No – nothing about Tom’s class. No special days coming up.

  And then … oh my God …

  A man in a van has been seen around the school gates. If you use a van to drop off children, please let the school know.

  And suddenly I’m shaking, a hysteric cry rising in my throat.

  Olly.

  For a moment, my mind races around the house, throwing our belongings into boxes, getting ready to run again.

  I close my eyes. Don’t get paranoid. There are all sorts of vans in the world. Just calm down. We were always getting messages like this in London. They’re very common. It’s okay. Calm. Calm. He can’t have found us. You were too careful.

  I pace around, waiting for my heart rate to slow down.

  Then I make myself some raspberry tea, stirring a dark red swirling storm into boiling water.

  You were too careful, I tell myself again. There’s no way he could have found us.

  But I know I’ll find it hard to sleep tonight. So I will do what I usually do when insomnia strikes – obsessively Google.

  I think of the ten packing boxes, still stacked on the landing upstairs.

  I should make a start on those. Get the last of the house in order. Or have a quick nap before the washing finishes. All good solutions for anxiety.

  But instead, rubbing bloodshot eyes, I begin yet another Google search – this time looking up drugs that cause behavioural changes in children.

  Lizzie

  ‘I call her my little shadow,’ Mum tells our neighbour. ‘She never leaves my side.’ We’re in the garden, my mother sipping a coffee. I sit on the grass, pretending to study a mathematics textbook. I don’t understand much of it, but I’ve learned to play the good student around my mother. The more publicly the better.

  Dad has been even more absent since the grammar school argument. Working late. Hotel-stays in London. The odd unexplained restaurant bill, if my mother’s screaming fits are to be believed …

  I sense he’s detaching from my mother. And me too, since by staying away from her he stays away from me.

  The truth is, my father is a coward. He’s running away and he doesn’t know me well enough to take me with him. If he didn’t bury his head in the sand, he’d be able to see that I’m miserable too. Despite the Good Housekeeping image, Ruth Riley is not a good mother.

  Our neighbour, Rita, leans over our slatted wood fence.

  Privately, my mother criticises Rita for the weeds growing on her driveway and unwashed net curtains.

  I look up at my mother, so tall and beautiful – everything perfect on the outside. Black, curled hair, fitted wool skirt suit showing off her handsome figure and bright-red lipstick around straight white teeth.

  Mum never leaves the house without a full face of makeup and styled hair. Even to go into our own back garden. After all, what would people say if she wasn’t presentable?

  Sometimes I wish I could be like her, all lit up. Bright. The sort of woman people notice. But then again, I’m well aware there’s something not quite right about my mother. She’s not real, like other people. Everything is empty. An act. The perfect, happy life is just a shell.

  When no one is looking, her mouth is tight with anger. She is furious that her husband has all but left her. Furious that I didn’t turn out to be the perfect, clever daughter. Furious that her life isn’t glamorous or special.

  Does she know, deep down, that everything is a lie? Her marriage, her relationship with her daughter – just a picture she paints to cover a grey, sad reality?

  My mother reaches down and pats my head, the same way someone might pet a dog.

  Rita, a cuddly, grey-haired lady with pink-framed glasses, says: ‘So how are you doing at school, little on
e?’

  My mother rearranges her feet just enough to block my body from sight. ‘She’s doing exceptionally well. Just last week, her teacher was telling me she was one of the few in the class who might go to university.’

  This is not true. There are three children in our class who are called ‘the bright ones’ – Christopher Phillips, Hannah Waldock and Jenny Martin. They’re the ones who represent the school for competitions and passed the grammar school exams.

  I’m not one of the clever ones. I’m just ordinary.

  Rita gives me a warm smile and a little wink. We both know that Mum exaggerates.

  I wish Rita were my mum. She hugs me sometimes and it feels real.

  My own mother feels like nothing.

  Kate

  8.03 a.m.

  I’m in London. It’s hot, but I don’t have time to get my water bottle from my bag and take a swig.

  Number 11F. Where is it? Where is it?

  Olly Kinnock’s flat is somewhere on this lovely, tree-lined road of red-brick Victorian townhouses and I have approximately five minutes to find it.

  Then I need to run back to the train station. Really run. Tessa expressly forbade me from going to London today.

  I find it impossible to lie, so I will tell her the truth if she asks. But I’ve done a lot of paperwork on the train so, as long as I catch the 8.40 a.m. back, she will be none the wiser.

  Number eleven … there!

  I jog up the sandy-coloured steps and press the buzzer for 11F, which is the penthouse. No reply.

  I press again, this time more aggressively. After another minute, I press all the neighbours’ buzzers and wait.

  I expect the intercom to crackle and ask who I am, but instead a giant shadow appears behind the frosted glass.

  The front door opens. ‘Can I help you?’ The man is tall, with a Scottish accent and a tight rugby shirt that shows off his muscular shoulders. He wears a straw hat and behind him, by an open door, is a stack of moving boxes.

  ‘I’m Kate Noble,’ I announce. ‘From Child Services. I’m looking for Olly Kinnock.’

  ‘That bastard?’ the man says. ‘He left a long time ago. Good riddance.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a forwarding address for him?’

  ‘I heard he moved in with his mother, the cowardly little weasel. She used to visit him here. Margaret, her name is.’

  ‘So you haven’t seen him?’

  The man shakes his head. ‘I don’t associate with men like that. Any post for Olly Kinnock goes straight in the bin. I just hope Lizzie is doing okay.’ He eyes me hopefully. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t—’

  ‘You tell her if she ever needs anything, all she has to do is call. Tell her Stuart said hello. And the offer’s still there. She can come live with me in the Shetlands. It’s a good place for young Tom to grow up. I’ll get her ferry tickets. Pay moving costs. Everything.’

  He slides open a drawer, takes out a blue Shetland ferry leaflet, scribbles on it, then hands it to me. ‘Give this to her. If you see her.’

  I take the glossy paper, seeing an illustration of Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, printed above a ferry timetable.

  Saint Nicholas has a golden halo around his white hair and angel wings – which isn’t strictly accurate. Saint Nicholas was a human who performed miracles, not an angel as such. But I suppose everyone feels reassured by angel wings.

  The offer still stands, Stuart has written, next to his phone number, name and five kisses.

  ‘I’ll give it to her.’

  ‘That bastard should have been locked up for what he did,’ says Stuart. ‘If you do find him, tell him to watch his back.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know his mother’s address?’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t.’

  Stuart slams the door in my face.

  Lizzie

  Why is there a police car at the school gates? My heart pounds – a memory of a very bad day with Olly. The day the frayed thread binding our family together finally snapped.

  Suddenly, I’m running.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon and lots of parents have arrived already, pressed up tight against the railings, curious, confused expressions on their faces.

  Heart pounding, I stand on tiptoes, craning to see through gaps in the railings. I see flashes of neon and black and someone – a child – struggling on the floor.

  ‘Who is it?’ I demand. ‘Who are they holding down?’

  ‘Lloyd Neilson,’ a nearby mother whispers. ‘It’s about time.’

  Recognition snaps like a rubber band, and I see Lloyd’s thick black hair and strong little body pulling and twisting under two policemen.

  ‘The headmaster can’t pretend there’s no trouble here now, can he?’ the mother continues.

  We watch as the police handcuff Lloyd’s wrists and pull him to his feet, dragging him across the playground.

  Lloyd is yelling, ‘Get your fucking hands off me. Fuck off and die, you fucking dickheads!’

  The policemen stoically ignore him.

  As the struggling group reach the gate, Lloyd plants his feet on the concrete and shouts: ‘If you scuff up these Nikes I’ll do you for it.’

  One of the police, a grey-haired man with a large stomach, loses his temper then. He has a long, red scratch down his cheek, presumably from scuffling with Lloyd. ‘That’s enough from you, young man. I’ll throw your bloody shoes away if you don’t start walking. Send them off to forensics for testing and have them torn apart.’

  Lloyd’s dark eyebrows turn into one furious line. He walks with the police then, shoes punching the tarmac, tramp, tramp, tramp.

  The headmaster appears, eerily calm but unsmiling for once. He strides past the police and unlocks the school gate.

  Lloyd turns, still struggling. ‘Fucking bastard. I don’t tell, you don’t tell.’

  Slowly and deliberately, the headmaster turns back to Lloyd. I can’t see Mr Cockrun’s expression, but Lloyd’s angry, furrowed eyebrows lift in pure terror and he falls immediately silent.

  Once the headmaster has marched back into the school building, Lloyd finds some defiance again.

  ‘Fucking Cockface,’ he mutters, as he’s led through the gates.

  I notice Lloyd is blinking slowly, one side of his mouth hanging down. As he passes, his swimming eyes meet mine. ‘Tell Tom: nice one,’ he says, giving a thumbs-up.

  I flinch.

  Parents turn, eyeing me up and down.

  Suddenly, I want to be a shadow again. I shouldn’t be wearing this orange scarf. Being exposed is too hard.

  Why did Lloyd say that? Oh God, I need to talk to Tom. What’s going on?

  Dimly, I hear the school bell ring. There’s a longer pause than usual; I imagine the teachers are keeping the kids back for a minute, making sure the police have removed Lloyd from the premises. Then the doors open and children stream out.

  It takes a few minutes for Tom to appear. When he does, he’s walking with Pauly Neilson.

  I wave frantically at him. ‘Tom. Tom!’

  When Tom finally reaches the school gates, I grab his hand.

  ‘Mum?’ he says, looking alarmed.

  I don’t reply, instead pulling Tom away from Pauly, through the crowd and towards the stony lane.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asks, grey school shoes tripping over gravel. He sounds frightened.

  When we’re a little way down the path and alone, with only birdsong and green leaves for company, I say, ‘Tom, the police were here today. Lloyd Neilson was arrested. He gave me a thumbs-up and said, “Tell Tom: nice one”. Why did he say that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The police led him right through the playground.’

  ‘I know. They arrested him.’

  ‘And you have no idea whatsoever why he would have said that?’

  Tom shrugs, and I feel like I’ve taken the wrong boy home. That I’m holding Pauly Neilson’s hand. />
  ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Why did the police take Lloyd Neilson? Did you hear anything? See anything?’

  ‘They said he had tablets on him. They couldn’t find them, though.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘One of the police searched Pauly in case Lloyd had given them to him. But they couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘Listen, Tom … just stay away from those Neilson boys. Stay away from them. Do you hear me? I’m going to find a way to get you out of this school.’

  We walk home in silence.

  When we reach the house, Tom goes straight upstairs, school bag still on his shoulders, and I’m left alone, numbly picking up leaflets from the doormat and tidying stray toys.

  I notice five missed calls from my mother. She’s probably trying to arrange another visit, but I don’t have emotional space for her right now.

  My head is crammed with thoughts and worries.

  Why did Lloyd Neilson say that? What did he want to thank Tom for?

  A thought prickles.

  Tom took his school bag upstairs. He never does that. He always hangs it on the bannisters.

  Suddenly I’m running, two steps at a time, onto the landing, throwing open Tom’s door and rushing into his bedroom.

  Tom stands with his back to me in his reading corner. His school bag is open a few feet away. The front pocket is unzipped too, which is unusual – he never keeps anything in there.

  Tom senses me in the doorway and turns.

  He is surprised, an animal caught in a trap.

  In his hands, he holds a bag of white tablets.

  Ruth

  The hairdresser snips and combs, as I admire myself in the mirror. For a woman of my age, I look very well. Everyone says so.

  I’m furious with Elizabeth. What kind of daughter doesn’t answer the phone to her own mother? I’ve called so many times now and left messages.

  ‘My daughter can be very thoughtless,’ I tell the hairdresser. ‘It’s been an age since she was in touch.’ My voice reaches a higher pitch. ‘I could be ill or in pain.’

  The hairdresser, a young Asian man called Fam, nods sympathetically. ‘Maybe she’s busy with the little boy, rushing around, didn’t see her phone.’