Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  I feel sick to my stomach.

  Absolutely frozen with terror, an animal backed into a corner.

  ‘If I moved Tom to a new school…’ I turn to Kate. ‘What would happen?’

  ‘We would have to step in. Especially in light of recent information. As we’ve heard, there’s nothing to suggest these injuries are happening there.’

  ‘So how else could Tom be getting them?’

  Once again, the room falls silent.

  ‘Please.’ There are tears in my eyes. ‘Why will no one listen? I’m telling you – something is happening at that school. Have none of you read our history? Tom’s father was abusive. He’s getting into the school somehow.’

  ‘That’s simply not possible,’ says Mr Cockrun.

  ‘There are holes in the fence.’

  ‘I’ve looked into that,’ says Kate, her voice still gentle. ‘And I’m satisfied with the explanation.’

  ‘It would be impossible for an adult to come into our school and harm a child,’ says Mr Cockrun.

  ‘Then how is my son being hurt in your care?’ It all becomes too much then. I leap to my feet. ‘Excuse me,’ I stammer. ‘I need … Excuse me.’ I stride towards the door, fumbling with the door handle.

  Someone calls after me.

  Then I’m in a bathroom, being violently sick into a toilet.

  There is soft tapping at the door. ‘Lizzie?’ It’s Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking deep breaths. ‘I’m just terrified.’

  Calm, calm.

  ‘We only want the best for Tom,’ says Kate, voice gentler than usual.

  ‘Then help me find out what is happening at that school.’

  Kate

  12.45 p.m.

  ‘Well, that went badly.’ Tessa checks her phone as we cross the High Street. A car beeps as she walks out in front of it, but she’s oblivious.

  I wave an apology at the driver, catching Tessa up. ‘I feel we’re moving forward.’

  ‘The meeting was rushed, Kate. Far too rushed. You should never have tried to move so quickly. It was a dog’s dinner from start to finish.’

  We near Sangers sandwich shop, known for its doorstep-thick bread stuffed with generous fillings. Public sector workers need carbohydrates.

  Usually, I pack my own lunch and save ten pounds and thirty-seven pence a week by doing so. But last night, I discovered Col had bought real butter instead of the spreadable stuff and I had a stress meltdown, thinking about the two minutes’ extra effort he’d added to my day.

  Col and I had a heated row, ending with him stuffing five pounds into my purse and saying, ‘Just buy a bloody sandwich.’

  It was good advice.

  ‘I’m being pulled in fifty different directions here, Tessa,’ I say. ‘If I’d left the meeting until next month and Tom got injured again, what then?’

  ‘So now Tom Kinnock is subject to a care protection plan and you have even more work to do. And about this care protection plan: reading between the lines, it’s a road into care, isn’t it? We’re looking to take the boy away from the mother at some point?’

  ‘If these injuries continue, we have to be prepared to take a hard line.’

  ‘I agree with your decision,’ Tessa barks. ‘I just don’t agree with the workload you’ve put on yourself.’

  We reach the sandwich shop, and my heart sinks to see there’s a huge queue.

  ‘I can’t say I feel a hundred per cent comfortable with the situation,’ I admit. ‘I mean, no one has ever seen the mother hurting him. And the school … it’s an odd place. The headmaster is clearly hiding something. Lloyd said as much. Maybe I should talk to Lloyd about it again.’

  ‘We never see parents hurting their children.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we have some sort of concrete proof?’

  ‘I think the point is, however it’s happening, it’s happening while he’s in her care. Oh good gracious, look at this queue.’

  We both consider the line, which bends around twice and stretches out of the door.

  ‘Maybe we should go to Marks and Spencer,’ I say, checking my watch.

  ‘Nonsense. I want a fresh sandwich. Excuse me.’ Tessa barges straight up to the counter, tapping the glass top. ‘We’re in a hurry. We have a meeting to go to. Can you serve us next?’

  There are outraged cries from other customers, but to my surprise, the serving girl says, ‘Yes, okay, Tessa. But please don’t start shouting again.’

  ‘Great.’ Tessa pulls out a smug smile. ‘I’ll have chicken, avocado and bacon, with grated cheese and mayonnaise. Brown bread. Lots of butter. And one of those bags of crisps. Not that one. The large bag. Kate, what do you want?’

  ‘Um …’ I glance at the angry queue. ‘Just a plain cheese sandwich please.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Tessa demands. ‘No wonder you’re all skin and bones. You’ll waste away if you’re not careful.’

  The girl starts preparing our sandwiches, and I watch the white clock on the wall. We have seven minutes to buy sandwiches and eat them. Then we have another meeting at the Town Hall.

  Tessa notices the clock too. ‘Could you hurry it up a bit?’ she shouts. ‘I told you we have a meeting.’

  The serving girl looks flustered. ‘I’m going as fast as I can. I did serve you first.’

  ‘Too bloody right! How many unpaid hours did you work last week?’

  ‘What?’ The serving girl looks alarmed.

  ‘Come on! Unpaid hours. How many did you do?’ Tessa demands.

  The girl looks helpless. ‘Um … none? I mean, they pay me.’

  ‘Right. Now ask me how many unpaid hours I did.’

  ‘Err …’

  ‘Ten. And do you know why? Because the government won’t stump up enough cash to look after vulnerable children. So, all of us at the coal face, the ones who see the kids with lice and malnutrition and black eyes, we put in the extra time off our own backs. We should have our own bloody VIP queue, the service we do for this country.’

  ‘I could give you a free can of Coke? Since you’ve ordered two sandwiches,’ the girl says uncertainly.

  Tessa snorts in derision. ‘I don’t drink that rubbish. Now if you sold wine, that would be a different story.’

  We head towards the door, to murmurs and moans from others in the queue.

  ‘What are you all complaining about?’ Tessa shouts. ‘Do you have to sit in waste-of-time meetings all afternoon, then catch up on the important stuff at seven o’clock at night? Count your lucky stars and enjoy your full-hour lunchbreak.’

  I steer her out of the shop before a fight breaks out.

  Much as I admire Tessa’s spirited defence of our profession, I really would like to get back and eat my sandwich before the next meeting.

  It’s going to be a busy afternoon. We’re providing supervised contact for the Neilson brothers after the meeting. A two-hour playdate with their violent, drug-addicted father held at the local family centre. Sometimes Leanne doesn’t bring the boys. Sometimes their dad doesn’t show up. It’s a lottery.

  Be grateful, Kate. This is the job you wanted. Be grateful.

  Ruth

  ‘Are you listening to me, Elizabeth?’ My heels scrape gravel as I follow my daughter up the path. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this meeting before?’

  I arrived at Elizabeth’s home this afternoon to find her sitting on the front wall, sobbing and trembling. In public.

  Elizabeth had forgotten I was coming, apparently.

  ‘I need to know these things, Elizabeth,’ I insist. I’m following her up the country track now; she’s on her way to pick up Tom.

  ‘It had nothing to do with you,’ Elizabeth replies.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous – I’m the boy’s grandmother. This reflects on the whole family.’

  ‘Is that all you care about, Mother?’ Elizabeth turns then, and a bird flaps free from the trees. ‘How things look? No, don’t answer that. You might say something truthful for once in your life
.’

  I take a stiff intake of breath, lips tight to quell my outrage. ‘After all I’ve done for you,’ I say. ‘A lifetime lost bringing up a sullen-faced little girl. I’ve driven two hours today. To help with my grandson. A little boy who’s turning out to be just as sullen as you were.’

  Elizabeth shields her eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘You didn’t want anything to do with us while we were with Olly. Why the sudden interest?’

  ‘You need help, Elizabeth. The school says so too. You’re not strong enough to be a mother.’

  She starts crying then. ‘You’re really going to do this?’ she says. ‘After the morning I just had?’

  ‘Stop it, Elizabeth,’ I say. ‘People will see you.’

  We reach the school gates and stand in silence, waiting for the bell to ring.

  Eventually, Tom crosses the playground with another boy – an unkempt black-haired lad with breadline written all over him.

  Tom reaches Elizabeth’s side and slips his hand into hers. He glances at me, then looks away.

  ‘Hello Tom,’ I say.

  ‘Hey Tommo.’ Elizabeth stoops to hug him tight. Her eyes are creased and tired.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to your grandmother, Tom?’ I ask.

  ‘Hello, Grandma.’ The words are empty. Dutiful.

  On the walk home I tell Tom, ‘You need to behave yourself, young man. You’re getting your mother in trouble with all these injuries.’

  Elizabeth, of course, rushes to his defence. ‘Mum. Leave him alone.’

  ‘Tell those social workers how happy you are,’ I continue. ‘Or they’ll take you away.’

  ‘God, Mum.’ Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘“Shut it all away. Make it look nice. Don’t talk about the divorce, Elizabeth, or no one will like you.” What about Tom? What if he’s not happy? Something’s happening at that school. I think Olly … Oh, I can’t stand it.’ She starts crying again.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ I shake my head. ‘You have to stop making accusations. It’s making you look … I don’t know. Crazy.’

  When we reach Elizabeth’s house, Tom shoots upstairs.

  The lounge is a mess. I pick up Elizabeth’s green cardigan, fold it into a careful square and head upstairs to put it away.

  Tom darts aside as I reach the landing and hurries into his bedroom, closing the door.

  I hang the cardigan amid the appalling mismatch of casual clothing in Elizabeth’s wardrobe – bright woollens, jeans, striped T-shirts.

  I stare inside the wardrobe for a good minute, not quite sure what I’m seeing. And then increasingly horrified.

  Elizabeth is a such a mess.

  There’s nothing to be done in her case. My grandson, however – maybe he’s still young enough.

  I march into Tom’s bedroom. He’s looking at the wallpaper, stroking the butterfly wallpaper, eyes glazed over.

  ‘Tell your mother the truth, Thomas,’ I say. ‘She’s worried you’re seeing your father. Of course you’re not, are you?’

  Tom shakes his head tightly.

  ‘This is all just bad behaviour. Social services want to send you to a home for naughty boys,’ I tell him. ‘Do you understand? They’ll give you grey porridge and itchy blankets. You have to tell them what a nice family you have.’

  I sense Elizabeth behind me. ‘Mother,’ she says. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t feel well,’ says Tom, clutching his stomach.

  ‘Okay, darling.’ Elizabeth sits on the bed and scoops Tom onto her lap. ‘It’s okay.’

  I purse my lips to show how displeased I am, but it has no effect these days. There’s no reasoning with Elizabeth when she gets like this.

  She’s such a disappointment to me.

  Lizzie

  Come on. Answer the phone. Why is the doctors’ surgery so busy?

  I’m worried.

  Beyond worried, actually.

  After Mum left, Tom’s hands felt cold. Now his eyes are glazed.

  Answer the phone. Please.

  This is my fifth call to the doctors’ surgery now, but the line just rings and rings.

  I’m standing in the living room, my back to the chaos that is our kitchen. The living room is a mess too, of course, but the kitchen is worse.

  I’ve tucked Tom up on the sofa under a teddy-bear-soft blanket with a bowl of Wotsits. Not the most nutritious choice of snack, but today I’m not winning any good-mother awards. I’ve been too busy considering how I can keep Tom off school tomorrow without social services finding out.

  The phone clicks and finally a voice comes on the line. ‘London Road Surgery.’

  ‘It’s Lizzie Riley,’ I say. ‘I need an emergency appointment for Tom.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Riley.’ The receptionist sounds tired. She’s heard from me so often since we moved here.

  ‘I think Tom may be about to have another seizure,’ I say. ‘He’s gone very pale and cold. I’d just like to get him checked over, if that’s okay.’

  ‘If you’re quick, the doctor has a few spaces after five. Or you could take him straight to Accident and Emergency if you’re really worried.’

  ‘We’ll come in right now.’ I hang up the phone. ‘Tom. Let’s go. We’re off to see the doctor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You look like a ghost. I’m worried you might have another seizure.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the doctors again. I feel fine.’

  Olly used to do that. Insist there was nothing wrong with him. That he could heal all by himself.

  ‘Now, Tom.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Tom takes a last handful of crisps, then pushes off his blanket. He attempts to slide his shoes on his feet while eating crisps at the same time.

  ‘You should have a bit of juice before we leave,’ I say. ‘All those salty crisps.’

  ‘I don’t want to drink anything.’

  ‘Why are you being so difficult? Tom, this isn’t you. You’re a good boy.’ I grab the juice from the fridge. ‘Drink some – come on. It’s good for you. Vitamin C.’

  Eventually Tom takes it, glaring as he drinks.

  On the walk to the doctors’ surgery, Tom kicks his shoes at the paving slabs.

  ‘Tom. Don’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because it’s what Pauly Neilson does … ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘Why are we going to the doctor?’

  ‘I told you. You don’t look well. I’m worried.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the doctor.’ Tom stamps his foot hard on the ground.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this. Why are you acting this way?’

  ‘I want to see Dad,’ says Tom.

  ‘What?’ My heart judders.

  ‘I have a right to see my dad. Pauly said so.’

  I feel sharp tears. ‘Tom. You don’t know what you’re saying. Dad hurt you. Until he gets help, proper help, it’s not a good idea.’

  Tom shakes his head, looking back at the pavement. ‘Forget it then. You’re right about everything.’

  ‘I’m not right about everything. But I’m doing my best.’

  Tom doesn’t answer.

  When we reach the doctors’ surgery, his hand slides out of mine.

  Lizzie

  ‘We’re here to talk about Tom’s broken wrist.’

  It’s a female social worker this time – her name is Faye and she looks in her late twenties, with white skin and black hair like Snow White. She can’t have been in social work long because her forehead doesn’t have any lines.

  Faye looks between Olly and me, clearly trying to size us up.

  It must be hard to get the measure of us – we’re a mess of contradictions.

  Olly, well-spoken and educated, yet scruffy in loose, surfer dude clothing, blond hair around his ears.

  And me – well, who knows what I am? A skinny girl in a summer dress with DM boots. Long, brown hair. A worri
ed little face. A real person in my own right, or just a girl pretending to be something Olly wants?

  I’m not sure any more.

  Olly loses his temper immediately. ‘Look, I don’t hurt my son, okay? We’re as confused as you are. Why can’t you leave us alone? We have enough on our plate.’

  I put a hand over his, the placating wife, but Olly snatches his fingers away.

  ‘Don’t,’ he snaps. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘We’re just here to talk today, Mr Kinnock.’ Faye smiles. ‘All we want is what’s best for Tom.’

  Faye’s questions become more intrusive after that. Was Tom a planned pregnancy? When did Olly and I marry – before or after the birth? Have we ever separated?

  ‘We’re just trying to get to the bottom of things,’ says Faye. ‘Injuries like this … they’re very unusual.’

  The word hangs in the air.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Faye says carefully, ‘parents lose control around their children when they don’t feel they’re coping. Do you feel you’re getting enough support?’

  ‘We get lots of support,’ I say. ‘Olly’s mum is around. My mum visits often enough. Olly works from home now, so … he’s around all the time too. But … but …’

  I don’t mean to, but I start to cry.

  ‘Mrs Kinnock,’ Faye asks. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

  I nod. Then silently, I unbutton my shirt cuff and roll up a sleeve, showing the yellow-green bruise on my shoulder and the carpet-burn cut on my elbow.

  Olly sits bolt upright, staring at my arm. His eyes still have the languid look of morphine in them as they blink, confused and scared. He’s not quite here. Not quite understanding.

  Faye stares at the marks. ‘Mrs Kinnock? What are you telling me?’

  I swallow, taking deep breaths, summoning all my courage.

  Finally, I manage to get the words out.

  ‘Olly did this. He threw me down the stairs.’

  There’s an awful, heavy silence.

  Then Olly starts shouting and swearing, calling me unhinged, psycho, a lying bitch.

  Faye asks him to leave.

  He won’t at first, but she threatens to call the police and he limps outside.