A Stolen Childhood

by Casey Watson

  ‘Back to your seats then,’ I called out above the chatter. ‘I took a look at your books while you were out and I see that you’ve been working well. It’s time for you to start working on your self-portraits now though, and remember, these will be going on the wall, so best efforts, please.’

  I then pointed to the two long sets of drawers along the side wall. ‘All the art materials you’ll need are in there so take out what you need and try to keep the drawers tidy.’

  I noticed that Chloe was trying, unsuccessfully, to hold Kiara’s hand as they walked across to the art materials, so I decided I’d do her life-space interview first, and give Kiara a break. ‘Chloe, love,’ I called, ‘time for our getting-to-know-each-other chat, sweetheart, okay? Let’s go sit in the quiet corner, shall we?’

  Chloe let go of Kiara’s cardigan sleeve, but not before giving it a gentle stroke with her other hand, and then followed me over to the book shelves.

  ‘I love Kiara, miss, she’s so pretty,’ was the first thing she said to me, as she sat cross-legged on one of the large floor cushions. ‘Tommy and Jonathan are nice too. Jonathan said I’m not allowed to call him Johnny, miss. Did you know that? I have another friend called Johnny, miss. I like that name.’

  ‘Well, that works out fine, then, doesn’t it, Chloe, because now you won’t get them mixed up, will you?’ I said, smiling at her as I took the small chair opposite her. ‘But anyway, we don’t need to worry about that – I want to hear a bit more about you now. Is that okay?’

  She nodded, simultaneously trying to pat her unruly hair down. It seemed to be something of a thing with her.

  She obviously became aware of it and smiled ruefully at me. ‘It’s a bit windy out there, miss, isn’t it? And Mum forgot to give me a hairbrush. Do you have a hairbrush?’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘Tommy said I look like I’ve got a bird’s nest on my head.’

  ‘Is there just you and your mum at home, Chloe?’ I asked her, once I’d assured her that I did.

  Chloe nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t have sisters or brothers. So there’s just me to look after Mum.’ She paused. ‘She’s poorly, see, and if I had a sister she’d be able to help, wouldn’t she? But I don’t. I’d like a sister. I don’t think I’m going to get one though.’

  I glanced down at my file. It didn’t say anything about Chloe’s mum having any sort of illness. But then, perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps her illness was the one I’d already been told about. The one that, sadly, came out of a bottle.

  ‘She’s poorly?’ I asked Chloe anyway, so I could try to see things through her eyes. ‘Oh, I didn’t know that, love. What’s wrong with your mum?’

  She leaned in towards me. ‘I’m not s’posed to say, but it’s if she doesn’t have her Vodka. That’s when she gets really sick and she needs my help the most.’ Chloe scratched at her scalp before continuing. ‘My nan sometimes comes round to help out but I don’t like her. She shouts at my mum, miss. Really loud sometimes, and all. She’s mean, my nan. It’s not my mum’s fault she’s poorly, is it, miss?’

  ‘No, love,’ I soothed. And, in a sense, she had a point. Who chose to be an alcoholic, after all? What was also clear was that talking about her mum was upsetting for the poor child, who seemed to be drawing herself inwards on the cushion. I felt so sorry for this poor, affectionate, probably often bewildered girl. I didn’t want to judge her mother because I knew nothing about her, or why she drank, but as I began to take in Chloe’s dirty finger nails, wild hair and general air of dishevelment, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of frustration that she should be so neglected. ‘Does your nan live close to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a few minutes away,’ she said. ‘And my granddad did too, but he died when I was little. I don’t remember him much, but my nan used to be much nicer when I was little. She used to give me cuddles, but she just goes off on one now – mainly at my mum, like I said – but at me as well. She says I’m a big girl and I don’t need cuddles any more. That’s not right, is it, miss? You’re never too old for cuddles.’

  I wondered where she’d heard that said and my heart really went out to her. I wondered what she went home to every night after school. ‘You’re right,’ I said firmly. ‘No one is ever too old for a cuddle.’

  ‘Yeah, but now I only have my mum and my teddies.’ She looked brighter then. ‘And my new friends. I can cuddle my new friends though now, can’t I? And maybe you as well, miss?’

  ‘Maybe me as well,’ I agreed, leaning forwards to squeeze her shoulder before standing up. ‘And you’ll get looked after here. And I tell you what. I think I have a spare bobble in my handbag. How about I pop that hair of yours into a ponytail before the lunch break? Right now, though, it’s time for you to get on with your picture, while I have a chat with Kiara, okay? Will you send her over to me?’

  ‘Ooh thanks, miss,’ she gushed as she too stood up. ‘I love having my hair brushed.’ She fairly skipped away.

  I watched Kiara gently untangle herself from the hug Chloe was determined to greet her with, and as she did so I wondered at her patience. For an only child, she had a sweet, older-sisterly air about her; another way in which she seemed that much older than her years.

  ‘You okay, love?’ I asked her as she folded herself down onto the floor cushion. ‘Not feeling too overwhelmed by affection?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine, miss. I don’t mind. Well, not most of the time. It’s a bit – you know – weird – but I know she doesn’t mean any harm. I’ve seen her round school. I know what she’s like.’

  ‘And how are you, Kiara? You know, after yesterday. I was a bit worried, but you and Tommy seem to be okay about it all. Are you?’

  Kiara glanced across at the boys and then shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, I guess. Isn’t much choice, is there? And he knows if he tries anything on again I’ll batter him.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just boys, isn’t it? They’re all like that, aren’t they?’

  I was interested in her world-weary tone. It seemed a strange thing for a girl of her age to say. She was only 12 after all. I racked my brains to try and remember if 12-year-old girls had boyfriends these days.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I said, ‘but some certainly are. They’ll do anything to get the other boys to laugh at them, and I guess Tommy was just trying to earn himself some points – with him being new to the school, and everything. He probably doesn’t have many friends just yet.’ I paused for a moment before adding, ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Kiara?’

  She shook her head. ‘No way. Why would I want a boyfriend? Boys are idiots.’

  ‘Oh you say that now,’ I said. ‘My Riley used to say the same thing when she was younger, but now she can’t wait to get married. You might change your mind yet. Just you wait and see.’

  But I could see our conversation had headed up a blind alley, as Kiara seemed to have turned her attention elsewhere. Typical, I thought, watching her looking intently at something on the bookshelves – try to get some of my kids to read a book (or even choose one, in some cases) and you’d get nothing but moans and groans, but sit them down in the middle of them and try to get them to open up and suddenly books were the best things since sliced bread.

  ‘Tell me about what you get up to at home,’ I suggested instead. ‘Your mum told me that she has to work a lot of hours. So. What do you do with yourself while she’s out at work?’

  Kiara shrugged again and, as if on auto-pilot, her hand went to her head and she started to pull out single strands of hair. ‘I dunno, miss,’ she said. ‘Watch TV, do my homework, listen to music. Anything really. I sometimes go round to my dad’s if I get bored.’

  ‘Ah yes, your mum said you’ve started seeing your dad again. And after quite a while, I hear. How is that going?’

  ‘Good,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s much more chilled than my mum. Not all stressy all the time, moaning at me if I leave a cup in the sink or something.’

  I laughed. It was a familiar refrain from kid
s when it came to absent parents. The grass almost always seemed greener on the other side, the parent also so much more accommodating. ‘Well,’ I said, just so she was open to the idea, ‘I think all working mums are a bit like that, Kiara. I know I am. When you get home after a hard day, you like your home to be nice and tidy so you can have a rest. Dads never seem quite as fussy about that sort of thing, do they? And if you only see your dad a couple of times a week, he’s probably just pleased to see you. So you get along well with him then?’

  ‘I want to live with him,’ she said, with sudden firmness. ‘And I will, too. Soon as I’m old enough, I’m off. My dad said she can’t keep me locked up for ever, and she can’t!’

  I was shocked by the unexpected edge in her voice. I wondered if she’d had this conversation with her mum. ‘Locked up? Come on, love, I’m sure your mum doesn’t lock you up.’

  ‘No! Not really locked up,’ Kiara said, looking at me as though I were getting on her nerves. ‘But making me stay with her instead of letting me live with Dad. It’s not fair. Why does she get to choose?’

  I hesitated before answering because the truth was that I didn’t know, and I certainly wasn’t about to make a guess. ‘I suppose it’s just because she’s your mum, love, and when they split up it was in your best interests to stay put rather than go off with your dad.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ Kiara replied, her voice full of scorn. ‘Anyway, like I said, it doesn’t matter anyway. As soon as I’m old enough, I’m off. It’s no biggie.’

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘that’s obviously something for the future, but –’

  But Kiara had clearly moved on. ‘D’you want me to do Chloe’s hair for her, miss?’ she said, speaking across me. ‘I heard you saying about having a bobble. I could do it for her if you like. I’m good at hair. I do my mum’s all the time. She’d probably like it if I do it.’

  I was tempted to push it – try to make sense of the seeming contradictions I was hearing; how she wanted to run off to her dad’s but how she did her mum’s hair for her all the time. But I decided to leave it, at least for the moment – 12-year-old girls were often walking contradictions in themselves.

  ‘I’ll bet she’d love that,’ I said instead.

  Kiara stood up. ‘An’ then she can come to dinner with me as well.’

  I wondered what her situation at home was really like. There was just something – something I couldn’t even hazard a guess at. ‘That would be nice, love,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and find my bobble, and soon as you’re done with your pictures you can sort it out for her.’ I smiled. ‘Bless her – “sort” being the operative word!’

  Kiara grinned. ‘Leave it with me, miss,’ she said. ‘I like a challenge.’

  And she rose to it, too. Chloe was soon the proud owner of what I was informed was a ‘messy bun’. And, yes, it was messy, but it was also the ‘in’ thing, apparently. And at least a darn sight less messy than it had been before.

  So far, I thought, not bad progress at all. Just not quite enough of it, that was all.

  Chapter 7

  As it turned out I got Tommy full time after all, and in circumstances that made me very glad that I did. Better with me than with some I could mention. It was in the very first week in fact, and the day after I’d returned from my weekly lunch at the new ‘Reach for Success’ centre. We’d planned a routine, in that I’d go over there every Wednesday lunchtime as that was the day that all the students had to plan a menu, buy the ingredients then prepare and cook a meal for themselves and their teachers. It was a great confidence-boosting exercise, as well as being very useful for them, and it meant that I could spend a good half-hour catching up on progress and get a free meal to boot. Would that every aspect of my job was so agreeable.

  There’s no rule that everyone you work with has to be your bosom pal. In fact, in the case of a workplace as big as mine was, I’d say the chances of that happening would be extremely small. What was also true was that there were a small minority of the teaching staff whom I didn’t really know by name but already knew intuitively that I might not see eye to eye with, just by a combination of instinct and observation – instinct that we were unlikely to have much in common, and the odd thing I’d gleaned, observed or heard in the staff-room that made me aware that not everyone worked the same way.

  One such was Mr Hunt, one of the senior chemistry teachers, who’d been at the school almost two decades and was something of an institution. His notoriety was so long-standing that he had even been blessed with a nickname – one based on his real name, the unremarkable ‘Richard Hunt’, duly shortened and completely unprintable.

  He was equally notorious among the teaching staff, as being a man who liked to tell it like it was. Which was fine. Well, up to a point, anyway. The staff-room was a place for staff to unwind and catch up with each other, obviously, so it didn’t do to get all uppity about some of the things said behind closed staff-room doors. Teaching was a stressful profession and teachers wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have the odd exasperated rant about a particularly trying child from time to time – heaven knew, I’d done it myself.

  But there was the odd teacher, I’d noticed, who – perhaps because they were getting weary of the daily grind – didn’t seem to like many of their pupils much at all. So much so that a more naïve me (one maybe 20 years younger) would have been inclined to question why on earth they even became teachers in the first place. I’d never do that now; it would be the last way to win friends and influence people, after all. And who was I to pass judgement on a teacher who’d been slogging away for 30 years and who, with all the changes on top of the challenges and pressures, was getting to the end of their professional tether?

  Mr Hunt, I’d decided, definitely came into that category, or was at least getting palpably close. He was a clever man, an irritable man, a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly – a great nurturer of those with a similar spark of academic potential, but less than patient with those who didn’t know one end of a pipette from another; as they soon found out, when they had the great misfortune of being skewered on the end of one of his fiery rantathons – something of a legend around school.

  So when Gary Clark appeared in my classroom doorway the following Thursday and Mr Hunt’s name was mentioned in relation to Thomas Robinson, I think I already knew that perhaps his brand of chemistry lesson would not be the kind in which our newest pupil would be likely to shine. He was altogether too boisterous and inclined to pubescent silliness – silliness being the cardinal sin for Mr Hunt, particularly when there were chemicals and lab equipment around.

  ‘But I have good news to impart first,’ Gary said, as he beckoned me out into the corridor, having boomed his usual warm hello to Kelly and the other kids.

  ‘I’m all for that,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Are you free after school today? Only Kiara’s mother called first thing to say she’d be happy for you to pop round there. Said you could walk Kiara home from school today if you like.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I said. With the ‘fuss over nothing’ stance Mrs Bentley had largely taken, I’d anticipated a couple of weeks might pass before we heard from her, or even that I’d need to call again.

  ‘If you still want to, that is,’ Gary added. ‘She finishes work at three today. How’s Kiara been since she’s been with you, anyway?’

  ‘Still tired,’ I said. ‘Still drifting off. Still hair pulling when she does so. Happier, though. As far as I can gauge, compared with what various teachers have told me, she definitely seems less stressed in a small group environment.’

  In truth, I felt Kiara had settled extremely well. Had it not been for the self-soothing and that odd ‘hard-to-put-your-finger-on-but-something’ way she had about her, I’d have felt a bit uncomfortable about keeping her from mainstream lessons; for an otherwise well-adjusted child who liked a quiet, un-taxing life, it was definitely a soft option. But I was still convinced Kiara wasn’t that.

  ‘That wil
l be fine,’ I said, mentally scrolling through my domestic to do list. If I caught up with my paperwork at lunchtime, I wouldn’t even be late home. I’d leave a message for Kieron, though, just in case.

  ‘I’ll leave you to let her know, then,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming she’ll be receptive? Anyway, Thomas,’ he added, once I’d nodded my confirmation. ‘I’m afraid this half a week thing doesn’t seem to be working out too well. I’ve already had reports back from two of his teachers yesterday, saying that he’s acting up in class. Being generally disruptive, refusing to knuckle down to any work. I think we may have acted hastily and expected too much from him after such a long period away from school.’

  ‘So you want me to have him full time?’ I asked. ‘That wouldn’t be a problem.’ It really wouldn’t. I rather liked Tommy and, while a return to mainstream classes would get him back on track with catching up the work he’d missed, I did think my Unit would be a better place for him until he’d re-adjusted to the discipline of a regular school routine. Moving halfway across the country, and in such difficult circumstances, had been a major upheaval for him and his family after all.

  ‘Probably,’ Gary said, ‘he’s in a science lesson right now, and since Mr Hunt is one of the teachers who put a complaint in about him, I wondered if you could pop down – you’ve got Kelly with you all morning, haven’t you? – see how he’s doing and, if you think it’s the right course of action, bring him back here with you and we’ll move on from there?’

  Children came to the Unit via a variety of routes, but one of the most common was following repeated reports from teachers that a particular child wasn’t working well in class. They could either be showing signs of distress, withdrawing, refusing to co-operate, or just proving unmanageable and disruptive. When this happened, Jim Dawson, the other Behaviour Manager, would usually step in and observe for a while, monitoring for a day or two, or even just part of a lesson, to decide whether it was really warranted to move them. Often it was simply a clash of personalities, or, though it was rarely admitted, simply easier and less stressful for the teacher. If this was deemed to be the case then a child would remain in regular class but work would be done with the teacher in question to help them cope better; some extra training in behavioural techniques, perhaps, while being supported by a teaching assistant, who’d sit with and assist the challenging child.