by Casey Watson
‘Mrs Bentley!’ I barked at her. ‘Please try and calm down. I have no idea what you are talking about, and I won’t do if you continue to scream at me like this, will I? I’m not sure you should even be calling the school.’
‘I’ll call who I fucking like!’ she snapped. ‘And you don’t have any fucking idea, do you? Why? Because you’re fucking thick, that’s why. You’re fucking thick! Take her from me, and put her with him – like, I go down and he’s the avenging fucking angel? Give me strength! He’s a piece of fucking shit is what he is, and you are seriously going to regret this, you mark my fucking words. I hope you’re hap –’
And, then, a single click. The line went dead.
I stared into the receiver like the idiot I’d just been called, and wondered what the hell that had all been about. Then at the hand that held it, which I realised was shaking.
‘Well,’ Barbara said. ‘Gave you both barrels as well, did she? What is that woman on?’
‘A bottle of something 40 per cent proof, would be my guess,’ Jane observed, taking the phone from me and putting it back on its cradle. ‘You alright, Casey?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘Just shell-shocked.’ I dragged up a weak grin from somewhere. ‘I think my ear’s still ringing.’
‘She’s always been a funny woman, that one,’ Barbara said, sniffing. ‘I hope she gets everything she’s got coming to her, frankly. How dare she! You sure you’re alright, Casey? Nasty, having someone yell at you like that.’
Though only sticks and stones would break my bones, I thought, remembering Tommy’s mum. ‘It’s just adrenaline,’ I said. ‘Natural reaction. Fight or flight and all that. I’d better get back, I suppose …’
‘Yes, but what did she say?’ Barbara asked. ‘What was all that about, exactly? Sour grapes?’
I tried to think on my feet. There would have been gossip around the school, among both pupils and staff – that was all quite natural. Though no one outside the immediate circle of personnel involved would have been told more than it was necessary for them to know. Hence they’d know about the social workers, about the removal, about the return of the pupil, and, in the case of the office staff, the logistics of the case, i.e. that Kiara’s ‘next of kin to be contacted in an emergency’ had changed a couple of times over the past few weeks. And now this. Tongues would be wagging, and that was natural as well.
‘Sour grapes for sure,’ I said. ‘Goes with the territory. I’m the resident busy-body, poking my nose in, for – God forbid – the good of the children. Anyway, she’s said her piece and hopefully that will be the end of it.’
‘You wish!’ Barbara said, her words accompanied by the sort of knowing grin that only a long-serving school secretary who’s seen it all before and more can pull off with an air of complete authority.
And I knew she was probably right.
It was the end of the day before I managed to catch up with Gary again, by which time the precise meaning behind those of Mrs Bentley’s words that didn’t begin with ‘F’ had been very much occupying a corner of my mind. That and the sheer force with which a whimsical expectation about how a school term might end can be blown right out of the water.
But that was school for you. Anything could, and often did, happen, and as I’d gathered up my paperwork and filled my satchel for home, I reflected that it was perhaps all that production of adrenaline that contributed to that sense of ‘burning out’. One thing was for sure – that now I worked in a school, I would never again make any kind of throwaway comment about teachers with their apparently enviably ‘short days and long holidays’. In fact I felt like slinking away right there and then, and hibernating till the autumn.
Right now, however, I had to run through what Mrs Bentley had said to me, and try to figure out whether it was anything we should be worried about. After all, it had been odd – because what did she have to gain from it? From what I’d heard, she’d already made it pretty clear that if Kiara was taken away from her, then so be it – an unthinkable notion for the overwhelming majority of mothers, but, sadly, not unheard of. A tragic fact of life.
So why the call, then? What was her motivation in wanting to speak to me? Just sour grapes because she’d lost her ‘assistant’?
‘I think you’ve hit that nail on the head,’ Gary said. ‘I’ll pass the information on to social services, of course, but I think we can assume she was just drunk and ranting.’
‘She was certainly ranting,’ I agreed.
‘And I imagine she’s under stress over the forthcoming court case. It must be galling for her, however completely deplorable what she’s done, that her ex is being portrayed as the perfect father after years of not having anything to do with her. Or, I imagine, contributing a bean. But they’ll review it. They’re more conversant with all the facts than we are. We can let them decide what to do. And, on the plus side, it’s also looking better for the Robinsons, so, in fact, it’s been quite a positive day.’
He went on to explain that they were being installed in a local refuge even as we were talking, and that Mrs Robinson had been persuaded to report her ex to the police. ‘We’ve no way of making them stay there, of course,’ Gary cautioned, ‘but I think Tommy himself is key there. She’s obviously terrified, but now he’s an adolescent – bit bigger and stronger – perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps she’ll feel braver. They might still do a flit, but my instinct is that his feelings on the matter might just hold sway. Let’s see in the morning, eh? Keep your fingers crossed, okay? Oh, and Casey,’ he added, smiling, ‘go home and put all of it out of your mind. And that’s an order.’
Obviously my day for being given orders, then. Which I was only too happy to take – as my mum would say, what would be would be …
Chapter 17
‘There should be a law against this,’ I muttered to Mike as a steaming mug of coffee was nudged into place on my crowded bedside table, inches from my face and within welcome sniffing distance of my nose.
‘You’re such a lightweight,’ he scoffed, as I opened one eye. The world seemed stupidly, annoyingly bright for 5 a.m., and I regretted the second glass of wine I’d succumbed to the previous evening. That was the trouble with decking, I decided. It inclined you to eat outside. There were so few nights in the year when you could, after all, and it was a minor family celebration, because Kieron had already finished his first college year and had passed his course with flying colours. But the trouble with eating outside in the evening was that it lured you into thinking you were on holiday. I opened the other eye and hauled myself upright.
‘It’s alright for you,’ I said, to Mike’s retreating back as he went off to shower. ‘You’re used to being up at this crazy time in the morning. My body clock feels under attack here!’
‘Haha – and it’s only going to get worse, love!’ he quipped. I groaned. He was probably right.
Kelly was certain it was my idea. Absolutely certain. I maintained it had been Jim’s, and Jim maintained it had been Kelly’s, so, between us no-one was prepared to admit responsibility for our end-of-term outing taking place at a centre that was a good 20 miles away and where there was a very real risk of one of us pulling something we shouldn’t.
Well, Jim and I, at any rate – Kelly, being so young and lithe, would be just fine. So perhaps it was Kelly’s idea after all. It was three days before the end of the summer term now, and we were off to one of those huge outward bound centres, buried deep in some dark forest, with all sorts of outdoorsy, Duke-of-Edinburgh-awardy, scary-looking activities – all designed for maximum thrills, if not spills. No spills; they were clear on that at least, because safety was ‘paramount and completely guaranteed’.
Hmm. I felt only partly comforted by that, because most of what was on offer looked terrifying. There was a big outdoor climbing wall, a traditional-style army assault course, as well as high ropes and standing platforms and stepping ‘stone’ courses, way up in the air, and all sorts of other lofty, tree-based challenges, al
l of which were minutely detailed in the glossy brochures, showing lots of colour photographs of delighted-looking children, wearing hard hats and harnesses and beaming down from on high.
And at no point was it ever suggested that the three of us had to join in, but I knew – I just knew – we’d be coerced into doing something, because that was just the way these things happened.
But that was a while away yet – first I had to negotiate my mug of coffee, pack a lunch, grab a shower, then pick up Kiara before heading to school to meet the minibus.
There were eight of us going – my four Unit children, plus Jim, Kelly and I, as well as Morgan, who had been given a special dispensation to return to school for it; something that had involved Granny Giles threatening her father with a very big stick if he didn’t let her. Granny Giles was definitely my kind of woman. And, despite my baulking slightly at the early start, and the lengthier than sensible journey, the kids’ excitement about it was reason enough to suffer such vicissitudes, pop a travel sickness pill and get on with it. It would be fun when we got to it. As long as I came home in one piece.
I chose some suitable clothing while waiting for Mike to come out of the shower, and, as had been happening here and there lately, my mind returned to Kiara’s situation and that phone call. We’d not heard another peep from Mrs Bentley, and as far as I knew there had been no further development, but I was glad I’d offered to come and pick Kiara up to go on the trip (it was too early for the school bus, obviously) because I might get a chance, particularly as I’d been generous with my timings, to have a quiet chat with her on our own; one which might shed more light on what her mother had said about her dad. It was her choice of words that kept nudging at me – out of the frying pan and into the fire. There was something about what she’d said that had taken me right back to when I’d first met Kiara – that same itch I’d tried to scratch, and kept itching nonetheless. Deep down, I didn’t quite agree with Gary’s take on things; that was the bottom line. There was something else, I was sure of it – something social services might not know.
‘Well, let’s look at the evidence you’ve already given me,’ Mike had said, when I’d talked to him about it. ‘He’s still mostly unemployed, though he’s perfectly articulate and reasonably personable, and doesn’t have any apparent learning difficulties. He’s living in a rented flat in relative squalor, he’s middle aged but seems to have the life skills of a teenager, lives off junk food and seems to have the motivation of a particularly demotivated slug. I wonder if he’s a dopehead? Just an educated guess …’
And, of course, it was a pretty sensible guess. Kiara’s dad was nothing like the vulnerable adults I’d spent years working with for the council. He just seemed like one of life’s drop-outs. And everybody knew that an addiction to substances like cannabis could, though not in the same league as the sure-fire killer drugs like heroin and crack cocaine, still cause a person to lose all ambition and become almost completely non-productive.
And, yes, he’d been vetted and interviewed, and had cleaned up his home a bit, and there was no doubt that Kiara had blossomed now she was back with him, but monitoring the situation was only that – monitoring. Plenty of scope for someone who put their mind to it to maintain an unsavoury habit in between. After all, what did Mr Bentley do when Kiara was at school and he wasn’t at work? Stalk the job centre, looking for a better job than he’d currently managed to find as a labourer on an ‘as and when’ basis, or see his dealer and get routinely stoned?
It was all of it – every bit of it – just idle conjecture, and perhaps I should stop imagining negative scenarios in my head. Kiara seemed to be thriving, and Mrs Bentley’s rant was just probably revenge – tit-for-tat stuff, as Gary had said. Though what had prompted it – bar her being drunk, perhaps – was a mystery in itself, and I kept coming back to the same question – since she was perfectly happy to relinquish her daughter, why this sudden need to dish the dirt all this time later? It didn’t really seem to make sense.
Perhaps she was just keen to get back at her apparently feckless former partner and, fuelled by alcohol, made the call to me on impulse. I pondered it all as I pulled out my heavy-duty boots and placed them atop my jeans and T-shirt. Perhaps she just grabbed a chance to boot him in the proverbials. Wasn’t that supposed to be her speciality anyway?
There wasn’t so much as a wisp of cloud in the sky as I pulled up in a space across the road from Kiara’s dad’s house, and in the bright light of a perfect summer morning, just after dawn, perhaps anywhere would show its best face. The house itself, bathed in sunshine that winked off the windows, looked a little different to how it had when I’d last come to visit, with the bins in a neat row behind the low, crumbling wall, and the buddleia and other weeds now all gone. I had no idea if this was anything to do with Mr Bentley and/or social services, but it was cheering to see that at least one ‘act’ had been cleaned up – a process that had presumably being going on indoors as well.
Kiara must have been looking out for me because there was no need for me to get out of the car and go and ring the buzzer. The front door opened and she emerged almost as soon as I’d switched the engine off. There was no sign of her dad, however, so I immediately switched it on again.
It was only the second time I’d seen Kiara out of her school uniform, and her outfit of skinny jeans – with artfully ripped knees – pale pink T-shirt and matching pink trainers made her look much more like the teen she was soon going to be – just after school broke up for summer if I remembered rightly. She waved back at the upstairs front window as she crossed the road, and though I couldn’t see him, due to the sun winking off the window panes, I assumed Dad was there and waving back.
I was disappointed because I’d have liked to have seen him for myself, but it was early, I supposed, and there was no reason for him to come down – well, bar common courtesy, in order to thank me for picking his daughter up. Stop it, I told myself, mentally readjusting my position. A few social faux pas do not necessarily a ne’er-do-well make.
Kiara jumped in. ‘You look nice, love,’ I said.
She beamed. I think she knew it, too, bless her. ‘Thank you!’ she trilled. ‘These are my new jeans Dad bought me. And I remembered my lunch, miss,’ she added, grinning as she waggled her bag. It was another backpack, but a smaller one; the kind kids use when going swimming. ‘Peanut-butter sandwiches, for extra energy,’ she explained. ‘Oh and Dad said to thank you soooo much. He’s really grateful. He’s got a shift at the building site in a bit, so this is a real help. He’d have come down, but he’s not showered yet and his dressing gown is, like, such an embarrassment, so I wouldn’t let him.’
She giggled. So that was me told.
The journey to school wasn’t a long one and as we set off I wondered quite how to start a conversation that, if I wasn’t careful, might immediately alert Kiara to the idea that I was fishing for facts. But I didn’t wonder long. Kiara placed the answer right in my lap.
‘Is Mr Dawson coming today?’ she asked me once we’d dispatched the usual dialogue about how lovely the weather was, what I had in my own lunch box – rather boringly, just an egg sandwich and a bag of crisps – and how exciting, if slightly scary, the day was going to be.
‘Yes, love,’ I said. ‘He is. But don’t be anxious about that. All water under the bridge now. It’s fine.’
‘I just feel so embarrassed about it all,’ she said, reaching into the bag between her knees. She pulled out a little cloth purse and opened it.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But he’s a teacher, remember. A professional. He knows the circumstances. And perhaps this will be a chance to build bridges – which is appropriate, isn’t it? Given we’ll be crossing some rope ones, God help us – and you can stick close to me anyway, if that’ll help.’
‘It’ll help sooo much,’ she said. ‘Thanks, miss. I just cringe every time I think about it.’
I watched her pull out what was probably a chapstick but actually looked m
ore like a pale pink lipstick, then flip down the sun visor to apply it. It made my mind immediately return to her ‘outings’ with her mother, particularly as I noticed the precise way she used it; with a chapstick, you normally just sling it on, unseen, but she used deft strokes to define the two bows of her top lip, like a woman would if applying a vivid scarlet. It was a sharp poke in the ribs for me. A reminder that someone had stolen her childhood.
‘I’m sure you do, Kiara,’ I told her, ‘but you know, you must try and put it behind you, as I’m sure your counsellors have told you. Those days are gone now …’
‘I wouldn’t have actually done it, you know, miss,’ she said, putting the chapstick back in her bag and flipping the visor back up. ‘I never would have done it.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think that for a minute.’ Which wasn’t quite true. I didn’t know any such thing. I didn’t know the detail of her various forays to get clients with her mother and on balance I was glad not to.
‘I was only testing him, that was all,’ she continued, as we approached the school gates. There was no sign of any of the others or the minibus yet. Good.
‘Testing him?’ I asked her. ‘In what way?’
‘Just to know,’ she said. ‘Just to check if he was a safe man or a bad man. You never know. You can never tell from looking.’
I felt another mental poke in the ribs. ‘Clients’. They came in all shapes and sizes, all creeds and colours. It had often struck me how impossible it was to tell who bought sex from prostitutes. Not from looking. I got that. You really could never tell.
‘So that was how you went about it?’ I asked her.
Kiara nodded as I pulled up in the staff car park, in the corner nearest to the school itself. ‘Like I said to the social worker lady, I would never have actually done it, not even if he’d said yes. I just wanted to know that he’d say no, that was all.’
