The Winter's Child

by Cassandra Parkin

  “John, he said he’s scared. You’ve got to listen when he says something like that.”

  “He’s just swinging the lead.”

  “No, he’s not. He was really, really—”

  “Christ, is that the time? I’ve got to go.” He kisses me quickly on the mouth, and it’s only because I know him so well that I can taste the anger concealed behind his briskness. “Joel! If you don’t get in on time there’ll be trouble at mill later, you hear me? Right, see you both.”

  And he whirls out again, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

  The shutting of the front door is Joel’s cue to leave the shower. On the landing, wrapped tightly in his towel, he puts his arms around me for a moment. Stroking his stringy hair and damp back feels like a rebellion.

  “I’m sorry I’m so useless,” he says.

  “You’re not useless.”

  “Yes, I am. Dad hates me. I don’t blame him. I hate me too. I’m a waste of space. I can’t get anything right.”

  “Don’t say that, don’t ever say that, do you hear me? You’re my darling wonderful son and I wouldn’t change anything about you.” I stroke his hair.

  “Dad wants to change everything about me. He wants me to be great at Maths and Biology and football and I’m not, I’m just not! I wish I was but I’m not.”

  “Joel Moel, stop being so silly. Dad loves you just how you are.”

  When Joel lets go of me and looks me in the face, I can’t meet his eyes.

  “So what do you think’s going on with Joel?” Mr Elliott’s face is a careful neutral blank, like his words, like the sheet of paper that lies on the desk beside the fat closed file that is presumably some administrative summary of my son.

  “Well, I think the problem is that he’s—”

  “Why don’t you tell us what you’re thinking first,” says John, taking my hand as compensation for shutting me down. Mr Elliott raises his eyebrows a fraction.

  “Okay, so here’s where we are. In the last two terms, we’ve had six unauthorised absences from Joel, all following the same pattern. Joel leaves home as expected and on time to come to school. But then he either fails to appear at registration, or he leaves the premises at the first break. And these unauthorised absences were followed the next day by a phone call from yourselves—” He’s pretending to talk to both of us, but he’s looking at me, he means me. “—to say that Joel’s unwell and won’t be in that day. Is that a fair summary?”

  “Hang on,” says John. “Go through that again.”

  My face burns. Mr Elliott looks as if some crucial piece of evidence has just fallen into place.

  “Six unauthorised absences in two terms,” he repeats. “As you can see, they’re getting more frequent.” The blank sheet with all its possibilities is brushed aside to make room for the important papers, the ones that document what’s already happened. This makes me irrationally angry. Why not the blank sheet of paper? Why can’t we talk about the future instead? Why not put aside the file of evidence and say, What can we create together to help Joel be happy?

  “No,” says John. “The authorised absences. That’s not right, there’s a mistake somewhere. We would never—”

  “There’s no mistake.” I’m so determined not to whisper that the words come out as a shout. “I made those phone calls. I authorised the absences.”

  John’s face is vulnerable with shock. Mr Elliott carefully squares off the edges of his paperwork.

  “So Joel’s missed twice as much school as I thought? You let our son miss twice as many days?”

  I hold my face very still and keep my breathing very steady. I will not let myself feel like a naughty child who’s been caught out. I won’t cry in front of these men. I will be strong.

  The days when Joel doesn’t go to school are radiant days, stolen days. He wakes at the normal time and gets dressed as usual, but as soon as John leaves the house he goes upstairs and changes into his own clothes, and with the shedding of his school uniform I see the weight of expectation tumble from his shoulders and he becomes sweet and easy, joyful and spontaneous, the boy I know he truly is. While I bustle around the house, he sits at the dining room table and draws, impossible curving fantasies of horses and elves and dragons and warriors. He reads, laughs, plays music, surprises me with spontaneous hugs. He’s like a convalescent from a serious illness. That’s how I think of these days, as convalescence. He needs this time to build the strength to carry him through until the next crisis.

  “Obviously the most important thing is the future,” says Mr Elliott. Fine for him to say that now. “School refusal can blight a young person’s life. So we really need to nip this in the bud.”

  I don’t dare look at John.

  “However, we also need to talk about Joel’s behaviour while he’s in school.” A different piece of paper comes out of the file. “As you both know, there have been repeated incidents of Joel hitting or punching other pupils.” He pauses a moment to check that we do, in fact, both know about this. I steel myself once more for John’s shock, but he’s ready this time. He doesn’t admit this is news to him. Instead he nods grimly and takes my hand once more. His loyalty to me, in the face of my betrayal, makes me want to weep.

  “It’s worth remembering that Joel’s well over the age of criminal responsibility. If the parents chose to go to the police, we’d have no choice but to support them.”

  I can judge the quality of Joel’s day from the sound of the gate. When it drags slowly across the concrete and does not close again, I ready myself to meet the child who will greet me in the hall. White-faced, slump-shouldered, short of words, oozing despair.

  The worst part is that I can see what makes Joel such a victim. His silence. His unconcealed passion for pastimes and pursuits they consider pointless and lame. His open contempt for the more conventional subjects that absorb them. His refusal to join in, to conform, to meet them even remotely halfway. Most of all, the way he reacts to their needling; by turning away, hiding his face in his arms, making small animal noises when touched, until at last the rage within him explodes out into violence. He’s like a game I had as a child, where a plastic shark opened a wide red mouth to reveal an assortment of tokens – a bone, an anchor, a rubber tyre – that players removed one by one. There was an insistent pleasure in the gradual slow removal, a spasm of terrified delight when the mouth finally snapped shut. Their teasing is despicable. But I can see why they do it.

  “But the teasing,” I say. “We’ve talked about it, they torment him, they have him in tears sometimes.”

  “And there are strategies in place to deal with that. Joel knows that if he’s unhappy he needs to talk to one of the staff. We will listen to him, we want to help him, but he needs to tell us.”

  “But they start it, they provoke him. If they just left him alone—” This is the central point, the one thing I need them to grasp. “It’s making him so unhappy.”

  “That doesn’t justify Joel being violent.”

  “I agree,” says John.

  “But he’s so unhappy,” I repeat.

  The look they turn on me is identical.

  “Joel, we need to have a chat about your report.”

  Joel remains stubbornly slouched in the dubious safety of his bean bag, earphones jammed over his ears. His on-screen avatar duels a gigantic scorpion.

  “Joel, turn that off right now.”

  Joel stares unflinchingly ahead. John might as well not be there. His determination to escape the real world is total, almost frightening.

  “Joel, this is your last warning.”

  Joel’s eyes are glassy and frightened. His fingers flicker over the controller. The scorpion’s sting jams into the warrior’s muscle-packed leg. The warrior grimaces, but recovers. His swords blazes with light.

  In one smooth move, John tears the headphones from Joel’s head, the controller from his hands. I see the powerful muscles in his back move and flex as he gives one quick sharp tug and the wire rips free fro
m the back of the controller. The headphones tremble in his hands and I can see how badly he wants to snap them in two and I want to say, Don’t, don’t break his headphones, please, but I’m afraid of making Joel even more distraught than he already is.

  “Joel,” John repeats, his voice carefully still and controlled, “we’re going to talk about your report. Stop staring at that game and pay attention to me. No, look at me. At me! For God’s sake, will you at least look at me while I’m talking to you!”

  From beneath the curtain of his hair, Joel glances sideways at me. A quick frantic plea for help.

  “John, please. Don’t shout. He’s listening. You need to be gentler, you’re frightening him.”

  If John would get angry with me, I would know what to do. If he shouted at me, I could shout back at him, and in the blaze of our rage we might burn down the barriers between us and reach some mutual understanding. But instead he just looks at me in silent despair, his expression telling me that when I undermine him like this I’m letting all of us down. I stop myself in my tracks, because sometimes I’m afraid he’s right.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Joel, your dad’s right. We need to talk about your report.”

  Now it’s Joel’s turn to look betrayed. He and I have already talked about it. He wept on my shoulder and told me he was useless and he hated himself. I promised I’d help make it right with his father.

  “This comment from your Maths teacher. Joel has unfortunately chosen not to apply himself this term and is in danger of not meeting his year-end target, ultimately risking his opportunity to gain a C grade at GCSE. Anything you want to say about that?”

  Joel picks up the ruined controller and examines the broken wires.

  “And this from your English teacher. Joel has the capability to succeed, but his attitude this term means he is not making the most of his abilities and is in danger of missing his year-end target. This makes it more challenging for Joel to achieve the GCSE B or C grade he should be easily capable of gaining. At least give me a sign that you’re listening.”

  Joel shrugs his shoulders.

  “So you can hear me. Look, what’s going on? The teachers aren’t saying Joel’s not clever enough, they’re saying Joel’s not putting in the work. So why not? This is serious stuff, fella, this is your future you’re messing up. If you don’t get at least Maths and English then what chance have you got?”

  It’s because he’s afraid of failing! I want to scream out the words. He told me himself, this afternoon! He’s afraid of letting you down and then he gets so frightened he can’t even make himself try! Why can’t you see that when you go on at him like this, it just makes everything worse?

  Joel slumps down inside his shirt collar.

  “Joel, talk to us. Tell us what the matter is. Something’s not right. You’re a bright lad. You could have a great life if you put your mind to it. So why are all your teachers – I mean, it’s not just English and Maths, it’s Science, Languages, History, Geography – even the bloody Art teacher says you’re not putting the effort in, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you care?”

  “Of course he cares. We talked about it this afternoon—”

  John holds up a hand. “From Joel. Let him speak for himself.”

  I should be strong. I should stand up to my husband and tell him that I won’t be silenced like this. But I don’t. Is it because I’m not sure that I’m right and John’s wrong? Or is it because I’m a coward?

  “Come on, fella. What’s the matter? What can we do to help?” John’s trying for gentleness now, folding up like a concertina and squatting awkwardly down. Perhaps if he’d spoken softly from the start we might have got somewhere. Perhaps we still might. If John will just be patient. If John will sit down beside his son and let them both simply be, a companionable silence so Joel can creep out of his hermit-shell. This time. This time they’ll get it. Joel’s head is bowed, but I can tell he’s listening. Please, John. Give it one more minute. One more. Just wait. Just be patient. Just be. On the screen, Joel’s avatar stands still and slumped, meekly accepting the attack of the scorpion that will soon destroy it.

  “Well, this is getting us nowhere.” John’s disappointment manifests itself as baffled anger. He picks up the headphones and snaps them effortlessly in two, then grabs the ruined controller. “But I can tell you now, we won’t be buying another one of these, no matter how many times you ask Santa. And we’re cancelling that bloody game subscription of yours until you pull your socks up and start taking school seriously. Do you understand?”

  John is a gentle man; he’s never hurt me or anyone. I’ve known this as long as I’ve known him. But when he stands over the hunched and cowering shape of our son, every solid inch of him ablaze with rage and frustration, I see that his gentleness might, in the right circumstances, be overcome.

  “John. Please.” I want to take his hand, but he’s walking too fast. Instead I skitter in his wake, hobbled by my pretty, foolish shoes and the skirt I chose because it makes my waist slender and waify. The staff must be watching and judging us. No wonder Joel has problems, they must be thinking. Look how he treats his wife. Look how she lets him. Poor Joel. I want to do better, I want to help John build a better relationship with his son. I will do better. I’ll find a way. “John, please, don’t walk so fast, I need to talk to you.”

  “Let’s get to the car before we start the post-mortem,” John hisses, and flings the entrance door open.

  “Be careful.”

  “What? In case I break it? This door? This door with reinforced glass?” John slams the door savagely shut again, pulling me out of the way as it rebounds from its frame. “This door is as tough as old boots. Now stop worrying about what people think and get in the car, will you? Please? Can we do that? And then go somewhere private and talk like adults? Please, love?”

  I climb meekly into the car and sit quiet and still. The tyres squeal as he reverses out of the parking space and accelerates towards the gate, turning right across a gap in the traffic that I would dismiss as far too small. Ordinarily I would plead with him to slow down, be more careful, but not today. Today I stare steadily ahead out of the windscreen, and don’t let myself flinch.

  “Mrs Harper? It’s Rachel from school.” Rachel can convey the essence of her whole message with the subtle inflections of her greeting. When the message is merely administrative, her opening words are It’s Rachel from school, don’t worry, Joel’s fine. She hasn’t said this so I know something’s happened, but her calmness means the something is not a disaster, not something I haven’t had to contend with before.

  “Hi there.”

  “I’m afraid Joel’s run away again. He’s left the premises. He got upset during Maths, and when his teacher tried to talk to him he got quite distressed and ran out of the classroom. Mr Uxley did try to follow him but obviously he can’t leave the other pupils unattended and Joel was running quite fast. It’s only just happened, literally five minutes ago.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, thanks for letting me know.”

  “What would you like us to do next? We can call the police for you? Or you can wait a little while and see if he turns up at home.”

  “I’ll give him half an hour. He usually comes straight home.” The shame of this being a usually, an incident whose unfolding I can predict with weary accuracy.

  “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll make a note to say that you’re aware and you’ll be looking out for him. If there are any problems at all, if he doesn’t turn up as expected, you know we’re here to help. And of course don’t hesitate to phone the police, they can take the report from you as well as from us.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks again.”

  “Now, because this has happened several times, we do need to call you in for another formal meeting to discuss where we go from here. Of course right now you’ll just want to make sure Joel’s safe, but if you could give the office a call tomorrow?”

  “That’s fine, I’ll d
o that.”

  “And if we could ask that both yourself and your husband attend?”

  My heart sinks. “Yes, that’s fine.” It’s not fine. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Outside the car, the brown waters of the Humber roll swiftly past under a lemony autumn sky. The short drive hasn’t given the car time to warm up and my hands and feet are cold. We sit side by side and watch the waves. I’m determined not to break the silence. I’m often determined to do things like this. I never succeed.

  “Are you angry with me?” The frightened little-girl falter in my voice makes me ashamed, then glad. This is my secret strength. John can never be truly angry with me when I remind him that I’m weaker than him.

  He brings my hand to his lips, pressing them hard against the knuckles. Then he gently opens up my fingers and spreads my palm across his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s kissing me, or begging me to keep him silent. We watch the river rolling and rolling, a ceaseless flow of water that gives the paradoxical impression of permanence. A man walking his dog glances greedily in through the window. I wonder what we look like to him. A courting couple, seeking somewhere quiet to talk, or secret lovers snatching a stolen half-hour. Surely we can’t look like failing parents to a troubled boy who’s being slowly torn apart between the two opposing poles of his parents. Surely no one would guess that.

  “We have to be on the same side about this,” John says at last. His voice is indistinct around my hand.

  “We are on the same side.”

  “No, we’re not. You keep undermining me. You don’t tell me what’s going on. You hide things from me. All that stuff that Elliott bloke said to us today, and I didn’t know any of it! Because you hid it from me.” He lets my hand fall. “Susannah, tell me the truth. Did you not tell me because you thought if I knew, I wouldn’t love Joel any more?”

  “No, of course it isn’t. I just… I just…” I want John to interrupt me, to fill in the blanks for me, but he sits and waits instead. “I wanted to give Joel some space. Okay? To get himself back on track. I knew you’d be angry if you found out and I didn’t want you to be angry with him—”