Head Start

by Judith Cutler

  We shared a smile at the good news.

  Two of the names in front of me were familiar: Robert and Sophia. ‘Did they just drop out?’

  ‘Yes. Christmas. Dropped? I’d have loved to have pushed them from a great height.’

  I could have sworn the door moved infinitesimally. But by the time I’d got from behind my desk and flung it wide open, there was no one there. My stomach sank. I had a nasty feeling a child had overheard him. He knew he was joking; I knew he was joking. But taken right out of context it might have been construed as a fairly inappropriate comment. Shrugging, I returned to our conversation.

  ‘Did you get a note saying they weren’t coming any more? From Mrs Gough or from the parents?’

  ‘No. Not in all the time I’ve been coming. Neither had ever borrowed an instrument to take home, so that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. Problem?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been,’ I said, not sure I was telling the truth, ‘but Ofsted’s obsessed with paperwork. They want everything recorded. Dates and everything,’ I said, tapping the vague list. ‘Any you can remember, anyway. And next time – to save my bacon – any time a child says they’re giving up, say they can’t till you’ve had a letter from their parents and talked to me. What interests me, you see, is what they’re up to when they’re not with you. Have they gone back to regular classes as they ought, or are they up to something else?’

  ‘You’ve got a nasty suspicious mind, if I may say so. OK, I take your point. Parents’ letters and a sample of DNA – right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The first job, then, was to check if the ex-musicians had given up with their parents’ permission, and what they were doing when they should have been training to become world-class violinists or whatever. It would be hard to tell unless the teachers had sharp memories. Over the top it might be in a tiny school like this, but in an ideal world children would be registered not just for morning and afternoons as they were here, but for individual sessions. My brain groaned for my poor colleagues even as I pondered the idea. Meanwhile I would email the parents of the dropouts to confirm that they had permission to quit. Next, an email to the remaining children’s parents, to explain what we hoped to do and why, and asking permission for their child to be involved. I copied both to all the governors, of course: those I worked with yesterday might have earned haloes, but they could return to normal today. Then I did what I should have done an hour ago: I phoned Richard for news of Rosie.

  ‘She’s already talking about coming back to school,’ he said, his voice almost breaking with relief. ‘But I’m saying she shouldn’t while it’s so icy.’

  ‘I’ll bring some work round for her when you think she’s ready,’ I said.

  ‘Would you really do that? That’s very kind.’ He sounded as if he meant it.

  I made a note. And remembered, in time for me to wish them well and wave them off, that today Will and Sukie were going to the sports centre with Tom. By the time I got back, actually thinking about lunch, I found Robert’s mother waiting in Melanie’s office, breathing fire.

  ‘I’m not furious with you, Ms Cowan. Don’t think that. This happened when no one was properly in charge. And some of us appreciate how hard you’ve been working to pull things together. I know Rob’s only skived a couple of weeks, but what I want to know is what he’s been doing when he should have been in his lesson?’

  ‘Me too, Ms Bowman,’ I said, ushering her into my office and closing the door. ‘Often we complain about Ofsted demanding all sorts of systems for recording apparently trivial matters, but at times like this we can see why they’re important. I’ve asked Ms Grove to come and see me as soon as she’s finished her class; would you care to wait here until I find out what she knows?’

  ‘I’d rather hear it from Helen Grove’s own lips,’ Ms Bowman declared. ‘She always says what a sweet child he is and here she is letting him get away with murder.’

  ‘It’s hardly her fault. As far as she’s concerned, Robert is still playing the fiddle with Mr Heath. But all the time he’s playing hookey. Oh dear. Sorry.’

  But Ms Bowman was laughing with me.

  Helen was practically in tears, however, when she joined us. ‘I’ve really let you down. And Robert.’

  Ms Bowman shook her head. ‘It’s Robert that’s let himself down. Lying little toad. What are you going to do, Ms Cowan?’

  ‘It’s more a case of what we all do. There must be some punishment, but only if you agree with it.’

  ‘Agree? I tell you, for the next few weeks he can wave his pocket money goodbye, and his computer time too. That’s what’ll happen at home: what’ll you do to back me up?’

  ‘I’m a great believer in making the punishment fit the crime—’

  ‘Like the Lord High Executioner!’ she said with a grin. ‘But you can’t make him do violin lessons again, surely. It’s not Mr Heath you want to punish.’

  If only all parents were like this one. ‘Shall we all give it some thought?’ I suggested. ‘Meanwhile, Ms Bowman, there are other slight problems. The first is trivial: although I specifically told the whole school that the corridor with the stockrooms is out of bounds until we’ve got rid of all the rubbish inside, almost immediately Robert tried to open one of the stockroom doors.’

  ‘Stockrooms? They were changing rooms in my day. They were until Mrs Gough came.’

  Why on earth? ‘Any idea why she should think it better for the children to change in their classrooms?’ I asked Helen.

  She shook her head: ‘Before my time.’

  ‘Anyway, I had to tell Robert off, obviously. In fact, I was quite fierce. Then I thought no more about it. Possibly you shouldn’t either – I just want you to have the full picture.’

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? Helen, what’s he done now?’

  She almost wriggled with embarrassment: ‘He’s such a lovely boy, normally. But he – the other day I found him rooting through my waste bin. I have an idea he’d been looking at things on my computer too. But it’s so uncharacteristic I didn’t like to challenge him.’

  ‘All little incidents,’ I said. ‘Hardly worth raising one’s voice for. But there is one other thing: you heard about yesterday’s accident? Obviously we have to find out what happened, and—’

  ‘You’re not saying he caused it. Please say he didn’t!’

  ‘I truly can’t say either way,’ I answered for her.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ She actually went white. ‘None of this is like him at all. Some things are just naughtiness. He’s a kid: you’d expect it. But breaking a child’s arm …’

  ‘We don’t know that. And even if he did mean to trip her – big if! – he probably didn’t expect her to fall as badly as that.’ I passed her a tissue. ‘Just as a matter of interest, did anything happen at home during the holidays?’

  ‘No. He did the work he’d been set – though he did find it very hard, and I had to sit with him to make sure it was done. He watched a bit of TV, played on his computer – not for very long, not compared with other children, at least. And I made sure he played outside with his mates – he likes his bit of football. His best Christmas present was an Arsenal shirt.’

  I looked up quickly. ‘I hope I didn’t throw away one of his old shirts when I started clearing out the stockroom.’

  She wrinkled her nose: ‘I’d put it another way – I hope he wasn’t one of the little swine that draped them all over your house. What goes wrong in their heads, Ms Cowan? Unlike some he’s got two parents, with no family problems at all. Everyone says they love him. And suddenly something throws a switch in his head and he goes off the rails.’

  ‘Not very far, I’m sure,’ Helen said fervently. ‘He’s done nothing really bad—’

  ‘Yet!’

  ‘We’ll all work together to make sure he doesn’t. Meanwhile,’ I said, ‘I’m wondering if he’s made a new friend who’s exerting a bit of influence. Some of his replies yesterday when I spoke to e
veryone about Rosie’s accident were remarkably like other children’s. Kids often do things differently when they’ve combined with others—’

  ‘Like in Lord of the Flies? That’s very reassuring, I don’t think.’

  ‘No pig-killing yet,’ Helen said. ‘Do you know what, I wonder if Robert should be given the job of cupboard tidying for the amount of time he’s skived. Public and useful. And when he’s finished he has an end result. If the weather was better I’d suggest litter-gathering, but I don’t want to delay his punishment.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Ms Bowman declared, ‘but double it. Tell me,’ she added as she got up to go, ‘did any other children get up to the same thing?’

  ‘You know I can’t name names, Ms Bowman—’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to. I just asked you if any others skived like this.’

  ‘I have asked some other parents if they had given permission for their child to withdraw from music, but no one has yet contacted me,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘If it turns out there’s a little gang of kids involved, I’d like to know. I’m sure the other parents would too.’

  I wasn’t so sure.

  I was even less sure when a reporter from the local paper rang me to ask if it was true that our resident music teacher had threatened violence against his pupils.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘I said to him I would make due enquiries and phone him back,’ I told Brian Dawes, who was looking decidedly less friendly than yesterday.

  ‘You didn’t ask him where the hell he’d got hold of the idea?’

  ‘I suspect I know all too well where he got hold of the idea, which is why I said the bare minimum. Look, if we were having a conversation in here and you said, “I could wring your neck,” would you expect the press to report that as a threat to kill me?’

  I’d actually made him laugh, if grimly. ‘I’d want to know how they got hold of the idea.’

  ‘You could probably assume I didn’t tell them. Which would mean either that the room was bugged or that someone eavesdropped. I know my role is important, but it hardly deals in state secrets. So I’d be tempted to assume the latter.’

  ‘Of course. And from the speed with which you summoned me, I gather you have a good idea who the eavesdropper might be?’ He stared first into his coffee then at me. ‘And that you believe a sensitive reaction is called for?’

  ‘Unless you want the Digbys to arrive with a solicitor again. Yes, Prudence. What I suspect she heard was Mr Heath saying he’d like to have dropped some of his pupils from a great height.’ I explained our skiving problem. ‘Incidentally, two of the kids who have contrived to give up music without telling their class teacher are two we thought might be involved in yesterday’s problem – Robert and Sophia. I don’t like any of this, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Has Prudence dropped out too?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Heath regards her as very promising – I believe she has her own cello at home and practises regularly.’

  ‘So why should she bear him any malice?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘But not as good as your original one. How else would this trivial conversation get out?’

  While he sipped the last of his coffee, I brought up Heath’s file. A quick check showed that his record was relatively up to date: Mrs Gough rated him very highly, as did the parents of those he taught. But all that was irrelevant – men now in jail for abusing their pupils probably had files full of admiring testimonials. Was violence more or less serious than sexual activity? If the man were suspended it could ruin his career, and perhaps for nothing. Almost certainly for nothing.

  At last I said, ‘My feeling is that we have to call the editor and say something. Even if it’s just that our enquiries are ongoing. And we do, however frail the story, have to talk to Fred Heath. And the other pupils. Hell, Brian – I hate this. It’s giving credence to – to a puff of air!’

  ‘And what do you intend to say?’

  ‘You know, I might just ask them if they can trust their source and remind them of the perils of circulating what could turn out to be libellous allegations. And promise them complete co-operation if the story does have any basis.’ I looked at my watch. It was the end of the afternoon already. ‘And then I have to see Sophia and Robert and their parents and find out where they were when they weren’t with Fred.’ And take the ball skills after-school club.

  The editor, Julie Freeman, who sounded as if she was about my age, agreed to check the source of the story. She certainly wouldn’t run it until she had. But if she thought there really was any basis in fact, she had no option.

  ‘I’d be the first to support you if there is,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, when are you going to run the story of our young tennis coach? I’m so proud of him, encouraging young players even though his own career was so cruelly cut short. At least tennis’s loss is teaching’s gain. I shall have another nice photo opportunity for you soon: The Jolly Cricketers are hosting an evening for us to ask the community for unwanted musical instruments, and to celebrate the fact that the cricketers themselves – I don’t know quite how jolly they are! – will be using the school playing field for future matches.’ I thought I might be over-egging the pudding if I mentioned that the accused teacher would be organising the concert.

  The two children were corralled into their usual classroom, together with their mothers. Ms Bowman kept a cold eye on her son, but Ms Wells’s fury seemed directed at me as I arrived two minutes late for our appointment. ‘Where have you got hold of the appalling idea that Sophia has given up violin lessons? It’s about time the school kept sensible records and didn’t rely on the feeble memories of … of incompetent staff. Sophia has begged to take her instrument home to practise, but Mr Heath has constantly omitted to lend her one.’

  Has he indeed? I made notes but didn’t reply. Instead I spoke to Sophia.

  ‘Sophia, did you go to your violin lesson today? No? And last week? Would you like to tell us why not? And why Mr Heath had the idea that you had given up?’

  ‘Don’t you mean dropped?’ she asked. She almost suppressed her smirk but not quite.

  ‘Dropped?’ I repeated. ‘As in eavesdropping?’

  She flushed scarlet. Bingo!

  ‘Whether or not you have abandoned your musical studies, you weren’t with Mr Heath this morning, nor were you in class. There is no record of your asking permission to leave the school for a medical appointment.’

  ‘Records!’ Ms Wells exploded. ‘I tell you this school has no notion of record-keeping. Ofsted complained about it. My husband’s a governor, you know.’

  ‘Record-keeping was an issue during Mrs Gough’s time; things have changed now. I repeat, Sophia, where were you this morning?’

  ‘I had to go to the loo. Miss – Ms – Grove must have forgotten.’

  ‘Forty minutes in the loo. You must have been very poorly. We should have called your mother and asked her to take you home. And what about you, Robert? Were you ill too? This week and last?’

  He made no attempt to dissemble: ‘I wanted to see in the stockroom.’

  ‘And how did you get in? They’re supposed to be kept locked, and even if one was left wide open you know that they’re out of bounds. You know that the whole corridor is out of bounds because I told everyone at assembly that it was, and because there are Keep Out signs, and because when I saw you trying to get into the corridor I told you off. I repeat, how did you get in?’

  He dropped his eyes and mumbled.

  ‘Louder,’ his mother snapped.

  ‘Don’t know.’ His eyes slid to Sophia’s. ‘Someone must have left the key in the lock.’

  ‘Really. How careless. Two weeks running, too. I shall have to check. But let me ask you this – if your mother left her front-door key on the desk here and forgot to pick it up, would it make it right for me to use it to get into your house? Robert? Sophia? Now, I am already late for the after-school club – which means that, because of you two,
twenty-five other children are being inconvenienced. Ms Bowman, Ms Wells, I can’t go any further with this tonight. I would be very grateful if you would talk to your children and consider what punishment is appropriate. I already have Ms Bowman’s suggestion, and you might want to co-ordinate yours with hers, Ms Wells. You both have my email address, and should feel free to contact me about this at any time. As for “dropping” things, Sophia, I think you have just “dropped” one of your friends into considerable trouble and managed to prevent injustice being done to a very good teacher. Thank you.’

  I enjoyed the after-school ball-skills session so much I almost hoped that, though I sincerely wanted Helen’s leg to recover quickly and completely, the physios might tell her to wait a few weeks before she tested it in the hall. As before, when the session was over my hair was wet with sweat; I was still panting when I called Julie Freeman to tell her I suspected a disgruntled pupil might be at the bottom of the violence story.

  ‘Glad to hear it: I suspected as much when I heard that all we had to go on was an anonymous phone call. The caller’s voice was very young, I’d say. I gather the photoshoot and interview with your Tom went very well. You will keep me in the loop about the other developments you were telling me about, won’t you?’

  Now I could return to my temporary home and have a power shower. I might have a mound of preparation to get through, but that could be done on the elegant dining table that occupied only one corner of a bright kitchen. Throughout it all, I would be warm.

  Warm but uneasy. Just because your head is dripping wet it doesn’t mean your brain is waterlogged too. What – or who! – could have transformed an easy-going loveable child into a bully capable of breaking a child’s arm – assuming Robert had indeed tripped or pushed young Rosie?

  And on the subject of transformations, why had Mrs Gough abandoned perfectly useful rooms for the less good practice of sending the boys out of their classrooms while the girls changed, and vice versa? Because she needed storage space, of course. Why else? A lot of storage space? Both rooms were indeed completely full.