In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  He opens the drawer, takes out his tobacco and stands.

  “Was there anything else?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head and leaves the room, brushing me with his shoulder as he passes.

  When he disappears from view, I take a flyer for judo lessons from his ‘staff-room’ pile, scrunch it into a ball and shoot it perfectly into the waste-paper basket. It doesn’t even touch the rim. Puts me two points ahead in the game.

  Coventry

  I walk into the smoking room and wonder what I’ve missed.

  Carol and Mildred squint at me like I’m a bright light then look away as if I’m hurting their eyes.

  “How’s the morning been?” I ask.

  Neither of them speak.

  Mildred flicks the ash from her cigarette with the long, red nail of her thumb. The ash lands dead centre in the ash-tray. I reckon she’d make a great dominatrix. Perhaps that’s what Carpenter sees in her.

  Don’t know what he sees in his wife, though.

  Carol’s just staring into space like a hurt child with podgy cheeks.

  “Anybody watch the Street last night?” It’s just about the only thing outside of teaching that we can hold a conversation about.

  No response.

  “Me neither,” I say and lean over to pick up the Times Educational Supplement. It’s amazing the tips you can pick up in there. “Twenty ways to make a butterfly,” I read out loud.

  They both stand at the same time, like they’re psychic or something. They bend down to stub out their smokes like they’ve practised the synchronisation and totter off on their stilettos with clickety-clacks that wouldn’t be out of place in the military.

  I look down at their cigarettes, three-quarters ignored and bent out of shape like soldiers on a First World War advance.

  “People in glass houses,” I say to myself, wondering just how long it will be before anyone in the opposition trenches speaks to me again.

  verbals

  “A verbal warning,” I say so loudly they can probably hear me downstairs. “You might as well take his shoes off and tickle his feet with a feather.”

  Alistair and Wendy, our chair of Governors, sit side-by-side presenting a united front. They sit as reflections of each other and I wonder if it’s something they learned on some course or other.

  “We feel,” Wendy says, “that there are a number of factors to be considered here, not least a man’s career.”

  “And we all need a little consideration every now and again, don’t we Joe?” There he goes again, looking at me like he knows something. He might as well lift his finger and tap the side of his nose.

  “He hit a kid. A five-year-old kid. A kid in my care.”

  “Child,” Wendy says. “He hit a child. A kid is a young goat.” She’s looking down her nose at me, which is a hell of a long way for her to be looking. The way her beak sticks out like a ski-slope from her face.

  The point’s made, though. These are the people who have power and I’m the one without. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is. Clearly I’ve a lot to learn.

  “You’re not going to change your minds?”

  “No.”

  “And what about the parents?”

  “Alistair acted perfectly professionally with them. They came in today and everyone’s satisfied with the outcome.” It’s like she’s laid her trump card on the table.

  “Everyone is satisfied, isn’t that right Joe?” Alistair’s talking like I’ve never seen him before, like he’s stripped himself of all emotion. I remember that his father was a judge and it makes some sense. “Because if they’re not, they might need to start looking for another job.”

  There’s nothing to say. My colours are pinned to the mast and so are theirs. The only difference is that theirs are a hell of a lot higher.

  I move to stand up and half way up I’m not so sure.

  “Need I remind you of your responsibilities?” she asks.

  I wonder if I should ask her the very same question.

  “As we have the privacy of the child’s family and Mr Carpenter’s family to consider, you’re professionally bound to keep this to yourself. Any breech of this could end up in us taking action.”

  I straighten my legs at last and leave.

  “Phil Carpenter,” I mutter. “Your golden goose.”

  I walk down the steps only one at a time wondering what on Earth made me think they’d do the right thing.

  If they’re not going to slay him, maybe it’s time for me to sort things out in my own way. Wouldn’t be the first time. Unlikely to be the last.

  rotten in Denmark

  It’s been one of those sessions where I can hardly stop myself talking.

  Carpenter’s off the hook. Wolf’s filling my life with darkness and the stench of cabbage. Emma’s pulling me around on a lead as if I’m a dog. Mike needs to know what the hell’s going on in my life and Jenny’s stopped calling.

  Inside it’s like there are hot insects crawling beneath my skin. Like they’re trying to escape. I say so.

  “You say you feel rage, yet when you talk to me it’s like you’re reading me a bed-time story.

  I start again. Put a bit more into it this time. Use my hands to gesture.

  “Something’s rotten in Denmark,” I tell him, looking right at his spectacle lenses for the first time this evening.

  I grind to a halt. Should know better than to mention Shakespeare. He might just call me on it. I’m thinking about how to change the subject, but it’s already too late.

  “Rotten in Denmark you say?” I wish he’d left that one alone.

  He’s leaning forwards like he’s caught me out, making a bridge of his fingers the way he does when he’s going to ask me something that makes me writhe in my seat.

  “Yeah, well...” Nothing I can do now.

  “Are you aware that my wife’s Danish?” It’s so left-field it’s practically Notting Hill. “That I spend at least one of my holidays in Denmark ever year?”

  If it’s a trick question, I reckon he’s got me.

  I do a quick scan of the room to see if there’s a clue that I’ve been missing.

  There’s the painting of the leaning flower bending back as if asking for salvation; the photograph of Highbury in 1912; the array of certificates from the best universities; and the ‘You don’t have to be mad to come here, but it helps’ card. Not a hint of Europe.

  “No,” I tell him absolutely honesty.

  “Are you certain?”

  “One-hundred per-cent.” Now it sounds like I’m on a quiz show.

  “Mm,” he mutters and takes the top from his fountain pen to note something down.

  By the time he’s done, I’m done too. Nothing to see here.

  smashing

  The music’s been getting on my nerves too, but I don’t get so wound up I punch a window.

  Wolf, on the other hand, doesn’t see it from my perspective.

  It comes from nowhere, the fist.

  My reflection’s there one second and gone the next.

  The beat from the party next door carries on with its thump, thump, thump and at the same time Wolf’s thump meets the fresh air.

  Miraculously, it looks like he’s unscathed. It’s a millisecond I have to see it, but his skin’s perfectly intact.

  The chattering voices from the garden get louder and my kettle bubbles as loudly as it can manage.

  “Scumbags,” Wolf shouts as if he’s trying to drown everything else out.

  He pulls his arm back in.

  Big mistake.

  There’s a sound I didn’t hear when it was going the other way, like the tearing of a dress.

  Soon as the hand’s back in, Wolf looks at it. His expression’s mainly blank, though the eye-brows curl as if he’s curious.

  He smiles. Thank goodness it’s OK. I slap him on the shoulder. “That was close, you stupid bastard,” I tell him.

  He grins back. He looks insane.

  His arm drops t
o his side.

  I look down for a final check.

  All’s well until the first of the drips.

  A red circle the size of a ten-pence piece forms on the lino.

  It’s quickly joined by another. Then another. And before long, there’s not a circle to be seen. It’s like Red River without the cattle crossing.

  “Jesus,” I say and my first-aid training must have flown out of the window along with the steam from the kettle.

  I get it together. Grab a clean towel from the drawer. Wrap up the hand as tightly as I can and get him to hold his arm above his head.

  “Scumbags,” he says. “Scumbags.” It’s the only word he’s got left inside.

  I leave him rocking backwards and forwards as I go to the phone and punch the number 999.

  the girl in the striped pyjamas

  I’m in heaven.

  Under the duvet, Emma’s head rests on my arm. Her whistling breaths make the cutest of snores.

  I don’t want to sleep. Better, I reckon, to take it all in – the way her hair tickles my chest, the shape her breast makes as it pops out of my striped pyjamas and squashes itself against me, the warmth and the dim light of the candles.

  I think of Wolf in the hospital, feel bad that I didn’t wait around. Still, there was nothing I could do while he was in surgery and he won’t be coming round till the morning.

  This is the kind of bliss the word was created for. It’s so good I need a smoke.

  Rolling to one side, trying desperately not to wake her, I reach for my tobacco tin.

  The thing’s just out of reach.

  I shunt myself up and across, sense that she’s stirring, and pause.

  Once convinced she’s still asleep, I go for the last push, get my fingertips onto the lid. Enough to be able to apply some pressure.

  I get it to tilt onto an edge and push harder.

  I’m about to get a proper grip when there’s a sound like thunder in the hall.

  “Jesus,” I say, forgetting about my post-coital bliss.

  Emma’s eyes open in a flash. It’s like she’s been wide-awake all along. “Roger!” Her voice is panic.

  Before I can do anything she’s up, stumbling around in the pyjamas as she tries to take them off. It would be comical in different circumstances.

  “But how?” I don’t really have a question to ask beyond that.

  The thunder at the door doesn’t stop. If anything it’s louder and more ferocious. I think about the neighbours upstairs, wonder if they’ve forgiven me for the music at my birthday party yet.

  I hear the splintering of wood.

  No point losing the door, I go over and get the latch. Doesn’t matter if Emma’s dressed or not, we’re rumbled and that’s that.

  The lock turns. Soon as it does, the door flies open. Catches me on the side of the head.

  In comes Roger like Raging Bull in a China shop.

  “Hello Roger.” I say it like I was expecting him. Like he’s popping in for a cup of tea and a slice of toast.

  He passes me and doesn’t say anything.

  First he goes to the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  He turns and stares. His face is fury. Furled eye-brows and lips straight and deadly serious. A dark, stubbled face like a huge ball on top of a barrel-shaped lumber-jack shirt. “Where is she?”

  I think of “Who?” as an answer. It seems too pathetic. “In there,” I tell him, pointing to the bedroom.

  This is the second door to slam. I think of the neighbours first, then the wallpaper.

  She’s sitting on the bed which has clearly seen some action, the duvet piled to one side, a great wet patch on the sheet.

  “Get dressed.” Roger’s voice is full of authority. I get the funny feeling this isn’t the first time he’s had to do this.

  “Who’s got the children?” is what Emma asks. It’s hard to believe she can be so rational. Maybe it’s parental instinct coming through.

  “Get dressed.” He uses the same even tones. “I’m taking you home.”

  “I can drive,” she says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re pissed. Again.”

  He has a point, but I feel I should try something. “It’s true. She only had...”

  “Shut it.” This time he’s threatening. He goes back to ignoring me. It’s like I’m in the wings of the stage watching the action and no lines to enter with.

  I play my part as it seems to have been written.

  Emma dresses. It’s not the slow, seductive dressing I’ve become accustomed to savouring.

  Roger turns on the main light and all illusions are shattered. I’m just a low-down, adulterous prick who should know better. It sickens me to feel that cold truth. Sickens me more when the urge to argue with myself rises. “But I love her.” I force the voice away. Send it to another place. Let the guilt and the self-hate take root and grow.

  He’s quick to snuff all the candles. Does it with his fingers and hasn’t even bothered to lick them first. “We’re going for a walk,” he instructs and she follows him as they exit stage left.

  brief encounter

  Carpenter flounces into the smoking room.

  “Good morning,” he says with his Sunday best grin.

  Carol and Mildred chirp back like the dawn chorus.

  I need to leave before my breakfast reappears. Wonder if it was wise to have gone for a fry up in the café when I couldn’t bear lying in bed any longer.

  Mildred stretches out her leg, watches her toes bob up and down and clears her throat in the way she always does when she thinks she’s got something right.

  Carol wheezes a few instructions. “You’ll need the trumpet parts for Dambusters and thirty sets of ‘Rhythm of Life’.”

  “OK darling,” Carpenter says, camp as you like, and presses the button on the photocopier.

  I’m about to leave the room and let them get on with whatever sick games they want to play when I see Roger walking past the window.

  Roger never drops Sheena off.

  Only 3 places he can be going.

  The office, down here or to Alistair’s room.

  I just manage to get to the waste-paper-basket before I re-introduce my egg, beans and tomatoes to the world.

  black and blue

  Back from puking up my guts, I open the door to a tidal wave of enthusiasm.

  I notice Don straight away.

  He doesn’t smile at me the way he normally does and limps over to his peg with his head down fumbling with his buttons.

  His dad stands out under the trees by himself, dragging the sleeve of his denim jacket under his nose then adjusting the collar to stop the drips getting in. Hard to tell whether he’s coming up or coming down.

  Zlatan’s parents are under the trees, too, handsome as film stars. They look over at me and offer a half-smile. There’s something sad about their faces, like they have generations of hardship pressing down on their heads.

  I want to go over. Put my arms round them and brush their world away. Ask them about their son being hit and what they want to do about it. If they could speak English maybe I would, in spite of Alistair’s warning to keep things quiet.

  But they don’t.

  A pair of arms hug my left leg and another pair hug my right.

  Feeling the children’s care, I almost forget my woes.

  And then I see Alistair coming through from next door, Carol Carpenter in tow, the creases on their brows like war paint.

  office

  I’ve been in his office too many times this week.

  Carol’s covering the class so he can ‘have a word’.

  Five minutes I’ve been waiting. It’s the psychology he applies to the kids when they’re sent along. “Make them sweat,” he’s told me many times. “The first rule.”

  I hear the door close behind me. Know it’s him by the nicotine smell from his clothes. Like Patchouli oil on a hippy.

  He passes me and walks behind his desk, dropping his narrow
frame into his chair.

  He starts the ‘second rule’ routine. “Don’t say a word,” he once said. “Give them enough rope.”

  I suppose the hooded lids are the ‘third rule’, but I’ve never heard him get that far.

  Seeing all of this unfold makes me want to laugh, which is better than wanting to puke.

  Here he is, this guy that’s half my size treating me like a five-year-old. It’s a joke.

  “Well?” I ask, unwilling to play along. If he’s going to fire me, he might as well just get it done. I feel myself willing him to do it, to see the discomfort in his eyes.

  He leans forwards, the hoods over his eyes get bigger and I see I’ve got it all wrong.

  “Donald McGregor’s mother,” he says, “died last night.”

  Feels like I’ve been pushed by an invisible force and I slump back into my chair.

  “Fuck,” I say, not even caring whether Alistair will excuse the me or not.

  “Donald was the one who found her,” he says, “In the bath with a syringe sticking out of her arm.”

  “Jesus.”

  “We thought it was better for him to come in. Keep things normal as possible, you know?”

  “Who’s looking after him?” I ask. It’s like my professional button’s been pressed.

  He hoods his eyes even further. His fingers pick open a desk drawer and he takes out his cigarettes. “Mr McGregor.”

  “Out of the frying pan.”

  Alistair stands. “Let’s talk about it over a smoke,” he says.

  I follow him out of the room and down the stairs and punch the wall. I can’t decide whether it might not have been easier if I’d just been given the boot.

  the undertakers

  After the day I’ve had, taking the kids down to Chalk Farm for their football match is the last thing I need.

  It’s a joke me being the coach of a team. Like choosing a blind man to be lookout. The kids haven’t worked that out, though. They still listen to me as if I know what I’m talking about.

  The boys are off playing Holy Trinity.

  Hard as nails the Trinity kids, and pretty damned good at the game. I glance over every so often to watch one of our boys picking the ball out of the net.