In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  Drips are running down her face even though I know she’s only had to run in from her car. “Hi,” she says. Her smile is wide, her eyes look playful.

  “Aye, aye,” Moira says. “I didn’t see that on the lunch menu, did you Thin?”

  Thin just grins.

  Emma ignores them. “Sparkling water with ice.” She passes me her bag, walks over to stairs down to the toilets and disappears.

  Moira and Thin let their eyes follow her all the way. When they look at each other they raise their eyebrows. “You ever find out anything that might help the case?” Moira asks.

  “I was going to call.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “The boy’s only just back at school. ”

  “We don’t have much to go on.” Surely she shouldn’t be telling me that. “Might have helped if that tosser from the telly hadn’t tried to milk the attack. Reckon he was enjoying playing hero.”

  It seems like it’s about time I left the mat. I go over to the bar and the girl behind it stops pretending to read her magazine and looks at me.

  “Sparkling water and a Coke, please.”

  “We’ll be going, now, Joe isn’t it?” Must have made impression. Just for now I’m not convinced it was a good one. “Make sure you give us a call this time.” From downstairs the humming of a blow-dryer.

  Moira presses a card into my hand. Looks me down and up as she gathers up her things. “Enjoy your lunch.” I have no appetite. “I would. She’s bloody gorgeous.”

  She claws the air and growls as she wanders over to a table by the window, Thin following close behind.

  so very hard to do

  I usually like it when Emma’s excited. She’s like a blood transfusion when she’s happy, full of nutrients and tonic. This time I want her to stop, to find the switch that will turn her off.

  “So he wasn’t happy. Course he wasn’t. But he’s a grown man. Christ he’s over 40. And he’s been more interested in the football than me for years.” She sips at her water. There’s no pause. “He’ll get access to the kids and everything. He’ll see more of them than ever before and it means it’ll be just you and me at the weekends.”

  My body shivers. I feel hot. I’m sure my face is expanding as she speaks. “Did he say anything about me?”

  She takes a longer sip this time. I reckon it’s a pause for thought. An internal search for the spin that will keep me cool.

  “He’s not your biggest fan,” which tells me nothing. “You look worried. Don’t be. He’s not going to come after you or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  It’s exactly what I’m thinking.

  There’s an ache in my kidneys and my whole body feels chilled. My brain starts crunching through the gears. My turn to find a spin that will work. First thing is I need to change the subject.

  “That thing yesterday. With the lipstick and the flowers. It was cute.”

  Breaking all her habits when we’re on show, she sits in close and rests her head on my shoulder. She giggles, bites me neck ever so gently and thanks me.

  “Are you not curious?” she asks.

  “I’m always curious.”

  She sits up again. “The surprise.”

  She pulls the jumper over her head. Looks around to make sure the barmaid’s not looking and unbuttons her blouse. I know I’m supposed to be dumping the girl, but it turns me on, even so.

  She hums the stripper tune as she proceeds. ‘Da da da....’ and in a sudden flurry pulls her blouse apart.

  There, on the side of her perfectly formed breast, its bright reds and greens practically jumping from her pale skin, is the tattoo of a rose.

  “Wow,” is all I manage.

  “Like it?”

  “Love it.” I move my lips down to kiss her art. To hide my face.

  “Steady on. I only had it done yesterday. You can play all you like next week.”

  “A tattoo.” It’s clearly a ridiculous thing to say.

  “For you.”

  “For me?”

  She nods her head.

  Jeepers.

  “So you better pack some things for the weekend.” I’m not sure I understand. Move my face in such a way that I hope she sees that. “He’s moving out Saturday.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “What?”

  “I need to go to Preston again.” It was the first thing I could think of.

  “You’ve only just been.”

  “Family business.”

  Her teeth stick out a little as she looks bemused.

  I reach over and hold her hand. She snatches it away and starts buttoning up.

  “Don’t tell me.” Now she’s looking angry. “You met someone else at your cousin’s wedding.”

  The slap she gives me is totally unexpected. Gets me right on the cheek and the snap echoes round the room. Doesn’t hurt, though, just embarrasses me even though Thin and Scott are out of view.

  Seize the day, I think. Just tell her. It can’t get any worse, surely.

  “Course I didn’t,” comes out of my mouth.

  She calms a little. “So who gave you the ring?”

  It’s my turn to laugh, as if I’m off the hook. “I got it yesterday. Camden market.” My relief must be obvious. How good it feels to be telling some truth.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Promise,” I say.

  And she kisses me again, sliding her arm between my legs and giving me a stroke.

  post-meridian

  The whole afternoon I’ve been useless.

  Choosing is what we’re doing. Playing and mucking around. Even the kids are bored, poor things.

  I can’t sit still. The tensions eating away at my insides like cancer. Anyone comes in and asks what I’m up to I’ll be in the shit, that’s for sure.

  Pacing’s best. Over to the home-corner and then to the sand, the biggest diagonal in the room.

  Life’s looming heavy on me, like a cloud following me around wherever I go. Wouldn’t matter if the cloud was raining, either. My clothes are soaked, half of them hanging on the radiator, the enormous white cast iron thing that gives out about as much heat as a hamster running in a wheel.

  I touch my brow. It’s hot and clammy. I’m definitely coming down with something.

  “Can we have some more red?” Bonnie’s there, holding out her empty paint pot like something from Oliver Twist.

  It snaps me out of my self-concern for a moment. I put my hand on her shoulder. Put out a weak smile. Get the bottle of paint from the shelf and squeeze red into the pot. The act helps.

  Then I return to my thoughts.

  How the hell can I finish with a woman who’s had a tattoo for me and has the house up for sale? It’s like a bed of nails - I made it and have to lie on it.

  Can’t see how I can finish with Jenny either. I don’t even want to. Getting rid of her would be like cutting off an arm. No, two. And a leg. Which means running away is out of the question.

  I start to pace again.

  Soon as I turn I hear the door open.

  “Right children,” I shout, “We need to tidy up our work so I can read our story.”

  Alistair paces into the room like he owns the place. I guess to all intents and purposes, he does.

  He goes straight over to Don who has black paint over both his hands and all around his nose. I imagine the question he’s preparing to unleash – ‘so what have you learned in school this afternoon?’

  I’m over in a flash, practically knocking Marie over as she scrunches up paper for the bin.

  “Alistair,” I blurt, “Can I have a word about this evening.”

  He stands up.

  Mission accomplished.

  “The video camera.”

  He nods.

  “What’s the best way of cleaning the lens?”

  It’s a stroke of genius.

  Alistair has several methods which he explains in great detail, me nodding at ever pause and every gesture wi
th the hands to show exactly how interested I am.

  crying in the chapel

  The orchestra is raising the roof with their version of the Dambusters theme. I close my eyes and it’s like I’ve gone back to the war, bouncing bombs off water.

  If the baby hadn’t started crying, I might have fallen asleep.

  Even with the symbols crashing, the kid wails like an air-raid siren.

  To me it just blends in with the music, but Carpenter clearly feels differently. He tries turning round and smiling, then staring and in the end cuts the music to a halt. He walks over to the audience, cheeks bright red. Stands there pouting for a moment and begins to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He sounds more well-to-do than ever. “I’d like to thank you for coming along. As you know, the children have worked extremely hard to prepare for tonight.” His hands move limply at the end of his arms. “So if you have any children who can’t settle, please consider taking them outside.”

  Challenging parents to take their babies into the snow doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. Doesn’t seem like a good idea to one member of the audience either.

  “For God’s sake Carpenter, it’s a primary school concert not the Royal Albert Hall.” It’s William Words, our top celeb. Working his way back in the world of TV after many years acting in films.

  There’s a small ripple around the room. Whether it’s for or against Words, I’ve no idea.

  Carpenter goes back to the keyboard, clearly rattled.

  I’d be celebrating the mess if I didn’t have problems of my own.

  Imagining I’ve captured all the embarrassment on tape, I look at the viewfinder to see it’s completely dark.

  I press some buttons. Give the thing a tap. Try turning it on and off.

  “Battery,” some old guy who’s chewing the stem of his pipe says in the kind of voice that suggests he knows he’s right.

  And he is. I watch the Dambusters come to its end and there’s whole-school finale to come. The parents’ll lynch me if miss it.

  Crapsticks.

  I look in the case. There’s no spare.

  I look at the man who’s still chewing his pipe. He shrugs his shoulders.

  The kids walk on to finish the night.

  Maybe if I drop the camera, I could say it was damaged. I look down. Chances are it would land on someone. Can’t be risked.

  I think about jumping. If only heights didn’t scare me to death.

  after-show

  The applause goes on for ages then the crowd heads for the door.

  There’s a lovely, Christmassy feel to everything.

  Emma looks up and pulls on her black fur coat. Blows me a kiss on the sly, or at least I hope it’s on the sly.

  Beneath me, the rattle of coins in the collection buckets plays the final tune of the evening.

  I become aware of a small crowd gathering round the keyboard.

  Will Words walks over to Carpenter, his hands up in a gesture of peace. Reckon Mrs Words has suggested he make an apology.

  “I’m really so sorry,” he says, the low rumble of his trained voice reaching me up all the way up here.

  Carpenter steps over.

  He throws a punch, if that’s what you can call it. More like a girl’s slap, I’d say. Hits Words somewhere in the face. Knocks his glasses onto the floor.

  Three or four people, Alistair and Carol among them, hold Carpenter back as he strains to get in for more. He’s doing a great job of the old ‘hold me back’ routine. I curse the fact that there’s no power in the battery.

  I say nothing, but I’m trying to send a message by ESP. “Kill the bugger, Will. Go and kill the bugger.”

  Mrs Words steps in. Puts her arm round Will who’s looking at his glasses, trying to bend them back into the right shape.

  Looks like the show’s over.

  Shame.

  Words would have made mincemeat of the old git.

  round midnight

  My dreams are like a Chagall, flying in colour on clouds and through time.

  When the phone wakes me I don’t move. Eight rings and it stops.

  Before I can turn over onto my side, it rings again.

  “Nobody home,” I tell it, reaching over and pulling the cable from the socket in the wall.

  words and music

  Carol’s kept a low profile. Didn’t see her except when she hurried over to the lunch hall. I presume she was wearing the sunglasses to hide her shame. Either that or a hangover.

  Carpenter’s off sick.

  Funny that.

  Upset stomach they’re saying.

  I’d do a bit more than upset his stomach if I had the chance.

  While I’m having my postprandial smoke, Sal runs in, balancing her bits and pieces like Buckaroo. Somehow she’s managing to carry her bag, a mug of coffee, newspaper and an armful of exercise books all at once, not to mention the sandwich hanging from her mouth and a cigarette shoved behind her ear.

  She dumps everything on the table, slips off her shoes, goes back to the door and looks around.

  “Hey, you’ve got to see this.” She tiptoes back in, her big toe sticking out of her 70 denier tights, and thumbs at the paper.

  When she gets to the page she wants, she picks up her sandwich and stuffs it in, so that her next words are hard to understand. “Middle of the page,” I think she says.

  It’s the early edition of the Standard.

  I see why she’s so excited. ‘Words And Music Clash’. Nice.

  The story hardly scratches the surface. Teacher hits TV man is the way it’s written. School and star refuse to give a comment.

  I get out a pen. Write the journalist’s name on my hand. Eddie Doyle.

  Reckon he might like to know that Carpenter hits kids, too. Put that upset stomach through some real distress.

  the stitch up

  The stand-in secretary called Alistair out as soon as I sat down. Poor thing’s never going to get the hang of it. Makes me stressed just being near her.

  I look out of the window at the bare trees, admire their ability to sway in the wind. If I were a tree, reckon I’d be broken at the first sign of a storm.

  “Sorry Joe,” Alistair says as he comes back in, closing the door behind him.

  “What can I do you for?”

  He takes his time getting to his chair. I think I’m supposed to feel the weight of the importance of our meeting as he lowers himself onto the cushion. He clears his throat and begins.

  “How did the video go?”

  I sit up a little straighter to compensate for the deflation I feel inside. Decide it’s better to come clean. “Didn’t turn out too well to be honest.”

  “Really?” Alistair sits forward. I look at the yellow stains on his fingers as he knits them together, smell the tobacco on his breath. Remind myself to buy some gum.

  “Something went wrong at the beginning of one piece and then the batteries packed up on me.”

  “What about the spare?”

  Red-handed catch. “I forgot it.”

  Alistair throws up his hands. Practically claps then sits back in his chair.

  Looks like my bollocking’s not coming after all. I allow myself to slip down in my seat. Stretch out my legs and cross them at the ankles. Notice my jumper has a hole in one of the purple stripes and fiddle around until I find the loose end.

  “So you didn’t film the...weren’t filming when...didn’t record the incident?”

  This time I sit forward. Want to bang my head on the table. I should have known better.

  “Sadly no.”

  He gives me a funny look. His body stiffens as he stares.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” I ask. “After the written warning his career must be on the line. I’d like to see the scumbag wriggle out of that one.”

  I don’t like the way his eye-brows rise up or the way the creases take over his forehead.

  “I should remind you we’re all professionals and should treat each other as such.�
��

  “Professionals don’t go hitting the kids in their care. In Loco Parentis, remember? In place of the parent and all that.”

  He flexes his fingers as if he’d like to throw a punch himself. I’d have him for breakfast and he knows it.

  “It might be difficult to understand at your tender age, Joe, but sometimes life gets in the way.”

  Thirty-three years old I am and I’ve walked through more shit than most’ll see in a lifetime. “So what’s going to happen?”

  “At the moment, Mr Carpenter’s off sick.” The Mister’s supposed to set the tone, I guess. “We can deal with the rest when he returns.”

  “But the written warning?”

  “I’m sorry to inform you that, due to some,” he clears his throat, “complications in the office, the letter was never actually sent.”

  It’s not happening. Can’t be. The room’s not real, the desk, the chair or the voices in my head.

  I stand and look around to see what’s going on.

  Nothing changes.

  “You said he’d received a written warning.”

  “And he should have. Then Cilla went off sick and the temp stormed out the day it should have gone out. Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” My teeth are grinding. I want to grab his shirt. Pull him over the top of his desk and give him the kind of kicking a gang of bikers would give a rogue mod on a Brighton beach. “You can stick your fucking sorry. You can stick your professionalism and all. He’ll wish last night had never happened when I speak to the press.”

  I feel like a winner. Like Spartacus. So I’m not ready.

  He lunges forward. Grabs my jumper and gives it a stretch.

  The bugger’s stronger than I thought.

  “Listen Joe.” He’s right in my face. The smell of cigarettes mingles with the rot of halitosis as he spits his words at me. “Speak to anyone about this and you’re done. It’s your professional responsibility to keep this to yourself.”

  I’m closer to him now than I like to be with any man. Best way out would be a butt to the nose. My head tilts back without being told, my neck muscles like a coiled spring.