Another Mother's Son

by Janet Davey

  ‘They’ve been spending money,’ I say.

  Cathy rolls her eyes. ‘Same old wages, my love, and longer hours. I haven’t had an upgrade.’

  I set off. The lighting is new but the heat is familiar. The springy carpet flows from the lobby into the corridor. I keep walking. I go through two sets of fire doors. I take off my mac. At a certain point I become aware of the sound of my heels and notice worn grey lino under my feet. I see nobody but suddenly the place is alive with muffled uproar. The walls hum with sounds of classroom strife. Without meaning to, I have strayed into a different building. I turn round, hoping to retrace my steps – more walking, more opening of fire doors. I go up a flight of stairs and find myself on an internal bridge that links two blocks together – maybe Grebe to Shearwater – and resembles the approach to a satellite terminal in a run-down part of an airport, though I am the only passenger. I check the time and pull off my jumper. As I emerge, I see that I have stopped next to a door. An ordinary, flush door, painted off-white, with a chrome latch handle. Security tape in black-and-yellow diagonal stripes is stretched across the frame in two directions, in the shape of a saltire.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I turn round. A man is walking towards me. He wears a charcoal-grey suit and his head is as bald as an egg.

  I am unable to speak, not because of the man with his attitude of banal menace, but because of the door. I cannot take my eyes off it.

  ‘Lorna Parry,’ I manage to say. ‘A mother. I have an appointment with the head. I am looking for the IT suite. I got lost. Perhaps you can redirect me.’

  I straighten my shirt.

  ‘ID?’ The man squares up in front of me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You should have been given a badge.’

  I touch my shirt and, finding nothing there, fumble in the folds of the mac I have taken off. It takes me a few seconds to locate the piece of plastic in a pocket.

  He steps aside, lowers his chin and speaks into the hands-free microphone that is clipped to his lapel. Behind him is the door, criss-crossed with tape. It is a piece of wood, circa 1960, encrusted with layers of paint and burdened with an emotion I am unable to name. It is full of un-meaning. I hear the words ‘woman’ and ‘alleged parent’, then the fuzzy sound of a reply.

  The man raises his head and reapproaches. He fingers the badge and glances at my face.

  ‘Which way should I go?’

  ‘Put it on.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The badge. Put it on. ID must be visible at all times.’

  I slip my arms into the mac and fix on the badge.

  ‘Follow me,’ he says.

  39

  PC SALLY REYNOLDS’S hair is pinned up under her hat. She is young. I am glad she is here. She says that she is the school’s liaison police officer and that Ross probably recognises her because she marked and registered his bike. She is involved on this occasion because malicious communication is a crime. Under Section 1 of The Malicious Communications Act 1998, it is an offence to send an indecent, offensive or threatening letter, electronic communication or other article to another person.

  The IT suite is a narrow, low-ceilinged room, lit by long fluorescent tubes that emit pinkish light. There are four windows that look directly onto a building a few metres away. Salt stains run down the brickwork in uneven lines, like chalk half-rubbed out on a blackboard. The computers are covered and the tables on which they stand have been crammed together to make room for the head’s temporary office. Furniture – presumably brought up from downstairs – has been arranged as in a three-sided box. A filing cabinet, an indoor plant on a plinth, an upended trunk, a coat stand, two fireside chairs covered in blue Dralon, a low table, a group of stacked cardboard packing cases on which stand an electric kettle, a coffee-making machine and several mugs and canisters – all these are placed in what I imagine is a simulacrum of the place the head has been ejected from – a home-from-home that I find almost touching.

  While PC Sally Reynolds is talking in her friendly, sensible voice, the door opens. I hear a creak but I do not turn round. The person who has come in moves slowly down the room, possibly on tiptoe as the footfall is irregular and faint. The head, Tony Goode, seated in a black faux-leather executive chair behind a slab of a desk, gives no indication that he has noticed this person and even when Mary de Silva draws close, picks up one of the classroom chairs, carries it to a spot next to Mr Milner and sits down on it, fails to acknowledge her. She joins our semicircle: Mr Milner, PC Sally Reynolds, Ross and me. Our backs are turned to a notional audience. Amrita, the head’s secretary, to one side of the desk, takes notes.

  ‘Sorree,’ Mary de Silva mouths as she scrapes her chair into position.

  ‘I’m done for the moment,’ PC Sally Reynolds says.

  Mr Milner, in his red tie and non-matching red shirt, repositions himself so that he can see all of us. With a skill that comes from professional experience, he makes eye contact with everyone present and holds our attention with a rolling programme of regard. He speaks of the seriousness of causing offence or needless anxiety to innocent persons, disseminating false information and bringing the academy into disrepute. He says that in line with safeguarding procedures and the Lloyd-Barron Academy behaviour policy that we all signed up to and are well aware of, no comments should be made with reference to the academy, its staff, governors, students, families or any associated persons on social networking sites. He says that some people consider social networking sites to be like chatting with mates but they are not like chatting with mates. They are highly visible and anyone putting stuff out there should ask themselves whether they want what they are putting out to be on prime-time television. Furthermore, and setting the issue of social media to one side, the fact remains that, had he overheard any student so much as whispering such cowardly and disrespectful claptrap as Ross saw fit to spread about, he would have hauled him in immediately and given him a good talking-to that he wouldn’t have forgotten in a hurry. ‘Have you anything to say?’ he asks Ross.

  Ross, who has been staring at a space on the floor between his feet says, ‘No, sir.’ He keeps his head bowed.

  ‘Do you realise the seriousness of this matter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And what do you have to say about it?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Sorry to whom?’

  ‘To everyone relevant, sir.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The school?’

  ‘The academy,’ Tony Goode chips in.

  Mr Milner nods in acknowledgement and continues. ‘What about Mr Child? You set about destroying the reputation of someone who, in this tragic situation, can’t answer back.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What about Mr Child’s family?’

  ‘They don’t know, sir.’

  ‘We sincerely hope they don’t. But they might. They still might.’

  ‘Do you want me to say sorry to them, sir?’

  ‘No, Ross. There’s no need to cause them unnecessary pain. They have enough on their plate.’ Mr Milner pauses. ‘Do you have an explanation for what you did?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘This was premeditated and planned. It wasn’t a brainstorm. There were photographs. A series of them.’ Mr Milner takes his eyes off Ross and looks at me. ‘They were, in themselves, innocuous – though why anyone wastes their time recording such things beats me. No, it was the clever-Dick, smutty captions our friend here added, that turned a childish game into a potentially criminal act.’ He turned back to Ross. ‘What went through your skull?’

  Ross is silent.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Was anyone else involved?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You did this entirely alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Milner turns to me. ‘This is the trouble. Ross won’t tell us anything. He doesn’
t assist us. The only thing in his favour is that he has admitted to it.’

  ‘Under pressure. He came under pressure. I addressed the entire upper school. As a body. Leadership in action.’ Tony Goode uses his whole jaw when he speaks, as if chewing a chunk of meat.

  I clear my throat. ‘I’d find it helpful to know exactly what Ross is supposed to have done.’

  ‘Doig did it. He came clean,’ Mr Goode says.

  ‘All right. I withdraw the “supposed”. What did he do?’

  Tony Goode presses the heels of his hands against the edge of the desk and pushes back. The reclining mechanism of the chair moves faster or further than he expects. For an instant he struggles, then with a jolt and an intake of breath, he rights himself.

  ‘I’ll have a drink please, Amrita.’ He shoves his shirt back into the top of his trousers.

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Yes, water. Of course, water. There’s dust everywhere. The sooner this refurbishment lark’s over the better.’ He presses his hands together, palm on palm, and touches his lips. ‘Mother. You asked a question. I’m not going to answer it. Ask your son later and don’t expect to be thrilled by the reply. I have forgotten the pacific minutiae and everyone else present has forgotten the pacific minutiae and that’s where it shall remain. Buried. What are you scrabbling around for, Amrita?’

  ‘I’m trying to find a water glass, Mr Goode.’

  ‘Any kind of glass’ll do. I’m not fussed.’

  Amrita is kneeling in front of the upended trunk. Its lid is ajar and functions as a door. Sally Reynolds is observing the trunk. Like me, she will notice that it stands on little wheels and that the interior is crammed with bottles.

  ‘Let’s move on. We’ve all got better things to do. I have, anyway. What action are we going to take with Rob Doig? I’ll tell you. For starters, a fixed-term exclusion. Five school days, commencing Monday. This will be a punishment and a warning to the others and it will give Mr Milner and PC Rendell time to make further investigations. We have seized and confiscated his phone. Thank you, Amrita.’ Tony Goode has been addressing the fourth wall but breaks off to take a gulp of water from the balloon-shaped brandy glass she has placed on the desk. ‘Five days for Rob Doig to remove the offensive material. He will use his wit and wisdom to undertake this. And don’t tell me it’s impossible. What goes up can come down. Do aircraft fly for ever? They do not. They need to refuel, as we all do. Five days for Robert to make a full written apology, in writing to me, personally. That’s not getting off lightly. Fixed-term exclusion can turn into permanent exclusion. On my say-so. Are we in agreement? Mr Milner, PC Rendell?’

  Mary de Silva raises her hand in a queenly wave.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Tony Goode stares at her.

  ‘Mr Goode. I’m the responsible adult.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home? No, don’t tell me. Do you have a vote?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘I don’t. We’ll argue about it later. We don’t need you. It’s unanimous. Passed non quem. Rob, I’m sick of the sight of you. Go home with your mother. Mother, I’ll revert back to you.’

  ‘To me? Really?’ I say.

  Ross kicks my ankle.

  ‘To you,’ the head affirms.

  40

  AS WE WALK back through the car park, Ross vomits. I put a hand on his back and give him a clutch of tissues when it is over.

  ‘Where’s the car?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t have the car. I came straight from work. We’ll catch the little bus. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I don’t want to catch the little bus.’

  ‘Well, we can walk, I suppose. Why not?’

  ‘Can’t you go and fetch the car?’

  ‘Yes, I could do but that seems quite a complicated thing. No one will be on the bus, Ross, at this time of day. You won’t meet anyone.’ I look into his face. ‘Where will you wait?’

  ‘You get the little bus and I’ll start walking. You’ll see me.’

  ‘That’s not entirely helpful. I tend to look at the road.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I can’t stop for you on the mini-roundabout or on Green Lanes. It’s a red route.’

  ‘Cool. See you.’

  He sets off and I stay at the bus stop. I watch him until he reaches the first curving bend of the road and disappears out of sight. I see him again from the bus about ten minutes later through smeary fingerprints on glass. He is about halfway along the interminable street. Trees are coming into leaf and there are splashes of yellow and blue in some of the front gardens: early daffodils and scillas, maybe, or grape hyacinths. I am unable to tell from the moving bus.

  I have no trouble finding him. Ross was right. The black school blazer. The reddish fair hair. Scarcely anyone else is out and about. The pavements are deserted. Collecting the car is exactly the type of indulgence that Randal disapproves of but kindness is often a slow and illogical way of getting from A to B. What mothers can do to help is limited. It becomes clear after a number of years that, in spite of its basis in animal biology, the process of bringing up children is itself an immensely long detour and one that is likely to last right up until the moment of death. I wave when I see Ross and drive on to a point where I can safely execute a U-turn. I stop the car beside him, lean over and open the passenger door because the automatic unlock has stopped working. He gets in and dumps his bag at his feet. It takes up as much space as a large, sitting dog.

  ‘If you’ve forgotten anything, I’m sure Jude can bring it round,’ I say.

  We wait at traffic lights. ‘She does the same subjects as you, she’ll be able to give you her notes. She owes you one.’

  He does not respond.

  ‘She took the photos, didn’t she? What were these captions? Tell me.’ I glance at his face. He gives nothing away. ‘I hope she appreciates this,’ I say in my most sarcastic voice.

  We set off again.

  ‘Stop the car, Mum.’ Ross opens the passenger door while we are still moving across the junction. I scream at him. We get to the other side. The van driver behind me leans on his hooter, as I pull in to the kerb without warning.

  Ross, hanging out of the car door, retches, then swivels back into the passenger seat.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Nothing came up.’

  ‘We’ll go then?’

  He nods.

  ‘Shut the door and put your seat belt back on.’

  We need to get home. Distraction was the tactic I used when the boys were carsick. Songs, I-Spy. They were little.

  ‘That illuminated picture in reception. I wanted to ask—’

  ‘What illuminated picture?’ he says grudgingly.

  ‘In reception.’

  ‘I never go to reception. Sorry. Went. I never went to reception.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we? Anyway, in this photo – which is a kind of Paradise scene, as it were Princeton comes to N13 – there is a willow. A weeping willow. And a column. I’ve never seen either – or anywhere remotely similar in the school grounds. I mean, is there some carefully tended secret garden kept specifically, or pacifically, as we’ve learned to say, for advertising purposes? Somewhere they can choreograph a collection of the best-looking pupils, of varied skin colour, tell them to smile and say “Specialising in Success” or some other specious phrase? They aren’t real. They look like, I don’t know, embryonic alumni. Do they even come from Lloyd-Barron Academy? Maybe they were snatched from their mothers at birth and brought up in a hall of mirrors to speak in sentences that have no subject or main verb, later to be hired out as eye fodder for school brochures. Schools are actually full of decent people who do a good job. Why should they have to sell themselves, as though they are a brand of toothpaste? Every service is commodified. Where’s the learning? Where’s the love? One day, they’ll wake up and find—’ I suddenly hear myself shrieking and stop.

  There is an uncanny silence inside the car. Outside, traffic passes on the oppos
ite carriageway. The bus ahead wheezes to a stop. I brake and wait while passengers get on and off. A woman bumps a twin buggy from bus platform to kerb. Scaffolding is going up on a nearby building. Metal tubes clang and clink. Men shout as they work. What are those mans doing? Ross used to say, up to the age of three, though his language was mostly accurate. A coupler falls to the ground. I glance at Ross. His head is turned away. His hands lie still on his lap; an empty space where his phone used to be.

  41

  I MUST HAVE rehearsed what I would say if my father ever suggested that Jane Brims might join us for Sunday lunch because the moment he does so I have a faint memory of ripostes that are far from fit for purpose. My reply is neither trenchant, as per the mental rehearsals, nor gracious, nor kind. ‘Sunday week? There’s a lot going on, Dad. Oh God. Oh, OK. The more the merrier, I suppose.’

  His slight but detectable embarrassment in the context of the day’s events strikes me as paltry. How absurd to have minor emotions. I have to stop myself from telling him to leave me alone.

  I put the handset down. I am shaking. I close my eyes and try to calm myself. My father will be sitting, glum, in his chair. He will turn on the radio and hope for trumpets. My hands pick up the phone again and I call Liz.

  ‘I don’t believe she’s one of my mother’s cousins. She targeted him. She reads the obits and then shows up at funerals waving bogus pieces of paper. And Dad fell for it – the innocent. Do you know what else? God, I can’t believe this, Liz. She made him go to Sweeney Todd the other afternoon.’ I am on a strange kind of high, not far off hysteria. I hear the strain in my voice.

  ‘That’s OK. If they can put up with being surrounded by kids texting and eating, good for them. They are elderly, Lorna.’

  ‘I’m not complaining about the time of day – though, I agree, matinees are hell. A West End musical? He’s never been to one in his life. I mean, it’s so remote from his usual fare of television sport and Radio Three. And Jane’s not truly elderly. She would shudder to hear you say the word. I told you, didn’t I, she’s younger than Dad? She still thinks of herself as peachy. She sort of preens. If we were on Skype I could show you.’ I begin to do the legs business – Jane’s sock-revealing cabaret. My mouth is small and simpering.