Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  While I’d been idling, Paula and Anne had been working. Waiting for me in my in-box was a series of neat freehand, not technical, drawings of what they thought could be done with my house. Caffy had appended a couple of comments, condemning the dullness of one idea, but worrying that another far more imaginative one might not get planning permission. Given, they said, that the place was still a crime scene, they couldn’t even walk round it with me to explain their vision, but it would be really helpful to have my immediate thoughts. I suspected that when Paula wrote immediate she meant immediate, so I almost flung my shopping on to hangers and into drawers and sat with a hastily made mug of tea to obey her instructions.

  Wisely, while they’d not touched the frontage at all, they’d risked increasing the footprint to the rear, where even Mrs Penkridge wouldn’t see any extensions, with the addition of a garden room. They’d reduced the number of bedrooms by converting the box room to a delectable en suite bathroom. The other room would have to use a bathroom I was sure they’d update. They would floor the loft properly, and insert Velux windows. Rather than leaving it as a dumping area for junk, they would make sure there were plenty of storage units, some of which could be pulled down for seating. In other words, the loft could double as a secure room, with an emergency ladder as part of the extensive kit.

  It would be easy but not, I thought, advisable to gush. The women would prefer a measured, considered response. Hang the last minute prep for the following day: I’d already made a sheaf of preparatory notes and had enough teaching under my belt to wing it, surely? A niggling voice warned me that I’d never been required to be in two places at once before. I sent my comments with the heading, First Thoughts, promising to send any further response as soon as I could. And then I printed out my admin notes and took them to bed with me. Nosey and Lavender – yes, he suddenly declared he had a name – were not impressed. Beds were for sleeping, they declared. The best thing was to put them down – very well, with a pencil beside them for those three a.m. moments – and set the alarm for fifteen minutes earlier.

  I didn’t need any alarm. I was awake at five, at my Wrayford desk by six. Tom and my Wrayford team, all arriving well before eight, assured me that they could deal with any hitches, and despatched me to Wray Episcopi.

  Here everything seemed to be running smoothly. All the staff there were early too, running their private checks – I’d always had my own rituals so didn’t disturb any of them. Donna the secretary, who had been conspicuous by her absence during the holiday (in fairness she was paid not very much by the hour), was looking as caring and efficient as Melanie Pugh, my mainstay at Wrayford, though Melanie would never have countenanced that dress and those sandals.

  And at last the high point of my year, the arrival of children for the new school year. Everything was geared to this, all our nerves stretched for it. And yet, when the parents and children started to arrive, to an impartial observer it would all have seemed so ordinary.

  There was Mrs Popescu: an unnaturally clean Georgy, in a home-made shirt the same gingham as the girls’ summer dresses, was bouncing up and down beside her. The shirt should have been plain blue, but I wasn’t going to argue. The other son was hitched on her hip. No tears from Georgy, who, having waved his mother a confident goodbye, marched straight up to a bunch of other children playing with a ball and joined in. Ms Carnaby had driven Robbie in my least favourite type of vehicle, the sort that had apparently run me off the road all those weeks ago. Hers was an immaculate silver, however. Posh car notwithstanding, she – but not Robbie – was in melodramatic floods of tears. A silent young woman, whom I presumed to be the potty-training nanny, hugged the little boy and, dropping a kiss on top of his head, pushed him gently towards Georgy’s group. He hesitated, and ran back to the nanny. Karenza saw what was going on, and summoned all her new charges round her, like a tall mother hen. Soon there were no tears; not that many smiles, because the whole business of your first day in any school, even a tiny one, is pretty daunting, but an air of purpose and confidence.

  It was a perfect start to the school year.

  Except for the extra pupil.

  Karenza knocked on my office door at the start of the lunch break. ‘Did you enrol a new child this morning?’ she asked doubtfully.

  ‘If I had I’d have told you,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘He turned up after break,’ she said, collapsing on to a chair. ‘He was holding Georgy’s hand. I asked Georgy who he was. “My friend,” he said. But he didn’t actually know anything about him. Not even his name, which he himself can’t or won’t give. They’d been playing football together, that’s all, according to Beth, who was on duty outside.’

  ‘How odd, turning up halfway through the morning. Did Beth see anyone bring him?’

  She shook her head. ‘She can’t say either way. You can’t blame her – you know what it’s like until the kids get used to playing nicely together.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone. Playground on day one is like one of the inner circles of hell, especially with litigation on the cards if anyone gets hurt. I’d have been out there myself to help except for Sophia’s nosebleed.’

  ‘She’s not still getting them! I thought her mother said—’

  I shook my head. ‘This was self-inflicted, I’m almost sure. Anyway, this here anonymous friend of Georgy’s. Sadly we can’t just let kids turn up and join us, much as we’d like to. What do you think we should do?’

  She grimaced. ‘That sounds like the sort of question you get at interview.’

  ‘Not at mine, thank goodness. You’re an experienced teacher, and we’re part of a team. But I get to take responsibility, blame, whatever, for anything we decide – that’s my role.’

  ‘Plus mastering the art of being in two places at once. OK, Jane: unless someone’s come to claim him – and several of the real tinies are only doing half-days this week, as we agreed – I’d like to keep him for the rest of the day and make sure he gets fed. Before that we sluice him down and give him some clothes from the emergency basket – he really, really pongs, to be quite frank. And at the end of the day we tackle his mother or whoever, and give them a letter outlining the application procedure.’

  ‘Perfect in every way,’ I said. But it was clear from her face that it wasn’t.

  ‘Except for one thing. I don’t think he speaks any English at all. At a guess I’d say he came from the Middle East – but the holiday Arabic I learnt when I worked on a cruise ship didn’t elicit very much.’

  ‘Poor little bugger,’ I said sincerely, but rather forgetting the vocabulary appropriate to the job. ‘OK. Where is he now? In the playground, properly supervised? Well, we’ll wash him, so long as he doesn’t object too much, and sort out some clothes. Then we’ll feed him. It may seem cruel, Karenza, but we’ll call it motivation.’

  ‘Or simple bribery,’ she said, with a twinkle.

  ‘Quite. Meanwhile I’ll organise that letter. And we must make sure you have some uninterrupted time to grab your own lunch.’

  Organise a letter I did, but there was no one to give it to, either then or at the end of the day. There were many cheerful reunions of children separated from their mothers, and somehow in the bustle Georgy’s new friend disappeared. Not with Georgy or his mother. Mrs Popescu was adamant that she knew no little boy like that – and subjected her son to a torrent of rapid questions. His shrugs didn’t need translating.

  ‘Now what?’ Karenza asked at the end of the staff’s working day. She looked as tired as all her colleagues did: it doesn’t matter how well you prepare, the first day always comes as a shock to the system.

  ‘We go home and shower and use anti-nit shampoo – right? Actually, we can’t do any more. The education people have promised to look into it. But they’re short-staffed and frantic—’

  ‘And we aren’t!’

  ‘But I have extracted a promise that if he turns up tomorrow they’ll send someone out, probably with someone from Social Serv
ices. And a translator.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t come back?’ Even as she scratched behind her ear, there was a catch in her voice.

  ‘It’d make our job a lot easier, and our budget happier. But for all that, I hope he does. Oh, the poor little mite. What if he’s been separated from his parents? You know some parents are so desperate to get their kids a better, safer life they entrust them to people smugglers and may never see them again. Dear God, can you imagine doing that?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As I’d promised I called into Wrayford School on my way home, though I suggested holding the short briefing in the open air, lest what I hoped was merely psychosomatic itching proved to have real causes. Tom was curiously self-effacing, making sure all the other teachers had their say – very short, mercifully – before adding his own brief appraisal. He lagged behind the others on the way to the car park so we could talk privately, I thought. But apparently all he wanted to do was confirm that everything had gone as well as could be hoped.

  ‘No extra pupils?’ I asked, trying to sound upbeat, but failing. Quietly, I explained what had happened down the road.

  He shook his head emphatically. Then he frowned. ‘But someone was telling a tale about being frightened by goblin children on their way here. By the layby at the entrance to Glebe Wood. I just put it down to too much holiday reading. I wonder …’

  ‘So do I. Where did they say they’d seen these “goblins”?’

  ‘I’ll try and find out tomorrow. But what do I do if they can tell me? Real children, Jane?’ It sounded like a genuine question, not a rhetorical one. ‘Leave food for them? Call the police? Or should it be the Border Force? I know it’s not an adventure story, with kids helping out other kids, all Swallows and Amazons or whatever, but I wish it was. I’d hate to see kids, any kids, thrown kicking and screaming into a detention centre.’

  ‘I don’t think they do that with children. And there might be protests if they tried – think how well we all reacted when those destitute kids were found at the motorway services.’

  ‘And have we heard what’s happened to them since? Of course not. OK, I know Social Services are involved. I know this county’s overwhelmed – overwhelmed enough to ask the government to spread the load. Load! What sort of term is that?’ He stopped abruptly and backed away, as if fending me off. ‘Jane, did you know you were scratching your head like nobody’s business?’

  Our anonymous little boy was back next morning, merging with the Breakfast Club kids this time. Actually it was a breakfast lady, a middle-aged woman called Pam, who got his name out of him. A name, anyway – Zunaid. Or Junaid? Hard to tell. He liked his cereal, and drank the milk remaining in the bowl, she said. And did the same with his second bowl, she added with satisfaction. It was clearly her ambition to get him back to a healthy size.

  Karenza was devastated not to have managed that degree of communication with him. ‘Georgy or one of the other kids must have got through to him yesterday,’ she said, clutching her coffee mug during our brief pre-school staff meeting. ‘Or why else should he turn up so early?’

  ‘Perhaps he just didn’t want to risk talking to an authority figure,’ Donna suggested. ‘Do you think that when any of us start asking questions we should see if Pam could hold his hand – literally or metaphorically?’

  ‘Excellent idea. I’ll ask her. Meanwhile, it’s time for registration. Do you think Zunaid would like to ring the bell? I bet Georgy would help him.’

  I was braced for the arrival of officialdom but got Lady Preston instead. Donna kept her in the minuscule reception area till I arrived.

  ‘My pictures.’

  ‘Good morning, Lady Preston. How are you?’

  Her glance at Donna dismissed her from our company.

  My glance insisted she stay. ‘How can I help?’ I looked at my watch ostentatiously – some might say insolently. ‘I have to take assembly in three minutes.’

  ‘The pictures, of course.’

  ‘I believe you’ve put the matter in the hands of the police. In view of that, I’m not sure we’re allowed to talk about them.’

  ‘Haven’t they searched the place yet?’

  ‘Not while I’ve been on the premises. But I’d have thought you should be asking them, not me.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to search the place myself!’

  ‘Not with the pupils present. They’d find it very disruptive and disturbing. And you have my word that despite emptying and cleaning every single cupboard in every single room I have found nothing. As a matter of interest, when were the pictures hung in the school? Would there be anyone around from that period who might be able to help?’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re expecting someone to recall something from seventy years ago? To be alive even? You’re out of your mind.’

  The mind in question was busy revising a lot of preconceptions. Only seventy years? I’d somehow assumed we were talking about heavy Victorian oils, donated by a paunchy bewhiskered old man. Not that it made any difference, of course, when I had never so much as glimpsed a frame.

  Absent-mindedly I was scratching my head. She shot backwards. ‘I saw something jump in your hair!’

  ‘Probably a head louse or something. The new term’s intake.’

  ‘They said you had some illegal migrants’ children here. All filthy, no doubt.’

  I found myself clenching my hands to keep outwardly cool at least. What on earth could possess her to say that? ‘That’s a very unpleasant allegation, Lady Preston, and one I’d prefer you didn’t repeat here or anywhere else. As it happens, nits love recently shampooed hair.’ I scratched again. Heavens, I didn’t want her to meet Georgy or Zunaid, with or without Pam, or any of the team who would be bringing the might of the law on to the poor child’s head. ‘Now since, as I told you, I have to take assembly, I can’t talk here with you any longer. I assure you I will co-operate fully with the police when they arrive.’ I held open the front door; she skirted it and me as though I was carrying the plague. Some evil impulse made me scratch once again as she passed.

  ‘There’s still no sign at all of the cavalry,’ I told Karenza as we wandered into the staffroom for our packed lunches.

  ‘Good – because Pam’s busy at the servery. Jane, Zunaid’s such a bright kid. Georgy’s lovely because he’s trying to teach Zunaid, but actually Zunaid picks things up so quickly he hardly needs help. I think he’s starting to trust me too.’ She glowed, as teachers can when their pupils succeed. ‘I thought of getting him to draw some pictures. You know, of where he comes from and of his mummy and daddy.’

  I was ready to tell her what a great idea it was. Then I thought of the terrifying power of unburied memories: what if we unleashed some genie that needed the control of professional therapists to pop back into its bottle?

  She read my face. ‘Problems?’ she prompted.

  ‘It depends on whose theory you prefer. One of my therapists was all for digging up memories, so I could deal with them; another, saying that the past was the past, thought it was best to plan the future. Let’s see what Zunaid volunteers. If he’s happy being in class and eating and playing football, I’d say we let him get on with them till the social worker teams get involved.’

  I’d barely eaten my first forkful of couscous salad when there was a tap at the staffroom door. Pam.

  ‘We’ve got another, Jane. Another little boy. Seems he’s a friend of Zunaid’s. Bilal. In fact, Zunaid’s already shared his lunch with him and has dragged him off to the toilets and started to strip him off.’ She gave an affectionate laugh. ‘Zunaid more or less told me to tell you – kept pointing at the door and saying, “Tall lady – clean pants.” Or it could have been, “Tell lady.”’

  ‘Not such a bad thing to get a reputation for,’ I grinned. ‘I’ll go and find some clothes and see what between the three of you I can find out.’

  But I was too late. Zunaid was on his own in the boys’ loo. Taking my hand, he pointed at the door and, clearl
y disapproving, mimed running. He also held his nose and pulled a face.

  ‘He took some food but wouldn’t wash?’ I said slowly, miming as I went.

  ‘My food. No wash.’ As if to make the point he washed his hands as thoroughly as if he was about to perform surgery. Had he seen someone do that somewhere?

  ‘Good boy. Now, Pam has some more food. Would you like some more food?’

  ‘More food. Pam. Please. Thank you.’ He tucked his hand in hers and led her out.

  I didn’t usually get sentimental about children, having had every opportunity to grow a carapace of cynical disbelief, but I nearly wept as the unlikely duo toddled purposefully away.

  I told myself all afternoon that I was too busy to do anything about our unauthorised pupils, but when I’d waved the last child and teacher goodbye, I couldn’t use that excuse any longer. I had to tell our governors. Hazel Roberts was interested, but not overanxious: after all, I’d notified the authorities and was providing a place of safety. A call to Tom back in Wrayford established that he’d had no unexpected enrolments. However, some of the children who’d complained about Glebe Wood goblins had admitted that they were probably real children, just different, whatever that might mean.