by Sophie King
Her good mood lasted right through the morning and she could hardly wait for Tabitha to come back. She might even tell Steff and Josh. Here they were now, coming up the path. ‘Guess what? I’ve booked a course of driving lessons!’
Steff’s face was grim as she dumped Tabitha’s bag in the hall.
Josh, coming up behind with Tabitha in her chair, glared at her.
‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’
‘What?’
Tabitha began to cry. She hated noise.
‘What are you talking about? And stop shouting – you’re upsetting Tabitha.’
‘It’s you who’s upset her – and us,’ hissed Steff. ‘I don’t know how you could, Susan. And we’ve tried so hard.’
‘Would you please explain what I’ve done?’
‘The radio programme you were on.’ Josh looked as though he was going to grab her arms.
She felt cold. ‘About the centre closing?’
‘It was on air this morning. Josh and I couldn’t believe it, could we? There you were, rattling on about yourself and how hard life’s been. Well, fair enough. But why on earth did you say what you did?’
‘What?’ whispered Susan. Had the journalist actually been recording her when they were talking? She’d thought she’d just been taking notes.
Steff had tears in her eyes. ‘You said Tabitha was disabled because Josh insisted on her having the MMR jab.’
‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ retorted Susan. Tabitha began to cry again and she knelt down to comfort her. ‘OK, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said it but she was all right before, wasn’t she?’
Josh’s eyes were bright with anger. ‘If I wanted, I could get joint custody of Tabitha.’
‘You? An ex-junkie?’ hissed Susan.
‘Stop it, both of you – you’re upsetting her.’ Steff knelt down beside Susan. ‘It’s all right, Tabs.’
Susan pushed Steff out of the way. ‘I can sort out my own daughter, thank you very much.’
Steff rubbed her shoulder exaggeratedly, as though Susan had bruised her. ‘I think we’d better go now, Josh.’
‘All right. But I warn you, Susan, you haven’t heard the last of this.’ His eyes flashed dangerously, reminding her of what he had been like before. But there was something else, too . . . Hurt. Sod him. Why did he make her feel so guilty when it had been his fault?
32
WE HAVE DETECTED A VIRUS.
Blow that. His bloody computer could find all the viruses it wanted but nothing would be as important as this. Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to think clearly. It was only a kiss, for God’s sake, but it had been a kiss like no other. The kind he hadn’t had since he was nineteen and even then it hadn’t been like that. To call it an electric thunderbolt sounded like one of those crap press releases he had to write, but it was the nearest he could get to describing the incandescent charge between his body and hers. And, God, she’d smelt incredible. A mixture of rose cream and Chanel No. 5.
When he’d driven her to the station, he hadn’t wanted to let her go, and he was certain she’d felt the same. But now a whole bloody week had gone by and she hadn’t returned his calls.
‘Dad, I can’t find my rugby boot.’
Mark groaned. He’d been up early to try to do some work before the school run but found himself unable to concentrate because of Caroline. And now he had Missing-shoe Syndrome to contend with. It always happened when Freddy didn’t want to go to school, except that usually it was one of his black shoes. Empathise, Caroline had said, during one of her emails before the Kiss. Perhaps he should put himself in his son’s eighty-nine pound rugby boots and see what worried him.
‘Tell me, Freddy, why don’t you want to play rugby?’
Freddy scowled. ‘I do. That’s not why I’ve lost my boot.’
‘It is, Dad!’ Florrie was jumping up and down. ‘There’s a boy in his class who tries to hurt him in the scrum. He’s called—’
‘Piss off, Florrie.’
‘Freddy.’ Four months ago, Mark would have been more indignant but months of bad language had worn him down. ‘You’ll just have to take trainers and search Lost Property at lunchtime. Buck up. I’ve got to see Mr Roberts again, remember?’
Freddy scowled again. He looked exactly like his mother on a bad mood day. ‘You will tell him it wasn’t my fault, won’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Mark sighed. He and Freddy had been over this so many times that he was convinced his son was telling the truth. A friend of his at school had emailed him a link to the offending website. Freddy had merely opened it, not knowing what it was about, and the content had started to download automatically. But now Mark had to face the head and get his son out of this awful mess.
The very thought brought back memories of being caned by his housemaster for reading after lights-out.
‘Will he tell you off about the lift passes?’ demanded Florrie, when they were finally in the car, stuck deep in Oxford morning traffic.
‘What lift passes?’ asked Mark.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re not going on the school skiing trip. I told you. We can’t afford it.’
‘They’re lift passes for school, Dad. Shut up, Freddy. Stop pushing me like that.’
‘I didn’t think you had lifts at school.’
‘We don’t.’ Florrie erupted into giggles. ‘But some of the boys from year eight have been telling the new boys that we do and that they need lift passes. So they sell them at twenty p each.’
Mark was torn between horror and admiration at their entrepreneurial bravado. ‘What happens if you get caught?’
‘Detention,’ confessed Freddy. ‘Shit, I’ve just remembered. I’ve got one tonight.’
‘Don’t swear. What for?’
‘Not tucking my shirt in. It’s so unfair.’
Florrie, in the front seat, turned to pull a face at her brother. ‘He was mucking around in biology, too, Dad. He told me. Ow, don’t pinch me.’
‘Serves you right for grassing me up. So was everyone else, Dad. The teacher put a detention tick against everyone’s name apart from three goody-goodies. Anyway, Florrie can’t talk. You know that essay she was telling you about? The geography one? Well, she downloaded it last night from the internet.’
‘Is that true, Florrie?’
‘Chill out, Dad. Everyone does it. You can still learn that way, you know.’
‘Stop being so rude. And it’s not learning. It’s plagiarism. That means nicking stuff from someone else. You shouldn’t download essays because it’s cheating, and if you do it again I’ll tell your teacher. What about you, Freddy, have you done all your homework?’
He should have checked last night, as Hilary used to. He could clearly remember her going through their homework diaries. He kept forgetting to do it.
‘Course I did. We had a worksheet on pussies for biology. It was cool.’
‘Pussies?’ Mark almost dropped the handset he’d just picked up. ‘Don’t use words like that. It’s disgusting.’
‘Whatever.’ Freddy grinned. ‘It’s just another name for what school calls the “female reproduction system”.’
‘Dad,’ interrupted Florrie, ‘you shouldn’t use the phone when you’re driving. It’s against the law.’
‘We’re not moving,’ said Mark, defensively.
‘It’s still dangerous.’
Why wasn’t she picking up? She’d be dropping her daughter off at the station by now and getting on the train. He’d caught her before at this time. Pick up, Caroline. Pick up.
The head’s office was considerably bigger than Mark’s at home. It had a large mahogany desk slanted across the diagonal of one corner and a big Sanderson sofa on the other. On the desk, there was a neat pile of papers, a picture of Mr Roberts’s children, and a large glass vase of lilies. Several leather-spined books stood in the shelves surrounding the stone fireplace, their glossy sheen suggesting they had never been read.
�
��I’m telling you, Mr Roberts, Freddy couldn’t have designed that website. He couldn’t even spell its name. I only wish he could.’
Mr Roberts tapped his pen on the blotting-paper in front of him. He had done this so many times since the start of their meeting that it was a mass of splodges. ‘Well, one of the boys did. And the content, you must admit, is alarming. However, since you’ve mentioned Freddy’s unfortunate inability to spell, I would like to mention some other things too. The other day he was caught kicking another child during an argument, which is unacceptable for a boy of his age. And his performance in class, I’m afraid to say, has deteriorated sharply in the last term. According to the last verbal reasoning test we conducted, he can do it if he wants.’ Mr Roberts blinked furiously. ‘Do you know of anything that’s worrying him?’
‘No.’ Mark looked behind the other man to the playing-field where a group of blue and white rugby-shirted kids were kicking a ball around. ‘No, I don’t.’
Mr Roberts was rubbing his eyes now. ‘Mr Summers, we are all aware of your unfortunate family circumstances. It can’t be easy for you.’
So, he wasn’t a good-enough dad.
Mr Roberts’s face softened slightly. ‘It’s a challenge looking after the children on your own. I’m not sure I could do it. So, we’ll make allowances. Normally, in situations as severe as this, I would consider temporary suspension.’
‘Suspension?’
‘Misuse of the internet is a serious offence, Mr Summers.
Instead, I will give Freddy a Saturday detention. But I would strongly recommend that he sees a child psychologist.’
‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘Hurting other children consistently, on a regular basis, at the age of eleven is not standard behaviour, wouldn’t you agree?’
Mark nodded as his pocket started to vibrate. ‘Excuse me, I have to take this.’
Mr Roberts’s face indicated that if a parent couldn’t turn off his mobile during a meeting, it was no wonder that the son logged on to dodgy websites.
‘Caroline! Listen, I’m in a meeting but I’ll call back. OK?’
After accepting the telephone number of a local child psychologist from the head, who probably got a commission for this, Mark ran towards his car, punching in Caroline’s number as he slid into the driver’s seat. She answered almost immediately, and relief overwhelmed him. It was so good to hear her voice and to tell her what he’d just been through.
‘An educational psychologist sounds like a good idea to me.’ Her voice echoed as though she was a long way off.
‘He doesn’t need a head doctor,’ he protested feebly.
‘They’re not head doctors,’ she assured him. ‘They’re specially trained to work out what’s going wrong at school. Do you think he’s being bullied again? Nasty emails and websites are forms of online bullying and the kicking could be a reaction to it.’
‘Maybe.’ Mark sighed. ‘Parenting’s such hard work. Where are you, anyway? You sound as though you’re miles away.’
‘I’m on a train on the way to interview someone. Luckily I’ve got my laptop so I can do some work too. Where are you?’
‘Still in the school car park.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought it – the shoot – was wonderful.’
There was an agonising pause. ‘So did I,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’ve been feeling terribly guilty.’
‘Ditto.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, I know to some people a kiss might not be a big thing but . . .’
‘It is to me.’ She was whispering now.
‘Me too.’ He couldn’t help whispering in empathy. ‘When can I see you next?’
‘I don’t know.’
His heart thumped. ‘I will see you, won’t I? Caroline, can you hear me? You’re breaking up.’
‘Better?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mark, when I first saw you, something really weird happened.’
He waited, too scared to talk in case it stopped her.
Her words tumbled out: ‘I felt incredibly apprehensive, almost fearful, and I couldn’t work it out. But I realise now. It’s because I felt this powerful attraction to you, which I knew was wrong.’
He could hardly breathe. ‘That’s just how I felt.’
‘But now I’m really not sure . . .’
Sod it. She’d gone.
Frantically he dialled her number, which he already knew by heart. ‘Hello. This is Caroline. I’m afraid I can’t take your call.’
Mark’s hands were so sweaty he could scarcely press Redial. Maybe she’d gone into a tunnel. Or maybe she’d hung up.
From Mimi to What Mums Know: Has anyone taken their child to an educational psychologist and did it help? Also, my son is being bullied. Any advice anyone?
From: Mark Summers
Love you.
Shit! He’d pressed the wrong button. Appalled, he stared helplessly at the screen. Why wasn’t there a magic Retrieve button? Mark buried his face in his hands. What would Clive at EFT think?
33
One day, the kids will leave home.
Fish oil can definitely improve concentration.
Two facts that applied to all children. Except hers and every other poor kid in the same boat. What Mums Know was all very well but it lived in an ideal world. What would they do if they had a Josh situation? Maybe she should ask them. Maybe she should have a couple of fish-oil tablets herself, especially today.
The doorbell rang just as she’d slipped into a comfortable pair of flat shoes. That had been Joy’s advice when she’d confided what she was doing. ‘Mrs Thomas?’
Susan nodded. Beyond the gate, she could see the car with its ‘we aim to pass’ sign on top. Encouraging.
‘Ready for your first lesson, then?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly my first,’ she reminded him, ‘but I think I’ve forgotten everything I learned before.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ He was a small, wiry man, who almost bounced along the path in front of her. ‘It’ll come back. Just you see. The name’s Joe, by the way.’ He waited expectantly.
‘Sue,’ said Susan. A vision of Steff shot into her mind. Yes, she would be Sue. A new woman. Different from Susan.
She squeezed into the driving seat, embarrassed by how much room she was taking up – she was almost touching Joe. Had she put on more weight? ‘That’s right. Now, Sue, I want to run through a few basics first to see what you remember.’
By the end of the first lesson (a double, which cost Susan as much as she’d earned last week at Green & Co), Joe didn’t seem quite so chipper.
‘We need to watch our gears, don’t we, Sue?’ he remarked, as they drove past the new swimming-pool. ‘When you slow down, you should end up in second, not fourth. And keep watching those mirrors.’
There was so much to take in, but this time she had to do it. She needed to be able to drive for Tabitha’s sake, as well as for work. Their lives had become very isolated; she could see that from the excited expression on her daughter’s face when she returned from a jaunt to the cinema or town with Josh and Steff. Susan wanted to be able to do that with her too, and she reproached herself for not having passed her test years ago.
She had a good half-hour to compose herself before the bus brought Tabitha home from school. She’d left the computer on – her father was always telling her not to do that – and checked to see if anyone had replied. It was too soon of course but . . .
Yes!
From Earth Mother to Rainbow: Why not tell him the truth? You must have been mad at him to say what you did on the radio. Tell him you needed to get that anger out. Then sit down and tell each other how you really feel. Try to reach a compromise for the sake of your daughter. It might be too late to get you back together again. But it will make life a lot easier if you’re not spitting at each other.
Sensible advice. But would Josh listen? Still, thought Susan, as she walked down the path in time to see Tabitha’s bus pulling up, it was w
orth a try.
‘Fantastic, Susie!’ enthused Simon, the following weekend when she told him about the lessons. ‘It will make a huge difference if you can drive. I might be able to put you up for the mid-week vacancy.
It’s only Wednesday mornings but we do need someone with wheels.’
‘But it’ll take me at least three months to get my test,’ said Susan. ‘I haven’t even done my theory yet.’
‘I’d forgotten about that – didn’t have it in my day, luckily. Never mind, we’ll have something we can offer you, I’m sure. You’re a natural at this game. By the way, I like your hair. Just had it done, have you?’
Susan flushed. ‘I wasn’t sure if layers would suit me but the hairdresser talked me into it.’
‘She was right.’ Simon nodded approvingly.
Susan beamed. Going back to work was the best thing she’d ever done. Apart from anything else, she had more patience with Tabitha because she wasn’t stuck at home all the time. And she liked the company of the other girls in the office: one of them had recommended the hairdresser.
‘Ever tried to Google your own name, Susie?’ Simon asked, later in the afternoon, when he’d taken her back to the office to pick something up and it was quiet.
‘No – doesn’t it just bring up famous people?’
‘You’d be amazed. Look. If I put in my name, it shows that I’m a senior negotiator for Green and Co – see? And if I put in yours . . .’
She wanted to stop him but it was too late.
‘Well, blow me!’ He stared at the screen. ‘It’s brought up an article from the local rag. What’s this you’ve been getting yourself involved in? A campaign to save the centre that’s going to close down? I heard about that march – couldn’t bloody well park in town because of it.’
‘My daughter goes to the centre,’ said Susan quietly. ‘She’s disabled. I don’t know what we’ll do if it shuts.’
‘You poor girl.’ He drew her to him and gave her a brief hug, patting her back. ‘I had no idea. You should have told me.’
