Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  Tom and I walk home in silence, his usual chatter absent.

  ‘Tom,’ I say, as we near the house. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Now Mrs Dudley isn’t listening?’

  ‘I just don’t remember anything,’ says Tom, with a very adult shrug. Then he starts to cry, forehead crumpling into frown lines. ‘I don’t like being in trouble.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart. Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘Honestly, Mum. Nothing. Except … maybe someone else did it and they thought it was me. And Mrs Dudley wasn’t there.’

  ‘Someone else did it? Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I heat cans of tomato soup and toast bread for our dinner.

  We don’t talk like we usually do. No matter how many ways I try to lure Tom into conversation, he only offers one-word answers.

  After I’ve put him to bed, I find myself sitting with my head in my hands again.

  Is Tom being bullied? I know sensitive children are vulnerable to that kind of thing. Soft targets.

  It will get easier. It must get easier. We’ve been through enough.

  Lizzie

  ‘I’ve been ditched.’ Olly waves the letter at me, gold embossing dancing under the kitchen spotlights.

  He screws up the thick, buff paper and throws it in a perfect arch over the marble breakfast bar. The ball lands in the open kitchen bin – something I imagine Olly, as a competitive sportsman, feels satisfied about.

  We’re having breakfast in Olly’s Earl’s Court flat. I still can’t really explain how I got here. I don’t mean at the flat itself, but I mean in Olly’s life. How does someone like me end up living with an Olympic athlete? A trainee nurse who didn’t even finish her training?

  I suppose the answer is: when an Olympic athlete breaks his femur and can no longer compete.

  Perhaps I should think more highly of myself. That I’m worthy of someone like Olly, injury or no injury. But with my upbringing, it’s hard. Inside, I often feel like nothing. Invisible.

  I grew up in the shadow of my mother – an invisible, empty little thing whose job was to ignore all my own needs and make Ruth Riley look perfect.

  Then there was loneliness.

  And now I have Olly – a man who makes me feel so loved I could burst with happiness, yet at other times, casts me back into the shadows.

  That’s where I am today.

  It’s times like this I wish I hadn’t given up my nurse training to be with Olly. At least if I were a nurse, I’d be something in my own right.

  Olly is angry. Erratic. This is a side he hid when we first got together. Yes, he is charming and attentive. But things have changed.

  ‘There’s still a chance,’ I say. ‘If you’d only carry on with your physio exercises. I can help you—’

  ‘I don’t want your help!’ Olly glares, fists clenched. Then he looks away. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s the physio who doesn’t know,’ I counter, voice rising. ‘He sees you half an hour, once a month. I see you all the time. I see how your body moves. I know about this stuff. It was part of my training—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’ Olly bangs a fist on the solid wood counter top. ‘It’s over, isn’t it? Everything I worked for. Gone.’

  ‘I’m still here. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re an Olympic athlete. I love you.’

  ‘No you don’t. I see through you, Lizzie Nightingale.’

  My hands begin to shake as I stand, clearing the breakfast things.

  ‘Why then?’ Olly demands. ‘Why do you love me?’

  ‘Because … we’re a good fit. When you’re not screaming at me. I think you could still be drunk from last night—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Lizzie. Stop trying to control me.’

  ‘Why can’t you ever just have one drink any more? You don’t know when to stop.’

  ‘You’re a controlling bitch, that’s what you are.’

  ‘Olly. Don’t do this.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Olly yells. ‘You’ve never loved me.’

  He stands, unsteady, then grabs the plates from my hands and smashes them on the slate kitchen tiles.

  I stare at the broken porcelain.

  This is what I do when under attack.

  Stay still.

  I learned, growing up with my mother, not to use teeth or claws against a stronger animal. Camouflage is best. Invisibility has its benefits.

  Another plate smashes and I feel a burning on my forehead. Porcelain shards fall on my body, jagged edges clinging to striped fabric. A warm line of blood trickles down the side of my nose and onto my lips. Tears come and, to my relief, Olly’s anger subsides.

  ‘Here.’ He takes a tea towel and holds it to the blood. ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘You know that John Lennon song? “Jealous Guy”? That’s me. I get scared you don’t love me. You know that.’

  ‘Of course I love you,’ I say, face wet with tears and blood, hands shaking.

  ‘I’ll get a bandage,’ says Olly.

  I nod, pushing Olly’s Frosties cereal back into the cupboard.

  In the same cupboard is a pile of pregnancy leaflets and magazines from the hospital. I really should read those. But right now, that would make everything too real.

  Which is why I’ve pushed them between the cereals, out of the way.

  When I told Olly about the baby, he was ecstatic, dancing me around the living room, telling me what perfect parents we were going to be. Talking about raising a champion snowboarder. But how quickly that moment passed.

  I burst into tears, hands going to my baby bump. This happens almost every day now – Olly getting angry and me crying. An endless, awful cycle. Maybe he’s stressed about the baby, the realities of parenthood closing in.

  Usually at this point, Olly would comfort me and apologise. But this time he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at me with contempt, hobbles to the bedroom and slams the door.

  On my stomach, I see my fingers trembling. If things are this bad now, what on earth is going to happen when the baby comes?

  Lizzie

  Tom and I are having supper on the living-room floor – baked beans, jacket potato and peas.

  We don’t have a dining table yet, so until I buy one we’re having ‘fun floor-picnics’ at meal times. Tom gets uncomfortable at the breakfast bar.

  We’ve unpacked most of the boxes downstairs now, so there’s plenty of space on the floor. The bookshelf has neat rows of books on it and the laundry – although not done – sits in tidy piles ready for the washing machine.

  I watch Tom plough his beans and potato into a mashy heap, then fork spoonfuls into his mouth.

  He’s sorted the peas into a separate ‘green’ pile and has made the mashed potato turn orange by mixing in the beans.

  ‘Tommo,’ I say cautiously. ‘Can we talk about what happened at school, then?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ says Tom quietly. ‘Honest, Mum. I think Mrs Dudley is making it up.’

  ‘She says she saw you.’

  ‘She tells lies sometimes. Probably … another boy did it, but she’s scared of his brother. So I got the blame. She didn’t see. She wasn’t there until later.’

  ‘Is this something to do with the Neilsons?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t want to say, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘Please.’

  ‘Tom, this is serious. If your teacher isn’t telling the truth—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk any more,’ says Tom. ‘It’s giving me tummy ache.’

  Tom learned that from his father, I’m sure. Close everything down. Pretend it’s not happening and it will go away.

  ‘Tom, it’s good to talk about things,’ I say. ‘I know your father and I didn’t set you the best example. But you and I have always been friends. Friends talk to each other.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ says Tom. ‘I want to go to bed.’

  ‘You’ve been tired a lot recently. Are you sure you
’re feeling okay? Remember you had a seizure not so long ago.’

  ‘Just sleepy. School is stressy, trying to work out what to do all the time. The rules here are different. All the colours are different. And Mrs Dudley shouts if I ask questions. I want to go to bed.’

  ‘Finish your tea first.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Just eat a little bit more, Tom. Then you can go up.’

  Tom’s fork clinks on the plate, scooping up more potato.

  ‘I wish you could tell me what happened with that little girl. Did Pauly make you do something?’

  Tom eyes widen in alarm. It’s the most awake he’s looked since he got home. ‘Don’t say anything about Pauly. I hit her, okay? I did it.’ Tom looks at his plate.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘But why would you hit someone?’

  ‘Maybe I just felt angry. Like Dad used to.’

  ‘Are you being bullied, Tom? What you just said about Pauly—’

  ‘Pauly’s not doing anything. We … we’re friends.’

  Sometimes, I see Tom walk out of school with Pauly. It doesn’t look friendly. It looks menacing. Like Tom is being forced into conversation.

  I can feel the glances of other mothers, hear their judgements …

  Those Neilson boys are trouble. So that new boy must be trouble too.

  ‘No need to make friends too quickly,’ I say. ‘Not after what we’ve been through with your father. Reputations can be catching.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Tom puts his fork down. ‘I have to be friends with Pauly. If I’m not … I just have to be, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe I should speak to the headmaster—’

  ‘No! Not him. Or Mrs Dudley. They’re not on our side. I’m handling it and it’s okay. Pauly’s all right. His mummy isn’t well, that’s all. Social services keep saying she’s unfit, so it makes him angry.’

  Unfit.

  They said that about Olly too.

  Unfit to parent.

  And suddenly, I realise it’s vital Tom stays away from the Neilsons. This is a new start. I want us to be perfect. No more ugly black marks.

  ‘Do you sit next to Pauly in class?’ I ask. I hope this question doesn’t sound as transparent as it feels. Because if I find out Tom and Pauly sit together, I’m going to ask the teacher to split them apart.

  ‘No,’ says Tom. ‘Pauly sits on a table by himself. I sit next to Jacob.’

  ‘Is Jacob nice?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s all right.’

  We eat in silence for a while. Then I say, ‘Hey – good job on your potato. Look at that! You’ve made an orange cave.’

  ‘Dad liked baked potatoes, didn’t he?’ Tom stares straight ahead.

  ‘Let’s not think about Dad,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Baked potatoes are fun. I had them all the time growing up.’

  ‘I had a dream about Dad last night,’ says Tom. ‘He was chasing me, but I climbed a tree. Then you came and climbed up with me, and we found a treehouse and it was okay.’

  I put my knife and fork down. ‘Tom … I’m so sorry.’ Tears prickle. ‘Do you think about him much?’

  ‘Sometimes. When I see something scary.’

  ‘Maybe we should go and see someone again. Like Jane, do you remember her? To help us talk about things.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk, Mum. Not any more. It’s all fine.’

  ‘Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. You can tell me anything. Even if you miss your father, it’s okay. Jane said it’s all okay.’

  ‘I don’t miss him. I hate him.’

  ‘You can hate and love someone at the same time.’

  Tom doesn’t answer. Just looks sad. And I feel sad too. So very sad for everything we’ve lost.

  ‘Did you love Dad?’ Tom asks finally.

  I hesitate, fork in mid-air.

  ‘Yes. Once upon a time. But now I never want to see him again. Same as you. Okay, Tommo, let’s get these things washed up.’

  Tom carries his plate into the kitchen and helps me scrape potato and beans into the bin.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘You’re looking tired. Better not overdo things. Why don’t you go and get showered and ready for bed? Then I’ll come up and read you a story. Okay?’

  Tom heads upstairs, while I dunk the plates into soapy water and make gentle circles with the sponge.

  At the apartment, we had a dishwasher. There’s room for one in this kitchen, but the owner told me she didn’t want modern things ruining the Victorian design. All the 20th century stuff – the fridge, the washing machine, the tumble drier, the stainless-steel sink – are in the utility room.

  I don’t mind washing up by hand. It’s soothing.

  I hear Tom running the shower. He’s one of those kids who loves getting clean. When he was younger, we even had a rain dance. It was fun.

  I remember Olly doing that dance with him.

  The pain comes again and I push those thoughts away.

  After a while, the shower trickles to a stop and I hear Tom shuffling around. Washing up finished, I head upstairs to tuck him into bed.

  Tom has left a crumpled towel and his school uniform on the bathroom tiles. I should tell him off, but he seems so exhausted tonight.

  Stooping down to pick up his uniform, I begin checking for stains.

  There’s a dried piece of rice stuck to his school jumper and a light smudge of chocolate icing – I assume from school dinner. Tom’s shirt cuffs are grey and grubby, so I’ll have to do a wash tonight – both colours and whites.

  ‘Okay, Tommo,’ I say, walking into his bedroom. ‘Let’s have our story.’

  But Tom doesn’t reply.

  He’s sitting on the bed, staring into space.

  There is something in his hands: a white towelling dressing gown, the one Mum got him for Christmas.

  It’s stained with something, a huge browny-red circle.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Blood. Lots of blood.

  ‘Tom!’ I run to him. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’

  He shakes his head, eyes panicked. ‘I don’t know how it got there,’ he says, voice high-pitched and fearful.

  ‘Okay.’ I step back, taking a deep breath. ‘Okay. Maybe you had a nosebleed. Could it have been a nosebleed?’

  Tom nods. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘But there’s no blood around your nose.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

  ‘We need to go to the hospital. Just in case. Did something happen at school today?’ I check him over, looking for signs of blood elsewhere. There are none.

  ‘You and the little girl today … was it a fight? Something that could have caused a nosebleed later on?’

  ‘No.’ Tom accepts the top I hand him. ‘We don’t need the hospital. It’s only a nosebleed. I had one before.’

  ‘A tiny one. Once. Never this bad. And you had a seizure …’

  ‘Can I have a hot water bottle for bed? I’m cold.’

  Olly used to do that. Distract. Change the subject. Pretend I hadn’t said anything. My mother did too.

  ‘Tom, we need to see a doctor,’ I say. ‘This is covered in blood.’ I take his face in my hands, tipping his head to the light, looking around his nose and eyes.

  ‘I don’t want the hospital,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want the hospital.’

  ‘Listen. Perhaps Accident and Emergency is a bit drastic. But we need a trip to the walk-in clinic, at least.’

  ‘No!’

  He’s never shouted at me like that before. Protested, yes. But never shouted.

  ‘Tom, we’re going.’ I open the wardrobe and throw some clothes at him. ‘Right now.’

  Kate

  10.03 p.m.

  I should have gone home hours ago, but I’m still at Accident and Emergency with a distraught Pauly Neilson.

  He has a head wound and a broken finger, both caused by his older brother, Lloyd, during a fight in the school playground. The te
acher says they were fighting over a medicine bottle, which is a cause for concern, but no one can find the bottle.

  Usually, Pauly acts like the toughest little eight-year-old. With thick black curls, like his brothers, he carries himself like a champion boxer, all shoulders and fists.

  I half expected to see a cigarette behind his ear.

  Now Pauly’s faux toughness has drained away like dirty bath-water, and I see a shivering little boy, scared and alone.

  He’d already been in hospital for hours when I arrived, sobbing with pain and scared the doctors were going to put him in care because his mum couldn’t be found.

  Tomorrow, I must make an unenforceable ruling – Lloyd and Pauly must never be in the same room together unsupervised.

  Then we will have a meeting to discuss Lloyd Neilson and temporary foster care.

  ‘Miss?’ Pauly is still wide awake. Of course he is. He’s used to staying up late.

  I realise I’ve slumped a little in the chair.

  Where is that doctor?

  ‘Yes, Pauly?’

  ‘Them doctors,’ Pauly says. ‘How do you know they’re nice men?’

  ‘Because they’re here to take care of you.’

  ‘Our headmaster says that. But he’s not a nice man. He just pretends.’

  ‘Most people are nice deep down, Pauly.’

  Pauly stares at the hospital curtain. ‘Were your teachers nice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were they clever, like you?’

  I laugh. ‘I’m not clever, Pauly. If I were, I wouldn’t be working in social services.’

  Pauly laughs too. ‘Miss, you made a joke. You are clever, though. Was your parents clever too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your mum still with your dad?’

  ‘My dad died when I was young. I miss him, actually.’

  ‘Did he get angry?’

  ‘Not much. He shouted at a policeman once for pushing a homeless man. “Leave that man alone.” And he got angry with my sister and I when we dug up his potatoes.’

  Pauly sits up straighter. ‘Was you a bit naughty when you were little then?’

  ‘Well … not often.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pauly slumps back, disappointed. ‘So you was like … a really good kid? Like, happy and all that.’