Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘I was lucky.’

  Pauly stares with the eyes of a much older person. ‘I’m not lucky.’

  ‘I’m going to do everything I can for you, Pauly,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll arrange a special meeting for your mother, and I’m going to speak to lots of people – teachers, the headmaster – we’re going to work out how we can keep you safe.’

  ‘Mrs Dudley tells lies. And Mr Cockrun. They’re both liars. They’ll put me in care and then no one will believe me.’

  ‘Teachers don’t make those decisions—’

  Suddenly the curtain is pulled back, and a tall, tired doctor stands before us, looking sallow under the bright strip-lighting.

  ‘Still awake, Pauly?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Well, if I was asleep,’ Pauly points out, ‘you would have just woken me up.’

  The doctor gives a nod, too shattered to challenge the backchat, and asks me, ‘Are you the social worker?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Kate Noble.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the doctor, as if it all makes sense. Obviously he hadn’t placed me as Pauly’s mother. ‘So, Pauly. Are you going to tell me what happened?’

  ‘I fell,’ says Pauly.

  ‘No you didn’t, Pauly,’ I say. ‘You were fighting in the playground—’

  Pauly shoots me a warning glance. ‘I fell.’

  ‘But your teacher said—’

  ‘She wasn’t there,’ Pauly snaps. ‘How would she know? I told you, she lies about everything.’

  The doctor checks his watch. ‘We’ll have the X-ray back soon. Shouldn’t be long.’

  A wave of tiredness envelopes me. I desperately want to crawl into one of the hospital beds and go to sleep. But of course, all the beds are full.

  Stifling a yawn, I remember I have a nine o’clock visit booked in tomorrow. Who? Who is it? Can I shuffle it around?

  Tom Kinnock.

  Nice and straightforward. Shake hands with the mother, check she’s settling in okay, then close up the file.

  But I’ll have to move that appointment.

  Pauly’s notes need to be written up first thing.

  Lizzie

  Most walk-in clinics have a two-hour wait. Three at worst. We’ve been at this one nearly four hours and our name has only just been called.

  Four hours for a five-minute appointment.

  ‘So, what seems to be the problem?’ The nurse is cuddly, with feathered, bleached-blonde hair, grey at the roots. There are sandwich crumbs around her mouth. Three empty coffee cups tell me she’s working overtime, probably unplanned.

  We’re not seeing a doctor because there aren’t any – the walk-in clinic is run by nurses at night-time.

  ‘I think Tom had a nosebleed,’ I tell her. ‘There was a lot of blood. See?’ I show her the dressing gown, which I’d bundled into a bag-for-life.

  The nurse frowns, rectangular glasses sliding down her nose. ‘It’s okay. I don’t need to see. You can put that away.’

  ‘He had a seizure not long ago,’ I say, re-bagging the dressing gown. ‘We’re still waiting for the outcome of some reports. If you could just check his medical records—’

  ‘We don’t keep medical records here,’ says the nurse. ‘The whole system needs updating. I can only treat what I see. Has he had a nosebleed in the last four hours?’

  ‘I think so. You really can’t see any of his medical records? He had a seizure. This may be related.’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.’ The nurse leans forward, smiling at Tom. ‘Hello, young man. What’s your name?’

  ‘Tom,’ he answers dutifully.

  ‘So you had a nosebleed, Tom?’ she asks. ‘Is that right? It must be quite a scary thing to happen at your age. All that blood.’

  ‘A bit,’ says Tom, eyes welling with tears.

  I put my arms around him, pulling him onto my lap. ‘It’s okay, Tom. You don’t need to get upset. Unless … is there anything else you want to talk about?’

  Tom gives a brisk shake of his head.

  ‘Well, I’ll just give him a little once-over,’ says the nurse, fingers racing around her keyboard, ‘and then send you on your way. Tom seems fine in himself, and if he hasn’t had a bleed in the last few hours … well, you were right to bring him in, anyway. Better safe than sorry.’

  I like the ones who say ‘better safe than sorry’.

  The nurse holds up a blood-pressure cuff. ‘Okay, Tom. So, you’ve probably seen one of these before.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom.

  ‘He had his blood pressure taken in hospital,’ I say. ‘When he had the seizure.’

  ‘I like it done on my left arm,’ says Tom robotically.

  The nurse nods, not really listening, and lifts Tom’s right arm.

  She rolls soft cotton up to Tom’s elbow, then hesitates.

  We both stare.

  I hear myself gasp.

  Three tiny, bloody holes mark the inside of Tom’s forearm, two of them circled with grey bruises.

  Each one sits perfectly above a wavy green vein.

  The room becomes eerily still.

  ‘Has he had blood taken in the last few days?’ the nurse asks, her voice cautious.

  ‘No. Oh my God.’ I put a hand to my mouth. For a moment, I think I’m going to be sick. But after a few thick swallows, I manage to say, ‘Tom. There are marks here. How did you get them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Tom, eyes wide and frightened.

  ‘Are you his primary carer?’ the nurse asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I nod my head. ‘Tom. How on earth did you get those marks?’

  Tom shakes his head, tears coming. ‘I don’t know.’

  I turn to the nurse. ‘His school. It’s the only place he’s away from me … There was an incident today. A fight.’

  ‘Tom,’ says the nurse, words falsely bright. ‘Can you tell me where you got these little marks?’

  She glances at me then, an appraising glance she didn’t have time to make when I first came into the office.

  I feel exposed, wishing I’d worn something smarter. Put on a bit of makeup.

  ‘I don’t know what they are,’ says Tom.

  ‘You don’t know?’ the nurse asks. ‘Nobody has put a needle into your arm recently?’ She rolls back on her wheelie chair, opens a drawer and holds up a plastic-wrapped syringe. ‘Like this one?’

  Tom shakes his head.

  ‘Have you had any knocks or bumps recently, Tom?’ the nurse asks. ‘Played with anything sharp?’

  Tom looks between the two of us. ‘I haven’t done anything. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘You’re not in trouble, Tom,’ I say. ‘We just want to know how you got these marks.’

  ‘Would you rather the two of us talked alone?’ says the nurse. ‘Without Mum? Sometimes that can be easier.’

  Ice water pours into my stomach. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m not saying—’

  ‘Yes you are. Believe me, I know what an accusation looks like. I’ve met with social services enough times to discuss Tom’s father.’

  ‘Tom, what can you tell us about these marks?’ the nurse asks again, her voice soft. ‘They’re rather unusual. Surely you can remember something?’ She surreptitiously glances at the clock, probably remembering the fifty patients waiting outside and knowing that if she doesn’t finish with us soon she’ll have to stay past midnight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Tom again.

  ‘Did an adult do this to you?’ the nurse asks.

  Tom quickly shakes his head.

  ‘Did someone do this to you at school?’ I ask.

  Tom looks at his lap.

  ‘Listen,’ says the nurse, glancing at the clock again. ‘I need to make a report about this.’

  ‘Yes. Please do. Can we book in to see another doctor? Tomorrow maybe?’

  The nurse changes instantly from kind, cuddly nurse to tired, overworked nurse.

  ‘Not just a medical report,’ the nurse says, her voi
ce hard. ‘Social services will need to be informed.’

  ‘I suppose … yes, that makes sense.’ I feel sick. ‘Could you make a note about Tom’s school? Ask someone to talk to the headmaster … his teacher. As I said, there was an incident today.’

  ‘His school? I don’t think—’

  ‘Where else could it have happened?’ I ask. ‘It’s the only place he’s away from me.’

  The nurse doesn’t say anything. But I can almost read her thoughts.

  Impossible.

  Lizzie

  ‘Impossible!’ my father shouts. ‘Good God, Ruth. Can’t you tell the truth, for once in your life? Lizzie didn’t even take the exam – how on earth could she have got into grammar school?’

  My mother deftly changes the subject. ‘Did you pick up those wine glasses? I need them for the dinner party tomorrow.’

  ‘Ruth, this isn’t normal.’

  ‘Let’s sit down and have supper,’ says Mum, putting on her best ‘good housewife’ smile. Then her voice goes hard. ‘Don’t start an argument, Harold.’

  ‘I’m not arguing, Ruth. I’m trying to talk to you.’

  My mother turns then, perfect white teeth gritted. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. You want to be angry. I don’t.’

  With my mother, it’s always someone else’s fault.

  I’m held in a tight, tense bunch on our sofa, watching the debate go back and forth like ping pong.

  But Dad will never score his point because Mum cheats. She steals the ball.

  ‘I’ll put supper on the table,’ says Mum. ‘And when you’ve quite finished taking your temper out on me, we can sit down and eat.’

  ‘Ruth, how did you think this wouldn’t come out?’

  Mum whips around. The mask slips, showing fury under perfect makeup. ‘I’ve told you, Harold, I do not want to talk about this. Do you want us screaming at each other, with the neighbours listening through the walls? I will not get caught up in your ugliness.’

  Mum rarely gets visibly angry. After all, it’s not ladylike. But we all know that underneath the façade, she’s white-hot with fury all the time.

  ‘I won’t let you sidestep this time,’ says Dad. ‘Not when it involves Lizzie.’

  Mum plays her winning hand – she starts crying big noisy crocodile tears. These are usually saved for very special occasions, but she’s been using them more and more recently.

  Dad gives up then, of course. He can’t stand seeing Mum cry.

  This is what my mother does. Absolutely refuses to admit she’s lied. She’s been caught out. I don’t know how she let the lie get to this point – usually she’s clever enough to sidestep before it gets this far. But she’ll never admit she’s made something up. Ever.

  How can you have a relationship with someone who point-blank refuses to see reality?

  Some extra guests join our meal that evening. They are called awkwardness, rage and denial. They are regular visitors to our house, joining us whenever we’re all together. I’m so used to them that I barely notice the sickly, scared feelings any more. It’s like carrying around a heavy bag I can never take off. After a while, you just get used to it.

  I start dividing up the food on my plate, scraping the cream sauce off the meat and pushing it towards the mashed potato. We’re having a fancy meal because Dad is here. When it’s just Mum and me, we eat plain things. Usually bread and butter.

  ‘Eat properly, Elizabeth,’ Mum snaps.

  Suddenly, Dad says, ‘How was your day, Lizzie?’ His face is tight and the words are forced and carefully chosen. He can’t use the word ‘school’. That would allude to Mum’s lie.

  Ruth Riley has been telling Dad’s work colleagues that I won a place at the girls’ grammar, when I wasn’t even bright enough to sit the exam. It’s an obvious lie, even for her, but I suppose she thought that since his colleagues were all based in London they’d never find out. I don’t think she thought Dad would find out either.

  ‘It was okay, Dad,’ I say. ‘We’re rehearsing for the school … I mean, for the play. I’m the Angel Gabriel.’

  Dad smiles then, a full, genuine smile. ‘You’re my little angel. You know that, don’t you, Lizzie?’

  ‘She isn’t special enough to be an angel,’ says my mother, irritated that I’m being praised.

  Dad looks at me with sad eyes.

  Sometimes, I think he is just as trapped as me. Other times, I know he’s not brave enough to make a stand and I hate him for it.

  People think Dad is the nice one, but really he’s worse than Mum. He lets her be the way she is because he’s too scared to rock the boat.

  Kate

  9.21 p.m.

  ‘No, I like parties,’ I shout, over the uneven whine of electric guitar. ‘I just don’t like this sort of music.’

  ‘Give it a chance,’ says Col, swigging from his plastic pintglass. ‘They spent hours setting this lot up.’

  It’s true. My ex-housemates, Rebecca and Julie, have excelled themselves this weekend, creating a mini festival in the back garden, complete with plywood stage and thousands of fairy lights.

  Friends drink and dance around me. They wear various fancy-dress costumes – a giant banana with star sunglasses, Sid Vicious, Amy Winehouse and, of course, Col, dressed as a woman in floral Laura Ashley and badly applied lipstick.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I just know it’s work.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’ I tell Col.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Col bobs his head, which is the closest he gets to cutting loose on the dance floor. This is a good time for him, having a few drinks and a dance. I don’t want to complain about how exhausted I am, or admit that work stuff is running around my head.

  ‘Just … I’ll be right back.’

  At the front of the house, I find Rebecca having a sneaky cigarette. She’s dressed as Princess Leia, with fake wool plaits wound around her ears.

  ‘Don’t tell Julie,’ Rebecca whispers. ‘But her band are giving me a headache.’

  ‘Me too,’ I admit. In my jeans pocket, my phone vibrates again.

  ‘They’ve got better, though,’ Rebecca decides. ‘Now they’ve ditched that accordion.’

  ‘This is work,’ I say, holding up my phone. ‘They’ve called twice. I should call them back.’

  Rebecca blows a long stream of smoke. ‘Col’s not going to be happy. You’re so stressed, Kate. They shouldn’t be calling you out-of-hours.’

  ‘I said they could. There are people off sick. I have two missed calls. It must be something important.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’

  ‘Nothing is ever fine in this job,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’m failing.’ Tears come, and I’m embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly. You are a highly competent person. You get up at six a.m. to exercise.’

  ‘Used to. Don’t any more. I can barely keep up with this workload, let alone have a hobby.’

  ‘I think you’ve got to cut a few corners, Kate,’ says Rebecca. ‘This is the public sector. It’s what everyone does.’

  ‘You know me. I can’t cut corners.’

  Rebecca laughs. ‘I know. Not ticking every box gives you anxiety.’

  I walk a little way down the street and call the office.

  The out-of-hours team pick up immediately. ‘Children’s Services.’

  ‘Hi, Helen.’ I press the phone to my ear. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Kate. Thank God you phoned back. We had a call from Hammersmith and Fulham. Tom Kinnock’s father has found the social services out-of-hours site. The duty officer is all shaken up. He’s making all sorts of threats, worse than before. She doesn’t know what to do and nor do I.’

  ‘Call the police,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We can’t reveal the mother’s location. And Tom doesn’t want to see his father. If a child doesn’t want to see their parent, no one can force a supervised visit. It all comes down to what Tom wants.’r />
  This is the standard social worker answer, but it’s not my answer. I would encourage Tom to see his father in a safe environment, try and move things forward. That’s the trouble with this job. I’m rule-abiding, but the rules here are often impossible to follow.

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to like that,’ says Helen.

  ‘Of course he won’t. But he shouldn’t be stalking the out-of-hours team.’

  I end the call with knots in my stomach, knowing I haven’t solved anything, fixed anything, done anything except make Tom Kinnock’s father even more furious.

  It sounds like he’s already on edge.

  Oh God.

  I can’t leave things like this.

  My finger taps redial. ‘Helen?’

  ‘Kate. I was just about to call Hammersmith and Fulham.’

  ‘I’ll call them. See if I can smooth things out with the father. We can’t just drop them in it. What’s the number?’

  ‘I’ll connect you. Hang on.’

  After two rings, I hear Terri from Hammersmith and Fulham out-of-hours team.

  ‘Child Services. Emergency duty team.’

  ‘Hi Terri. It’s Kate Noble. I hear Tom Kinnock’s father is with you. Can I speak to him?’

  ‘He just left. Big relief. I threatened to call the police in the end. Karen let him in – God knows why, she’s been told before. Once he was in the building, he just kicked off, shouting and swearing.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘A bit delicate. But I’ve had worse nights. Are you out and about somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not missing much. You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Fine. Get back to your evening.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  At the party, I head straight for the garden bar and grab a can of cold shandy from the ice bucket.

  I hardly ever drink, but this evening feels like a ‘hardly ever’ sort of time.

  ‘There you are.’ I feel Col’s warm arm around my shoulder. ‘Everything okay? No, it can’t be. You’re drinking.’

  ‘It’s just shandy. I had a work call.’

  ‘Ah. Silly me to think you’d finished for the week.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You always knew I was a career girl.’