Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  Tom runs straight up to his bedroom.

  I follow him, standing over his bed, shouting: ‘Why, why did you take it? Don’t you understand it’s dangerous? This is your medication. Talk to me, Tom. Talk to me.’

  But he just pulls his duvet over his head, not saying a word.

  I spend the evening going up and down the stairs, pleading with Tom, then eventually bursting into angry tears.

  Tom is such a sensitive little boy. Usually when I cry, he gives me a hug.

  But today, nothing.

  It’s like he’s been body-snatched, and I feel so, so afraid.

  What’s happening to my son?

  Kate

  11.45 a.m.

  I’m sitting alone in the Steelfield School music room among broken-stringed violins and tom-tom drums, feeling stress tugging at my ribcage.

  The headmaster refused his office for my meeting with Tom’s class teacher, so I’m seated on an orange plastic chair in an outbuilding in the middle of the school field.

  Tom’s teacher still hasn’t turned up. I check my watch again.

  Come on, Mrs Dudley. Hurry up.

  I’m wasting time I don’t have and Tessa is going to lynch me. Then I hear movement outside.

  This must be her.

  There is shuffling outside the door. Then nothing.

  Is she coming in or not? I don’t have time for this.

  I pull the door open, finding Mrs Dudley on the other side. She looks shocked, but quickly reconfigures her face into a gentle smile.

  ‘Hello there,’ she says, voice unnaturally smooth. ‘You must be Caroline.’

  ‘Kate,’ I correct. ‘Kate Noble. Child Services.’ I shake Mrs Dudley’s large hand.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Kate.’

  I stand back to let her into the room. ‘Shall we get started?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Mrs Dudley closes the door tight, checking that the latch has clicked.

  We take plastic seats opposite each other. It’s a little awkward, our knees nearly touching, no table to shield our bodies.

  ‘I’m guessing there’s no kettle out here,’ I say. ‘Or I’d suggest a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have time anyway,’ says Mrs Dudley, offering another showy smile.

  ‘So, as you know, I wanted to discuss Tom Kinnock today.’

  Mrs Dudley nods, smile tightening.

  ‘A nurse at the walk-in centre reported some unusual marks.’

  ‘His mother saw us about that. They’re nothing to do with the school. It’s all been dealt with.’

  ‘Tom’s marks are a big concern for us,’ I say. ‘The nurse thought they looked like injection marks. What are your thoughts on that?’

  The smile hasn’t left Mrs Dudley’s face, and it’s beginning to make her look deranged. ‘I’m not really qualified to answer anything like that. But this is nothing to do with the school.’

  ‘No one is accusing anyone of anything. But you’re with Tom for a large part of the day.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the school. Alan already explained to Tom’s mother.’

  ‘This isn’t about criticising the school,’ I say, starting to feel exasperated. ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. Can you tell me how Tom is in class?’

  ‘Quiet. Tired sometimes. Perhaps his mother … Someone should talk to her about a proper sleep routine.’

  ‘Nothing else? No other causes for concern?’

  Mrs Dudley hesitates. ‘Have you … Has anyone mentioned anything else about Tom?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m asking you. If there’s anything you want to disclose.’

  Mrs Dudley stares out of the window, smile dropping. ‘I don’t think so. No.’

  As I scribble notes, Mrs Dudley coughs meaningfully and says, ‘I mean, perhaps the headmaster … There could be an incident he feels is relevant.’

  For once her eyes meet mine and I see a human being. Someone who wants to help rather than the robot I’ve been interviewing for the last five minutes.

  ‘An incident?’ I ask.

  ‘There could be something Alan might want to tell you, about Tom. It’s not for me to say.’ The fake smile returns.

  ‘You can tell me,’ I urge. ‘This is confidential. I won’t feed it back to your headmaster.’

  Mrs Dudley jerks like she’s been prodded with something sharp. ‘He’ll want to know what we discussed. He wants to know everything.’

  ‘So I’ll tell him we discussed Tom and you told me his marks couldn’t have happened at school.’

  ‘I really can’t … It was something that happened in the playground.’

  ‘When?’

  Mrs Dudley hesitates. ‘Last week.’

  Pauly Neilson was admitted to hospital last week. Could the two things be connected?

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘Well, it would have been … last Wednesday.’

  The same day Pauly was in hospital.

  ‘Would this have something to do with the Neilson brothers?’ I ask.

  ‘The headmaster likes us to support one another, so … I’ll leave him to fill in the details. Alan is very concerned about privacy. What happens in school stays in school.’

  I look up. ‘Surely a school’s reputation is built on honesty.’

  Mrs Dudley gives a nervous laugh.

  ‘Let’s get back to the marks on Tom’s arm,’ I say. ‘Is there anything in school that could have caused pin-prick type marks? Anything you can think of at all? A sewing club or … loose nails anywhere? Or … I don’t know. School injections?’

  ‘No. As I said before. We made it very clear to Tom’s mother. The marks didn’t happen here.’

  ‘Any indications that Tom is being bullied?’

  Mrs Dudley’s face goes white. ‘There is no bullying here.’

  I want to laugh. Do you realise the three Neilson brothers are on my caseload? Lloyd Neilson put his brother in hospital last week. At your school … But instead, I opt for: ‘But surely every school has bullying?’

  ‘No. Not here. We take the RCF approach. Rules, Consistency, Follow-through. The headmaster spends a lot of time studying different discipline models. And his methods are very effective. Our good results speak for themselves.’

  The way she says it, I feel like she’s a politician singing from the party song sheet. It’s all a bit Stepford Wives.

  ‘How about friends?’ I ask. ‘Has Tom made good friends since he started here? Who does he spend time with?’

  Mrs Dudley pulls at her blouse lapel. ‘One of the Neilson brothers. Pauly. I expect you know about him.’

  Well, imagine that. Tom and Pauly are friends. Funny how troubled kids seem to find each other.

  ‘How does Tom usually behave with the other children?’ I ask. ‘Have there been any other incidents of aggression?’

  ‘No. We’re an excellent school, Mrs Noble. No problems like that whatsoever.’

  I drop the social politeness. ‘Pauly Neilson was in hospital last Wednesday, Mrs Dudley. His brother beat him up in the school playground. I’d call that an incident of aggression, wouldn’t you?’

  Mrs Dudley flinches. ‘The Neilson boys … they’re not the usual type of pupil here. And the fight … it was a family matter.’

  ‘Even though it happened at school?’

  ‘Yes but … they’re a law unto themselves. The Neilson boys … we look at them differently. They wouldn’t have got a place here ordinarily.’

  ‘The same is true of Tom, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Social services got Tom his place.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if he gets hurt at school, do you see it as a school-related incident? Or a family matter?’

  ‘I’m not comfortable talking about this without the headmaster present,’ says Mrs Dudley, checking her watch. ‘I really must get back to my class. I’ve left the learning support assistant in charge …’

  ‘Does Tom arrive at school on time?’

  Mrs Dudley st
ands. ‘For the most part.’

  I stand too. ‘How about personal care? Does he ever seem hungry? Badly cared for?’

  ‘Well, he often seems very tired. But plenty of children don’t sleep well. It’s not unheard of. Look, I need to get back to my class now.’

  ‘There was one last thing, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer—’

  ‘Just to rule this out. Are injection needles kept at school for any reason?’

  Mrs Dudley touches the door handle. ‘Everything like that is locked up in the headmaster’s office. Only Alan has the key.’

  ‘Perhaps I could have a very quick chat with the headmaster now.’

  ‘He’s busy,’ says Mrs Dudley quickly. ‘He won’t be free all afternoon. And he has a lot to do. I’m not sure he’d want to waste time like that. He’s already told the mother this is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I’ll phone to make an appointment.’

  Mrs Dudley looks a good deal more flustered than when she arrived. ‘Fine. I’ll accompany you back to reception.’

  She leads me back across the field and into the reception area, offering a hurried, ‘Jen will sign you out,’ before she half walks, half runs down the corridor.

  As I wait for the receptionist to get the signing-out book, I study Mrs Dudley’s photo on the school notice board. In the photo, she wears a blue sunflower-print dress that suits her pale complexion and figure. Her hair is longer and looser, with flecks of soft brown and grey, and a slight wave that flatters her face. She smiles genuinely.

  According to the photo description, Kathleen Dudley started at Steelfield School six years ago.

  The job seems to have changed her. I wonder if I’ll change at the same rate in social services.

  My eyes wander further around the reception area and up to a CCTV camera mounted in the corner.

  It’s a very quiet school. Too quiet, really. And the bars on the downstairs windows … Lizzie Riley is right. It is a bit odd.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The receptionist appears. ‘Sign out, please.’ She offers me a large, lined book, which is empty. No visitors today. Or this week, as a matter of fact. Well, except me.

  The reception girl watches as I write my name in neat capitals. ‘And write down your purpose of visit, child, relationship to child and detail anything you brought in and left here.’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit over-the-top for a school?’ I say mildly. ‘All this detail?’

  ‘It’s just how we do things.’

  I put the biro down. ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s just how we do things,’ she repeats.

  I leave the school with a lot of questions buzzing around. Probably more questions than I arrived with.

  More than anything, I need to speak to the headmaster.

  Lizzie

  ‘So, what happened at school today?’ I ask Tom, tiptoeing over clothes, Lego and football cards.

  The argument about the medicine bottle is still looming, but I’ve got no more information out of Tom, no matter how many questions I ask.

  I’ve privately resolved to shelve the discussion for now, but I will search Tom’s school bag when he gets home each day. And talk to social services again about the possibility of moving schools.

  We’ve just come through our front door, me carrying a brown envelope containing Tom’s class photos.

  All the children came out today clutching these envelopes – group photos of the whole class and also individual portrait shots.

  Tom looked gaunt and ghostlike when I picked him up, his cheeks shadowy and sucked inwards.

  He hasn’t been eating much, that’s why.

  ‘I’m going up to my room, Mum,’ says Tom.

  Tom and I used to sit and talk after school.

  But not recently. He’s always ‘too tired’.

  I don’t know when this became normal. This separation between us. The not talking.

  ‘Can’t you at least show me these school photos first?’ I ask. ‘Shall we look at them after I’ve put the kettle on?’

  I love photos of Tom. Maybe I’m biased, but he’s so beautiful with his shining golden hair and blue eyes.

  He looks like Olly. But personality-wise, he’s more like me. Shy. Polite. Accommodating. Or at least, he used to be.

  I put the kettle on and rattle some pink wafers onto a plate.

  ‘Want a biscuit?’

  ‘Not hungry,’ Tom replies from the living room.

  I hold back a sigh. ‘Okay, sweetheart. Well, let’s look at these photos then.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Tom throws his school bag over the bannisters and trudges up the hessian-covered steps.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I say, heart heavy. ‘You’re feeling tired.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I hear Tom’s breath, laboured on the stairs, and then his bedroom door slams closed.

  ‘Tom?’ I call up. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Just tired,’ he calls down, voice muffled by wood.

  ‘You’re sure? You’re not feeling ill?’

  ‘No!’

  I stand for a moment, looking up the stairs, remembering Olly and how he used to talk to me sometimes.

  ‘Stay up there if you’re going to be grumpy then,’ I shout after him, trying a different tactic.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I mean it, Tom. Stay in your bedroom. You can come down when you’re ready to be polite. Like the old Tom.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Anxiety whirling in my stomach, I head into the kitchen and pour hot water into my tea mug, taking a while to dunk the teabag up and down.

  Then I sit on the sofa and have a much-needed sip of tea.

  After a few minutes of staring into space, I absentmindedly slide Tom’s school photos from the brown envelope. I put the class photo to one side at first, and find the portrait shots of Tom.

  My little boy stares at the camera, blue eyes hazy and out of focus, tie askew.

  He looks … in another world. Not quite there.

  We need another doctor’s visit, I decide. Maybe tonight if they’ll fit us in. The doctor always says the same thing. He’s getting fed up with me now. Tom seems right in himself. No temperature. Blood pressure fine. But Tom isn’t right in himself. Hasn’t been since his first day at this new school.

  I pick up the class photo.

  Tom’s whole class stares back at me, three rows of them arranged on gym benches in the school hall. I’ve never seen school children look so serious. They are immaculate and identical, hair clipped neatly on the boys and tied back on the girls, school uniforms perfectly worn. None of the children smile. In fact, most look nervous, holding their bodies rigid, eyes wide.

  A silk school banner pinned behind them announces:

  Steelfield School: Semper Fortis

  They’re good quality, these photos. Thick and glossy in hard, cardboard frames. They’ve placed the taller children at the back, so of course Tom is in the front row with a lot of girls and two other shorter boys. Tom looks too young for his class – smaller than the others in his year.

  But that’s not what worries me.

  What worries me is the fear in Tom’s eyes. The tension in his body. How terrified he looks.

  Pauly Neilson stands behind him, a grimacing mixture of milk and adult teeth. I know Pauly is just a kid, probably with a whole host of problems. But that doesn’t make him any less menacing.

  Pauly’s tanned arms, poking from grey-white summer shirt sleeves, are out of place in the sea of blazers. They spoil the neat lines of the photo and make the class look unruly, as if the photographer can’t control him.

  Then I notice something. Two tiny circular specks on Pauly’s right forearm. It’s hard to tell the colour – red, black, grey – because Pauly is just one lot of colourful pixels among thirty other children. But …

  They look like injection marks.

  No. The school will say I’m being paranoid.

  I am being paran
oid.

  I put a hand to my forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

  I should take some paracetamol. Chase the headache off before it takes hold.

  Heading to the kitchen, I pull down the cardboard box of medical stuff. It’s an old Pampers box with the leaves cut off and ragged cardboard lining the top.

  Resting inside, on a mountain of bandages, plasters and antiseptic bottles, is a flimsy plastic box – the sort you get Chinese restaurant food in. The egg-fried rice has long since been eaten, the box cleaned to a salty, opaque finish by Olly’s dishwasher, and now it’s used to hold paracetamol, cough syrup and anything we’re given on prescription.

  This includes the blood-thinning meds from the hospital – one bottle of which I found empty in Tom’s school bag.

  I’m suddenly aware that Tom must have climbed up here to take those meds. Probably using a chair, clambering like a monkey over the kitchen counter. I feel sick at that thought. What could make him so desperate to steal medicine?

  The box feels lighter than it should, and I’m frowning when I peel back the plastic lid.

  There should be … Where is the new bottle of blood-thinning meds? Am I going mad? I’m sure I picked them up from the pharmacy yesterday … didn’t I?

  ‘Tom?’ I call up the stairs. ‘Tom. Come down here, please.’

  Tramp, tramp, tramp.

  Grumpy footsteps pound the stairs.

  ‘There’s medicine missing,’ I tell him, as he reaches the bottom step.

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me Tom!’

  He freezes.

  ‘Tell me the truth right now,’ I demand. ‘Or there’ll be trouble. Big trouble.’

  Tom won’t look at me.

  ‘Why? Why did you take it?’

  ‘I didn’t take it.’ Tom turns on the staircase. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to lie down.’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘I just need to sleep.’

  I want to grab him. Shout until he tells me everything.

  But of course, I can’t.

  I feel powerless, watching him trudge up the stairs to bed.

  But I’m not powerless. Not any more. I don’t have to just sit back and take this. Not like I did with Olly.

  I grab my phone, searching my contacts for Steelfield School.