Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Hopefully tomorrow will be better,’ Mrs Morrison said. ‘It’s still all a bit new for Reece, and the canteen is noisy with the preparation for lunch. I can’t do anything about the noise but at least Reece will be a bit more used to his surroundings. Another problem I have is that we can’t leave our work out, as the table is used for dinner. I have to pack everything away for lunchtime and then get it all out again for the afternoon.’ Mrs Morrison kept touching her head nervously as she spoke and looked absolutely exhausted; the arrangement was obviously putting pressure on her too.

  Are you all right?’ I asked, feeling responsible.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing much. But I do feel this is unfair to Reece. He really needs to be with children his own age.’

  I agreed, but there was little I could do, for I knew as she did that this new arrangement would have to fail before the head looked at any alternatives. ‘I’ll have a chat with Reece tonight,’ I said, ‘and try to get some cooperation.’ Though goodness knows what I was going to say. That it was for his own good? I doubted even he would have swallowed that.

  What I did say to Reece later was that the head felt it was better he was taught separately for now, until he could be certain he would do as he was told and not get angry or hurt anyone. I thought it might give him some incentive if he knew there was an achievable goal. ‘If you show Mrs Morrison what a good boy you are, then I’m sure it won’t be long before you are in the classroom again.’

  How wrong could I be!

  When I collected Reece at three o’clock the following day, Thursday, Mrs Morrison told me that an hour into the morning Reece had overturned the table on which he was ‘working’ in the canteen, then picked it up and was about to throw it when she had called for assistance from the kitchen staff. Between them they’d stopped him and calmed him down, but everyone had been shaken by Reece’s burst of anger.

  The next day was even worse, and Reece was excluded for the afternoon, but informally, so there was no paperwork or reintegration meeting. I was called to the school at 12.15. Mrs Morrison was nearly in tears, blaming herself for the incident that had led to his informal exclusion.

  ‘I should have taken him from the canteen earlier,’ she said. ‘It was having to leave the canteen, when all the other children were going in for their lunch, that made him upset.’ It appeared that Reece had wanted to stay in the canteen to eat lunch with the others, instead of having it brought on a tray to the quiet room. When Mrs Morrison had said it wasn’t possible, Reece hit the boy leading the queue to come into the canteen. Obviously Reece shouldn’t have hit anyone, but Mrs Morrison saw, as I did, the frustration that had led to it.

  That first week the incidents escalated, leading to exclusion; and the pattern repeated itself in the second week, when Reece was informally excluded on Thursday for the rest of the week. In the third week he was informally excluded on Wednesday for the rest of the week; the same happened in the fourth week.

  When it happened in the fifth week I’d had enough. I received the usual phone call from the school secretary telling me that Reece had hit/broken/sworn and that the head said I must come at once to collect him, as he was informally excluded for the rest of the week. The head was never around when I collected Reece; he left Mrs Morrison to bring Reece to me and explain what had happened.

  However, now as they arrived in reception through the ‘welcome’ door, I said to Mrs Morrison: ‘I’m sorry, I’m not taking Reece home without a formal exclusion. Would you be kind enough to tell the head? I’ll wait here with Reece.’ For it had occurred to me that while all these ‘informal’ exclusions were keeping Reece’s school records cleaner than they would have been otherwise, they had become an easy option for the head. They removed Reece without having to do much about addressing the underlying problem: the management of Reece’s behaviour.

  Mrs Morrison looked at me very anxiously and a little upset. I was sorry but I wanted this problem out in the open. A formal exclusion with the consequent reintegration meeting would give everyone a chance to have their say and, I hoped, discuss a way forward.

  ‘All right,’ she said, nervously, and she disappeared through the ‘welcome’ door.

  It took her twenty minutes to find the head and when they returned, the head was clearly on the offensive.

  ‘He can’t stay,’ he said, even before he was fully through the ‘welcome’ door. ‘He has been running riot, shrieking in and out of the classrooms.’

  ‘No, I’ll take him home, but I want a formal exclusion,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t do it now,’ the head said. ‘The secretary is too busy.’

  ‘OK, I’ll wait.’ And I did. Fifteen minutes later the head reappeared with the formal exclusion letter, which is a standard letter printed off the computer, with a date for the reintegration meeting: the following Monday at 9.00 a.m.

  ‘I want his social worker there,’ the head said.

  ‘So do I,’ I said. It was probably the only thing we agreed on. ‘You need to notify him formally,’ I added. ‘I will email him the date and time as well. And I think it would be useful to have the ed psych present if possible,’ although I knew this was an option and not a criterion.

  Mr Fitzgerald nodded. I sensed I had gone up slightly in his estimation, perhaps even forcing a grudging respect.

  When I got home with Reece, I did as I had done following all the previous incidents: I told him off, told him what he had done wrong and stopped his television time. I’m not sure it did any good, for when he could remember what had happened he was always remorseful and willing to apologize.

  ‘I know you’ve seen your mother punch, scream and swear at people, but it’s not right, Reece,’ I said in desperation, trying to seize on anything that might help him change. ‘You must forget all that behaviour. You don’t see me swear at or hit people, do you?’

  ‘No, Cathy,’ he said. ‘You don’t punch, scream or swear. You are nice, Cathy. I love you. I must say sorry.’

  My eyes immediately filled. I was at a loss to know what to do or say to help Reece change his behaviour at school, and I wanted advice from the educational psychologist.

  The ed psych couldn’t make the reintegration meeting but sent a letter saying she was in the process of reassessing Reece and would make her report available for the review of Reece’s statement of educational needs, which the head was in the process of organizing.

  ‘I’m calling all the professionals to the statement review,’ the head said to Jamey and me at the reintegration meeting. ‘The child is out of control and must be in a special school as soon as possible.’

  It was the first time I had seen Jamey since I’d taken the school consent forms into his office for signing, although I had kept him regularly updated by email.

  He turned and looked at me. ‘Reece isn’t out of control at home, is he?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He is continuing to make very good progress.’

  ‘Which is further evidence of the need for having him in a special school,’ the head said. ‘It’s clear that this is the wrong type of school.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Jamey said, in his laid-back way. ‘But most children with special needs are accommodated in mainstream schools now. What provision have you put in place to manage his behaviour?’

  ‘I am in the process of drawing up a behavioural management plan now,’ he said. ‘Mrs Glass knows this. I will send her a copy as soon as it’s ready.’

  Jamey nodded. ‘And one to me, please.’

  I wondered how long the behavioural management plan was going to be because I had requested it over a month before and it still appeared to be at the stage of ‘work in progress’. However, the head’s next comment gave an indication as to why it was really taking so long to produce the behaviour management plan and the IEP: he was hoping it wouldn’t be needed.

  ‘I understand Reece will be moving on after the final court hearing in September,’ he said to Jamey.
/>   Jamey looked at me questioningly and I shrugged, for I hadn’t told the head that.

  ‘Well,’ Jamey said, ‘nothing is definite. It will depend on what the judge decides.’

  ‘But it is likely?’ the head persisted.

  ‘Yes, but how long it will take I don’t know. And I don’t think Reece can afford to tread water with his education for the rest of the year, do you?’ He said this so casually and politely that it took the head a moment to realize the underlying accusation, as in fact it did me.

  ‘I can assure you we are not treading water, Mr Hogg,’ he said forcefully. ‘I have a TA with Reece full time.’

  ‘Good.’ Jamey smiled. ‘Reece is back in school today, and I hope there will be no more exclusions. He’s a good lad and if Cathy can manage him at home then I’m sure this school, with all its resources and funding, can. I look forward to meeting you again at the statement review, Mr Fitzgerald.’ And with that Jamey rose and the meeting ended.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to him outside.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Heated Debate

  When the head had said he wanted all the professionals present at the meeting to review Reece’s statement of special educational needs, he had certainly meant it. Two weeks and two exclusions later, fourteen of us sat in the staff room at the school, and after the introductions we looked towards the educational psychologist, who had been asked to speak first. Her assessment of Reece was the most important document before us, her conclusion critical in any decision that would be made about Reece’s education and which type of school he should attend. We turned to the copy of her report in the pile of paperwork before us. The top page showed graphs, numbers and percentages, which at first glance seemed incomprehensible.

  ‘Don’t worry about the results of the tests for now,’ the educational psychologist said. ‘I’ll explain them shortly. I’d like to start by saying a bit about my observation and assessment of Reece in school, and also suggest some strategies that may help. Reece appears to be quite damaged by his early years experience. In the school setting he can become frustrated and aggressive, which has resulted in a number of incidents, some of which have led to him being temporarily excluded. This is a pattern of behaviour that has been evident at his two previous schools, from which he was eventually permanently excluded. However, unlike before, Reece now has a stable home life and I understand from his social worker that Reece has settled well with his carer, Cathy.’

  Both Jamey and I nodded.

  ‘When Reece is under pressure,’ she continued, ‘or anxious, he reverts to verbal abuse and occasionally physical aggression. I have witnessed this in school, and it would appear he is reverting to actions and language he has previously seen or had done to him at home. It may take some time for the impact of his early years experience to disappear. The school needs to be aware of this in their management of him. Reece’s loss of control is usually very short lived, and afterwards he is very remorseful, and can continue as though it has never happened. Situations that are likely to cause Reece frustration should be kept to a minimum, particularly with his learning and peer-group pressure. Reece will be aware that he is at a level well below his peers, both academically and socially. Situations that highlight this need to be avoided. Reece finds change and new situations difficult, and changes should be kept to a minimum too, and handled with care.’

  She paused and glanced up, and I thought her assessment so far had been absolutely spot on. How perfectly and succinctly she had summed up Reece in the school setting. I also thought that so far there’d been nothing to suggest that Reece should be in a special school, though of course we hadn’t looked at the test results yet.

  ‘Now to the results of the test,’ the educational psychologist said, continuing. ‘I won’t analyse every result but I will give you the overall findings. These include cognitive ability tests, which show Reece’s verbal and non-verbal reasoning. All the results are lower than one would expect for a child of his age.’

  Glancing down I could see this on the graphs, where Reece’s results were compared to the average child of his age.

  ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘Reece is slightly better at non-verbal reasoning and this is probably because of his delayed speech development. While Reece’s results are lower than average they are not low enough to put him in a special school. A child would have to be consistently scoring below 80, and Reece has shown he can learn. I believe his word recognition has improved since he has been with Cathy. I understand from his social worker that Reece has gone from being able to read one word to forty-five words.’ I nodded, and was pleasantly surprised to hear the educational psychologist quoting this, for it showed that while Jamey hadn’t responded to my emails, he had noted the contents and put them on file.

  ‘I’m hoping that the progress Reece has made at home,’ she continued, ‘will soon be reflected at school. Now that’s all I want to say at present, but I’m happy to discuss strategies for helping Reece in school.’

  She stopped and there was quiet as each of us silently acknowledged what she had said: that Reece wouldn’t be going to a special school but would be staying put. Eventually the deputy head, who was chairing the meeting, thanked the educational psychologist and asked if anyone wanted to comment.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, looking directly at the educational psychologist. ‘It is not Reece’s learning difficulties that suggest he should be in a special school but his behavioural difficulties. That is the reason why he can’t be taught here.’

  John, who was from the education department, replied: ‘The special school we have in the county is for severe learning difficulties. At one time there were also EBD schools’ — for those with education and behavioural difficulties — ‘but in line with government policy they have been phased out. It has been policy for many years now that children with mild to moderate learning difficulties are taught within mainstream school.’

  ‘What about his behavioural difficulties?’ the head said again.

  ‘The same applies,’ John said. ‘Mainstream school with TA support.’

  ‘So what you are saying,’ the SENCO said, ‘is that there isn’t a school now open which is suitable for a child like Reece?’

  John met her gaze. ‘No. What I am saying is that there are no EBD schools left in the county and children like Reece are accommodated with TA support in mainstream schools. It is not just in this county: most others have phased out the EBD units and schools. There are only a handful left, and the one nearest to us is forty miles away. We certainly wouldn’t consider sending a child on a return school journey of eighty miles, even if he did need an EBD school, which Reece doesn’t.’

  From there on the meeting got very heated, with everyone trying to speak at once.

  ‘What Reece needs seems to be a matter of opinion,’ the head said, tartly.

  ‘It’s ridiculous there are no EBD schools,’ the head of year added.

  ‘He doesn’t need one,’ the educational psychologist returned. I felt the debate on EBD schools was a bit futile, as the educational psychologist wasn’t recommending one, and even if she had been it would have been highly doubtful Reece would go forty miles and out of county. I exchanged glances with Mrs Morrison and also the new TA, Mrs Curtis, who was looking after Reece at lunchtime. They, like me, were not contributing to the discussion but listening.

  ‘So what are we supposed to do?’ the head eventually asked the meeting in general. ‘Clearly Reece can’t function in mainstream school. We have tried but it hasn’t worked.’

  Mr Parks, who advised schools on behavioural management, took up the question, and said he would make himself available to come into the school for a morning or afternoon each week to advise the staff and TAs on strategies that would help. The head looked sceptical that these would work, and said so. The educational psychologist then commented that keeping Reece segregated both for his lessons and at playtime was fuelling his frustration and feelings of rejection. />
  ‘He is dangerous!’ the head snapped. ‘What are we supposed to do? You are forgetting he has attacked staff and pupils, and damaged property. I can’t have him running riot!’

  ‘He’s not like that at home,’ I said, feeling the head was exaggerating and it was time I had my say. All eyes turned to me. ‘I should like to confirm that Reece’s behaviour stabilized very quickly, and we have had no incidents since the first few weeks he came to me.’

  ‘Perhaps some of your strategies could be applied to school,’ John from the education department suggested. ‘What have you done that has made Reece behave?’

  ‘Just firm and consistent boundaries,’ I said. ‘I rewarded his good behaviour and sanctioned his bad. Reece wanted to do the right thing; he just didn’t know what the right thing was. He responds very well to praise and encouragement because he doubts himself. I find that because of his learning difficulties I often have to repeat quite simple instructions, but in terms of his behaviour there hasn’t been a problem.’ I stopped and everyone looked at the head, who was clearly itching to say something.

  ‘Home is very different from the school setting,’ he barked.

  ‘Yes,’ the educational psychologist agreed, ‘but that Reece has responded well at home is very promising, and an indication of what he is capable of in school. If Cathy was saying that Reece’s behaviour was out of control at home I would be very worried. However, I am optimistic that the changes Reece has made at home can be successfully applied at school.’

  The educational psychologist and Mr Parks then gave some advice to Mrs Morrison and Miss Broom on handling situations where Reece was likely to become frustrated and possibly angry, while the rest of us looked on.

  ‘We will need extra funding to do all that,’ the head put in quickly.