In Loco Parentis

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In Loco Parentis Page 6

by Nigel Bird


  “That’s amazing, Max,” I tell him. “Can he do anything else?”

  Max holds his toy at arm’s length and looks at him for a moment. “Sure.” He throws him up into the air and catches him. “He can fly.”

  “It’s a flying toy,” David says and gets jumps to his feet to get a closer look.

  “Now, now David. What did we say about being a quality audience?” He doesn’t answer my question, just sits down and folds his arms. “That was lovely Max. Who’s next.”

  Those with things to say breathe a collective gasp, straighten their backs and have their fingers over their lips before Max is seated.

  I look around and try and build the tension, so much easier when they’re five than when they’re eleven.

  “Aminta.” I know she hasn’t got anything with her, but it’ll make her feel like she’s part of things. The poor thing blushes and moves in tight to her cousin to find safety. At least I’m another thirty seconds closer to the bell going.

  “Aurora?”

  Aurora stands up, hiding something behind her back. She looks round the circle to check she has everyone’s attention and she does.

  She holds out a photograph. It’s of two old people holding a baby.

  “This is me when I was a baby.” She turns the picture so that everyone can get a look.

  The room gives a collective sigh.

  “Who are the old people?” David shouts out.

  Aurora looks at him but says nothing, then looks at me hoping I’ll be able to explain.

  “I don’t know. Aurora, are these your grandparents?” She tilts her head and her brow furrows, but there’s no answer. “I think they must be her grandparents in Sweden.”

  I take the picture from her. On the back, written in pencil, it tells me what I need to know.

  Beckoning Aurora over, I tell the class about her grandparents. “Olaf is a journalist who writes for American newspapers mostly. Ingrid’s a teacher. They live in Stockholm and have a small cottage in the country where the photo was taken last year.”

  I’ve done my job. Stretched it as far as I can go without an interpreter.

  When Aurora turns away, there’s the intake of breath and the straightening of backs of the three children who are left.

  I point to Don and his face becomes animated.

  He jumps to his feet and fiddles about with his clothes. Lifts his tops like he’s going to undress.

  There, just underneath his ribs and all the way down to the top of his hip is a bruise, the colours all damson and plum. It’s round. I imagine it’s about the size of an adult fist.

  Just as I see it, it’s gone and he’s pulling the tee-shirt down.

  “I got this yesterday.”

  “Wow,” everyone says.

  They’re all looking at the Arsenal FC transfer across his chest. The only thing I can think of is the bruise. Picture knuckle-marks in there, but can’t be sure I’m not just imagining.

  I want to ask about it. Who put it there and when, but I have all the child-protection courses I’ve ever been on to think about at the same time.

  No leading questions. No putting words into the child’s mouth. If you’re not sure, pass it on to the child-protection officer in your school.

  “That’s fantastic,” is what I say. Shit is what I think. Shit, shit, shit.

  Looks like Don’s won the day in the show and tell stakes anyway. David and Charlie are both up getting a closer look.

  “Arsenal,” Zlatan says. “It is my favourite team.”

  “They’re your favourite team,” I say, remembering to re-model rather than to correct.

  I look at the clock for help. It doesn’t. There are still twenty minutes to go and now I’m not sure if it’s too short or too long.

  There’s time to get in touch with social services, but I don’t have any faith in what I saw. Besides, I’d be putting Don’s trust in me on the line at the same time. Alienating his family. Starting up the gossip.

  Better just to leave it to the end of the day. Write it in the incident book and make a note to myself.

  “Anybody else?” I forget to ask Don about his top, but he’ll live. At least I hope he will.

  Arash gets up with a car, Arabella does a dance, Zulfi stands up and sits down again.

  When the bell goes it knocks me from the labyrinths of my mind. Milja has the floor.

  “What did the flower say to the flower?” A joke to end the day on. We’ll be late for the parents, but they can wait.

  “Don’t you grow anymore.”

  Either there’s something there that I can’t see or she’s a comic genius. Half of the kids are on their backs. David has his legs in the air and is kicking out like he’s just been hung.

  I wonder if I should explain why it’s not funny.

  Instead I want to be that popular.

  “Why did the hedgehog cross the road?”

  the girl with the leather bag

  When the children leave, I just sit.

  Without their laughter, the constant tugging at my trousers or the hearing of my name, the world seems an empty place.

  There’s plenty to sort. Wet paintings hang from a string tied from wall to wall like brightly coloured washing. There’s play-dough to put away and worksheets and photographs to be stuck into folders. On my desk is the pile of letters about after-school clubs I was supposed to give the kids before they left.

  I can’t think where to start.

  With a smoke is my answer.

  Then I see her head bobbing up the path.

  She walks in with her shiny polished boots and large, leather bag hanging at her shoulder, looking like she might be taking care of professional duties.

  It’s a surprise when she speaks. Her hushed voice sounds full of panic. “He knows.”

  “Christ. How the hell...”

  “Well, I think he knows.”

  It’s like being punched hard then being given a hand off the ground.

  “Can you throw a sickie tomorrow?” she asks.

  It’s a ridiculous proposition. A class full of brand new arrivals in only their second week, there’s no way I can do it.

  Maybe she’s read my thoughts. “I’m coming down with something, too. We could look after each other. Talk things through.”

  “Talk?” It’s not something we’ve done a great deal really.

  “Yes, talk.”

  It’s still insane. “OK.” I can’t believe I said it. “Come over soon as you’ve dropped the kids off.”

  She turns to leave as if all business is taken care of.

  “You sure you’ll be there?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says, and she leaves with a bounce in her step.

  good call

  Best thing to do if you’re not going in is to call in early.

  Before 8, you’ll usually get Des. If you’re unlucky, you might catch one of the cleaners and that can take a mountain of explaining if the agency has sent someone whose English is in its fledgling stages.

  I smoke a fag as I lean into a mountain of pillows, then smoke another to make sure I get my voice sounding good and rough.

  I do a couple of screams into the duvet to add the right amount of rasp to my throat and dial.

  My heart pounds super fast.

  “Morning,” Des says through a mouthful of something.

  “Des?”

  “That you Joe?”

  “Yes.” I’m impressing myself with the sense of frailty I’m offering. Just the right balance between needing sympathy and putting on a brave face. “Can you pass on a message for me. I won’t be in today.”

  “No worries,” he says. He couldn’t give a monkey’s who teaches the kids as long as they don’t leave a mess on the floor at the end or the day or send for the milk at the wrong time. “What should I say you’ve got.”

  “Sickness and diarrhoea.” Always reckon that nobody would use the word diarrhoea if they didn’t really need to.

  “Eat anything dod
gy?”

  “Had a take away from Archie’s on the way home.”

  “What have I told you about that place?”

  Plenty. “Won’t happen again.” Fact that I’ve proved him right about something makes him feel good. He’ll be so pleased with himself he won’t give my excuse a second thought.

  “I’ll quote you on that. Got to go. Delivery.”

  “Thanks Des.”

  “See you.”

  I get up on the bed, bounce a couple of times. Clench my fists like I’ve just scored the winning goal in the cup final.

  Waiting

  9:45. If she doesn’t show soon I’m going to go crazy.

  Half an hour ago I was freshly bathed and in clean underwear. A dab of aftershave and a light breakfast and I was ready for anything.

  Now my skin feels tight. My blood pressure’s up, my face all blotchy. I might not have been ill when I phoned, but I couldn’t do any work the way I’m feeling.

  Flicking through my albums, I find what I need. Bad Manners and something uplifting.

  First track I play is Lorraine.

  Buster sings, ‘And when I find her, I’m gonna’ kill her, and when I find her, I’m gonna’ kill her.’ It’s the first time I’ve really understood what he means.

  the girl in the knitted top

  10:45.

  I want to be cross with her, but I’m not. Truth is I’m so delighted she’s here, I’d forgive her anything.

  She bounces in and lights up my life like the summer sun.

  ‘Let’s go into the garden,’ she says, dropping her jacket and bag to the ground.

  We open up the back door and go to sit on the lawn.

  As usual she’s draped in silver and I’m dazzled.

  Her bare arms are lightly tanned.

  I trace my finger from her wrist to the top of her shoulder where I reach the sleeve of her white, knitted top. I take a moment to admire the way her clothes compliment her pale lipstick and quickly shift my hand underneath the wool to find her naked breasts.

  “Horny?” she asks. It’s not a bad opening line.

  “A little,” I confess.

  She looks around at the windows that surround us then smiles. “Want to screw?”

  It’s the easiest question I’ve ever had to answer.

  the girl and the pile of clothes

  Something was different about the sex. It wasn’t the hungry, animal bonk I had in mind. Instead it was slow, gentle and affectionate. I wonder if we’ve just made love and ask her.

  Her answer is a purr into the pillow and a little choked laugh.

  “Do you know,” I tell her, “that I think I’m falling in love.”

  It’s a crazy thing to say. It wasn’t something I’d been thinking. She’s married and I’ve only really known her for a month. But my cards are on the table now and they don’t seem very high.

  I wait for her to respond. To let me know how she feels. “I’d kill for a cup of tea,” she says.

  I try not to look hurt. Wander into the kitchen not caring who might see me naked through the window and put the kettle on. It gives me time to think. When I’ve finished I bang my head on the kitchen counter and set to making the drinks.

  She’s smoking. The light that’s worked its way in lines through the blinds catches the clouds as they fill the room. It’s a beautiful sight, the smoke and my lover and my bed.

  “I was thinking about the Jolly Postman.” What the? “You should do it with your class. Vince loves it.”

  “Ahlberg knows his onions.” He does. I mean, he’s written some of the best books for kids I’ve ever come across.

  “It’s a shame about his wife.”

  Before I know it I’m wrapped up in her words, the life of the author, her tales of the stories she knows. It’s hypnotising.

  Something about the way she talks tells me she’s revelling in her captive audience of one. Scared to disrupt the flow, I let her go on until the urge to kiss her becomes unbearable.

  Soon as we kiss, the urge to get inside her builds until getting inside her is the only possible solution.

  She lies back and helps me in. I feel my body fill with the chemicals of pleasure.

  2 o’clock and she has to go. Over to playgroup for Vince, then to school for Sheena.

  Watching her dress is bitter sweet - seductive to watch yet signalling the end.

  She’s dressed and has her hair brushed within minutes.

  I see her to the door.

  As she opens the outside door she turns around.

  “I think I love you too.”

  It’s the best sick day of my life.

  refugee

  When I get home from therapy, last thing I need is Wolf sitting at my door.

  “Hey man,” I say to him, then realise he’s sitting on two bags that are stuffed to the point of bursting.

  He doesn’t get up, just puts out a fist for me to touch.

  “Bad fucking news, man,” he says looking at the floor. He sobs into his hands. I’ve never seen him cry before. Don’t know what to do. I just stand there and wait for him to stop, hoping none of the neighbours appear. “Real bad news.”

  I wonder if someone’s dead until I remember he has bags.

  “Come on Wolf, let’s go and get the kettle on.”

  Pulling him up by the hand he offers, I pick up one of half his luggage and fish around in my pocket for my key.

  black

  “It’s all black,” Wolf says. “Everything. Fuck.”

  He’s trembling. His eyes look like they’ve sunk into his head and he keeps rubbing them with his thumbs like he’s trying to push them in further.

  I’ve been piecing it together from the bits that made sense. Maxine’s away over with her father in Ireland. Turns out there’s nothing wrong with her father after all. Just running away and taking Wolf’s son at the same time.

  There are lots of things I could say. I run them around my head like marbles to see if any of them seem to fit in the holes. Plenty more fish in the sea. She’ll be back, you’ll see. You’re better off without her – she’s always treated you like shit.

  None of them seem right and silence isn’t an option.

  “Take some deep breaths,” I say. “In and out.” Like there’s any other kind.

  He seems to be doing it. His shoulders and chest rise and fall then do it again.

  I feel his darkness seeping into me and surrounding me like a cloud. This isn’t going to be good. There’s no way I can cope.

  “Maybe I should give Mike a call,” I say.

  Wolf nods.

  I go into the bedroom and enjoy the momentarily relief.

  Falling onto the bed, I pick up the phone and dial.

  It’s cool over by the window.

  I hear Mike’s answer machine kick in. Same old message. “If I’m not in I must be far out.”

  There’s not much point leaving a message. He won’t pick it up till he’s back.

  Wolf’s out there moaning.

  My stomach rumbles.

  I dial again.

  Maybe he was in the toilet.

  He’s still far out.

  “You need a place to stay?” I ask Wolf when I get back.

  He’s in the same position, hunched like an existential statue or one of those buskers covered in silver paint just waiting for a penny in their pot. I think he nods, but I already know the answer.

  “So maybe we should think about setting you up a bed.” Doing something has to be better than this. “How’s the living room suit?”

  A moan comes from somewhere deep in his body. “It’s all black,” he says and my body freezes to the spot as if it knows it’s missed the chance to escape.

  Thunder

  Monday morning, in earlier than usual.

  Don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to be at work.

  It was the heaviest weekend I can remember.

  Wolf’s filled my home with a new darkness, like his shadow’s spread to eve
ry room. There’s a smell of sweat and old people that I can’t get rid of no matter how long the windows stay open.

  The best times were when he was asleep, knocked out on his cocktail of whisky, cough mixtures and spliffs the size of carrots.

  I’m not sure it’s good for him to be taking all that, but as long as it keeps him quiet I’m saying nothing.

  There’s plenty of time to prepare for the school day. Start with my usual ritual of loading up on nicotine and caffeine.

  Carrying my coffee carefully so as not to spill any, I get to the top of the stairs and hear an almighty crash in the smoking room.

  “Don’t you ever do that again, hear?” It’s Phil Carpenter. He’s shouting at the top of his voice, but the way it’s all posh means it sounds amusing. “Did you hear?” It’s even louder and it’s not like him to risk his singing voice.

  There’s a woman’s voice. High pitched like crying, but too quiet to make out.

  I think about whether to go down or not.

  Probably none of my business, but the woman sounds scared.

  I carry on down the stairs, a little more quickly now, not so bothered about the coffee.

  Maybe they hear my steps. Everything quietens.

  As I go in, they’re standing in fixed positions as if nothing’s happened.

  Mildred’s over in the corner pretending to look for something or other on the shelves.

  Phil stands against the wall underneath the windows with his hands folded across his chest.

  Rumour’s always been that the two have a thing going. I’ve been over to the music cupboards on a Friday after orchestra and could swear it’s full of the smells of sex. Could just be the scents of middle-age, mind.

  “Morning,” I say, cheerily as I can muster.

  They both reply in kind.

  “Nice weekend?” I ask. Seems like a perfectly normal question.

  “For God’s sake, man, stop mumbling,” Phil says. He’s got rubber cheeks that are far too big for his face and lips the size of Jagger’s. “You need to learn to annunciate.”

  He’s said it before. Usually shuts me up. Not this time.

  “So what have you two been up to?” I wanted to settle things down when I came in, now I want to see him squirm.

 

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