Michael stood and patted Guled on the back. He walked back to his tea-making area and passed Patricia.
"Did he talk?" she asked.
"Just a thank you. Who does he live with?" Michael asked.
"Semi-independent living," replied Patricia.
"What? Pats, that's nuts. He's been in the UK for what, three months? Why isn't he in care?" Michael was shocked and concerned.
"In care for a month. His age was reassessed. He went into a hostel and then given semi-independent living accommodation."
Patricia reeled off information like The Terminator, churning out facts when asked to. She would spew out any details on demand about a pupil, or a document, a diary date, a term date, an address and even a shoe size. She had OCD with organization.
Helen made sure she kept her well in line, as she often became extremely objective and far too by-the-book, especially when she believed the book to be her own. She, like the rest of the team, was cherished. To the team, she was reliable and trustworthy, or so they all thought.
Patricia used to be a Learning Support Assistant, once known as General Assistant. Patricia the GA used to be bullied by an old fashioned female teacher. She belittled her. Gave her the worst jobs in the classroom; sharpening pencils accompanied by constant put-downs. Making her feel like a child, instead of utilising her skills to assist a pupil's learning. Patricia was given an opportunity, by Helen, to rise through the admin ranks. First, by taking the role of an administration job, dealing with registers, pupils' files, parents and stock ordering. It fuelled the jealousy fire of the stuck-in-her-ways teacher as she was always placing stock orders left, right and centre. Patricia, in charge of the budgeting and signing the final ordering document, was slowly getting her own back.
A new role within the school became somewhat hard to define as it was completely made up on the spot: Parent-Pupil Support Coordinator. It was a glorified admin role and, in the future, would be known as Pastoral Manager. She was the first point of call when it came to a student being referred to the workplace and there were a number of ways that a pupil could be referred.
A referral form or a telephone call would come in, faxed or posted from the Head Office in deepest, darkest Woolwich. A referral could also be made at the Fair Access Panel. Previously known as the Pupil Placement Panel, the three Ps in a row became difficult for some people. They would buzz the intercom and say "I have come to sit at the PPP." It was like listening to Colin Firth in The King's Speech. The stuttering sound of the PPP quickly changed.
Head Teachers of Greenwich Borough secondary schools sat in a boardroom with other leading professionals, together with NHS school nurses and psychologists from Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS, pronounced CAMS). For a couple of hours they would toss around files of various children, most permanently excluded, as well those newly arrived into the country. Some were on the Attendance Advisory list, having been out of school for a considerable length of time. Sometimes there would be a great deal of pupil information but, more often than not, there would hardly be any at all. Just a name and an address.
Patricia amended the documents so it made sense to others. She interviewed foster carers and parents; spoke to social workers on a regular basis. She dealt with Attendance Advisory Workers, Youth Offending Team Workers, court officials, interpreters, siblings of pupils, School Governors and Head Teachers. If the workplace were a brand, Patricia would want to be the logo. That said, Patricia needed to be kept in line and Helen did it brilliantly.
Helen guided her into the team's way of thinking. She would halt her interviewing too many new-referred students, as the team had to take their time in getting to know certain children first. If Patricia had her way, she would fill the place up constantly like a conveyor belt and forget to move children on to the next phase.
Fill, fill, and fill. It was Patricia's mentality. She was a real box ticker.
Anna was a blonde, petite twelve year old with a stern expression. She stood in the doorway, staring into the kitchen.
Paul stepped over to Patricia and Michael.
"Who's that? She new?" he whispered to Patricia.
"Oh, that's Anna. She's Russian," Patricia ticked Anna's name in the register.
"She's not rushing, she's standing still," chuckled Paul. He looked at Michael, who smiled and stepped up to where the girl was standing.
"Hello. Would you like to sit down?" he asked her.
She nodded her head and sat on the nearest blue plastic chair. Well postured, hands interlinked, feet crossed and tucked under the chair, Anna stared straight ahead.
Michael squatted beside her. "I'm Michael."
"Anna. My name is Anna. Not Ann or Annie. Anna."
"Would you like a drink of anything, Anna?" he asked.
"Anything of what?" Anna said curiously, with a frown.
"Tea, or hot chocolate perhaps?"
"Tea. I want tea," she said, abruptly.
"Please. Tea, please," corrected Michael, with a smile.
"Yes." Anna nodded her head and turned away to look elsewhere. She retrieved a copy of the Metro newspaper and flicked through the pages rapidly, as if on a page-seeking mission, honing in like a guided missile until she locked onto her target: the Sudoku page.
Michael raised an eyebrow and straightened. He made his way back to the tea-making area.
"She's as coldski as ice-ski," he joked, in a stereotypical Eastern European accent to Paul, who responded in a similar fashion, smiling.
"Niet, I see she will be good fun here."
Patricia shook her head. "Entertaining for you, you mean Mr Jones."
Michael gave Anna her cup of tea.
"It has sugar, yes?" she asked.
"No sugar. We don't have any today."
Anna shrugged like it didn't matter either way.
Michael headed to the wall where the trio of boys were sitting.
They were more like men and straightened when Michael approached. They had set themselves apart from the other pupils. One by one each extended their hand to Michael, with a smile.
"Good morning," said one, shaking Michael's hand.
"See you yesterday," said another, causing Michael to frown.
"Good morning," he said. "You say 'good morning'."
The Afghan nodded his head. More like a Royal Variety Performance, with Michael moving along the line.
He shook hands with the variety acts. In fact, it was exactly that. He was Royalty to them.
They adored his presence and the positive vibe he gave off. They were an unusual, performing trio, forever surprising and interesting for Michael's monarch-like status.
He shook the third boy's hand.
Abdul Rah-Maan was supposed to be a fourteen. He looked, like his fellow Afghani students, nearly twice that age. Handsome, with a friendly smile, yet his eyes spoke of pain that viewed a continually frustrating journey. Born in Pakistan, he'd lived his whole life in Herat and Kabul.
Herat province was taken over by the Taliban in 1995 and prior to that, the Mujahedeen and the Soviets battled each other no end throughout the nineteen eighties. Armed forces of the United States and the Coalition, assisted by the Afghan Northern Alliance in 2001, removed the Taliban from the province.
There were around fifty-seven different tribes and ethnic groups in Afghanistan. The population included Pashtun, Baloch, Aimak, Turkoman, Tajik, Hazara, Pashtoon and Uzbek. With all the groups naturally came many different languages, the most common being Dari and Pashto. They were the official languages of the country and came originally from Iran. Other languages included Farsi and Hazaragi, spoken by the Hazara people. Lesser languages included Pashai, Balochi, Brahui, Nuristani, Pamiri languages and Hindko.
Ninety-nine per cent of Afghans were Muslim. Shia and Sunni.
Abdul Rah-Maan was a Muslim and spoke seven different languages. He was in foster care and being looked after by a Pakistani family in Royal Greenwich. Abdul was found by Kent police officers at a s
et of traffic lights, by the roundabout at the Swanley and M25 junction. He was an extremely polite and respectful young man.
The Home Office assessed his age and officially classed him as fourteen. His school file revealed Abdul's mother was killed by the Taliban and the whereabouts of his siblings and journalist father were unknown to him.
Michael smiled at Abdul. "Good morning, Abdul."
"Good morning, Teacher," replied Abdul.
"Michael. You can call me Michael."
Abdul smiled politely, but masked his awkwardness.
"No, Teacher. I say Teacher. In Afghanistan, I say Teacher because it is, um, what is the word for respectful?" asked Abdul.
"No, you're right. Respectful is right," said Michael.
"Understand. So, it is difficult? Yes, difficult for me to say your name."
"But that is my name. Michael is my name. Abdul is your name."
"Example please, Teacher," Abdul asked.
"In England, when somebody gives you permission..."
"Permish?"
"Permission. It means you are allowed to do something."
"Understand. Please. Continue."
"When somebody says you are allowed to call them by their name, you should."
"Because it is respectful in England?" questioned Abdul.
"Yes. It is respectful everywhere."
"Not in Afghanistan. It is very different. I find it difficult, but I will try," said Abdul.
"Your English is excellent," replied Michael, impressed by the new student.
Abdul smiled, bashfully. "I speak seven languages, Teacher Michael," he said.
Michael straightened. He patted Abdul on the shoulder.
Abdul's smile was wiped immediately to practically a wary and sudden scowl, which caused Michael to turn to where Abdul aimed his glare.
A tall, gangly Kurdish teenager stood awkwardly in the doorway. He wore light blue jeans and brilliant white Reebok trainers with a neatly-pressed dark blue shirt. His name was Shaheen and he, too, looked older than his given fourteen years.
Michael turned to Patricia, who had already spotted Shaheen and made her way to him. Michael met her halfway.
"Who's this?" he asked quietly, stepping up to him with a smile.
Patricia gestured to Shaheen and then Michael.
"This is Shaheen," she said.
"Good morning, Shaheen. I'm Michael."
Michael extended his hand towards him.
He looked at the friendly hand and gripped it.
"Shaheen." He felt uncomfortable.
"You're early, Shaheen. Three days early," Patricia chuckled.
"Early? No, I start today." Shaheen scowled and looked around the room. He fixed on the Afghans several feet away.
"Well, you can start today, Shaheen," Patricia said.
"Tomorrow Home Office." His eyes were glassy and he looked concerned. He pointed a finger at the group of Afghans nearby. "Who they?" he asked. "Afghani?"
"Yes, they're from Afghanistan," answered Patricia.
"No problem. No problem," Shaheen said. He held his palms upwards and stepped back into the corridor.
Michael turned to Patricia when Helen approached.
"What's the matter?" Helen said.
"It's uncertain yet, but he seems troubled by our Afghans," said Michael.
"How was he in the interview, Pats?" asked Helen.
"A bit unsettled. He wants to start school as soon as possible. Likes money and said he doesn't want to be near any Afghans."
"Well, that's going to be difficult," Michael remarked as he closely monitored Shaheen pacing the corridor several feet away.
"It can't be done. He has to accept everyone. We don't take demands here. Have we got all of his files, Patricia?" Helen asked, also watching Shaheen.
"Well, as much of a file as it can be. Details of his foster carers and what I quickly jotted down through the interpreter in the interview."
"I'll have a read later, but can you brief us now before he comes back in?" requested Helen.
"Arrived at Dover in the back of a lorry. He travelled alone from Iran and escaped trouble. Says he's angry. Doesn't like the US and British governments; said his father was some kind of freedom fighter. I wrote it down. I've got it here. There are a few to choose from." Patricia flicked over a couple of pages on her red clipboard and read from it. "The Kongra-Gel. Kurdistan Freedom and Democracy Congress. KADEK. Kurdistan Workers' Party. The PKK. Partiya Karkeran. Kurdistan Workers' Party People's Defence Force." She turned the page back over and noticed Michael and Helen both looking like they had a thousand thoughts running through their minds.
Michael raised his eyebrows and gritted his teeth.
"Look at him. He looks older than my twenty-four-year-old son. What do you think, Mike?" asked Helen.
He exhaled a deep breath, considering. He looked at Patricia and Helen. "Said he doesn't like the US and British governments. Maybe he got on the wrong lorry?"
"Why is he angry?" added Helen.
"I don't know," shrugged Patricia.
"I don't want any upset. We're out of our depth," Helen sighed.
"Why have we got so many at the moment?" Michael asked.
"Admissions had a new member of staff. Didn't fully understand the process," Helen replied.
"He's coming back," Michael said, watching.
"Okay. We'll see how it goes. He may just be nervous. What's his problem with Afghanis?" Helen asked Patricia.
Patricia shrugged again, not knowing what to say as Shaheen walked back in with a nervous smile.
Patricia, Helen and Michael - tight as tight can be. Although not always sociable outside of work, in the workplace the three of them were an open book. Nothing was really withheld when it came to the politics of the Education Service. Their personal lives often exposed and discussed.
All three were trustworthy and loyal, assets to any workforce, and should probably have been renamed 'The Three Musketeers'. Wherever one went, the other two weren't too far behind, working and creating something that would benefit the young people and their own team.
It wasn't long, however, before the dreaded Cardinal Richelieu entered the room.
Catherine Riverdale was sixty years old. She was a short, white woman, with a slight hunch and a protruding chin. She resembled an archetypal school mistress of the 1950s or even, at times, a slave driver in charge of a Victorian workhouse. Riverdale was the temporary manager of a newly formed Assessment Centre. She psychologically mind-whipped fellow staff members, let alone the young, impressionable and extremely vulnerable children she was there to educate. If there was ever a spanner in the works, Riverdale was surely that very spanner.
It wasn't such a bad thing. After all, she only had one month of her temporary contract left. Her job, manager of the Assessment Centre, was definitely in a limbo state. She left colleagues stressed; mentally and emotionally exhausted on a daily basis. Her random statements, social attitude and general approach to life itself were simply peculiar. She did, however, always put the children first, despite her methods being unusual, to say the least.
Riverdale would, for instance, suddenly enter another teacher's classroom, or if Michael was in the midst of counselling a student, she would stare and point at them. She waggled her forefinger and removed them from class to the bemusement of the staff member. Riverdale took a handful of children outside to grow vegetables, rake up some grass or pull up weeds. She stood on the edge, watching each one like a prison warden. She'd return the pupils back to their classroom, grubby as hell, and expect them to settle back into their lesson, even though they would have missed the vitals.
Michael often found Catherine Riverdale sobbing at her desk or in the corner of a classroom.
One day she explained to him that her partner of fifteen years was addicted to cannabis and it concerned her that she, also, smoked too much weed. It naturally surprised Michael to learn this, but it quickly lessened when she told him she hadn't been getting
a lot of sex either. At first she reminded Michael of a troll, but then he settled on the fact that she was more of a dead-ringer of Fenella the Kettle Witch from 1970s children's animation Chorlton and the Wheelies.
"Good morning everybody," said Catherine Riverdale. She nodded and smiled with her crooked teeth at some of the children sitting in the room. She waddled, in a witch-like manner, nodding to Michael, hearing him sighing. "Morning. How are you today, on this lovely, crisp morning?"
Michael caught sight of the other staff.
Paul raised his eyebrows and also his cup of tea. He smiled and lowered his head.
"I'm good, thank you, Catherine," replied Michael. He pressed his back against the edge of the work-surface. Trapped.
Riverdale moved her head rapidly up and down, like one of those annoying nodding dogs positioned on the parcel shelves of a number of cars. Pointless. Utterly and completely. Likened only slightly to those fortune cats found in Chinese restaurants. However, at least those nodding, paw-waving cats actually had a positive purpose. To bring good luck, health and fortune.
Michael couldn't help but frown and stare at her as she nodded her head.
Riverdale jutted her chin out and looked back at him, as if he was a biological study sample. "I've never understood answers like that, Michael."
"Answers like what, Catherine?"
"Answering with the word 'good' when somebody asks how another person is. Surely 'very well, thank you' or a simple 'fine' would be just as well. I'll set that as homework for you, Michael. Ha. Get your mother to respond to my notes in your daily planner," she nodded, grinning and revealing her brown, decaying teeth, cackling an uncertain giggle. If only she was joking. At least it would be an excuse for an attempt at humour, but it wasn't a joke. She was serious. Her sole mission was to control and to gain status. Riverdale had always made it known that she left a high-profile trophy school and took a considerable significant drop in her salary in order to work here. Questionable. With everything in life there have been always three sides to every story: yours, theirs and the truth, as Michael's father always used to say.
Michael hid his face with his cup of tea, raising his eyebrows as he sipped his drink.
"Who's that then?" Riverdale said, pointing a spindly finger towards the Afghan quarter of the room.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 3