by Shawna Lewis
Next morning he woke with a start, cold and dying for a pee. His sudden movement had startled the sparrow, which fluttered around in panic before crashing into the raised hatch, breaking its neck and tumbling through to the floor below. Belinda had discovered the sobbing man just five minutes after this second loss.
By the end of Drago’s tale, trying to sort truth from fiction and bad grammar left Belinda’s head in a mess. She was tired, bewildered, and her hand had been captured by an illegal immigrant who depended on her. She tried to tug it free, but the grip tightened. She tried to look away from those dark eyes, but hadn’t the spirit. She knew she was a sad, middle-aged woman with too much on her plate. She had a family to take care of and… and… all this!
Belinda rose from the chair, pulled away her eyes, her hand, grabbed the plastic box, the T-shirt, her coat, and strode determinedly out of the door, which slammed behind her. The man shrugged, dried his eyes and made himself another coffee to take up the ladder with a piece of the new cake. He was asleep before Belinda reached home.
Her stride shortened as the distance from the hall increased. She slowed, not ready to face the normality of home, of stripping the beds on a Monday morning, checking up on Mum and Dad and getting ready for work. Drago’s story could not, surely, be true? Maybe she’d misunderstood his ungrammatical, accented English. Yet the sob in his voice persisted in her ear. That alone rang true. Let the tale be fabrication or not, there was no doubt of the man’s grief. But why was the bird dead?
Despite this question, her soul failed to break free of the hypnotic darkness of the tear-filled eyes. The firmness of the hand that had captured hers was tangible. Surely, a throb of love had passed between them, though her sensible mind told her she was being hoodwinked. Belinda was the captive; the fugitive the captor. She knew it, deep down.
So did he.
*
As the washing turned in the machine, knees weakening, she sank onto a chair left awry in the kitchen. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the checked tablecloth. Up-ending the carrier bag, she inhaled his body smell, burying her face in the T-shirt, using it to dry her eyes, pretending it belonged to Aidan, or Doug…but knowing it did not. Absentmindedly, she set the blue-lidded box on the worktop, poured hot water onto instant coffee and allowed herself five minutes of self-pity.
She tried to think of Drago’s mother. After all, he was a son first and foremost, just as Aidan belonged to her more than anyone else. Her mind’s eye washed with an image of her son’s face atop the Serbian’s naked torso. She blushed with guilt at the thought.
The rattle of the letter box was followed by a knock on the front door. Drying her eyes, through the glass panel she could see the new post lady in her red Royal Mail polo shirt and gilet. A handful of junk mail and bills was thrust at her chest when she opened the door. The woman nodded at the letter box.
“’s full. Can’t get this lot in.”
Po-faced, she turned on her stoutly booted heel. The gate clicked behind her before Belinda grasped what she’d said.
Protruding from the letter box, jammed part-way through, was another padded brown envelope. There had been so many of them she’d lost count, yet she didn’t recall a rush of bookings in the village hall diary. The package ripped a little as she tugged it out. Her heel kicked the door shut. She laid the brown envelope on the third stair, thinking she really must check up on things soon.
The junk mail – an old-folks’ cruise offer and multiple money-off vouchers for products she would never buy – joined the pile on the table. The bills she stood, unopened, behind the kettle.
She straightened her shoulders and took out a clean dishcloth. Putting stuff away, wiping surfaces: a fail-safe step back to efficiency mode. First she would make up Melanie’s packed lunch for tomorrow. She had some tortilla wraps in the cupboard, she knew, and there was bound to be some sort of filling in the fridge. She took another of her blue-lidded storage boxes from the cupboard.
Tomorrow’s lunch sorted, she cleared the worktops, putting everything in its proper place: fridge, cupboards, or bin. Spray, wipe and move on, up and down the cupboard doors, polish the window and mop the floor. All in order. All clean, fresh and wholesome. Just like her family.
At the sight of the envelope on the stairs, the wholesome feeling evaporated a little, but wave of tiredness and hopelessness overwhelming her, she lay down on the sofa and flicked through the television’s daytime dross. Hypnotised by drug-riddled siblings swearing at their desperate, deranged mother, Belinda was lifted to sleep on a balloon of relief: maybe her own family was quite normal after all.
Somewhere in her dreams swam the malevolent mantras, the little list. They swam in the same pool as Job Dunne, her father, snails and a hairy-handed Aidan speaking in a foreign tongue. Surrounding the pool was a forest, which the dreamer recognised as being the Welsh home of her ancestors. She struggled to speak the new language but her voice was drowned by the harmonies of a male voice choir singing ‘Cwm Rhondda’. She tried screaming and kicking at the choir, until she jerked awake to find herself on the carpet. Her toes hurt. She was exhausted. The dream skittered away to who knows where, like a mouse in a pantry.
She lay there for a while. Tears seeped from behind closed eyelids. When they reached her lips, she licked them off. She reached for the remote control, pressed a button, and again let herself wallow in other people’s misery.
*
The padded envelope was added to the growing heap in her wardrobe. She must clean it out soon. A jumble sale in the hall would be a good idea, if only she could persuade someone else to join in. Belinda had enough unwanted gifts and knick-knacks to fill a table. Thinking about this was a change from dreaming of Drago and worrying about Dorothy, her mother, her father… her husband, her children… the Charity Commission, the menopause… blocked drains … paying-in books … Drago.
19
The following day Belinda made up her mind to try once again to wrest the village hall account books from the bony hands of Sybil Spinks. The grapevine had it that, although physically more or less back to normal after the heart attack, John had never fully recovered from the anaesthetic administered for his varicose vein operation. He was now at home, with carers going in four times a day. Son Derek was keen for both parents to move into residential care, but John and Sybil were resisting. Belinda could wait no longer: it was time to confront the situation. She would visit the treasurer at home and get hold of what she needed before it was too late.
She was opening the front door when the telephone rang.
“Mrs Lowe? This is Jasmine Struthers from Truetrust Academy. I’m phoning about your daughter Melanie. I’m afraid you need to come to school right away.”
Belinda was baffled until she remembered: Denswick Comprehensive had fallen foul of the latest educational experiment and been academised. Her knees buckled. “What’s happened?”
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone, Mrs Lowe. If Mr Lowe is available, he should come too.”
“No… he’s working away. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She hung up.
Her mind went blank. Her daughter in trouble? Never! Melanie was a good girl! Dim recollections of the girl’s tantrum in the garden centre bruised her certainty, but maternal loyalty triumphed. Perhaps she’d had an accident, or been taken ill. Why hadn’t that Struthers woman explained?
*
She drove to the school in a trance but did a double take as she drove past an expensively-wrought sign trumpeting the school’s transformation with an engraving of a knight in shining armour. What’s that all about? she wondered.
The furniture in the foyer was unrecognisable. Gone was the dingy beech and blue tweed that had served generations of teachers and parents. Behind a chrome and glass partition, a minion dressed by Tesco was touching up her nails. The receptionist looked up with a quizzical expression.
&n
bsp; “I’m Mrs Lowe, Melanie’s mother.”
Deadpan face, deadpan voice. “The Head’s waiting for you. Come this way.”
Blankly, Melanie’s mother followed her down the corridor. The receptionist stopped outside a door labelled, “Jasmine Struthers Director of Studies.” Belinda knocked and opened the door.
“Mrs Lowe is here.”
The Director of Studies’ office was already full. An arc of stern-faced individuals, on chairs of chrome and silver-grey, focused intense, disapproving eyes on the new arrival. In the corner, a uniformed Police Community Support Officer ignored the subdued chatter coming from her radio. The Director rose to her feet. Although she extended her hand towards Mrs Lowe, it was only to gesture towards an empty seat which faced the arc.
Terror silenced Belinda. She tried to engage eyes with someone – anyone – but all eyes were expressionless. Ms Struthers began to introduce the others present, but Belinda’s mind registered only one.
“This is Anthony Montano, Chief Child Protection Officer for Denswick Borough Council.” A man with auburn hair and long, crossed legs nodded in acknowledgement.
Blank bewilderment. Her eyes asked the question, ‘What’s this all about?’ Her voice asked, “Is Melanie OK?”
Ms Struthers cleared her throat, “How do you expect her to be, Mrs Lowe?” She crossed her own slender legs and sat back, waiting.
“She was fine at breakfast.” Belinda’s voice sounded tinny, false.
“But how did you expect her to be at lunchtime?”
“Well, the same. Is she ill?”
“Your daughter is traumatised, Mrs Lowe.”
“By what?”
“Melanie has been traumatised by the packed lunch you prepared for her, Mrs Lowe. She suffered an acute anxiety attack which required attention from paramedics. There is also the possibility of her having contracted some avian disease which could be potentially life-threatening, as well as a possible spinal injury. An ambulance was called and your daughter has been taken to Denswick Hospital in the care of her Pastoral Head of Year, Ms Jeggings.”
Anthony Montano, looking more down-at-heel than his name and job title suggested, leant forward to speak. When he did, his voice was ponderous.
“Child abuse is the scourge of our times, Mrs Lowe. Every week, members of my staff are shaken to the core by the perverted methods used to inflict physical and psychological damage on young people. When the damage is caused by the child’s parent, there can be no hiding place for the perpetrator.”
Belinda agreed wholeheartedly, though she only gave a slight nod in Mr Montano’s direction.
“But what has all this got to do with Melanie? Has someone been abusing her?” A sob caught in her throat. Her chest tightened. She found it difficult to inhale, and sat back. Still the flintstone cold eyes glared. Why would no one explain? Her eyes flicked from one face to another, looking for help. None came.
Eventually Ms Struthers broke the silence. “Melanie is in the habit of bringing a packed lunch to school. Is that correct, Mrs Lowe?”
“Yes. I always make it myself.”
“Always, you say? In that case, could you tell me what you prepared for your daughter’s lunch today?”
Belinda’s mind went blank. She tried hard to remember.
“Well, I packed it up yesterday because she sets off so early for school nowadays. Let me think… it was a wrap of some sort. You know the sort of thing. One of those tortilla pancakes you get from the supermarket. Kids seem to prefer them to proper sandwiches.”
“Well, Mrs Lowe, Melanie’s lunch box certainly contained a ‘wrap’.” Ms Struthers hesitated for a millisecond before articulating the last word.
Anthony Montano took over the questioning. “Mrs Lowe, you have confirmed that Melanie’s packed lunch was prepared by yourself and consisted of a wrap. Did this ‘wrap’ have any filling?”
“Well yes, of course. Are you saying that the wrap made her ill? Has she got a tummy upset?”
“Well, I can confirm that the wrap is at the centre of our investigations. I’d like you to think back and tell us in detail exactly what you gave your daughter for today’s lunch.”
Belinda tried to think back. She could see the contents of her kitchen cupboards in her mind’s eye. No, it wasn’t anything out of a tin. What was in the wrap? Cold chicken? Yes, she was almost sure of it. Although… there had been a pack of turkey slices in the fridge as well. It was one or the other, she was certain. And a Satsuma …and crisps.
“It was poultry of some sort, with mayonnaise and a bit of salad, some fruit I’m sure. And crisps, I admit.”
Maybe the Food Police were after her for not sticking to the school’s Healthy Eating Policy, to which all parents had been instructed to adhere via the academy’s online newsletter. She acknowledged that salted potato crisps were now considered to be the work of the devil…but not child abuse, surely?
“Hmm.” Mr Montano’s consideration was long, low and slow. He leant forward. “How do you define ‘poultry’, Mrs Lowe?”
“Well… it’s birds, isn’t it? The sort you eat. Cooked.”
“Ah! You say the poultry in Melanie’s wrap had been cooked?”
“Well of course.” Belinda was beginning to lose patience. “What do you think I am? Do you think it was raw? You must be mad!”
“Well, Mrs Lowe, we do have doubts about the sanity of one person in this room,” (her outburst had not gone down well with the PCSO) “though I’m no psychiatrist, of course.” She covered her back.
Ms Struthers took the lead once more. “Mrs Lowe, I will recount in detail the events in the school restaurant this lunchtime. As you see, my secretary is making notes of this interview.”
She indicated a slim, gelled young man in a sharp suit, notepad balanced on an angled knee. He nodded solemnly at Belinda.
“And just to make sure you understand the seriousness of the situation, I must point out that this meeting is being recorded.”
The Director of Studies adjusted the equipment on her desk, uncrossed her legs, drew breath and began.
“Here at Truetrust Academy, we pay great attention to the food experiences offered to our students. The vast majority opt for the ample and healthy meals provided by the academy’s own kitchens and sponsored by Food Emporia: Truetrust Academies, or FETA. This invaluable resource enables us to keep costs low, to help busy working families. The new, enlarged assembly hall doubles as the dining room. The décor is smart, and the ambience carefully nurtured to ensure a sophisticated nourishment experience which will equip our young people for the high-flying futures we expect for them. Truetrust’s student restaurant bears little resemblance to the noisy school canteens of your day, Mrs Lowe.
“However, as with Melanie, there is still a residue of students who choose not to take advantage of this opportunity to eat high-quality meals at low cost in gracious surroundings. These young people eat their packed lunches in the same space but at a different level… in fact they eat their lunches on the stage.”
Belinda was silenced. She hadn’t known the packed-lunchers were segregated… but then Denswick Comp had only become Truetrust Academy at the start of this school year. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea, but the government claimed it was progress…
Ms Struthers cleared her throat. “Ahem. The stage is, of course, elevated, and the students who eat there are kept under observation quite easily by the Nutrition Supervisors patrolling at the lower level. They are also in full view to the remainder of the diners.”
Still Belinda had nothing to say.
“The polite and calm dining experience of my students, Mrs Lowe, was shattered at exactly 12.24 this afternoon when your daughter screamed shrilly, spat out the contents of her mouth, kicked over her chair, flung her lunch box into the wings and leapt off the stage in a paroxysm of hysteria. She fell to the floor r
etching and wheezing, unable to communicate in any coherent fashion.
“The academy’s First Aider was summoned immediately, but already there was pandemonium on the stage, where Melanie’s friend Chelsey had been hit in the face by the wing feathers of a decapitated bird. A sparrow’s head was later found in the hair of Benjamin Jepson, the young man sitting opposite Melanie. Another student, Jermyn Street, was caught in the eye by the flying plastic lid and has also been taken to hospital in the same ambulance, for treatment to a lacerated eyeball.
“All the screaming caused panic at the lower level. Many students rushed forward to help the girl who had fallen from the stage, in their haste knocking down and trampling Mrs Althea Lodge, one of the Nutrition Supervisors and aunt of Ms Jeggings.
“In the commotion, the glass on the fire alarm was smashed and the whole school had to be evacuated. By the time a second ambulance had been called for Mrs Lodge, the fire drill carried out and all 1,367 students checked in their class registers etc., seventy percent of them had still not taken their lunchtime refreshment. Lessons proceeded at the usual time, but I can tell you, Mrs Lowe, that unfed teenagers do not make attentive students. At present, the corridors are being patrolled by the entire Senior Management Team, which is dealing with misbehaviour and rowdyism at levels never before experienced at Truetrust Academy. We are grateful for the swift response from PCSO Heather Banks, here.” She gestured to the stout woman in uniform, who nodded grimly.
Belinda had taken in very little of the tale. In fact, she had still been mulling over the idea of the packed-lunchers eating on the stage when her brain registered the word, “Sparrow”. Thereafter, Ms Struthers’ speech had been drowned by the klaxons sounding in her own head. It took some time to recall when she had last seen a dead sparrow… it didn’t seem too long ago, somehow… or where. As the truth dawned, an icy chill crawled through her body. At the village hall, she had wrapped the dead sparrow in a paper towel and placed it in the blue-lidded plastic box. She could not remember what came next.