Anastasia and her cronies were giving Kate a wide berth. It puzzled her slightly, but she didn’t care. Instead, she waved back at Seema, who was indicating through extravagant gestures that she had saved Kate a place. It was the front row, in the already steamy and hot assembly hall that doubled as the school dining room and still smelled of cabbage and mince from lunchtime. At least the children were too young to make it smell of sweat too, Kate always thought when she was in there: it was the school’s gym too. She was sure Greystone Manor didn’t have to overuse its spaces in that way.
“Check out the school-gate mafia,” said Seema as Kate sat down. “What gives?”
“You noticed too? I dunno . . . I thought I was just being paranoid.”
“Yeah, you probably are. They can have that effect on a girl after a time. I can’t believe you’re doing that jewelry party for the old witch and her coven.”
“Shush! I just want to make some money from them, that’s all. I’m not exactly doing it for love. Have you been invited?”
Seema gave her a beady look. “What do you think?”
“Pole position, eh?” said Kate, changing the subject. “You must have been here very early. Well done.”
“What, this? Far from it. I’ve only been here five minutes, but I fought my way to the front. There was violence involved and some lives lost but it can’t be helped. Needs must.”
“You didn’t,” said Kate with a grin.
“No, I didn’t,” Seema admitted. “Krish was a bit anxious about being late. They both were, so I’ve been here for absolutely bloody ages. I’ve rehearsed Jack’s lines with him too. I can’t promise he’ll say the right words but—let’s face it—a talking camel’s pretty memorable whatever it comes out with.”
“He was a bit nervous. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Look,” she said, pointing to the classroom window. “I just saw one of them.”
Kate waved, and a little hand waved back. It was Jack, his entire head encased in her excuse for a costume.
“Good effort again with the costume,” said Seema, mind-reading.
“I try.”
“You’re a good mum.”
“Do any of us actually think that?” asked Kate, genuinely. “Do we all think we’re crap mums where actually we’re good? Or at least okay? Not ‘good’: let’s be realistic.”
“Hey, hey!” said Seema, deep concern in her eyes. “You’ve never been a crap mum. You’re the best. Where is this coming from?”
Kate sighed, and wiped away the sudden tears. “Nothing. I’m fine.” She looked at Seema. “I’m fine,” she repeated.
The nativity play was enchanting. Or at least Kate thought it was. You probably had to be a parent or grandparent to enjoy it. The old tale, comforting in its familiarity, was played out with the usual clunky mishaps and errors. The set threatened to topple over, the innkeepers forgot their lines, little Mary—in her flowing blue gown and looking like butter wouldn’t melt—had no discernible maternal skills, picking up the Jesus doll by one leg and then plonking it back in the manger to the hilarity of the audience. Jack and Krishna, being with the wise men, didn’t turn up until near the end, but once they were there, all eyes were on them, or so Kate and Seema imagined. They stole the show with their special, loping camel walk and their heads weaving in an exaggerated camel-like manner when all the other actors were obediently standing still. They were especially animated during “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” where they gave it their all, to everyone’s amusement. Kate actually got to hear Jack say his lines twice, because he initially did them too soon, and then just repeated himself when the correct cue came along.
And then Mrs. Marshall arrived on stage and they all had to sit through the interminable thank yous for absolutely every member of staff who had contributed in the slightest possible way and—almost as an afterthought—a thank you for the children. That got the biggest cheer of all, partly because the audience knew it was the last one.
“Forty-five minutes,” said Seema, checking her watch.
“Felt like longer,” commented Kate, thinking of the unappealing bus ride home.
“I’ll drop you both off,” said Seema.
“It’s not on your way.”
“I’ll drop you,” she said firmly. “You look exhausted. I hope you’re taking some time off over Christmas. Proper time off, that is.”
“I might be taking more than I’d like,” admitted Kate, briefly telling Seema about Mr. Wilkins’s comments on the matter earlier that day.
“That’s disgusting,” Seema said. “He can’t go around saying things like that.”
“As long as no one hears him, he absolutely can,” said Kate. “It’s his word against mine . . . and anyway he hasn’t actually done anything. It’s just talk.”
“I don’t like the direction it’s heading in,” said Seema. “I think you should look elsewhere.”
“Easier said than done,” said Kate, in despair. “It took me weeks to find that job.”
“It was the right job at the time. Maybe now it’s time to start setting your sights a little higher?”
“Maybe,” said Kate, glumly. “It would be nice to think I have a choice.” Seema was right, though. She should be looking for another job right now but she had her head in the sand. They couldn’t sack her, surely? She had been a perfect employee. She would keep her head down and it would be all right. It had to be. She had too much else to think about at the moment, with Jack’s schooling, her jewelry, the nursing home . . . Kate groaned aloud and then saw her friend looking at her, concerned.
“How’s the Christmas miracle project going?” she asked gently.
“Not well,” admitted Kate. “Not well at all.”
8 Days ’til Christmas
“Cooee,” came the shout, as Kate was giving Jack a big cuddle, prior to pushing him in through the door of the classroom. It had taken all of her strategies to get him dressed, fed, and in through the school gates with her. She was propelling him forward both physically and mentally with every ounce of her being. It could go either way.
“Cooee, Kate,” came the shout again. Jack gave her one last clinging, intense hug and went inside, encouraged—thankfully—by the realization that Krishna was already there and waiting for him.
Kate straightened reluctantly and turned.
“Anastasia!” she said. “Sorry, I was distracted, just getting Jack in, with all his stuff, crucial moment, you know how it is . . .”
“Yah, yah,” said Anastasia, “mine don’t make a fuss, I’m lucky.” Her tone clearly indicated that she didn’t think herself lucky. Her children were superior. That was why. And so was she. “I was trying to grab you last night . . .”
No you weren’t, thought Kate.
“. . . just to say I don’t need you after all for the jewelry party.”
Her heart sank, but she wasn’t going to show Anastasia her disappointment. “Really?” coolly. “It’s quite short notice.”
Anastasia’s face hardened. “You say that, but it’s just a casual arrangement between friends and I imagine you’ve got a lot of other things to think about what with Christmas, and Jack’s, well, Jack’s ‘issues.’ So, I had a call from a company who send people out to run chocolate parties. You know, you can buy chocolate gifts at really good prices. Very good quality stuff. Lots of samples obviously. I mean, you can see the attraction, can’t you? Who doesn’t like chocolate?” she gave a high-pitched giggle. “Anyway, I just couldn’t get a date when all the other girls could make it. We’re all sooo busy, with all the Christmas parties,” she rolled her eyes, “so I gave them your date.” She examined Kate’s face again dispassionately. “You should come.”
“I won’t, thanks,” Kate ground out through gritted teeth. “Like you said, lots of preparation to do. Christmas coming and all that.” Not that she could afford Christmas now, mind you. Not now she had tied up whatever spare money she had possessed in the materials for stock she no longer had the o
pportunity to sell.
“Suit yourself,” said Anastasia, with a cruel little twisty smile and turned on her heel, going back to join the group at the gate. Kate thought the cold might cause them to disperse a little earlier than usual, to retire to their coffee shop where they would generally gossip the morning away before whisking off to their gym class or manicure, or whatever else they did to amuse themselves on the average Thursday morning. Doubtless they were making the most of their last days of freedom before the school term ended.
They all turned to look over at her. She stared brazenly back. What did she have to lose? She had taken a lot of crap at the school gates for Jack’s sake. And now they were kicking him out anyway. Which reminded her of another thing. After her altercation with Anastasia she was up for a punch-up and she was keen to find out exactly what Jack was referring to in his frequent exclusions from the classroom.
“So, Mrs. Chandler is sending him out of class. It’s true,” stated Kate.
Mrs. Marshall wasn’t quite so keen on such unequivocal statements. “It is true that—according to our records—Jack has been removed, briefly, on occasion. I am sure this can be no surprise to you given our recent discussions over Jack’s needs,” she said. “I think it is indicative of the question over how suitable the school is to meet those needs that we find ourselves resorting to those measures.”
Kate regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you say Jack’s ‘needs’”—she even made the air quote gesture, in defiance—“have grown since, say, the beginning of this term?”
“I . . . no, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Marshall, not quite knowing where the conversation was going.
“No, nor would I,” said Kate. “I mean, these sudden discussions brought to me over his apparent unsuitability for the school have started this term, even though he’s been at the school for more than two years already. But, as you say, he hasn’t suddenly become a different child. In fact, if anything, Jack is coping better emotionally as time has gone on. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Marshall sulkily. “I suppose you could say that, although I would return to the previous point, which is the policy for schools to wait until year two to see how children with different needs are faring in the classroom. In Jack’s case, his issues have not resolved sufficiently and that is why we feel his needs are best met within the framework of an EHCP.” She dredged up her reassuring professional smile with difficulty.
Kate counted to ten. “Right,” she said. “Please will you look in your funny little naughty book”—she indicated the register on Mrs. Marshall’s desk—“and tell me the total number of times Jack has been sent out of class this term in comparison with an average term during the previous two years.” She paused. “Actually, don’t even do that,” she amended. “You’re bound to say different class teachers have different styles and all that bollocks, in which case I would remind you this is Jack’s second year with Mrs. Chandler, because she had him in reception too.”
Mrs. Marshall blinked, surprised, at Kate’s more than usually robust language.
“So,” Kate continued, “what I want you to do is compare and contrast an average half term’s worth of exclusions from the classroom in the past with how many times he’s been sent out in the last six weeks. Bearing in mind”—she held up an admonishing finger—“you have just specifically told me you agree his behavior has not deteriorated recently. In fact, it’s probably got better. You said so yourself.”
By this time Mrs. Marshall had gone noticeably pink. She bent her head to her records and using a pen, totted up the numbers.
By the time she finished, she had gone even pinker. “I really don’t think this is a particularly illuminating exercise, but it would seem,” she admitted, “that the number of brief”—she stressed the word—“classroom exclusions have increased during this half of the term.”
“By how much? Give me specifics?”
Mrs. Marshall cleared her throat. “He’s been sent out most days,” she admitted. “Sometimes twice.”
“And before?”
“Fewer, I’ll grant you . . .”
“You’ve been trying to set him up as a bad child,” said Kate, tears of rage barely contained. “You can’t wait to get rid of him—probably because he’s stuffing up some poxy flipping league-table aspiration of yours—and so . . .” She stumbled, pressing her hand to her lips to stem the furious flow of words. “So, you are all racking up disciplinaries to support your random contention that he should go to the PRU. Because you don’t want my boy, and you’re prepared to go to any lengths . . .”
By this point, Kate’s heart was hammering so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. She was filled with a rage so elemental, so overpowering, all she knew was that she had to get out of there. Out of the office, the building, away from Mrs. Marshall’s simultaneously obsequious and disapproving face. She got up, grabbed her backpack, and left.
Thank goodness the school-gate posse had dispersed during her all-too brief meeting inside. It was only when she was marching down the street that her heart began to settle a little. She felt lighter the further she got from the school but had to resist the urge to run back to him and scoop up Jack. How could they reject him in such a cold, devious, underhand way? Her boy . . . whom she loved, and would crawl over broken glass for, who had already had such sadness in his life, such trauma . . . Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she walked, or marched, along streets she didn’t know. Gradually her walking slowed, and her tears dried. She must look a fright. She was in a mean, shabby neighborhood now. People stared at her oddly. Three men in hoodies loped toward her, staring as they passed. But at least they passed. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Right. What would Tom do? She went into a greasy café on the corner of the street and ordered a cup of tea. While she was waiting she went into the rank-smelling customer toilet, with a grimy basin and a toilet with a missing lid, to wash her face.
Back where her tea was waiting, she placed her hands on the tabletop and thought. One thing at a time, that was what Tom had taught her. Pick your battles. Know your enemy. So, Jack was clearly going to be leaving his school. She would kick the arses of those who had behaved appallingly later, when she was stronger. At the moment, the priority was to find him a new school. Somewhere that would care for him and nurture him. She had not given up on Greystone Manor but was still waiting for the LEA to pronounce on whether it was prepared to fund it or argue that the PRU met his needs. Thoughts of Jack in a Pupil Referral Unit made Kate want to sob all over again, but she pulled herself upright. As Mrs. Marshall—or someone—had said in that meeting, the PRU was remarkably well resourced. They had been positive. Given that it might well be where Jack ended up, she should at least see it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
She googled the number and called.
“Of course, Mrs. Thompson, I believe we have been sent some information about Jack. We look forward to meeting him . . .”
“I’m not saying you will.”
The lady paused. “Perhaps you should bring him here, so you can both see . . . ?”
“He’s not coming,” said Kate, decisively. “Not unless he has to. But I will.”
“Good!”
“Can I come now? Please?”
The PRU was a series of low, flat-roofed buildings—sixties architecture—in the midst of a housing estate.
She followed the signs to reception, taking the opportunity to peer in through windows as she went. She saw no children, oddly; just bare rooms with linoleum floors and minimal furniture, extremely neatly arranged. And then she looked more closely. Chairs and tables were bolted to the floor. So that was why. Nice.
An intercom on the external door was answered after a delay. She couldn’t understand what the person was saying, but she announced herself and that seemed to do the trick. Buzzed inside, she found herself in a vestibule, but still blocked from entering the school by another locked door. To the left, a hard-faced woman was sitting behind a
reinforced glass screen, with holes punched in it at face height, like a ticket booth in a railway station. When staff are the bearers of bad news or bad attitudes or the purveyors of bad service, Kate reflected, a physical barrier to offer protection from the general public becomes a health and safety necessity. This woman had the kind of face a few people would take exception to.
“I’m here to look around. I’m a parent.”
“Well, you’re not a pupil,” said the woman, rudely. “Wait there. I’ll send someone out.”
The “someone” was the principal herself, introducing herself as Ruth and providing a firm handshake.
“Thanks for calling. I’ve read Jack’s report. I can understand why you are nervous. I hope I can set your mind at rest. Let me show you what we do.”
The school looked much like any other, but smaller. The institutional smell of cabbage and overcooked mince was present and correct. There was a library just off the main atrium. There was also a small room—a pod with curved walls—sitting in the center. It had bright pink painted walls and piles of brightly colored cushions. No furniture. There was a lock on the door. A padded cell, essentially, Kate thought. She wondered how often it was used and why.
There were lines of classrooms on either side. The explanation for the absent children was that they were all having lunch in the dining hall. Kate peered in, with Ruth at her shoulder. The children were lining up, choosing their food, finding places to sit. So far so normal. The most notable thing about it all was the number of adults who were dotted around the room, sitting beside the children.
“You’re looking at all the staff,” commented Ruth. “That’s the one biggest difference between us and other schools,” she said. “We have a fantastic staff-to-pupil ratio. About one to three, actually, or four . . .”
Suddenly, there was a commotion at one end of the room. A tray went flying, a chair was tipped over, and there was a scream, a long-drawn out bellow of rage, frustration, and pain. A pale child with a shaved head and drawn features was standing by the window, swearing with a fluidity and imagination that belied his tender years. Quickly he was surrounded by staff making pacifying gestures with their hands. They were guarded and watchful, gauging the situation second by second. This lack of action and overbearing adult presence seemed to enrage the little boy even more and his face became a contorted, red mask of misery, screaming so loudly Kate could barely hear the voice of the male teacher who had appointed himself chief envoy. Several seconds passed and then—as if there had been a signal between the staff, which there probably had—three of them moved in on the boy, pinning him and lifting him from the ground. They traveled together across the room, the boy in their midst, still screaming. Ruth and Kate stood to one side as they bundled him into the pod. By the time they had done this, he was less being contained by them and more clinging to them. But they peeled him off, dumped him on the floor, and swiftly exited, slamming and locking the door behind them. Two of the staff then took up a vigil, standing on either side and intermittently looking through the glass at him.
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