‘Pardon?’ I said, suddenly feeling out of my depth. ‘What’s a SENCO?’
‘Sorry. Special Educational Needs Coordinator. She’s one of our teachers, and works specifically with the children who need extra help. She’s got the names of the children from each class who we hope will benefit from reading to Prudence. As you know, we’re a small school, only one class per year group, so it should work well. Mrs Armstrong will look after these sessions with you, and the class teachers will send the children down in small groups.’
He was now opening the door to an empty classroom.
‘Here we are. Make yourself comfortable, Jess. I’d suggest you use the carpet corner. Take one of the chairs there, and let Prudence sit down by your feet. The kids can sit around her on the carpet. I’ve already called Mrs Armstrong – ah, here she is.’
Mrs Armstrong was a cheerful-looking woman of about fifty who was already smiling and singing out Hello! as she came into the room.
‘Lovely to meet you, Jess! And yes, you too, Prudence!’ she boomed, laughing at Pru’s happy tail-wagging.
We sat in the carpet corner as suggested, and chatted for a few minutes, and I was already beginning to feel more at ease. I was starting to wonder why I’d ever been so anxious about school when I was a child. Everyone here seemed so relaxed and friendly. Soon there was a knock at the door and a much younger teacher appeared, shepherding in a group of four nervous-looking small children.
‘Ah, hello, Miss Noakes,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Hello children! Come and sit down. These children are from Bluebell, our year one class,’ she told me, giving the kids a bright smile as they settled on the carpet. ‘And how old are you, children?’
‘Five,’ they chorused, with one little boy at the front protesting that he was, in fact, six. ‘It was my birthday yesterday,’ he explained.
‘This is the youngest group you’ll see,’ Mrs Armstrong told me. ‘The children in Reception are, of course, only just starting to learn to read so it’s a bit too early to know which of them are going to need special help – although by Christmas, we’ll already have a good idea.’
‘Is that your dog?’ the boy with the birthday asked me shyly.
‘Yes.’ I smiled at him. There was a smudge of dirt on his face, scabs on his knees, and his shirt was hanging out of his trousers at one side. ‘Her name’s Prudence.’
‘Can I stroke him?’
‘Later, you can, Henry,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Thank you, Miss Noakes. You can leave them with us now. So, children, this is Miss Ferguson – shall we ask if we can call her Jess?’ I smiled my agreement and she went on: ‘And yes, this is Prudence. Who likes dogs?’
All the children put their hands up.
‘Well, that’s lucky, because Prudence has come to school today because she just loves listening to stories. I’m pleased to see you’ve all brought your reading books with you. Who would like to read Prudence a story?’
And so we began, with Henry leading the way. It soon became obvious he found reading very difficult, but with lots of help and encouragement from Mrs Armstrong he struggled his way through the short story, looking up at Pru each time he turned a page. She was gazing at him, blinking occasionally as if she hung on every word. I was really pleased, and so was Henry, especially when we all clapped him at the end of the last page, and I let him come up and give Prudence a stroke.
By now the other children all had their hands up, asking to go next. One child had a bad stammer; one had similar difficulties to Henry and pleaded to give up after each page but she managed to struggle through; and the last girl was simply very shy and self-conscious. As she whispered the first few words of her book, Mrs Armstrong looked at Pru, who just happened then to be shifting her position to get more comfortable, and said: ‘Bethany, Prudence can’t hear you. Can you speak up just a tiny bit?’ Taking my cue, I gently patted Pru’s back to encourage her to settle down again, and as she did, she looked up at Bethany, who gave a little giggle and, sure enough, raised her voice. By the time she was finishing her story the child was speaking far more clearly, and directly to Prudence.
‘That was so rewarding!’ I said to Mrs Armstrong, as the children’s teacher returned to lead them back to their class. The kids had loved being able to pet Pru as their reward and had begged to be allowed to come back again the following week.
‘You see how well it works?’ Mrs Armstrong agreed. ‘It’s really quite remarkable what a difference it makes to the children. They try harder, they forget to feel anxious. Oh, here’s our next group. These are year two children, Daffodil class. Come on in, children. Bring your books and come and sit on the carpet.’
There were four children again: three boys and one girl. It wasn’t until Mrs Armstrong said, ‘Jacob, would you like to go first?’ that I realised this was Tom’s son. I’d completely forgotten about asking for him to be included in the group. But when Jacob looked up, and I saw the shock of black hair, the wide brown eyes, I smiled, thinking how much he looked like his father. And there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, until Jacob suddenly blurted out:
‘I know your doggy! It’s Prudence! She came to see me in hospital.’
He was the little boy on Seashell Ward who’d been crying about coming back to school. I immediately felt a rush of sympathy for him, understanding straight away why Tom was so worried about the child. Prompted again to be first to read to Prudence, he shook his head vehemently and put his thumb in his mouth, looking away from me and down at the floor.
‘OK, Jacob.’ Mrs Armstrong seemed unfazed. ‘Violet, yes, you can go first, then. Show me your book. Ah yes – I think Prudence will enjoy that one. Off you go.’
As Violet stumbled through the half-dozen pages of her reading book, I watched Jacob as he listened without looking up or joining in when we all clapped Violet for finishing. But when she was allowed to come up and stroke Prudence he suddenly took more interest again. He didn’t volunteer to be the next, or the third child to read, and when he was the only one who hadn’t had a turn, he still shook his head, looking desperately unhappy.
‘How about,’ Mrs Armstrong suggested quietly when the children’s teacher arrived to take them back to class, ‘you stay here for a few minutes, Jacob, on your own with Prudence?’
‘On my own?’ he said, looking at her hopefully.
‘Just with Prudence and Jess. I’ve got to … um … sort out some books over there.’ She waved to the other side of the classroom. ‘So I won’t be able to listen to you reading. But Prudence will.’
‘OK,’ he whispered, his little face flushing pink. We waited while the other children trooped out of the room and Mrs Armstrong ostentatiously pretended to busy herself tidying books in another corner.
‘Prudence is ready now,’ I told him gently, and to my relief, Jacob picked up his book and began to read. He read very quietly, glancing up at Prudence every few words, but perfectly fluently, and finished the book without any apparent difficulty.
‘Well done,’ I told him, instinct warning me that to clap and make too much fuss would only embarrass him. ‘Prudence really enjoyed that story, Jacob.’
‘I’ll just pop him back to his class,’ Mrs Armstrong said after he’d spent the promised few minutes stroking Pru. By the time she returned, our next, and final little group of children from year three – Primrose class – had arrived. So it wasn’t until after we’d finished with them that we were able to talk about Jacob. And what she told me, stayed with me for a long time afterwards.
CHAPTER 24
Mrs Armstrong sat down and put her head back, exhaling with satisfaction. ‘That was a good afternoon. Thank you so much, Jess. You can see how helpful it is for these children, having Prudence here to read to.’ She smiled. ‘It was a spectacular success with Jacob from Daffodil class. That was the first time he’s read aloud for months.’
‘But he seems such a good reader.’
‘Yes. That isn’t the issue. He just hates bei
ng the centre of attention. He’s an only child, a sensitive little boy, and he finds it stressful being watched, or listened to – and in his mind, possibly laughed at – by the other children, or by one of us teachers.’ She sighed. ‘With kids like this, the slightest thing can make matters worse, and in Jacob’s case it was the fact that he had to miss the first couple of weeks of the new term after being in hospital.’
‘Oh yes. That’s where I met him, on the children’s ward. He’d broken his leg.’
‘That’s right. Came off his bike, apparently, but it was quite a bad break and by the time he was out of hospital and could get about well enough to come back, he was huddling in a corner of the classroom, refusing to talk to anyone. The other children naturally wanted to know all about his plaster on his leg but he found the fuss and attention excruciating.’
‘And I suppose he was worried that he’d fallen behind in the reading scheme and so on.’
She nodded at me. ‘Exactly. Even though he’s one of the brighter kids in the class. The idea of reading out loud becomes unthinkable to a child when they feel like they’re under scrutiny for being different in some way. But with a dog – well, they can sense that the dog isn’t going to judge them, no matter what.’
‘Poor Jacob. I hope he grows out of it. It must be exhausting for him, being that anxious and sensitive.’
‘Oh, he will, I’m sure. It’s not actually that uncommon in little ones, and normally they toughen up as they get older. But yes, school life can be difficult for kids like him.’
I looked down at Pru, stroking her head and telling her what a good girl she’d been. But all I could think of – trying my best not to let my own cheeks go pink with self-consciousness, just the way Jacob’s had done – was that Mrs Armstrong could, actually, have been talking about another anxious child, in another school, many years earlier. A little girl who, after her beloved mum suddenly disappeared from her life, found the world so impossible to deal with that she put up the shutters and retreated into silence. It was true that I’d toughened up a little as I grew up, but I’d never completely recovered. So I knew that sometimes children could be changed and scarred forever by their childhood experiences.
‘Jacob’s mum died around the time he started school,’ Mrs Armstrong added now, making me sit up straight and stare at her as if she’d been reading my mind. ‘So he’s had a lot to deal with, poor kid.’
‘I see.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, he certainly has.’
I think I was always anxious and shy. But I’ve often asked myself how differently I might have turned out if I’d had my mum around me for longer than the first eight years of my life. If she’d been there to guide me through my adolescence, my teenage years, would I have coped better with all the hormonal upsets, the worries and embarrassments about boys, the inevitable comparisons with other, prettier, more popular and outgoing girls, the nights spent crying over some imagined slight or some perceived physical defect that would, in my mind, make me a laughing stock? My dad had been amazing, and so had my aunt and my cousin, otherwise my life could have been even harder. Everything possible had been done to ease the situation for me and make my life as close to normal as possible, in the circumstances. It was nobody’s fault that, instead of developing into a confident and successful young woman with lots of friends and a happy social life, I’d remained, essentially, a version of the traumatised and bewildered child I’d been, the day Dad had to tell me I’d never see my mum again. So if anybody was in a position to empathise with young Jacob Sanders, it was me. Whether I could help him was another matter. But, at least, if reading to Prudence was going to give him back some confidence with his school work that was reason enough for me to look forward to my sessions at the school.
That Friday evening, I met Dan at the beach café after he’d closed up, to talk about the Christmas market. Despite what he’d said about Kevin leaving him to do all the work, it was soon clear as we went through all his files of notes and plans for the event that everything was pretty much done. It was mainly a case of following up and checking everything – for instance, contacting all the stallholders who’d booked a pitch, to confirm they were definitely coming, and let them know where their stall would be.
‘I’ll do some of the phoning, or emailing, if you want to split the list with me,’ I said.
Dan nodded gratefully. ‘Thanks, Jess. The other people on the committee have all got their own jobs, you see. One of them is responsible for liaising with the town council, one organises the putting up of the Christmas lights, banners and so on. And I – well, Kevin and I – are supposed to be coordinating the whole thing.’ He sighed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be doing it on my own.’
‘OK, well, you’re not, now.’ I gave him a look. ‘Have you heard from Kevin?’
‘No.’ He scowled. ‘Not a word.’
‘So have you been in touch with him?’ I retorted.
Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed it, but I felt so frustrated by his attitude that I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t seem to be missing Kevin on any personal level – just for his help with the Christmas market! And he hadn’t even mentioned Missy tonight. I couldn’t imagine being without Prudence and not being in a constant state of distress about it.
‘No, I haven’t!’ he threw back at me. ‘He’s the one letting me down, letting everyone down! He’s supposed to be Father Christmas, Jess. I can’t do it, I’ll be too busy walking around with my clipboard, making sure everyone’s got what they need. Unless anyone else volunteers, we’ll have to cancel Santa’s Grotto—’
‘You can’t do that! It’s the most popular thing every year. That’s what all the young families come to the Christmas market for.’
‘I know!’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘But – unless you fancy doing it, Jess – we haven’t got a Santa.’
‘Well, I suppose I could. Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas everybody!’ I said, trying, and failing, to make my voice deep and booming.
‘Not quite the tone we’re looking for, dear,’ Dan said drily. ‘Oh, and by the way, even before we start checking the list of stallholders I’ve already had one cancellation. Do you know anyone who’d want to have a stall? Otherwise we’re one stall down and one Santa’s Grotto down. Great start.’
‘Hmm.’ I tapped my pen on the table. ‘I wonder …’
‘What?’
‘Well, I can’t promise, but maybe Jim would let me have a stall for the pet shop. I’ve just ordered in a selection from a range of Christmas things for pets—’
‘Christmas things for pets?’ He frowned. ‘What sort of things? Reindeer bones? Christmas pudding flavour cat food?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ I smiled. ‘Squeaky toys in the shape of mince pies. Reindeer antlers on a headband for dogs. Cat collars with jingle bells on. Fluffy dog coats in snowman designs. Even Christmas cards: To your dog, from our dog. And that’s all apart from the usual Christmas stockings for dogs, cats, hamsters, rabbits – full of special festive treats and toys.’
‘I had no idea,’ he said, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Whatever will they think of next?’ He sighed. ‘If Kev knew there was so much on sale for dogs at Christmas, he’d be buying up your whole stock for Missy!’
There was a silence. Dan’s voice had wobbled slightly as he mentioned Kevin and Missy; just enough for me to suddenly become aware that perhaps he wasn’t, after all, quite as hard-hearted about this separation as I’d thought. I reached out and touched his hand.
‘Dan, why don’t you call him?’ I asked, much more gently than before. ‘Perhaps he just needs to know you miss him?’
For a few seconds he looked down at the table, his eyes closed. I held my breath. But the moment passed: he took a deep breath, shuffled some papers around in front of him, and said without looking at me:
‘The ball’s in his court. He can come back any time he wants. He knows that. Now – you were saying, about the dog toys?’
I sighed. I wasn’t going to push it. I might just m
ake things worse.
‘Well, yes: as I said, I could order in some more stock and make a nice Christmassy stall for pet lovers. But obviously I’d have to ask Jim.’
‘OK, Jess. Thank you. That’d be good, if he agrees. Would he help you run the stall?’
‘Actually, I’ve got an even better idea,’ I said. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to him tomorrow and get back to you. I might be able to solve two problems in one go.’
‘Me? Father Christmas?’ Jim stared at me. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? You’d be great. You’ve got a lovely deep voice. And you like children, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’ He hesitated. ‘What would I have to do?’
‘Nothing too onerous. Sit in a nice comfy chair, saying hello to the children when they come into your grotto and giving them a present. The committee members will decorate the grotto, so you won’t have to do that. Oh, and of course, you’ll have to wear the outfit.’ I grinned at him. ‘But I imagine red will suit you. And the beard will keep your face warm.’
‘So are you going to be an elf?’ he asked, giving me a look.
‘No. I was going to suggest something else,’ I said, and told him my idea about the Christmas pet stall. ‘What do you think? It should do well, for the shop, and it’d give us a good plug.’ I paused. ‘And perhaps I could put out some leaflets about Pets As Therapy, too.’
‘Actually, that’s an excellent idea,’ he said. ‘A stall at the Christmas market – why on earth have I never thought of doing that before? We could sell those Christmas stockings, Jess—’
‘And all the other gifts and novelties I’ve been ordering this week,’ I said, with a grin. ‘I can sell them on the stall, Jim. You’ll be in Santa’s Grotto!’
‘OK, you win.’ He laughed. ‘I must admit, I couldn’t bear all the kiddies in Pennycombe Bay to be disappointed. Santa always comes to the Christmas market.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Those leaflets you want to display for Pets As Therapy – have you ever thought of putting some on the counter in the shop here?’
The Pet Shop at Pennycombe Bay Page 20