‘The dentist? So, Margaret is allowed a dentist appointment during school hours, but we’re not? That sounds about right.’
I don’t know if she needs an answer to that statement or not, so I choose to stay quiet and let her ramble on. The last thing I need is for me to agree with Linda Turner, and then have her relay that opinion to Margaret. The principal would love that, especially after the whole money scandal.
‘I suppose I’ll have to leave this on her desk. It’s the document she asked me to prepare about school health and safety procedures.’ She waves a brown, A4 envelope above her head. ‘Please make sure she knows it’s there.’
‘Don’t you want to just leave it in her basket on the shelf? She’ll see it as soon as she comes in.’
I point towards the shelf where Margaret’s post tray sits, but Linda frowns.
‘No, I don’t want to risk it getting lost amongst the other post. I’ll leave it on the desk, as planned.’
Linda turns towards Margaret’s office, and as she does so, a boy from Year One comes bounding into reception.
‘Mrs Turner! Chelsea has just thrown up in the hall. Mrs Smith says you’re to bring some sand and paper towels right now!’
Linda grunts, rolls her eyes and then throws the envelope in my direction.
‘Please put this on Margaret’s desk,’ she says, and then disappears down the corridor.
I don’t mind doing chores for the teachers, but Linda Turner speaks to me as though I’m her own personal servant. I look at the basket on the shelf, go to put the envelope in there and then think against it. If Linda comes back in five minutes and sees that I’ve just popped her precious cargo on the shelf, she’ll kick off, and I don’t think I could handle that on a Monday morning.
I head into the office and throw the envelope onto the desk. As I do so, I hear the swoosh of the front door, followed by the click, click, click of Margaret’s heels against the tiles. Before I can leave, the principal appears at the office door.
‘Charlotte. Can I help you with something?’
I smile brightly – too brightly – and Margaret looks behind my shoulder and towards her desk. She doesn’t trust me. Ever since the money incident, she has looked at me funny, and being caught in her office is not going to help my cause. It’s well known that Margaret doesn’t appreciate anyone going into her office when she’s out – hence the tray at reception, for notes and other memorabilia – but try telling Linda Turner that.
‘I was just leaving a message,’ I say. ‘Linda Turner wanted me to give you this.’ I hold up the envelope, as though it’s some kind of treasure find, but Margaret isn’t impressed. She takes the letter out of my hand; looks from it to me, and then drops it onto her desk. I don’t know why, but I feel guilty, for no reason whatsoever. Ever since the money incident, Margaret just has to look at me and I feel as though I’ve done something wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure I’ll find out.
I turn to leave, but Margaret’s voice stops me.
‘Charlotte?’
‘Yes?’
‘From now on, please leave all messages in my tray on reception. It will work better for both of us that way.’
Margaret still doesn’t trust me. While it’s true that I’ve never had a particularly friendly relationship with the principal, we’ve always been cordial to one another. After all, we have to work close in proximity and relationship, so it’s always made sense to do what she asks, and respect her decisions, even if I do question them every now and then. But since the stolen (or planted) money situation, any kind of relationship I had with her has been ruined. I don’t think she’ll ever trust me again, or at least she won’t until I’m able to prove that I didn’t take anything that wasn’t mine. Should I just lie down and accept the fact that I’ve been branded a thief? I don’t think I should, but then again, what else can I do? It all seems pretty hopeless at this point.
‘I normally do leave your post in the tray, but Linda Turner was insistent that I hand deliver it. She was going to do it herself, but then one of the kids came and…’
‘Charlotte?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just do as I ask, okay?’
‘Yes, Margaret,’ I say, and then slope back off to reception.
It’s Wednesday morning, of the longest week in history. Ever since Monday, Margaret has been on my case, and it doesn’t seem to matter what I’m doing, it’s wrong, or late, or unneeded. I’ve been told off for allowing Tom and Charlie to sit in reception during wet play; I’ve been too friendly while talking to parents on the phone; I’ve been too slow at getting the registers back from the classrooms… And on it goes.
I thought I was being paranoid, but then when Amy and I were doing the changeover yesterday, Margaret bounded out of her office to demand to know why I was being so noisy. I wouldn’t care, but it was Amy who was talking loudly, not me. Afterwards, Amy asked what the hell I’d done to upset Margaret, and I had to say that I had no idea. For someone who was supposed to be drawing a line under the money situation, the principal seemed reluctant to forgive and forget, but I didn’t want to get into that with any of my colleagues.
‘She’s been super-nice to me lately,’ Amy said. ‘She even offered to cover the reception for me the other day, while I popped to the staffroom for some coffee. She never does that. As I’m sure you know.’
I did know that. Normally I have to make coffee when Margaret has her back turned, or else seek out a kind teaching assistant to cover me while I’m gone. No way would I ever ask the principal to cover for me, or even expect her to ever ask if I needed a break. It just isn’t the done thing – at least with me.
But now it’s Wednesday and halfway to the weekend. The thought of a nice cup of coffee fills my mind, and I look at my watch. It’s nearly 11am, and the likelihood of a parent arriving in reception is pretty low. I stretch my legs and just as I’m about to sneak out of my office, I hear Margaret’s voice.
‘Charlotte, can I see you please?’ The principal stands at her office door with her arms crossed, her breasts resting on them like a shelf. Shit. What have I done now? I turn on the answerphone, check the CCTV to make sure nobody is on their way down the drive, and then head towards the office. Margaret steps back to let me inside, and then closes the door behind me.
‘Is everything okay?’ Dear God, please don’t tell me there has been more money missing. I can’t cope with that. Not again.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’ She beckons for me to sit down on the orange chair reserved for naughty kids and annoying parents. I perch on the very edge of the seat, as if sitting back will prevent me from ever leaving again. My palms sweat, and I wipe them on my trousers, but that only seems to make them worse.
‘What’s wrong?’ My voice is far sterner than I want it to be, but I can’t take any more guilt, when I haven’t done anything wrong.
Margaret sits down, leans forward and stares at me.
‘Charlotte, something has been preying on my mind since I found you in my office the other day.’
Here we go.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you were in here to deliver an envelope, but when I returned to my desk, my paperwork was disturbed, and my diary was not on the page I left it on. Furthermore, an envelope containing the Year Five end-of-term exam papers was missing. I’ve spent all week trying to find it, but it’s completely disappeared.’
I’m confused. Why would messed up paperwork and a missing exam paper have anything to do with me?
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Tom is in Year Five.’
‘Yes. So?’
‘So, he’ll be taking the exams himself, won’t he?’
Margaret leans forward and takes a stack of envelopes from the shelf above her desk. She plonks them down and starts going through them.
‘Year One… Year Two… Year Three… Year Four… Year Six…’
She counts as she places each envelope onto the desk, but as sh
e predicted, Year Five is missing.
And it’s clear that she thinks I took it.
‘Margaret, are you accusing me of taking the Year Five exam papers for Tom? Because he’s a bright kid and he would never need – or want – to see them before exam day.’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything at all,’ she says. ‘I’m just stating that it has gone missing, and the only person who was in here on Monday morning, was you.’
Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, wringing my hands and rubbing my face. This must be a joke. I’ve never stolen anything, and yet here I am for the second time in as many weeks, being accused of something terrible.
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ I say; the words bubbling in my throat like gigantic tears. ‘And anyone could have come into the office that morning, not just me.’
‘Did you see anyone come in?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know… But Linda Turner was about to, before that kid came and…’
Margaret stands up and places her hands on her hips.
‘Charlotte! You must understand that I’m not accusing you of stealing the exam papers. I just need to get all of the facts straight before I investigate further.’ Her voice softens. ‘Now, let’s get ourselves together and think about it. Apart from Linda, did you see anyone come into the office when I was out on Monday?’
I shake my head.
‘No. No, I’m sure I didn’t see anybody.’
‘Okay. Well, maybe it’s all a huge mistake.’ Margaret’s phone rings, but she continues as though nothing is happening. The incessant buzzing goes straight into my head, and I have to hold on to my hands to prevent myself from pouncing on it myself. As the principal stares at me, tears bubble out of my eyes and pour down my cheeks. I’ve never been in trouble at work before, and now here we are.
‘Oh, Charlotte, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I just need to cover every avenue. You understand?’
I nod, and the tears keep coming. Margaret rubs my arms and smiles through her thin, orange-painted lips.
‘Let’s go and take a look in reception, shall we? Maybe the envelope made its way out there with the registers or something. We’ll take a look through them all, and it’s bound to turn up. Come on…’
Margaret motions for me to exit her office, and I somehow manage to leave, despite my legs having turned into spaghetti.
As we reach my desk, Frankie Williams from Year Two comes running along the corridor.
‘Frankie!’ snaps Margaret. ‘Let’s not run in the corridor, shall we? We don’t want any accidents.’
The little boy stands as still as a soldier.
‘Sorry, Mrs Holmes,’ he says. ‘My mummy is picking me up for the doctor. I don’t want to be late, or I won’t get my sticker!’
Sure enough, there’s Frankie’s mum, waving at us from the front door. I press the button to let her in, and she takes one look at my puffy eyes, and whips her son out as quickly as she can. I can’t say I blame her. Once they’ve gone, Margaret heads straight for my desk.
‘Okay, where are the registers? Ahh, here they are.’ She whips them down from the shelf and rummages through, but I know she won’t find the exam paper among them. The folders have been in and out of reception more times than I can count. Why would the exam envelope turn up there? It would make no sense whatsoever, and sure enough, Margaret gets to the end of the pile, sighs and lifts them all back onto the shelf. Her eyes are all over reception, and I feel guilty, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. Why is this happening? Anyone could have taken that folder, or it could have just fallen down the back of her desk or something.
Margaret is about to give up looking, when I notice her eyes fall on something under my desk. She crouches down and pulls out the tote bag I keep for lunchtime shopping purposes. The words ‘Save the Arts’ stare up at me from the side, and my emergency umbrella pokes out of the top.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s my shopping bag. I leave it here in case I need it after I finish work.’
She nods and holds it open. I don’t need her to make any further comment, because I can see what she’s looking at. A brown, A4 envelope stares up at me from the depths of the bag, and Margaret pulls it out and holds it up.
‘It’s the exam papers,’ she says. ‘And the envelope has been opened.’
‘I don’t know how it got there,’ I say. ‘I have never seen it before in my life.’
The principal throws my bag back under the desk, and sticks the envelope under her arm.
‘I think we have a problem,’ she says, and although I have no idea what’s going on, I have no option but to believe her.
I’ve been asked to keep off school property until further notice. ‘Pending investigation,’ Margaret said, though I’m not sure what that means. I didn’t take that envelope, but how do I prove my innocence? I walked myself straight into this disaster. I was the one person to go into that room, and all because bloody Linda Turner can’t bear her important messages to be left in the tray.
I tell Zach about the suspension, while he’s playing with Trevor, the dog, in his back garden. He says he’s shocked, but I can tell in his voice that he’s wondering if I did do it. Or maybe he isn’t, but my paranoid heart tells me he is.
‘Are you going to tell your parents?’
‘Hell, no! They’d go mental. I can’t stand their lectures at the best of times, never mind now.’
‘And Tom?’
‘What about him?’
‘Isn’t he going to wonder where you are, when he doesn’t see you in reception tomorrow morning?’
Shit! In all the upheaval, I hadn’t even thought about what Tom would say.
‘I’ll have to think of something before tomorrow.’
‘And then hope he doesn’t tell your parents.’
I rub my head.
‘It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?’
19
The next morning, my tears of pain have been replaced with an unbearable, bubbling rage. Way back when my mum was going through the menopause, she used to tell me about this hormonal feeling where her temper would seem to take over her entire body. She could feel it in her arms, her legs, and even her fingers, and would scratch her limbs just to try and relieve the overwhelming urge to punch a hole in the wall. I used to think she was being dramatic, or attention-seeking or both, but now? Now I understand that feeling more than I ever thought I would. Fury spirals through my entire body, and I’m nowhere near menopausal.
No, I’m just bloody furious that I’ve been suspended for no reason whatsoever. I did not steal those exam papers, and I am determined to prove it, one way or the other.
Tom and I march up to school; him talking about a YouTuber who does unboxing videos of wigs – and me wondering if any minute now, Simon is going to pull up in his swanky car, and haul my son inside to start a better life. I grip onto Tom’s hand, and he pulls himself away.
‘Mum!! Don’t hold my hand on the way to school! I’m almost ten now. What if someone sees?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. Come on, let’s cross the road here.’
We both look left and right, and then trot across the street, where the school looms in front of us. I’ve already told Tom that I won’t be in for a week or two, and had a whole story planned about annual leave, and having to help Zach decorate his living room. In the end though, I didn’t need to go any further than, ‘I’m taking two weeks off,’ because then Doctor Who came on the telly, and Tom told me to shush so that he could watch it. Thankfully.
‘I’ll be okay here, Mum,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Tom runs over to Charlie and they both rush inside. Charlie’s mum turns and waves, but I have no time for a moment of idle chit-chat today. I disappear into the crowd of school mums, dads, grandparents and kids, and then find myself at the gates. Do I dare go up to reception when I’ve been suspended?
Yes, I do. I bloody well do.
Amy’s voice is barely audible through the reception glass, and she ducks down in her chair, as if she’s terrified of even talking to me.
‘Relax,’ I say. ‘I’m here in my capacity as a parent, not a receptionist. I’m quite within my rights to be here for that.’
‘Okay, so what can I do for you?’
‘I need to check the visitors’ book and the CCTV.’
Amy’s head darts towards Margaret’s office, and her mouth falls open.
‘For God’s sake! How the hell does that have anything to do with being a parent?’
‘It doesn’t. But if anyone asks, I’m here to ask about Tom’s after-school club. He wants to do kick-boxing after Christmas, and I want to check if there are still spaces.’
Amy shakes her head.
‘It’s bad enough that I have to come in here full-time, but now I have to lie as well? When are you coming back? I hate working in the mornings.’
A mother comes up behind me, and I stand aside so that she can hand in her son’s trip money.
‘It’s for Joel Daniels,’ she says. ‘I forgot to write his name on the envelope. Shall I do it now?’
‘Did you put his name on the slip?’ Amy asks.
‘Yes, but not the envelope. Maybe I should write it on there as well.’
The woman hovers next to me, and I can smell her cheap perfume. It goes straight up my nostrils and into my brain.
‘That’s okay,’ Amy says. ‘I’ll sort it.’
The woman hesitates, opens her mouth, and then decides to let Amy do her job. As if to hurry her departure, the exterior door swings open, and out she goes.
‘Where’s the visitors’ book?’ I look past Amy and into reception. It’s still on the shelf, where we put it in the evenings. Heaven knows why we do that, but we do.
‘You can’t look in there, it’s confidential. Please, Charlotte, you’re going to get both of us in trouble.’
Hell Hath No Fury Page 17