Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret.

‘Why? What’s up?’ I asked, concerned at his suddenly vexed expression.

‘How long have you got?’ he said. ‘No, no. Bell’s going to go at any moment. Hairdryer first, explanations after.’

I did indeed have my hairdryer; in fact, I had what was called my ‘beauty cabinet’ – in reality a large plastic crate stashed on a shelf under my desk, which housed all manner of girly indispensables. It had grown almost organically; I had so many girls come to the Unit who’d not even had the time to run a brush through their hair in the morning that I had built up a supply of essentials. It was also a valuable icebreaker.

But right now, it had a different sort of job to attend to. Plugging it in, I gave it a blast in Gary’s general direction. ‘All sounds very mysterious,’ I said. ‘Spill, or the crotch gets it!’

Needless to say, he took it from me and attended to his wet patch, and so it was that the tableau presented moments later was of me looking on, grinning, while Mr Clark, his back to the door, was busy blasting his lower torso with hot air. At least, that was how Tommy Robinson found us.

I heard him before I saw him, even over the blast of my high-wattage hairdryer. Owner of an unmistakable Cockney accent – unmistakable in our school, anyway – Tommy was a year 9 pupil who’d been with me the previous term. A pupil I had a great deal of affection for.

‘Well, I ain’t gonna keep this quiet,’ he said, a smile widening on his astonished face. ‘This looks well sus, this does. Miss, what’s going on?’

There was no doubt about it; the sight of the school’s child protection officer blow-drying the band of his underpants – as he was by now – wasn’t one you saw every day. Gary took it as only he could, grinning ruefully at Tommy as he switched off the hairdryer, before touching his nose. ‘I’m saying nothing, kiddo,’ he told Tommy, ‘except do not get on the wrong side of Mrs Watson while holding a cup of tea, okay? Lethal, she is!’

Tommy nodded, grinning toothily, and I’m sure he believed it too. Which didn’t mean it wouldn’t be all round the school by the end of the morning.

Well, so be it. Nothing to be done. ‘Hi, Tommy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘Cushty, Miss,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d bob in and say hello, like, as I was passing. Though I can’t stop,’ he added. ‘Bell’s about to ring.’

‘Indeed it is, Tommy,’ Gary said, picking up the papers he’d been carrying. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

I smiled. No doubt to impress upon him the wisdom of keeping his intelligence to himself.

‘Hang on!’ I called as he went to follow Tommy through the door. ‘You haven’t told me yet. Why is today such a bad day to get tea on your pants?’

Gary smiled. ‘That will have to wait now, oh, impatient one. Though, seriously,’ he added, ‘I really would value your input. Tell you what, my office for lunch? Then I’ll tell you all about it. It’s juicy gossip, so make sure you bring biscuits!’

With that he rushed off, to avoid the inevitable gridlock on the corridors, leaving me open-mouthed and wondering what on earth he was going on about, my domestic worries happily now forgotten.

Chapter 3 (#u3d9ea8c9-bead-55f7-b9f7-a8162c54e9ad)

Alone again, I did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, taking in the evidence of the previous term’s industry, which, bar the odd precious thing that the odd pupil went away with, was still displayed in glorious technicolour around the walls. And all of which now had to come down. It was one of the worst parts of the year for me. Sort of like January at home, when the Christmas tree and decorations had to be taken down and put away, leaving the rooms they’d adorned looking all bare and forlorn, echoes of happinesses past.

It was the same in my classroom, which by the end of the academic year was positively bristling with art and design work. And not just that; all the little things that naturally started amassing on odd bits of wall space – a poem about one thing, a diagram about another; even the random instructions I had the kids render in felt pen on fluorescent card. All had become part of the fabric of the classroom, all contributing to its sense of light and energy.

And the feel of the environment I created really mattered. I don’t think it really hit me quite how much it mattered till I started the job. It soon did, though, and now it was super-important to me that we had a bright, comfortable room in which to work – and the less like a regular classroom it was, the better. Inevitably the kids that came to me, for one reason or another, needed the Unit to be a happy place – a calm, nurturing and peaceful place where they could feel safe enough to open up and – hopefully – blossom a bit. And I strived to provide that above anything else.

Still, I had the luxury of two whole days in which to do it, since I wasn’t getting my ‘newbies’ till Wednesday, so if I cracked on now I’d have the luxury of a good day and a half in which to plan the first week or so’s lessons.

I was standing high on a wooden ledge, trying to reach the end of a poster to tug down, when I heard Kelly Vickers come into the room.

‘Whoah! Casey, don’t do it! It’s not worth it!’ she cried dramatically. ‘And besides,’ she added, plonking her bag down on my desk, ‘jumping from that height would only get you a sprained ankle.’

I climbed down and added the poster, minus a corner, to the pile I’d been amassing. ‘Just in time,’ I said. ‘Perfect. You’re a few inches taller than me, so you can grab that bit for me.’

Kelly grinned as she climbed up to take my place on the top of the line of cupboards that housed art materials and stationery, and the kids’ individual work trays. ‘Everyone is a few inches taller than you, Casey,’ she said as she pulled down the piece I’d failed to reach. ‘Anyway,’ she said, jumping down again, ‘I need to hear what’s happening. What on earth is going on with Gary?’

‘Going on?’ I asked. ‘Why, what’s he up to now, then?’

‘Something,’ she said, nodding as I gestured with the coffee jar. ‘Something fishy, if you ask me. I’ve just walked past his office and, no word of a lie – it smells like the perfume counter at Boots in there. You should have seen him – gurning at his reflection in the bookcase and splashing aftershave all over himself … I was going to go in and check on his wet patch but I didn’t dare, seeing that.’

‘Didn’t dare? Why ever not? It’s not like we don’t spend half our time preening and primping, is it?’

‘Oh, you know what I mean. He’d have been mortified if he knew I’d seen him. Anyway, the point is why? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gary pay attention to how he looks, ever.’

She was right about that. Gary was in his mid forties, but he still dressed as though inside him there was a devil-may-care student half his age trying to muscle out. In fact, half-muscled out already; he invariably looked if not as if he’d been dragged through a hedge, at least like someone had shoved him against one. He just wasn’t a suit and tie man – much more a chinos and checked shirt one. Which was fine. While Mike Moore and Donald Brabbiner looked ever the ‘executive’ part, as befitted their status as head and deputy, nobody minded that Gary’s look was more understated or that his hair was of the too-long-for-school style. It was all fit for purpose. Some roles had a more relaxed dress code and Gary’s – which often required him to be approachable, on-side and unthreatening – was just right for the sort of work he had to do. The kids liked him, pretty universally, and that was the main thing. And as he’d once commented, having that extra half-hour in bed was something he rather liked as well.

‘Agree,’ I said. ‘And, as it happens, there is something going on.’

‘What?’ she squealed delightedly. ‘Tell me, tell me!’

I passed her a mug of coffee and sat down at the nearest table with her. ‘Ah, that I can’t tell you because I don’t yet know myself. He’s going to spill the beans at lunchtime. Actually,’ I said, remembering, ‘he didn’t use the word “secret”. He called it “gossip”. So don’t worry – when I do know, I’ll have absolutely no compunction about passing any intelligence on.’

‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I have a wall-stapler and I’m not afraid to use it. Anyway, crack on with your own gossip because I haven’t got long. I’m supposed to be back in learning support in ten minutes. I only came to drop the files to you from Julia.’

So I did. We spent an enjoyable few minutes having a proper debrief about the summer holidays (Kelly’s sounding achingly carefree compared with my carefully edited highlights), and once she’d gone I got back to clearing the classroom walls and stapling up new backing sheets ready for the new term. But my eye kept being drawn back to the folder of photocopies in front of me, and in the end I succumbed to what I really fancied doing, which was taking a proper look at the three kids I had joining me.

The first child on the pile was one we’d not yet discussed, but I wasn’t in the least surprised to see the name on the top; it was a fourteen-year-old girl, now in year 10, called Ria Walker. Ria had already earned herself something of a reputation of late, for becoming – to use the jargon – a bit of a nightmare. The stats were all there to prove it, as well. In the last year she’d been sent out of at least one lesson per day, for disruption – and now she was starting her GCSE courses proper, it was essential the school get a grip on what ailed her so she had a fighting chance of reaching her potential. And she had a lot of potential too; she was academically very able and, up till a year or so ago, she’d also been a model student. She was popular, outgoing, intelligent and capable, and no one could seem to find out why the slide had started happening, least of all her supportive, caring parents.

Was she too able? Not being stretched enough? No one seemed to think so. She just seemed to be permanently irritable and pugnacious, and when quizzed she was apparently as unable to find a reason as anyone else. I smiled as I turned the page. Having Ria in the Unit would be a challenge, but one I relished. Getting to the crux of a child’s difficulties was what I was there for, after all. It would also be nice to have an older girl come into the mix, given Cody. No, we’d be fine, whatever attitude she brought along.

I then started to read a bit more about Cody herself – the girl Julia had referred to as ‘strange’. No doubt I’d soon get to see her odd behaviours for myself, but right now I was more interested in taking a look at the records from her previous schools and foster placements. She’d had a shocking start to life it seemed (being locked up by her mother apparently only a part of it), so it was no wonder she had a personality disorder. And as I read on, it became clear that she was destined to be a very temporary pupil; we were simply the interim and the place at which she’d get the full assessment that would finally see her in a school where they could better meet her needs. In fact, I was mostly to be a ‘facilitator’, helping organise and support her while a series of meetings with the educational psychologist took place.

So a pretty clear brief, even if the child herself was complex – as I suspected would be the case with the youngest of them, Darryl. I was naturally drawn to working with kids on the autism spectrum and felt confident I could help Darryl settle in and find his way. He sounded like a poppet, too – though very vulnerable – so my heart automatically went out to him. I was very much looking forward to meeting him.

And it seemed I was about to, much sooner than I’d thought. When the bell went for break I decided to stay put and continue reading. I had a computer terminal in my office and had plugged it in and fired it up, so I could research some of Cody’s behaviours. I was just doing so when there was a rap at the door.

Kelly popped her head round. ‘You okay for a quick visit, Mrs Watson?’ she asked. The formal address signalled that she must have a child in tow, so I shut the screen off.

‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m always up for visits. And who might this be?’ I added, turning my attention to the skinny little lad who she was now ushering in.

He looked pristine and nervous, so I pegged him as a year 7. Stiff shirt, brand new blazer, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives, and he’d yet to raise his gaze from the floor.

Kelly closed the door behind them. ‘This is Darryl, Mrs Watson,’ she said. ‘And he wanted to come down as he’s been feeling a bit anxious about being able to find his way here come Wednesday.’

In reality, he’d be brought to me by either his form tutor or a prefect, but I knew how autistic kids needed to iron out life’s anxieties, so it was a shrewd move to get this one out of the way.

‘Darryl?’ Kelly was saying gently, squatting down to shrink herself a little. ‘Are you going to lift your head up and say hello to Mrs Watson?’

I also made myself smaller and leaned towards Darryl, offering my hand for him to shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Darryl,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy working in here. Well, once you get settled in, which I’m sure you soon will.’

The boy gave me the briefest of glances then looked away, flinching slightly as I shook the hand he shyly proffered. He then began nodding, increasingly quickly, and shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Yes. I’m Darryl,’ he said, still avoiding my gaze. ‘I’m Darryl Davies who lives at number 18 Summersdale Court.’ The foot movements became more obvious and he then started rocking. ‘Hmm,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Is that the time? It’s two minutes until the bell and we need to get back. Numeracy starts in four minutes.’

I glanced at Kelly then checked my watch, impressed. ‘Spot on,’ I told him. ‘That’s some trick you’ve got there.’ But Darryl continued to stare at the floor.

Kelly grinned. ‘Darryl counts the seconds in his head,’ she explained. ‘Loves to live by the clock, don’t you, lovely?’