A Blessing In Disguise (25 page)

I give Becky an extra big hug and this time she doesn't try to push me away.

There are six people at the ten o'clock. I know some of their names, but not all. The Blessed Henry and Molly Nugent; a Miss Carfax who is a retired teacher of music; Breda O'Halloran – who with a name like that and her broad Irish accent might seem more at home at St Patrick's. There's a couple whom I assume to be married because they look so comfortable together though they could be brother and sister, and a sixty-ish woman on her own with a thin, rather forbidding face.

They all go into coffee – Molly Nugent has been in earlier and switched on the coffee machine, so everything's ready, and we push two tables together and sit around amicably. I'm introduced to the couple – John and Mary Timpson – and to the single lady, who is not single in one sense since she's a widow. Her name is Josie Winter.

‘I see Mrs Bateman's conspicuous by her absence,' Miss Carfax says.

There's a slightly awkward silence, which is broken by Mrs Timpson who says, ‘Perhaps she has a cold. There's a lot of them about.' At this Josie Winter rushes in.

‘Rubbish! We were all in church on Sunday, so we know why Mrs Bateman isn't here. Miss Frazer's forbidden it!' From which I gather that I'm not the only one who thinks of Mrs Bateman as Miss Frazer's satellite.

Then Josie Winter speaks directly to me. ‘Everybody's keeping quiet for fear of upsetting you, but I reckon it'll do you good to know how many people are
for
you. Certainly everyone around this table. I can say that with certainty!'

‘Thank you,' I say. ‘I don't like a situation where people are for or against someone. It's not ideal to have people taking sides and I hope it'll be resolved before it spreads. But thank you very much for your support.'

Whatever I feel or think I don't want this to be made a major topic in the church. It's too negative. All my thoughts about St Mary's are positive, and I intend to keep them that way.

After that the subject is dropped. They don't (aside from the Blessed Henry and possibly Molly) know about my phone call from the Bishop, or about Miss Frazer's letter, and I don't propose to tell them. We go on to talk about the iniquities of the bus service to Brampton, the awful trouble in ‘EastEnders' – I shall have to get Becky to bring me up-to-date on that, and possibly start watching it myself – and the imminent gas main repairs in the High Street which are going to upset every single person who goes through the village, either by car or on foot. ‘And that'll no sooner be over,' Mr Timpson warns us, ‘than they'll dig the road up again to do something to the electricity! I feel sorry for the shopkeepers.'

‘You must excuse me,' I say presently, refusing a second cup of coffee but remembering to put my fifty pence in the basin for the first one, ‘I shall have to go. I have an appointment.'

I sit in Evelyn Sharp's office, waiting for her to finish a phone call. All I want is to get on with what I'm here for, and now I'm relieved to hear, from the note in her voice, that she is winding up her conversation.

‘I'm sorry about that, Venus,' she says as she puts down the phone. ‘Nice to see you! How are you?'

‘I'm fine,' I say. ‘I've come to see you about Becky.'

I take a deep breath and plunge in, telling her everything I know, thread to needle, watching the changing expressions on her face as the tale unfolds. When I come to a stop, she looks at me for a few seconds without speaking. Her eyes are filled with compassion.

‘Venus,' she says, ‘I'm so sorry! I'm appalled! Both for you and poor Becky. But I wish you'd come to me sooner, if only to say she was unhappy at school, even if you didn't know why.'

‘You're right,' I say. ‘I can see that now, but I suppose I thought I could deal with it myself.'

‘I doubt you could, entirely,' Evelyn says. ‘It's a school matter as well as a home one. And while it's true to say I'm appalled, I can't say I'm one hundred per cent surprised. It isn't the first case of bullying I've ever come across, either in this school or others where I've taught. The awful truth is that bullying is something which goes on to some extent in most, if not all, schools, and I think always has. And human nature being what it is I think it might continue. The plus side is that it's more recognized and reported these days. Parents and teachers have a better idea of what to look out for, especially if they work together.'

‘I'm sorry I fell down on that one,' I say. ‘I knew Becky was being very awkward, not like herself, but I put it down to other things – like moving from Clipton, leaving her friends. And of course her father's death.'

‘Naturally you would,' Evelyn says. ‘You shouldn't blame yourself for that.'

‘There was the small episode of her being told her mother wasn't a proper Vicar,' I say, ‘but I thought we'd dealt with that. We seemed to have.'

‘What was that?' Evelyn says sharply. ‘I didn't know about that.'

So I tell her. I also tell her about the supply teacher who had needled Becky, perhaps unthinkingly, on her first day.

‘Mr Beagle would never have done that,' Evelyn says. ‘In fact, if he hadn't been away ill I'm sure he would have noticed what was going on. Unfortunately, we've had two different supply teachers in less than two weeks and we'd have been up for a third if it hadn't been half-term next week. They do their best, of course, but they can't know what's normal behaviour for any of the children. They wouldn't know that Becky wasn't herself because they don't know what herself is. Anyway, Mr Beagle will be back after half-term, thank goodness.'

‘I'm pleased about that,' I say. ‘Becky very much liked what little she saw of him.'

‘Good!' Evelyn says. ‘And now I'm going to write down, while you're here, all the details you've told me, and perhaps ask you a few more questions. We have a set procedure for things like this – isn't it awful that we have to? – and I make sure that it's strictly observed. Actually, you know, bullying isn't just a case of children doing it to each other. It can be teachers doing it to children, or children to teachers. There seem to be no boundaries.' Then she says, ‘Do you want Becky to be brought into this? Does she know you're here now?'

‘She knows I was coming to see you this morning. I'd like her to know what you'd be doing but I'd also prefer it if it were to be kept as low-key as possible.'

‘Oh, don't worry about that,' Evelyn says quickly. ‘It will be! Now this is what we'll do.'

First of all she'd like to see Becky, while I'm here, and then she'll take the matter to a staff meeting. ‘There's one this afternoon, after school. It'll be the last before half-term and I'd like to get things in place before then,' she says. ‘All the staff will be asked to keep an eye on Becky, but she'll be given one special person to whom she can turn whenever she needs to. It won't be her own teacher. It could be another class teacher, or perhaps the school secretary. She's a very suitable person, and she has a daughter of her own. I'll think about that and let you know.'

She would also, she told me, choose someone in Year Five who would befriend Becky, and she thinks she knows just who she'll choose but, again, she'll discuss it at the staff meeting.

‘If this works well, and it should,' Evelyn says, ‘then it would be a good idea if you were to ask this girl to tea – or whatever. Something away from school.'

‘I'd do that very willingly!' I promise.

‘All in all,' Evelyn says, ‘it could be an advantage that half-term's about to start. It will give Becky a break, and hopefully when she comes back, things will be different. And now I'd like to bring Becky in. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask her to name the girls who've been doing this. At some point – preferably before they go off for half-term – I shall want to tackle them with it. I'll ask the secretary to get Becky from her class and bring her here. It's almost dinner break, so it won't be too noticeable.'

She picks up the phone and has a short conversation. ‘OK,' she says. ‘Well, why not catch her on her way into dinner?'

‘Can you tell me,' I ask her while we wait, ‘what sort of a child becomes a bully?'

‘Not totally easy to answer,' Evelyn says. ‘It's often a child with low self-esteem, not as academically gifted as the rest; or with a difficult home background, awkward family circumstances, a broken marriage for instance. But one can't be sweeping about that. I've known children with all those disadvantages who would never in this world turn to bullying. I've known one-parent families where the single parent does a heroic job, brings up children who'd be a credit to anyone. Judging what makes other people do things is an imprecise science, to say the least.'

‘And where does the bullying take place?' I ask. ‘I mean within your school?'

‘Oh, seldom in the classroom,' Evelyn says. ‘More often in the playground, or the cloakroom, or on the way to or from school.'

At this point the secretary arrives, accompanied by Becky, who looks pale and rather frightened.

‘Hello Becky! Come and sit down,' Evelyn says in a cheerful voice. The secretary draws up a chair and places it right next to mine. I stretch out my hand and touch Becky's briefly.

‘Your mum's been telling me you've not been having a happy time at school,' Evelyn says. ‘I'm really sorry to hear that. I wish you'd mentioned it sooner, but there you are, you've done so now and I'm sure we'll be able to put it right. Let me tell you what we'll do, and see what you think of it.'

She chats to Becky person-to-person, as if she's really consulting her rather than just informing her what's been decided on her behalf. She tells her that there will always be one adult person to whom she can turn whenever she wants to. ‘I think we'll call her your Mentor. Do you know what that word means?'

Becky shakes her head.

‘It means “trusted adviser”,' Evelyn says. ‘And that's just what she'll be. You can trust her, and she'll advise you what to do. I'm not totally certain who I shall choose to do this, but it will be someone nice and friendly and it won't be your own class teacher. You'll be able to see her in private when you want to. Does that sound like a good idea?'

‘Yes thank you, Mrs Sharp,' Becky answers.

‘I'll let you know tomorrow who it will be,' Evelyn says, ‘and of course, talk to your mother. I know she wants you to be happy.'

Then she tells Becky about someone in the class who will befriend her. ‘It's something we usually do when we have a new pupil,' she says. ‘If Mr Beagle hadn't been away it would already have happened. Now tell me, is there someone in the class you quite like, someone you think might make a good friend?'

Becky hesitates, but not for long.

‘Anna Brent!' she says.

‘Anna Brent! Now that's a good choice,' Evelyn says. ‘I couldn't have chosen better myself! And I think I'll leave it to Mr Beagle to arrange this. He'll be back after half-term. I daresay the first thing he'll do is arrange for you to sit next to each other. And now, Becky, here comes the hard bit. I believe there were three girls in your class who made you do what you did, and I need to know their names. I'm not asking this for your sake, Becky, because I'm sure you're going to be all right from now on, but we don't want this sort of thing to happen to anyone else, do we?'

At this, Becky turns to me. She looks decidedly troubled.

‘I think you must, love,' I tell her. ‘Think of it as stopping what happened to you happening to someone else. I doubt Mrs Sharp will mention your name.'

‘Of course I won't,' Evelyn says. ‘They needn't know you've told me. I shall talk to them, tell them it must never happen again. I expect others in the class have an idea what's been going on, so it could be any one of them who gave the names.'

Becky bites her lips, twists her hands, then speaks in a voice which is only just audible.

‘Jean Clough, Daisy Quinn, Cora White.'

‘Thank you, Becky,' Evelyn says. ‘And would I be right if I guessed Cora White was the ring-leader?'

Becky gives a slight nod, but her face says it all.

‘Right! Well don't worry about it any more. Have a wonderful half-term – I hear you're going to your grandparents – and I think when you come back you'll find everything's different. So give your mum a kiss, because she's been worried too, and then go and get your dinner.'

Friday. Not the day I've been most looking forward to because of the Bishop's visit, and I wish I could get it over with this morning instead of waiting until the afternoon. I spend the time doing odd jobs, and packing Becky's case for her visit to Clipton. I'm taking her tomorrow morning. She needs new knickers, not obtainable in the village, so I make a quick trip to Brampton and buy three pairs, and on the way back I stop off at the baker's and buy a Madeira cake in honour of the Bishop. I decide against their delicious cream slices as being (a) too festive for what might be a difficult situation and (b) too messy for a bishop to eat. Madeira cake is more suitable.

And now I'm back at home and I've been peering out of the window on and off for the last half-hour with nothing to show for it until this very minute when, lo and behold, a red BMW is drawing up outside the Vicarage. I never thought of the Bishop in a red BMW. Perhaps it's his one indulgence?

Keeping hidden, I watch him as he gets out of his car. He is tall, and he looks thinner than the last time I saw him, but then he was dressed in his splendid robes with a mitre on his head and now he's wearing a sober black suit enlivened only by a pinky-purple shirt and a whiter-than-white dog collar. His hair is thick, dark, but greying a bit. He has a pleasant, rather patrician, face. And now, since he's halfway up the path, I dash to the front door.