Another Mother's Son (12 page)

‘Strange, all this fraternising with teachers that goes on these days,' he says. ‘Father and I once bumped into the chemistry teacher at a rugby match at Twickenham. I was appalled to see the man out of context without his white coat on. It would not be a problem for me now. He'd say, “Hello William,” and I'd think, Who the hell are you?'

By the time I get him off the phone I am too close to the front of the queue to call Ginny. The man immediately ahead delves repeatedly in his trouser pocket for change to pay for two cans of extra-strong lager and a ham sandwich tight wrapped in cling film.

The woman who is serving glances at the money laid out on the counter. ‘Another five p.' She pats her hair.

The man fishes again and the tiny coin that is stuck to his hand dislodges itself and rolls to the floor.

‘Leave it. I'll look for it later,' the woman says.

He starts to bend down. ‘Where's the blighter gone?'

‘Leave it.'

He puffs as he straightens up, his face as dark and mottled as corned beef. He picks up the small paper carrier bag and goes over to the automatic doors.

‘He can't see the button,' the woman says to me. ‘It's got a bleeding light on. What can I get you, love? Press the button,' she calls out. ‘Tea? Two pound fifty, darling. He needs his mother. There's plenty like him, I tell you. Help yourself to milk and sugar.'

The catering facility in Coach H is a forlorn place, part of the train but with the atmosphere of an outpost, somewhere rancid and enclosed, like a police cell. On the floor, older, ineradicable stains show through patches of newly spilt liquids. There is no window. Light bites and snacks on the racks might be all that is left in the world and constitute a last meal for a survivor who still has an appetite. I balance the poly-foam cup on one of the high perching tables, prise off the lid and add milk from the miniature carton. I have nowhere to put the floating teabag, though a stirring stick is provided. I jam the lid back on and call Ginny.

‘Oh, Lorna.'

I grip the phone.

‘Can I talk to you in confidence?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Ross isn't with you?'

‘No, I'm on a train. Where is he? Is he all right?'

‘Ross? Lorna, this is about Alan Child.'

Ginny's voice is quiet and precise. I miss some of what she says because a group of football supporters piles in through the automatic doors. Through barked-out chants and hollering, I get the gist of what she is saying.

I WALK BACK
through the swaying carriages, pressing buttons to allow my passage from one to the next. Differing levels of clamour cross my path. Each section produces its own blend of voices and bleeping. The train speeds along, seemingly lengthening as it goes, stretching to a distant northern county. I put in the miles. I pass luggage and passengers, more luggage, more passengers, and enter the quiet coach; its muffled hush hits me like a wall, as the doors sigh behind me. I return to my seat. Someone is sitting opposite, a young woman with hair dyed silvery grey. She is knitting.

Booking seats on a train is an unremarkable process – I did it myself – but the woman's appearance in my absence startles me. Wearing black, fashionably geeky spectacles and constantly moving her fingers over yarn and needles, she has replaced the white booking ticket on which was written ‘Birmingham New Street/ London'. I have no recollection of the train having stopped while I stood in Coach H. No jolts, no sensation of rest. I failed to hear the announcements.

I remove the lid from the cup. The tea is mahogany coloured with creamy flecks on the surface where the milk has separated. I take a tissue from my bag, pull out the teabag by a corner, since I have mislaid the stick, and place it on the tissue. My hand is shaking. Immediately, a stain begins to spread and I hastily fold the tissue into a small disgusting parcel and dab at the table with it, meanwhile holding the cup with my other hand to stop it from spilling. The young woman continues to knit, breaking her rhythm only to yank more wool from the ball in her lap. My eyes are drawn to the soft yarn. It is a beautiful pebble-grey colour and so unspoiled that I can smell its newness. I gulp the tea down and, as soon as I have finished, drop the tissue parcel, by now soaked through, into the cup and replace the lid. I close my eyes to shut out the lighted carriage and the rushing dark.

The house smells of fried chicken. There are used cartons on the kitchen table, also my note to Ross about buying a takeaway. The money I left has gone. I hear voices upstairs and, every now and then, footsteps that cross the room. Jude is here. I clear away the rubbish, put forks and glasses in the dishwasher and, though it is frosty outside, I open the back door and stand for a few moments, wrapped in my coat and hugging my arms. No school until Monday. The head, who is not a reflective man, will have time to reflect. He can take advice on the best way to handle the situation. The important thing, from his point of view, is to control information.

Ginny asked me to uphold confidentiality. Naturally, I agreed. Our children should be in the same position as all the other students. There is a procedure to follow. A variety of groups must be informed in the right order: the governing body, the trustees, senior management, teaching staff, support staff, students in general, students in particular – those taught by Mr Child, or in his tutor group – parents. Ginny mentioned a Crisis Prevention Response Plan and I did not ask whether such a thing already existed or would be drawn up hastily on the back of an envelope over the weekend. It was not of great importance either way. Sometimes a crisis produces clearer thinking than a committee at ease.

I shut the door and take off my coat. I should eat, but the lingering smell in the kitchen nauseates me and combines with a memory of the train bar's beery stench. I go back through the thread of emails that followed the meeting at the Luptons' house. The first lot deals with dates; endless rescheduling as Deborah tries to fix up a meeting. She describes her assaults on the systems of Lloyd-Barron Academy, the passive aggression of Amrita, the head's secretary, the strategic diary clashes and last-minute cancellations. Other members of the parents' group responded. I took no part. Even when there was something concrete to discuss – an action plan to improve Mr Child's teaching – I let the comments pass me by as though they were poster ads next to an escalator.

How frustrating. Predictable but then I'm cynical. Surprise, Surprise. A CLASH? Do none of them keep a diary?? We don't want this thing to drag on. Fingers Xed sonny boy shows up. What are the chances? My guesstimate no better than 50/50. Don't forget to mention negativity. Too vague, Simon. Stick to competence specifics. Still on
Silas Marner
? (YAWN) How long is it? Something more upbeat next time please. Good luck Deborah Good luck Deborah Good luck Debs. Good evening one and all. The deed is done. This is the action plan. We covered the following bullet points, 1–8. Looks good to me. V. clear. Well done, Deborah. Excellent result. Move speedily on to Stage 2 if he doesn't deliver. Great idea to have after-school coaching. Holidays too?? Keep the pressure on. Thanks Deborah Thank you Thankyou.

I feel unsteady, as if still in motion.

THE NEXT MORNING
I wake at four-thirty on the dot. I lie in bed for the first hour, then can stand immobility no longer and get up. Downstairs, in the kitchen, I make tea, read a book and from time to time glance through the window at the quiet garden and the sky above the rooftops to see if it is getting light. For warmth I switch on the oven and leave the door open. The little blue flames flicker and a smell, part gassy, part reheated baked food, drifts out. I feel disconnected from the rest of the house. The sleepers on the floors above are nothing to do with me. Jude, Ross, Ewan. It is as if I and they exist in different dimensions. The central heating comes on. I switch the oven off and go upstairs to have a bath and get dressed. I listen to the radio but I cannot settle.

Later, I drive to the supermarket to stock up for the week. Up and down the aisles I field the trolley. Vegetables. Fruit. Half a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch. Colleague announcement: Please will … Packs of minced beef. Bread. I walk past pyramid displays of Easter eggs. Sorry, could I just … Cheese. Ham. Milk. Yoghurt. In it all goes. Excuse me. Pasta. Breakfast cereal. Excuse me, are you in the queue? Beep. Beep. Please wait for assistance. I've no idea why … OK, thanks. The bill is enormous. Feed us until next Saturday.

As I pass the living room, a piece of paper flutters and catches my eye. Jude is at the table, an open book, her laptop and a pad of A4 in front of her, some loose sheets, some screwed up in balls. I put the bags of food shopping down in the hall and go in to say hello. I give her a sideways hug. I can feel the bones in her shoulder.

‘Is everything all right? You don't usually work down here.'

‘I've got this timed essay to write. It's quite difficult.'

‘History? For Mrs Anstey?'

‘No, English, for Mr Child. I don't really know what I'm doing. So far it's rubbish.' Jude indicates the screwed-up paper.

‘Can I help?'

‘'S'all right.' She tugs at the bottom of the large sweatshirt that belongs to Ross and which she wears as all-purpose leisurewear. ‘Lorna?'

‘Mm?'

‘I've reset the start time twice already. Mr Child won't know, will he? Does it matter?'

‘No. It doesn't matter at all.'

Jude bends her head. She turns over the pages of the book.

‘Just do your best,' I say and leave her.

I go out into the garden. A pair of blue tits on the bird feeder startle and fly away. When Mr Milner found out that Mr Child had missed his afternoon classes he and two senior members of staff went to look for him. Police arrived at the school and also an ambulance. Lessons had ended. The students gone. Staff off to the pub. Most of them. On a Friday. There are no extracurricular activities at the end of the week.

In the after-shock of sirens, the nearby roads fell quiet. The one-decker buses bowled along empty of passengers; floors and seats littered with empty drinks cans and food wrappers, single items of school uniform, a blazer or a tie, chewing gum stamped like grey rounds of sealing wax. Mr Milner, back in his office, resumed marking. The head left. It was his wife's birthday. Dinner was booked and, later on, the theatre.

IN MID-AFTERNOON, THE
doorbell rings. I am puzzled by the silhouette behind the glass in the front door. A courier, I think, though I have no idea what the delivery might be.

‘Hi, Lorna.' Randal, in biker's leathers, on the doorstep, is removing his helmet.

‘Good heavens,' I say.

‘My new toy. It's a fantastic way of travelling. All the advantages of a car and a bicycle. Please don't make the inevitable references. I kept calling to let you know I was coming but you didn't pick up.'

‘Oh, I switched my phone off. I had a nap. You look like one of those knightly ghosts that carries its head under its arm.'

He puts the helmet on the floor, takes off his gauntlets and begins to peel off his outer clothing. For a few seconds, I watch, mesmerised, then, as he steps out of the trousers, collect myself. ‘I'll go and make some tea,' I say.

I hear his steps on the stairs. A muffled interchange takes place with Ross, then Randal goes up to the top of the house. I listen for the knock on Ewan's door.

He stays up there for about fifteen minutes.

‘Ross says they'll be down later. Jude says hi. Nice girl, isn't she?'

I turn the radio off and we go into the living room. I place Randal's mug of tea on the floor by the sofa.

‘Ewan seems brighter,' he says.

‘Brighter?'

‘Yeah. I mean, he's not particularly communicative, but his face. It struck me as brighter.'

‘That's great. Would I notice tiny changes? I don't know. I'm happy to believe you.'

‘But
you
look tired, Lorna. Are you all right?'

‘I woke up too early. I'm fine.'

‘How early?'

‘Four-thirty?'

‘Oh, not too bad. I thought you were going to say two. We were up and down with Stefan. You know what toddlers are like with a cold. His nose was blocked, poor little sod.'

A car alarm starts; a prolonged hoot.

Randal picks up his mug and sips cautiously. ‘Normal tea. Thanks.'

We chat until Ross and Jude come down. She is still wearing the sweatshirt – her breasts comfortably free inside the capacious garment – but she has put on a pair of black leggings. Usually she wanders round the house with bare legs. Ross is wearing an old tweed cap knocked to the back of his head. They both carry their phones and, in addition, Jude clasps her copy of
Silas Marner
. There is an element of constraint, as though they are about to put on a home-made play. The staged but sheepish entrance. The devastating pause in which it dawns on the actors that even improvisation requires a plan. Randal, Helena, William and I used to watch from a mock-up auditorium of sofa and two rows of dining chairs, our tickets ready for inspection. Shields and weaponry came from the kitchen. Bath towels were borrowed as togas. The performances involved fighting and were over quickly. On one less Roman occasion, Oliver went into labour with a lot of grunting and Ewan, the doctor, assisted with various pieces of garden equipment that he drew with a mixture of desperation and excitement from an old string bag: a trowel, a garden sieve, a packet of sunflower seeds and a ball of twine.

‘How's the homework going?' I ask Jude.

‘Terrible.'

‘We can't stay long. Jude hasn't finished,' Ross says.

‘Well, at least sit down. Don't you have to write this timed essay thing too?' I say.

‘I'll do it tomorrow when Jude's gone. Only takes an hour.' Ross drops down on the floor in front of the fireplace, Jude next to him.