Losing Me (4 page)

What Sandra liked to think what she offered Jubilee kids was discipline. She insisted on teachers setting homework three nights a week—although little got done. Children had to wear the regulation blue sweatshirt with the school logo. Sandra believed that taking pride in one’s school led to greater self-esteem. It didn’t. Stewart, the deputy head, summed up what the rest of the staff already knew: “All it does is make it easier for the police to identify the little buggers.”

Sandra’s other innovation was playtime detentions. Miscreants would be made to sit alone and write apologies to their victims. Most were short—on words as well as remorse:
Soree I stabbed you in the neck with my pensel. I will give you a kwid after school.

Their contrition, such as it was, lasted until the next time they thought it might be fun to stick somebody with a pencil or demand money with menaces.

Stewart, the young deputy head, did his best to explain that kids often behaved badly to get attention. “They spend their lives being ignored by their parents. In the end they get so angry and frustrated that they lash out—at somebody or something.”

“But surely there are parenting classes they can go to. . . .”

“These people don’t need parenting classes. Most of them are suffering from depression.”

Now Barbara waded in. “Stewart’s right. It’s the reason they turn to booze and drugs. That’s why they treat themselves to fancy phones and big TVs. It’s all about escapism.”

“I don’t think all these people are genuinely depressed,” Sandra said. “If you ask me, it’s laziness. Nobody on that estate seems to have any ambition or drive. They’re all so passive and happy for the government to take control of their lives.”

Barbara often imagined Sandra in a previous life, ministering to the poor in a big hat as she handed out thin soup and admonishments.

The two women had been having this debate—which never amounted to more than good-natured sparring—since Sandra took over at the school. Sandra would accuse Barbara of being a namby-pamby liberal. In her view, pandering to the underprivileged did them no favors. It simply disempowered them. Barbara would accuse her of spouting Tory claptrap. How could forcing people to live on these wretched housing estates possibly be described as pandering?

Then the end-of-play bell would go and they would abandon their discussion, agreeing only to disagree.

•   •   •

Barbara fell in behind a group of younger girls making their way inside for breakfast. They were yakking at the tops of their voices. Barbara couldn’t help smiling. How old were they? Eight? Nine? And already they were engaged in proper conversational back-and-forth. Boys were so much slower that way.

She was about to climb the stairs to the staff room when a small voice piped up behind her. “Hi, Mrs. Stirling. Did you have a good Christmas? Miss, if there was a booga competition, I’d definitely win it, ’cos I can eat a hundred in an hour.” Jordan Duffy—year two—waved his index finger at Barbara.

“Wow, Jordan. That’s great. Thank you so much for sharing.”

He raced off towards the dining hall.

“Hey, Jordan! No running!”

Grim as the school looked from the outside, the interior couldn’t have been more different. Visitors stepped into an ocean of primary colors and kids’ artwork. Ten years ago, after local worthies had spent decades lobbying the government, the Education Department had finally caved in and agreed to renovate the building. This happened to be around the time that the
Daily
Mail
first referred to the neighborhood as the Hammer Housing Estate of Horror. The initial article turned into a campaign that ran for months—attacking residents, referring to them as scroungers and criminals.

It was moot whether the government relented for altruistic reasons or purely to get the right-wing press off its back. Whatever the truth, they shelled out the best part of two million pounds to give Jubilee a face-lift. There was new wiring, plumbing and heating. There was even carpeting in some of the communal areas. The brown-and-green wall tiles had been painted white. All the old classroom desks and chairs had been replaced with bright, modern furniture. The lunchroom now had a large kitchen extension, from which decent, healthy meals were produced every day. Each class had a couple of computers and Internet access. When the building work was finished, the school was officially “relaunched.” The Labour government considered it an event worthy of the prime minister’s presence. The staff got dressed up. The kids got excited—not so much about being in the presence of Tony Blair, but because the school was going to be full of TV cameras. “Miss, miss . . . does that mean I’ll be on the telly, miss? Does it?” The PM made a speech about the renovation of Jubilee school being another major example of Labour’s commitment to education and inner-city regeneration. He hailed education as the key to success. Every child, no matter what their background, should feel they had a right to succeed. The staff all exchanged glances at this. Barbara couldn’t help thinking that the hapless kids on the social services at-risk register might have laughed if they’d understood what was being said.

In the staff room, everybody was exchanging cheery “Happy New Year’s,” along with tales of Christmas triumphs and disasters. Christine, a year-one teaching assistant, had broken her wrist skiing and was in plaster up to her elbow. A few people were poring over the newspaper and moaning about education budget cuts. “Well, if you ask me,” Christine said, “job-wise this has to be the safest school in London. Why would the government plow all that money into the refurb only to cut our jobs? Makes no sense.”

“But that was the last government, and it was ten years ago,” Stewart said, stirring his coffee. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is austerity Britain.”

This morning about a dozen kids had turned up for breakfast in the lunchroom. “Not a great turnout,” one of the serving ladies said to Barbara. “You know, it’s the ones who don’t make it that worry me.” She was right. The kids who really needed feeding tended to arrive late for school, or simply didn’t show up.

Barbara helped herself to a banana. She was wondering if she had time for another cup of coffee before school started when she noticed Troy from year three. He was stuffing beans on toast down him like there was no tomorrow. She wondered when he’d last had a decent meal.

Troy was one of her remedial kids. With his dark chocolate eyes and thicket of golden hair, he looked almost beatific. But Troy was prone to angry outbursts. His mum, Tiffany, did her best for him and his baby sister, Lacie, but she was on her own, living on benefits and clearly weighed down by life on the poverty line.

Tiffany had come in recently, at Barbara’s request, to discuss Troy’s temper tantrums. She’d brought Lacie, who was in her buggy feeding herself cold weak tea from a bottle. Occasionally, Tiffany handed her bits of jam doughnut. Tiffany was pretty, but she did her best to disguise it. Her scraped-back hair, heavy black eyeliner and matching eyebrows made her look positively fierce.

“It ain’t Troy’s fault that he keeps losing it,” Tiffany insisted. “Night after night he sees me crying because there’s no money. He wants to help and he can’t because he’s eight. And he gets angry ’cos I can’t buy him stuff the other kids have. And in case you hadn’t worked it out, that’s also why he’s backward. He’s brain’s too full of other stuff to concentrate on his work.”

“You’re right about Troy. You don’t have to convince me. And I know you struggle financially. I do understand.”

“The fuck you do. People like you know nothing. You’re all piss and paninis. There are days when I have to decide do I put money in the meter for the electric or do I put food on the table? If I thought I wouldn’t get caught, I’d start thieving. And I’m not going to one of them food banks, neither. I’m not a bloody beggar.”

“But don’t you have any family who can help out?” Barbara was aware that she sounded like some lady bountiful social worker from the fifties.

“They’re either dead or locked up. Next question.”

Tiffany thought she was hard, but her fingernails bitten to the quick and the scars on her lower arms from cutting herself were testament to something very different.

Tiffany was messed up the way that so many poor, vulnerable women were messed up. Self-harm was only one of her problems. Barbara knew—via on- and off-the-record conversations that Sandra had had with social services—that Tiffany was drawn to violent men and had been since she was a teenager. Nearly all her boyfriends—including the fathers of her children—had treated her like a punch bag. She’d ended up in hospital with broken ribs more than once. The police did their best to persuade her to press charges, but she always refused.

“Tiffany, is everything all right at home? Are you keeping yourself safe?”

She swore she wasn’t seeing anybody right now.

“Tell me something—has Troy ever seen you being hurt by these men?”

“Never. On my life. I swear to God.”

This was the story she always told the police and social services. They bought it because they couldn’t prove otherwise. And Troy certainly wasn’t telling. In the end it was decided that the children could remain in her care, but they would be put on the at-risk register.

“Because if Troy has ever seen you being attacked,” Barbara went on, “he would be very angry and frightened, and it would explain his behavior.”

“I’m telling you, he’s upset because there’s no money and he worries about me. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you people always have to keep digging and prying?”

“I’m sorry if you think I’m prying, but I’m just trying to help.”

“We don’t need your help. We don’t need anybody’s help. We’re fine as we are.”

“Let me ask you a question. The last time you ended up in hospital with broken ribs, what did you tell Troy?”

“That I had an accident.”

“And you think he believed you?”

“Of course he believed me. He’s a kid. Why wouldn’t he believe me? Who do you think you are, interrogating me? You think you’re so perfect, so bloody high and mighty. Well, you know fuck all.”

With that Tiffany snatched hold of the buggy and steered it out of the room.

•   •   •

Barbara swallowed the last of her banana and made her way over to Troy. “Hi, Troy. Good Christmas?”

A shrug. Then he looked down at his plate. Troy had never been big on eye contact. It was one of the things that worried her about him. “Wayne got us a big-screen TV. But it was for everybody.”

Barbara lowered herself onto one of the child-size dining chairs. “So you missed out on getting something just for you. That’s a shame. On the other hand, TVs cost a lot of money.”

“S’pose.”

“So who’s Wayne?” she said. “Is he a new friend of your mum’s?”

Troy concentrated on shoveling beans and toast into his mouth. “Yeah. He stays in our house. He lets me play
Grand Theft Auto
.”

Of course he did. “Right. So what else did you get up to on Christmas Day?”

“Not much. I just wish that Santa had brought me what I wanted.”

“What was that?”

“A chimney and a Christmas tree like you see on TV.”

Barbara could feel herself welling up. It was as much as she could do to stop herself scooping up the poor little chap and taking him home.

“Well, at least you got one nice present.”

“I suppose.” As he reached for his carton of milk, the sleeve of his school sweatshirt rode up to reveal two circular angry sores.

Cigarette burns. She would put money on it.

“Ooh, they look nasty,” Barbara said, making sure to keep her voice level. She didn’t want to freak him out. If Tiffany’s new boyfriend was responsible, then Troy would only get more of the same if he found out the kid had been telling tales to his teacher. “Tell you what. After you’ve eaten, why don’t we go the medical room and put something on them.”

They stopped off at Sandra’s office en route. “Mrs. Nichols,” Barbara said. “Would you mind coming with me?”

“What?” Sandra mouthed.

Barbara jerked her head in the direction of the medical room. They sat Troy down, and Barbara rolled up his sleeves. His arms were dotted with burns. Both women winced. Barbara dabbed the two fresh sores with antiseptic—the others appeared to be scabbing over—and said she’d check on them again tomorrow.

When Troy had gone, Barbara said they ought to call social services. “This is bound to be the work of Tiffany’s new boyfriend. Lacie could be in danger, too. Those kids are meant to be on the at-risk register. Who the hell’s looking after them?”

“Right,” Sandra said. “Why don’t you get on to it?”

“Me?”

“Oh, come on. You know how scary and intimidating you are. You’re so much better at dealing with social services than me. You know how I loathe confrontation.”

Sandra was a puzzle. When it came to debating politics in the staff room, she was happy to take on all comers. But if she needed to confront social services or her bosses at the Education Department, she preferred to delegate. Usually she asked Stewart. Sometimes she leaned on Barbara. It was pretty obvious to both of them why she did it: Sandra knew she wasn’t a great fit at Jubilee. The last thing she wanted was to rock the boat with anybody in authority, so she got other people to rock it for her. Barbara had wanted to raise the issue with Sandra, but Stewart begged her not to. He wasn’t a boat rocker either.

•   •   •

She said that she would make the call during first break. There wasn’t time now because the bell was about to go and she had four kids from Troy’s year—Troy included—coming to her for a lesson.

Armani was the first to arrive. She was a cute, smiley child with cornrows and bows and startling blue eyes. Today she had glitter all over her hands. “Goodness, where did all that come from?” Barbara said, taking Armani’s hand in hers.

“I was doing sticking before I came to school,” she said, joining Barbara at the round table.

Here was one child, at least, who spent time at home engaged in creative activity.

Troy was next to show, along with Baillie and Kane. Troy offered Barbara a tepid smile. He even made eye contact with her. Whenever he did that, it gave Barbara hope. It made her feel that one day she might truly reach him. Baillie and Kane sat down and immediately began to fiddle with the paper and pencils on the table.