Losing Me (5 page)

“Kane, please don’t stick pencils up your nose. It’s not funny. Do you see me laughing?”

“Miss is right,” Armani said to him. “If you fell over with the pencil up your nose, it could stab you in the brain. And all this brain gunge would come out of your eyes and your ears and your nose.”

Kane pulled a face. “Gross. Is she right, miss?”

“Well, she’s probably exaggerating a bit, but that doesn’t make it safe.” Barbara paused and turned her attention to the whole group. “Right, so why don’t we get started? I thought that today it might be fun to do some measuring.”

Barbara was aware that, as usual, Baillie was attempting to pull out her eyelashes. Barbara needed to distract her. She reached into her bag.

“Baillie, do you know what this is?” Barbara was holding up a large thermometer.

“It’s a ther-momenter.”

“Almost. It’s actually pronounced ther-mometer. Baillie, sweetheart, can you try to look at me when you give an answer?”

Like Troy, Baillie struggled to make eye contact. She looked steadfastly down at the table.

Barbara tried again. “OK, so, can you tell me what a thermometer measures?”

“Heat,” Armani piped up. “And it’s really, really hot in Jamaica, where my gran comes from. I’m going there one day. On a plane. Have you ever been to Jamaica, miss?”

“I haven’t. Come on, Armani. How’s about you try concentrating for a few minutes.”

The child put her finger to her lips and giggled. “OK, miss. Sorry, miss.”

Kane was the quietest of the four. Barbara was aware of how easy it was to ignore him. “So, Kane, have you ever had your temperature taken? Sometimes when you get sick, you get hot. Perhaps Mum has put a strip across your forehead to check how hot you are?”

He was holding a couple of pencils like drumsticks and beating out a rhythm on the table. Barbara made him stop and repeated her question. His face was a picture of blank regarding the forehead thermometer

“They took my temp-ri-ture when I was in the hospital,” Troy said. “They put this thing in my ear.”

“Yes, that’s how nurses take your temperature. So, when were you in the hospital?”

“Christmas. I hurt my leg.”

“And how did you do that?” Barbara said, immediately realizing how stupid it was to think that he’d tell the truth with other children there.

“Playing.”

“I see.” There was no point pushing him. She would see what social services knew about his hospital visit. “OK, so the thermometer I’ve got here tells us how hot it is in this room. I’d like you all to look at it and see if you can work out how to read the temperature.”

“You look at the red line,” Armani said, stretching across the table and tapping the glass. “And match it to the number. It’s sixty-eight degrees in here.” There was no question in Barbara’s mind that this child was perfectly able, if not highly intelligent. The only reason she was being sent to Barbara three times a week was because she never stopped yakking and her class teacher had had enough. She was simply bored and in need of individual attention and stimulation. Like that was ever going to happen.

“Well done, Armani.” Barbara put the thermometer in the center of the table. “Now, can everybody else see that?”

Without any warning, Troy snatched the thermometer off the table and threw it on the floor. It lay there in tiny pieces, amid spreading beads of mercury. Before she had a chance to react, Troy was ripping up his exercise book. His face was contorted and red. Tears were falling down his face. Barbara got up and wrenched the book from his hands. “Hey, come on, hon. Calm down. It’s OK.” The next moment, he was hitting and punching her. “I hate you. I hate you.” He was small and light, but he was coming at her with all his strength. Eventually, she got him in a bear hug. He fought, wriggled and squirmed. “Shhh, sweetie. It’s OK. You’re OK. I’ve got you.” After a minute or so the fight went out of him and he sat sobbing quietly.

Barbara sent the other children back to their class. “Armani, on your way, could you go to Mrs. Nichols’ office and ask her to come here?”

A couple of minutes later, Sandra appeared. “Now what?”

Barbara was sitting rubbing Troy’s back. “Major tantrum. He totally lost it.”

Sandra pulled up a chair. “Troy, Mrs. Stirling and I are worried about you. Has somebody been hurting you?”

Troy stared at the floor.

“It’s safe to tell us. I promise. If you let us know what’s been going on, we can help you.”

Still nothing.

Finally Barbara and Sandra went into the corridor so that they could speak out of Troy’s earshot.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Sandra said. “This isn’t the first time he’s become violent. He’s a danger to the other kids. We have to send him home.”

“We can’t. Who knows what we’re sending him back to? What if the boyfriend’s home and he turns on Troy?”

“We have no choice. I have other children to think about. We’re teachers, not social workers. We’ll hang on to him for the rest of the day. Meanwhile, you need to make that call to social services. Use my office.”

Barbara spent ten minutes on hold. Eventually she was put through to a woman in Child Protection called Jan, who was meant to be Troy’s caseworker. Only she wasn’t.

“It was actually one of my colleagues who visited the family. But she left back in September.”

“OK, so after she’d gone, who took over?”

“I’m not sure. Bear with me. . . . OK, I’m just downloading the family’s file. . . . Right, well, it would appear that nobody from the department has visited since their caseworker left.”

“You are kidding me. We are talking about an eight-year-old child and his baby sister—both of whom are on the at-risk register—and you’re telling me that nobody has visited since September. Are you people complete idiots?”

“Mrs. Stirling, please don’t take that tone with me.”

“What tone do you expect me to take? His mother has clearly hooked up with another maniac, and now her son has cigarette burns all over his arms and apparently he ended up in casualty over Christmas. I have no idea if the baby’s OK.”

“All right. I’ll get somebody over there.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I will do my best to send somebody today.”

“Well, so far your best hasn’t been good enough.”

When she came off the phone, Barbara couldn’t help thinking she hadn’t been anything like scary enough.

“Any luck?” Sandra said, coming back into the office with a thick file of papers. She dropped the file onto a spare chair and sat down at her desk.

“They’re sending a social worker to see Tiffany.”

“When?”

“Possibly today, but who knows. Bloody social workers. They’re just so complacent. There’s no sense of urgency.”

“What do you expect? They’re overworked and understaffed. It’s not that they don’t care. They just get jaded.”

Barbara sighed. “I know. I do get it, but there’s a child in real danger here. God forbid something happens to him. Do you think I should go round to the house? Check that everything’s OK?”

“No. You can’t step on social services’ toes. We’ve informed them. Now we have to let them do their job.”

“That would be fine, if we could be sure they were going to do it.” Barbara stood up. “Right . . . I need to get going. I’ve got another class in a few minutes.”

It was then that Sandra asked if she could have a word. She took off her specs, laid them on the desk and began fiddling with one of the arms. When she started to speak, she hedged and fudged and made oblique references to official letters. Finally she got to the point. Barbara no longer had a job. She was surplus to requirements. Then Sandra got to the bit about how she’d been fighting this for months, how she’d gone to bat for Barbara, how hard she’d fought in her corner and how, in the end, her hands had been tied.

Barbara’s initial shock and anger turned to bewilderment.

“But I don’t understand.” She lowered herself back into the chair. “I thought I was good at what I did.”

“You are. You’re brilliant. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re one of my best teachers.”

“Then how could you let them get rid of me?”

“Barbara, you have to believe me when I say there was nothing I could do. It was a fait accompli. If it’s any comfort, they’re offering you a pretty good severance deal, and of course, you’ll be allowed to work until the end of term.”

“Well, yippee.”

“I can’t tell you how much I wish this wasn’t happening.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” By now tears were falling down Barbara’s cheeks. “I can’t believe it. I feel like I’m going to wake up in a moment.”

Sandra handed her a tissue. “I’m so sorry, Barbara. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not your fault. You have a job to do.” Barbara dabbed under her eyes. “Could you just do me one favor and tell the rest of the staff for me? I’m not sure I can face doing it.”

“Of course I will. Now, then, why don’t I make us a cup of tea?”

“I don’t have time. I’ve got a class to get to.”

“Forget the class. I’ll find somebody to cover for you.”

“Thanks, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather go.”

“OK . . . but if there’s anything else I can do . . .”

Barbara nodded.

“You’re strong,” Sandra said, putting her specs back on. “You’ll pick yourself up, find a new direction. I know you will.”

Barbara blew her nose and left.

Chapter 3

B
arbara made her way back to her room and sat at the table staring at the wall. Bastards. After all her years of hard work, how could they do this to her? Discard her like an old dishrag. Some bean counter who knew nothing about the lives these kids led and probably cared even less had put a stop to her doing the job she loved—had put a stop to her trying to make a difference. Bastards. And had Sandra really gone into bat for her, or had she simply done as she was told? Barbara suspected she’d probably written a formal letter registering her “disappointment and regret” at the council’s decision, but little more. And that comment she’d made about Barbara being strong. That said it all.
You don’t have to worry about Barbara. She always copes. She’ll bounce back.

Barbara wiped her eyes and glanced at her watch. Still a couple of minutes before the next group arrived for a lesson. She took her phone out of her bag and hit Frank’s number. Voice mail. She sent a text.
Need to speak to you. Call me during lunch.

She finished her last class of the morning a few minutes early. That gave her time to run up to the staff room and collect her coat without being seen. By now Sandra would have started spreading the word. Barbara couldn’t face all the teary hugs and condolences. Instead she would skip lunch and take a walk. She needed to get some air.

She ended up in the middle of the Orchard Farm Estate—breathing in the poverty and the piss, avoiding the dog shit and litter. She headed for the children’s playground, which seemed bright enough, if a bit battered, and sat down on one of the red metal benches. Somebody had carved “Stacey is a slag” across the back of the seat.

It was getting colder now, and it had started to drizzle. Barbara wound her scarf around her neck and surveyed the concrete low-rise blocks, their walkways clogged with abandoned supermarket trolleys, the walls festooned with old satellite dishes. Around her, bits of tissue and foil stained with crack drifted in the breeze like autumn leaves. A couple of teenage lads loped by, their jeans slung so low that they reminded Barbara of toddlers with overfull diapers. A few yards away a couple of surly-looking teenage mothers with hooped earrings pushed their toddlers on the swings.

The boys in jeans headed to the cage-windowed mini-market, where they sold single cigarettes for ten pence each. It was the only shop left on the estate. The rest were long gone, boarded up, covered in graffiti. The social center had closed down, too. It had been opened with such fanfare—a scaled-down version of the Jubilee relaunch. The social center was going to stop the kids getting up to no good in the stairwells and get them playing football, taking drama, dance and music classes. But the funding dried up. Youth workers were let go. Volunteers kept the place running for a while, but with no money for equipment, teachers or sports coaches, they couldn’t deliver. So they gave up.

Barbara was certain there was some erudite literary term for when physical surroundings reflected the watcher’s mood. She’d been taught it at university. But of course she couldn’t bring it to mind. Three years she’d studied English Lit. She must have used it dozens of times in essays. She was still trying to remember what it was when Frank called.

“Hey, I got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you straightaway, but I’ve been in meetings all morning and I had my phone switched off.”

“I’ve been made redundant.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. They’ve given me a term’s notice.”

“But you’re one of their best teachers. Why would they get rid of you?”

“Cuts. A job had to go. I was the closest to retirement, so they chose me.”

“Bloody hell. . . . How are we going to manage without your salary? You’re going to have to find another job.”

“Frank, you’re not listening. You know as well as I do that they’re making cuts all over the place. There are no jobs. And even if there were, who’s going to take me on at nearly sixty?”

“You’ll have to find something else—outside teaching.”

“I don’t want to find anything else. This job has been my life for nearly forty years. I love it. I love the kids.”

“Barbara, you’re going to have to forget all the emotional stuff. We need the money. You’ll just have to take what you can get.”

“My career has just come to an end, and that’s all you’ve got to say? That I need to forget the ‘emotional stuff’? How do you think you’d feel if nobody wanted your films anymore? You’d feel like your heart had been ripped out.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why isn’t it the same? Because you make important, socially relevant TV documentaries and win awards and I just have this little teaching job?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Look, you’re upset. . . .”

“Of course I’m
upset
. I’m devastated.”

“And you have every right to be. I’m sorry if I sounded unsympathetic, but it’s a shock for me, too. I just panicked—that’s all. Let’s have a proper talk when I get home.”

“OK. Try not to be late.”

“I’ll do my best. And don’t worry. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She had half an hour before the start of afternoon school. She found herself walking over to the group of teenage mums. “Excuse me. Do any of you happen to know where Tiffany Butler lives?”

One of the girls pointed. “Over there. Ground floor. One with the blue door.”

Barbara thanked her. Despite Sandra’s warning not to tread on social services’ toes, she found herself walking the couple of hundred yards to the building. Small chunks had been chiseled out of the paint-blistered door. It looked to Barbara as if the locks had been changed. She tried the bell. Dead. She tapped on the door. There were footsteps, the sound of a baby crying.

Tiffany opened the door—Lacie in her arms—wearing a white toweling dressing gown covered in tiny pink hearts. Her trademark eyebrows hadn’t been painted in. Ditto the black eyeliner. Her hair hung loose and unwashed. Without her armor, she looked childlike and vulnerable. She also looked done in.

Tiffany took one look at Barbara and rolled her eyes like a surly adolescent. “What do you want?” she said, bouncing Lacie in an effort to soothe her. “I told you I don’t need your help. Why can’t you stop interfering and just piss off and leave me alone?”

“Tiffany, Troy’s got cigarette burns on his arms.”

“It was an accident.” Her voice was full of defiance. There was some fight left in her after all. She turned away and began blowing raspberries on Lacie’s cheek. The child started laughing.

“I don’t think it was an accident. Please can I come in? Maybe we could have a chat?”

“Look, it’s all sorted. Wayne’s gone, OK?”

“That’s good, but maybe we could talk anyway. Please?”

“Whatever.” She stood to one side and let Barbara into the flat. They walked down the narrow hallway—regulation lino tiles, walls painted tangerine in a failed effort to brighten the place up.

“Tiffany, it’s freezing in here.”

“Wayne fucked off with all my cash. I haven’t got money for the electric meter. Me and Lacie have been staying in bed to keep warm.”

The new flat-screen TV looked out of place in the bedraggled living room. There was a tatty leatherette sofa, a couple of sad mismatched armchairs, a few tenth-hand baby toys scattered over the floor. There were no pictures, no photographs, no tchotchkes. Barbara lowered herself into one of the armchairs. Tiffany sat on the sofa, Lacie on her lap. The baby immediately started to grizzle. Barbara reached into her pocket and took out a miniature pack of chocolate digestives that she kept for low-blood-sugar emergencies. “Do you think she’d like one of these?”

“Lacie never says no to a biscuit, do you?”

“Here you are, sweetheart. Try this.”

Lacie grabbed the biscuit and began munching. In a few seconds her mouth was covered in chocolate. Barbara wondered when she’d last eaten.

“What’s really been going on?” Barbara said gently.

“You really want to know?. . . OK . . .” Her voice was raised now in what was probably a combination of fear, exhaustion and fury.

Tiffany lowered her dressing gown to reveal livid purple bruises over her shoulders and arms. “It’s the same all over my back. He knew not to touch my face. Bastard didn’t want anybody seeing what he’d done.”

Barbara grimaced. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“It’s nothing much. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Christ, Tiffany. It’s not nothing.”

“I’m fine. Don’t start getting busy.”

“And just to be clear—Wayne did this?”

She nodded. “Troy was so brave. He kept kicking and punching and trying to stop him. Wayne would turn on him and stick him with his cigarette.”

“What about Lacie?”

“He never laid a hand on her. . . . When I said I was calling the police, he threatened to kill me. Said he’d cut my throat.”

Barbara sat stunned. Tiffany took her silence as an attack.

“You think I’m weak, don’t you? You think I’m a terrible mother.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t.”

And she meant it. She had no idea how she’d cope as a young, practically destitute single mother.

Tears were falling down Tiffany’s face now. “Let me tell you something. I love my kids. They’re my life. I’d do anything to protect them. And I’ve done my best. . . .”

“OK, what if we called the police right now?”

“Are you having a laugh?”

“What do you mean?”

“People like you actually think the police are going to give a fuck. You think I can waltz into the police station, tell them what’s been happening and they’ll put Wayne right at the top of their to-do list.”

“They’ll do something.”

“No, they won’t. They never do. That’s why so many women end up dead. And you know what? Even if they found him and locked him up, he’d send somebody to get me. I’d never be safe. It’s better like this.”

“Then at least let me call social services and ask them to find you a place in a women’s refuge.”

“No point.”

“Why?”

“He’s gone. Wayne’s a bricklayer. He got a call about a job up north.”

“But what if he comes back?”

“He won’t. He lives up north. He was only down here for a few weeks working. But the bastard went off with my spare keys, so I borrowed some money and had the locks changed, just in case.”

Barbara tried to convince her that she still wasn’t safe and urged her again to call the police or think about going to a refuge, but Tiffany was adamant that she was doing the right thing.

“How did Troy hurt his leg?” Barbara said.

Tiffany said that Wayne had got angry with him and pushed him down some steps at the park.

“It’s fine though. The hospital said his leg was just bruised.”

“But what if Wayne comes back?”

“He won’t,” Tiffany said. “He’s hundreds of miles away. He’s probably found another woman to batter by now. It’s how these blokes operate.”

Barbara wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or petrified for some other unsuspecting girl. She reached into her bag and took out her purse. “I want you to have this,” she said, taking out three twenty-pound notes. “Go and buy some food and put some money in the meter.”

“I’m not taking your money. I’ve told you, I’m not a beggar.”

“I know you’re not. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter to me. I want you to have it.”

“No way. And anyway, teachers can’t go round handing out money to kids’ parents. It’ll be against some regulation or other.”

“I have no doubt that it is, but since I’ve just been sacked, I don’t really give a crap. What are they going to do? Sack me twice?” She slipped the money under an overfilled ashtray. “Take it. I won’t hear another word.”

Lacie reached into the ashtray full of cigarette butts and grabbed a handful.

“They’ve sacked you?” Tiffany said, struggling to prize open her daughter’s hand. “Why? Troy says you’re the best teacher in the whole school. He thinks you’re great.”

Barbara explained.

“I’m sorry you’re going,” Tiffany said. “Troy’s really going to miss you.” By now she was sweeping cigarette butts and bits of tobacco off Lacie’s hand and into the ashtray.

“And I’ll miss him.” Barbara looked at her watch. “Look, I have to get back. But will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Promise you’ll call me if you’re in trouble or you need anything. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.” She picked a coloring book up off the floor and wrote her number on the inside of the cover. “Tear this off. Please don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.”

Barbara got up to go.

“Mrs. Stirling . . . thanks for the money and everything. I was really horrible to you and you’ve been so kind. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it. Just get the heating back on and go out and buy some food.”

Tiffany managed a smile. “I’ll go out now and get some change for the meter.”

“Make sure you do. And promise you’ll call if you need me.”

“I promise. And, Mrs. Stirling . . . Thanks again.”

•   •   •

Barbara got through the rest of the school day on automatic pilot, just about managing to hold back the tears. It didn’t help that having skipped lunch, her blood sugar was low. She was choked up and angry for Tiffany as much as for herself. She hoped to God that social services were going to up their game and keep a proper eye on her and the children.

School ended at three. Her instinct was to make a quick exit. She still couldn’t face all the pity waiting for her in the staff room. But she’d wimped out at lunchtime. She needed to show her face and get it over with.

People hugged her and said it was a disgrace that she’d been sacked. A few of the women cried. Everybody was angry. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for their sympathy. She could feel their warmth, and she knew it was genuine. On the other hand, part of her suspected that her colleagues felt the way people often did at funerals—sad, but hugely relieved the angel of death has passed them by.

It wasn’t until she was walking to her car that she remembered she was picking up Atticus and Cleo and taking them to her mother’s. There was no getting out of it. Jess was relying on her. And seeing her grandchildren would cheer her up.