Mummy Told Me Not to Tell (29 page)

The meeting closed and I left with mixed feelings. On the one hand Reece had been vindicated by the
educational psychologist, but on the other hand, he was now sentenced to attend a school where he clearly wasn’t wanted. Although I had my doubts that much would change for Reece at school at least he now had another chance to prove himself.

R
eece continued to be ‘taught’ separately from the rest of the school and continued to become frustrated and angry. Despite the review of his statement and the promise of change, nothing appeared to alter. At the end of each day I asked the TA — sometimes Mrs Morrison and sometimes Mrs Curtis (who was also doing some half-days as well as lunch-times) — if Reece had been in the classroom. I always got the same reply: ‘Not yet, but we are working towards it,’ whatever that meant. Reece appeared not to be learning anything as the TAs struggled to keep him amused in the canteen, which was still acting as his classroom. I didn’t blame the TAs: they weren’t at liberty to instigate change, which had to come from the head. Often the TAs were as frustrated and upset as Reece was, and indeed as I was, and we agreed, though not overtly, that Reece would have been better off staying at home with me, where he would have at least been happy and possibly learning something.

Far from building on the learning I had begun at home, Reece was now going backwards, and the positive attitude he’d had when he first started school was all but gone. He moaned when I got him up in the morning, and he refused even to lift a pencil or turn a page in a reading book at school. The TAs spent hours reading to him and let him colour in pictures when he should have been working — anything to pass the day and contain his frustration. But although Reece had learning difficulties he certainly wasn’t daft, and when he’d had enough of being in the canteen and wanted to come home, he banged a few tables, waved his fists and threatened someone, which had the desired result. The school secretary phoned me and said I had to come and collect him immediately, which I did. I didn’t ask for a formal exclusion: it seemed a bit pointless. I had come to see that nothing was going to change, and the head was doing the very thing I thought he couldn’t do: treading water until Reece left me and therefore the school.

The spring bank holiday came and with it a week’s break from school, which was respite for us all. We made the most of the warm weather and went in the garden and to the park as much as possible. The Guardian, Wendy Payne, visited and was not pleased that she hadn’t been included in Reece’s review, but doubted she could have added much, as the educational psychologist’s report had been very thorough. She was even less pleased when I told her that despite the review nothing had changed at school, and Reece was really just being ‘babysat’. I added that I was at a complete
loss to know what to do, and said that in some respects I felt as though I was treading water too, and waiting for a time when Reece would leave us, in the hope that he would then get the education he deserved.

She said she would phone the head and see if she could ‘rattle his cage’, but agreed that there was very little either of us could do, for it would take many months even to start the process for a change of school. Reece was in school, as the judge had ordered, but any further change than that was up to the education department, and they had made their decision and were sticking to it. Had Reece been my own child I would have found another school and possibly kept him at home until I had what I wanted, but the judge would not have been happy if I had simply stopped sending Reece to school. I knew there were other schools in the area with much better special needs provision, but frustratingly, being his carer, there was nothing I could do.

Wendy asked me how Reece was doing at home and I confirmed he was still doing fine, apart from the constant dark cloud of school which hung over us. She said that Reece’s aunt had formally registered a request to look after Reece permanently, if the final court hearing found that Reece couldn’t return to his parents. The aunt was now being assessed as to her suitability, for although she was raising Reece’s half-sister Lisa, it didn’t necessarily mean that she was suitable for raising a child with Reece’s high level of special needs.

Wendy asked me how often Jamey visited and I said he didn’t, but that I saw him at meetings and kept him updated by email. She said it wasn’t good enough and
that he was supposed to visit every six weeks, which I knew. I also knew there was animosity between her and Jamey, and I could understand why, as they were opposites: Wendy was super-efficient and forthright, Jamey was laid back and ponderous. However, I wasn’t going to become involved in criticizing Jamey, for I felt that both he and Wendy had Reece’s best interest at heart, but worked in different ways. Wendy spent some time playing with Reece in the garden and then left with a promise to speak to the head and Jamey, and to phone me with any news.

School returned in June for the second half of the summer term. It was going to be a long half-term — seven weeks — and I was dreading it. The first three weeks proved my worst fears and Reece’s behaviour deteriorated further. He screamed and shouted at his TAs, overturned tables, threw things, stopped eating his school lunch and started wetting the bed at night, which he had never done before. Finally he hit his TA, Mrs Curtis, and was excluded for the rest of the week. I told him off, and told him what he had done wrong. He said he was sorry and that he would say he was sorry to Mrs Curtis.

‘You’ve said sorry before, Reece,’ I said. ‘Sorry means you won’t do it again, but you keep on doing it! So sorry doesn’t mean anything!’

‘Sorry, Cathy,’ he said. Then out of the blue asked: ‘Will I be going back to my mum?’

It took me a moment to realize that we had changed direction, and quite dramatically. I had already
explained to Reece why he was in care (which he had accepted), and about the final court hearing, when the judge would make a decision on where was the best place for him to live until he was an adult. But I hadn’t actually discussed with him the implications of the judge’s decision, or the options. Now I had to think carefully what to say. I couldn’t pre-empt the judge’s decision but I had to be realistic. Neither could I mention his aunt, for her looking after him permanently was far from certain yet.

‘Reece,’ I said, sitting next to him on one of the little stools in the conservatory-cum-playroom. ‘Remember we talked about the judge, who is a very wise person and makes good decisions for lots of children?’

He nodded.

‘Well, the judge will want to make sure that while you are a child you are looked after very well.’

He nodded again.

‘Reece, I don’t know what decision the judge will make, but I think he might say you won’t be going to live with your mum and dad — not while you are a child. There were problems at home and you weren’t always looked after as well as you might have been.’

‘I know, Cathy,’ he said quietly.

‘So I think the judge will want to find you very special carers to look after you, because you are a very special boy.’

He looked at me, his large brown eyes even wider now. ‘Am I a special boy, Cathy?’

‘You are, very special indeed.’

‘And I’ll ‘ave special carers?’

‘You will, sweet, most definitely.’

‘A special carer, like you?’

I smiled and swallowed the lump rising in my throat. ‘Maybe like me, or maybe they will find you a home where there is a daddy as well.’

‘Then I’ll ‘ave a new daddy!’

‘In a way you will.’

‘That’s good,’ he said, then quite matter-of-factly: ‘I will love my new daddy.’

Although Reece had never shown much bonding with his parents (particularly his mother), and seemed to view contact as a chance for the cola drink that was prohibited with me, his acceptance of being in care and his future still seemed a lot easier than I would have expected. Often when children have been living away from their parents for a while, they — even those with little attachment - forget all the bad things that happened and start to view their parents as angels, and pine for them. Not so with Reece: he never mentioned his parents, unless he had a threatening message from his mum to deliver to me when he returned from contact.

‘Is there anything else you want to ask me, pet?’ I said.

He thought. ‘Will my mum come to me school, like she done the others?’

I looked at him carefully. ‘What, the school you go to now?’

He nodded.

‘No, she doesn’t know which school you go to.’ I assumed this was so. As far as I knew she hadn’t appeared outside the school gates.

‘And the judge won’t tell her? And he won’t send me home?’ Reece asked.

‘No, the judge certainly won’t tell her which school you go to, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be going home.’

‘Good, Cathy,’ he said, jumping up and rushing to the toy box with the building bricks. ‘That’s OK. Thank you for being my carer. I love you.’

‘I love you too, sweet, very much.’

I’ve no idea whether the reassurance I gave Reece in this conversation was responsible, perhaps removing a fear of his mum going to the school and creating trouble as she had done before, or whether he’d been worrying that he might be sent home to live, but something must have sealed itself in Reece’s mind, for his behaviour at school began to alter, almost miraculously.

When we returned to school the following Monday, Reece apologized to Mrs Curtis, who was with him for the morning. He said he was sorry and that he wouldn’t be bad again. Having heard Reece’s apology and promises of good behaviour countless times before, Mrs Curtis took his words with a ‘pinch of salt’, as in fact I did.

But at the end of the day when I met Reece, now with Mrs Morrison, she said that not only had Reece had a good afternoon with her, but he’d also had a very good morning and lunchtime with Mrs Curtis. We both praised Reece immensely and Mrs Morrison asked me jokingly what I had given him, while I secretly wondered if he was ill and sickening for something. But when the following day passed without incident, and Reece had actually done some
writing and number work, we began to believe that it possibly wasn’t a fluke, and that Reece, for whatever reason, was beginning to turn a corner. On Friday, after five clear days, when Reece was not only tantrum free but cooperative and actually learning, Mrs Morrison said that she would speak to the head about slowly reintroducing him back into the classroom for short periods.

‘Yes, please,’ I said to Mrs Morrison, and then to Reece, who was standing beside me in reception and listening intently, ‘Well done! That is good news.’

Reece beamed and nodded vigorously, and I thought if Mrs Morrison didn’t persuade the head to start the reintroduction then I would, in no uncertain terms. Reece had proved himself and he needed to see the rewards of his labour.

However, there was no need for me to go in and see the head because on Monday morning Mrs Curtis confirmed they were ‘trying Reece in the classroom’. When I met Reece at the end of the day, now with Mrs Morrison she said that he had spent an hour with his class, working alongside Troy, who, bless him, like most children was willing to forgive and forget.

During that week the one hour in the classroom gradually extended to the whole afternoon, and on Friday when I collected Reece the head was in reception with Mrs Morrison and Reece.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Glass’ he said, for my face had dropped at seeing him there. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong — far from it.’ Mr Fitzgerald took me aside and, while Mrs Morrison and Reece looked at the children’s
artwork on the walls, he asked me: ‘Has anything changed at home?’

‘No. Nothing,’ I said. ‘Except Reece has a clearer understanding of his future: that it is highly unlikely he will live with his parents again, and that mum won’t be coming to this school to create.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, something has changed him. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.’

I agreed, and then a nasty thought struck me. ‘Mr Fitzgerald, the change in Reece may be due to the reassurance I gave him. We are heading towards the final court hearing in September and feelings will be running high. If the judge makes the decision that Reece will not be going back to his mother, Tracey would have nothing to lose by coming here and creating. If she were to come to the school, you would make sure that she was dealt with without Reece knowing? It is essential that Reece continues to feel school is a safe place for him.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he agreed. ‘It would make sense for us to have a photograph of her so that I can alert the staff next term. Do you have one?’

‘No, but you could ask his social worker — he might. Although if my dealings with Tracey are anything to go by you will hear her before you see her.’

Reece continued to improve throughout the rest of the term. Gradually, bit by bit, and thanks to his TAs, he was reintroduced into the classroom and normal school
life. He ate his lunch in the canteen and played in the playground, and although sometimes he had to be reminded about being too loud or overexcited, there was no anger or aggression. The other children made allowances for his over-zealous ways, having now lost their fear of being kicked or hit.

Three days before the end of the summer term the children put on a little play which parents and carers were invited into school to watch. Reece was given a line to learn, printed on a card, and he quickly learnt it off by heart. So too did Lucy, Paula and I, from having it chanted endlessly every evening: ‘And the magic wind came from the north and blew all the badness away.’ I didn’t know if his lines had been purposely hand-picked for him by his teacher or if it was pure chance, but certainly the words epitomized what had happened to Reece in the last half-term — it was as though a magic wind had blown his anger and frustration away.

On the morning of the school play I sat proudly in the audience with the other parents and carers and had to swallow back the tears as Reece walked on to the stage. He was dressed in a white cloak, which was supposed to represent the wind. In his loudest voice (for they had all been told to speak up), he looked straight into my eyes and said his one line perfectly: ‘And the magic wind came from the north and blew all the badness away.’ Before he left the stage I had time to take a photograph of him, although I wouldn’t need it, for that moment would be sealed in my mind for ever.