Suzy K Quinn - Don’t Tell Teacher

‘Not like his father then.’ Mum raises an eyebrow. She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. ‘So this is where you’re hiding the mess.’

It’s true – there’s a raggle-taggle heap of objects stuffed inside the lower cupboards. Things I didn’t have time to sort through and stuffed out of the way to look tidy.

‘You’re not coping, Elizabeth,’ Mum says. ‘I knew you’d struggle alone.’

‘I’m doing my best. We’ve only just moved. You should have seen the house yesterday.’

‘You shouldn’t have left your husband. And now it’s too late.’

That last remark cuts like a knife.

‘You’re saying I should have stayed with Olly?’ I glance to check Tom isn’t listening, then whisper, ‘You know what he did.’

‘Oh, Elizabeth, children don’t always tell the truth. You hardly ever did.’

‘You should have come to court, Mum,’ I say, teeth gritted. ‘And heard the full story.’

‘This is too much for you, Elizabeth. The house. A young child. Why won’t you come and live with me?’

I hold back a shudder. ‘I’m not sure we’d get along as adults,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get on well when I was a teenager, did we?’

‘You were difficult,’ says Mum. ‘Always criticising. Trying to start arguments. And so solemn.’

‘I looked after you much more than any thirteen-year-old ever should,’ I say, meeting her eye.

Mum turns to open kitchen cupboards.

Deflect.

Ignore.

Put it in a box and let it explode another time.

That’s how things are in our family.

I wonder if Mum has genuinely forgotten her overdose. And the fall-out afterwards. Or just pretends.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, changing the subject. Slotting in, being a shadow.

My mother’s lips pucker. She manages a few tears. ‘How could you say we don’t get along, Elizabeth? I did everything for you. I gave up my whole life . Stayed with your adulterous pig of a father. For you .’

Inwardly I feel tired. It’s just so much easier to placate my mother than tell the truth.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Mum goes to a recent picture of Tom on the mantelpiece. I took it when Tom’s new Steelfield School uniform arrived. I needed him to try it on, so let him pose with his school bag at the bottom of the stairs.

The uniform was oversized – and still is – but he’ll grow into it.

‘Is that his new school uniform?’ Mum asks. ‘Very smart.’

‘Yes,’ I say, and then pre-empting a criticism I add, ‘It was big on him, but better than too small.’

‘What are the children like at your new school, Tom?’ Mum asks. ‘They come from good families, don’t they?’

‘He’s eight years old, Mum,’ I say. ‘How can he answer a question like that?’

‘The headmaster says the school has an outstanding status,’ Mum continues, ignoring me. ‘Very high-achieving. I imagine the children are well-behaved. Come from the right stock.’

‘Most of the children are good,’ says Tom. ‘Except Pauly and his brothers. They have a gang.’

I turn to him. ‘What do you mean, a gang?’

‘Lloyd is the general,’ Tom explains. ‘Pauly is general number two, Joey and I are the soldiers. We like red – red is our gang colour.’

Colours again.

‘Lloyd’s mental,’ Tom continues. ‘ Mental .’

‘Sounds like he needs discipline,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure the headmaster keeps him in line.’

Tom nods. ‘Lloyd doesn’t dare do anything when Mr Cockrun is around. He’s too scared of…’ Tom stops himself then, as if he’s said too much.

‘Are many of the children scared of Mr Cockrun, Tom?’ I ask gently.

Tom hesitates.

‘Children should be scared of their headmaster,’ says Mum.

‘No they shouldn’t,’ I say.

‘Maybe they’re not scared,’ says Tom quickly.

‘But you started to say Lloyd was,’ I insist. ‘Why is Lloyd scared?’

Tom shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

‘Speak properly, Tom,’ Mum snaps.

‘You should stay away from those Neilson boys, Tom,’ I say. ‘They sound like bad news.’

‘What’s your teacher like, Tom?’ Mum asks.

‘She’s like a robot,’ says Tom. ‘She just says everything the headmaster says.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Mum retorts. ‘Stop being so silly.’

‘He’s tired,’ I say. ‘Remember he was in hospital last week.’

There is a silence long enough for Mum’s handsome face to crumple. Then she says, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t call me.’

I want to say, ‘Of course I didn’t call you. You’d have made it all about yourself.’ But I don’t. I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I tell her the truth.

‘We’ve been through this, Mum,’ I say. ‘Tom didn’t stay overnight—’

‘But it was a seizure .’

‘Yes. And it was terrifying for both of us. But I’m trying not to dwell on that.’ I say the last words through gritted teeth.

Mum cups Tom’s face in her hands, then pulls him into a dramatic, perfumed chest-hug.

Tom accepts the hug limply, without pleasure.

‘I handled it okay by myself,’ I say. ‘I’m not as useless as you think.’

‘A seizure . Oh my God , Elizabeth. How on earth could something like that have happened? Could there be something genetic? On his father’s side, perhaps?’

My heart races as I wait for the next inevitable question. And then it comes.

‘Has he seen Oliver since you moved?’ Mum’s eyes roam around my living room.

‘No.’

‘I thought—’

‘I told you what Olly did.’

‘Couldn’t you have tried counselling? I always thought your father and I should have given that a go.’

I let out a shocked laugh. ‘It went way beyond counselling. Olly has deep-rooted psychological issues. Good God, I wish you’d been there at the court hearing.’

I turn then, realising Tom might be listening. But he’s frowning at a school book – something he used to do when Olly and I were together. Shut himself away.

‘You don’t even give Olly visitation,’ says Mum. ‘That would give you a few hours to yourself, at least.’

‘Olly will never see Tom without me being there,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Not while I’m still breathing. I failed Tom before. I won’t fail him again. Anyway, Tom doesn’t want to see his father. They can’t make him if he doesn’t want to.’

Mum shakes her head. ‘But you need help . You can’t do this alone.’

‘What time did you book your taxi for, Mother?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company?’

Mum gives me sad, disappointed eyes, and I feel my inner strength dwindling. ‘I was hoping we’d have a nice lunch. I’ve come a very long way.’

My mother was the first shadow I found myself standing in.

At least Olly noticed me from time to time.

Lizzie

‘You are absolutely stunning.’ Olly lies back on the sofa, broken leg propped up on a coffee table made of wine corks .

His leg is still in plaster, and I know it’s itchy, uncomfortable and driving him mad, especially at night. Sometimes he scratches inside the plaster with a knitting needle .

The plaster has been on for a few months now .

Typical Olly – he’s made his leg plaster cool, getting an artist friend to felt-tip a multi-coloured effect on the bandage, copied from a Ride snowboard design. He’s even cut pairs of Boma jeans to accommodate the plaster .

Olly is indisputably handsome, with blond hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He could dress in a business suit, sports clothes or as he does – in scruffy surfer clothes with hair messy and long around his ears – and still look like a model. I suppose it’s the years of snowboarding. He’s so fit and healthy .