Nicola Barker - Darkmans

She glanced over towards the play area in the corner of the classroom where Fleet was currently sitting and boredly constructing a small, neat structure–

A fort, was it?

— out of plastic bricks.

Elen detected a kind of anxiety in the glance. She felt a spontaneous knuckle of rage forming in her stomach (how dare she look at him like that? He was her son . She loved him), and then a balancing knuckle of sympathy (Oh God , he made her feel that way herself, sometimes).

These two contradictory knuckles were Elen’s constant companions; and her gut was the boxing ring in which they staged their spats. ‘Motherhood,’ she told herself, bleakly: ‘the pride, the humility.’

She tried to take a deep breath–

Breathe

Breathe from the stomach

(just like Dory said)

Kinking the back

Diaphragm flat, out, up…

They were sitting on two tiny chairs at a tiny table, like a couple of lady Gullivers amongst the Lilliputians. Elen couldn’t actually remember entering the classroom, or how she’d actually got there. It was all just a blank, a fug. She stared over at the teacher, frowning.

‘But then he might go and do something like…like that for example…’

The teacher indicated (perhaps slightly irritably) at the methodical way in which — before he finally positioned each and every individual brick — Fleet would run the nail of his thumb along the smooth plastic edge, then push the indented side, firmly, into his lower lip.

‘He’ll do that for whole hours at a time. And I mean whole hours , literally. That same, odd little ritual…’

This time her glance extended over towards the door. Elen’s own eyes followed, hard upon–

Oh my God

The Head Teacher—

Standing guard…

‘He has a phenomenal memory…’ Mrs Santa returned, somewhat doggedly, to her positive sales pitch, ‘although he’s highly selective about the kinds of things that interest him. Very… uh… particular…’

Elen wasn’t paying attention. She was still thinking about the Head Teacher and why he was out there–

Back-up?

Is something wrong?

Does she hate me?

She put a self-conscious hand to her cheek–

Is it the mark?

‘But on the down-side…’ Mrs Santa paused, stuck out her chin, gave a small, Jewish shrug–

Is she Jewish?

Elen stared at her. She was tiny, plump, wore her dark hair — pushed back today with a navy-blue alice-band — in a neat, sharp bob–

Is she?

‘…his language skills are lagging way behind most of the other children’s in his class. And his social skills are still very shaky — even after our previous initiative with the Bradleys’ youngest…’

Elen blinked, snapping out of her reverie–

Oh my, yes—

The Bradley boy…

That ended badly

‘He’ll fall asleep at the drop of a hat — sitting at the table, or when I’m reading a story. Or he’ll just curl up in a corner,’ Mrs Santa twisted the engagement ring on her finger, smiling, almost fondly, ‘like the dopey little dormouse in Alice in Wonderland .’ She cleared her throat and then waited for a response. None came.

‘It’s not that he’s bored — at least I certainly hope it’s not that…’ she drew a quick breath, as if anticipating some kind of heartfelt affirmation of her teaching skills from Elen (she waited in vain), ‘but he’s definitely tired . And yet when he is awake, when he’s on the ball…’ she adjusted a gold link on the bracelet of her watch, ‘he goes straight to the opposite extreme. He focuses too much…’ she paused, speculatively. ‘I’m sure you’ll be aware of this yourself. He can try too hard. He can get too involved in certain projects — certain situations — and then get incredibly frustrated if things don’t work out properly…’

‘Is Fleet causing trouble in class?’ Elen butted in, almost hopefully (there was something so reassuringly normal about the thought of a naughty, disruptive little boy).

Mrs Santa looked shocked. ‘No. Absolutely not. In fact quite the opposite. If anything he’s actually…’ she winced, putting up a small hand to adjust the tiny, faux-Hermès-style silk scarf around her neck ‘…too well behaved. And too hard on himself. Extremely hard…’ Elen frowned. This was definitely not good.

‘So you called me in today,’ she spoke calmly and evenly (purposefully misinterpreting what the teacher was telling her–

This is a game, Elen—

Come on, girl,

Play )

–‘because he’s too well-behaved?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Santa nodded.

‘And you really think that’s a problem?’

Mrs Santa smiled. ‘Problem seems rather a harsh way of putting it…’ ‘Right. Fine .’

Elen could feel herself growing defensive. She sensed a degree of soft-soaping. And, worse still, bobbing around, perniciously, beneath all those suds and lather: a hidden agenda. She glanced over towards the door again. The Head Teacher had ducked out of view, but she was certain he was still there.

‘Some children find it difficult to concentrate,’ Mrs Santa tip-toed onward, ‘and some children are just…’ she struggled to find the correct word, then gave up ‘… too concentrated. Fleet finds himself in this second category. He’s very grown up for a boy of his age. In fact we’ve all noticed — myself, the classroom assistants, some of the mothers who like to help out sometimes — how much better he seems at interacting with adults than with other children of his own age…’

‘Yes,’ Elen was perfectly willing to take this on board–

Unreasonable?

Me?

‘…Fleet’s an only child,’ she murmured, ‘I suppose that must impact on him at some level…’

‘We all think he’s experiencing a certain amount of…of stress ,’ Mrs Santa rushed on (emboldened by Elen’s apparent compliance), ‘and that he’s expressing it through particular…’ she paused, as if searching for the least damning formulation ‘…behaviours. Tasks. Symptoms. Habits .’

‘I see.’

Elen’s voice was clear as a glass of spring water.

‘He never seems quite able to switch off …’

Elen was quiet.

The teacher cleared her throat, nervously. ‘We wondered whether there might be anything…anything unusual going on at home at the moment which could offer some kind of…of…?’

She gazed over at Elen, appealingly.

‘…Perhaps a recent family bereavement? The loss of a job…?’

Elen said nothing. Mrs Santa filled the awkward silence by commencing a detailed inspection of the heel of her black court shoe.

‘We have a hole in the roof,’ Elen eventually volunteered, ‘the roof’s leaking.’

‘Really?’

Mrs Santa seemed relieved by Elen’s input, and yet somewhat nonplussed. Elen had a sudden sense of how it might feel to be a student who wasn’t excelling in Mrs Santa’s class (that atmosphere of ‘tolerant’ disappointment; of ‘accepting’ disquiet). She didn’t like it. The angry knuckle tensed itself up inside her stomach again–

Cow

— then the second, gentler knuckle — the pacifier–

She’s his teacher—

She just wants to help…

— predictably balanced it out.

‘I know it mightn’t sound like much,’ Elen explained, patiently, ‘but it’s leaking directly above Fleet’s bedroom. We’ve had to move all his…his toys down into the living-area. Everything’s a little chaotic.’