They didn’t look very happy. You can’t blame them. Your child has been booted out of school, and then you get asked into the PRU for a little chat. Not just any PRU either – the PRU where your son has had his balls squashed. Not good news. And he’s not even attending here any more.
But they came. Middle class, decent income. Do anything for their child. You don’t get many like that here. You get a lot of poor kids – their kind of deprivation speaks for itself. Then you get the rich kids. Parents so busy they don’t have time for them. It’s a different sort of neglect, when you can have everything money can buy. But you know what the song says – ‘Money Can’t Buy Me Love’. Well, guess what? It can’t. But, on the whole, middle-class parents tend to bring up their kids pretty well.
‘It’s good of you both to come. I know you don’t have to.’
‘Anything that might help Chris.’ That was Dad.
‘We’ll be honest with you, though, Mrs –’
‘Hannah. Call me Hannah.’
Mum. A social worker. She was used to working out the problems people have, not being told. If I had anything new to say, it was going to hit her right in her pride.
‘We’ve been through pretty well everything there is to go through with Chris already,’ she said.
‘Well, I’ll get straight to the point, then. So if I’m just going over old ground, I won’t be wasting any more of your time. Basically, I think Chris has two issues to deal with.’ They looked up. Surprised. That word – issues. They’d thought they were beyond that.
‘He’s a very stubborn boy,’ said Dad. He paused. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.
‘We know Chris is a bright boy – very bright,’ I said. Start with the easy bit. ‘I know Reedon is a grammar, but it’s not a terribly good one. To tell you the truth, we don’t have many dealings with it, but the reputation is it’s seen better days. Not all that good at picking up on problems …’
‘Both the school and us have been on Chris’s case since he started there,’ said Mum.
‘Yes, well, I know the options for schools round your way aren’t all that great. But the point is I don’t think the school challenges Chris enough. He gets bored. As I say, very bright boy. Highly intelligent. Added to which – well. Just a little dyslexia.’
Pause.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled slightly. I tried not to look patronizing, nervous, amused or smug. They were both staring at me as if I’d just told them that Chris was a mermaid.
‘Chris doesn’t have dyslexia,’ said Mum. ‘He did tests for all that ages ago.’
‘Did he? Where did he do them?’ I asked.
‘At school.’
‘They were all negative,’ said Dad.
‘Not like these, then,’ I said, and I whipped out the papers I got him to do.
They looked shocked. Her especially. Social worker, son at fifteen years with undiagnosed dyslexia? Not great.
I rattled through the evidence as they looked over the tests. Avoidance of any sort of reading and writing. Highly intelligent yet slow to produce written work. Forever finding ways of putting it off …
‘Look at this. Look at this,’ said Mum suddenly. She seized her handbag and wrenched it open, producing a beautifully written piece of work. Science.
‘Chris did this the other day when we made him stay in. Look at it. This is good work. No spelling mistakes. Argument, evidence, conclusion. Perfect. Are you seriously telling me this is the work of a dyslexic?’
I looked it over. ‘It’s beautiful, but it’s only one page long. Work at GCSE level should be far longer than that. As for perfect – well, that’s a giveaway, isn’t it? His website is the same. It’s perfect, but he won’t write a word in front of anyone. How come? Because he needs to spend hours checking it up and making sure it’s exactly right. That’s why no one ever sees Chris write.’
‘But the tests he did at school,’ said Dad. ‘When did he do them?’ he asked his wife.
‘Year Eight.’
‘He came through it with flying colours. What about that? You can’t develop dyslexia, can you?’
I pulled a face. ‘Chris has his techniques. He might have got a friend to do them for him. He might have smuggled them out and done them at his leisure …’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Mum.
‘Is it?’ said Dad. ‘After we’ve seen the lengths he’ll go to? Is it?’
‘How did you get him to do them, then?’ demanded Mum.
‘I sat next to him,’ I said. I laughed. ‘Poor Chris, I thought he was going to walk. He hated it so much.’
Mum had gone grey. Dad reached across and took her hand. Nice man. Where was the snorting imbecile Chris had told me about? You know what I thought to myself? You can’t believe a single word that kid tells you. Not one.
‘I can’t believe …’ she began. ‘Are these tests right? Because if they are … I can’t believe everyone’s missed this.’ She stopped and glanced suddenly at me. I knew what she was thinking.
Yes, love. And if you’d spent more time using your skills to observe your child instead of being so busy at work, you might have spotted it for yourself. And as a result he’s one year away from his exams and he’s lost the will to even try …
But I didn’t say that of course. ‘Mrs Trent,’ I said. ‘Chris is about the cleverest and certainly the most determined young man I think I’ve ever come across. He’s been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes for years. It’s not like there’s a single problem. Any one of them – high intelligence, poor school, a little dyslexia – it wouldn’t have mattered. Two of them – probably OK. Three of them – well … And let’s not forget how determined Chris is. And how highly motivated. Very competitive too. He doesn’t like doing things poorly, does he?’ I shrugged. ‘There you go.’
‘I can’t believe it.’ She stared at the papers. ‘The little bastard. The sneaky little bastard. All this time.’
I laughed. ‘Be honest, though, Mrs Trent. You’ve got to admire him. And I’ll tell you what. Chris is the one child who’s going to make his way in the world whether he passes any exams or not.’
She tried to laugh, a bit shaky still. He smiled. They’d taken it. Fair play to them. That could not have been easy.
We spent a few minutes chatting about the Brant and the work we do and so on. I felt for her. If it had been her giving him those tests, she’d have done it properly. But it never occurred to her to question the school. Why would she?
By the time they left, they’d cheered up. Dad was positively skipping. ‘At least we know what we’re dealing with now,’ he said.
Mum looked sideways at him.
‘What?’ he said.
‘We’ve left it too late.’
‘It’s never too late,’ said Dad.
Then they left, clutching the papers. My feeling was she was right. It was too late, for GCSEs anyway. Well, good luck to them. I went back to my desk, picked up my phone and checked for messages. Still nothing from Billie. It’s been over a week now. Every day I get more convinced something awful’s happened. A message from Barbara. One word. ‘Nothing.’ Nothing nothing nothing. Come on, Billie – ring! Talk to me. Just talk. For God’s sake – at least let me know you’re still alive!
I tapped out another text. At least when she picks them up she’ll know how hard I’ve been trying. I’ve been doing about one an hour for the past week.
Billie, I love you. Get in touch. Hxxxx