Now
Ruth and DJ had finally cracked the commute. By leaving thirty minutes earlier they got a quieter set of buses to the school. And like everything for Ruth, once she had time to adjust she just got on with it. She began running home each day, too, unless it was raining heavily, doing the same in reverse when she went to collect DJ. It saved money, plus Ruth loved to run. It helped her ease some of her fears and anger about the situation she was in as she pounded the footpaths.
She arrived at the school gates a few minutes early today. A personal best, she realised with satisfaction. Ruth leaned against one of the walls that surrounded the school and took a number of deep breaths. She was fit; years of running barely caused her to break a sweat. But the breaths were needed to steady herself before she entered what felt like the gates of hell.
Very little had changed at the school gates since she was a child. Back then when she walked through them she entered into a world of mean girls and boys. They made fun of her and sniggered behind her back and even to her face. And, unfortunately, mean girls and boys often grew up to be mean mums and dads. She looked around the school yard for potential monsters lurking in dark corners, ready to intimidate those who were a bit different. As is often the way with monsters, once you think about them they materialise. Striding towards her was Denise Donnelly, the chair of the parents’ council. Complete with a clipboard in hand.
Denise flicked her long shiny hair and smiled, displaying a row of straight, white, veneered teeth. ‘Good afternoon, Ruth. Aren’t those sunglasses just darling?’
Ruth pulled at her sweatshirt and smoothed down her short hair, which hadn’t been brushed yet today, feeling Denise’s eyes burn their way up and down her body.
‘Will you be joining us for our AGM next week?’ Denise asked.
Ruth could think of a dozen reasons why the answer to that question was no. Where was DJ?
‘It’s so disappointing, the lack of civic duty in a large percentage of our parents. This school is our school. And it is up to us parents to ensure that it is run to our satisfaction. I always think serving on a committee is such a worthwhile thing to do, isn’t it? I like to give back, where I can,’ Denise boasted, clearly delighted with her selflessness.
Ruth became a nodding dog and looked around her to see if there was any hope of salvation from another parent. She didn’t have any friends here, but there were one or two mothers who at least gave her the time of day. She waved at Siobhan, one such parent. But when Siobhan spotted the Queen Bee Denise, she scurried away to the other side of the playground. Coward.
‘I’ll add your name down as a yes,’ Denise said, scribbling something onto the clipboard.
The bell rang out and children began to march out of their classrooms. First came the senior infants and the first class, in single rows, their large school bags pulling their shoulders down, hats and scarves wrapping them up warm.
‘Aren’t they so cute at that age?’ Denise asked. They watched a little girl with long curly hair in bunches skip into the arms of her mother. ‘That’s Susan Walsh’s little one. Do you know her?’
Ruth shook her head.
‘Well, between you and me they’ve been having lots of problems at home. As I said to Susan, there is no shame in your marriage ending in …’ She looked around her, from left to right, before mouthing the final damning word, ‘… divorce.’
What an utter bitch. Had she said that out loud? No. Denise was still fake smiling.
Denise shouted out, ‘Mary, Sinead!’ to two women passing by. They ran over to join her and all three bounced up and down with excitement.
‘That was such a great night,’ Mary or Sinead said. Ruth could not tell who was who.
‘The best,’ Denise agreed.
‘Were you busy on Friday night? I didn’t see you there,’ Mary or Sinead asked Ruth.
Ruth thought about the previous Friday night, sitting on her hotel bed with DJ, watching Ryan Tubridy do his thing on The Late Late Show.
‘No, I was not busy,’ Ruth said.
‘It was the annual school mammies’ night out! Did you not get an invite?’ Denise asked in mock shock. The Queen Bee knew how to sting with style – Ruth had to give her credit for that. She had been coming to this school gate for five years now and was comfortable that she was not part of any of the cliques. Yet despite this, the snub hurt her, as it was intended to.
Thank goodness, there’s DJ.
‘Hello,’ Ruth said. Her heart flipped when she saw him. Who cared about these wagons at the school gate when she had him?
‘Mam, Mr O’Dowd wants to talk to you,’ DJ said.
Denise, Mary and Sinead inched a little closer, practically salivating at the potential drama that might unfold.
Ruth asked, ‘Did something happen today?’
DJ shrugged.
‘DJ, is there something you want to tell me?’
‘He’s a dickhead,’ DJ said.
She heard the women behind them gasp.
‘Not helpful,’ Ruth said. ‘Come on.’
‘Hope everything is OK,’ Denise said, following her as they moved towards the school.
Ruth stopped and said, ‘Would you like me to ask Mr O’Dowd to have the meeting out here so that you do not miss anything to gossip about later on?’
‘You try to be friendly and you get this!’ Denise said in shock.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Mary or Sinead said, and they closed ranks, throwing daggers at Ruth with their eyes.
Utter wagons.
Imagine the torture of spending a whole evening with them.
Ruth and DJ walked to DJ’s classroom, passing a small cloakroom, pegs now empty of coats and bags.
And suddenly Ruth was a child again, waiting in her classroom for the other kids to put their coats on.
‘It’s better this way, Ruth. You can do yours on your own when they have gone outside. And we’ll all avoid any unpleasantness,’ her teacher, Mrs O’Leary, said.
‘Mam?’ DJ asked and she shook the memory away as she knocked on the grey classroom door.
‘Come in, Mrs Wilde,’ Mr O’Dowd said.
Did he call her that on purpose? ‘It’s just Ruth. I am not married,’ Ruth answered. She looked down at DJ, who was kicking her surreptitiously. He mouthed, ‘Told you. Dickhead.’
‘Take a seat.’ Mr O’Dowd gestured towards a kid’s-sized chair that sat in front of his desk. He swivelled towards her in his normal-sized, leather, lording-it-over-you chair.
‘Is everything OK at home?’ Mr O’Dowd asked, leaning in towards her.
‘Everything is fine,’ Ruth said.
‘DJ has been late several times over the past month,’ he pointed out.
‘He has been on time every day this week,’ Ruth countered.
‘Even so, his timekeeping is an issue. Plus his homework is leaving a lot to be desired.’
Ruth looked at DJ, who was staring at the floor, a scowl on his face.
‘What is the issue with his homework?’ Ruth asked.
Mr O’Dowd pulled open an exercise book of DJ’s and said, ‘Look at this work from earlier this year.’
Ruth smiled as she read his short story about a cat who got lost in the woods. His writing was so neat and she felt pride swell up inside of her. ‘He worked very hard on that piece.’
‘And it showed,’ Mr O’Dowd replied. ‘But look at this piece he handed in on Wednesday.’ He flicked through the pages, stopping on two pages that bore no resemblance to DJ’s earlier work.
‘That is DJ’s handwriting?’ Ruth asked, trying to decipher the scrawl in front of her.
‘Yes.’
She scanned the words that were scattered with spelling mistakes. His writing was unrecognisable as from the same person as the earlier work, with pencil stubs all over the page.
‘You can see the difference,’ Mr O’Dowd stated.
Ruth nodded. The evidence was irrefutable. But there were extenuating circumstances. She once again looked at DJ, who continued to ignore the situation unfolding and was staring at the floor in an uncanny resemblance to Ruth.
‘So once again I’ll ask, is there something going on at home, Ms Wilde.’
Does he really need to emphasis the ‘Ms’ like that? ‘Everything is fine at home,’ Ruth stated again. Maybe DJ was right.
‘It’s just I feel that DJ is not making the progress he should be. He seems tired all the time. I would hate him to continue this trend of moving backwards rather than forwards,’ Mr O’Dowd continued.
Was it just the trick of the lights or did he look exactly like her fifth-class teacher, Mrs O’Leary? Ruth is moving backwards, rather than forwards. She had said the very same thing to her parents at the annual parent–teacher meeting. Memories of another time, of another school came rushing back to her. The isolation she felt at being told she must sit on her own every day.
‘Ms Wilde?’ Mr O’Dowd said once again.
Ruth looked up and saw concern on Mr O’Dowd’s face.
She pulled at her hands, frantically.
Pop, pop, pop.
‘Are you OK? Would you like a glass of water?’
‘Mam. You’re crying,’ DJ said, alarmed.
Ruth had not noticed the tear that was chasing its way down her cheek, or the fact that she was rocking back and forth on her small chair. To stop herself cracking her knuckles, she sat on her hands, the wood biting into her fingers. No flying, no popping, she had to be normal for DJ.
‘DJ, please go to the staff room and get a glass of water for your mother,’ Mr O’Dowd instructed.
‘Mam?’ DJ asked, only leaving reluctantly when Mr O’Dowd shooed him towards the door.
‘I never intended to upset you. I apologise. I’ve always been too heavy handed. It’s one of my many faults.’
Ruth looked up and saw regret on his face. He did look sorry.
‘I do want to help. I see such great potential with DJ. His imagination is wonderful. May I help you?’
She shook her head. This was her mess; she had to fix it.
‘Is there something happening at home?’ he asked for the third time. He was like a dog with a bone.
Home. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. ‘It is not DJ’s fault. Do not take this out on him.’
He looked horrified at the suggestion. ‘DJ is a great kid. I like him. It’s only because I am worried that I asked to see you. Because I care.’
‘We … we became homeless recently,’ Ruth whispered to his beige loafers.
A silence laden with questions filled the air.
She heard the scrape of his chair. He stood up and moved around from his desk to sit beside her on DJ’s small chair. ‘What happened, Ms Wilde?’
‘Our landlord evicted us. I tried to find somewhere else but there was nothing we could afford. At the moment we are in a hotel in Fairview in emergency accommodation.’ Ruth heard her words and saw Mr O’Dowd’s reaction. But she felt oddly removed from it all. It was as if someone else was talking to him, not her.
The sound of a glass crashing to the floor made them both look around. DJ was watching them both, horror on his face. ‘You promised. You said you wouldn’t tell!’
There was no answer to that. She had promised. And she had broken that promise. Not someone else. Her.
‘I hate you!’ DJ screamed. Then he turned on his heel and ran from the room.
Mr O’Dowd was quick to reassure, ‘I had no idea. But I can promise you, this stays in this classroom between us.’
‘I have to go,’ Ruth said, jumping up.
‘I’m here. Talk to me. Anytime,’ Mr O’Dowd said, following her to the door.
But she was gone, running after her boy, whose heart she had just broken, when she broke her promise.
Denise was waiting outside with Mary and Sinead, fake concern etched on their faces. ‘We saw DJ run out. He looked upset. Is everything all right?’ Denise asked.
‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ Ruth said.