There was a knock on my classroom door a few minutes before the bell went, which I answered to find a trio of children standing outside. The first I recognised immediately as Thomas, the lad who’d had the head injury the previous morning. His hair was longer than I’d realised. Almost past his shoulders, it looked like it was crying out for a good brush, and though his uniform had clearly seen better days, it certainly hadn’t seen a washing machine in a while. Neither, I judged – hazarding a guess – had the tattered but expensive-looking trainers that were on his feet but not the uniform list. Given what I knew of him already, it all figured. As did the faint musty, slightly sweet smell that had arrived in the room with him.
The boy at Thomas’s side was his polar opposite. Jonathan was slight and be-freckled, with neatly cut blond hair, and was turned out precisely as I’d anticipated he would be, given he was currently living with a foster family. He was bright as a pin, stiff with new clothes and grooming; only the slight edge of wariness in his expression hinted at the complicated background that I knew lay beneath.
The third child – presumably Chloe – was a beautiful girl. She was somewhat dishevelled, too, a bit like a Disney Cinderella – though presumably not as a result of being on the run around Britain, but simply as a consequence of just being Chloe. Her smile was wide and genuine but her vulnerability was writ large – I wondered how many challenges she had to face just to get productively through the day.
Chloe’s hair was long and unruly like Thomas’s, though in her case the unruliness took a different form. It was almost white-blonde and stuck out in all sorts of different directions, putting me in mind of candyfloss – the kind given to you on a stick at a fair. On balance, ‘unruly’ was probably too mild a word for it. I found myself drawn to her immediately.
She was the first to speak. ‘Good morning, Miss Watson,’ she trilled, directing her high-wattage beam at me, then, without waiting for a reply, gripping both boys by the elbows and more or less manhandling them inside, much to their evident surprise. ‘I’m Chloe Jones,’ she added. ‘I’m the eldest out of all of us. And Miss Vickers has sent us all to do our work with you.’
I closed the door behind them. ‘Welcome, all of you. It’s very nice to meet you. And first of all, Thomas …’ I noticed him stiffen as I said his name. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be in school? That was a nasty bang you had yesterday, even if it didn’t need stitches. I was surprised when Mrs Styles told me you’d come in this morning.’
Thomas jerked himself free of Chloe’s vice-like grip. ‘It’s alright, miss,’ he said, sweeping a hand up behind his hair, then flipping it up and turning around so I could see the war wound for myself; well, at least a neat square of shaved head around a rectangular dressing. ‘I just gotta make sure I don’t get it wet.’
‘And you’re feeling okay?’ I asked him.
‘I’m feeling fine,’ he said, puffing his chest out almost imperceptibly, in what seemed an automatic, almost unconscious gesture, as if to face off anyone who might hint at weakness. I wondered how far his family had come and how he felt about his step-dad.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you make sure you let me know if you feel funny in any way, won’t you? Any way at all, Thomas. Tired or dizzy, headache – anything at all.’
‘I’m fine, miss,’ he said again. ‘It weren’t nothing much.’
Well, that was going to be debatable, once Kiara made an appearance, at any rate. In the meantime, I was still conscious that Chloe hadn’t put Jonathan down yet. ‘Chloe, love,’ I said to her, ‘why don’t you come with me. Since you’re the eldest, you can be the first one to choose a tray to keep your things in.’
I held out a hand and she released Jonathan, reaching readily for it instead, reminding me that her touchy-feely nature extended to all human life, including teachers. ‘Can I, miss?’ she said, as I led her to the cabinet I kept the trays in – the ones where students kept their work and personal belongings, such as pencil cases and whichever card collections were currently the in thing. ‘Here we are,’ I said. ‘Look, there are the pens – can you take them to the table? And the trays have the name tags already inside them, so if you’d like to choose which one you want, then you can go ahead and sit down and write yours, okay?’
This seemed occupation enough for the moment, so I left Chloe to decide on a colour, and turned my attention back to the two boys. I’d yet to have very much to go on with Jonathan; it would mostly be a case of watch and wait with him over the coming days, to try and tease out why his behaviour was on such a marked downward trajectory.
In that respect, Thomas seemed the more straightforward of the two. I decided that he put me in mind of a modern-day Artful Dodger, and not just because of his hair – which badly needed cutting – and his dodgy antics with Kiara the previous day. There was a veneer of confidence about him, a kind of swagger – though so far, at least, not an irritating one; just this aura he had of being able to handle himself. Which would figure, given his circumstances, and the fact that he was markedly big for a 12-year-old, and I knew that his cockney accent – which, again, was Artful Dodger through and through – would confer status on him all by itself.
He didn’t yet know that Kiara would be joining us, however, and as I knew she could walk through the door at any moment, I was keen to prepare the ground first.
‘Right, boys,’ I said, ‘let’s get some trays done for you as well, eh? Chloe’s just getting the pens out, and we’ll sit you all over there.’ I pointed to the table I’d indicated to Chloe and where she was now settling down at to colour her name in. ‘I thought as there’s only going to be four of you, you can all sit together. To start with, in any case – we’ll have to see how it works out, won’t we?’
At which moment, as if spirited there specifically to underline the point, there was a second knock at the door and it opened to admit Kelly and Kiara.
‘Speak of the devil!’ I quipped, as I watched Kiara’s jaw drop.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she asked me immediately.
‘The same as you are, love,’ I said mildly, nodding a greeting to Kelly. ‘Just one of life’s funny little coincidences. Thomas here is going to be with us for half of the week, and …’
‘But I only just got away from him, miss!’
Thomas, for all his confidence, said nothing in response to this. Just looked from me to Kiara and back again, clearly bemused. I could almost see his brain whirring, trying to decide what this unexpected development might mean. Which pleased me greatly, as it hinted that, once separated from a peer group that needed impressing, he’d be much less of a class clown than his previous behaviour had suggested. He was probably also more than a little wary.
‘You’d be with Thomas anyway, Kiara,’ I pointed out, sensing that she already knew she had the upper hand. ‘You’re in the same tutor group, aren’t you? The only difference is that here you’ll be spending a bit more of the day together, which will mean you can put yesterday behind you all the quicker, won’t it?’
‘Excellent point,’ Kelly enthused, returning my cheery grin. ‘So, well, I’ll leave you to it, then, Mrs Watson. And what do you say to Mrs Watson, Kiara?’ she prompted before she left.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, miss,’ Kiara parroted as she shrugged off her rucksack, looking thoroughly miserable, resigned to her lot.
‘Right, Kiara,’ I said, keen to focus on my group bonding session, ‘you’ve already got your tray labelled so why don’t you pop your things in it, then go and take a seat by Chloe over there?’ I made the requisite introductions and, once the children were settled round the table, albeit warily, in Thomas and Kiara’s case, set about getting the lesson under way. The plan for today was for the group to start getting to know each other, and, hopefully, for the children to begin to form bonds by doing activities that involved them working together.
This wasn’t just about creating a sense of family in class either – it was also so that I could start assessing the group dynamic and begin to understand the pecking order that was going to emerge. It always did: in any group (whether in school or the workplace, it was the same) everyone always played their part. There would always be an apparent leader – sometimes two – emerging early, plus that class clown who got their status by making others laugh, and the ones who were more happy being led than leading, be it willingly or slightly resentfully. And at some point, more often than not, a real leader would emerge. One who wasn’t necessarily vocal about being ‘the boss’, but who would quietly assess the others and work out how best to manipulate the group to get the best out of them, even if that meant allowing someone else to believe they were the one in charge.
It was an important exercise, generally played out over a couple of weeks, and as I loved group dynamics I found it fascinating. Though, right now, with my relatively small (and, in Chloe’s case, relatively transparent) bunch of charges, I’d probably have an inkling by the end of the day. One thing was already clear: Thomas was getting first run at stating his case, quietly filling Jonathan in on his run-in with Kiara the previous day, while Kiara herself, seemingly happy to rely on a non-speaking strategy, was being comprehensively adopted by Chloe, who seemed intent on plaiting sections of her hair.
‘Okay,’ I said, clapping my hands together to get their attention, ‘first up are the interviews I’m going to be doing with you all. Once we’ve got the morning’s activity under way I’m going to be calling you individually to the quiet area, so we can have a chat and I can get to know you a little better. In the meantime, here’s what we’re doing first.’
I then explained what the morning’s activity would comprise: an exercise designed to break the ice and work on their listening and general communication skills. It was an area where lots of kids who came to me struggled, often because they had so much already on their minds that they would ‘zone out’ of whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The task was therefore all about listening to one another; telling each other little anecdotes about things that had happened to them, which the listener would transcribe and make the basis for a story of their own. I also explained that I wanted them to illustrate their stories too – both with a picture of their partner, and one of themselves – you could tell so much from how a kid perceived themselves via the medium of drawing.
‘A self-portrait,’ I clarified. ‘Who knows what a self-portrait is?’
Thomas shot his arm up enthusiastically, which was gratifying. ‘Miss, I know that one, miss. It’s a picture you do of yourself, ain’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, tickled once again by his accent. I pointed to the back wall. ‘And once they’re done they can all go up there.’
‘Like mugshots on Crimewatch,’ he suggested.
‘Exactly,’ I agreed, noticing Kiara’s expression. Exactly, I could see her eyes saying.
I called Jonathan for his life-space interview first and he followed me across to the reading area with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. This was good to see and, given the information in his file, unexpected. I’d been expecting an adversarial, antagonistic child.
‘I’m 11,’ he announced proudly as he sat on one of the big cushions, ‘and I live with my foster mummy and daddy.’
Jonathan’s file suggested that he operated below average intellectually and, emotionally, had the social age of around seven or eight. And I could immediately tell that this was true. It meant I’d need to ignore his real age as I spoke with him, rather as I would have to do with Chloe.
‘Wow!’ I said, ‘you’re a big boy for 11, aren’t you? Do you have any brothers or sisters, Jonathan?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘not real ones. It’s just me. But there’s three foster brothers at home. And a baby foster sister. So I share them.’
A pretty busy foster mum then, I thought. ‘Have you lived with this family for a long time?’ I asked him next. I already knew he’d been in care for six months, but I was keen to get a sense of his own perception.
He gave the question serious thought. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘I don’t get to see my dad much anymore. My real daddy I mean. Not my foster daddy. I see him at weekends when he comes back from work.’
‘And do you like school?’ I asked. ‘Do you enjoy it? Miss Vickers said you’d been having some problems and getting angry just lately.’
He bit his lip and started to twiddle with the cuffs of his jumper. ‘I do have problems, miss,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s ’cause I’m stupid, miss. I don’t know stuff and I’m rubbish at football, and the other boys make me mad and then I get cross and swear and then I lose my mummy dollars and then I don’t get stuff and then I get angry all over again.’
He sighed heavily. It was a long, impassioned speech. This anger about losing rewards was clearly the driving force in his life.
‘Tell me about your mummy dollars, Jonathan,’ I prompted, and he explained that his foster mum had a cabinet in her kitchen, in which was a box containing treats and small toys. At the end of the week, provided he’d earned sufficient dollars (by doing specific tasks and being helpful) he could spend them on the treats of his choice. A bad day at school could derail this, however, as poor behaviour would result in previously earned vouchers being taken away again, often resulting in him having none left come treat day.
I actually thought it was a great idea; a classic way to incentivise a child to change their behaviour, not via punishment, but by accentuating the positive to give them motivation. Though, at the same time, I was sorry that his school day was included in the system, because, to my mind, what happened in school should, in a case like this one, be dealt with in school. Both carers and teachers were working towards the same goal after all, and I couldn’t see the logic in him effectively being punished twice for his small transgressions. Was this the key to his growing frustration? That he’d simply got into a cycle of negative reinforcement? Perhaps all that was needed here was to break it. And in my Unit, he had a fighting chance of doing just that. With no flash points, or clever-clever peers, or bullies, or impatient teachers needing answers, there was simply so little opportunity to be ‘naughty’.
‘Well, we’ll try and help you with that, love,’ I said gently. ‘You’ve been a very good boy so far this morning, and I’m going to enjoy getting to know you. You can go back now, sweetie, and carry on with your story. Could you ask Thomas to come over, please?’
As Jonathan made his way back to his new classmate, I glanced over at the girls. They were both busy writing now, having presumably shared their respective stories, and I was tickled to see Chloe reach a hand out now and then, and stroke Kiara fondly on her forearm. I wondered what Kiara was making of it – she didn’t draw her arm away – and it seemed I wasn’t the only one, either.
‘She’s a bit funny in the head, that one, ain’t she, miss?’ Thomas said conversationally, as he settled down beside me on a floor cushion. ‘This is a bit of alright, miss,’ he added, scooping his fringe from his eyes. ‘I ain’t never seen a classroom like this before. It’s well cool.’
‘Thank you, Thomas,’ I said. ‘But you know –’
‘It’s Tommy, miss. I didn’t like to say before, but it’s Tommy. No one ever calls me Thomas ’cept me granny.’
‘Okay, Tommy it is, then,’ I agreed. ‘But, you know, one thing I need to tell you is that we don’t name-call in this classroom,’ I added mildly.
‘I weren’t calling her names. I was just saying she ain’t right in the head, miss. And he’s not, either, is he?’ he added, nodding back towards Jonathan. He did a circular motion with his index finger beside his temple. ‘Bit away with the fairies, like, isn’t he? That’s not calling people names, miss. It’s just a fact. That’s why they’re here, isn’t it?’
I half-expected him to ask why he was here, given that. The old ‘why have I been put in with the retards?’ being a common refrain, from kids who, in saying so, were answering their own question. But I had detected no cruelty in Tommy’s tone, just simple curiosity.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said, ‘and I know what you’re trying to say, Tommy, but in this class we have children with all kinds of different problems, and we don’t use words that mock them, okay?’
‘But I wasn’t, miss.’
‘You don’t think saying “away with the fairies” isn’t mocking?’
He had the grace to blush at this. ‘Aw, well, okay, miss, I s’pose you’re right. Anyway,’ he added, brightening again. ‘What do you wanna know about me?’
‘Well,’ I said, looking down at the notes Julia had given me, ‘according to what I have here, you are coming to me for half the week, and going to your regular lessons for the other half. Do you know why you’ve been asked to come and spend time with me?’
‘Cos I ain’t done much school, miss,’ he said immediately. ‘Since we did a runner from me step-dad, we was never in any place long enough. Mr Clark says I need breaking in gently.’
He grinned then, obviously remembering something. ‘Like a horse, was what he said. You can’t rush these things can you, miss?’
I almost burst out laughing. If Tommy was trying to sell me the idea that he needed a good long stint on my floor cushions, he was going about it the right way.
‘You’re absolutely right, love. We can’t rush these things. And we shouldn’t try to, should we? How are you finding the lessons that you do attend, anyway?’
‘Not bad,’ he answered, ‘but I don’t think the teachers like me very much.’
‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘What’s not to like about you, eh? You seem like a perfectly nice young man to me.’ I paused then, and leaned closer, so I could speak to him more quietly, and as I did so, I nearly gagged breathing in the whiff of unwashed clothes. I found myself feeling desperately sorry for him all of a sudden. ‘Well, when you’re not being silly like you were yesterday, anyway,’ I reminded him. ‘But I think you already know that, don’t you? And, if you didn’t, I imagine Mr Brabbiner made that clear enough at the hospital, so I’m not going to go over it again now. Suffice to say that while you and Kiara are here together, that’s the side of you I expect to see, okay?’
The swagger subsided somewhat. He’d learned a lesson. No doubt about it. ‘I know, miss. I won’t do it again, miss.’ There was a pause. ‘Though, miss,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘I didn’t say all them things she said I did – and nor did Connor. Just so’s you know, okay. She weren’t telling the truth about that.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ I asked him, conscious of the sudden seriousness of his expression. Perhaps she’d over-egged the pudding just a little in her half-awake, hysterical state.
‘Honest to God, I am, miss,’ he said, putting me in mind of Fagin’s gang again.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘because that’s part of the deal in being here. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, that subject is closed. So, Tommy,’ I asked him then, ‘do you have any brothers or sisters?’
He shook his head. ‘No brothers,’ he said, looking gloomy. ‘I wish I did, but me mam had had enough. I got four older sisters and they’re a nightmare, they are.’
I laughed. ‘That’s girls for you, Tommy. Whatever else do you think we were born for, if not to be nightmares to our brothers?’
At which point the bell rang for mid-morning break, eliciting a fist-pump from Tommy and a cry of ‘Yes! Playtime!’ and a similarly animated whoop across the room from Jonathan. Chloe and Kiara, in contrast, didn’t seem as if they could care less. Which didn’t surprise me. In Kiara, Chloe had everything she wanted right there, and I had a strong sense that the feeling might be mutual. Tommy’s presence notwithstanding, my mysterious girl seemed almost serene, and I wondered which of these kids would prove the most challenging to help. Would it be the boys, with their seemingly straightforward set of problems, or Kiara? In Chloe, I knew the situation was rather different. In reality, though I would obviously do what I could with her, I was mostly keeping her safe till she could be sent somewhere more appropriate. As for the rest, it was probably too early to say.
Which was fine. I felt a familiar rush of pleasure as I watched my little quartet troop out into the corridor, Tommy first, Jonathan second, the girls together, bringing up the rear. It was perhaps the silliest way of describing things imaginable, so it wasn’t something I’d ever share, but it was at this stage that I got the strongest sense that anything was possible; that in the children I’d been given a set of raw ingredients and that working with them as a group was like baking a cake. That together, provided I put my skills to good use, we’d create something even better than the sum of its parts. Well, sort of. I probably just needed another coffee.