As it turned out I got Tommy full time after all, and in circumstances that made me very glad that I did. Better with me than with some I could mention. It was in the very first week in fact, and the day after I’d returned from my weekly lunch at the new ‘Reach for Success’ centre. We’d planned a routine, in that I’d go over there every Wednesday lunchtime as that was the day that all the students had to plan a menu, buy the ingredients then prepare and cook a meal for themselves and their teachers. It was a great confidence-boosting exercise, as well as being very useful for them, and it meant that I could spend a good half-hour catching up on progress and get a free meal to boot. Would that every aspect of my job was so agreeable.
There’s no rule that everyone you work with has to be your bosom pal. In fact, in the case of a workplace as big as mine was, I’d say the chances of that happening would be extremely small. What was also true was that there were a small minority of the teaching staff whom I didn’t really know by name but already knew intuitively that I might not see eye to eye with, just by a combination of instinct and observation – instinct that we were unlikely to have much in common, and the odd thing I’d gleaned, observed or heard in the staff-room that made me aware that not everyone worked the same way.
One such was Mr Hunt, one of the senior chemistry teachers, who’d been at the school almost two decades and was something of an institution. His notoriety was so long-standing that he had even been blessed with a nickname – one based on his real name, the unremarkable ‘Richard Hunt’, duly shortened and completely unprintable.
He was equally notorious among the teaching staff, as being a man who liked to tell it like it was. Which was fine. Well, up to a point, anyway. The staff-room was a place for staff to unwind and catch up with each other, obviously, so it didn’t do to get all uppity about some of the things said behind closed staff-room doors. Teaching was a stressful profession and teachers wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have the odd exasperated rant about a particularly trying child from time to time – heaven knew, I’d done it myself.
But there was the odd teacher, I’d noticed, who – perhaps because they were getting weary of the daily grind – didn’t seem to like many of their pupils much at all. So much so that a more naïve me (one maybe 20 years younger) would have been inclined to question why on earth they even became teachers in the first place. I’d never do that now; it would be the last way to win friends and influence people, after all. And who was I to pass judgement on a teacher who’d been slogging away for 30 years and who, with all the changes on top of the challenges and pressures, was getting to the end of their professional tether?
Mr Hunt, I’d decided, definitely came into that category, or was at least getting palpably close. He was a clever man, an irritable man, a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly – a great nurturer of those with a similar spark of academic potential, but less than patient with those who didn’t know one end of a pipette from another; as they soon found out, when they had the great misfortune of being skewered on the end of one of his fiery rantathons – something of a legend around school.
So when Gary Clark appeared in my classroom doorway the following Thursday and Mr Hunt’s name was mentioned in relation to Thomas Robinson, I think I already knew that perhaps his brand of chemistry lesson would not be the kind in which our newest pupil would be likely to shine. He was altogether too boisterous and inclined to pubescent silliness – silliness being the cardinal sin for Mr Hunt, particularly when there were chemicals and lab equipment around.
‘But I have good news to impart first,’ Gary said, as he beckoned me out into the corridor, having boomed his usual warm hello to Kelly and the other kids.
‘I’m all for that,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you free after school today? Only Kiara’s mother called first thing to say she’d be happy for you to pop round there. Said you could walk Kiara home from school today if you like.’
‘That was quick,’ I said. With the ‘fuss over nothing’ stance Mrs Bentley had largely taken, I’d anticipated a couple of weeks might pass before we heard from her, or even that I’d need to call again.
‘If you still want to, that is,’ Gary added. ‘She finishes work at three today. How’s Kiara been since she’s been with you, anyway?’
‘Still tired,’ I said. ‘Still drifting off. Still hair pulling when she does so. Happier, though. As far as I can gauge, compared with what various teachers have told me, she definitely seems less stressed in a small group environment.’
In truth, I felt Kiara had settled extremely well. Had it not been for the self-soothing and that odd ‘hard-to-put-your-finger-on-but-something’ way she had about her, I’d have felt a bit uncomfortable about keeping her from mainstream lessons; for an otherwise well-adjusted child who liked a quiet, un-taxing life, it was definitely a soft option. But I was still convinced Kiara wasn’t that.
‘That will be fine,’ I said, mentally scrolling through my domestic to do list. If I caught up with my paperwork at lunchtime, I wouldn’t even be late home. I’d leave a message for Kieron, though, just in case.
‘I’ll leave you to let her know, then,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming she’ll be receptive? Anyway, Thomas,’ he added, once I’d nodded my confirmation. ‘I’m afraid this half a week thing doesn’t seem to be working out too well. I’ve already had reports back from two of his teachers yesterday, saying that he’s acting up in class. Being generally disruptive, refusing to knuckle down to any work. I think we may have acted hastily and expected too much from him after such a long period away from school.’
‘So you want me to have him full time?’ I asked. ‘That wouldn’t be a problem.’ It really wouldn’t. I rather liked Tommy and, while a return to mainstream classes would get him back on track with catching up the work he’d missed, I did think my Unit would be a better place for him until he’d re-adjusted to the discipline of a regular school routine. Moving halfway across the country, and in such difficult circumstances, had been a major upheaval for him and his family after all.
‘Probably,’ Gary said, ‘he’s in a science lesson right now, and since Mr Hunt is one of the teachers who put a complaint in about him, I wondered if you could pop down – you’ve got Kelly with you all morning, haven’t you? – see how he’s doing and, if you think it’s the right course of action, bring him back here with you and we’ll move on from there?’
Children came to the Unit via a variety of routes, but one of the most common was following repeated reports from teachers that a particular child wasn’t working well in class. They could either be showing signs of distress, withdrawing, refusing to co-operate, or just proving unmanageable and disruptive. When this happened, Jim Dawson, the other Behaviour Manager, would usually step in and observe for a while, monitoring for a day or two, or even just part of a lesson, to decide whether it was really warranted to move them. Often it was simply a clash of personalities, or, though it was rarely admitted, simply easier and less stressful for the teacher. If this was deemed to be the case then a child would remain in regular class but work would be done with the teacher in question to help them cope better; some extra training in behavioural techniques, perhaps, while being supported by a teaching assistant, who’d sit with and assist the challenging child.
On this occasion, with Tommy already with me for half the week anyway, it made sense for me to go instead of Jim, though. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll grab my bag and head up there right away. Let’s hope he hasn’t actually blown anything up yet, eh?’
‘Or anyone,’ Gary added. ‘Or he’ll find himself at the sharp end of an explosion of the Mr Hunt variety.’
We exchanged a look rather than needing to say anything. Not nice.
I didn’t often find myself in the science block, so it took a while to track down the classroom in question – which was actually one of the labs and, as I’d been told, currently full of a year eight group of pupils engaged in complicated operations with Bunsen burners.
Chemistry not being my thing, I couldn’t have said what they were all doing exactly, but there were goggles involved, as well as an odd metallic smell, and an array of what might conceivably be noxious chemicals, over which various groups of children were bent, like covens of industrious witches over cauldrons, only in lab coats.
Mr Hunt was at the back of the class and it took a moment or two for him to spot me, upon which he strode purposefully back to the front. I smiled as he approached, in response to his eye-rolling, having already decided on the walk over to dispense with observing Tommy’s behaviour and just take him back to the Unit with me.
Well, provided Mr Hunt was happy, which I didn’t need to be a scientist myself to judge that he probably would be.
‘Excuse me, Mr Hunt,’ I said as he drew level and lowered further the slim wire-framed glasses he had perched on his nose. ‘I’ve come to collect Tommy. Thomas Robinson?’
‘Ah, Mrs … ah … Watson. Good, good,’ he replied. He took the glasses off completely then and waved them vaguely behind him. ‘Good.’
I lowered my voice. ‘What’s he been up to? Has there been a problem with him today?’ I asked, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the mostly industrious class.
Mr Hunt had no such qualms about the volume switch, however. ‘Ah, our young master Robinson,’ he said in a voice loud enough to get everyone’s attention. A voice designed to do so, if I wasn’t much mistaken. ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Watson,’ he continued, wafting his glasses behind him once again. ‘There has been a problem, so I’d be very grateful if you did just that. Let me see …’ he went on, making a show of scanning the classroom and, if I wasn’t mistaken, sniffing the air. ‘If you follow the smell, I think you’ll find him sitting under some dirty little cloud, just about – ah, there he is – there.’
To say I was aghast would be a massive understatement, and as the class, fully attentive now, began whispering and giggling, I wasn’t just stunned by Mr Hunt’s words, I was appalled. I glared at him as I walked around him and across the room to the end of Tommy’s bench. His face and neck were as red as the rubber Bunsen burner gas tubes, and I felt my anger rise. How easy it was to casually humiliate a child.
‘You’re not in any trouble, Tommy,’ I said as I beckoned him to come with me, conscious that a boy just behind him was holding his nose and fanning the air theatrically. I glared at him as well, grateful that at least Tommy hadn’t seen him do it. ‘I just need your help with something in the Unit, love, that’s all. Could you come with me, do you think?’
No such luck, however, as another boy, this time in Tommy’s eye-line, was already responding to the theatricals with a snort of suppressed laughter, causing Tommy to wheel around and catch the other boy in the act. ‘You fucking arsehole!’ he spat, kicking out at one of the nearby lab stools and toppling it. ‘You’re all dickheads!’ he added, as it landed with a clatter. He turned to the front of the class. ‘Especially you, “sir”!’
Mr Hunt, who I expected quite enjoyed upping the ante from time to time, didn’t seem fazed in the least. In fact, though he spread his palms in a gesture of apparent exasperation, I thought he looked rather pleased with himself. ‘See what I have to put up with?’ he said to me, as I followed Tommy towards the front, hoping he wouldn’t do anything really silly. ‘Just get the obnoxious little sod out of here.’
I quashed the urge to pass a comment about the obnoxious sod standing right in front of me, and instead walked right past him, just as Tommy thankfully had, saying nothing. ‘Come on, love,’ I said, once we were almost at the door. ‘Let’s get you over to my room before you get any angrier, eh?’
I shut the classroom door behind me with unnecessary force, and though I knew I was being childish, I didn’t regret it. I was furious. How could a teacher be a fully paid-up member of the school’s anti-bullying campaign and at the same time speak to a child in such a fashion? What Mr Hunt had said and done had beggared belief. It would have been bad form enough in the staff-room (well, to my mind, at any rate) but to say such things and to address them to the whole class, to boot, was a disgrace, and I had half a mind to report him.
And to then have the temerity to bemoan what he ‘had to put up with’ when he’d so blatantly provoked it himself! I took a few deep breaths before addressing Tommy, whose expression had changed from one of anger and defiance to one of helplessness, hopelessness and shame.
I put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder but arranged my face so it didn’t look too maternal or sympathetic. I had a feeling he was close to tears and desperate not to break down. My heart surged for him. ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I said, briskly guiding him down the corridor. ‘I think you can give science a miss for a couple of weeks, okay?’
Tommy didn’t speak. Merely nodded as he marched along beside me. I didn’t press it. I could tell how much he didn’t want to cry in front of me.
Shame on you, Mr Hunt, I thought. Shame on you. He hadn’t heard the last of this yet.