Though I mulled over my brief visit to Kiara’s home all the way back to school, and then again as I drove the short journey home, by the time I got there I wondered if I wasn’t scratching an itch that was mostly in my mind.
It wouldn’t have been the first time; I knew I had a tendency to over-analyse – that was my nature, and one of the reasons I’d jumped at the job running the Unit. When ‘behaviour’ is in your job title, it kind of goes with the territory to spend half your time analysing exactly that.
But as the days passed, and we reached the start of the Easter holidays with nothing of note occurring (not in the sense of ringing alarm bells), I began to convince myself that whatever the reason for Kiara having presented to me as a child in need of extra support, the support we were giving her was reaping rewards. She was a model pupil, too – yes, she still came into school tired and slightly tense at times, but within the cocoon of the Unit classroom she seemed to be having her needs met, and, at the same time, proving a real positive in Chloe’s life, which, in turn, fed back into her own sense of self-worth.
And as for the boys – well, they were boys, and of a certain age and persuasion, and both were benefitting from having some lessons in personal development, away from the many triggers and flashpoints of normal school life – something that was key in them adjusting to their different situations and having the tools to cope with the challenges they brought. Jonathan, in particular, had been a real revelation, making me surer still that he’d just got locked into chronically low self-esteem – I made a mental note to speak to Gary about chatting to his foster mum about not using the points chart for anything that happened at school.
All told, it was a productive quartet in the Unit currently, so I skipped off to enjoy the Easter holidays in positive mood. I also had something of a mission in mind. Mike and I had been house hunting for a while now, for no reason other than that I fancied a change. This happened to me quite frequently – there was something of the gypsy in my soul – and was the main reason I’d always preferred to rent rather than buy.
‘Itchy feet’ was what my mother called it, invariably rolling her eyes when she mentioned it, so the gypsy in my soul clearly hadn’t come from her side. Put me in the same location for more than a year or two and, sure as night follows day, I’d soon be pestering Mike to go somewhere else. It was a standing joke in our family that we never got to put up the Christmas tree more than once in any house. Though I wasn’t having that. It was rubbish – I could count at least three places where we’d done this. Still, when my mind was made up …
I usually started by throwing in the odd complaint about the current property, just to set the ball rolling; set out my stall, so to speak. I’d suddenly announce that the garden was either too big or too small, or I’d grumble about the size of the dining room or lack of a conservatory – any perceived ‘defect’ that I laid eyes on, basically.
Mike and the kids had grown accustomed to this by now, and would always roll their eyes (just like my mum did), shake their heads and then realise that however much they groaned about the prospect, before long we’d be moving house again. We never went far; always remaining close to the schools and our various friends, so nobody really minded. And, truth be known, once the process was properly under way, the kids would get excited too, proving my restless gene had been passed on to them.
This was one such time, and the Easter holidays gave us the opportunity we needed to really get stuck into viewing properties and searching the internet for something that struck my fancy. Mike had booked a week off and Kieron was off from college so, as far as I was concerned, there were no excuses to dither either.
On this occasion, however, it seemed my kids had other plans. ‘Mum, I swear if I have to look at one more house I’m going to go nuts!’ Kieron announced when I was running around the front room with the local newspaper, assuring everyone that this time I had found the perfect place. ‘The last three flipping houses have been perfect,’ he moaned on at me irritably. ‘Can’t I please just leave it to you and dad this time, please? Honest, Mum, you’re driving me mad!’
Much as Kieron disliked change from routine (all a part of his Asperger’s) he was actually used to this process by now, and, in my defence, I always went back to what the doctor had told me when he was younger, that while I shouldn’t stress him needlessly, it was also important to challenge his various ‘security blankets’ in order to prepare him for the travails of adult life.
But he clearly didn’t want to be part of the decision-making process, and perhaps I needed to rein in just a bit. ‘I know how he feels, love,’ Mike added loyally, ‘and to be fair, he shouldn’t have to if he doesn’t want to; Riley doesn’t have to, does she? Because she’s out at work. No, Kieron,’ he said, before I had a chance to push another set of details under my son’s nose, ‘you go off with your mates or something and enjoy your time off. Me and your mum will sort this one out.’
‘Charming!’ I huffed, though, actually, I did take his point. ‘Well, just don’t either of you be moaning after the fact, then,’ I finished, putting down the newspaper and heading off to find my shoes so I could – all being well and a 30-second phone call confirmed it – drag Mike round my newest perfect prospect then and there.
And it was perfect; a beautiful little bungalow with a big bedroom downstairs, and two further ones – his ’n’ hers – nestled in the roof. It also sported a big front garden, mostly laid to hard-standing – handy for extra cars and visitors – and a back garden to die for, with both a cherry tree in it and the cherry on the top adjacent to it, in the form of a massive conservatory that led out on to the ‘must have’ of the moment: a great expanse of decking that I knew Alan Titchmarsh would approve of.
‘So you see?’ I explained, as we headed off to see it in person. ‘It’s going to be perfect in every way.’
Mike sighed the sigh of a man who knew there was probably no arguing with me. ‘Have you got shares in the bloody estate agents, woman?’ he said instead.
I was right, of course. By the time the Easter holidays had finished, we’d not only eaten half our combined body weight in chocolate, we’d also signed up to take over the bungalow in six weeks’ time, which fitted in perfectly for the half-term holiday. I couldn’t wait, and went back to work with a determined spring in my step and a smile of happy anticipation (all that lovely clearing out and cleaning up to look forward to) etched on my face.
It was a winner all round, in fact, as it was practically across the road from Kieron’s college, and also had a bus stop 20 yards from the front gate that would ensure an extra five minutes in bed every morning.
Till then, it was sleeves up and time to re-focus on work and my small but engaging little quartet. Or, rather, quintet-to-be, as one of the first things Gary Clark told me when I got to work (super-early) was that there was a new child potentially joining me.
‘I’ll fill you in more fully later, though,’ he said, ‘as I don’t have all the details yet. All I know is that she’s another one who’s new to the school. I believe Mike’s going to meet with the family first and we’ll go from there.’
Mike Moore being the headteacher, who didn’t usually do the introductions with new pupils; that task generally fell to the deputy head, Don. Either way, there would be some reason why the girl was being considered for the Unit before she’d even started, something I’d find out in the fullness of time. I was happy for her to join us anyway – I could easily accommodate half a dozen children or more, if needed, and a new pupil always added something to the dynamic. In the meantime, since Kiara hadn’t yet turned up at school, I thought I’d start the day with a good deed, and give Chloe a quick make-over, following my first ‘domestic rationalisations’ over the weekend.
‘Come here, sweetie,’ I called to her as she trotted into the classroom after the second morning bell, ‘I’ve got a couple of things over here that I think you might like.’
I’d already been unpacking my satchel and now I delved deeper, pulling out a set of old curling tongs, a mirror and a big hairbrush, all the while watching her eyes growing wider at this unexpected Mary Poppins trick. ‘According to my daughter, Riley,’ I told her, uncurling the lead from the tongs, ‘these things can do wonders with frizzy hair. Can make you look like a little princess, or so I’m told. What do you think? Because I thought we might give them a bit of try-out on you, Chloe. Would that be okay?’
There was little doubt that it would be more than okay. ‘Oh yes, miss, it definitely would be, miss,’ she told me, beaming. ‘My Auntie Koreen has some of those and she looks beautiful. Can you make my hair pretty like hers? Are you allowed to?’
I jumped straight on this, having never heard any mention of an aunt before. ‘Course I’m allowed to,’ I told her. ‘And, hey, what about this auntie of yours? Does she help you do your hair sometimes?’
‘I don’t really remember,’ Chloe said chattily. ‘I haven’t seen her since I was little. I just saw them in some holiday photos.’
‘She doesn’t live nearby then?’ I asked, alert to any possible support out there. This was a niece, after all – and perhaps a cherished one?
But Chloe shook her head. ‘She lives in Spain,’ she said. ‘And my mam says she doesn’t know she’s born. I don’t think they like each other very much. What’s don’t know you’re born mean anyway?’
So not a great deal to build on there, I decided, as I plugged in the curling tongs. Though had there been, the school probably would have known yonks ago. Well, we’d just do our best then. And right now, I’d do my best with her candyfloss hair. I had no idea about the protocol with matters of hair and make-up, nor indeed whether tonging Chloe’s hair might breach some health and safety order, but since we’d spent three days at the end of the previous term working in what had felt like Arctic temperatures, I felt I’d be on pretty safe ground if someone tried to tick me off. Besides, not asking anyone’s permission first was a tried and tested strategy – if it turned out I was wrong, I could simply plead dumb.
‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I assured her, once I’d tried to make some sense out of ‘don’t know you’re born’ with her, and possibly failing. ‘And, yes, I will do my very, very best. You’ll look even more pretty than you are already,’ I added, which made her smile light up even more. I glanced over at the boys, who were working on their daily diaries and paying us no attention whatsoever. I usually had them work on dairies first thing every morning, writing about anything noteworthy that might have happened the previous day, or, in this case, anything that might have happened over the Easter holidays, meaning they’d probably have more than usual to write. ‘Boys, when you’re done with those,’ I told them, ‘you can take out your Maths workbooks and do the next three pages, please – until Mrs Watson’s beauty salon closes.’
The boys groaned predictably, but also good-naturedly, while Chloe clapped her hands together, obviously thrilled to have been singled out for this unexpected treat. And I soon had her hair looking relatively tamed and neatly curled into Bo-Peep style ringlets, which I then gathered into a bobble to make a ponytail.
‘Look, boys!’ she gushed, flicking up her bouncing curls once I’d finished. ‘Just look how pretty I am! Do you like it?’
The boys gave another grunt, this time to express mild affirmation – the making of any more gushing a gesture obviously being tantamount to a proposal of marriage.
‘She does look lovely, doesn’t she, Tommy?’ I prompted. ‘Doesn’t she, Jonathan?’
‘Yeah,’ Tommy said. ‘Like that mermaid doll my sister used to have off that Disney film.’
‘Oh, Tommy,’ Chloe trilled, ‘you mean Ariel! I do, I look like the Little Mermaid, don’t I! I do, don’t I, Jonathan?’
Jonathan shrugged. ‘I dunno. I don’t even know who that is. But yeah,’ he finished. ‘Yeah, you look alright.’
Once again I was struck by the world according to Jonathan. He’d come to school accompanied by a fat file, bristling with annotations, and now I’d had the chance to delve further into his past, I’d learned that up until he’d been brought into care, he had never learned how to play, didn’t own any toys and had no idea about what all the other kids were talking about when they discussed favourite TV shows or movies. I thanked God for that neighbour who had found him scavenging in her bin for food and decided to phone social services. What sort of adult might he have become had she not?
Speaking of which, I thought, as I closed the salon and put the still-warm tongs out of harm’s way, I wondered what mysteries would accompany our newest pupil when she came. I’d be glad to have her. It was a good time to bring in a new student, as the four I had were all now at ease with each other; possibly too comfortable in their small, safe, familiar environment, when what they needed to be was robust enough to cope when they returned to the bustle and conflict of a normal classroom setting. And speaking of which, we were still a person short. Where was our other enigma, Kiara? Might she be ill? If so, perhaps her mum had phoned in.
At break time, I was just on my way to reception to find out when I bumped into Gary Clark in the corridor. ‘I have news,’ he said. ‘Looks like you will be getting that new girl. D’you want to pop into my office and I’ll fill you in?’
I said yes, and turned around, Kiara’s absence temporarily on the back burner, and took a seat beside Gary’s Big Boss desk.
‘Morgan Giles,’ he said, flipping open a manila folder. ‘15 years old. But no form of regular education whatsoever. She’s a gypsy girl,’ he added. ‘Though I think we refer to them as a traveller these days, don’t we?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. I might have had gypsy in my soul but mine was strictly of the ‘painted caravan pulled by a trusty shire-horse’ variety, so beloved of children’s authors and illustrators. ‘15?’ I said. ‘Wow. So she’ll be going into year 11. No formal education at all?’
‘Not as provided by the state,’ he said. ‘But she’s certainly not uneducated. Mike says she’s very bright, in fact. And confident with it. Though she won’t be able to go into any formal year group. In fact, the family – as in Mr Giles, and her grandmother, who goes by the name of Granny Giles and also lives with her – don’t really want her in school at all. It’s Morgan who’s insisting on it apparently. They’ve recently moved onto the council caravan site just off the Groves estate. Do you know it?’
I shook my head, though I knew ‘of’ it all too well. I’ve never actually been there, but you couldn’t help but hear lots about it; as with pretty much any town or city anywhere there was a seemingly endless battle between the councillors, the local residents and the travellers themselves about who had which rights and which won over all the others, with plenty of factions and fights along the way. I’d also heard that it was a dirty place, a dangerous place, and that parents warned their children to keep away from it; that it was next to the landfill site, full of mangy horses and vicious dogs and, perhaps predictably, that lots of bad things happened there. It was just your everyday kind of idle gossip – possibly all of it unfounded – but even so, I’d never felt inclined to go and check myself.
‘Well, that’s where they live,’ Gary went on, ‘having moved back there from Newcastle because Morgan has announced that she wants to sit some GCSEs. Maths, English and possibly Geography, apparently. However, Mr Giles is strongly opposed to the idea. He hates our schools – no bones about it – and has always had some kind of tutor for his daughter. Who, I might add, he is adamant is “more than adequate for her needs, being a girl”.’
He’d put the last bit in finger quote marks and I pulled a disapproving face.
‘Well, exactly,’ Gary said. ‘And I’m paraphrasing, obviously. His use of the English language is apparently much more colourful than that.’
‘But there’s a positive right there,’ I said.
‘There is?’
‘Course there is. She’s a girl but she’s going to get her way on this. Good for her.’
‘Well, sort of. She can’t at this stage just turn up and join the year 11s; she’d be all at sea. So we’ve been in touch with the examining boards and it seems she’s fine to sit the exams here, and in the run-up, to help her, we thought you could have her.’
‘But what about the syllabus? How can she get through all that in three months?’
‘Oh, she’s already onto that – with that tutor I mentioned. Like I said, she’s bright. Very able. And highly motivated, too. It’ll be more exam preparation at this stage than anything, going over old papers and so on. We’re showing willing, in essence. It’s obviously important that we’re seen to do that. Always got to keep OFSTED in mind, eh? Anyway, we can provide her with plenty of past papers, which she can practise on while she’s with you.’
‘As opposed to going into any regular classes?’
‘Mr Giles is keen that she doesn’t – doesn’t want her mixing too much with boys, especially ones that aren’t travellers – so this seems like the most workable option. Mike says she seems a nice girl. Outgoing. Friendly. Sounds like she could even be an asset to you with the younger ones. Anyway, Mr Giles is rather keen that you meet up with him to discuss things beforehand, so he can explain to you how he wants it all to work.’
I smiled at this role reversal. This would be nothing if not a novelty. ‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘It’ll be useful for me as well. Tell him I’ll see him any time it’s convenient for him during the school day. Or just after, if that’s easier. Granny too, if she likes.’
‘Ah,’ Gary said. ‘Did I forget to mention that he doesn’t do phones, and he doesn’t do school visits?’
‘But –’
‘This morning excepted. Exceptional circumstances, apparently. I get the feeling there’s been some jockeying for positon vis-à-vis his daughter. What he’d really like is for you to visit him on his site one day this week.’
‘Really?’ So, in effect, a summons. Now this was novel.
‘Yes, any day as long as it’s after four o’clock, apparently. The large blue and white caravan – you can’t miss it apparently – second right. Two gilt lions at the bottom of the steps. I think that’s right. Or was it right?’
Right, left, up, down – he was clearly finding this funny. ‘Oh, Gary!’ I said. ‘Really? Me go on a school visit to the traveller site?’
‘I could come with you, if you like,’ Gary said. ‘In fact, thinking about it, perhaps I should.’
I didn’t need to think about it at all. I could imagine Mike’s face – as in my own Mike, as opposed to the headteacher. Me go there? All five foot of me? Solo? ‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘I think I’d feel more relaxed if I had a minder. Not that I need one. Just that, well, you know …’
‘Deal. Now how about a Bourbon?’ Gary suggested, proffering a half pack of biscuits. ‘Sort of by way of apology.’
‘Bourbon, period, might be better,’ I said, taking one anyway. ‘Why does the phrase “The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast” spring so immediately to mind?’
‘I have absolutely no idea at all,’ Gary said. He pushed the pack under my nose again. ‘But go ahead. Feel free to have two.’