6

ISHALL SPARE YOU the finer details of the demise of my marriage. There’s nothing extraordinary about what occurred – just the usual disintegration of a relationship that comes about with broken promises, broken hearts, broken crockery.

Safe to say, we were not one of those ex-couples who had a very good co-parenting relationship. We did not do joint Christmases or have civilized get-togethers with our old friends.

No, we did our break-up t’Northern way.

Lots of old-fashioned screaming at each other in the street, plenty of backstabbing and irrationality. Once, we came across each other on a drunken night out, and ended up having sex in the toilets. It wasn’t pretty. But then again, when is it ever?

I belonged to the brigade of women who referred to their ex as ‘that wanker’. And everyone knew who I was talking about.

We split up two years ago and we were still married because we couldn’t afford to get divorced – though I did think of him as my ex-husband. Winston was so feckless that trying to get him to sign anything – actually, scratch that; trying to get him to do anything – required such a surge of insurmountable energy on my part that I’d given up trying.

And yes, of course Petra was right when she said I should have severed all ties with the man. Got my name off everything associated with him, because I would never get credit, never get on with my life, while I had him hanging on from a distance, screwing things up. But with the hours I was working, and just with keeping my head above water, well, I couldn’t seem to make it happen.

‘Do the thing you least want to do first, Roz,’ Petra had instructed on numerous occasions. ‘You’ll be far more pro­ductive when you’ve not got dread hanging over you all day.’

I imagined what would happen if I told Petra about Scott’s invitation. Good grief! Her head would topple off.

Petra thought everyone had the same moral compass as her. She was genuinely astonished when people turned out not to be what she thought. She took it as a personal insult.

I had refused Scott, of course.

‘I don’t date married men,’ I told him.

‘I’m not asking for a date,’ he said, ‘just a drink. Surely there’s no law against that? We could meet as friends.’

‘Sorry, Scott, but no.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ He was smiling now.

‘Go ahead.’

‘If I wasn’t married, would you agree to it?’

‘But you are married.’

‘Say I wasn’t.’

‘But you are, Scott.’

He left, amused. As though my stubbornness was actually quite charming. I wondered if he made a habit of it, wondered if he was a serial adulterer and enjoyed the conquest. And I probably would have remained wondering about him for the duration of the morning if the call about George hadn’t come in.

I was on my third sciatica sufferer of the day when I heard the phone ring at reception. I tried not to be distracted as this patient was in a bad way and needed my full attention.

True sciatica is rare. It occurs when the soft inner jelly of the intervertebral disc is squeezed out through a crack in the disc’s hard outer coating. This jelly comes to rest on the sciatic nerve, sending crippling pain and often paralysis down the leg of the patient. Once the jelly is out, there’s no going back. It’s like trying to get toothpaste back into a tube. Surgery is the only cure. So, if you find yourself being told by a clinician that he’s putting your discs back into place, you can be safe in the knowledge that he’s an idiot.

But, as I said, true sciatica is rare. Much more common is for the patient to strain the fascia surrounding the lower ­vertebrae. I had a neat trick whereby I got the patient to bend over in front of me and then proceeded to administer a hard fingertip massage. Often, within a few minutes the patient was able to bend fully without me needing to manipulate the joints, which could be painful.

I was midway through this procedure when Wayne rapped loudly on the door, informing me there was a telephone call that I needed to take immediately. ‘I’ll have to call back,’ I shouted, as the old braless hippy before me had flinched in response to Wayne’s interruption and now her muscles were in spasm. She was stuck in forward flexion and couldn’t move.

‘It’s George’s teacher,’ Wayne replied between his teeth.

There was no way I could leave the patient as she was: ­wrinkled breasts hanging low, like snooker balls in socks, stuck somewhere between a forty- and fifty-degree bend – the most precarious of positions. So I told Wayne I would return the call within two minutes.

I spent the next ninety seconds with my thoughts colliding, my brain Rolodex-ing through the possible injuries George could have sustained to warrant such a call. And being un­successful in alleviating the muscle spasm in my patient’s back, I gave up tempor­arily, adjusted the treatment plinth to its lowest setting – around twelve inches from the floor – and supported her around the waist as she crawled piteously on to the plinth, collapsing into the foetal position, saying, ‘Go on, go on. Find out about your son.’

I thanked her and darted to the shelves, grabbing a large towel and laying it over her to preserve her modesty (not that she cared). Then I dashed through to reception, where Wayne was wearing an expression that I was supposed to translate as ‘No personal calls in work hours.’

The call connected and I said, ‘Hello?’ as Wayne pretended to busy himself, tearing open a new box of tissues, then dabbing dry his upper lip.

‘Mrs Toovey, it’s Hilary Slater.’

Hilary Slater was the headmistress. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

‘Yes and no, to be honest,’ and she sighed out heavily. ‘There’s an issue . . . an issue with George.’

‘Is he ill?’

Around six months ago I began receiving phone calls from school on a fairly regular basis to say that George was unwell and needed to be collected. He had a range of symptoms: sickness, headaches, dizziness, the occasional limp. As you would expect, the school treated these symptoms seriously. As did I, initially.

Getting over to Hawkshead mid-afternoon, taking George home or else bringing him back to the clinic, did not go down well with either Wayne or myself by the third time. Particularly because on every single one of these occasions there was ­absolutely nothing wrong with him. Within twenty minutes of leaving school his pallor had vanished and he would be chatting away happily. I spoke to George’s teacher. Explained that, for whatever reason, I thought George was trying it on, and I would try to get to the bottom of it but please could they make doubly sure in the future before assuming he was unwell.

A week later I got the same phone call, only this time George had been witnessed vomiting so I could hardly argue. Off I traipsed, leaving a patient with fibromyalgia mid-session in the less-than-capable hands of Gary. Gary, whose entire treatment repertoire consisted of ultrasound followed by whatever new electrical therapy the reps were pushing down our throats and ending with a nice chat about correct posture. Sod all use ­basically, if you were in constant pain.

George was fine, needless to say. His witness turned out to be one of his buddies, who I’m sure under interrogation would have cracked, switching his story to one of observing strings of saliva rather than vomit. And George had once again earned himself an afternoon away from Spanish. Or the War of the Roses. I forget which was his least favourite at the time.

‘George is not ill, Mrs Toovey,’ Hilary Slater said.

‘He’s not? Oh, that’s a relief,’ I replied, laughing nervously.

Silence.

‘Would it be possible for you to pop in around three thirty for a meeting?’ she asked in a way that wasn’t really a question.

I hesitated. ‘George is in after-school club today. I’m afraid I work until five. What is this about exactly?’

Wayne was openly staring at me at this point and I tried to step away from the desk to prevent him from hearing. The phone cord, however, was too short and so I remained within earshot.

‘I’d rather speak to you in person,’ she said carefully.

‘I understand that, but . . .’ I paused. How to word this without sounding rude and dismissive? Not possible. ‘I don’t want to reschedule patients, Mrs Slater, unless absolutely necessary.’

Wayne was making big swiping gestures. Tell her no, he mouthed. No way.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to come in unless it was absolutely ­necessary.’

‘Then perhaps you could stay a little late?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘We could do the meeting at, say, five o’clock. I’m sure I could get away from here slightly early if—’

She cut me off. ‘Not possible. Mrs Toovey, George has been stealing.’

‘He’s been what?’

‘Stealing.’

‘Stealing?’ I repeated back, blindsided, and Wayne stopped what he was doing and stared at me, all interested.

‘That’s right,’ she said.

‘I . . . I . . . assume you have proof?’ I stammered. ‘I assume you wouldn’t be throwing these allegations around unless you were absolutely sure, because if you were to—’

‘There is no doubt, Mrs Toovey.’

‘Shit,’ I whispered, and then quickly apologized. ‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Okay, I’ll be at the meeting.’

Unless you plan meetings to coincide with the ferry crossing times it’s often hard to arrive at appointments bang on time. Unusually for me, in this instance, I was early. I stayed in the car outside school, electing to avoid the other mothers, since George would not be departing along with the rest of the children. In fact, he had not been allowed to rejoin any of the afternoon ­lessons with his classmates and had been working with a teaching assistant on his own in the school’s IT lab.

I fiddled with the radio, trying to get a decent reception. Depending on your position, Hawkshead could receive sketchy transmission signals. Lightning, however, had no such trouble getting through and surge suppressors were essential if you wanted to protect your electrical items. I’d lost a freezer and two mobile phones since moving here.

Eventually, I gave up and chose to sit in silence. I observed the women in the playground in groups of three or four, making light conversation, the gist of which was likely to be: No, I am undoubtedly the worst mother in the school because . . . None of it said in earnest, of course. None of it truthful. The men were spared this litany of self-deprecating nonsense; they were allowed to stand alone, unspeaking, radiating ambivalence. You go in acting like that as a woman, and it’s noted.

When the playground had cleared I made my way inside. I had decided not to defend George. I would listen to what Hilary Slater had to say. Tell her I would deal with it accordingly. Do whatever was necessary to stop him doing it, and as quickly as possible.

But when the secretary showed me into the head teacher’s office and I saw George sitting on a too-tall chair, his thin legs dangling, his head downcast, I was overcome.

I rushed towards him. ‘George,’ I said, squatting beside his chair, ‘are you all right?’

He nodded without looking up.

Seconds later we were joined by the headmistress Hilary Slater, George’s Year Five class teacher, and the Year Six teacher, who wore a sickly, cloying scent which filled the room, making me queasy.

‘Mrs Toovey,’ began the headmistress, ‘thanks for taking the trouble to come in.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ I replied.

‘Perhaps you’d like to sit there?’ She motioned to an empty chair about two feet away from George. I looked at him before straightening up; tried to get him to meet my eye, but he wouldn’t. I even went so far as to lift his chin with my finger, but he pulled against me, keeping his head low.

I sat, glanced at the three women in front of me, each wearing a sympathetic expression meant to infer We do not judge here.

‘So,’ began the head, ‘I’m sure Mr Toovey brought you up to speed with last week’s problem and, really, what we’d like to do now is get your thoughts and come up with a suitable plan of action for George. A plan that we can all work towards that will—’

I cut her off.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You’ve spoken with Winston about this?’

Hilary Slater frowned. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You haven’t?’

‘This is the first I’ve heard.’

‘Oh,’ she blustered, uneasily. ‘Oh, that is . . . unfortunate. I just assumed that since . . .’ Her words died off and she looked to the other teachers for inspiration.

George’s class teacher cleared her throat. She was a kind, pleasant woman in her early fifties who was very approachable but who had the annoying habit of pretending not to recognize you if you should come across her outside school. ‘We did try to contact Mr Toovey today to be part of this meeting but we were informed by the man who answered the call that Mr Toovey was out of the country on business.’

I cast a glance at George, who raised his head before quickly lowering it again. His knees were grass stained and the lace in his left trainer had rejigged itself so that one end was too long, and the other too short to tie.

‘That’s regrettable,’ I said, all of us knowing it was Winston himself who had taken that call. ‘But you say you’ve spoken to him already?’

‘Yes,’ said Hilary Slater. ‘Twice. Last Friday, when Mr Toovey came to collect George from school. Things had been disappearing for some time—’

‘What kind of things?’ I asked.

‘Stationery supplies and whatnot . . . nothing of any real value, but that isn’t really the point. Stealing is stealing, Mrs Toovey.’

‘And you told Winston about this?’

‘Yes,’ and she paused, biting down on her lip before continuing. ‘Mr Toovey didn’t seem to take it very seriously. He appeared to think that this was normal for little boys. In fact, he joked that his mother had to sew up his pockets when he was George’s age. I apologize that you weren’t informed, but I assumed that Mr Toovey would relay our conversation to you.’

I looked at George. ‘Honey,’ I said gently, ‘you should have told me about this.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t get George to talk about it,’ Hilary Slater said. ‘He won’t admit to his wrongdoing and we can’t seem to find a reason why he’s doing it. And, other than this, as you know, he performs very well in school. And it goes without saying that he is well liked. He is a kind and popular member of the school.’

‘George?’ I prompted, but he simply shrugged.

Turning my attention back to the head, I said, ‘So, stationery supplies. Is that it?’

‘I’m afraid not. The reason we were able to ascertain that George was the thief was because he was trying to sell these supplies to some of the other children.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘One of the Year Two children was found with a staple gun in his backpack.’

I winced.

‘And sadly, today,’ she continued, ‘we found George in the staffroom during lesson time going through the handbags. He had forty pounds in his pocket, and we’re almost certain it’s not the first time he’s done it.’

I moved from my chair. ‘Christ, George,’ I said, crouching beside him, ‘what on earth were you thinking?’

He started to cry.

‘Mrs Toovey, we know things have been a little unsettled at home for George for a while now. Perhaps you could have a chat and see if there is anything worrying him,’ said Hilary Slater.

‘Are you going to punish him?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘We feel that is not the right way to tackle this. Obviously, if it happens again, then we would be forced to take action. But we’re confident George now understands the seriousness of this and I’m sure there’ll be no more incidents. Will there, George?’

He lifted his tear-stained face. ‘No,’ he whispered.

Moments later, when we were sitting in the corridor, I said, ‘Look at me, George. What is going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘George,’ I repeated.

He wiped his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you know. Why did you take the money?’

And he started to sob. Big, wracking sobs, shuddering through his small frame.

‘Because you haven’t got any money,’ he wept.

‘I’ve got some money. I’ve got enough money,’ I said.

He took a breath.

‘And I wanted to buy Cesar,’ he said. ‘I wanted to buy our dog back.’