Feeling like a dirty old man—although if she were a dirty old man she’d surely have the luxury of a trench coat—Lottie lurked furtively among the trees at the back of the playground and waved to Nat and Ruby when they came spilling out of their classrooms. By the time they’d raced over to her, she was already sidling toward the gates.
“Come on, let’s go. Look what I’ve done to my skirt.” Hustling them ahead of her, she used Ruby as a kind of human shield. “Nat? Hurry up, sweetheart, it’s raining.”
“We can’t go. Miss Batson wants to see you.”
Lottie stopped dead. Were any words designed to strike a greater sense of impending doom into the heart of any mother? She was no wimp, but Nat’s teacher was truly terrifying. Miss Batson—nobody knew her first name, possibly not even her own mother—was in her late fifties. Her iron-gray hair matched her clothes, which in turn matched her manner. When she requested a meeting with some poor unsuspecting parent, that parent knew it was time to be scared.
“OK. I’ll ring and make an appointment.” A face-lift without anesthetic would be preferable, but there would be no escape until the deed was done.
“No. Now,” insisted Nat.
“Sweetheart, it’s raining. And my skirt’s torn. I can’t see her today.” Lottie attempted to move him on, but he dug his heels in.
“You have to. She said now.”
Lottie’s insides churned. “Why? What have you done?”
“Nothing.” His head dropping, Nat kicked at a stone.
“Then why does it have to be now?”
He mumbled, “Just does.”
Pointing across the playground, Ruby said, “She’s there. Waiting.”
Oh God, so she was. Feeling sick, Lottie saw Miss Batson framed in the classroom doorway. Even at this distance she was looking grim. And scary. And not a bit as if she were about to launch into a rousing chorus of “My Favorite Things.”
Probably one of her favorite things was chewing up and spitting out hapless parents for breakfast.
Clutching Nat’s hand, Lottie made her way across the playground. The last time she’d been summoned by Miss Batson was when one of Nat’s classmates had poked him in the leg with a blunt pencil and Nat had retaliated by poking him back with a sharp one. Lottie, subjected to a long lecture on how Violence Would Not Be Tolerated at Oaklea and made to feel like a Very Bad Parent for having raised a child with such antisocial tendencies, had begun to wish she had a sharp pencil at hand herself.
Now, somehow more drenched than ever, she blinked rain out of her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. “Hello, Miss Batson. You wanted to see me?”
“Ms. Carlyle. Good afternoon. Indeed I did.”
“Mrs.,” said Lottie. She hated being addressed as Mzz; it sounded like a wasp being squashed.
Ignoring this, Miss Batson ushered Nat and Ruby into the classroom and through the maze of desks. “You two can wait for us in the hallway. Sit outside the secretary’s office. Ms. Carlyle?” With a sharp inclination of her Brillo head she directed Lottie toward one of the chairs in front of her own desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Which had to be a joke, surely. The molded plastic gray chair was designed for infant-size pupils. Lottie’s knees were higher than her bottom, her bottom was wider than the chair’s seat, and no matter how tightly she clamped her legs together, the crotch-high split in her skirt meant Miss Batson could undoubtedly see her stripy pink panties.
Plus she was dripping rain onto the floor, and the cups of her red bra were glowing through her wet shirt like twin traffic lights.
“Sorry about my skirt.” Attempting to sound cheerful Lottie said, “I ripped it getting out of the car. Typical!”
“Hmm. We’re here to discuss Nat.” Miss Batson’s tone was designed to make Lottie feel frivolous and stupid. “I have to tell you, Ms. Carlyle, that I’m extremely concerned about him.”
Her mouth dry, Lottie said, “What’s he done?”
“He borrowed a ruler from Charlotte West this morning. And refused to give it back.”
“Oh, right. A ruler.” Relief flooded through Lottie like alcohol. “Well, that’s not so terrible, is it?” Catching the look in Miss Batson’s beady eye, she added hastily, “Well, of course it is terrible, but I’ll speak to him, explain he mustn’t—”
“When I eventually retrieved the ruler, Nat refused to apologize. And when I sent him to the naughty corner, he used a crayon in his pocket to write on the wall.”
“Oh. What did he write?”
“He wrote ‘I hate,’” Miss Batson reported icily, “before I took the crayon from him. Then, when I reprimanded him for defacing school property, he burst into tears.”
“Right. OK. I’ll have a word with him about that too.”
“I then spent the lunch break speaking privately to Nat to find out why he was being so disruptive. He’s a very unhappy little boy, Ms. Carlyle. He told me everything, the whole story. And I have to say, I find it very troubling. Very troubling indeed.”
Numb and incredulous, Lottie said, “What whole story?”
“Your son is a victim of divorce, Ms. Carlyle. That’s a traumatic enough experience for any small child to have to deal with. But now you, a single parent, have embarked upon a relationship with another man. A man, furthermore, whom Nat does not like,” Miss Batson stated firmly.
“But—”
“And this is having a catastrophic effect on Nat,” the older woman continued, her mouth rigid with disapproval. “He feels powerless. He’s made his feelings abundantly clear to you, yet evidently you have chosen to ignore his pain.”
“But I—”
“Indeed, you have taken the frankly extraordinary decision to continue with this unsuitable liaison, without regard for your son’s mental state. Which, I have to say, shocks me. Any mother who chooses her own happiness at the expense of her children’s is displaying a lack of concern that I find quite breathtakingly selfish.”
Stunned into silence, Lottie gazed past Miss Batson and focused on the map of Africa on the wall behind her. Then Africa began to blur and she realized to her horror that her eyes were swimming with tears.
“You have to seriously consider your priorities here, Ms. Carlyle. Who is more important to you? This man or your own son?” Miss Batson paused, driving the message home. “Whom do you love more?”
Lottie had never felt so small in her life. Shame welled up and a single tear slid down one cheek. Miss Batson thought she was a disgrace, an unfit mother, and no doubt a slut to boot, with her high heels and her look-at-me bra and her split-to-the-limit skirt.
“Well?” Miss Batson was tapping her fingers, demanding an answer.
“I love my son more.” It came out as a whisper.
“Good. Delighted to hear that. So do I take it we won’t be needing this?”
“What is it?” Lottie looked at the card with a telephone number written on it.
“The contact number for social services.”
“What?”
“Nat told me everything,” Miss Batson repeated coolly. “About the mental cruelty inflicted upon him and his sister by this so-called boyfriend of yours. The things he’s said and done over the course of the last few weeks—well, it certainly wasn’t pleasant having to hear about them. If you’re looking for a potential stepfather for your children, you have to consider their feelings, Ms. Carlyle. They’re the ones who matter. Well, we’ll put this away. For now.” She folded the card in two and slid it into her desk drawer.
“Now wait a minute.” All the blood rushed to Lottie’s cheeks as she realized what Miss Batson was implying. “There hasn’t been any mental cruelty! Tyler isn’t a monster! He’s done everything he can to get along with my children; he never meant to upset them! If they’d just give him another chance they’d realize how—”
“Maybe we’ll be needing this number after all.” Miss Batson’s bony fingers swooped back down to the desk drawer.
“No we won’t!” Now Lottie really wanted to stab her with a sharp pencil. “We won’t, OK? But I’m just trying to explain to you that this has been blown all out of proportion!”
“And I’m trying to explain to you,” Miss Batson explained evenly, “that I gave up my lunch hour to mop up the tears of a seven-year-old boy and listen to him pouring his heart out to me about how devastated he is by the unwanted arrival of this man in his life.”
“But—”
“That will be all, Ms. Carlyle.” Rising to her feet, Miss Batson checked her watch. “Needless to say, we shall all be keeping a close eye on Nat and Ruby in the weeks and months ahead. The staff here at Oaklea regards the happiness and well-being of our pupils as of prime importance.”
Stung, Lottie said, “So do I.”
“Good. And once this gentleman friend of yours is out of the picture, I’m sure we’ll all see a marked improvement in Ruby’s and Nat’s mental well-beings. Thank you for your time.”
As Miss Batson opened the door to send her through to the hallway where Ruby and Nat were waiting, Lottie found herself saying dazedly, “Thank you.”