I woke up this morning surrounded by those little envelopes—by those little pearls of Joe. There were a handful of them, each in its own neat package, each of them adorned with a few clear words.
He’d gone full-on Alice in Wonderland, and every envelope had a different instruction: “Read Me When You’re Sad,” “Read Me When You’re Lonely,” and a few others. A miniature guide to life that feels as though it’s come from beyond the grave, from a love I thought dead and buried.
I’d wanted to open them all, as every single one of the emotions he mentioned seemed to be relevant, but I forced myself not to. I would ration them instead, like oranges during the war.
It was quite surreal, after my few snatched hours of tormented sleep, that the first thing that swam into the line of vision of my swollen eyes was pale blue paper saying “Read Me When You Need to Be Brave.”
I don’t feel brave this morning. I feel exhausted and angry and confused, and part of me wants to give up. To ignore it all, and let life continue in its calm and ever-decreasing circles. I forced myself to dial that number, the one he left scrawled on his letter, as soon as I was awake. I was almost relieved when the line was dead—what if he’d actually answered? Or even worse, what if I got his voicemail? That would be a difficult message to leave. I am horrified at my own cowardice, at the temptation to retreat from this emotional battleground, so I have brought that pale blue Be Brave envelope with me, to the school where I work.
I am standing in the foyer, surrounded by eight-year-olds dressed as jellyfish. There is a lot of chiffon and trailing ribbon.
One of the kids is crying, as her mum misunderstood the costume request and sent in an actual orange jelly in the shape of a fish, on a plate painted blue like the sea. A teacher tries to console her, clearly struggling to stifle laughter.
In the nearby hall—the one that doubles up for assembly and PE and smells of wood polish and craft glue—the younger children are wearing shark masks and cardboard fins, and the year sixes look like the world’s most bored group of sailors.
I’m sleep-deprived, and wired from too much coffee. I’d forgotten that it was dress rehearsal day for the end-of-term show, and this aquatic wonderland has added to the surrealism.
The jellyfish are dancing around me, bright leggings and shimmering cloaks in a kaleidoscope of color. I whoosh my own arms up into the air and swirl along with them, making them giggle and point.
“Miss Wilshaw,” one of them says breathlessly, “you can’t be a jellyfish! You’re way too old!”
“Who says?” I reply, doubling my swishing rate and chasing him around. “Maybe I’m the queen jellyfish!”
“The queen has gray hair and always looks angry. So you can’t be the queen, because you have yellow hair and always look happy!”
This cheers me up, and as I wave goodbye, I do the jellyfish dance all the way through to the staff room.
The noise levels behind me—the chatter and singing and stampeding feet and occasional shouts of a teacher calling order—fade as I make my way to the office I share with the deputy head.
It feels like home, this place, despite the decibel-busting noise of the children, the smell of school lunches, the ringing of bells and the scraping of chairs and the screams of feral joy coming from the field at break time.
I started as a volunteer, two years after I came home from hospital. It was a strange choice, to surround myself with children when losing my own had almost killed me—but it felt right. The simplicity and openness to pleasure that little ones have is infectious, and I needed some simplicity.
I wasn’t exactly Mrs. Employable either, with my limited qualifications, no work experience, and a couple of years in mental institutions under my belt.
The then head, Mrs. Corby, was a kind soul who seemed to understand my need to be in a bigger world than my own. She let me come in and help with literacy sessions, listening to the children read and helping them learn. I must have heard The Gruffalo three million times, and can still recite it by heart.
That grew into helping out with fund-raising events, and organizing extracurricular clubs, and eventually into a job. These days, Mrs. Corby is retired, and I work as a parent–school liaison support officer, which just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?
What I mainly do is work with families and teachers and anyone else involved in the school world to try to make it all work better. I love aspects of my job—the atmosphere here, the children, the way you see them start as teeny-tiny babies in reception who eventually make their way in the world.
I often see those kids out and about in town, and it never fails to make me feel ancient when someone I remember as a scruffy four-year-old boy with a permanently snotty nose, one sock always up, one sock always down, speaks to me in a grown man’s voice.
Other aspects of my job, though, kind of suck. Same with most jobs, I suppose. It makes me unbearably sad when I see families broken to the point of their kids being damaged. When relationships break down and the child is stuck in the middle. When mums or dads struggle to look after themselves, never mind the juniors. When there are health problems, or emotional issues, or sudden deaths. This isn’t the tough inner city, but there are still plenty of problems.
Today, of course, I will be expected to stay at home—it is the day after my own mother’s funeral, after all. But I needed to be here—needed to do something that revolved around work and others, not the mighty tsunami of change I feel roaring toward me.
I make the most of my time alone, and pull out the note. “Read Me When You Need to Be Brave.” Ironically, I need to be brave to even open it.
I sigh in disgust at my own weakness, and tear the envelope open. Inside is a small white card, filled with Joe’s writing.
Jess, you are the bravest person I’ve ever met. You left your easy life to join me in my difficult one. You abandoned your home to make a new one in a place that terrified you. You went from being a child to being a mother. You stood up to your parents, and you never showed your fear of mine. You are brave, and strong, and powerful. Be brave—not because I tell you to, but because it’s who you are.
My eyes fill with tears, and I run my fingers over his scrawl, and try to convince myself that he is right. That I am brave enough to cope with all of this.
“You OK?” says a voice from behind me. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” I say, shuffling the card back into its envelope. I don’t want anyone to see it. It’s mine—mine and Joe’s.
“Top secret, eh?” says Alison, the deputy head. “What are you doing here anyway?”
Alison is about a foot shorter than me, much rounder, and looks like a Hollywood version of a cuddly fairy godmother. She has a strong Glaswegian accent and a master’s degree in sarcasm, which confuses people who expect chuckles and pixie dust.
“Stuff to sort,” I reply. “And I wanted to be here for the meeting about Louis. Plus, I’d have missed that girl with the literal jelly fish?”
Alison pulls a face, and says: “Poor love . . . anyway. Louis. The parents are here now, waiting for us. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
I nod and follow her through into the neutrally painted room we use for meetings. Today, we have two parents coming in to discuss a complaint they’ve made about a little boy called Louis Mitchell, and his “abusive and disruptive” behavior.
I see Alison’s perfectly respectful “we’re taking your concerns very seriously” expression fall into place, and try to follow suit as we make small talk for a few moments.
I stay quiet during the first stages of the meeting, letting Alison lead as she listens to the litany of moans from the other side of the table.
Louis Mitchell is, according to these two ladies, the very spawn of Satan. He’s rude, he swears, he hits, he kicks, he pushes. In particular, he bullies their two children, who have come home in tears at the humiliations they’ve suffered at Louis’s hands. Louis’s seven-year-old hands, I should add—because he’s only a baby psychopath.
I gaze across the table, and find my eyes crawling across both women as they back each other up and finish each other’s sentences in a way that suggests they’ve had pre-meeting meetings to get their strategy right. Maybe in the posh artisan bakery and coffee shop in the village, or at the French bistro, or over a glass of Chardonnay in one of their nice houses in the right part of the town.
Louis Mitchell’s mum isn’t here. She came in at the end of last week, with her two younger children, in a cloud of chaos, dressed in what were probably her poshest clothes and struggling to stop herself from crying. She looked like she needed a month at a spa, and a visit from Nanny McPhee.
She’d lost her own mum a few weeks earlier, there was no hubby on the scene, and she was most definitely not living her best life—she wasn’t going to John Lewis for a quick lunch or planning a trip to the Seychelles or driving around in a Range Rover for the two-minute walk to school.
The contrast between the women couldn’t be stronger, and summed up the duality of living in a place like this.
“Also,” one of the mums says, lowering her voice and leaning toward us to indicate she’s saying something in total confidence, “I’m told that he has head lice. I don’t like to judge, and obviously it’s not the poor child’s fault, but surely there comes a point where action has to be taken?”
I think it’s that patronizing and phony “poor child” that finally gets to me. That, and the fact that my fingers are in my pocket, wrapped tight around that card of Joe’s. The one that he wrote to make me brave.
Louis is a child, and he is poor—and that’s ultimately what their problem is. He’s one of the estate kids who is ruining their middle-class idyll with his inconvenient grubbiness.
I nod, and smile, and politely explain that I just have to get something very quickly from my office.
When I return minutes later, I stand outside the door for a moment, taking some deep breaths and asking myself if this is the right battle to fight. If this is the right place to be brave.
Well, I decide, maybe not—but it’s a good place to start.
Alison looks as confused as they do when I walk in and dump a pile of folded-up plastic carrier bags onto the table between us.
“What are these?” I ask quietly, gesturing downward.
“Ummm . . . shopping bags?” suggests one of the mums, her perfectly blow-dried bob swishing.
“Yes, very good. What kind?”
“Ah . . . they seem to be Waitrose shopping bags. A couple of Co-op as well. Can I ask what this has to do with anything?”
I glance at Alison, and see her shake her head. Don’t go there, she’s undoubtedly saying, trying to communicate with the narrowing of her eyes. I grin at her apologetically.
I am so going to go there.
“Well,” I say, sitting back down, “it’s relevant because these are shopping bags I keep in my desk drawer. I keep them there to give to certain kids in the morning. In particular, this term, to Louis Mitchell. Now, this won’t surprise you, but Louis is entitled to free school meals—shocking, isn’t it, that in this modern world we should still allow children like him to eat?”
I feel Alison tense beside me, and see the complete lack of understanding on the mums’ faces. They know they’re being insulted somehow, but can’t quite put their fingers on it.
“Louis doesn’t like school meals, though. He finds the dining room overwhelming. Louis is still going through diagnosis—it takes forever if you can’t pay for those private tests that you had done, Mrs. Lucas, when you thought Ollie was dyslexic that time? Which he wasn’t. Anyway—Louis is probably going to be found to be somewhere in the ADHD area, I’d guess.
“He finds it hard to sit still, his mind wanders, and he can sometimes randomly get up and sharpen his pencil in the middle of a lesson. He gets overenthusiastic when he hugs, and when he’s bored he simply deals with it by doing something else. But Louis is also kind and caring and a lot of fun to be around—in fact he’s very popular, with the teachers and most of the kids. Most of them. Not yours, though?”
“Well, no,” replies Mrs. Lucas, her nostrils flaring slightly. “And I’m sympathetic to any child with issues, but that doesn’t mean he should be allowed to bully our boys!”
“He doesn’t,” I reply quietly. “That’s complete bullshit.”
There is a pause and a communal gasp, and I feel Alison lay a hand on my arm, which I gently remove. I am brave—I am not out of control.
“It’s complete bullshit because if there are bullies in that class, then it’s Ollie and Josh. Seriously, I know we’re not supposed to say things like this about kids, but they’re both absolute arseholes. They’re only little, so I suppose there’s time for them to change, but if I were you I’d start paying close attention to missing-cat posters in the neighborhood, maybe start saving for their legal expenses now?”
The mums are staring at me and blinking very rapidly. Alison is spluttering an apology and scraping her chair back. I am standing my ground—or sitting it at least.
“Now, that was a bit harsh, wasn’t it? And to be honest I don’t even mean it. They’re not that bad—just a bit spoiled and entitled, and picking on Louis because he’s an easy target. They’re not evil, and I’m ninety percent sure they won’t turn out to be serial killers. Maybe bankers or politicians. But it doesn’t feel nice having your kid vilified, does it? Having someone put the boot in, the way you have with Louis and his mum?
“That woman is doing her best, and frankly I’m sick of the smug, self-satisfied bollocks that people like you come out with. You’re only sending your kids here to save money until you shell out for private school when they’re older. You think you’re better than her because she’s poor, and lives in a rental, and struggles to cope—but you’re not, and neither are your kids.”
Mrs. Lucas is now bright red, and looks like she might try to strangle me. The other mum is actually crying, though whether it’s angry crying or home-truth crying I’m not sure.
Alison is physically pushing me away from the table and toward the door, and she is surprisingly strong for someone who looks like Tinker Bell. She is apologizing as she goes, and I am allowing myself to be moved along, until I reach the doorway.
I turn around, stamping on Alison’s foot to stop her shoving me, and say: “You might still be wondering about the shopping bags. Well, Louis’s mum sends him in with his lunch in an Aldi bag. Your boys have been torturing him, and a couple of other kids, about this all school year. Aldi’s for poor people, you see—chavs, council estate scum, benefits cheats, losers whose dads are on the dole. So any kid using one of those bags—or a few other places not deemed worthy—are publicly humiliated.
“We should have dealt with it earlier, but Louis’s mum never came in and kicked up a fuss. Probably Louis never mentioned it. But once I saw what was going on, I started swapping the shopping bags for these, which I brought with me from home—posh shopping bags—in an attempt to protect him. So congratulations—you might not have raised serial killers, but you’ve already raised snobs!”
I stalk back outside the meeting room, lean against the wall, and suck in some deep breaths. I can hear singing coming from the rehearsal, something about mermaids and narwhals and magic islands.
Alison closes the door gently, promising the seething mums she’ll be back, and I meet her eyes as she stands in front of me. I am expecting her to be furious. To be greeted with the sack at best, and threats of disembowelment at worst.
Instead, she places both hands over her mouth, and bursts out laughing, taking a precautionary few steps away in case they hear her stifled guffaws.
“Jesus, Jess,” she says, tears of amusement winking in her eyes, “that was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen! The look on their faces when you told them what their wee shits were really like! Priceless!”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them ‘wee shits,’ you know,” I reply.
“Probably not. But I don’t think you’re supposed to use the words ‘bullshit’ and ‘bollocks’ either. Look, are you all right? That was so not like you in there.”
“I don’t know if I’m all right,” I say honestly, chewing my lip. “But I do know I’m not sorry. Well, I’m sorry I’ve dumped you in it—but I’m not sorry for what I said. I think . . . I think I might need the rest of the term off, Alison.”
“No kidding!” she replies, raising arched eyebrows. “I think you may be right. I’m going to go and do some damage control back in there, and now I can tell them you’ve just lost your poor old ma and you’ve been so badly affected that you’re taking some leave . . . it’ll be all right. Stick around for a bit, though, so we can have a proper chat before you go.”
“OK. I’ve got some paperwork to do anyway. Hope it works out all right—for Louis, mainly.”
“He’ll be grand. And I really don’t get that Aldi thing, do you? Lovely cheese in there!”
She gives me the thumbs-up sign, takes a deep breath, and reinstates her respectful-listening face as she goes back into the lionesses’ den.
I amble down toward my office, flushed from the conflict. I have been brave—I have attempted to right a small wrong.
Now, I need to be even more brave—and right the much bigger wrong that was done to Joe, to me, all those years ago.
It is time to stop trying to dodge the tsunami. It’s time to leap right in, and surf the wave, and see where the water takes me.
I retrieve my phone, and hit Michael’s number. He answers with the words: “He-Man and She-Ra’s House of Pain, how can I help you?”
“Cousin dearest,” I say, ignoring that. “How do you fancy joining me on a road trip?”