“So, we hear a lot about the polarization of views in society today. But who can tell me what it means?” I go over to the blinds to adjust them, the sun shining on my face. When I return to my desk, only one boy has his hand up. “Yes, Ruben.”
“It’s when people are opposed, normally politically, but not necessarily.”
His father’s a social science lecturer.
“Correct. Yes. Well done.” I smile, leaning back against the desk. In the front row, a boy is doodling a penis. I try not to look. “And why do you think that’s cause for concern? What’s the problem? Surely it’s good to encourage people to have opposing views...? Yes, Ruben.”
“It’s dangerous for democracy, Miss.”
“And why is that?”
“Because people aren’t listening to each other. They’re hanging out with friends who have the same opinions and are hating on people who don’t agree. It’s them and us, and you have to pick a side. You’re not actually hearing people’s views as part of a democratic process.”
“Very good, Ruben. And there’s growing concern about this trend, not just here in the UK, but globally. You might be surprised to hear that many democratic countries, such as the US, Kenya, Bangladesh, Poland, India and Colombia, are experiencing a similar problem. To make matters worse, political leaders are inflaming the situation, demonizing the opposition as a political tactic.” I turn to the whiteboard, the pen squeaking as I write.
Them.....................Us.
“But from our point of view—the general public, the individual—when you over-identify with a side, you narrow your own perspective and worldview. There’s a danger we’ll lose not only our ability to listen and tolerate others, but to debate also because we’re so entrenched in the idea that our side is right. And when societies become divided, it’s hard to move forward, reaching what’s known as an impasse. Who can tell me what that is?”
“Brexit, Miss,” a boy at the back shouts.
I point the pen at him. “Yes, Jake. Just like Brexit... Yet the truth of the matter is that it can be very uncomfortable hearing someone else’s views. Especially if you’re morally opposed to them on religious grounds, for example, with issues such as abortion or gay marriage.”
“Yeah, Ruben knows a lot about that too, Miss,” Jake shouts. There’s a titter of laughter.
I tap the space on the whiteboard between Them and Us. “In order to cohabit peacefully and move forward, we need to inhabit more of the space here, where opinions meet, so we can debate meaningfully and respectfully... So, why do we think this is happening on such a wide scale? Why now, in this day and age?” I look at the boys. “Anyone, other than Ruben?”
He puts down his hand, but no one else moves. The boy in the front row is spurting liquid out of the doodle penis.
“Okay, Ruben.”
He looks pleased. “Social media, Miss?”
“Yes. Good. Can you expand?”
“Social media is about speed and volume. If you base your opinion on what you’ve read online, there’s a danger you’re not getting all the facts. Which leads to people thinking in broad terms, like them and us.”
“Absolutely.” Turning to the board, I think of Jess and Stephanie, my stomach churning as I write the word: impasse.
I’m about to talk about the polarization of views in Nazi Germany as a propaganda tactic, when someone shouts, “Look, Miss!”
Scraping back their chairs, the boys gather at the window. “Isn’t that Saffron?”
It’s bitter outside, a nasty wind scraping the leaves along the concrete. Saffron has been waiting by the school gates all afternoon. It’s not clear what he’s doing there, so I haven’t reported him—can’t see that he’s doing anything wrong. But as I make my way across the car park, he heads toward me, gathering speed.
I could pretend I haven’t seen him—get into my car and lock the doors—but that seems cowardly. He was expelled because of a decision I made. Only a few weeks ago, I was sad that I didn’t get to say goodbye, and now I’m running away from him? What’s changed?
I know exactly what’s changed.
“Hello, Saffron.” I’m about to add nice to see you, before stopping myself, knowing this would sound insincere.
He seems taller out of school uniform, his hair cut extremely short. It makes him look plucked, raw. “Do you know what you’ve done, Miss?”
“What do you mean?” I glance around me, wondering whether I should call for help. I have an alarm in my bag somewhere. Yet it’s daylight and my colleagues are waving goodbye, getting into their cars. I tried to stick up for Saffron on countless occasions, so they won’t think anything of my being here with him.
“I know it was you.” He points at me, stopping short of actually poking me. “You told on me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You’re full of shit! My parents are sending me away to military school.” He slaps his forehead harshly. “That’s why I’ve got this haircut... See what you’ve done?” His eyes tear up, his voice breaking. “You didn’t have to tell on me, Miss. I thought you liked me.”
Reaching for his arm, I dare to touch it. “I’m so sorry, Saffron.”
He yanks himself away from me. “Piss off, Paki.”
I stare at him in shock. And then he takes off toward the gates, jumping over puddles, jacket flailing.
“Priyanka, are you all right?”
I turn to see one of the science teachers hurrying toward me, bike lock dangling on his wrist.
“No. Not really,” I say croakily, going to my car.
“I heard what he said to you. We should report him to the police.”
“I don’t want to do that.” I unlock the door. “I want to forget all about it.”
“What? But you can’t let him get away with it!”
Yes, I can.
“Sorry. I have to go.”
Starting the car, I drive away. As I get onto the main road, I pass Saffron sitting at the bus stop, his back turned to the traffic, head in hands.
Outside Tadpoles, Beau is waiting in his usual spot by the gate with his teacher. He doesn’t look at me, and when I reach them, I can see why. There’s a distinct red circle on his cheek. “Oh. He’s poorly?” I hold out my hand. He approaches lethargically, dragging his day bag along the floor.
“There’s a sickness bug doing the rounds. If he vomits, you’ll need to keep him home for forty-eight hours.”
“Sure thing.” I smile, trying to look as though the childcare isn’t an issue. Andy often steps in to help. But I wouldn’t mind taking some time out this week. “Come on, then, Master Beau. Let’s get you home in the warm.”
He’s very quiet on the drive home, not answering my questions, so I let him be.
As we park outside the house and I unstrap him, he looks at me intently, touching my eyelashes. “Your eyes, Mummy.”
I can’t think what he means. And then I realize: they’re brown, natural, for the third day in a row.
“Don’t you want to change them anymore?” he asks, as I carry him up the front path. He breathes on me, smelling of stale milk.
“Not at the moment, cutie pie.”
He nods, kisses me, subject over.
Beau is sick in the night. I rock him back to sleep, loosening his bedcovers, bringing his temperature down. And when I climb back into bed, it’s almost dawn.
Andy is asleep, and I sense the pit of dark space between us where our bodies no longer touch. For the past few nights, I’ve waited for his breathing to become rhythmic and deep before I inch away, the edge of the bed precariously close.
Piss off, Paki.
I flinch, tensing. Why am I doing this to myself? He’s just a nasty boy and is getting what he deserves. He had enough warnings. What he did to that girl was inexcusable, and there’s no excuse for what he called me either. I don’t care how scared or angry he was.
“Mummy?” Beau calls for me across the landing.
Forcing myself out of bed, I tiptoe from the room, Andy shifting position, mumbling.
I turn on Beau’s carousel night-light, pastel horses dancing slowly around the room. “It’s okay. Mummy’s here.” Crouching beside him, I feel his forehead, his cheeks pallid. I hate seeing him so pale, listless.
I think of what a rock Andy was when Beau was in intensive care. Everyone said he was incredible, even my sister, Meena, who calls him The Anorak.
How could I spoil that for Beau, taking his daddy from him, and all for what—to settle a historic long-forgotten score? After the countless hours that Andy sat vigil by his side?
Is Stephanie right? Are we sacrificing the living for the dead?
Drawing up a chair, I take Beau’s hand and watch him as he tumbles into sleep, the night-light flashing on my butterfly tattoo before plunging it into darkness again.
Meena FaceTimes me at lunchtime. Beau is sitting on his beanbag, watching CBeebies. I’m lolling on the floor, propped up against the sofa, sipping a Cup-a-Soup.
“Where are you?” she says, spotting that the background isn’t my classroom.
“At home. Beau’s not well.”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?” She’s a GP—can’t help herself.
I sigh. “Just a sickness bug. It’s nothing. He’s fine.”
“Does he have a temperature?”
“Little bit, yeah.”
“You should be monitoring it. Have you given him acetaminophen?”
“Duh...didn’t think of that.”
She pulls a face. “No need to be sarcastic.”
“So...did you want something?” I ask, yawning.
“Yes. Just to warn you. Mum’s on the warpath. She wants you home for her birthday.”
“Well, that’s not gonna happen. Besides, I am home.”
“You know what I mean.” She peers at me, looming closer, nose growing. “You look different.”
“Just tired.” I yawn again. “I was up all night with Beau.”
Realization dawns. “No contact lenses! Crikey. Can the real Priyanka Bandyopadhyay please stand up?”
This is a very tedious old joke of hers. Today, it doesn’t warrant even an eye roll from me.
“Why the sudden change? Thought you loved your lenses?”
I shrug, my mouth trembling.
She doesn’t miss a trick. “Are you okay?”
“Course.”
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
She peers at me again. “Is it The Anorak?”
“Don’t be silly. Everything’s fine.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“Well, I’d better get back to surgery. Speak soon.”
“’Bye, big sis.” I manage a smile.
“’Bye, little Pree.”
I watch Beau swaying happily to a song on TV. I miss Meena, my brothers, my parents. I wish they could tell me what to do.
I’m stuck bang in the middle between Jess and Stephanie. I knew all along that I’d end up there. I’ve never been able to see what it is precisely that’s best for me until long after the event, aided by hindsight. At which point it’s always much too late.