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Authors: Kerry Fisher
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moment to pop into my office, Ms Etxeleku? Take a seat in reception, I’ll be right with you,’ Mr Peters said.
I nodded, running through the checklist in my head of all my crimes for that week – only ironing cuffs and collars on the school shirts, not ironing Harley’s rugby shirt at all, chocolate digestives for snack two days running, forgetting to check Bronte’s English homework for capital letters and full stops. I was about to disappear through the door, when Clover pulled on my arm.
‘Hi. If you’re going to be a few minutes at the school, why don’t I relieve you of Bronte? She can play with the twins. You can pick her up when you’ve finished. We live right at the end of the lane that runs adjacent to the Royal Oak pub. You can’t miss us, it’s the only house down there.’
Bronte was tugging at my T-shirt and hopping from foot to foot. ‘Can I go with Clover, Mum? I want to see their guinea pigs and rabbits. Please?’
‘That would be great. I just need to find Harley and tell him to wait here for me,’ I said.
Clover fiddled with the toggle on her anorak. ‘I think Harley is waiting for you in Mr Peters’ office. Why don’t you bring him over too and stay for supper when you’ve finished?’
Usually Clover talked loud enough for the whole class to share her thoughts. Her low voice and the way she kept shaking her head at Orion were making me twitchy.
I mumbled a thank you and dived into the entrance corridor lined with posters about five fruit and veg a day, anti-bullying slogans and the benefits of cycling. The squeak of my Crocs on the grey tiles was getting faster and faster. At a corridor crossroads, I saw signs for the physics lab, dance studio, music room but no bloody reception in the business of receiving mothers who were only used to classrooms numbered one to six. Mr Peters caught up with me in a waft of spicy aftershave. ‘Ms Etxeleku, thank you so much for coming in. I won’t keep you a moment, I just wanted a word about Harley.’
‘Is he okay?’ I said, almost having to trot to keep up with his long strides.
‘He’s fine, absolutely fine.’ He steered me left into a room with three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of a huge mahogany desk. Harley was in the middle one, with his head bent forwards, slumped on the padded velour armrest. He didn’t bother to look round.
‘Take a seat, Ms Etxeleku.’
‘Hello, love,’ I said, reaching for Harley’s hand. He squeezed my fingers tightly, needily, staring straight ahead without blinking. His breath was whistling in and out of his nose.
Mr Peters sat on the edge of his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. His black shoes were smooth and shiny, teacher-like, but I could see an inch of purple and lime spotty socks peeping out under his trousers. He ran his hand over his short hair. ‘This is a bit of a delicate matter, Ms Etxeleku, but there’s been a little problem today between Harley and one of his classmates. From what I understand, there was a bit of teasing that got out of hand, and then the matter seemed to take rather a violent turn.’
‘What do you mean, violent turn?’
‘Harley punched the boy in question in the face.’
I didn’t speak. I pinched the bridge of my nose and stared down at the hole in the knee of my tracksuit bottoms. All the bad decisions I’d not so much made as allowed to happen – letting Harley mix with the older boys on the estate, shrugging off the odd punch-up in the back alley, not being there when he came home from school – crushed in on me. I’d done my best, which was crap and the crap was about to hit the fan.
Harley tugged at my hand. ‘Mum. Mum. I’m sorry. He was calling me a pikey. He said that you dressed from jumble sales and Oxfam, that Dad stole car wheels for a living and that we lived in a caravan under the bridge by the station. Dad said if anyone laughed at me, I should punch them hard enough to make their brains
I nodded, running through the checklist in my head of all my crimes for that week – only ironing cuffs and collars on the school shirts, not ironing Harley’s rugby shirt at all, chocolate digestives for snack two days running, forgetting to check Bronte’s English homework for capital letters and full stops. I was about to disappear through the door, when Clover pulled on my arm.
‘Hi. If you’re going to be a few minutes at the school, why don’t I relieve you of Bronte? She can play with the twins. You can pick her up when you’ve finished. We live right at the end of the lane that runs adjacent to the Royal Oak pub. You can’t miss us, it’s the only house down there.’
Bronte was tugging at my T-shirt and hopping from foot to foot. ‘Can I go with Clover, Mum? I want to see their guinea pigs and rabbits. Please?’
‘That would be great. I just need to find Harley and tell him to wait here for me,’ I said.
Clover fiddled with the toggle on her anorak. ‘I think Harley is waiting for you in Mr Peters’ office. Why don’t you bring him over too and stay for supper when you’ve finished?’
Usually Clover talked loud enough for the whole class to share her thoughts. Her low voice and the way she kept shaking her head at Orion were making me twitchy.
I mumbled a thank you and dived into the entrance corridor lined with posters about five fruit and veg a day, anti-bullying slogans and the benefits of cycling. The squeak of my Crocs on the grey tiles was getting faster and faster. At a corridor crossroads, I saw signs for the physics lab, dance studio, music room but no bloody reception in the business of receiving mothers who were only used to classrooms numbered one to six. Mr Peters caught up with me in a waft of spicy aftershave. ‘Ms Etxeleku, thank you so much for coming in. I won’t keep you a moment, I just wanted a word about Harley.’
‘Is he okay?’ I said, almost having to trot to keep up with his long strides.
‘He’s fine, absolutely fine.’ He steered me left into a room with three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of a huge mahogany desk. Harley was in the middle one, with his head bent forwards, slumped on the padded velour armrest. He didn’t bother to look round.
‘Take a seat, Ms Etxeleku.’
‘Hello, love,’ I said, reaching for Harley’s hand. He squeezed my fingers tightly, needily, staring straight ahead without blinking. His breath was whistling in and out of his nose.
Mr Peters sat on the edge of his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. His black shoes were smooth and shiny, teacher-like, but I could see an inch of purple and lime spotty socks peeping out under his trousers. He ran his hand over his short hair. ‘This is a bit of a delicate matter, Ms Etxeleku, but there’s been a little problem today between Harley and one of his classmates. From what I understand, there was a bit of teasing that got out of hand, and then the matter seemed to take rather a violent turn.’
‘What do you mean, violent turn?’
‘Harley punched the boy in question in the face.’
I didn’t speak. I pinched the bridge of my nose and stared down at the hole in the knee of my tracksuit bottoms. All the bad decisions I’d not so much made as allowed to happen – letting Harley mix with the older boys on the estate, shrugging off the odd punch-up in the back alley, not being there when he came home from school – crushed in on me. I’d done my best, which was crap and the crap was about to hit the fan.
Harley tugged at my hand. ‘Mum. Mum. I’m sorry. He was calling me a pikey. He said that you dressed from jumble sales and Oxfam, that Dad stole car wheels for a living and that we lived in a caravan under the bridge by the station. Dad said if anyone laughed at me, I should punch them hard enough to make their brains
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