Bad Little Girl(13)

‘Some of our younger tots’ – Miss Peel nudged Miss Brett, mouthed ‘tots’ and rolled her eyes. Miss Brett smirked at the window – ‘have some real, well, I don’t want to judge them, but have some issues with behaviour. With anger, I’d say. And. Well. I just think that we have to look at all the possibilities . . .’ As so often happened when she was speaking to adults, Claire trailed off into blushing confusion.

James cut in. ‘I’m thinking a stern assembly. Cancelling all Golden Time until someone turns themselves in, a letter home and something in the newsletter from Gary. And no clubs – not that there’s much uptake, but still.’

The Reverend Gary let out his pursed sigh. ‘My feeling, James, is that anything demonstrably going against the Christian ethos of the school has to be met head on. It’s not just adhering to the curriculum, it’s, it’s part of the fabric of our society – and yes, thanks, I think we’re all aware of some of the staff’s lack of faith by now, but still—’

‘Trying to wrangle up a race war, Gary?’ drawled Miss Peel.

‘This is still a Christian country . . .’ cried Miss Pickin, while Miss Peel slouched backwards, grinning, and a faint snore escaped from Mrs Hurst.

And so the meeting came to a close. A stern letter was sent home in the book bags to be ignored, crayons were confiscated, but the Golden Time withdrawal broke down within the week once Miss Peel refused to cooperate: ‘I have Planet Protectors on a Friday. Are you really going to tell all the fifth years that a month’s worth of recycling doesn’t get them squat? You tell them. And Idris King’s in the group. If you want Jacquie King down your throat, feel free.’

For the next few weeks, the dark crayon lines remained in the hall. They couldn’t be painted over, and the budget wouldn’t stretch to the expensive wax solvent the caretaker found on the internet. Eventually he smeared the whole mess with lighter fluid. It rubbed off well, but took some of the paint with it; the hall stank and the windows had to stay open during lunchtime.

Claire had kept something to herself in the meeting. It would have been shot down anyway, she reasoned. James already thought she was a little over the top about Lorna, so much so that she didn’t want to mention her at all. Not after last time. And why get the girl into trouble again? With no real evidence?

The day before the crib had been smashed, Claire was on exit duty, standing by the side gate at hometime to make sure children weren’t haring out into the dark main road unattended. After school it was her habit to roam about the playgrounds picking up plastic balls, litter and the odd bits of lost property. It was a large area to cover – three tarmacked yards, not to mention the little caves and nooks in the scrubby trees at the end of the playing field, used by generations of children, each thinking it was their secret hiding place. While the other teachers frowned over their stats, or bolted for the car park, Claire was happily looking for litter, thinking her own thoughts and in no hurry to get home to her little, empty flat.

She often thought – guiltily – that teaching would be a much nicer job without colleagues. Perhaps, if she’d been born a hundred years earlier, she’d have been a governess and spent all her time with children, from breakfast to bedtime, with no real breaks in which she’d have to interact with adults. No long holidays, no empty time to fill. That would be nice.

Sometimes she felt that, somewhere along the line, everyone else had been given an alternative lexicon. They knew how to speak to each other as peers, equals. But Claire must have missed that meeting, missed out on how to be a proper adult, because they all seemed like failed children to her. Often, in mid-conversation, familiar colleagues and acquaintances would suddenly appear alien, petty and confusing. There she’d be, having a proper, grown-up discussion, when she’d suddenly become distracted by the very grown-upness of it all. She would hear words and phrases coming out of her mouth, and suddenly it would all seem foreign, faintly absurd and not at all interesting. Just posturing. Or maybe not. Maybe it was only Claire who felt like a child at the top of the stairs listening hungrily to her parents’ conversation, before realising, sadly, that there was nothing of interest, nothing really worth understanding, and it would be better just go to bed after all.

She had a handful of lost hair bands and crushed milk cartons when she heard singing from one of the dank playhouses in the infant section.

A cracked falsetto: ‘Follow the starrrrrr, for he-eeee is born!’

Old plastic seats, in the shape of toadstools, their paint peeling off, had been dragged over to block the playhouse entrance.

‘For he-eeee is born in Beth-lee-hemmmm.’

She edged closer, and coughed. The singing stopped.

‘Knock knock!’ said Claire. ‘Can I come in?’ She heard a gasp, and some scrabbling. ‘Knock knock. It’s just Miss Penny, don’t be afraid. It must be a bit cold in there? Aren’t you cold?’

‘It’s not cold,’ said a voice. ‘It’s cosy.’

‘Well, it’s very cold out here. Can I come in and get warm for a minute?’

There was a pause, and the child moved the toadstools away from the doorway. It was dark in there, but Claire could see a scabbed little elbow and one bare foot.

Claire crouched down and waddled into the playhouse. It smelled of old leaves and damp. Lorna Bell sat cross-legged and stern in front of a dirty tea set.