Page 17 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘How did this happen?’ I ask, pointing to a hole in a chipboard bedroom door.

Leanne blinks a few times, then responds: ‘Lloyd did that. I’ve told the housing people. They still haven’t been round to repair it.’ She adds, ‘It wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Has Lloyd started counselling yet?’ I ask. ‘He should be nearing the top of the waiting list by now.’

‘No.’ Leanne’s face crumples. She looks at me then, brown eyes filled with pain.

I know what she’s saying.I can’t cope. And suddenly I want to hug her.

But we’re not allowed to do that with adults.

‘Lloyd talked with the last social worker about coping strategies,’ I say, following the official line. ‘Boxing at his cousin’s gym? Has he been doing that?’

‘I’mhis punch bag,’ Leanne says. ‘He’s getting so big now, I can’t stop him. I’ve asked them to take him into care. No one listens. He’s going to kill me one of these days.’

‘Let’s talk about how you can set boundaries. Look into some parenting classes—’

‘I’ve been to them.’

‘No. They were organised for you, but you didn’t attend.’

‘I couldn’t get there. I don’t have a car.’

‘I’ll set up some more classes for you. Maybe I can look into having someone drive you there. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m taking it.’ Leanne’s eyes dart to the floor. ‘But I lost some. Can you tell the doctor to give me more?’

‘You’d have to ask him yourself. Let’s talk about your partner. Are you still with him?’

‘Why do people always ask about him? What has he got to do with anything? I’m allowed to have a boyfriend. I’m a grown woman.’

‘He’s living here, isn’t he?’

Leanne thinks for a moment, eyes rolling around. ‘It’s my house,’ she says. ‘Why is it anyone else’s business who lives here? Look, can’t you take Lloyd into care, just for a bit?’

‘I can’t pick up a child and place them in care just like that.’

‘Why not?’

Because they have to be deemed at risk of immediate harm. And Lloyd is more of a risk to others than in danger himself.

Lizzie

‘So how was school?’

Tom is quiet, head down, kicking stones. I squeeze his hand in mine.

We’re walking home along the country path, me shielding my eyes against the low sun.

My little boy seemssosmall beside me today. It’s funny – when he started school in London, he grew up overnight. But now he seems young again. Vulnerable.

He hasn’t grown much this year, even though he’s nearly nine.

‘It was all right,’ says Tom. His school jumper is inside out, so he must have had sports today. He never has quite got the hang of dressing himself. ‘Were you okay at home?’

I laugh. ‘I was fine, Tom. You’re such a lovely boy for caring. High five?’

Tom slaps my fingers, but doesn’t smile.

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