Page 23 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘He’s eight years old, Mum,’ I say. ‘How can he answer a question like that?’

‘The headmaster says the school has an outstanding status,’ Mum continues, ignoring me. ‘Very high-achieving. I imagine the children are well-behaved. Come from the right stock.’

‘Most of the children are good,’ says Tom. ‘Except Pauly and his brothers. They have a gang.’

I turn to him. ‘What do you mean, a gang?’

‘Lloyd is the general,’ Tom explains. ‘Pauly is general number two, Joey and I are the soldiers. We like red – red is our gang colour.’

Colours again.

‘Lloyd’s mental,’ Tom continues. ‘Mental.’

‘Sounds like he needs discipline,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure the headmaster keeps him in line.’

Tom nods. ‘Lloyd doesn’t dare do anything when Mr Cockrun is around. He’s too scared of…’ Tom stops himself then, as if he’s said too much.

‘Are many of the children scared of Mr Cockrun, Tom?’ I ask gently.

Tom hesitates.

‘Childrenshouldbe scared of their headmaster,’ says Mum.

‘No they shouldn’t,’ I say.

‘Maybe they’re not scared,’ says Tom quickly.

‘But you started to say Lloyd was,’ I insist. ‘Why is Lloyd scared?’

Tom shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

‘Speak properly, Tom,’ Mum snaps.

‘You should stay away from those Neilson boys, Tom,’ I say. ‘They sound like bad news.’

‘What’s your teacher like, Tom?’ Mum asks.

‘She’s like a robot,’ says Tom. ‘She just says everything the headmaster says.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Mum retorts. ‘Stop being so silly.’

‘He’s tired,’ I say. ‘Remember he was in hospital last week.’

There is a silence long enough for Mum’s handsome face to crumple. Then she says, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t call me.’

I want to say, ‘Of course I didn’t call you. You’d have made it all about yourself.’ But I don’t. I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I tell her the truth.

‘We’ve been through this, Mum,’ I say. ‘Tom didn’t stay overnight—’

‘But it was aseizure.’

‘Yes. And it was terrifying for both of us. But I’m trying not to dwell on that.’ I say the last words through gritted teeth.

Mum cups Tom’s face in her hands, then pulls him into a dramatic, perfumed chest-hug.

Tom accepts the hug limply, without pleasure.

‘I handled it okay by myself,’ I say. ‘I’m not as useless as you think.’

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