Page 3 of Don't Tell Teacher

But they’re running now, laughing and careering through the school gates.

How do they know we’re from London?

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Tom.

My hand tenses on his shoulder. ‘I should say something.’

‘They don’t know me yet,’ Tom whispers. ‘That’s all. When they get to know me, it’ll be okay.’

My wise little eight-year-old. Tom has always been that way. Very in tune with people. But I am worried about bullying. Vulnerable children are easy targets. Social services told me that.

It will be hard for him …

As the three black-haired brothers head into the school yard, a remarkable change takes place. They stop jostling and pushing each other and walk sensibly, arms by their sides, mouths closed in angry lines.

Tom and I walk alongside the railings, approaching the open gates.

It’s funny – I’d expected this new academy school to be shiny and modern. Not to have grey brick walls, a bell tower, slate turrets and bars.

I sweep away thoughts of prisons and haunted houses and tell Tom, ‘Well, this is exciting. Look – there’s hopscotch.’

Tom doesn’t reply, his eyes wide at the shadowy brickwork.

‘This is myschool?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘It looks like an old castle.’

‘Well, castles are fun. Maybe you can play knights or something. I know it’s different from the last place.’

‘Castles have ghosts,’ Tom whispers.

‘Oh, no they don’t. Anyway, big nearly-nine-year-old ghost-busters aren’t afraid of ghosts.’

We move towards the school gates, which are huge with spikes along the top, and I put on an even brighter voice. ‘You’re going to do great today, Tom. I love you so much. Stay cool, okay? High five?’

Tom gives me a weak high five.

‘Willyoube okay, Mum?’ he asks.

My eyes well up. ‘Of course. I’ll be fine. It’s not your job to worry about me. It’s mine to worry about you.’

Tom turns towards the soulless tarmac and asks, ‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’

‘Parents aren’t allowed into the playground here,’ I say. ‘Someone from the office phoned to tell me. Something to do with safety.’

Two of the black-haired boys are fighting in a secluded corner near a netball post, a pile of tussling limbs.

‘Those Neilson boys,’ I hear a voice mutter beside me – a mother dropping off her daughter. ‘Can’t go five minutes without killing each other.’

The headmaster appears in the entranceway then – an immaculately presented man wearing a pinstripe suit and royal-blue tie. His hair is brown, neatly cut and combed, and he is clean-shaven with a boyish face that has a slightly rubbery, clown-like quality.

Hands in pockets, he surveys the playground. He is smiling, lips oddly red and jester-shaped, but his blue eyes remain cold and hard.

The chattering parents spot him and fall silent.

The headmaster approaches the corner where the boys are fighting and stops to watch, still smiling his cold smile.

After a moment, the boys sense the headmaster and quickly untangle themselves, standing straight, expressions fearful.

It’s a little creepy how all this is done in near silence, but I suppose at least the headmaster can keep order. Tom’s last school was chaos. Too many pupils and no control.

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