Page 86 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘Jesus.’ Tessa shakes her head. ‘Still. Could be worse. It could always be worse.’

I’m learning to ignore Tessa’s laissez-faire attitude.

Although, sometimes I wonder – did she always have it? Or did it come about after years of working in under-funded, under-resourced social services?

Lizzie

There’s a cheery red Fiat outside our house – not a car I recognise. My grip on Tom’s hand tightens.

We’re on our way back from school. Tom’s been talking about the colour of the trees. Green holly and silver birch.

A sign of stress …

The Fiat’s engine isn’t running, but I see a shadow in the front seat – a woman. Kate. I’m relieved to see her, desperate to talk about my school concerns and the possibility of moving.

As we reach our front garden, the car door opens and she steps out, plain as ever in her trouser suit and black boots.

‘Miss Riley?’ Kate gives a wave and hurries to catch us.

I turn the key in the front door. ‘Hi. How are you? Would you like to come in?’

‘Yes, please. If I may.’

‘Of course.’ I push the door open.

‘You dyed your hair,’ Kate remarks.

I touch the bright-blonde tufts. ‘I fancied a change.’

Mercifully the house isn’t too messy. They spring visits on you, social services. I suppose to catch you in your natural habitat, chaotic and ill-prepared. Plenty of houses are a mess when no one is looking, I’m quite sure.

Suddenly, I realise I forgot to buy teabags earlier and feel my heart pound. Will Kate see this as a sign of a disorganised household?

‘I’m really sorry, we’re out of tea,’ I tell her, moving a pile of laundry from the kitchen counter. ‘I was at an interview today; I didn’t have time to shop.’

‘That’s fine.’ Kate kneels down to Tom. ‘How are you, Tom? Good day? What happened at school?’

‘I don’t remember,’ he says.

‘He never seems to remember much about this new school.’ I put an arm around his shoulders. ‘At his old school, he used to remember lots.’

Tom wriggles away, runs upstairs and slams his bedroom door.

‘And he’s always in his bedroom these days,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s just growing up. I don’t know. But … I’m worried. Take a seat. Sorry about that blanket. Just move it to one side. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve only got instant coffee. Sorry.’

Kate moves the crumpled blanket from the sofa and sits down.

I wonder if the neighbours know why Kate is here and if they do, what they think of me.

The kettle boils and clicks. I make two cups of instant coffee and carry them into the lounge, apologising again for the lack of tea.

‘It’s fine,’ says Kate. And then, clearly on a tight schedule, gets straight to the point. ‘Miss Riley, has Tom seen his father since my last visit?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I told you, I don’t let him see his father.’

My fingers grip my mug – a rainbow-coloured one I chose to bring cheer into the living room.

‘From a social services point of view,’ says Kate, ‘it’s important children have the widest circle of loving adults available to them.’

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