The School Gate Survival Guide (10 page)

As we snaked into the school’s one-way system, Bronte demanded to get out so she could walk the rest of the way. I just wanted to escape from her mardy little face before I flipped completely and drove back to Morlands shouting, ‘It’s all been a horrible mistake.’ She slammed out without saying goodbye and I watched her in the rear-view mirror, scuffing up the drive.

When I got home, Colin was out which went some way to improving my day. At least I used to be paid to hate Fridays when I worked for Cecilia. Now I hated being stuck at home with Colin who was either moaning about his bloody ingrown toenail and picking at his feet or digging about in an empty fridge. He seemed to have got bored with the third option, which was trying to get me into bed. Both a blessing and an insult. Since it was hard to see how I could feel any grumpier, I decided now would be as good a time as any to find out exactly how much money we owed without Colin shouting out instructions from his perch in the front room. After that, if I hadn’t eaten the rat poison we’d put down to welcome our friends in the attic, I might call Cecilia and see if I could backtrack, aka beg on bended knee, since all my other efforts to get extra work had come to nothing. Though outing her friendship with Jessica Rabbit wasn’t going to help my cause.

As I was sorting out the paperwork, dealing it into piles – rent, electricity, council tax, gas – like a round of poker, the phone rang. Ten o’clock. The council’s favourite time for chasing money. I summoned up my imaginary Great Aunt Inmaculada again. ‘J-ello,’ I said, in my one foot in the nursing home voice.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I’m looking for Ms Etxeleku,’ said a man with a fairly posh accent, although not quite plummy enough to make it into my hate category. ‘Have I got the right number?’

I launched into my Amaia Etxeleku gone to live on the moon routine, but I knew I recognised the voice. Maybe I’d just spoken to the guy from the council so often, he sounded like someone I knew. But the council bloke wasn’t posh.

As soon as he said, ‘Is Bronte Caudwell there?’ I knew. I knew because the giddiness in my stomach told me a couple of seconds before my brain. I cleared my throat to dislodge Inmaculada.

‘Is that Mr Peters? Sorry about that. There’s someone I don’t want to speak to. You must think I’m completely mad. Bronte’s not here. She’s at school. Why?’

‘She wasn’t at morning registration, and as you probably know, we require parents to phone before 9.30 if their child is ill.’

‘But I dropped her off about 8.15,’ I said. ‘She got out at the bottom of the drive because she wanted to walk the rest of the way.’ I heard my voice rise at the end. Giddiness was gone. Fear, not yet galloping wildly, had replaced it.

‘Her form teacher hasn’t seen her this morning.’ Mr Peters went straight into professional mode, calm, kind but thorough. My head was starting to pound. I couldn’t take in what he was saying. I stood, jangling the van keys, desperate to go flying up to the school but he told me to stay put in case Bronte turned up.

‘Start ringing round her friends and make a list of places she might have gone,’ he said. ‘I’ll organise a search of the school. She might have decided to go off to the library or hide out in the changing rooms instead of going to lessons. I’ll phone you back.’

I tried Colin’s mobile, getting his cocky voice on the answering service asking me to leave a message ‘if you think I may want to speak to you’.

I couldn’t sit down. I put the kettle on, then didn’t make tea when it boiled. I tried to work out how long it would take from Stirling Hall to home if she’d got some crazy idea about walking back here. Christ, she could kill herself crossing the dual carriageway. Even dawdling, she could be back in forty minutes, now even, working up the courage to come in. I was sure she was just punishing me. But the bit of me that connected to Bronte in a you-came-out-of-my-body sort of way was aching to see that tiny pause before she let herself smile, to have a chance to brush her hair without being impatient with her knotty curls, just to tell her I loved her and I was sorry I’d made such a mess of everything with all my grand plans.

I ran into the back yard and out into the lane behind our row of terraces. I couldn’t bear to look at the burnt-out Fiesta, which had been rusting away out there for years. I’d always hated that car, sitting there all ghostly among the weeds, a trouble magnet. I was terrified that I’d glance over and she’d be propped up against it, blood oozing out of her mouth and tights round her neck.

I’d obviously been watching too many
Trial and Retribution
repeats. There was nothing, not even the mangy cats that roamed the estate. Just the rain plopping down on beer cans, condoms, vodka bottles. Christ, half an hour of worry had sent me loop-de-loop. How did people cope when their kids were missing for days, years even? I tried Colin’s mobile again. Never, ever there when I needed him.

I went back inside, peering out of the front window for a forlorn shape lurking. I wished Mum was still alive. She was so capable, she’d have known what to do. I shook my head, trying to connect two thoughts together. Bronte really liked Clover. She might have gone there. I dialled her number and left a madwoman message on her answerphone. I paced about sifting through my little conversations with Bronte, where I’d been scratching away for information among her sulky grunts. Had I missed something? Was this really over a disco evening? Why had I let her get out of the van to walk this morning? Images of perverts pretending to be respectable-looking men in shiny cars outside the school filled my mind. Maybe she hadn’t run away at all, maybe someone had taken her. No. This was about the disco. It had to be. Little monkey was probably sitting under a tree somewhere enjoying how worried we’d all be. Anything else was too horrible.

I kept looking at the clock. Nearly three-quarters of an hour since Mr Peters had called. How long did it take to whizz round a school? Finally, the phone rang. I snatched it up.

‘Ms Etxeleku, I’m sorry. We’ve searched everywhere. The next step is to call the police and I think we should do that now,’ Mr Peters said.

The word ‘police’ moved me from worried to imagination overdrive. I couldn’t seem to make my mouth form any words.

‘Ms Etxeleku? Are you there? Try to stay calm. The police react to Stirling Hall calls very swiftly.’ I knew he was right. Authority dealing with authority would get a search party moving more quickly than me not knowing who to speak to and getting fobbed off with some pen-clicking clerk who ‘couldn’t do anything until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours’. I was sure that the police were much quicker off the mark for burglaries in SD2’s neighbourhood than missing children in SD1.

I put the phone down and ran next door to Sandy. All the curtains were still shut. I thumped on the door. I saw her bedroom curtains move, but she didn’t come down. The drizzle was gathering force, stingy, sharp darts pinging off my arms. I shouted through the letterbox. ‘Sandy, I need to speak to you. Bronte’s missing.’

There was a pause, then the upstairs window scraped open and Sandy’s head poked out, her bright red hair sticking up in all directions. She hauled up the strap of something satiny. ‘Blimey O’Riley, can’t a girl get a lie-in round here? What was you yelling at me?’

The sympathy on her face as I shouted up to her broke the last little stitch holding me together. Denim and Gypsy often bunked off school so I’d been expecting her to tell me she’d turn up, to shut up with my mithering and that I was lucky Bronts had never done it before. Instead she ran her fingers through her tufty hair and looked worried. I was trying to force my tears back, shoving against that gathering speed feeling, which started off as quiet, miserable leaking and ended with me howling as though my heart would heave itself out of my chest.

‘Did you see Colin leave this morning? I can’t get hold of him,’ I said.

‘No, I ain’t seen him. I’ve been on night shift. Hang on, I’ll come down.’

Sandy opened the door, all floor length leopard skin, lace and baggy boobs. Fluffy tiger slippers peeped out underneath. We ran through the sort of places Bronte might have gone: the rec, the shopping centre, KFC, McDonald’s, the sports hall. Sandy kept getting side-tracked by stories of Denim and Gypsy’s truancy. She pulled me into a big hug but I was too stressed to let myself be looked after, too many people to phone, too many places to search.

I wriggled free and turned to head home, just as a black Audi drew up. The door opened and Mr Peters got out.

‘Mr Peters! Have you found her?’

‘I’m sorry, no, Ms Etxeleku. The police thought it would be quicker to have a chat with us both together before I take them up to the school to speak to her form teacher. I said I’d meet them here. I couldn’t get through on your mobile.’

‘Sorry, I was trying to contact my partner.’

The rain started to come down in earnest. Mr Peters held his umbrella over me as I turned up my own path.

‘Keep an eye open for me, won’t you, Sandy?’ I shouted over the fence.

‘Of course, love. I’ll get meself dressed and have a scout round the estate. Take care. Try not to worry.’

Mr Peters took my arm. ‘Come on, you need to get dry. Let me make you some tea before the police get here. They shouldn’t be too long.’

Mr Peters filled the kettle while I emptied the biros, pencils and money-off coupons out of the teapot. He didn’t look like a teabag in the mug sort of guy. I couldn’t believe I was even having that thought when some madman might be slitting Bronte’s throat at that very moment. I went upstairs to get changed. As I peeled off my wet clothes, I heard the squeak of the back door opening and the thud as the handle crashed into the kitchen wall, followed by ‘Who are you?’ then ‘Mai! Mai!’

I pulled on a dry T-shirt and still in soaking wet jeans, belted down the stairs two-by-two, thumping my shoulder on the door jamb as I came to a halt.

‘Mr Caudwell, Ms Etxeleku will explain everything.’ Mr Peters had his hand up like a stop sign as Colin hurled his coat onto the table with a clank of keys.

‘Maia, what the hell is going on? I just bumped into Sandy and she said Bronts is missing. How can she be missing? Didn’t you take her to school this morning? What’s he doing here?’

‘Mr Peters is Head of Upper School. He’s been helping me look for Bronte. She didn’t go into school after I dropped her off this morning. The police are on their way.’

Mr Peters handed me some tea, much sweeter than I normally drank.

‘Police. The police are coming here? What? You don’t think something serious has happened, do you? She’s just having a strop over that fucking disco, isn’t she?’ Colin was pacing about, scratching at his stubble.

‘I don’t know. I think so. I hope so. God, I don’t know. Mr Peters has had the whole school searched. I’ve looked in the back lane. Sandy hasn’t seen her,’ I said.

Colin turned to look out of the window. ‘Do you think the police will want to search the house?’

I saw the dots join in Colin’s brain to form the shape of a marijuana leaf. I looked to Mr Peters who shrugged and said, ‘They might want to look in her bedroom, or perhaps examine your computer.’

‘That’s easy, we ain’t got no computer,’ Colin said. ‘I can’t just sit here. I’ll drive the route to school. And you, you make sure you frigging well phone me this time if anything happens.’

He jabbed his finger in my direction. I didn’t need to win at that moment. He grabbed the van keys and left without bothering to put on a coat. What freaked me out most was that he didn’t even bother to fetch the stash of dope that he kept hidden in the battery compartment of the CD player. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for Mr Peters.

‘Sorry about that, I do really appreciate your help,’ I said.

‘It’s fine. People react to fear in different ways. Some people get aggressive, some people swear, some people lash out. I see all sorts of behaviour in my job.’ He sounded so gentle and so capable that I started to cry again.

‘And some people just bawl their eyes out.’ My feeble attempt at humour backfired and a sob stiffened my whole body. I pressed my fingers against my eyes but the tears forced their way through. ‘I hope she’s okay. I should never have moved her to Stirling Hall.’

Mr Peters put his hands on my shoulders and looked right into my eyes. Firm, reassuring, certain. ‘She’s your daughter. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t worried. The police are very skilled at this sort of thing. I’m sure they’ll find her.’

If Mr Peters was in charge, it was almost possible to believe everything might turn out okay. The doorbell rang and I dashed to answer it, a tiny beat of hope in my heart.

Instead of a bedraggled Bronte, a tall brunette with a pointy face, a deep voice, and her hair scraped back into a bun stood at the door.

‘PC Blake, but please call me Serena. This is PC Richard Tadman,’ she said, indicating a stocky man with a jolly smile.

I showed them into the kitchen, managing not to cry. I opened my mouth to introduce Mr Peters but Serena stepped forward and held out her hand to him. ‘Hello Zachary, long time, no see. You remember Richard?’ She sounded very brisk, almost angry. Then she turned to me and said in a much more gentle tone, ‘Is there somewhere we could sit?’

I took them through into the front room. I tried to stop bustling about like the women I worked for when they had visitors. I found myself doing that ‘Tea? Coffee?’ high-pitched voice thing as though they’d popped in for a bit of Victoria sponge on a Sunday afternoon.

‘I’ll make some more tea, Ms Etxeleku, you have a seat,’ Mr Peters said.

‘Could I take a quick look at Bronte’s bedroom?’ PC Tadman asked.

‘Of course, it’s the first one at the top of the stairs, says “Top Secret” on the door.’

I perched on the settee while Serena pulled out her notebook. Autopilot got me through the basics, name, age, height, last time I saw her, the hoo-ha over the disco that morning, friends and places she might go. I flinched when she asked me if Bronte had a boyfriend.

‘Of course not. She’s nine years old!’

Serena nodded. ‘I know, but girls do mature at different rates.’