Visions (5 page)

8

Conveniently for me, the next time I saw my year tens was after dinner on Monday. This gave me plenty of time to play around with the seating plan until I was happy with it, and place the sticky notes on the table. Corinne, walking past, saw what I was doing and popped her head in to offer departmental support. I declined, explaining that I wanted to make a stand on my own if I could. As was usual, the well-behaved students who didn’t give me any problems anyway arrived first, taking their new places without any question or fuss. The majority even seemed grateful for the attempt at discipline, which made me wonder what it must be like to be a well behaved, ambitious child, surrounded by a multitude of peers determined to ruin their education lesson after lesson after lesson. The first obstacle reared its head when Ally arrived five minutes late.

              “Ally, your new seat is there, thank you.” I gestured towards her chair in the corner, where she would sit alone.

              “Why do I have to sit there? Why can’t I just sit where I normally sit?”

              “Because I’m asking you to,” I stated simply.

              “But I haven’t done anything wrong so why are you moving me? This is bullying, this is. You’re picking on me!”

              “I’ve moved everyone, Ally. It’s not personal on any level. If you don’t take your seat, we’ll have to discuss it after the lesson.” She seemed to take this in and, giving me the most disapproving look she could muster, she flounced to her new seat,

where she promptly pulled out her mirror and began fiddling with her hair.

              It was fifteen minutes later when Darren, Scott and Phil walked into the room, laughing and joking as if they were walking into a pub for a pint after work. The cloying smell of cigarette smoke followed them in. They took one look at the sticky notes on the tables and stared at each other in disbelief. “You’ve split us all up,” Scott stated. “Why?”

              “It’s a new seating plan we’re going to try. Now find your names and sit down.”

Darren was first to find his. He peeled it off the table, screwed it up and threw it in the bin with disdain. Then he plonked himself down next to Ally, who stared up at him and clapped her hands together gleefully.

              “I’ll sit here, Miss,” he announced, raising an eyebrow as if challenging me.

              “I’m sorry, Darren, but you’ll be sitting over here for my lessons,” I said, gesturing towards where his name had been.

              “All the other teachers just let us sit where we want,” Phil whined.

              “Well, that’s their choice and this is mine. As I explained earlier, which you would have heard if you’d been on time, this is not personal. Everyone has been moved.”

              “I can’t sit where you’ve put me!” Darren shouted. I was painfully aware that the whole class had their pens still and were staring at me intently.

              “Come on, year ten, get on with the first activity, please.” Most of the class, I acknowledged, had enough respect for me to pretend to write in their books, but some could not take their eyes away from the escalating situation. I went over and stood closer to Darren’s seat. I wanted to go and kneel by him, so we would be on the same level but something about his eyes stopped me from getting any closer. “What’s the problem with the seat I’ve chosen for you, Darren?” I asked, keeping my tone deliberately level.

              “I can’t sit that close to the board. It hurts my eyes. I can see perfectly from here.”

              “I didn’t realise you had problems with your eyes, Darren,” I said, gently. “Perhaps I could rethink the seating plan later on. For now, why don’t you sit over there instead?” I pointed towards an alternative table, which was both empty and far enough away from the board.

              “I can’t sit near Martha, Miss. She does my head in.”

              “You’ll be on a table on your own,” I explained.

Phil and Scott had apparently grown bored of standing near the door and had found their names instead. In my peripheral vision, I could see them attempting to move them closer together so I wouldn’t see.

“Right, that’s enough!” I shouted, trying to exude a confidence that I didn’t feel. “If you don’t want to sit where I’ve put you, then we will discuss that after school as well as the fact that you were rude enough to be fifteen minutes late to my lesson.”

Phil and Scott sat down in their intended places, looking nervously at Darren to see what he would do.

              “I’m not staying behind to discuss anything with you,” Darren snarled, getting up from his seat and pushing it back. It hit Ally’s arm and she yelped in pain. Darren didn’t even register what he’d done. His eyes were on me. “Fuck this. I’m out of here.” He stormed out of the classroom, punching the display board on his way
.
I didn’t dare to block him, especially as his punch had broken the plastic overlay on the display. It seemed that the whole wall had shook. The class looked at me to see what I

would do. Scott had his head in his hands and was shaking it.

              I realised that I would have to react to the situation. It couldn’t be ignored. I walked calmly back to my desk and forced myself to take a mouthful of cold tea, just to delay having to go outside the classroom and face Darren Pierce. Ally was still rubbing her wrist and looked like she was fighting back tears. For some reason, this made me angry, but I swallowed it before walking over and asking if she was in a lot of pain.

“I’m all right, Miss. It was just a shock, that’s all,” she said, but tears were looming.

“As long as you aren’t going to cry and ruin that lovely eye make-up,” I whispered, receiving an unexpected smile for my efforts.

After taking a few deep breaths, I asked the class to continue with what they were doing, and stepped outside. Darren was crouched with his back to the wall, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Darren, let me see your hand,” I said.

              “Fuck off!” he screamed. His outcry disturbed Morgan’s lesson next door and she rushed outside as though expecting to have to split up a fight.

              “What’s happened? Darren?” she asked. He didn’t even look up.

“Miss Gordon, go and ask one of my year eights to go to the office for assistance.” I briefly wondered whether I should feel undermined, but I was so relieved she was taking charge of the situation that I pushed the thought to one side.

              Corinne arrived rapidly, taking Darren’s arm and not really giving him any choice but to show her his hand. “Darren, I don’t know what’s happened in class but it will be dealt with later. Right now, you need to come with me. I think your hand is broken, so we’ll need to organise getting you to the hospital for an x-ray,” she

explained.

Darren climbed to his feet, his face white and clammy.

“It’s no good ringing home, Miss. My mum won’t take me. I might as well catch a bus.”

“We’ll ring home anyway, but I’m going to see if Carrie is free and then she can drive you. Mum can meet us there if she wants to. Come on.” She led him away. I returned to my lesson, though by this point, it was essentially ruined. The students just wanted to discuss Darren and what had happened.

“Is Darren all right, Miss?” I was surprised to see that it was Scott who had asked. He wore an expression of genuine concern and, glancing down, I saw that he’d started the task.

“There’s only ten minutes until the end of lesson, Scott. If you want to stay behind, I’ll tell you then.” I hoped he would realise that I didn’t want to stimulate more gossip for Darren rather than thinking I was simply being awkward with him. He nodded and looked back down at his exercise book. The others seemed to follow his lead. Despite Scott being so reasonable, when the bell sounded and he did stay behind, I was surprised.

“He’s being taken to hospital, Scott. I think Carrie is taking him. We suspect that he may have broken his hand when he punched the display board, but obviously I don’t know anything for sure yet.”

“Thanks for telling me, Miss. I’ve been worried about him lately. He’s…different from how he was. It’s like now he’s no fun, he’s just angry all the time. In the yard or on the park, he’s always looking for excuses to fight with the other lads. Even the huge ones are terrified of him now because he just behaves like a psycho.” He looked at me to check I was listening, so I smiled gently. “Don’t tell him I’ve told you this, please Miss? It’s just that we’ve been mates since we were little and I don’t want him to think I’m soft.”

“I won’t,” I said, not expecting there to be anymore. He didn’t move. His eyes searched my face.

“Daz’s dad left earlier this year and he’s not bothered with Daz at all since he went. He blames his mum for it, thinks it’s her fault that he’s not ringing or visiting. He keeps picking arguments with her and calling her names, swearing at her like. To be honest, she’s terrified of him so she usually just backs down. He wasn’t like that last year. In fact, even though he’s always been a bit of a pain for teachers, they’ve always liked him. He was just cheeky, you know? You definitely won’t say anything though, will you?”

“I won’t. Darren is lucky to have a friend that’s so concerned about him.”

After Scott had gone, Corinne came into the room. I was now sitting with my head in my hands, mulling over what had happened.

“Are you ok, Gillian?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“I need you to write down exactly what happened before you leave. Darren is still at the hospital waiting for an x-ray, but he’s been through triage and they’re confident that he has broken at least one bone. Carrie’s with him.”

“Did they manage to get hold of his mum?” I asked, thinking about what Scott had told me.

“Carrie got through to his mum and explained the situation, but she refused to go to the hospital. Like Darren said she would, she suggested that he go alone. Between you and me, Carrie said that she sounded drunk. His dad doesn’t seem to be answering his mobile. It just keeps ringing out. Carrie said she’s ok to stay with him as long as it takes, though. She’s a gem, really!”

I agreed. Even knowing more about Darren’s background and understanding his frustration, I wouldn’t want to spend my evening with him.

Walking out of the school building after writing my statement, I found myself questioning whether teaching actually was the career for me. I pulled my mobile out, intending to ring my mum and see if she was home yet. I could drop by her place on the way home and let her know how it had gone. I had a text.

It was from Theo. ‘Enjoyed evening. Can’t promise to forget but will pretend if I bump into you. T X.’ My eyes lingered over the X. Suddenly, my spirits soared to the sky.

9

By the end of the week, Darren still hadn’t returned to school though Carrie had managed to have a reasonably comprehensible conversation with mum. The x-ray revealed that Darren had broken a bone in the top of his hand. He would be back in with a cast on after another week of recovery. Despite Carrie and Mr Briggs suggesting that this was an excessive amount of time of recovery for quite a minor injury, Ms Pierce had argued that Darren needed a break. I suspected Darren had told her he was having the next week of again and she had been too weak to challenge him.

Corinne had requested that we send very basic, easy to set classwork home rather than waste any time, as Darren wouldn’t do it willingly and his mum wouldn’t take the time to enforce it. On Friday night, despite Morgan’s attempts to plan another night on the town, I just wanted to relax and de-stress after the week’s events. By seven o’ clock, I was sitting at my dining room table, listening to Katie Melua, with a glass of wine whilst taking my time marking the year tens’ exercise books. It was pleasing to see that, despite Ally’s negative attitude, she was actually quite a bright girl. Darren’s book wasn’t worth marking, with little classwork among the graffiti. Maybe I would phone my mother later and ask if she had any tips on how to deal with a child as difficult as Darren. At least then I would feel a bit more prepared for his return, being proactive rather than simply worrying.

              This time, I felt it happening. The penned words began to fade. The music grew quieter until it sounded like it was being played in a different room. There was my mum and she was lying down. Why was I seeing my mum sleeping? Then I realised that she was fully clothed in what looked like a dress suit and jacket. Also, her hair was splayed out on the cold tiled floor of her kitchen. I was on my feet before the vision had faded and brought me back into my own kitchen. I grabbed my phone and rang my mum’s home number. There was no answer. I tried her mobile; still no answer. Next I phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, I jumped in, explaining briefly that it was an emergency. I sat with my hands clenched between my knees. We arrived in minutes. I clambered out, throwing money at the driver, and banged on the door. She could be out, but it was unlikely. We spoke every day and she even told me about mundane journeys like trips to the supermarket. It took a while, but the door opened. I was in before I looked up. It was Martina from next door who had answered the door. “Good timing, Gilly! Have you a sixth sense I should know about?”

              “Where is she?” I asked, not able to acknowledge the question that had been asked.

              “She’s in the kitchen. She’s had a bit of a fainting spell. When she regained consciousness, she knocked on my door to ask if I would sit with her until she felt ok again. Stubborn bat won’t let me phone for an ambulance. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

I followed Martina through. My mum looked pale, but when she saw it was me, concern washed over her face.

              “What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

              “Never mind about me. We need to get you to hospital, Mum. It doesn’t have to be an ambulance; we could get a taxi but you need to be checked over to find out why this happened.”

Mum was already shaking her head. “Honestly, I feel fine now. I’m just a bit sore from lying on the floor. The last time I passed out was when I was pregnant with you.” I raised an eyebrow at her and she laughed weakly. “I’m not pregnant!”

              “More likely to be the onslaught of the dreaded menopause at our age, isn’t it, Gayle?” Martina joked.

My mum laughed again in return.

              “I’m on new tablets for my blood pressure, Gilly-Bean. That’s all it will be. I’ll phone my own doctor on Monday.”

              “What if it happens before then?” I asked.

              “I’ll go to hospital,” she assented.

              “What are we supposed to do with you in the meantime?” Martina asked.

              “I’ll stay the night,” I said, not giving my mum any choice. “I’ll borrow some of your old pyjamas, ok?”

              When Martina had gone, Mum and I curled up on either side of the sofa, huddling under a blanket and sipping hot chocolate. My mum had suggested watching a DVD and gone as far as to dig
Bridget Jones
out of her cabinet, but it still lay in the box on the coffee table. “So, are you going to tell me why you came over?” Mum asked.

              “I did ring first.”

              “Yes, but I could have been out and would’ve returned your call when I got back. I always do. I could have popped round to Martina’s for teabags or something. Gill, why did you come round?”

              “Honestly? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

              “Try me!” she demanded.

I fished around to catch one of my sinking marshmallows before it melted in the now warm chocolate.

“Did you feel it?” Immediately, I looked up and made eye contact. “I knew it was happening again. I just knew it.”

              “How did you know…What do you mean by happening again?” I asked. Suddenly, my hot chocolate didn’t seem as appetising.

              “I thought it was something you would outgrow and I believed you had. Then

there was the car crash and I started to question it.”

              “Mum, you have to tell me!”

She put her mug down. I did the same.

              “When you were a toddler, you were…different. Other mothers were complaining about their kids throwing tantrums all over the place, but I wished you would! If you got upset, you would retreat into yourself and nobody, not even your dad, would be able to reach you. I mean you would sit staring into space, not blinking. It was like your body was there but you weren’t. When you did it at playgroup . . .” she took a deep breath before continuing. “I was sitting with some of the other mothers who I was friendly with. Another child took a toy out of your hand and while other kids would scream, you watched and then I knew it…You’d gone again. I called your name so many times that the other mothers looked embarrassed for me. I grabbed you and shook you before one of the helpers came and took you out of my arms. She looked at me like I was a bad mother and then asked whether I’d taken you to have your hearing checked recently.

              “Back at home, I discussed it with your dad and he seemed pleased that we’d found a plausible, easily solvable reason for your daydreams. I took you to the doctor, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with your hearing at all. When I described what kept happening, the doctor looked cynical. I really wanted to smack him!” she laughed. 

“He gave me a lecture about all children being different and some not eating, some not playing. Oh, the list went on, but I said to him, have you ever heard of a child doing this? We ended up changing doctors. The next one was a woman the same age as I was and a friend of your dad’s, too. We went together and I remember, you were sitting on my knee and you looked up at me, cupped my face with your hands, and told me not to worry about her because Daddy said it wasn’t important right now. Then I realised that you must have been doing it, your daydreaming thing, while we were discussing it. It was the way your dad looked at me then that panicked us all. She referred us to a therapist. I was reluctant, but your dad talked me into it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to get better, but mental illness carries a stigma, which as an adult you’ll be aware of.”

              “Did it help?” I asked, fascinated and shaken in equal measure. Why had she never told me any of this?

              “You wouldn’t speak to him. He tried all sorts of things! He asked us to stay, then to leave the room, then one parent to stay and one to leave, but you wouldn’t talk about it no matter what he did. My belief was that you couldn’t talk about something you didn’t understand.”

              “What happened then?” I almost felt like I was asking about someone else.

              “Do you remember Sammy?” I shook my head. “Sammy was your hamster. He was your first pet. One night, after we’d put you to bed, you got up and came downstairs to tell us that Sammy was going to say goodbye. At first, I was worried that he’d already died, so we took you back upstairs to check. He was running on his wheel. Your dad tried to reassure you that it must have just been a dream, but you weren’t having any of it! You kept saying that it was just his time and there was nothing we could do about it. I half wondered whether you were sleep-walking. In the morning, he was dead.”

              “I knew you were going to say that. It fits in with everything else. Sorry for interrupting, go on.”

              “No, it’s fine. Stop me whenever you like. Understand that you have to accept that it could have been coincidence. Your dad said that it was bound to happen any day. Sammy was old and hadn’t been quite as active as he usually was. But, like I said to him, how did a four-year-old know anything about getting old or death? Your dad and I got into an argument about it. He blamed it all on children having to go through a morbid phase as part of their development. He said children have to be fascinated with death in order to accept it, you know how he was.” She stopped and looked at me. “Ok, you maybe don’t remember, but your dad was hot on theories. He loved Freud and anything like that!”

              “Did it stop after that?” I asked, my mind still on my dad.

              “No. If anything, it got worse. Especially when you started at infant school. You started to daydream in class and the teacher called us in to discuss it. We took you back to the doctor’s and were referred to a different therapist who, after reading your medical notes, put it down to stress. They don’t like to medicate at that age though so he tried to talk to you about making friends. He basically tried to bring you out of your shell, but you weren’t having any of it. In fact, it got worse. This is the part that I didn’t ever want to have to tell you.”

              “Is it about my dad?” I asked, feeling sick.

              “Do you remember?” she asked, looking puzzled.

              “No, but I can guess where this is going.” I waited for her to continue. She looked like she was going to cry.

              “When your dad was late home from work, you would behave really strangely. Rather than watching telly or playing, you would watch me and follow me around the house like a lost sheep. It went on for weeks. Then one day, he was really late home and you broke down into tears. You were only five. We sat on the sofa cuddling and you told me that you’d seen your dad die in a car crash. His car was hit by a huge lorry and then he was gone straight away.” She paused and took a deep breath, tears escaping from her eyes. “Those were your words. Then you said that what you’d seen was in all of your dreams now and you couldn’t stop it from coming.

“I put you to bed while you were sobbing your heart out, promising to send daddy up when he got in from work. When he did arrive home exhausted but elated about his new project, I screamed at him and squeezed him so hard. You see, you were only five years old but I believed you.” Now she was crying. I passed her a tissue and then kept one for myself as I realised that I was also weeping. “After I’d explained, he phoned me every time he was going to be home late. I waited for something to happen like I was stuck in limbo. Nothing did, but your daydreams got worse. Now the therapist was saying he thought you had some anxiety problems, particularly surrounding the absence of your dad. He suggested that the anxiety may be severe enough to be causing some depression. Still though, your dad and the doctor agreed that medicating a five-year-old was the wrong route to take. They suggested starting some behaviour modifying therapy and that was due to start two weeks later.”

              “Dad died before then, didn’t he?” I asked. Our tissues were soggy from tears. “God, I loved him, Mum. It kills me that I can’t remember what he looked like. In my mind, I can only see photos but I know I loved him. I know I did.”

              “Oh, you did, Gilly-Bean and my God, did he love you!”

              “Tell me what happened.”

              “He didn’t come home. You were in bed and I waited and waited and waited. I phoned his office. There was no answer. I kept reassuring myself that he must be stuck in traffic on the motorway. Every time a car passed by the door, I ran to the window. Then one parked up and I ran to the door. Oh, Gillian, I really thought it was him.” She was speaking in between sobs now.

“It was two police men. I knew as soon as I saw them what had happened. They didn’t even need to tell me. I was furious. I’d told him over and over to be careful when he was driving home. I know it wasn’t his fault, but at the time all I felt was anger. Gilly, it was exactly as you’d said. His car was hit by a drifting lorry. The police said he was gone almost instantly. He couldn’t have felt any pain, they reassured me. That was left for us to feel and God knows I have. I still miss him now.”

We held each other and sobbed for a while. This was the first time we’d actually discussed what had happened to my dad. I realised that all these years on, my mum was still grieving for him. Over the years, she’d been on a few dates here and there, but nothing long term.

              Once we’d composed ourselves, my mum returned to her original question. “So, did you see that I was going to pass out?”