Oh my, yes
The Bradley boy
That ended badly
Hell fall asleep at the drop of a hat sitting at the table, or when Im reading a story. Or hell just curl up in a corner, Mrs Santa twisted the engagement ring on her finger, smiling, almost fondly, like the dopey little dormouse in Alice in Wonderland. She cleared her throat and then waited for a response. None came.
Its not that hes bored at least I certainly hope its not that she drew a quick breath, as if anticipating some kind of heartfelt affirmation of her teaching skills from Elen (she waited in vain), but hes definitely tired. And yet when he is awake, when hes on the ball she adjusted a gold link on the bracelet of her watch, he goes straight to the opposite extreme. He focuses too much she paused, speculatively. Im sure youll be aware of this yourself. He can try too hard. He can get too involved in certain projects certain situations and then get incredibly frustrated if things dont work out properly
Is Fleet causing trouble in class? Elen butted in, almost hopefully (there was something so reassuringly normal about the thought of a naughty, disruptive little boy).
Mrs Santa looked shocked. No. Absolutely not. In fact quite the opposite. If anything hes actually she winced, putting up a small hand to adjust the tiny, faux-Hermès-style silk scarf around her neck too well behaved. And too hard on himself. Extremely hard Elen frowned. This was definitely not good.
So you called me in today, she spoke calmly and evenly (purposefully misinterpreting what the teacher was telling her
This is a game, Elen
Come on, girl,
Play)
because hes too well-behaved?
Yes. Mrs Santa nodded.
And you really think thats a problem?
Mrs Santa smiled. Problem seems rather a harsh way of putting it Right. Fine.
Elen could feel herself growing defensive. She sensed a degree of soft-soaping. And, worse still, bobbing around, perniciously, beneath all those suds and lather: a hidden agenda. She glanced over towards the door again. The Head Teacher had ducked out of view, but she was certain he was still there.
Some children find it difficult to concentrate, Mrs Santa tip-toed onward, and some children are just she struggled to find the correct word, then gave up too concentrated. Fleet finds himself in this second category. Hes very grown up for a boy of his age. In fact weve all noticed myself, the classroom assistants, some of the mothers who like to help out sometimes how much better he seems at interacting with adults than with other children of his own age
Yes, Elen was perfectly willing to take this on board
Unreasonable?
Me?
Fleets an only child, she murmured, I suppose that must impact on him at some level
We all think hes experiencing a certain amount ofof stress, Mrs Santa rushed on (emboldened by Elens apparent compliance), and that hes expressing it through particular she paused, as if searching for the least damning formulation behaviours. Tasks. Symptoms. Habits.
I see.
Elens voice was clear as a glass of spring water.
He never seems quite able to switch off
Elen was quiet.
The teacher cleared her throat, nervously. We wondered whether there might be anythinganything unusual going on at home at the moment which could offer some kind ofof?
She gazed over at Elen, appealingly.
Perhaps a recent family bereavement? The loss of a job?
Elen said nothing. Mrs Santa filled the awkward silence by commencing a detailed inspection of the heel of her black court shoe.
We have a hole in the roof, Elen eventually volunteered, the roofs leaking.
Really?
Mrs Santa seemed relieved by Elens input, and yet somewhat nonplussed. Elen had a sudden sense of how it might feel to be a student who wasnt excelling in Mrs Santas class (that atmosphere of tolerant disappointment; of accepting disquiet). She didnt like it. The angry knuckle tensed itself up inside her stomach again
Cow
then the second, gentler knuckle the pacifier
Shes his teacher
She just wants to help
predictably balanced it out.
I know it mightnt sound like much, Elen explained, patiently, but its leaking directly above Fleets bedroom. Weve had to move all hishis toys down into the living-area. Everythings a little chaotic.
She just wants to help
predictably balanced it out.
I know it mightnt sound like much, Elen explained, patiently, but its leaking directly above Fleets bedroom. Weve had to move all hishis toys down into the living-area. Everythings a little chaotic.
Ah.
Mrs Santa tried to appear as if shed been enlightened in some way by this explanation. She failed. She glanced down at her hands, then back over towards Fleet again. Fleet did a tiny, involuntary jump, for no apparent reason.
Did you just see that? she asked.
What?
That little jump? That tick. He does it fairly regularly.
Does he? Yes. Well thats Elen bit her lip thats something hehe does, occasionally.
She smoothed down the fabric of her skirt and folded her hands across her lap. She knew she wasnt helping matters. She felt frustrated impotent. There was so much she could contribute
So much
but she just
Just
No.
Cant.
Her eyes shifted over towards the classroom windows. It was a new building (everything was new here for Isidore, something being new enough was always a primary concern). She idly noticed how one of the smaller, higher windows had been left open. She gazed up at it, ruminatively. Her eyes moved to the square of putty surrounding the pane of glass. She could see even from where she was sitting that the putty had been interfered with. It was puckered; sliced; gouged out in some places.
She shuddered.
We all want whats best for Fleet, after all Mrs Santa continued. Of course, Elen was still distracted, still looking up at the window. So we wondered, Mrs Santa grasped her moment, if it might not be an idea to book him in for a brief session with the child psychologist.
No.
Elen immediately snapped back to attention. Absolutely not.
Mrs Santa seemed shocked; less by the refusal itself, than by the casual manner in which it was delivered. But its a perfectly normal procedure, she emphasised, a significant percentage of our children end up seeing the psychologist at some time or other during their school career.
Elen pushed her hair firmly behind her ears. What percentage would that be, exactly?
Mrs Santa floundered, I dont know. Twothree
Thats not a significant percentage, Elen was very calm, thats a tiny percentage.
Fleet had completed his task in the play area. He yawned. He rubbed his eyes and then stood up. Elen reached out her hand towards him, almost as if appealing for his support.
If youre concerned that there might be some kind ofof stigma Mrs Santa continued, staunchly.
Yes I am worried, Elen nodded, very worried. Because there would be.
The point is that were extremely concerned about Fleet, and we simply feel
The fact is, Elen interrupted, that Im not really the problem here. Its Dory, Fleets father. Hes German. Hes very old-fashioned. He simply wouldnt tolerate the idea.
Fleets father doesnt necessarily have to be involved, Mrs Santa proclaimed boldly (glancing towards the child with a bright smile), it could simply be something that the school has instigated, something which just spontaneously happens, so to speak.
Elen seemed genuinely alarmed by this suggestion. Fleet was standing at her side, now. She slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him closer.
I dont like the sound of that at all, Mrs Santa.
Her gentle voice contained a strong warning.
Mrs Santa looked uncomfortable, as if a breach had been established and she for one was going to experience some difficulty in recovering from it. Well just think it over, at least. Were only trying to do our best for the boy, she leaned forward and chucked Fleet, playfully, under his chin (he stiffened). We want him to be happy. We want him to excel.
Of course.
There was a sudden, loud creaking sound directly above them. Elen glanced up. One of the classrooms suspended strip-lights had slowly begun to rock.
Mrs Santa glanced up, too.
Its the breeze, she said, it often does that.
She clambered to her feet, walked over to the line of windows, picked up a specially adapted pole and pushed its metal tip through the high, open windows latch. She briskly pulled it shut.
The light continued to swing. Fleet stretched up his arm towards it, pointing his index finger. He paused for a second, then jumped again a tiny, apparently involuntary jolt before smiling and carefully touching that same index finger to his right shoulder (as if in some kind of convoluted boy scout salute).
Elen quickly stood up as Mrs Santa walked back over. She grabbed her bag to try and signal an end to their discussion.
There, thats better, Mrs Santa murmured. They all looked up towards the light again, their heads tipping, in unison, their chins lifting; like three, simple flower petals unfurling from the bud in a time-lapse-photography nature documentary.
At night he did his real work. You couldnt call it play, exactly. It was far too serious too painstaking for that. Hed been re-creating, in perfect miniature, the Cathedral of Sainte-Cecile (the worlds largest ever brick-built structure) which was located (and this meant nothing to Fleet, he was six years old, and geography, to him, was just a clumsy four-syllable word) in the beautiful, French medieval town of Albi.
Fleets tools: a trusty pair of childrens paper-cutting scissors (the blades of which hed secretly stropped on a stone until they were razor-sharp), some general-purpose adhesive (the white kind which came in a blue tub and smelled of marzipan), and matchsticks (in abundance; pristinenever spent with the brightly tinted sulphured end cleanly lopped off).
He had a small black and white picture of the cathedral (a partial view it was a monumental, many-faceted construction, 200 years in the making) which hed discovered, by chance (at least, thats how he remembered it), aged four, in a French holiday brochure. He liked to keep it hidden (he didnt know why: instinct, perhaps) inside a folded strip of cardboard hoarded from a cereal packet, shoved under the dishcloths in the back of a kitchen drawer.