Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author
School. They’re really on top of discipline there. The headmaster is very ambitious.’
The assistant shudders. ‘I’ve heard about that place. Kids quiet as mice. Teachers so perfect they’re like robots.’ She glances at me then. ‘Sorry to speak out of turn, it’s just what I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, I think you can tell a lot from the inspectors' reports,’ I counter. ‘The official people who assess the schools know what they’re talking about.’
‘I always think the most important thing is that the kids are happy.’
I wander towards a colourful collection of cookware, but it’s far too bright. I’ll never understand this modern trend for childish, primary colours. What happened to elegant florals?
The assistant is tailing me. ‘How old is your grandson?’ she asks.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a hanging frying pan. I look a good fifteen years younger than this assistant, although I’d guess we’re around the same age.
‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘He’s very bright. The teachers think he’ll pass the grammar school exam.’
‘Oh, that’ll be good,’ says the assistant, not really understanding.
‘My daughter Elizabeth went to grammar school,’ I say. ‘She passed her exams and studied at Cambridge University. She’s a qualified doctor now.’
‘Well done her,’ says the assistant. ‘Does she work part-time? Now she has her little boy?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘Her husband takes care of everything. She doesn’t have to lift a finger. She even has a cleaner.’
‘Wish I had one of those,’ says the assistant, winking. ‘In my house, I’m the cleaner.’
‘Elizabeth is a wonderful daughter,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends. She’s always inviting me over. Or taking me to lunch.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ says the assistant, with a kind smile.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect.’
We’re early for school today. I’m so determined to be a terrific, organised single parent that I’ve excelled myself.
Tom’s only been here a few weeks. We’re still the new family. Still need to prove ourselves.
Mr Cockrun stands outside the gates when we arrive, scrubbing at some graffiti on the school sign. His rubbery cheeks are red with the effort, hand moving frantically.
I make out some faded spray-paint letters written after Mr Cockrun’s name: CH and then what looks like a faded E and A and another letter so faint as to be nothing but paint speckles.
As Mr Cockrun scrubs the sign clean he notices three approaching schoolgirls. ‘Blazers on properly, please, girls,’ he says. ‘And let’s get the ties nice and straight. If you’re neat and tidy the school is neat and tidy.’
He sounds friendly enough, but the effect on the girls is profound. They hurriedly pluck and pull at their clothing, eyes swishing nervously to the headmaster.
Mr Cockrun nods encouragingly. ‘Let everyone know how proud we are to be Steelfield pupils.’ Then he heads into the school.
I smile at one of the girls. She has red hair, frightened blue eyes and gaps in her teeth. I think she must be ten or eleven.
‘He likes you to look presentable,’ I say.
The girl gives a funny laugh, glancing after the headmaster. ‘We like to look smart,’ she says. ‘It’s important for the school.’
‘Don’t you like to be a bit casual sometimes? You’re still only children.’
The girl looks deeply uncomfortable. ‘No. Mr Cockrun wants everything at school to be perfect.’ She glances at her friends, who nod in agreement.
‘But no school is perfect,’ I say in surprise. ‘Even if it looks perfect. Surely there must be things you’d like to improve.’
The girl gives a tight shake of her head. ‘It’s a wonderful place, and we’re lucky to be here. Semper Fortis. Always strong.’
The girl and her friends scurry off into the playground. I watch them, feeling uneasy.
‘Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to go today.’
I push aside my anxiety. ‘I know, love. But you’ll be fine.’ I kneel down, pulling him into a hug. ‘You’re amazing. The best little human being I ever met. I know it’s tough starting a new place, but give it a chance, okay?’ Then I whisper, ‘I know the headmaster is a bit … funny.’
Tom nods. Then he strokes the railings. ‘Silver and grey and blue and black.’
Colours again.
Two other mums appear. They’re dressed in clean jeans, coats and silk scarfs, figures snapped back in place after children.
One of them says, ‘What school doesn’t have bullying? That’s what I told the headmaster. Just because everyone else is too scared to tell doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’
‘And what did he say?’ the other mother asks.
‘Told me flat out there was nothing going on. That he keeps the Neilson boys in line. “Everything is under control,” he said.’
The second mother leans in closer. ‘Noah told me social services are involved with them.’
I stiffen at the mention of social services.
‘Theo said the older boy was slurring his words in the dinner queue …’
The first mother notices me then. She turns her whole body to block me out, and I see sparrow-like shoulder bones poking through her thin coat.
I feel left out.
I am left out.
For a moment, I question the orange scarf I’ve chosen to wear – the one I’ve been knitting in the evenings, listening to music (it feels good to listen to my music, not Olly’s) while Tom is tucked up in bed upstairs. It is a little bright. Maybe even show-offy. Perhaps I should know better than to try to stand out, but I’m ready for change. Something has to change.
I can’t carry on being the invisible woman.
Tom needs a strong mother.
Behind me, a woman says, ‘Scuse me. Are you … Tom’s mum?’
The words are an elastic band, stretched to the point of limpness.
I turn to see a skinny woman, thin blonde hair almost see-through. She’s attempted a smart outfit – a blouse tucked into tight navy jeans – but it doesn’t suit her grey, tired skin or dreamy, slow-moving eyes.
There’s a large pram by her hip with a baby girl inside. I know the baby is a girl because everything is pink – snowsuit, blanket and bow.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.’
The woman blinks slowly and says, ‘I’m … Pauly’s mum. Leanne.’ She pauses, looking momentarily confused, then regains her concentration. ‘Pauly said about Tom. They’re … friends?’
‘Oh. Right.’ My hand finds Tom’s shoulder. ‘You’re Pauly’s mum. They’re in the same class, but … I didn’t know they were friends.’
‘You’re … separated like me, aren’t you?’ says Leanne, meeting my eye. ‘That’s what Pauly … says.’
‘Yes.’ I wonder what else the kids at school know about us already.