Chapter 3 #2
“Shall we?” Lord Sterling asked after a few moments of silence.
Impatience was creeping into his tone now, and I realised that he didn’t actually know where the Art Room was.
I needed to start being a functioning human and lead the way, so I nodded again and turned towards the right door, opening it up into the bright space.
The Art Room was the best-lit room in the building, with lots of natural light pouring in from the double-aspect windows.
I moved next to the teacher’s desk and then nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of the door closing behind us.
Not knowing whether to sit down, I just stood on the spot and fiddled with the sleeves of my jumper.
I was looking down at the floor when the large feet, clad in expensive Italian leather shoes came into my eyeline. I jumped at that too.
“Miss Clara,” Lord Sterling snapped, and my eyes flew to his for a brief moment before going back to the far safer territory of his tie. “Do you, by any chance, actually speak?”
Oh dear. Clearly, I couldn’t talk to a concerned father like a normal person.
I started nodding again but then closed my eyes in humiliation as I realised my mistake. Right, time to woman up. I cleared my throat in an attempt to loosen up my vocal cords. His expensive, manly smell was surrounding me now, his broad chest filling my entire line of sight.
After swallowing twice, I managed a small, “Yes.” I meant to say it at a normal volume but it came out as a hoarse whisper.
“Well, that is a relief,” he said with an edge to his voice, “I was beginning to become concerned.”
“S-sorry,” I whispered.
Apologising was a nervous habit for me, along with the stutter I developed when I was stressed.
My brother Freddie’s voice filled my head then: “Every other fucking word out of your mouth is sorry, you useless bitch. Sorry this, sorry that. You’re fucking pathetic. I can’t believe I’m related to you.”
I felt that heat in my neck creep up to my face. Great, now I was full-on blushing in front of this man. He made a muted sound of impatience, and his feet shifted slightly in front of me.
“I’m not asking for an apology, Clara,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. He sighed. “Listen, I just want to discuss Ozzie. He talks about you all the time, and last week he told me you said that his brain works differently.”
I nodded again. Ugh, Clara, get it together and actually form words, you numpty!
“Ozzie’s brain does work differently,” I said after a long pause, relieved that I didn’t stutter and that, at least this time, my voice was just above a whisper. Lord Sterling crossed his arms over his broad chest, and I kept my eyes focused on his tie.
“I would appreciate you not filling my child’s head with ideas without formally assessing him. Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun?”
I shook my head, frowning at that. My need to communicate how important this was overriding some of my shyness.
“N-n-no,” I said, annoyed by my bloody stutter but soldiering on.
This was important for Ozzie and his father needed to understand it.
“There shouldn’t be any waiting. It’s super important that Ozzie doesn’t fall behind anymore, or his confidence could be affected. I––”
“Exactly what qualifications do you have to diagnose my son with dyslexia, Clara?”
I glanced up at his face for a brief moment but instantly regretted it. He was staring down at me like I was a bug under the microscope that he was vaguely disgusted by. It took all my effort to stop myself from taking a large step back to put some distance between us.
“I-I-I…” I closed my eyes in frustration and gritted my teeth. But he cut me off before I could speak again.
“Because I have not been given a formal report or informed of any additional needs with Ozzie. If I’m honest, based on this conversation – if, in fact, you can call it that – I’m doubting you have it in you to teach full stop, let alone make complicated educational judgements with your limited experience. How old are you anyway? Nineteen?”
Through the thick fog of anxiety, a sudden bolt of anger shot through me.
You could criticise me for most other things – I was well aware of my abject failure in other areas – but there were no grounds to criticise the way I did my job.
I was damn good at my job. Too many things had been taken away from me over the years, and this arrogant man, who thought he owned the school and everyone in it, wasn’t taking this as well.
The anger somehow loosened the lump in my throat, and the vague ringing in my ears blocked out my anxious thoughts.
When I spoke again, I didn’t stutter, and I did maintain eye contact.
“I have a BSc in Chemistry, my PGCE and a Masters in Learning Difficulties. I have been teaching for four years, and I have never had any of my assessments questioned or reversed. Not that it’s any of your business, but I am not a teenager; I’m twenty-seven years old.
When I started with Ozzie two months ago, he had behavioural issues at school, which largely stemmed from his frustration with his undiagnosed dyslexia.
No, I have not given you a formal report yet.
If you had waited another twenty-four hours, you could have had one.
I don’t rush into these judgements as it is incredibly important to get it right.
The reason I told Ozzie his brain works differently is because it does.
He believed he was stupid which is absolutely unacceptable as he’s an exceptionally intelligent boy.
I had to give him an explanation, and I’m not going to apologise for that. ”