Chapter 61 Headmistress
I’m not interested in secondaries as yet.
I just wanted to have a word with the head and she didn’t get back to a single one of my thirty-four emails, which I find unprofessional.
I have to sit through four generic monologues, and my boredom is only slightly alleviated by one gorgeous headmaster that all the mums talk about.
I don’t drink too much of their Chilean sauvignon blanc (they could do better), and I don’t ask difficult questions. I just stare at Mrs Pembury from the audience, which seems to put her off balance.
I wait by the door as she goes through her clever social interaction with each and every parent. I’m probably the only non-Adams parent present but one of the best dressed. They’re all parading luxury loungewear with Ugg boots and cashmere sweaters, but I’ve made an effort.
When it’s my turn (and I do ensure I’m last in the queue), Mrs Pembury’s seemingly endless stream of graceful smiles dries up.
‘Hello Mrs Pembury. Lalla Rook,’ I say, and hold out my hand.
Her eyes are pebble-hard and her lips pout. ‘This evening is for current parents, not prospective parents.’
‘I like to get to know a school, inside and out,’ I say. ‘And it was most informative.’
‘I’m pleased that you enjoyed it. Good evening.’ She turns away before I can reply. An expert in cold-shouldering. She is half out of the door when I grab hold of her arm. She turns, glaring at my hand.
‘I wouldn’t mind a quick word about Nelly. Do you remember Nelly?’
‘Please direct your questions to our registrar, and I’m sure she’ll be only too pleased to assist.’
‘But I’ve tried and, if I can speak plainly, it’s like talking to the back end of a bus. All you get is exhaust fumes. I thought I’d go right to the top. I’m just trying to get some support.’
‘Well, I can’t help you,’ she says, removing my hand.
‘She finds the experience of examinations quite challenging. She has special needs. Would it be possible to give her extra time and I could provide evidence of her specific condition later?’ I stand in front of her to prevent her leaving.
‘No, Mrs Rook, we must be fair and act only where there is an actual diagnosis, not where there is merely a suspicion,’ she replies, and steps to the side.
‘You must use the resources you have. Now I’ve said my final word on this matter.
And furthermore, please do not send me any more gifts.
’ She must be referring to the Harrods hamper she received at Christmas.
‘Everyone deserves a chance,’ I say.
Her eyes blaze, but she quickly douses the flames with controlled calm, and says, ‘Goodnight, Mrs Rook. Good luck in the tests.’
I’m left standing alone in the hall, with the cleaner trying to get in. I just want Nelly to do well. Clearly, she will not do well without help, which leaves me feeling, I might as well admit it, vulnerable.
I return home deeply dissatisfied. Stephen isn’t there.
Instead of a husband, I find a note telling me that he’s staying in his mother’s house in Kensington until Sunday morning, to give me ‘space’, and asks for the name of my solicitor, so that we can start to discuss a deal.
Charming. He wants to force me to accept a reduced settlement.
I don’t need space or a lawyer. I need the opposite.
I need firm arms around me. I need to stop spinning.
The bed is cold and my mind is racing. Words like simpleton and strange keep circling like vultures.
I get up, look in on Nelly and Nathan. I sit on the edge of their beds and stroke their foreheads.
I’m a mother, aren’t I? Even if I don’t .
. . even if I’m not . . . and they deserve the best, don’t they?
I think I must fall asleep in the chair in their bedroom, because I awake suddenly to the image of Jason Mercer clawing his way out of wet concrete and pulling trampoline plastic from his face. Except, it’s not him at all. It’s Nelly’s face gasping for breath.
I sit bolt upright, sweating. I rush to Nelly, but she’s sleeping. She’s not a maniac. She’s just a girl who can’t quite conform. I kiss her head. Her smell smothers me. She’s the past as well as the future. Why do I let people insult my children, and do nothing?
I suddenly know what I have to do for my children.
Ten minutes later, I’m driving towards Barnet in my pyjamas and dressing gown.
I stop at an ATM and use four different cards to withdraw as much cash as they allow.
Various passers-by give me rather odd looks.
Of course, I realize I don’t look my best but that’s not important now.
I get back into the car and stuff the cash into an envelope.
I park outside the house and march up to the door. There are no lights on, but it is after one in the morning. I press the bell and wait. Nothing happens, so I keep my finger on it for a full minute, until a light goes on, and a figure appears through the frosted glass.
‘Who is it?’ calls out a frightened voice.
‘It’s Mrs Rook. Nelly’s mum.’
‘What are you doing here?’ says the voice.
‘I need to speak to you,’ I say.
‘I can’t speak. Go away,’ says the voice, with a gulp of panic.
I take the envelope of cash from my dressing gown pocket and stuff it through the letter box.
‘I hope this helps. We all need extra in January.’
‘What are you doing?’ she squeals. ‘You can’t do this. You can’t give me money.’
‘You said I should use the resources available to me. I didn’t realize what you meant, and then it just came to me.’
The door opens on the chain, and Mrs Pembury holds out the envelope with a shaky hand. ‘Mrs Rook, you can’t give me money. I only meant that you should focus on Nelly’s strengths rather than seek extra time.’
‘You have it. Clearly, you need it more than I,’ I say, indicating the house.
She pushes the envelope further through the gap. ‘Go away, take your money, you can’t harass people like this,’ she says, her voice breaking.
‘Please,’ I say, grabbing her hand. ‘I want you to help Nelly. She’s not a bad child.’
I see her eyes through the gap in the door. ‘Let go, let go,’ she shouts.
I let go of her hand. She pulls it back through the door and tries to slam the door, but my foot is wedged in the gap.
Mrs Pembury is breathing rapidly now. She says quite slowly as though trying to remain calm, ‘How did you know where I live?’
I don’t want to tell her that I followed her home once, so I just stare at her.
‘Please, you have to go. I’ll call the police.’
‘Why won’t you help me?’ I say. ‘I want you to give Nelly a chance. If she had extra time, she’d really surprise you.’
‘My husband is upstairs,’ she says, then calls upstairs. ‘Malcom!’
‘But you don’t have a husband, Mrs Pembury,’ I say. ‘He died five years ago.’
‘I’m calling the police,’ she says. ‘This is harassment, and I won’t stand for it.’
‘You’ll have to let go of the door to do that,’ I say. ‘And these chains break easily.’
She looks over her shoulder. A small dog appears from the kitchen and lowers its head submissively. Not the guard dog she was hoping for.
‘Can I just ask one question? Then I’ll go.’
‘I’m not answering any of your questions.’
‘Do you think it’s worth getting Nelly an autism assessment? It’s three thousand pounds, so I don’t want to waste money unless it will do some good.’
Mrs Pembury tries to kick at my foot.
‘Please don’t make me angry, Mrs Pembury. I would hate to have the loss of a leading educationalist on my conscience. I just want some advice about which disability to choose.’
‘You can’t choose a child’s disability,’ she shrieks.
‘But hypothetically, would you say that strong dyslexia trumps mild autism?’
‘Go away,’ she says, through the gap.
‘Do you think you can add them up? You know, if she has dyslexia and autism? I suppose I could just apply for both.’
‘Don’t ever come here again,’ she says.
‘Do consider my request, Mrs Pembury,’ I say, and remove my foot. The door slams shut. I walk back to my car and sit there watching the house until the lights all go off again, then tiptoe back to the front door.
‘Just a little thank you,’ I whisper, take the thick envelope out of my pocket and push it back through her letterbox.