Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

  ‘Wow!’ he yelled. ‘A new school!’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I know you will be a good boy when you start, because you know how to behave now, don’t you?’ He nodded vigorously. ‘So, today is Monday.’

  ‘I know that,’ he put in quickly.

  ‘So tomorrow is?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘And the next day is …?’

  ‘Wednesday!’ he shouted.

  ‘That’s right, good, but don’t shout.’ I smiled. ‘Tomorrow morning, Tuesday, I have to go to your school and meet the headmaster. I shall be talking to him and telling him how well you are doing, and what a good boy you are. While I am there you will be going to my friend Nicola for two hours.’

  ‘Who’s Nicola?’ he asked.

  ‘She is a very good friend of mine and we met her once in the high street, but I don’t suppose you remember?’ He shook his head. ‘Nicola is very good at looking after children, and she said to tell you that she has lots of toys for you to play with.’ It might sound as though I was labouring the point, but when children have been moved around as much as Reece had, they can easily become insecure.

  Reece pulled a face. ‘I want to go to school with you.’

  ‘We will both go to school on Wednesday, but tomorrow, just for a couple of hours, I need you to stay with Nicola. You can play, and she will give you a drink and a biscuit, and then it will be time for me to come and collect you.’

  The drink and the biscuit seemed to seal it and Reece said: ‘Yeah. I’ll go to Nicola’s for a drink and a biscuit and you will go to my school.’

  ‘That’s right, love. Well done.’

  ‘Will we go in the car?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll take you to Nicola’s, and then I will go on to school. OK?’

  He nodded again, and my heart went out to him, so naïve and vulnerable, and so looking forward to starting his new school. I hoped that by the time I had finished talking to the head he would have decided to give Reece a fair chance. I would tell Mr Fitzgerald how much Reece’s behaviour had improved, and how well he was doing generally. Perhaps, I consoled myself, he’d been put out by being forced into taking him and having his view overruled. I hoped Reece would prove himself.

  Reece was still chatting about his new school as I took him up to bed and said goodnight. ‘Do they have a uniform?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I think it’s navy, but I’ll find out tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. I like navy. Do they have a playground?’

  ‘Yes, they will have.’

  ‘Good. I like playgrounds. What’s my teacher’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m sure I will be told tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Miss Smith,’ he said. ‘Same as my last one.’

  I smiled. ‘Maybe. Now, come on, off to sleep. We have both got a busy day tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Cathy. I’m asleep,’ he said screwing his eyes tightly shut. ‘I like my school, and I like my home. I’m very ‘appy ‘ere, Cathy. I like you.’

  ‘Good, darling. I’m pleased to hear that. I like you too, very much.’ I kissed his forehead and then came out and closed his bedroom door.

  I didn’t sleep well that Monday night, as the head’s words were buzzing round in my head, and I was also pretty anxious about meeting him the following morning. My brain kept trying to formulate the words and sentences I would need to win him over, and persuade him that Reece wasn’t the ‘bad lot’ he thought he was. With his learning difficulties Reece would need support in the classroom from a teaching assistant (TA), but his behaviour was not only manageable but also quite sweet. ‘Clear and consistent boundaries’ is a cliché among foster carers looking after children with behavioural difficulties, but it is a strategy that works. Once the child knows what behaviour is expected and is acceptable, and the boundaries for good behaviour are consistent, then the child adjusts accordingly and, hey presto, you have an angel, or almost. The same ‘clear and consistent’ expectations of behaviour would apply at the school, which obviously the staff would know and already have in place as a matter of course. Assuming the teacher and TAs were proficient in their jobs, I couldn’t see Reece was going to cause them any more of a problem than the average seven-year-old.

  Reece was in good spirits as we arrived at Nicola’s the following morning and the first thing he said to Nicola was that he was starting school the next day.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ I thought if you did but know! I saw Reece into her living room, kissed him goodbye, then thanked Nicola again and drove to the school. I parked in the road outside at 9.50 and got out. I straightened my skirt and jacket and then went up to the security gates and pressed the intercom buzzer. My stomach was churning at the thought of meeting the head, but I was ready to do battle with him if necessary on Reece’s behalf. He deserved a proper chance at school.

  ‘Hello?’ A female voice said from the intercom grid.

  ‘It’s Cathy Glass. I have an appointment to see the head at ten o’clock, about Reece Williams.’

  ‘Yes. Push the gate. I’ll open it now.’

  Hearing the security lock click its release, I pushed open the massive iron gate and went into the playground. The gate clanged shut behind me and I crossed the playground and went up the two steps to the main entrance. I tried the door but it was still locked, so I pressed the buzzer on the intercom grid to my right, and the door immediately opened.

  The small reception was empty but seemed quite welcoming, with children’s work displayed on two of the walls and a large pinboard with photographs of all the staff, and their names printed beneath. The word ‘welcome’ in as many languages as you could imagine was printed on coloured card and pinned to the door opposite me. This door now opened and a man in his late fifties dressed in a grey, slightly creased suit came in.

  ‘Mrs Glass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Tom Fitzgerald, the head teacher. I’m sorry our receptionist is off ill.’ I nodded and we shook hands. Although he didn’t smile, he wasn’t the ogre I had imagined. In fact, short, with a worried expression, he seemed more anxious than intimidating. ‘Do come through to my office. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  I followed him through the door with all the ‘welcome’ signs, and along a short corridor, where we turned right, and into his office. This was warm and pleasantly furnished with a bright blue carpet, light blue emulsion walls and a huge desk with a computer, and four armchairs dotted in front of it.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to leave you for five minutes while I sort out a problem with another child. I have a copy of Reece’s statement of special education needs here. Perhaps you could read it while I’m away.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I sat in an armchair and Mr Fitzgerald took a wad of papers, stapled at one corner, from his desk, and passed it to me.

  ‘I shouldn’t be too long,’ he said.

  I nodded and smiled, and he left the room. Undoing my jacket, I looked at the top page of Reece’s statement, which contained his full name, age, date of birth, religion and language spoken. The statement, like most educational documents now, was computer generated, so it was printed. Beneath his details were family details; the names of his parents with their address had been crossed out and my details written beside them in ink. I made a mental note to remind the head that my address was strictly confidential and mustn’t be divulged under any circumstances, just in case his mother found out which school Reece was attending and approached it.

  All statements of special educational needs follow the same format and I began to read the first section which was about behaviour. To my horror I read that Reece was reported as being impulsive and aggressive, rude and violent, and that he often hit other children and adults, causing them real harm. It said he was unable to play or cooperate with his peers and refused to take part in any organized activity, becoming rude and violent, that he was disruptive, emotion
ally very immature and that he often banged tables, shouted, screamed and threw things when angry which was very frightening for other children and staff. It said he would only complete a task if someone was sitting beside him, and that he often spoke in a very loud voice or shouted to gain attention.

  I stopped and looked up. I couldn’t believe what I was reading! It was far, far worse than I could have ever imagined. Of all the statements about all the children I had ever fostered, this was the worst by a long way. I sat staring around me, trying to equate the child whose details I was now reading with the one I had left at Nicola’s playing with her toddler. The only clause I could relate to was the last one about Reece’s loud voice. No wonder Mr Fitzgerald had reacted as he had. With only the statement to go on it appeared Reece was violent, aggressive and completely uncontrollable. If I’d been the head in charge of this large town school, I wouldn’t have wanted Reece in my school either. I noticed there was no mention of the head-butting and biting which I’d had to deal with in the early weeks, so I assumed that behaviour had been reserved for home, and I was grateful for small mercies.

  I drew my eyes downward again, and to the second section, which was entitled ‘ACADEMIC SKILLS’. It began by saying that Reece had global delay and then continued with what I already knew — that he couldn’t read or write; but it included the statement ‘Reece has a poor short-term working memory, and is reluctant to improve on his skills.’ Reluctant in education terms means he refused point blank to do whatever was suggested. I had found Reece anything but ‘reluctant’ in his wish to learn. The statement didn’t say that he was capable of learning, given the right encouragement. I turned back to the first page to see the date, wondering if it was a very old statement that omitted any recent improvement, but found it had been amended only eight months previously, presumably just prior to him being excluded from his second primary school, and a couple of months before coming into care.

  I returned to the assessment page and started to read the next section, which was entitled ‘LANGUAGE SKILLS’. It began with ‘Reece has severe difficulties with receptive and expressive language skills’; and continued by stating that when asked a question he responded with one or two words; that his speech was ‘generally unintelligible’, and he was ‘unable to identify complex concepts’. ‘He is unwilling to reflect on his progress, will not discuss his views sensibly, and cannot follow simple instructions.’ Again I could not believe it was the same child.

  I turned the page to the ‘SKILLS’ section and read that Reece had a short attention span, couldn’t function in a class or group situation and was ‘easily distracted’. I had just started the next section, which dealt with his ‘SOCIAL SKILLS’, where I was reading that Reece could ‘not successfully interact with his peer group at any level’, when the door opened and the head returned.

  ‘I can’t believe what I’m reading,’ I said before he’d even sat down. ‘This child is so unlike the one I know that I could believe it was the wrong statement.’

  ‘It’s the right one, and it’s recent,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘I know.’

  Mr Fitzgerald was sitting in the armchair opposite me, waiting for my further response. I had read the sections that detailed Reece’s needs; the rest outlined what provision had been put in place at the previous school to meet those needs.

  I looked at him. ‘All I can say is that Reece has made huge progress in the last three months, since he has been with me. I can only assume his behaviour was because he was so unsettled at home. His mother is very aggressive, so I think that Reece was copying her while he was at home.’

  ‘That’s what the director of education said, but it is true he was moved from a number of carers before he came to you.’

  ‘Well, yes, but since he’s been with me we have seen nothing like the behaviour reported here.’ I tapped the papers on my lap. ‘Reece was a bit aggressive when he first arrived,’ I added, reluctant to remember the headbutting and biting, ‘but he soon settled down. He wants to do the right thing, and he seeks approval, which makes a huge difference. I have fostered children before who have not wanted adult approval, and their behaviour is very difficult to modify, but that has never been so with Reece. He wants to do the right thing and he wants to learn as well.’

  Mr Fitzgerald was looking at me carefully, apparently slightly tempted to believe what I was saying but not convinced. I wondered if his hostile and brusque manner on the phone the evening before had been a knee-jerk reaction to Reece’s statement — the portrayal of a truly horrendous and uncontrollable child.

  ‘So you haven’t seen any of Reece’s aggression replicated at home?’ he asked presently.

  ‘Not since he first came to me, no, and then it was very short-lived. He does have special needs, but it is his learning that requires attention now, not his behaviour. And he can learn. When he came to me he had a sight vocabulary of one word; now he’s up to forty-five. He has problems writing: his fine motor skills are poor, though improving. He can sit still for quite long periods, and yes, I am by his side, but he will have a teaching assistant in school, won’t he?’

  He nodded. ‘There is provision for a full-time TA, including playground supervision.’

  ‘Is there? Good,’ I said. But the level of provision was a double-edged sword, for it suggested a child who couldn’t be left alone for a minute. With full TA support, Reece would have adult supervision and support for the whole day, including when he was having his lunch and in the playground.

  ‘All right,’ he said thoughtfully after a moment. ‘We’ll just have to see how it goes. Now I want you to meet his TA, and I would also like you to be in school tomorrow morning, but not with him.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ I said.

  ‘If you’d like to wait here, I’ll find Mrs Morrison, his TA, and you can perhaps allay some of her worries as well. I haven’t decided which class Reece will go in yet. We are a two-form entry, and unfortunately both the teachers for Reece’s year are in their first year of teaching. They are very enthusiastic but lack experience in dealing with this type of child. However, from what you are saying, that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘No.’ I gave a small nervous laugh, for having read the statement and felt the head’s concerns, I was beginning to have doubts. Then I caught myself. ‘Reece will be fine,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’ Smiling for the first time, Mr Fitzgerald went in search of the TA, while my thoughts ran to Reece. When we got home I was going to have a long chat with Reece and explain how this was a fresh start for him, and that he must forget all his previous bad behaviour at the other schools and behave now at school as he did at home. But my next thought was that it wasn’t a good idea to remind Reece of how he used to behave, and that I must have faith in him, and in his ability to behave well at school as he did with me.

  When the head returned with Mrs Morrison, a well-rounded, motherly figure in her mid-fifties, the three of us spent some time talking. I continued to emphasize how much improvement Reece had made, and that he was a delightful child. Mrs Morrison listened very carefully and seemed relieved. After about fifteen minutes the head suggested I go with Mrs Morrison to sort out Reece’s school uniform, explaining that normally the school secretary-cum-receptionist would have taken care of it but she was off sick. I thanked Mr Fitzgerald for all he was doing for Reece and then left his office with the TA.

  We went back along the corridor to a large walk-in cupboard, which was the stockroom and contained shelves of school uniforms in plastic bags. I had been right about the colour of the uniform — it was navy — and Mrs Morrison helped me to sort through the packages, looking for Reece’s size. I knew from holding up the garments what would fit him, and as we worked side by side, collecting together the navy trousers, navy sweatshirt, white T-shirt and PE kit, we chatted.

  ‘You’ll be fine with Reece,’ I reassured her. ‘He’s a good boy really. He’s just had some bad examples in his past. I expect you’ve had a l
ot of experience as a TA.’

  She smiled nervously. ‘Actually this is a bit new for me. Before this term I was helping children with some extra reading in the library. I used to be a dinner lady, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m sure Reece will like you a lot.’ She was a lovely lady, warm and friendly, and very approachable, but I wondered at the wisdom of putting her in charge of Reece as her first experience as a TA, given his previous history in school. If I’d have been the head, I would have opted for a specialist TA to begin with, someone with loads of experience in working with children with challenging behaviour, and then once Reece had settled into school again, gradually introduced Mrs Morrison. But it was the head’s decision, and also the cheaper option, for anything left over from the allowance he would be receiving for a specialist TA for Reece could be used in another area of his doubtless tight budget. But then I’m a bit cynical about these things.

  Thanking Mrs Morrison for all her help, I came away with the uniform, having arranged to meet her in reception at 8.30 the following morning. The head had suggested Reece and I come in early on his first morning so that he could look round the school before the bell went at 8.50, and the other children came in, which I thought was a good idea.

  I had been gone nearly three hours by the time I arrived at Nicola’s at 12.20. ‘Sorry,’ I said as she answered the door. ‘It took longer than I expected.’

  ‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘Reece has been keeping Maisie amused. I hope it’s OK: I’ve given him some lunch. He’s having it now.’

  ‘Thank you. That is sweet of you.’ I followed Nicola through to the kitchen, where Reece was perched on a breakfast stool, tucking into a sandwich and a bag of crisps. Beside him in a high chair sat Maisie, nearly ten months old, and making a good attempt to eat a banana.