No Place for Nathan Page 3

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘No need. I want to speak to you both anyway. Nathan Greaves,’ he continued. ‘Just had his father on the phone. Odd phone call. Says he’s unhappy with you having out of school contact with Nathan – specifically, walking him home on Friday afternoon. Says it’s upset him, and that you ask too many questions about his family situation, which apparently confuses him’ – he put the word ‘confused’ into finger quote marks – ‘and supposedly makes him misbehave at home.’

  My eyes had been widening as he’d spoken, but not that much. A rearguard action by the sound of things, and Gary clearly thought so too.

  ‘Hmm, you’ll probably want to read this, sir,’ he said immediately, passing the headmaster the report I’d already given to him.

  The head took the report and began to scan it. ‘In a nutshell,’ Gary continued, ‘it highlights some child protection issues that came to light on Friday afternoon. I suspect Nathan’s father managed to establish some of the things he’d said to Casey and he’s now concerned about how much more we might know.’

  The head read to the bottom then handed Gary the file back. ‘I suspect you’re right,’ he agreed, ‘so I’ll leave it with you. Though, as a precaution, I think you’d better not walk Nathan home again, Casey – not until this is investigated, at any rate. Safer not to go against the father’s wishes at this point, I think.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’d already come to that conclusion myself anyway. The last thing I want is to make life more difficult for the poor boy. On which note, I’d better get down to my classroom before he and the rest of them arrive, hadn’t I?’

  The headmaster shook his head. ‘Nathan’s not coming in today, apparently. He’s ill. Or so his father tells me, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, my anxiety now increasing a notch or two.

  ‘Don’t worry, Casey,’ the head reassured me. ‘If what your report suggests is true, I suspect the last thing the father’s going to do is play into our hands.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Gary. ‘If he has been hurting him I’d say keeping him off school will be more about having those bruises heal before he lets us near him, wouldn’t you?’

  I saw his point but I was still worried that I’d precipitated something, even though, in walking Nathan home, I’d given him the opportunity to voice something that he might not have found the courage to in school. And when the end of the day came around, I was even more dismayed to take a call from the social worker who’d apparently seen my report.

  His name was Martin and he’d had dealings with the family for some time, and was keen, it seemed, to reassure me that all was well.

  ‘I need to explain a couple of things,’ he said, having introduced both himself and his credentials. ‘And they are that, first of all, I don’t believe that Nathan has any psychological problems really. In fact, we believe that he is attention seeking, as does his stepfather.’

  I took this on board, resisting the urge to ask him if he’d had sight of the overdue psychologist’s report. My guess was not, since I hadn’t seen it yet myself and it had been the primary school rather than social services that had ordered it.

  ‘Secondly,’ he went on, ‘we don’t believe Nathan’s telling the truth about his dad hurting him. He’s a clumsy child – I’ve witnessed this myself when I’ve visited the family. You might well have noticed that yourself.’

  I told him I hadn’t, but, in fairness, I’d not known Nathan long. It wasn’t my place to presume I knew more than he did, after all. ‘So what are your thoughts?’ I asked, braced for the sort of response that what he’d told me already seemed to be hinting at.

  ‘We think the family have poor social skills, basically,’ he said, ‘and that because neither parent works, they do live very poorly. They’re not the brightest of people, clearly, but we feel they’re essentially coping – doing their best in unfortunate circumstances. So, as I’m sure you’d agree, we really don’t want to go wellying in, guns blazing, though if you feel strongly that we need to have some continued input in this situation, then we’ll obviously do so,’ he finished.

  Which left me at something of a loss. Of course no one wanted social services ‘wellying in’, as he put it, making pariahs of poor, innocent parents. But something stuck in my craw. If they weren’t earning then why weren’t they ever at home? And another thing – weren’t there grounds for accepting Nathan’s words as truth? It was hardly as if he’d been eager to broadcast it to the world, was it? He hadn’t told me it at all – that had been Jenny.

  But perhaps that would be lost on the man I was currently speaking to. He clearly had his own views on the subject. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I would like social services to take some action, because though I obviously respect your views, I don’t share them. I have a strong gut instinct that something isn’t right here. I’ll obviously continue to work with Nathan and support him while in school, but yes, I’d be grateful,’ I said again, ‘if you could as well.’

  He promised he would, but his tone seemed to suggest differently, and when I put down the phone I realised my hands were shaking.

  By the time I reached the staff room, in search of caffeine and solace, my dismay had worked itself up into anger. Fortunately, Julia Styles, the special needs co-ordinator, was one of my soulmates at work and as she was already in there I cornered her and offloaded all my angst.

  When I finished she was smiling sympathetically. ‘You remind me of a little pit bull,’ she observed. ‘You get your teeth into something and you won’t let go, come hell or high water.’ Her expression changed then. ‘But, you know, Casey, all you can really do is your job. Be there for Nathan, report any single thing that makes you uneasy and trust that, ultimately, social services will also do theirs.’

  ‘But what if they don’t?’ I asked. ‘What if they’re not seeing what I see?’

  Julia shrugged. ‘Then the same still applies, Casey. Report, be observant and keep passing it on. At least then, whatever happens, no one’s going to be able to accuse you of not doing your job.’

  Which was a fair point and, no, I couldn’t do social services’ job for them – she was right. All I could really do was trust in the system and hope that trust wasn’t misplaced.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I feel better already. Well, sort of. I’m sure if I head home and take my frustrations out on Mike, I’ll feel 100 per cent better by the morning.’

  She laughed. ‘Exactly. What else are husbands for?’

  In some ways, the business with Nathan couldn’t have come at a better time. Or a worse one, depending on your viewpoint. Either way, by the time he returned to school on the Wednesday, I was busy setting up shop in another part of the school and, apart from an early visit to pick up all my files, didn’t go down to the Unit again all day.

  With the need for behaviour-management support strategies having grown since I’d joined the school (which, I suspected, along with others, was mostly due to my post having been created), it had recently been decided that, now I’d gained my level three counselling qualification, Jim should be mostly classroom based and I should be promoted to ‘office-occupying’ status. The plan was that, with an office and some private space, I could spend time supporting the kids that most needed intense one-on-one therapy, without the distraction of other kids and their own problems. It also meant that all the kids who had been referred to the Unit could have the opportunity to spend time with me in private.

  Though I’d still be spending time doing group work within the behaviour unit itself, I would now be based in my new office, so Wednesday was mostly given over to customising it, Casey style – i.e. making it look as unlike an office as possible. I spent the whole day setting up new files and sorting out the old ones, as well as having a proper sort-out of the variety of games, art materials and work sheets I’d amassed over the past year, and had trolleyed over.

  I was also keen to extend my personalisation by getting some artwork up on the walls, but tho
ught I’d wait and get the children themselves to design and make some for me. That way they would soon feel some ownership of the room and it would help them to settle into the new environment better.

  I spent practically all of the next day on it too – walking around the school, tracking down all of my past and current students, and letting them know where my new room was. Some of these were regulars, and some were kids I’d not seen in a while, but one thing I’d learned very quickly since I’d joined the school was that, for some kids, knowing where I could be found was key; it was like a security blanket for them to know where they could find me.

  This wasn’t just an assumption on my part, either. Some of the kids I’d spent time with even kept copies of my timetable in their school bags so that they knew my exact whereabouts at any time. And I respected this. So, if I had to make unexpected location changes, I would always leave a note pinned to my door detailing where I could be found.

  Which was no hardship, even though, early on, I knew my attention to these sorts of details marked me out as perhaps a little over-zealous. Which was fair enough, I supposed, because I felt very zealous. The time might one day come when I grew a touch more cynical and a bit less soft about the kids, but I couldn’t see that happening anytime soon.

  It was Thursday afternoon, then, before I next saw Nathan. Having caught up with my move via Jim down in the Unit, he came rushing in during afternoon break, in a flurry of excitement. ‘Ooh, Miss, this is lovely!’ he gushed, running around like a wild child, touching everything in sight and stroking all the surfaces. ‘I can’t wait till it’s my turn to come see you in here. When is it my turn? Will it be soon?’

  ‘It will,’ I said, consulting a timetable of which I already knew most of the contents. ‘I’ll be back teaching in the Unit twice next week anyway, but, yes, you’re with me tomorrow afternoon, sweetie. And every Friday afternoon from then on.’

  He clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Oh, I can’t wait! Do you want me to do you a picture for your wall? It’s very bare, Miss.’

  ‘You read my mind, Nathan,’ I told him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  He smiled one of his funny little smiles then and looked at me from under his black lashes. ‘And I might even get Jenny to do one for you too.’

  In the event, it was early on the Friday morning that I next saw Nathan. He was waiting outside my office for me, sitting cross-legged in front of the door.

  ‘You’re early,’ I called as he pulled himself to his feet and yanked at trousers that were already in conversation with his lower shins.

  ‘I thought I’d come early in case you had any jobs that needed doing,’ he explained. ‘I’m good at jobs, aren’t I?’

  I unlocked the door and agreed that he was. Not that I could think of one on the spur of the moment. ‘Give me a minute,’ I told him, parking my handbag and coat. ‘I’m sure I will, but in the meantime why don’t you sit and chat to me instead?’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting for just such an invitation, ‘I have something to tell you, Miss. A secret.’

  My ears pricked up instantly. Though so did my training. ‘Nathan,’ I told him, ‘we don’t have secrets here, remember? You can tell me anything you like but I can’t promise to keep it a secret, remember?’

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘but I’m going to tell you anyway, because it’s so lovely.’

  ‘Is it, now?’

  ‘It is,’ he said. ‘I had sex with my girlfriend last night and it was nice, Miss.’ He leaned towards me. ‘We did porn.’

  For all his colourful language in the Unit from time to time, this one brought me up rather short. The child was 11, after all. ‘Nathan,’ I scolded gently, ‘I don’t think you should be saying things like that unless they’re true. Is that Nathan talking?’ I added, wondering if we’d strayed into a persona.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, nodding. ‘It’s always Nathan now. I can’t use my other people any more, Miss, because my daddy’ll get mad with me – like, really mad. But if you don’t believe me,’ he went on chattily, ‘I can tell you what I did. I stuck my thingy in her thing and we jumped up and down.’

  ‘You did?’ I asked.

  ‘I really did,’ he said. ‘So there!’

  Somewhat uncomfortable at this revelation, not to mention a little stumped at what to do with it, I repeated that he shouldn’t be talking like that unless he was telling the honest truth.

  ‘I am telling the bloody truth!’ he said dramatically, ‘I know what porn is, Miss. It’s when a boy does it with lots of different people and nobody tells anyone. I got another secret as well.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m partly gay, Miss. I just found out. I found out because me and William did it together yesterday, in the toilets. We touched willies together and kissed and everything, Miss. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  There was a knock on the open door then – the school secretary dropping off some paperwork – and Nathan’s hand flew to his mouth. She’d not heard anything, I was sure, though she’d heard enough in her working life not to have batted an eyelid anyway, but it signalled the end of Nathan’s confessional session, because he jumped up then and told me he had to be going and that he’d see me that afternoon as planned.

  I decided I’d investigate further. I knew William was a friend of Nathan’s so it would be sensible to alert their head of year in any case; even if he didn’t know anything, he could obviously keep an ear out. I’d also make a copy for Gary in child protection, as it would be him who’d pass it on to social services.

  And was Martin right after all? Did Nathan simply have an overactive imagination? Or was there more to it? Nathan had spouted it all out to me so matter of factly that he might as well have been telling me that he had just learned how to ride a bike! Curiouser and curiouser, and not in a good way.

  It didn’t take me long to do the report, and I duly printed two copies and took them to both of my colleagues’ in-trays. When I returned to my office, via a coffee stop, and found Gary there waiting for me, my first thought – and comment – was, ‘That was quick!’

  ‘I must have missed you by moments,’ he said, following me inside and shutting the door. ‘And I’m afraid that at least some of this is true.’

  I groaned, but, at the same time, felt a small spark of vindication. ‘It is?’

  ‘We had William’s mother here last night. It seems that something did happen in the toilets yesterday and, according to William, Nathan initiated it. Forced himself on Will, by all accounts – the boy’s apparently quite traumatised. He was going to keep it to himself, though, by all accounts, but apparently Nathan was keen to tell pretty much anyone in earshot that Will and he had sex and loved each other.’ He sighed a weary sigh. ‘So, of course, everyone began calling Will names, so he told his mum and – well, you can imagine. She’s not very happy.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘You know, we really need that report from the psychologist. In fact, maybe he needs a formal re-assessment anyway. It’s already clear that Nathan isn’t able to be mainstreamed without full-time supervision, and this just adds weight to that, doesn’t it? And you know, Gary, I still think that there are underlying factors at home. I just don’t accept this “peculiar child” tag he seems to have been saddled with.’

  Gary concluded that – thankfully – he was inclined to agree with me and would address the matter with the educational psychologist at once. ‘I’ll put another child protection referral through,’ he added. ‘Given the explicit nature of Nathan’s revelations, they can hardly not act, at least in some way. Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Duly crossed,’ I said. ‘And toes, too, for good measure.’

  That afternoon, as planned, Nathan attended his appointment with me. The buzz phrase at the time was ‘life space interviews’, where I would simply encourage a child to talk about anything and not interfere with their flow. I would use prompt words to keep them on track if it helped
achieve that, but in the main it was all about active listening and the making of (very) discreet notes.

  I was determined to make the most of this opportunity with Nathan, who breezed in as usual, thankfully oblivious to the waves he’d set rolling, and came around the back of my desk to stand beside me.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Miss,’ he said, as if we’d been parted for many months. ‘Do you bring your make-up to school? I really love your lip gloss.’

  ‘No, sweetie,’ I said, ‘I put it on in the morning and just hope that it lasts.’

  ‘And does it?’ he asked, scrutinising me. ‘Right till bedtime?’

  I told him no lip gloss in the world would last through fish and chips and mushy peas, upon which he rolled his eyes and flapped a wrist. ‘Could you bring it next time, Miss, maybe, and I’ll bring mine too? Then we could have a girlie time putting make-up on, couldn’t we?’

  I was finding it difficult to know where to go with him in this mode and wished I knew more about the reasons why children adopted such mysterious ways. In the meantime, though, I’d just have to apply common sense. ‘Boys don’t really wear make-up, do they, Nathan? Just girls and ladies, mostly. Anyway, you look very nice without it.’

  He drew a hand across one of his eyebrows to tame a stray curl. ‘Do you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that we have a parrot in our house? It talks to me all the time; it’s so funny.’

  At last, I thought, a safer subject, even if I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. ‘I used to have a parrot that talked, too,’ I told him. ‘What do you call yours?’

  ‘It’s called Peter,’ he said, moving around to the other side of my desk and pulling out the chair. ‘And it says “Get the lazy fucker out of bed” and “Fuck off to school” and “Don’t dare talk to that Mrs Watson”.’

  He hadn’t sat down and as I looked at him I watched his expression change. He was staring at me intently now. ‘Why do you think your parrot says that?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Miss,’ he said. ‘And do you know what else he says?’