‘This isn’t the time or the place to be discussing this. Please go home. We’ll talk about it properly later.’
He turned his back on me and began to walk away. The gulf between us widened with every footstep. But no matter what Tony hurled at me or how much he tried to hurt me, I still loved him. And when it came to our daughter, I was determined to prove him wrong.
Ahead, a door with the name of the school’s head teacher opened and a man with more hair sprouting from his ears than his head looked at us.
‘Mr Morris and, oh . . .’
‘I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Effie’s mother, Laura,’ I said, finishing his sentence for him.
The head looked at Tony, puzzled. Tony closed his eyes and nodded, begrudgingly.
‘Come in,’ the head continued, and we followed him into his office, where two large windows overlooked a cricket pitch and a match in progress. Another teacher stood with his back to us watching the game.
I started talking before we’d even been offered seats. ‘I’ve been reading Effie’s reports and I’m not happy,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to know why my daughter’s grades have fallen so badly. You’re responsible for her education, so as far as I can see, this is down to you.’
‘Let me introduce you to Effie’s head of year,’ he replied. ‘Mrs Morris, this is Ryan Smith.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he began as he turned around. I recognised Steven’s voice immediately, then his face. The bottom instantly fell from my world.
‘Please believe me when I say that, as her teacher, I want only the best for your daughter, too.’
CHAPTER FOUR
RYAN
My pulse raced like the throbbing engine of a sports car the moment I heard Laura’s muffled voice in the corridor from where I was standing in Bruce Atkinson’s office.
She was talking to her husband, and whatever they were discussing sounded as if it was riling him.
As Effie’s form tutor and English teacher, I’d met Mr Morris on a couple of occasions to discuss Effie’s poor marks, weak midterm exam results and distracting behaviour. He’d been listed in school records as the first and only point of contact in all email and telephone communications. There’d been a note attached, strictly forbidding us from contacting her mother except in extreme circumstances. However, none of the other teachers I had asked knew why. I removed the note and reinstated Laura’s email address.
A couple of times I’d slipped Effie’s mum into the conversation just to test the waters, but Mr Morris didn’t acknowledge her. I assumed she played a limited role in her daughter’s academic life. However, since I’d begun blind-copying Laura into those emails, I’d made sure she was up to speed, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she crawled out of the woodwork.
I watched her in the reflection on Bruce’s window as she strolled in confidently. She was a very different woman from the one I’d confronted in the cottage. Then, she’d been dumbstruck, before lurching from wall to wall, tearing down images of herself and her family, thinking I was going to kill her. Now she was at ease, hair curled and make-up perfectly applied. In our telephone conversations, her voice had been reassuring and calm. At the cottage, it had been shaky and tearful, but today it was forceful and accusatory.
It took just one introductory sentence and the split-second sight of me to pull the rug from under her feet. After a long separation, Steven and Laura had been reunited.
It had taken a lot of time and effort to engineer our meeting, and I’d needed an unwitting Effie’s help to do it. The moment I saw her photograph in the local newspaper with her mum I’d thought I recognised her, but I cross-checked it with her Facebook profile just to be sure. She was a student at my school. And as I prepared to return to work for the new term, the pregnancy of English teacher Mrs Simmons was a stroke of luck for me. It meant I wouldn’t just be Effie’s teacher, but her head of year and form tutor, too.
I started work again during the school holidays, getting to grips with the syllabus and helping out at some of the extracurricular sports tournaments. I’d insisted on light activity at first, blaming my inability to do anything too strenuous on my fake hernia operation. When school began again in September, I was ready to return full-time.
My colleagues gave me the low-down on which pupils made up Year 10’s hierarchy, and Effie’s name came up time and time again. She was, by all accounts, a very intelligent young woman, but she had a bossy streak. From the first week she transferred to our school, she’d built a clique around her. Social media was her favourite tool, and if she didn’t like someone, she’d rally the troops to make her victims’ online presence hell. When it all became too much for one of her classmates, he’d taken to cutting his arms and legs with a craft knife. He’d since moved schools. However, Effie had been smart enough to avoid being caught. The apple really hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
I was mindful of the fact she was only fourteen years old and there was a chance she could grow into a better person. But for now, she was exactly what I needed her to be. Bullies like her are always more insecure than the people they attack, so it’d only take a light touch to push her from her pedestal. In my nine years of teaching, I’d learned popularity and intelligence were the only things that mattered to girls like her. Take those away and she’d have nothing.
I started by grading her English essays and tests a little lower than Mrs Simmons had. At first it was an A– instead of an A. Next time, it had slipped to a B+, until by the end of my first month with her, she was averaging Cs. Each time I handed the class their marked papers, I took a moment to her watch her scowl as she hid the disappointing bright-red grade on the top left-hand corner of her page from those around her. After the second month, she snapped.
‘Why do you keep giving me bad marks, sir?’ she demanded after waiting until the rest of the class had moved on to their next lesson.
‘I don’t think you’re understanding what I want in your answers,’ I replied.
‘Mrs Simmons never graded me like this.’
‘I’m not Mrs Simmons.’
‘She said English was one of my top subjects.’
‘Your grades tell me otherwise.’