Megan
‘I’m afraid he’s simply not responding to any of the measures we’ve tried.’ The head teacher frowned. ‘And, as we said at the outset, there’ll have to be some clear signs of improvement, otherwise Aidan would have to leave.’
‘And then what?’ Megan said. ‘What is there for him then?’
Mr Brookes sighed. He reminded her of a baddie in a James Bond film, one of those public-school type actors whose sophistication hid real evil. Mr Brookes used fancy language and lots of slow sighs but he could snarl with the rest of them.
‘If there were more resources open to us then perhaps things could be different.’
‘His attendance is better,’ Brendan tried. ‘Up five per cent you said.’
Mr Brookes nodded once. ‘But that’s still only giving us fifty-five per cent, and his behaviour when he is in school remains unsatisfactory.’
‘So that’s it,’ Megan said. ‘Exclusion and he’s back on the streets day in, day out.’
‘For the school this is the only appropriate course of action.’
‘Right.’ Megan got quickly to her feet, a rush of anger flared through her chest.
‘Megan?’ Brendan stood too, confused by her sudden move.
‘Mrs Conroy,’ said Brookes.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said, ‘we get the message. And so will he. Thirteen and on the scrap heap. I know he’s a handful, we know he’s got problems. Do you think we haven’t worried ourselves sick about it all? Not knowing if the next knock on the door’s going to be the police saying he’s been thieving again or he’s been found behind the wheel of a wrecked…’ She faltered, sniffed hard and set her jaw. ‘We’ve done our best. Maybe it’s not been enough but we haven’t given up on him. Not like you lot. This school, you labelled him a troublemaker as soon as he walked in those doors and you couldn’t wait to be rid…’
‘Megan!’ Brendan protested.
‘It’s true,’ she retorted then turned back to Brookes. ‘This solves your problem but it does nothing for Aidan. Did anyone here ever praise that boy when he did try? Eh? Not once did any of you really give him a chance, really put some time and effort into him…’
‘We have six hundred…’
‘You failed him!’ Her voice rose and she pointed at the man. ‘And it’s a bloody disgrace.’
She walked to the door, trembling all over. She could feel a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
Mr Brookes cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry you feel…’ His tone was languid, cool, he chose his words with care.
‘Oh, don’t bother! Save your breath.’
She walked out.
Brendan followed her, his eyes flicking to her and away several times as if he was worried she might start in on him next.
In the car she put her head in her hands. ‘It’s like waiting for an accident to happen. Like those dreams you have where the brakes don’t work or the steering wheel comes off in your hands. It’s driving me up the wall, Brendan. If I only knew why he was like that, what makes him so unhappy he’s got to get into all this bother. The next time he’s caught it’s a detention centre and that’ll just make it worse – schools for crime, they are.’
‘Megan, you said in there, we’ve done our best. And we have. We haven’t slung him out or let him down, have we?
She shook her head, pressed her lips together as her eyes smarted.
‘But it’s not enough,’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t we make him happy?’
‘Come here.’ He put his arm round her, pulled her closer. ‘It’ll be all right.’
Oh, Brendan, she thought, no, it won’t.
Nina
She had no idea how to go about tracing her mother. She went to Didsbury library and looked for books. There were two on adoption; she flicked through them quickly; there were lots of different people’s stories about what had happened to them. She didn’t want to read all that, just find out how to get started. At the back of one she found a list of places and she copied them down but she didn’t understand how it all fitted together.
Maybe she could try Central Library, they should have more books and maybe something directly about how to trace someone. She hadn’t been to Central Library for yonks. She’d joined once when her art teacher had got on to them all to use it for a project on the cubists and the impressionists. She still had her tickets.
She told Marjorie she was going to town.
‘Take this -’ Marjorie opened her purse – ‘in case you see something you like.’
‘Thanks.’ She felt awkward. If Marjorie had any inkling of where she was really going… The thought made her stomach clutch, a cold, rolling feeling as though the tide had come in. But if she refused the money how could she explain? She nodded and pushed the money into the back pocket of her jeans.
The library sat on the corner of Oxford Road and Mosely Street. A circular building, white stone with a domed roof and columns that made her think of postcards from foreign holidays. She went up in the cramped lift to the social sciences section. There were several books on adoption. She skimmed through and selected a handful and took them to a table to look at. She had brought pen and paper with her. Some of them used charts and tables to show the paths you could try to find someone – there were lots of different possibilities, but finding out if your birth mother was married was important because the name would change. Was she married? Had she had any more children? She felt dizzy when she tried to imagine that. She shut the book and opened another. It talked mainly about the need for counselling at every stage and said that counselling was mandatory for getting records. There were other places you could try too, like electoral rolls if you knew where they lived. One paragraph said the mother sometimes sent a note to the agency so if the child came looking they could find her. Imagine that.
She made notes but it all seemed to be a tangle and there were places that sounded the same but had different addresses so she wrote both down. By the time she had finished she felt overwhelmed. She put the books back and got the lift down to the cafe for a drink and a smoke.
The cafe was so gloomy, a real dive. She wondered whether they made it look like that on purpose so people wouldn’t use it much. There weren’t that many seats and the staff acted like they’d rather slit your throats than serve you drinks.
She smoked hungrily and washed away the parched feeling with swigs of coffee. She was just finishing when Tracy Metcalfe, who’d been in her class at school, swam into view.
‘Hiya, Nina. Fancy seeing you here. What you doing?’
Nina held herself still. Tracy had a gob like the Mersey Tunnel and was reputed to have done it when she was just thirteen. Tracy was a greaser with an eye for weaklings. Nina was no pushover but you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Tracy Metcalfe. And what the hell was she doing at Central Library?
‘Having a ciggie. What about you?’ Nina tried to erase any sign of panic from her eyes.
‘That’d be telling!’ Tracy winked, swung her leather shopper off her arm.
Nina grinned.
Tracy sat down.
‘I’ve got to get my bus,’ Nina said.
Tracy nodded. She rooted in her bag for Number Six and Zippo lighter. ‘Tara!’ She clicked the lighter and sucked hard, flung her throat back in a gesture of pleasure.
Nina fled.
Back home she went slowly upstairs and put her notes in among her art folder. She was confident no one would rummage through that. Her mother was hoovering the dining room. Nina put the kettle on. Stephen came in the back door, saw the gas was on.
‘Make me one.’
‘Make your own,’ she said.
‘Nina.’
‘Well, when did you last make some?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Not for me you didn’t.’
‘You are so childish.’
‘Fuck off!’ she said. And saw his shock. He never swore. He looked at her but he didn’t even look mad just sorry for her or something. He shook his head and walked out. Making allowances.