Bad Little Girl(2)
‘I didn’t feel I had a choice,’ Claire said now.
‘I just think that parents – well they shouldn’t hit, but you know, it’s their business. Their children. I think – don’t get too involved. There’s loads of kids like her – Laura.’
‘Lorna.’
‘Lorna. Loads of them. And they all need your support – the school’s support. Just, pick your battles. Emma Brett was telling me that you have some special interest in the girl—’
‘What?’
‘Said you had a word. Just . . . what did she say? Oh that’s it – you’re taking on her cause. Something like that. But at the end of the day—’
‘James, she didn’t deserve to be hit—’
‘At the end of the day, she stole from another student, and she knew full well what she was doing.’
‘I think she got a little confused. She’s very little . . .’ Claire mumbled.
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ James answered briskly. ‘She just doesn’t have morals yet. Probably never will, with that family. Remember Carl? He was feral. Statement or not. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Laura—’
‘Lorna.’
‘—went the same way. You can’t save them all, Claire. It’s a sure fire way to burn yourself out!’
3
Claire got into her little car, feeling, absurdly, like she was about to cry. She’d done the right thing, she was sure of it. The force of the slap – the way the girl had stumbled back, the look of animal pain on her face. No. No. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t warranted. And James could remonstrate all he wanted, Claire had been around for a long time, longer than him, and she wasn’t about to ignore something like that. It wasn’t in her nature.
She was the teacher children remembered even when they were in secondary school, and often even later, when they were fully grown adults leading staggering toddlers of their own. At the cafés she frequented with Mother, she would see a not-so-familiar face beaming at her: ‘Miss Penny!’ They always remembered her name. ‘Miss Penny, you haven’t changed a bit!’ and Claire would exclaim gently over their children, their job prospects, their small achievements. She was loved, because she cared. And she noticed things.
She’d noticed how well Lorna was fitting in at the beginning of term. She was invited to a lot of parties – the all-girl extravaganzas in church halls, but also the rough and tumble soft-play parties the boys tended to throw.
Claire would see her in the playground: shorter and thinner than most of her friends, happily chasing boys; digging in the sand; laughing at the centre of a knot of girls; laughing hysterically, in the way only small children do, unable or unwilling to explain just how something – how anything – could possibly be that funny.
She hadn’t got into trouble – not at the beginning. There were no frowny faces, red cards or trips to see the head teacher. It was a bit of a miracle, really, when you thought about it, coming from that family. She wasn’t teased either. But then, in infant school, the children were too young to perceive difference, and to ascribe that difference to a particular social class – that came later, in the sly, self-conscious years of three and four – and so, for now, none of Lorna’s peers had noticed or attached any importance to her greyish polo shirts, spotted with grease and ketchup, the way her hem came down from its cheap webbing, the lack of a warm coat, the cheap shoes. They hadn’t yet noticed that she didn’t bring presents to birthday parties, or have parties herself. But the parents, and teachers, had noticed, and come to their own conclusions.
Those few from the nearby well-to-do avenues felt sorry for the girl, proud that their own daughters played with her, and congratulated themselves on raising children who lived in the ‘real’ world, with ‘real’ people. The parents from the estates said that at least she wasn’t like her brother, Carl, but look at the state of her shoes! And you know the school gives them money for some nice ones from Clarks, but her mum keeps it and sends her in in those knock-offs from the market instead.
Recently though, there’d been incidents. Islands of concern. The fork thrown at lunchtime; the heart gouged into the craft table; the handful of gritty sand rubbed into a boy’s hair. And, now, this.
For the past year or so, the all-consuming fad in the school was for a special type of fragranced eraser: a marketing meme from the makers of a popular cartoon franchise. Each was shaped as a different character, each permeated with the smell of chocolate, apples, cherries, or roses. They were fiendishly expensive, and appalling at erasing, so parents couldn’t comfort themselves with the idea that they’d spent over the odds for something that was at least useful.
Each month, the manufacturers would bring out another batch, and instantly the old set became embarrassingly obsolete. Parents and teachers alike had hoped the fad would die over the summer holidays, but no such luck, and this month was even more trying, because the erasers were Halloween themed, limited edition, special. And even more expensive. Girls hunkered down on their heels in corners of the playground, holding earnest discussions. They carried their erasers around in clear plastic sandwich bags: it absolutely had to be a sandwich bag, no opaque carrier bags, and God forbid you kept them loose in your pocket or at the bottom of your book bag. The end of each month saw a series of impromptu bring-and-buy sales. Children would spread out their soon-to-be-outmoded erasers and barter them away for other goods – a long-cherished hair clip perhaps, or the chance to see someone’s new kitten. Sometimes, carried away by their own generosity, richer girls would give their old erasers away to younger, poorer kids. And Lorna, open-faced and charming, was always first in the queue.