Nancy leaned forward, an edge to her voice. ‘I mean Rosie in relation to her behaviour around my daughter.’
‘I try and pair them up with different people.’
‘So she’s still not being kind to Lara.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But if she was being kind, you wouldn’t need to keep them apart.’ Nancy could feel her patience wearing very thin. She was sick of the pussyfooting around, the careful, careful, touchy-feely, uber-PC approach to what was a very straightforward problem. A problem that was being danced around when it should have been resolved weeks ago.
‘Miss Young, let me ask you something. Do you think it’s OK for this girl to continue to bully Lara? And yes, I know the school doesn’t like using that word because it pertains to all sort of seriousness and problems for your management and paperwork and records for Ofsted inspections, but as far as I can tell, it isstill happening.You are the one person who spends more waking hours with my daughter than anyone else, even more than myself during the week. You must see things. You must know things. Tell me something else. Has Rosie’s mother been spoken to? Issheawareof what her child is doing? Does she believe it? I’m asking you, as a worried mum, to please be honest with me and tell me what you think.’
She hadn’t meant it to be such an emotional plea. The worry and pressure of the last few weeks must have got to her more than she realized.
Miss Young’s face had changed. She’d dropped the mask, Nancy thought. She could read empathy and anger and frustration. A flare of hope rose up in her; finally, maybe she would have an ally where it really counted.
‘I’m so sorry Lara’s had a bad time of late,’ said Miss Young and her voice had lost its cool, professional tone, the one designed to keep a distance between herself and parents, the one all teachers used for self-preservation, and Nancy was almost giddy with relief. Now Miss Young spoke genuinely and from the heart. ‘It’s completely unacceptable and I’m aware of a number of—’
A movement at the window made Miss Young look up. Nancy followed her gaze. Mr Whitman was passing the classroom. He gave a clear, courteous nod towards them.
Nancy saw Miss Young stiffen. Then she turned back and Nancy could see she had deflated.
‘No unkind behaviour is acceptable,’ she said. ‘We always work to nip it in the bud as soon as it materializes, and we have a system of escalation if things continue.’
No, please don’t spout generalities and policy at me again, thought Nancy. ‘I’m not talking generally,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m talking about my child. Who is miserable.’
The door suddenly opened. ‘Oh, sorry!’ said a mother,cheerfully apologetic. ‘I didn’t realize you were still going.’ She backed out again.
Nancy’s time was up. The ten minutes had ticked by. The interruption had broken any rapport or attempt at salvaging one.
‘I am keeping an eye on them,’ ventured Miss Young, but for Nancy it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. How many more times was she going to be fobbed off?
Rebecca let her next parent take a seat inside as she watched Nancy and Lara walk down the corridor. James had deliberately walked past the classroom at that moment, she was sure of it. He knew the parents’ evening schedule, it was taped to her door.
It was a reminder. A warning. It had shocked her to see him, but then maybe he knew her better than she knew herself. Maybe he knew she’d respond to that poor woman’s heartfelt plea.
It was wrong, she thought. It was all so fucking wrong.
FORTY-SIX
Friday 27 November
‘Service!’ Imogen hit the bell for the umpteenth time that evening – and it had only just gone six o’clock. One of the waiters came to take the plates of pizza and deliver them to another customer in the restaurant. It wasn’t exactly the high-end fare she had been used to making but she still cared deeply enough about what she made for her diners to go the extra mile. If you put your mind to it, even pizza could surprise the taste buds. And it was that extra effort that – hopefully – would bring the customers back. She hadn’t had any feedback yet though and it was making her nervous. The plates came back (mostly) empty, and they’d had dozens of orders for takeaway as well as the fully booked restaurant, but she wanted to hear what her customers thought.
She considered peering through the hatch into the restaurant itself but there was no time. The orders kept coming in. She’d asked the waiting staff if people were enjoying her food, and they said ‘yes’, but were too busy to elaborate.
The door to the kitchen opened and James came in, looking sombre.
Imogen looked up, concerned. ‘What is it?’
‘You need to come out here a moment,’ said James. ‘Customer complaint.’
Her heart sank. She handed over to her sous chef and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked as she nervously walked into the restaurant. She thought:Please don’t let this be serious, please not after all this hard work, all these hopes, everything she’d put in to make this place something, to improve her family’s situation...and then she realized that everyone was cheering, clapping her, smiling, their faces full of admiration, and she had absolutely nothing to worry about.
‘I suppose you think you’re funny,’ she murmured to James.
‘Oh, I am. Hilarious,’ he said, and she knew he enjoyed exerting control over her when he could. It was not to her liking.
The relief that there wasn’t a problem was intoxicating and she went around the tables, humbly taking in the compliments, the good wishes, people telling her they’d missed her on the high street, missed her cooking, her ability to create magic in the kitchen.They were on her side, she realized, more than she’d ever thought possible.
