“Mia wanted to speak to you so she asked me to bring her here. She’s very nervous but I told her that you won’t shout at her.” Reagan gave me a look that told me she was nervous about this too, followed by a shrug, which probably meant Mia hadn’t said anything else.
“Thanks, Miss. I’ll walk Mia back to her classroom when she’s ready, unless she wants you to stay?”
Mia shook her head and sat herself down at the round table in the bay window of my office. It was one of the things from the previous head I was keeping, a place kids could sit down if they needed a quiet space to read, write, doodle or just stare out of the window, because we all needed time to just stare out of the window.
She took one of the crayons from the pot that was an ever-present and a colouring sheet and she started to colour, adding small details that were unusual for a kid of her age.
I sat down opposite her and picked up another colouring sheet, this one of a tree that had creatures living in it, colouring it in odd colours that I knew were wrong by the labels on the crayons and probably didn't suit – a blue tree, anyone? – but it was good to break the rules sometimes.
There was only the sound of crayon on paper, otherwise, silence.
Silence was sometimes what was needed. I’d done the same thing in my previous school, having a space where there was no pressure to do anything or say anything, just be. We sometimes forgot that bit of being a kid, that it was okay to not be busy, to just be bored, to hear nature in the distance, or just background noise and let your head empty. I’d already developed a regular visitor here, a nine-year-old boy called Archie who struggled with the classroom, wanting to be wild and free and running across fields or sand dunes. He turned up and knocked every other day, taking a seat without speaking at the table and stared out of the window.
“Thanks, sir,” were the only words he said, just as he exited the room, his shoulders no longer tense and the scowl removed. It could be amazing what a bit of silence did.
Mia put her crayon down and looked at me. I didn't do the same, carrying on colouring my owl red.
“Owls aren’t red.”
“Mine is.” I didn’t look up.
“Maybe that’s okay then. If it’s just yours.” Five-year-old logic. “Do children get sent to prison?”
I looked up then. “Not really. Some children can do really bad things like stealing or hurting people, and they may be sent somewhere they have to be and adults try to help them stop doing those bad things. But not prisons where adults go.”
She wrinkled her nose and frowned. “Can you go to prison for lying?”
Technically the answer was yes, because fraud was lying. I didn’t think Mia was committing fraud. “No, you can’t. People lie a lot, Mia. Sometimes we lie to make someone feel better or to not hurt them. Sometimes we lie to protect someone, or because we’re scared what will happen if we tell the truth.”
She started to colour again, her gaze fixed on the sheet. It was a house, a cottage, not unlike where she was living.
“I told a lie.”
Ah. We were getting somewhere.
“Do you want to tell me what it was?” I began to colour a fox purple, leaving off the eye contact.
“Mummy told me that I should say the man was called Logan.”
“Okay.” I carried on colouring.
“Do you want to know what he was really called?”
“Do you want to tell me?” I’d had a child in one of my previous classes who’d witnessed a murder. The police officer who’d worked with us had given me tips on how to respond if the child made a disclosure, especially because he’d seen his parents be evasive and he’d learned to shy away from questions if too much was asked.
“Mummy said not to.” She started to colour again.
“So that’s hard, isn’t it? Because you don’t like to be in trouble, I know, so it’s hard to do something you’ve been told not to.”
She nodded, her colouring having stopped once more.
“You can choose if you tell me or not. I’m sure your mum just wants you to be safe and okay.” She took hold of a black crayon and scribbled heavily over her colouring.
“He’s called Blake and he’s a bad man. Mummy told me I had to call him Logan. He put things in my bed.”
I frowned, trying to still my pulse rate which was making my watch think I was doing a HIIT workout. “Under your covers?”
She shook her head, looking at me now. “In the mattress. He moved them though. Mummy was meant to be taking them to someone.”
