‘Then who did?’ I spoke directly to Bertie, ignoring the formidable Mrs Bright as she peered down from her perch.
‘It was Jack Jamison. He dared us all to draw them, then blamed me when we got caught.’
‘Mrs Simmons, I’m afraid I’ve spoken to all the boys, and each one named Alberto as the ringleader.’
‘That’s ’cause Jack said he’d punch them if they grassed.’
‘Jack Jamison is one of the best behaved children I’ve had the pleasure to teach. Behaviour like this would be so out of character, it’s preposterous to pin this on him.’ A muscle was twitching in the teacher’s cheek, a bead of spittle squatting in the crease of her lips.
‘I thought teachers weren’t supposed to have favourites?’ I said. Bertie gave my hand a squeeze in solidarity.
‘I am merely stating the facts.’
‘And the contribution the Jamison family made to the new sports hall has nothing to do with your opinion, I suppose?’ I pushed my chair back and pulled Bertie up beside me. ‘I’d hoped to gain an appraisal of Bertie’s academic progress. But I can see my time here is being wasted. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’
‘There’s another matter I need to discuss. Sit down.’
I stayed standing, not prepared to give another inch to the old witch. ‘What is it?’ I said, glancing pointedly at my watch.
‘Bertie has been using foul language in class.’
‘I haven’t!’
‘What foul language would this be?’
Mrs Bright scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. ‘I don’t understand? Bertie can speak fairly good Spanish, but there’s nowhere he would have learned this word.’
‘I assure you he’s been overheard frequently calling his friends this vulgar name. I spent several years living in Spain. Unfortunately for your son, I’m fluent in both the formal language and the slang.’
‘Right, well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll discuss this with Bertie when we get home.’
‘Consider this a warning,’ said Mrs Bright. ‘Whilst we try to avoid exclusions, they are not unheard of for particularly difficult children.’
Tears flooded into my eyes as I looked down at my big-hearted, beautiful boy.Particularly difficult? The Bertie I knew lit up a room and brought joy to those around him. Yes, he was a free spirit, yes he enjoyed making mischief as much as the next eight-year-old, but difficult? Was I the type of parent who thinks the sun shines out of their child’s backside? I shook my head. No. I knew my son, and the boy Mrs Bright was describing was not the child I’d raised.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Bright.’
We’d made it as far as the door before she called out to us. ‘Perhaps your husband could trouble himself to be here next time. I often find in cases like these, boys need the firm hand of their father.’
It wasn’t until we were in the car that I spoke to Bertie. ‘Why on earth have you been calling your friendspolla?’
‘Mum, I don’t understand. It just meanscoolin Spanish. I was trying to be nice.’
‘My God, Bertie. Who told you it means cool?’
‘Gramps. It’s what he calls Dad all the time. I asked what it meant, and he told me.’
‘Right, well, I think Gramps has got muddled. Please don’t use that word again.’
‘OK. What does it mean, Mum?’
‘That doesn’t matter, you just need to know it’s rude. Now, what do you want to listen to on the radio?’
As Bertie sang along to his favourite song, I pondered the fact that my father had been calling my husband a dick in Spanish for god-knows how long. I’d have to have a word the next time I visited.
Chapter Three
Sweat prickled my top lip as heat flooded my face. I pinched the credit card between damp fingers and held it out to the checkout assistant. ‘Please, can you try it one more time?’
