Sadie. Jane Elliott
replied in a northern accent. ‘Didn’t see anyone. She can’t have come this way.’
The shopkeeper breathed out in annoyance. ‘Bloody kids,’ he muttered again.
The man watched him go. ‘It’s all right,’ he said finally. ‘He’s gone.’
Slowly Sadie stood up, flashing the man her most winning smile. ‘Thanks,’ she said. As she spoke, the alarm on her digital watch beeped twice. Nine o’clock.
‘Shouldn’t you be going to school?’ the man asked her.
Sadie’s grin grew a bit broader. ‘Yeah,’ she replied, clutching her sweets and starting to slip away. ‘Yeah, I suppose I should. Um … Anyway, thanks again.’
The others, she knew, would be back at their usual meeting place by the swings. Flushed with the success of her adventure, she ran off to meet them.
Stacy Venables had wanted to be a teacher ever since she was a little girl. Her mum had been one, and her dad too, so she supposed it was only natural. Of course, teaching now wasn’t as it was then. Her mum had never had to deal with pupils using four-letter words to her face, and whenever Stacy told her about the things she had to put up with, she would shake her head, tut and start talking about standards. But standards in the cosy corner of Wiltshire where the Venables family lived were very different to standards in inner-city London. Stacy remembered the time her parents had given her what for when she had asked if her eighteen-year-old boyfriend could stay the night. If they only knew what kids nowadays were up to: drugs, sex – they needed so much more than education, she always thought. They needed a bit of care – a bit of what they weren’t getting in the home. That was why she tried to make herself seem accessible to the children. Unlike her female colleagues, who wore severe suits in rough, cheap material, Stacy wore jeans. In summer she wore a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket – much to the disapproval of the disciplinarian headmaster, Mr Martin; for winter she had a succession of thick, woolly thigh-length cardigans that seemed to match her full head of long, curly hair and made her appear, she thought, a bit more homely.
Of course, she was still a teacher, and subject to the disdain and abuse most of the kids at school gave anyone in authority; but every now and then she felt as if she had made a difference, and that made her efforts worthwhile.
Miss Venables stood patiently at the gates to the school. It was ten past nine now, and the two police officers who stood outside the school every morning and afternoon to keep away undesirables had just left. It saddened her that they had to be there, but she knew it was the right thing. Prevention was better than cure, even if some of the older kids were savvy enough to arrange meets with their dealers just round the corner, where there were no uniforms. Last year a boy had been excluded for having a wrap containing three rocks of crack cocaine. Bright enough kid, decent family – you never could tell who was going to go down that line. The police had been called, a fuss had been made and the children had been told that this sort of behaviour was not to be tolerated. Stacy had argued that he should be given help, not exclusion, but hers was a lone voice, soon drowned by the head. She had received a letter from the lad’s parents just a couple of months later, saying that he had gone missing and that the police weren’t hopeful of finding him unless he wanted to come back, but thanking her for everything she had done for him.
It saddened her, too, that they had to lock the main gates to the school, not so much to keep the children in as to keep other people out. You could never be too careful these days.
She looked at her watch. Another minute for the stragglers and then she’d lock up.
Just then, around the corner, came three familiar figures.
Miss Venables had a soft spot for Sadie Burrows. It wasn’t just that she looked appealing, with her glossy long hair, olive skin and those beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Some kids just had something, a spark, call it what you will – when you’d been in the job for a while you found you could recognize it easily, and you knew how rare it was.
It didn’t make her a goody-goody. Far from it – more of a charming tearaway, and plenty of the teachers in the school had marked her out because of that. She was neither brilliant academically, nor poor – just average, although here that almost made her stand out. Sadie could be cheeky and mischievous, just like any other kid. But she was definitely the daughter of her father, a man well known all over this part of London as being able to sell umbrellas in July and sunscreen in December. Just don’t ask where it came from. Tommy Burrows had a twinkle in his eye that he had passed on to his daughter, which meant that whenever she was caught crossing the boundary, it was impossible to stay angry with her for long.
‘Come on, you three!’ she shouted at the girls as they approached. ‘You’re late. I was just about to lock up.’
‘Sorry, Miss Venables,’ Carly and Anna intoned in unison.
‘Why are you late? What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing, miss,’ the two of them told her rather guiltily.
‘Sadie?’ Miss Venables turned to the ringleader with a raised eyebrow.
Sadie looked straight at the teacher. ‘Carly had to get the little ones ready for school, miss. Me and Anna said we’d wait for her.’
Miss Venables looked at each of the girls in turn. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, Miss Venables. Would I lie to you?’ Sadie looked innocently at her.
‘Probably, Miss Burrows.’ She couldn’t help smiling at Sadie’s banter, perfectly aware that she was being twisted round the finger of this little thirteen-year-old, but somehow not minding. And who was to say that they weren’t telling the truth? She knew that Carly’s mum was off the rails: a child protection officer had informed the school that she was under observation by social services. Single mum, too fond of the bottle – it was a story they heard all the time, and too often the eldest daughter ended up with the responsibility of looking after her younger siblings.
‘All right, girls. In you go, quickly. Straight to your classes.’
Carly and Anna hurried inside, but on a sudden whim Miss Venables called out, ‘Sadie!’
Sadie turned. ‘Yes, miss?’
‘Is everything all right?’
Sadie looked confused.
‘At home, I mean.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled at the teacher in appreciation. ‘Yes, miss. I think so. Thanks.’
‘Good. Well … Off you go.’
Sadie nodded and ran across the playground into the school building, while Miss Venables thoughtfully locked the main gate and wandered back inside, slowly so as to enjoy the warmth of the morning sun on her face.
After lunch she noticed Sadie again. It was Friday, so Miss Venables was on playground duty, doing her best to keep some sort of order among the couple of hundred screaming kids working off their lunch in the early-afternoon heat. Frankly, she dreaded playground duty: it was hard enough keeping a class of forty kids quiet, let alone a schoolyard full of them. And especially on a Friday, when everyone was looking forward to the weekend.
In the far corner, something was going on. A boy – she couldn’t quite make out who it was – was being circled by three other kids. Even at a distance, she could tell it wasn’t a friendly game. He was being pushed about from one to the other and being jeered at. It was going to escalate into something nasty. Miss Venables started to stride across the playground, blowing her whistle. But, as usual, the kids paid her no attention.
Now she could see the boy who was being bullied. Poor little Jamie Brown. He didn’t stand much chance in this place. He was so badly cared for at home that his skin was always dirty and his clothes stank of urine and filth. She suspected physical abuse, and knew that he was being closely monitored; but he would never admit to anything – he was too scared – and the mother always seemed to have a story to explain away any suspicions people had. But Jamie’s peers didn’t