Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret.. Casey Watson

then there would be no point in trying to modify his behaviour to suit us, would there?’ Donald smiled. ‘And I know you have a knack with these things.’

      So that was that. Directly after morning break, I would be taking charge of a fourth child to make my mix of students even more ‘dynamic’ than it already was. That was the kind of result ‘having a knack’ with things got you.

      ‘Settle down!’ I called out as the school bell rang out, and Ria and Cody came flying into the room. Cody was sort of galloping and making loud shrieking noises while Ria – surprise, surprise – was busy egging her on. Kelly and Darryl followed them, in an altogether quieter manner, Darryl close by Kelly’s side and marching in with his head down.

      By now, I had pulled two tables together and placed five chairs around them. I knew that for the time being Kelly would have to sit with Darryl, and I thought the best course of action was to get them all together to start with, and then decide if and when I needed to split them up.

      ‘Just before we start,’ I said, as everyone grabbed pencil cases and automatically went to sit down, ‘we have another boy joining us now. A year 7 student called Carl Stead. Hence the extra chair. Ria, perhaps he can sit by –’

      ‘And what’s wrong with this one?’ she asked, a look of derision on her face.

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ I said, locking gazes with her. ‘Why should there be?’

      She shrugged, and looked around her. ‘Because, apart from me, miss, there seems to be something wrong with everyone who comes here.’

      ‘Not funny, Ria,’ I said with a warning glance. ‘One of the few rules of this classroom is that we don’t say things that would hurt the feelings of someone else. Now then,’ I added, turning my attention back to the group and handing out blank workbooks, ‘can you all please take out a pen or pencil and write your names on the front.’

      ‘Ah, perfect timing, I see,’ said a voice from behind me. ‘And I see there’s a place already prepared.’ I turned around to see Donald ushering in our new boy, a steering hand placed on each shoulder.

      ‘Good morning, Mrs Watson,’ he said, in his usual Dickensian boom. ‘This here is young Master Stead.’

      I could see Ria’s lip curl in amusement. ‘Carl,’ Donald added, giving the boy’s shoulders a final squeeze. ‘I shall now leave you in Mrs Watson’s capable hands, lad – and I hope to hear good reports about you, okay?’

      Carl looked up at him and nodded shyly before walking the few steps to the vacant seat.

      ‘Come and sit down, love,’ I said, noting that he didn’t seem to have a school bag. ‘Do you have a pen or pencil?’

      He nodded and whipped a chewed pen from his trouser pocket as he sat down. And then immediately started using it as a tool with which to scratch his head.

      ‘Great stuff,’ I said and then turned my attention to everyone. This would be their first Unit activity and was designed to both ‘bed them in’ – as in working on something focused on themselves, something fun and not too taxing – and to help me find out a little more about them. ‘So what I’d like you to do first,’ I explained, ‘is to open your work books and write down ten facts about yourself. Anything you like – and the more interesting the better. Things I can’t necessarily see by looking at you. And once you’ve done that, you can help yourselves to any of the art materials over there –’ I pointed. ‘And use them to create a self-portrait.’

      There was a murmur of approval at this, just as I’d expected, because I knew what at least three of them were probably thinking. That this didn’t really feel like work at all. And there was another burble of appreciation – also to be expected – when I told them that, while silliness and shouting would not be tolerated at any time, quiet chatting amongst themselves as they worked would be fine. Which wasn’t to say it was a state of affairs that would necessarily continue (if things kicked off I’d obviously have to rein them in, sharpish), but for a group of kids for whom the classroom had become more battlefield than place of learning, to be trusted to behave and encouraged to interact was an important part of what a spell in the Unit was all about.

      It also gave me a chance to observe them, particularly my new boy. I could see Ria trying to size him up, just as I was doing, and I wondered, if we compared notes, what she’d made of him. He was big for a year 7 boy, tall, though not chubby, and my guess was that he’d just had a bit of a growth spurt. And Donald had been right. He was extremely unkempt. Many of the boys were sporting long, straggly hairstyles at the moment – walk down the corridors some days and you could think you were in a seventies time warp – but in Carl’s case it seemed more like accident than design; I doubted his hair had seen either shampoo or a hairbrush in a long time. No wonder he scratched at it all the time.

      Carl’s clothes had the same air of dishevelment. His trousers were too long for him, and had accordingly scraggy bottoms, and both his shirt and jumper were frayed and worn and dirty. I immediately warmed to him and felt a rush of sympathy that his mother would let him come to school in such a state, my neglect antennae quivering, asking why?

      But Carl’s demeanour, in contrast to the backstory he’d arrived with, seemed as bright as his shirt cuffs were grey. He was a smiler, and was smiling now, presumably at being the subject of Ria’s attention, and having her lean in and accept him as a confidant. But my pleasing reflection was quickly replaced by another; that the smiles and the giggles had a less welcome root – they were busy tittering at the two across the table. It was also odds-on that whatever Ria was saying to make Carl need to stifle giggles was probably not very nice. Perhaps it was my cue to make the two of them first on the hit-list for the life-space interviews I would now get underway.

      The term ‘life-space interview’ was a bit of educational jargon that was presumably beloved of whoever coined it but was essentially nothing more complicated than sitting a child down with me – on my bean bags, if they preferred, for reasons of informality – and letting them talk freely about themselves and how they were feeling. It was one of the first things I did whenever I got a new student or, in this case, a batch of them, and because the idea was to let them talk uninterrupted and without judging them, it was invariably both instructive and enlightening.

      I say usually, because I’d obviously yet to encounter a ‘Ria’, the first name I had on my mental list.

      ‘Look,’ she said when I asked her to tell me a bit about herself, ‘I’m struggling to find ten interesting facts even to write down, so I doubt there’s anything else you’re going to get out of me.’

      Round one to Ria, then. ‘I’m not trying to get anything,’ I explained. ‘I just want to get to know you a little, that’s all. How about you tell me about home, then? Brothers? Sisters? Do you live with Mum and Dad?’

      ‘Well, yeah – doh – course I live with mum and dad. Who else would I live with?’ She arched a single brow. A clever trick that, sadly, I couldn’t do. ‘But no,’ she said, ‘it’s just me. No brothers. No sisters.’ She smirked, then began picking at her nail varnish, which was chipped. ‘I think I was probably enough for them.’

      I waited. She waited. Another question was obviously required. ‘That’s a nice colour,’ I said, nodding towards the pale, translucent polish. ‘I’d be wary about Mr Moore seeing it, though, Ria. He’s quite strict on the no-make-up rule, as you no doubt already know.’

      She let her nails alone and ran a hand through her hair. It was mouse-brown and beautifully cut into a short geometric bob. Then she stared at me. ‘My nail varnish? Really? Okay then, it’s called Coral and it belongs to my mother. She likes to paint my nails when she’s bored. Sometimes I don’t let her. Sometimes I do. As long as it’s a pale colour. I draw the line at nail art.’

      I had to work really hard not to laugh, though I did allow myself to lean back against the cushions and smile. Despite her cocky attitude, and her trying so hard not to be liked – not by the