Why can’t I just free-fill this little box? What do the xxxxs want me to type in that I’m not typing? Fuck.
Approaching the gate. Looking with casual certainty, knowing I’ll be there.
Have I even saved this? No, it’s still the template. Fuck.
And now he’s seeing I’m not there. Double-checking. Looking again.
I have never not been there.
Here we go, here we go, final box to fill. Oh shit, what’s the name of the transferee? Is it Suggs or Sugg?
So now he’s having that tightening feeling all over him – the signal from the brain that starts with the shoulder slump, goes to the dropped head, finally works its way to the straightening up again of the back with a defiant ‘OK, so I’m not wanted – I can deal with that.’ But he should never, never have to deal with that.
Here we go, done – email and print, email and print.
Besides which, there are people who want him. People/person, he/she, I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to. But what if, what if, what if? What if I get there and it’s too late? It will be too late then for ever and ever and ever.
The cocking printer isn’t working! I will not lose my son because of the printer! Paper, it wants paper. Here we go then, have the bloody paper; fill your boots.
Race round to Lucy.
‘Here we are, Lucy. Sorry about that. I’ve checked them through. They’re fine. OK?’
I’m mentally searching my bag for the car keys. I can get them out then vroom, off to the school.
But Lucy is taking her time. She owns eternity. Come on!
‘I would have left a space here.’ She gestures to the form with her disgustingly lacquered nail. Do not make me redo it. ‘But I suppose it’s fine. Good. Right, you’d better go off to your lovely son. See you tomorrow!’
And now she’s beaming at me! She’s fucking beaming at me! Like an abusive fucking boyfriend she’s done her bit, had her fun, landed her metaphorical fist and now she’s all considerate again. Like those fucking social workers once they’ve struggled through your ‘chaos’ to find a ‘solution’ and think they’ve saved the world.
But fuck that; fuck them. At least Tim tried to help, but I’m still late. Run to the desk, grab the handbag, pull out the keys (yes, they’re where I thought they were) and race to the car. There’s some note under the wiper but I haven’t got time to look at it now. Get in, and drive.
It’s 4.25 by the time I get to the gates. And Josh isn’t there.
Scenarios, words to scream, numbers to call, flash through my mind.
I ditch the car behind a car that’s just pulling off, tail lights all red. Is he in that car? Should I be running shouting after it? No. There’s a little blonde head bobbing about in the back of it. No sign of Josh’s dark curls.
Jumping out of the car, I scan around for a sign of Josh. His schoolbag, a discarded shoe maybe. You always see a discarded shoe in these cases don’t you?
Oh come on, Jen. You’re over-reacting. He may well be safe and sound inside. No reason to suspect otherwise. No real reason.
But still my heart clutches at my lungs.
Up the school steps and open the door. Or rather, grasp the handle. There’s a code. Of course there is. And of course I don’t remember it, because I never usually have to come in. It’s stored on my phone. Which I left in the car. Shit. I buzz the buzzer. No response. Run back to the car, grab my bag with my phone in.
Precious seconds flash away. If he’s gone, he’ll be even further away now. I look up the code on my phone and tap it in. I pull open the door and I’m into the lobby area. Quiet. Empty. A few discarded bits of Lego. Signs of a gone Josh? Fuck Lucy. Fuck her. Fuck me. What’s a job compared to looking after Josh? Why am I even doing this? I don’t have to. He’s the most precious thing and now I don’t even know where he is.
I open a door off the lobby.
And there we have it. Noise. Children.
My child.
Sitting on a bench reading a book. Engrossed.
I run to him.
‘Josh!’
He looks up. Smiles.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he says.
There’s no reprimand. No complaint. Just acceptance.
Still, I need to explain.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. I had to finish something up at work.’
I ruffle his hair. I’d forgotten how lovely it is. Even since this morning.
He shrugs. ‘No worries. Chris only just left. And this book is good – have you read it?’
He holds up something about a spy.
‘No,’ I tell him.
‘You should,’ he says.
‘Are there no teachers about?’ I ask him.
‘Mrs Morgan is here, but she’s just popped out. She said to say she’d be back.’
So, someone could just walk in here and –
‘Mrs Sutton?’
‘Ms,’ I say. It’s instinctive.
‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry.’
She lowers her eyes a little. She doesn’t know, you see. She has the same story as Josh.
‘I arrived a little late, and there was no one around,’ I tell her. ‘Anyone could walk in.’
I should soften it, but I care more about my child than her feelings.
The woman flinches. She’s not one of the young trendy teachers. She’s a grey-haired lifer with a big bosom and a cardigan. Cares about the children, but only so much. Knows what to do with a reprimand.
She draws herself up. ‘Well, they’d have to know the code, wouldn’t they, love?’
It’s true. And it’s true there are signs up saying: ‘Don’t hold the door open for anyone you don’t know’ (the kids must love abusing that). And it’s true that they know most of the parents by sight. But she’s aware, isn’t she, this Mrs Morgan, that in the real world doors get propped open when it’s hot. That ‘kind’ parents hold the door open for other parenty-looking types. That some men – and women – are great blaggers.
‘Got held up at work, did you?’ she says to me, in my pointed silence.
And there we have it. The blame squarely pinned back on me.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ I say. ‘One of my bosses wanted me to work on.’
‘I like to say the child is always the boss. They dictate what needs to be done. That’s what I told my daughter when she was thinking about going back to work.’
I want to smack Mrs Morgan in the face, but I doubt that will help for Josh’s 11-plus prep.
‘Are you my boss, Josh?’ I ask, turning to him.
He has his head in a book again. He looks up. ‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ I tell him. Best he doesn’t hear my mockery. I’m not sure who I’m attacking – Mrs Morgan, or myself. Or whether it sounded like Josh.
‘For the future,