Rowan is quiet, engrossed in tangling and untangling his fingers. His cheeks look rather ruddy and hot. Every so often, his eyes dart to the queue and back to his hands again, and I realise the kids waiting to see the office assistant are staring. Two boys of around nine or ten are nudging each other mischievously as they look in his direction. Both are dressed in smart black trousers, white shirts and green and red striped ties. Their olive-green blazers, with the richly embroidered school badge on the breast pocket, complete the distinctive Lady Bridge uniform. It’s the only state primary school in the area where uniform is mandatory.
The new kid is the unwelcome phrase that comes to mind. Just as Rowan feared, he stands out like a sore thumb in his non-uniform clothing.
‘Morning, Rowan, morning, Mrs Markham!’ Miss Packton’s voice sings out as she flings the interior security door open. She looks fresh and bright in her long floral dress and cardigan and sensible flat brown leather sandals.
‘Good morning,’ I say, and smile, but Rowan doesn’t acknowledge her, and I poke him discreetly with my elbow.
The young teacher seems undaunted. She indicates for him to go through the door before her. ‘Welcome to your first morning at Lady Bridge, Rowan. We’ll get you settled in your seat before the rest of the class come in. Say goodbye to your mum.’
‘Bye, Mum,’ Rowan says in a small voice. He looks so young and apprehensive, I want to scoop him up in my arms, shower him with kisses and tell him it’s going to be fine, but of course, I don’t. He’d never forgive me, not in front of his new teacher and the other pupils.
I stand for a moment in the reception area once he’s gone through. The receptionist who checked him in catches my eye and silently mouths, He’ll be fine.
I give her a grateful smile, but it’s all I can do to stop myself bursting into floods of tears as I scurry past the office hatch and the queue of people waiting there.
Back outside, I take in a few deep breaths. I can’t believe that leaving Rowan there this morning has affected me like this. On a logical level I know he’ll be absolutely fine, but from an emotional point of view it’s a different story altogether.
Rowan was very close to my mum, and he took her death hard. He seemed to lose interest in all the things he’d once loved: his artwork and, for a while, even playing and watching football. He began complaining of tummy aches and feeling sick to avoid going to school. Isaac and I both tried talking to him about it, but nothing seemed to help, and he refused to open up at all.
I spoke to Mrs Anderson, his old teacher, and she arranged for him to have a few sessions with the school counsellor. Within a few weeks, I noticed a big difference in him. Of his own accord, he asked for a framed photograph of his nan, which he placed on his bedside table, and very slowly, as the weeks went on, he began picking up again on the activities he’d let slip.
‘Sometimes it’s easier for a child to talk to someone who’s completely independent, rather than a family member or even a teacher,’ Mrs Anderson explained when I told her the good news. ‘The main thing is he’s contributing to class conversations again and his attention span seems to be back on track.’
But just now, when I left him, I saw that same vulnerable look on his face as on the cold mornings after Mum died, when he’d say anything not to go to school. I confess the thought of him slipping back into that mindset rattles me.
Still, I have every confidence in Miss Packton’s ability to get him settled in. I take a deep breath and purposely inject a bit of a spring into my step. I need to stop worrying and get back to the house to tackle the mountain of packing boxes in the spare room.
Although it’s still early, it’s already pleasantly mild out, and I’ve needlessly worn a padded denim jacket. Flushed from the stress of Rowan’s first morning and my brisk pace, I slip it off and feel cool relief around my neck and under my arms. I hang the jacket over the crook of my arm and realise I’ve managed to put a black bra on under a thin pale pink top. Oh well, it looks a bit unsightly, but it’s only a short walk home and I feel far more comfortable like this.
Behind me, the shrill screech of an electronic bell signals nine a.m., the official start of the school day. Rowan will already be in his seat as the other children pour into the classroom. I hope everyone is friendly and that Aisha sticks to her promise to introduce him to his new classmates.
I walk towards the gates, thinking how much quieter it is now the children are inside. Save for the odd late student rushing past me, most people have now dispersed. I can even hear a blackbird singing way above me in an impressive majestic oak tree in the tidy grounds. What a difference to Rowan’s old academy. That was a vast new-build that sat on the edge of the busy ring road one side and a noisy industrial estate the other.
As I draw closer to the school gates, I hear female voices and hoots of laughter. I step out into the street and see a cluster of seven or eight women in their early thirties standing behind the wall next to the gates. A white Range Rover with a private number plate is parked on double yellows, half on, half off the pavement, and I recognise it as the one we saw yesterday turning out of Buckingham Crescent. A gleaming silver soft-top Mercedes sports car is parked just behind it.
I don’t stare long enough to make out individual faces among the small crowd, but the impression is of expensive clothing and groomed appearances. A sea of immaculate hair and glossy lips. Distinctive Gucci handbags with red and green shoulder straps, and diamond-bejewelled fingers, necks and ears.
They fall quiet as I walk past. I hear a whisper and stifled laughter, and I’m suddenly conscious of my transparent top.
I look up and spot Edie. She looks stunning; no trace now of the dressed-down cropped jeans and T-shirt she wore in the garden. She’s done up to the nines in tailored trousers and heels, and her sleek brown bob looks newly coiffured. Just as I open my mouth to speak, she turns and says something to the tall blonde woman standing beside her. There is none of the casual friendliness she displayed yesterday.
Next to them is the woman I saw this morning with the silky ponytail and the uniformed twins. She looks at me sympathetically and smiles.
‘Hello,’ I whisper as I walk past the group, but the silence is deafening. Rowan must have felt just like this when the other kids in reception stared at him.
As I lower my eyes and walk on, the conversation behind me starts up again.
‘She’s just moved to Buckingham Crescent?’ I hear someone say loudly in disbelief. ‘Looks like the place is going downhill fast.’
Nine
When I get back home after the school run, I make a cup of coffee and take it straight up to the spare room to begin unpacking boxes. The last thing I need to do is waste time sitting staring out of the window, wondering if we’ve done the right thing in moving here.
We had such a good start here yesterday, but now I’m smarting from the afterburn of the school gate animosity. Enduring the unfriendly silence from the group that included Aisha’s mum, Edie and also the woman with the twins who smiled at me earlier was bad enough. But overhearing that bitchy comment about the crescent going down fast just completed my humiliation. The positive impression I got of the area yesterday feels completely undone.
I stick the radio on, and in an hour or so, I’ve unpacked a good stack of boxes and the burning sensation in my chest has abated a little. What was I thinking, believing I could be friends with a set like that? Turns out Isaac was right after all; we’re like chalk and cheese.