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A Little Word About Harry
In the playground of Saddleton Primary Academy there were rules.
The rules were not only for the pupils. There were unwritten rules about where parents could stand and Amy Harris knew her place — in the corner of the school garden, as far away from the other parents as possible. The centre of the yard was for the self-styled ‘dance moms’ in their matching black T-shirts, who waited for their precious offspring to prance out of the cloakrooms and twirl away to Miss Katy’s studio for jazz, acro or tap. The left-hand side of the yard, next to the sports field, was for the football parents who discussed training schedules and kit sponsorship in an impenetrable huddle. Those picking up children from the reception class generally stood next to the gate to the play area, trying to see through the classroom window what their little ones were doing today. The best spot, the area closest to the cloakroom doors, was for the monarchs of the playground, the members of the Saddleton Primary P.T.A. Nobody messed with the P.T.A. and Amy always found an inconspicuous corner of the neglected school garden where she couldn’t be seen by them. It was easier that way.
It was five-to-three on the last day of the summer term, and she sat by herself on the mossy bench in a patch of sunlight filtering down between the Jubilee Tree and the rainy-day shelter. A robin hunted for worms in the empty strawberry bed; it put its head on one side and looked up at her with a cheeky glance that reminded her of her son. Harry looked just like that when he was thinking of doing something he knew he shouldn’t be doing, but he was going to go ahead and do anyway.
There were raised voices from the other side of the fence, from the part of the yard where the P.T.A. stood, and Amy couldn’t help but overhear the distinctive nasal whine of Darcey-Mae Fenton’s mother, chair of the P.T.A. and self-proclaimed queen of Saddleton Primary Academy. There was nothing Mrs. Fenton wouldn’t do ‘for the good of the school.’
‘… his father had to go and see the headteacher about it. He’s in there right now, and I hope he tells her exactly what he feels about that boy’s behaviour. It shouldn’t be allowed in a nice school like ours, and it’s not the first time, either.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the other parents. Amy had a strange feeling they might be talking about Harry. She hoped they weren’t, but Darcey-Mae and Harry were both in the same Year 3 class.
Another voice spoke, one Amy didn’t recognise. ‘I heard one of the dinner nans saw him push a little boy right over last week. On purpose. He grazed both his knees!’
‘Poor little scrap. Doesn’t bear thinking about. Our Darcey-Mae wouldn’t have let him get away with that, she always likes to look after the little ones. She’s such a good girl.’
That meant they were talking about Harry. He had pushed a smaller boy over a couple of weeks ago, though it hadn’t been on purpose, but because he was clumsy and had run right into him on the playground by accident. As usual, no-one had believed him when he tried to explain.
‘And I heard Emily’s big sister caught him touching — actually touching — Oliver Sutherland’s pencil case. He wanted to steal it! She told the teacher right away and he got time out.’ This was a third voice, another she didn’t recognise, but with the same ring of self-righteous indignation as Mrs. Fenton. This group of women were all proud tiger mothers, just like Darcey-Mae’s mum, happy to divide the school into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ children. Their own children were the good ones, of course, and Harry was most definitely on their bad list. Everything was black or white for the tiger mothers, whereas all Amy could see were shades of grey. Harry lost his temper sometimes, but only when provoked. Darcey-Mae delighted in drama, especially if she was the heroine of it, so she created drama where there didn’t need to be any. Then there was Oliver Sutherland who was easily upset — sometimes too easily upset. None of them were perfect, none of them good, none of them bad. They were all just children.
‘Disgraceful behaviour! If our Darcey-Mae had seen it, he’d have been sent to the head, she’d have made sure of it. Time out isn’t enough for a boy like that. You can’t believe a word he says!’
Harry wasn’t a liar. He might be impulsive enough to do some of the bad things he was accused of, but he wasn’t devious enough to lie about them afterwards. Amy hated confrontation, but she got to her feet, determined to head round the corner and put these gossips right. Before she’d made her way out of the garden, the next line halted her in her tracks.
‘It’s not surprising he’s like that. Have you met his mother?’
‘She’s too soft on him. Lets him get away with murder. No respect! If he were my son, I’d have him sorted out in a week.’ That was Darcey-Mae’s mum speaking.
‘That’s why her husband left her, did you know? I was talking to him last week, and he says she’s way too soft on Harry and won’t listen to his advice. He told her Harry needed more discipline, but she won’t do it. You see, the boy lives with the mother so he’s not getting taught right.’
Amy sat back down, closed her eyes and tipped her head back. Was it true? Harry’s behaviour hadn’t been great since she and James had split up, and it had been worse since her mam, Harry’s beloved Granny Jen, had died. She’d put his recent bad behaviour down to the fact that he was struggling to deal with all those changes, but what if they were right and it was her fault? Was she too lenient when he misbehaved?
‘What did he do to Oliver Sutherland this time?’ asked a male voice.
Mrs. Fenton replied, her voice rising in pitch with each utterance. ‘Well, I had this from Sharon Dickinson — she’s one of the dinner nans, you know? I met her when she was coming home after lunch and she told me Harry had took hold of Oliver Sutherland and pushed him — pushed him, can you believe it? With force, I should like to add! He pushed Oliver Sutherland into a cupboard — a dark cupboard, and you know how scared he is of the dark, you know, since what happened to his poor mother.’ A sympathetic murmur ran round the group of parents and Amy closed her eyes again. If she closed them tightly enough, maybe she could make the P.T.A. go away.
‘He pushed him into a dark cupboard and do you know what he did next?’ Mrs. Fenton paused for dramatic effect.
‘No!’ came a chorus of answers, and Amy was waiting too. At least it would give her an idea of what to expect when the headteacher inevitably came to have a word with her about it after school.
‘He locked the door,’ Mrs Fenton said with relish. ‘Yes, he locked the door, can you believe it? On purpose! Oliver must have been beside himself with terror, all alone in the dark, poor little soul. If it wasn’t for my Darcey-Mae he might still be there! She rescued him, you know, and told the dinner nans what that boy did. It’s a good job some of us know how to bring up children. I blame the parents — or in this case, the mother.’
Amy’s mind was racing. Why on earth would Harry have done something as needlessly cruel as that? There had to be an explanation. He over-reacted sometimes, but it was always a response to something and never an unprovoked attack. There had to be more to this story.
‘There’s no excuse for behaviour like that,’ Mrs. Fenton said. ‘Not in our little school. I don’t like to use the ‘B’ word, but I think I might have to.’
‘What B word? Harry used a swear word to the dinner nans, is that what you mean?’ asked one of the other parents.
‘No! Well, maybe he did, probably he did in fact — we all know what he’s like, don’t we? — but that isn’t what I meant. I mean the other B word. Bullying. Harry Brand is a little bully and his mother isn’t doing anything about it. There, I’ve said it. Sometimes you have to, don’t you?’
Amy felt sick, but she was going to have to say something. She picked up her bag, holding it in front of her like a shield, and as she did so a man and a young boy came round the corner of the red-brick school building from the direction of the main reception area.
The children entered and left the school through the cloakrooms and the main reception was only ever used by visitors and staff, or parents and children who had been to see the headteacher. She recognised the boy straight away — Oliver Sutherland, a wisp of a lad with big blue eyes and a watery nose — and the man with him must be his dad. Oliver’s mum had been a familiar face on the playground and had seemed nice enough, but she’d died the previous autumn, and now Oliver was usually collected by his granny. He was the same age as Harry, but he looked younger, and right now he appeared to have been crying.
The sight of his tear-stained face knocked all the fight out of Amy. He had been crying because of something Harry had done.
Oliver’s dad was looking right at her. Did he know who she was? Was he expecting her to apologise, to explain? She could have told Darcey-Mae’s smug mother what she thought of her and fought Harry’s corner, but a man who had lost his wife so recently? What else could she do, but offer her sympathy and apologise for her son’s behaviour?
