Free The Lost Child by Julie Myerson Page B

colleague hesitate, glance at each other. They speak very carefully, clearly anxious to handle this matter as sensitively and appropriately as possible. They say they do know there have been some problems at home of late. They know, for instance, that he was out of the house for a while. That must have been very traumatic for him. They hear what we are saying, but at the same time they know we'll understand that they want to be as supportive as they possibly can.
    I tell them that we do understand this. And I mean it. I think how glad I am, really, that our boy has these sympathetic, nurturing people behind him.
    But, the boy's father tells them, his voice cracking slightly, that's all very well, I do understand where you're coming from. But the trouble is we're pretty sure he has a drugs problem.
    He shoplifts, I tell them then - because a part of me wants so badly to shock them, to make them see how dramatic and sad all this has become. He just can't stop smoking cannabis and he's reached a point where he'll do anything to enable himself And we just don't think him getting away with coming to school so late is helping.
    He needs clear boundaries, adds his father. I'm not saying we're managing all that well to set them at home. But it would help so much if school could be firm with him.
    His teachers regard us with real concern. We can see they are trying so hard to keep an open mind and it's hard to blame them. They are exactly where we were a year or so ago. While they know what cannabis is, I'm not sure they know about skunk.
    His father tells them some facts. The strength of it. The mental health implications. The fact that we only know all of this because we've been forced to educate ourselves so fast. I glance at his face - taut, sad, a touch too passionate - and hope they won't think he's lecturing them.
    If they do, they don't show it. They regard us both with real sympathy. I feel tears springing to my eyes but I swallow them back. And his tutor explains - carefully, diplomatically that our boy is incredibly bright, really seriously intelligent, and they've known other boys like him go through similar phases and come out the other end. She really does want to reassure us. She and his other teachers fully understand that his behaviour at the moment can be, well, challenging. But If we don't mind her saying so, she's known a lot of seventeen-year-old boys.
    And I've spoken to him, she says. We've had two long chats. He's been very receptive.
    Receptive, I think. Of course. His biggest skill.
    Please don't believe everything he tells you, I say and my heart sinks as I realise how cold, how destructively unmaternal and unsupportive I must sound. He's so plausible. Everyone wants to believe him. Everyone does believe him. The denial, the self-delusion. It's his biggest problem, in a way. I mean I love him so much, I add, but I just think it's time someone saw through him.
    The look of careful kindness she gives me makes tears of frustration spring to my eyes.
    His life could be so great, I tell her. He has so much life ahead of him.
    I know that, she says.
    OK, says the boy's father a touch harshly, so, cutting to the chase, how're we going to get him to come to school?
    Calmly, the tutor shows him a piece of paper. Squares and boxes. A series of targets. He has to report in each day to various different teachers. They will all have to sign a sheet of paper. He will be encouraged very strongly by her to meet these targets.
    I gaze at the boxes and squares.
    Very strongly?
    We'll be monitoring him very closely.
    And if he doesn't meet the targets?
    She blinks.
    Let's just give him a chance first, shall we?
    As we walk back to the car, I tell the boy's father off How on earth can we hope to get the teachers on our side If he loses his temper and shouts like that?
    I didn't shout, he says, jutting out his bottom lip. And anyway you cried.
    I didn't cry. I nearly cried but I stopped myself
    I saw tears in your eyes.
    OK, but