Free Only a Game by J. M. Gregson Page A

wife’s insistence that he should show solidarity. She said more confidently, ‘So what is it that is worrying you, Mr Black?’
    He glanced sideways at his wife, who said, ‘It may be something and nothing, but we felt we should bring it to your attention. We think Eleanor is being bullied at school.’
    â€˜Not physically knocked about, you understand,’ her husband added hastily. ‘It’s more a matter of other girls being spiteful to her, saying nasty things about her and about us. A boy might shrug it off, but—’
    Louise Hurst hastened to intervene before this gender discrimination could go any further. ‘No one should have to shrug it off, Mr Black. If a child is being seriously upset, the situation needs attention.’
    â€˜It may not be a serious problem. It may be that as parents we are over-reacting,’ said Debbie Black, wondering now if they should have come here, whether this was something they should have sorted out for themselves.
    â€˜And it may be that you have pinpointed a problem which needs attention,’ said Mrs Hurst firmly, treating them now like any other parents with a worry over their precious progeny, reassured by this rediscovery of her professional attitude. ‘Would you say the problem is in school or outside it? We often find what seems quite petty in here is pursued outside the school gates and made into something much larger.’
    â€˜We only know what Eleanor tells us. But she says not much happens when the teacher is around. They pull her hair a bit and push her around. But what really upsets her is that they say wounding things about us.’
    â€˜What sort of things?’
    Debbie glanced sideways at her husband, ‘Well, she came home a fortnight ago asking what a tart was. They’d been saying her mother was a tart and her Dad was a jumped-up hooligan.’
    Mrs Hurst nodded. Nothing she hadn’t come across before. Routine stuff, but very upsetting for the small girl at the centre of it and the man and woman who sat before her. ‘These aren’t children’s words and phrases, as you no doubt realize.’
    â€˜No.’ Debbie Black’s anxious features split into an unexpected smile as she thought of her daughter struggling to pronounce that word ‘hooligan’. ‘These girls can’t have very nice mothers.’
    Louise Hurst shrugged. ‘They’re probably no worse and no better than average. What you see and hear sometimes in this job could make you into a confirmed pessimist about human nature. It’s the children who cheer you up and give you hope.’
    Robbie Black said in his soft Scottish accent, ‘D’ye think we’re taking this too seriously, Mrs Hurst?’ Like many parents, he found that once they’d come here and stated their concern, it seemed much more petty than it had when they were comforting a tearful little girl in her bedroom.
    â€˜Not at all. I’m glad you’ve voiced your concerns. I’ll have a word with the teacher and we’ll keep a watch on Eleanor and the way the other girls behave towards her. I don’t think this is a very serious problem. Usually once children know there’s an adult eye upon them the trouble stops.’
    The Blacks had driven most of the short journey to their home when Debbie said, ‘Do you think she thought we were over-reacting?’
    Robbie was silent for a moment. He had been thinking about his very different first school, in the roughest part of a great Scottish city. He’d been small for his age. Fights had been common and he’d been in plenty of them, until his football skill gradually made him into a boyish hero. Times changed, but children were still children. ‘No, not really. Mrs Hurst seemed to be taking it seriously. I don’t think it will be a big thing from now on, though. I believe her when she says the school will attend to it.’
    â€˜I agree