Free The Rye Man by David Park Page B

roof.
    â€˜I’m sure you’re right, Mr Cameron, but I don’t think the blame lies with us. Her parents were advised by Mr Reynolds that she would be better off elsewhere but they chose to ignore it and insisted she came here. I wasn’t privy to the discussion but they were quite adamant.’
    In the middle of his anger there was still time to be irritated by the persistence with which Vance called him Mr Cameron, when he had been invited on several occasions to use his first name. His tone of voice was impersonal, his vocabulary formal. It was as though he had something stiff and unbending at his core, like a layer of permafrost – an absence of spontaneity, an unwillingness to reveal or share anything of his self.
    â€˜Mr Reynolds had no right to accommodate anything that was not in the best interests of the child and sticking her down at the back of the classroom could certainly not be described as promoting Jacqueline McQuarrie’s welfare.’
    â€˜ Perhaps there were other factors involved that you’re not aware of.’ His voice was distant now. ‘You’ll excuse me, my class are unsupervised at present.’
    He waited a few seconds until Vance had left the office then smashed his fist down on top of the filing cabinet, indenting a hollow bruise in the metal. Pulling out the top drawer he searched through what passed for a record system. Under the girl’s name he found a white card with her full name, address, date of birth and date of entry into the school. In a manilla file were copies of her last three reports but a cursory glance was enough to absorb the extent and nature of the information. Bare, perfunctory statements that the child experienced severe difficulties in all her subjects with no reference to personal and social development or any proposed course of remedial action. He sat down at his desk and turned the miserable, meagre information over and over.
    His thoughts were disturbed by a now-recognisable knock on his door and the entry of Haslett. In her wake trailed a red-faced boy. It was obviously a hanging job and her expression clearly indicated that a guilty verdict had already been reached and that he was required to play the role of executioner. She stood with her arms folded across her bosom like a plumped pillow, while the boy’s eyes flitted nervously round the office. He felt as if he should open the drawer of his desk and put on a black cap.
    â€˜Mr Cameron, this is getting out of hand and I think it’s about time we let parents know it’s not acceptable.’ She looked curiously like an owl when she was angry, a spasmodic twitch pushing her glasses further up her nose, enlarging her eyes, her face pulled tight and white like a knot, the words bursting out bitterly in a rush of air. ‘I don’t know what parents are thinking of to allow it. Well, they’ve got another think coming if they think I’m going to allow it in my class.’
    Drawing phalluses on his jotter, bullying, spitting gobs of phlegm, cursing – the options were limitless. Looking at the accused he couldn’t decide the crime. It had to be serious, though.
    â€˜Take off your jumper, Mr McBriar, and show Mr Cameron what you propose to do P.E. in.’
    The boy obeyed but nervousness made his hands clumsy and for a few seconds his head struggled to emerge from the blue sweat-shirt, making it look as though he’d already been beheaded. She tutted in exasperation and for a few seconds he thought she was going to yank it off, but at last the boy wriggled his way free, his hair standing up like stubble. Across his chest was a familiar face and the large message, ‘My name’s Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?’ She quivered with new outrage. He struggled to suppress a smile. ‘Leave this to me, Mrs Haslett. I’ll deal with it.’
    He ushered her back to her class and closed the door behind her.
    The boy stood still,