Free Flying the Coop by Ilsa Evans

After School Hours Care lady asked for a ‘chat’. Because it usually meant that Michael had managed to get some other kids involved in an imaginative game that resulted in something getting broken – usually a window or piece of furniture but, occasionally, one of the other children.
    Noting the time on the overhead clock, Chris signed the log-out book and then reluctantly approached the little cubicle where the After School Hours Care lady was doing paperwork. Through a huge plate glass window set along one entire wall of the playroom, Chris could see the children outside clambering over some brightly coloured climbing equipment. Automatically, her eyes flicked over the multitude of hanging, swinging and scrambling bodies until she located her son. He was perched, rather precariously, astride a yellow monkey bar and was fully occupied with flinging pine barkdown on the heads of several small boys who were attempting to dislodge him. It looked like an accident waiting to happen. Seemingly oblivious, the two teenage carers were sitting on a nearby bench, deeply engrossed in conversation.
    â€˜Is something the matter?’
    Chris glanced over at the After School Hours Care lady, who had paused in the paperwork to look at Chris questioningly. Instead of answering verbally, Chris simply raised her eyebrows and pointed outside. Michael, who had now run out of pine bark, was having a leg pulled by each of the other boys. Either he was going to be dislodged within seconds, or Chris would only have Grace to rely on for the production of grandchildren.
    â€˜My lord!’ said the After School Hours Care lady crossly. She picked up a large, elaborate walkie-talkie from the end of her desk and held it up to her mouth: ‘Carer One! Carer One! Do you copy?’
    One of the teenagers on the bench could be seen extracting a similar walkie-talkie from her jacket pocket. Shortly afterwards came her voice: ‘Shit, which button do I press? Here, Casey, give us a hand. That old bat’s after me again. She’s driving me frigging crazy. So which button do I press? What did you say? Oh. Um . . . hello? Hello? This is Carer One.’
    â€˜Really,’ said the After School Hours Care lady in an icy voice. ‘Perhaps you could interrupt your conversation long enough to tell Michael Lloyd to get down off the monkey bars before he falls down. And I’d like to speak to you. Later.’
    â€˜Sure thing!’ The teenager, who seemed to have forgotten there was a large window between her and her employer, turned to her companion and thrust her finger in the direction of her mouth several times in a gagging motion. Then, rather languidly, she crossed to the climbing frame and started gesturing at the boys. Michael, who was now dangling by only one leg, grabbed a bar with one hand and did a flip that sentChris’s heart straight into her mouth. Then he was on the ground and off, with the other two boys chasing him gleefully.
    The After School Hours Care lady watched these proceedings narrowly and then, taking a pen and a small spiral-bound notepad from her pocket, commenced making notes.
    â€˜Did you want to speak to me?’ asked Chris.
    â€˜Yes, Ms Beggs, I did.’ She put the notepad back into her apron pocket and turned to face Chris, her face stern. ‘It’s about Michael.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yes, really.’ The After School Hours Care lady ignored the sarcasm and ploughed on: ‘It’s not that I don’t approve of imagination. I most certainly do. It’s an integral part of childhood. But within limits. And we simply have to draw a line between creativity and outright lies. Otherwise we’re no different from the animals, are we?’
    â€˜I see,’ said Chris slowly, who actually didn’t but just wanted to go home.
    â€˜Good. Because it can’t go on.’
    â€˜Obviously not.’
    â€˜So you’ll speak to him? About his lying?