Losing Me (28 page)

“Nothing wrong with a decent banger,” Jack said, pouring them both a glass of wine.

“True, but I could only afford the indecent sort.”

That made him laugh. Just then Bertie appeared and began sniffing around the stove, making little whimpering sounds. “You’d think this animal never gets fed,” Jack said. He went to the fridge and produced a handful of raw ground steak, clearly left over from the shepherd’s pie. He dropped it into Bertie’s bowl. The dog was straight on it, his tail wagging like an out-of-control metronome.

“So, any more news on Tiffany?” Jack said, rinsing a red pepper under the tap.

“They’ve been doing tests to check for brain damage. We’re still waiting for the results. Troy is so distressed. I visit him most days, and each time I go, he gets hysterical. He just wants to see his mum.”

“Why can’t he?” Jack suggested that seeing her covered in wires and tubes would be better than what might be going on in his imagination.

“Maureen’s been to see her. She thinks that bearing in mind the state he’s already in, seeing his mum like that would freak him out. On balance, I think she’s probably right.”

Jack nodded. “And what about the boyfriend?”

Again she reported what Maureen had told her—that once Wayne had regained consciousness, he’d been charged with attempted murder. Now he was in custody, waiting for a trial date.

“Troy told me that when he grows up he’s going to kill him.”

“Who could blame him?”

Jack began chopping the pepper.

“My, what excellent knife skills you have. I thought you said you were no great shakes. This is like watching a proper chef.”

“It’s a man thing,” Jack said. “When I first started cooking, I spent a fortune on Japanese knives. Faye had never bothered. Once you have the kit, the pressure is on to learn how to use it.”

“I own posh knives, but I can’t say they’ve had that effect on me.”

“That’s because you’re a woman. You don’t need to show off. Men have that hairy-chested, alpha-male thing going on. Not that I’d describe myself even remotely as an alpha male. I’m more your delta or omega type.”

“What rot. I’d say you were totally up there. You’re tall, good-looking, slim.” She felt her face redden. Now she was the one doing the flirting. She was blurting out thoughts that a wiser person, one who hadn’t just downed an entire goblet of wine, might have decided to keep on the inside.

“You’re most kind,” he said. He scraped the diced red peppers off the chopping board and onto the bowl of salad. Then he reached for the balsamic vinegar and olive oil. “So, I’m guessing this Wayne character has his own story of childhood neglect and brutality to tell.”

“Bound to,” Barbara said, putting her hand into the salad bowl and helping herself to a slice of cucumber. “These people always do. No doubt it will all come out in court.”

“So how do you break that cycle of violence?”

Barbara delivered her well-worn speech. It was all about lifting people out of poverty, improving education and giving them a stake in society.

She apologized for getting on her soapbox. “I just get so angry—that’s all.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, topping up her glass. “You have every right to get on your soapbox. Believe me, I feel the same way as you do.”

“Really?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Us poshies can be liberals, too, you know.”

She was coloring up for a second time. “Of course you can. That was stupid of me. I’m really sorry.”

He laughed. “Please . . . you have to stop apologizing. In fact, your prejudice is a perfectly fair one. Nine times out of ten you’d be right.”

“Maybe, but it was still rude of me.” She took a glug of wine. “I guess I’m not at my most diplomatic just now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m worried about Tiffany. Plus I’m still feeling guilty. But I am trying to ease up on myself. . . . Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be sitting here drinking your wine and boring you like this.”

“Barbara, will you stop apologizing? And, anyway, I’m not remotely bored.”

“That’s very kind of you to say. But I know I go on. I’ve been driving my kids around the bend. . . . So, enough of me. Why don’t we get Freddie down from his room?” She reached into her bag and took out her copy of
The Fabulous Fart Machine.
“I thought he’d like this to remember me by.”

“I don’t want your book.” Freddie was stomping into the room. “And I don’t want to remember you.” He picked up a packet of crisps that was lying on the breakfast bar and glared at Barbara. “You told my parents I’m a retard. Now they’re going to send me to a retard school.”

“Freddie! Don’t you dare speak to Barbara like that.”

“It’s true.” He ripped the cellophane packet apart and half the contents fell to the floor.

“It is not true. Barbara helped you. Now apologize. Then you can go and get a dustpan and brush and clear up this mess.”

“You do it.” Freddie turned to go, clutching what remained of his packet of crisps.

“Freddie, don’t go,” Barbara said. “I know you’re upset, but please could we have a talk?” She asked Jack if there was somewhere she could speak to Freddie alone.

“Of course. So long as he agrees to calm down and behave.” He turned to Freddie.

“Take Barbara upstairs to the living room. And no more rudeness. Do you understand?”

Freddie stood scowling and didn’t move. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Please?” Barbara said again.

“Go on,” Jack said. “Do as you’re told.”

Freddie wasn’t prepared to defy his doting grandfather the way he defied his mother. He led the way to a chintzy pristine drawing room that clearly hardly ever got used. Two sofas faced each other. Opposing factions with a coffee-table no-man’s-land between them. Freddie sat down on one sofa. Barbara was about to take the other, but decided it would look far too confrontational. She decided to share Freddie’s sofa, but was careful to place herself at the far end so as not to crowd him.

“OK, you’re pissed off with me,” she said. “I get that, and I really am sorry I upset you.”

“Why did you have to say anything? They sent me to see this woman who made me do all these puzzles and stuff. And I couldn’t do them. Then she told Mum and Dad that I’m a retard.”

“No, she didn’t. That’s utter nonsense and you know it. I told your parents that I had concerns about you because I wanted you to get the help you needed. Come on, Freddie. You know you were struggling at school. Your teacher knew you were struggling. Eventually she would have convinced your parents that there was a problem.”

“No, she wouldn’t. Mum thought she was an idiot. I would have managed.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You would have carried on thrashing around and ended up very miserable.”

“I’m miserable anyway.”

“Meaning?”

“Mum and Dad think I’m a retard. They’re having all these arguments about me. Sometimes I’m not even sure they love me.”

“Come on, Freddie,” she said gently. “You know perfectly well they don’t think you’re a retard. And they adore you.”

“No, they don’t. Mum and Dad think I’m in the way. And they cover up for it by buying me stuff. They think I don’t get it, but I do. I’ve called ChildLine. Three times.”

“You have?”

This child might be dyslexic, but he was more than a tad precocious.

“And what did ChildLine have to say?”

“The lady said that for my age I was very articulate and mature.”

“Ah, so not a retard, then. Unless, of course, she was lying just to make you feel better.”

“Stop making fun of me. Anyway, she said that I should tell my parents how I feel. But they’re never here, and even when they are, they have important work stuff on their minds. . . . By the way, I know what ‘articulate’ means. I just can’t spell it.”

Barbara laughed. “And you still think you’re thick?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“I know because I have spent years working with children who have learning difficulties. Yes, your brain is wired a bit differently from other people’s and, yes, you have problems processing, but you are not stupid. You’ve just told me that you know what ‘articulate’ means but you can’t spell it. That pretty much sums up what’s going on in your head. You are a bright, highly intelligent young man who happens to have a bit of mental block around spelling and arithmetic. So do millions of people. With the right help, you will learn to compensate and work around it. In the end nobody will be any the wiser.”

“You’re wrong. My parents are looking at all these special schools for me. I’m going to end up in a school for retards.”

“No, you’re not. You’re way too bright. You need to be in a regular school, where you can get some extra help. Now, tell me something. How would you feel about boarding school?”

“That means I have to sleep there, right?”

“Yes, but only during the week. You’d come home every weekend. I have a school in mind that I think you’d really like.”

“I dunno. Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t see Mum and Dad during the week anyway. So what’s it like?”

•   •   •

Jeremy Fergusson poured himself another glass of wine. “So you’re telling us that this place has no school uniform, pupils call teachers by their first names and they keep sheep.”

“They also keep pigs, cows and chickens. As well as being a school, Larkswood House is a proper working farm. The kids are expected to help out for a couple of hours each week. They get to see calves being born, milk the cows, shovel chicken shit. They all adore it.”

“Great. And where do they have lessons? In the milking shed?”

Sally glared at her husband across the kitchen table. “Jem, do you have to be so rude? Barbara’s trying to help us. And Freddie’s made it clear that Larkswood House appeals to him and that he’d like to take a look round.”

Freddie had gone to bed a while ago, leaving the adults to drink coffee, finish what remained of the wine and discuss his future. Barbara was starting to wish she hadn’t told him about Larkswood House before mentioning it to his parents. Educational traditionalists like Jeremy Fergusson tended to sneer and be against it.

“Sorry. I apologize,” Jeremy said to Barbara. “It’s been a long day. And you have to understand that this thing with Freddie has been terribly stressful.”

Barbara looked at Jeremy, his patrician frame cloaked in his rich man’s suit, his annual bonus no doubt accruing in some fancy high-yield investment fund. She wanted to tell him that he knew nothing about real stress—the kind of stress people on the Orchard Farm Estate lived with. Of course she said nothing. Jeremy and Sally were entitled to their own stresses and strains. It wasn’t for her to judge—even though she already had.

“I know it hasn’t been easy,” Barbara said. “But Freddie’s dyslexia is fairly mild. He won’t get into Eton, but he’ll be fine in a mainstream school like Larkswood House, which has a dedicated team of teachers who work with dyslexic pupils.”

She explained that she had an old friend from teacher-training college who taught there, that she’d visited several times and had always come away impressed. She described a state-of-the-art campus based around an old manor house. The school had a performing arts studio, gym, swimming pools—indoor and outdoor—tennis courts, sports fields. “It’s liberal, relaxed and the kids live in houses with house parents. There’s a real family atmosphere.”

“I don’t understand,” Jeremy came back. “If this place is so great, why have we never heard of it? Nobody’s ever mentioned it to us.”

“People tend to disapprove of the noncompetitive ethos. Essentially, the school concentrates on producing happy, confident kids who are able to make their way in the world. That said, all the pupils take the traditional exams, and most of them—even the dyslexic ones—do pretty well. You can check out their results online.”

Jeremy wasn’t about to be won over. “What’s the betting they all do yoga during break?”

“Oh, and I forgot to mention, it’s vegetarian.”

“Of course it is.”

“Well, I think it sounds terrific,” Sally said.

Jack said he had to agree. “I think it might be just the ticket for our young Fred.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jeremy said. “Freddie needs discipline. He’s a brat, and he’s out of control.”

Barbara watched Jack as he battled to stay silent. In the end the words burst out of him. “And whose fault is that?. . . Yours.” He looked at Sally. “And I include you in that.”

“But we give him everything,” Sally said. “He’s just so ungrateful. You know how he treats me.”

“You give him everything apart from what he actually needs. It’s a classic tale of the spoiled little rich kid. And it’s staring you in the face. It beats me why you can’t see it. That lad is crying out for love and attention. He acts out because he’s trying to get you to notice him. Good God, it’s not bloody rocket science.”

Barbara had made it clear to Jack that Sally and Jeremy’s parenting skills were none of her business and that she wouldn’t interfere. But now she had some information that she thought she ought to share. “As you know, I had a chat with Freddie before dinner and he told me that he feels as if he’s in the way. Did you know he’s been calling ChildLine?”

Sally’s eyes widened. “What? Are you serious?”

“He’s just attention seeking,” Jeremy snapped.

Jack couldn’t take any more. “Of course he’s attention seeking. Can’t you see that the poor kid
deserves
some attention? Why don’t you get it?”

Sally looked at her husband. “Dad’s right. You know he is. Do you honestly think that our son was born a brat? We’ve made him the way he is.”

Jeremy went on the defensive. “You should have given up your job when he was born, like I told you.”

“Why? Because I’m his mother and that’s what proper mothers do? You earn less than me. Why didn’t you give up your job?”

“Look,” Barbara broke in, “blaming each other isn’t going to help. The past is done. What you need to do now is plan for the future—Freddie’s future.”

Jack was looking thoughtful. “I hate to put the cat among the pigeons, but given that Fred already feels that he’s in the way and has been calling ChildLine, do we really think it’s a good idea to send him away? Won’t he feel even more rejected?”