My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (3 page)

"Whoa! Olga! Say no to crack!" bellowed Paul. He shielded his eyes with the back of his hand and beamed a smile as he looked to his adult audience for a reaction.

Patricia and Michael smiled and Helen smirked, shaking her head.

Olga grinned and looked up, holding her purse, eyeing each member of staff curiously.

"What? What have I done?" she laughed, bemused and then frowned, with her face still smiling. "I don't understand."

The Nigerian girl, known as Juliet, whispered into Olga's ear.

Olga widened her eyes with shock. "No! Am I doing it now?" Olga quickly pulled her jeans up and, even quicker, pulled her jumper down, subsequently showing off her cleavage.

Patricia sighed and closed her eyes briefly. She re-opened and smiled. "Olga, it's best if you just leave your clothes alone and perhaps turn up tomorrow in something more suitable."

"You don't like my clothes? They're fashionable. They're not dirty," replied Olga, somewhat hurt by Patricia's words.

"No, I know they're not unclean and yes, you are fashionable, but maybe a little too fashionable for school," said Patricia, quickly.

"Tea please, Michael," said Olga.

Michael tended to the tea request as a tall, skinny Somali boy of around sixteen entered the room. His head was lowered and his feet shuffled as he walked. He had an unhappy demeanour. Guled Omar-Ali had been in the United Kingdom for three months. Found wandering around Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport with his name in black felt pen written on a piece of cardboard and tied with string around his neck.

Also attached to the string was a clear plastic bag containing a passport-sized photograph of himself, his airline ticket stub and seventy US dollars. They were crumpled, torn and some had bloodstains on them. He'd been wearing men's shoes, four sizes too big for him, dark blue socks, Hawaiian style swimming shorts and a large, blue, pin-striped shirt, completed by a pink tie. Obviously an incredibly unusual sight, but whoever had dressed him had tried their utmost to make him the smartest kid on the planet and make his tailor the proudest person, too. With no idea of his true age, the Home Office dentist assessed him to be sixteen and a half. That type of assessment, at the time, was deemed ninety-eight percent accurate.

Michael and his fellow work colleagues questioned this method all the time. 

Guled's birthday was on the first of the first, a common date in that line of work when it came to dealing with children from overseas. Whenever a refugee, asylum seeker or anyone entered the United Kingdom without the correct paperwork, documentation or passport that stated their age, it was often the case that the person in question would be given a birth-date of January the first.

Today was Guled Omar-Ali's first day in Michael's care.

Michael stepped to where Guled sat and crouched down to his level. He placed a friendly hand upon Guled's shoulder and smiled at him. "Good morning, I'm Michael. Michael," he said, pointing at himself.

Guled nodded and extended his hand.

Michael shook his hand.

"Would you like a drink?" Michael asked.

Guled frowned at him.

"Tea? Would you like a cup of tea?" repeated Michael.

"Thank you. Thank you," said Guled. He formed a pained smile.

Michael stood and patted Guled on the back. He walked back to his tea-making area and passed Patricia.

"Did he talk?" she asked.

"Just a thank you. Who does he live with?" Michael asked.

"Semi-independent living," replied Patricia.

"What? Pats, that's nuts. He's been in the UK for what, three months? Why isn't he in care?" Michael was shocked and concerned.

"In care for a month. His age was reassessed. He went into a hostel and then given semi-independent living accommodation."

Patricia reeled off information like The Terminator, churning out facts when asked to. She would spew out any details on demand about a pupil, or a document, a diary date, a term date, an address and even a shoe size. She had OCD with organization.

Helen made sure she kept her well in line, as she often became extremely objective and far too by-the-book, especially when she believed the book to be her own. She, like the rest of the team, was cherished. To the team, she was reliable and trustworthy, or so they all thought. 

Patricia used to be a Learning Support Assistant, once known as General Assistant. Patricia the GA used to be bullied by an old fashioned female teacher. She belittled her. Gave her the worst jobs in the classroom; sharpening pencils accompanied by constant put-downs. Making her feel like a child, instead of utilising her skills to assist a pupil's learning. Patricia was given an opportunity, by Helen, to rise through the admin ranks. First, by taking the role of an administration job, dealing with registers, pupils' files, parents and stock ordering. It fuelled the jealousy fire of the stuck-in-her-ways teacher as she was always placing stock orders left, right and centre. Patricia, in charge of the budgeting and signing the final ordering document, was slowly getting her own back.

A new role within the school became somewhat hard to define as it was completely made up on the spot: Parent-Pupil Support Coordinator. It was a glorified admin role and, in the future, would be known as Pastoral Manager. She was the first point of call when it came to a student being referred to the workplace and there were a number of ways that a pupil could be referred.

A referral form or a telephone call would come in, faxed or posted from the Head Office in deepest, darkest Woolwich. A referral could also be made at the Fair Access Panel. Previously known as the Pupil Placement Panel, the three Ps in a row became difficult for some people. They would buzz the intercom and say "I have come to sit at the PPP." It was like listening to Colin Firth in The King's Speech. The stuttering sound of the PPP quickly changed.

Head Teachers of Greenwich Borough secondary schools sat in a boardroom with other leading professionals, together with NHS school nurses and psychologists from Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS, pronounced CAMS). For a couple of hours they would toss around files of various children, most permanently excluded, as well those newly arrived into the country. Some were on the Attendance Advisory list, having been out of school for a considerable length of time. Sometimes there would be a great deal of pupil information but, more often than not, there would hardly be any at all. Just a name and an address.

Patricia amended the documents so it made sense to others. She interviewed foster carers and parents; spoke to social workers on a regular basis. She dealt with Attendance Advisory Workers, Youth Offending Team Workers, court officials, interpreters, siblings of pupils, School Governors and Head Teachers. If the workplace were a brand, Patricia would want to be the logo. That said, Patricia needed to be kept in line and Helen did it brilliantly.

Helen guided her into the team's way of thinking. She would halt her interviewing too many new-referred students, as the team had to take their time in getting to know certain children first. If Patricia had her way, she would fill the place up constantly like a conveyor belt and forget to move children on to the next phase.

Fill, fill, and fill. It was Patricia's mentality. She was a real box ticker.

Anna was a blonde, petite twelve year old with a stern expression. She stood in the doorway, staring into the kitchen.

Paul stepped over to Patricia and Michael.

"Who's that? She new?" he whispered to Patricia.

"Oh, that's Anna. She's Russian," Patricia ticked Anna's name in the register.

"She's not rushing, she's standing still," chuckled Paul. He looked at Michael, who smiled and stepped up to where the girl was standing.

"Hello. Would you like to sit down?" he asked her.

She nodded her head and sat on the nearest blue plastic chair. Well postured, hands interlinked, feet crossed and tucked under the chair, Anna stared straight ahead.   

Michael squatted beside her. "I'm Michael."

"Anna. My name is Anna. Not Ann or Annie. Anna."  

"Would you like a drink of anything, Anna?" he asked.

"Anything of what?" Anna said curiously, with a frown.

"Tea, or hot chocolate perhaps?"

"Tea. I want tea," she said, abruptly.

"Please. Tea, please," corrected Michael, with a smile.

"Yes." Anna nodded her head and turned away to look elsewhere. She retrieved a copy of the Metro newspaper and flicked through the pages rapidly, as if on a page-seeking mission, honing in like a guided missile until she locked onto her target: the Sudoku page.

Michael raised an eyebrow and straightened. He made his way back to the tea-making area.

"She's as coldski as ice-ski," he joked, in a stereotypical Eastern European accent to Paul, who responded in a similar fashion, smiling.

"Niet, I see she will be good fun here."

Patricia shook her head. "Entertaining for you, you mean Mr Jones."

Michael gave Anna her cup of tea.

"It has sugar, yes?" she asked.

"No sugar. We don't have any today."

Anna shrugged like it didn't matter either way.

Michael headed to the wall where the trio of boys were sitting.

They were more like men and straightened when Michael approached. They had set themselves apart from the other pupils. One by one each extended their hand to Michael, with a smile.

"Good morning," said one, shaking Michael's hand.

"See you yesterday," said another, causing Michael to frown.

"Good morning," he said. "You say 'good morning'."

The Afghan nodded his head. More like a Royal Variety Performance, with Michael moving along the line.

He shook hands with the variety acts. In fact, it was exactly that. He was Royalty to them.

They adored his presence and the positive vibe he gave off. They were an unusual, performing trio, forever surprising and interesting for Michael's monarch-like status.

He shook the third boy's hand.

Abdul Rah-Maan was supposed to be a fourteen. He looked, like his fellow Afghani students, nearly twice that age. Handsome, with a friendly smile, yet his eyes spoke of pain that viewed a continually frustrating journey. Born in Pakistan, he'd lived his whole life in Herat and Kabul.

Herat province was taken over by the Taliban in 1995 and prior to that, the Mujahedeen and the Soviets battled each other no end throughout the nineteen eighties. Armed forces of the United States and the Coalition, assisted by the Afghan Northern Alliance in 2001, removed the Taliban from the province.

There were around fifty-seven different tribes and ethnic groups in Afghanistan. The population included Pashtun, Baloch, Aimak, Turkoman, Tajik, Hazara, Pashtoon and Uzbek. With all the groups naturally came many different languages, the most common being Dari and Pashto. They were the official languages of the country and came originally from Iran. Other languages included Farsi and Hazaragi, spoken by the Hazara people. Lesser languages included Pashai, Balochi, Brahui, Nuristani, Pamiri languages and Hindko.

Ninety-nine per cent of Afghans were Muslim. Shia and Sunni.

Abdul Rah-Maan was a Muslim and spoke seven different languages. He was in foster care and being looked after by a Pakistani family in Royal Greenwich. Abdul was found by Kent police officers at a set of traffic lights, by the roundabout at the Swanley and M25 junction. He was an extremely polite and respectful young man.

The Home Office assessed his age and officially classed him as fourteen. His school file revealed Abdul's mother was killed by the Taliban and the whereabouts of his siblings and journalist father were unknown to him.

Michael smiled at Abdul. "Good morning, Abdul." 

"Good morning, Teacher," replied Abdul.

"Michael. You can call me Michael." 

Abdul smiled politely, but masked his awkwardness.

"No, Teacher. I say Teacher. In Afghanistan, I say Teacher because it is, um, what is the word for respectful?" asked Abdul.

"No, you're right. Respectful is right," said Michael.

"Understand. So, it is difficult? Yes, difficult for me to say your name."

"But that is my name. Michael is my name. Abdul is your name."

"Example please, Teacher," Abdul asked.

"In England, when somebody gives you permission..."

"Permish?"

"Permission. It means you are allowed to do something."

"Understand. Please. Continue."

"When somebody says you are allowed to call them by their name, you should."

"Because it is respectful in England?" questioned Abdul.

"Yes. It is respectful everywhere." 

"Not in Afghanistan. It is very different. I find it difficult, but I will try," said Abdul.  

"Your English is excellent," replied Michael, impressed by the new student.   

Abdul smiled, bashfully. "I speak seven languages, Teacher Michael," he said.

Michael straightened. He patted Abdul on the shoulder.