“Mrs Powell?”
She swivelled her head and looked at Jonah with breathtaking hostility.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I am Mr Liberty, your daughter’s form teacher, and this is Mrs
Lander, a colleague from school.” Uninvited, he sat down beside her.
“If it’s not inconvenient,” he said, “we’d like to discuss why Sharna is
absent from school so often. We’re very concerned for her. You see,
everyday she misses puts her at a disadvantage with her GCSE, and
that strikes me as a great shame given her ability.”
Mrs Powell shifted forward and reached for her cigarettes. She
flipped open the packet, took out a Marlboro, hunted for a lighter
among the mess on the table in front of her. “It’s her asthma. How
many times do I have to tell you lot?” She found the lighter and lit the
cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she stared him in the eye, her expression
sullen and challenging. “What’s more, I put it in that note last week
when she was off.”
“It has nothing to do with this, then?” He picked up a two-inchsquare
polythene bag of tin-tacks
from the coffee table, then poked at
a pile waiting to be bagged up. “Piece work can’t take for ever, can it?
An extra pair of hands makes all the difference—really lightens the
load.”
She threw down the lighter, scattering tin-tacks on the carpet.
“What are you on about? It’s me who does this.
On my own
.” She
placed the cigarette between her lips, drew on it hard, then blew a
cloud of smoke into his face. “Coming round here with your bloody
fancy posh voice accusing me of friggin’
knows what! And why aren’t
you in school doing what you are paid to do?” Her tired, lined face
blazed with insolence.
While her manner didn’t bother Jonah, it upset Sharna, who hadn’t
said a word. Now she stepped forward.
“Mum! Don’t shout at him like that, you’ll get me into even more
trouble.”
“Shut up and leave this to me.”
“But Mum …”
“If you can’t be quiet, get out.”
“He’s only trying to help. It’s his job.”
Keeping his voice low and smooth, in contrast to Mrs Powell’s bullying
screech, Jonah rose to his feet and said, “I think we’ve said all we
need to, Mrs Powell. You’re a busy woman and we have no right to
take up any more of your valuable time. Sharna, perhaps you’d show us
out.”
Standing at the front door, the volume of the television in the
sitting room turned up again, Sharna said, “sorry about that, Sir. She
loses it now and again.”
He looked at her kindly. “It’s okay. But, Sharna, you do have a
choice in this. If you see yourself in years to come earning your living
from packing tin-tacks, like your mother,” he paused meaningfully,
“then, so be it.” But if there’s the slightest chance that you might want
more out of life, I’d be delighted to see you in school first thing
tomorrow morning. Think it over, it’s your decision. Nobody else’s.
The law says you must attend school in one form or another, but
nobody has a right to bully you into making the wrong decision. Not
me, not your mother, not even Mrs Lander here.”
The girl put her finger to her lower lip, pushed it against her teeth,
chewed at it anxiously. “I’ll … I’ll see y’ then, Sir.”
“Soon, I hope.”
Erica James
,
Precious time
, 2001.
