Cruel to Be Kind: Saying no can save a child’s life. Cathy Glass

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СКАЧАТЬ following morning we fell into our school routine and all three children were pleased it was Friday. Over breakfast (when I limited Max to one spoonful of sugar on his cereal) they talked about making a camp in the garden at the weekend. I thought this was a good idea, as it was a game Max could easily join in with. The weather was settled so I suggested we put up the tent on Saturday morning. It was a small one that the children sometimes used for playing.

      ‘Why not tonight?’ Adrian asked excitedly. Then remembering, ‘Oh yes, there won’t be time. We have to go to the hospital.’

      ‘I don’t mind if we don’t go,’ Max said, also delighted at the prospect of playing in a tent.

      ‘Your mother will mind,’ I said. ‘We can put up the tent first thing on Saturday morning, even before breakfast. And you’ll have all weekend to play in it.’

      Max nodded, then looked thoughtful. ‘I think I’d rather have my breakfast first,’ he said.

      ‘OK, love,’ I smiled.

      Sometimes I saw my parents at the weekend, but I’d purposely kept this weekend free to allow Max time to settle in. And, of course, we’d still be visiting the hospital on Saturday and Sunday from five-thirty till seven o’clock, but it wouldn’t be such a rush without school.

      I’d arranged for Paula to be collected from nursery by a friend of mine who had a similar-aged child at the same nursery so that I could meet Mrs Marshall; we’d helped each other out in the past. Paula was looking forward to going to her friend’s house to play and I anticipated collecting her around one o’clock. I told Max I would be going to his school to meet his teacher and to hear how well he was doing in case he saw me in the building and worried about why I was there.

      At 11.30 a.m., having prepared the dinner for that evening, I changed out of my jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of smarter cotton summer trousers and a short-sleeved blouse, then drove to Max’s school, arriving at 12.10 p.m. The receptionist remembered why I was there and asked me to sign the visitor’s book and then wait in reception for Mrs Marshall. At exactly 12.15 a lady approached with a friendly, ‘Hello, Cathy Glass?’

      ‘Yes.’ I stood.

      ‘Daisy Marshall. Lovely to meet you.’

      ‘And you.’ We shook hands. Dressed practically in a pleated blue summer dress, and with short, neatly layered grey hair, I guessed her to be in her late fifties.

      ‘Let’s go to my classroom to talk,’ she said. ‘There’s no one in there.’

      ‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ I said as we went. ‘I know how busy you must be.’

      ‘Not at all. I’m pleased you’ve come into school. I like to meet the foster carer as soon as possible if a child moves home. We don’t have many children in care – last year one of our older children lived with a foster carer, but an aunt has him now.’ With 70,000 children in care in the UK, most schools have experience of pupils living with a foster carer. ‘How is Max settling in?’ she asked.

      ‘Very well indeed.’

      ‘He’s a lovely boy, I’ve got a lot of time for him.’ Mrs Marshall opened the door to her classroom and we went in.

      ‘You’ve been busy,’ I said admiringly. The classroom was festooned with the children’s work. Every wall was covered with paintings, drawings, pie charts, essays, poems and so on. Handmade bunting hung from the ceiling showing the different flags from around the world, and a magnificent model of a Roman village stood in one corner. There was also a nature table, the like of which I hadn’t seen since my own school days.

      ‘Yes, the children keep me on my toes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she said with a smile. ‘Take a seat.’ She drew out two of the children’s chairs from beneath a table and we sat either side.

      I’d taken an immediate liking to Mrs Marshall; she came across as a kind and caring person as well as a dedicated teacher. She was straightforward in her manner and I sensed she could be firm with her class when necessary.

      ‘Max is a lovely child and a pleasure to teach,’ she began. ‘He’s interested in learning and will join in and ask pertinent questions in class discussion. He’s well above average in his learning, especially literacy. He loves reading. It’s a form of escapism for him, as indeed it is for many people. Although now, sadly, watching television has largely replaced reading in many homes.’ I nodded. ‘However, I do feel sad when I see him sitting all by himself in the playground with a book instead of joining in with the other children. Of course, Max can’t run and play like others his age because of the thing we’re not allowed to talk about.’

      I held her gaze. ‘His weight?’ I asked quietly.

      ‘Exactly. It’s a taboo subject with his mother, and apparently it’s not politically correct to raise it with his social worker, although obviously she must be aware of the problem. Max struggles. If he had a learning disability, he’d receive all the help he needs, but obesity isn’t being properly acknowledged and dealt with.’

      ‘I know it limits what he can do,’ I agreed. ‘How does he manage in PE lessons?’

      ‘He changes into his kit and joins in as best he can. He would rather sit and read a book, but it’s important he has some exercise, just as it is for all the children. I know he feels self-conscious and I never suggest he tries something of which he is not capable. We have another obese child in the class, although she’s not as overweight as Max, and she’s on a diet and losing weight. Her mother wants her to exercise more, but I’m always sensitive to her and Max’s limitations. By the way, Max’s PE kit could do with a wash. I’ll remind him to take it home with him tonight.’

      ‘Yes, please do. I usually take the children’s PE kits home every week to wash them. He hasn’t come with a spare.’

      ‘They can be bought here from reception.’

      ‘I’ll get an extra set on the way out.’

      ‘I’ll leave you to shorten it this time, save me a job,’ Mrs Marshall said with a smile. I looked at her questioningly. ‘You’ve probably noticed how the clothes that fit Max are for much older children. His mother rolls up the sleeves and trouser legs to make them fit, or fastens them with a safety pin. It’s not nice for Max. The trousers unroll and he trips over them. Other kids notice. So I’ve been turning up his school uniform.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you, and also explains something,’ I said. ‘When I unpacked his bag last night I wondered why his school uniform was neatly turned and hemmed but his other clothes weren’t.’

      ‘It helps his mother, although I’m not sure she’s noticed. The poor woman has so many health issues of her own to deal with. Have you met her?’

      ‘Yes, briefly last night when I took Max to the hospital to see her.’

      ‘She was supposed to be out of hospital by now, but I understand her foot is taking longer to heal than anticipated.’

      ‘Yes. The care plan is that Max will stay with me until she is home and sufficiently recovered to look after him.’ She nodded. ‘Max has an inhaler, but doesn’t seem to need it much,’ I said. ‘Does he have asthma?’

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