The New Kid

Keiran starting at the village school caused me no end of worry . . .

IWOULDN’T have chosen to move in the middle of the school year, but when the cottage came up to rent and was so much cheaper than our flat in the city, it seemed silly not to.

Keiran assured me, in his eight-year-old way, that he’d be fine.

There were lots of things he was looking forward to: more space to play, the woods to explore, and the possibility we might get a dog if things went well.

He started at the school in the village, the only child who was new, trying to fit into a tight-knit group of kids who’d known each other for ever.

I suppose he had novelty value at first. I walked him down the road to the school gate and the other children stared at us as they filed into the playground. Most of them managed to get themselves to school without parents.

“Can I go by myself now?” Keiran asked after a couple of weeks.

A little shiver of worry went through me. Used to the city where children were always supervised, I had trouble letting go.

I watched from the window as he walked along the street before turning away to get myself ready for the day. It took me a while to get going in the mornings, so Keiran sorting himself out was a big help.

After a few weeks he was coming home dishevelled, grass stains on his clothing, bumps, scrapes and bruises about his body and odd streaks across his face.

I presumed there was some rough and tumble at break times and thought nothing of it. He would have talked to me if there was a problem, wouldn’t he?

At the weekends he went off to play football with the other village boys, but one Saturday he came back after just an hour.

When I encouraged him to go again the next weekend, he said he had stuff to do at home.

The phone call came as a surprise.

“Mrs Honeyman? This is June Frenkel, headmistress of St Peter’s Primary School.”

I rushed down to school. Keiran was standing, stony faced, in her office. He refused to meet my eye.

“I’m afraid I have no alternative but to suspend him for a day,” Mrs Frenkel said. “It’s not the first time he’s been caught fighting, but this time we’ve had to send the other boy to hospital.”

I gasped. This was so unlike Keiran. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“There must be some explanation,” I declared.

“Well, if there is, Keiran isn’t explaining it.”

We left the room with me feeling as much in disgrace as Keiran. As I passed Mrs Frenkel in the doorway, she touched my arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I have my suspicions that this is not Keiran’s fault, but if he won’t talk to me there is nothing I can do.”

She gave a tight smile as I left and my body relaxed a little.

We got home but Keiran wouldn’t speak to me. He kept his head down.

“I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought I brought you up to know that fighting won’t win you battles.”

He said nothing.

It’s hard being a single mum. I couldn’t think of any particular punishment that might make Keiran rethink his behaviour, and I was inclined to believe Mrs Frenkel because this was unusual for him. Still, I sent him to his room.

I couldn’t stay cross for long. There was only the two of us and we depended on each other for company, especially since we were still new to the village. I tried to make his enforced day at home boring.

The next day, rather than wanting to go to school, Keiran appeared in the kitchen doubled over.

“I’ve got stomach ache,” he said.

I was dubious and wondered if it was connected to the fight.

“Breakfast?” I offered him muesli or toast, but he shook his head. “You must have a drink, stomach ache or not. Here, have some milk.”

I pushed a glass of milk across the table to him.

“I have work to do,” I told him. “I can’t keep you home. If you’re

The television interview was good publicity for my work

not well in school they’ll ring me and I’ll come and get you.”

I sent him off and waited for a phone call, but it didn’t come. This behaviour repeated itself for several weeks, with Keiran complaining of a stomach ache or a headache or earache in the mornings.

I took to drawing little pictures for him and slipping them in his pencil case so he had something cheerful to see when he opened it up at school. It made me feel less mean about sending him off when he obviously didn’t want to go.

The day I had to go to London for a television interview, Keiran was particularly reluctant to go to school.

“Can’t I come with you?” he said. “I want to see them making TV.”

“It’ll be boring. There’s a lot of sitting around before Amanda and I are interviewed. There won’t be any famous people there. You won’t be missing anything.”

He scowled and set off for school, dragging his feet along the path to our gate.

I got ready for the trip. I was the illustrator for a new children’s book.

It was a big commission for me, one I was very lucky to get, and the television interview was good publicity for my work.

The interview went well and I was home in time for Keiran when he got back from school.

“Can I stay up and watch it?” he asked that evening.

“Are you sure? It might be a bit boring.”

“I want to see you on telly!” He grinned.

So we made popcorn and sat on the sofa together. When it was finished Keiran turned to me.

“That was great. Are you really giving away the pictures?”

“No, not giving them away. They are the original drawings for the book. You know, the ones you saw in my studio.

“Our publisher has allowed them to be auctioned to raise money for stroke research. Hopefully we’ll make a lot of money.”

“Will we be rich?”

I ruffled his hair.

“No, not us. The money will go to a charity. But –” I drew the word out “– with any luck the interview might get me some more work. We’ll have to hope, eh? Now it’s time for bed.”

Keiran came home from school the next day surrounded by children. For a moment I went cold as I watched from the window. Were they picking on him?

As he turned from one to the other I realised they were all talking quite amicably and there didn’t seem to be a problem.

Keiran was grinning widely as he gave a wave and left them at the garden gate.

“What’s up?” I raised my eyebrows as he bumbled his way in the front door. He was breathless. “Everybody saw you on telly last night. They think your drawings are fab!”

He dropped his bag on the floor and bent over it, undoing the fastenings. As he stood up he had a crumpled envelope in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“A letter from Mrs Frenkel.”

My heart sank. “What have you done now?” I looked at him. He grinned.

“Not me. It’s about you. She wants you to come and talk at assembly about drawing and –”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” I interrupted. “I thought you were in trouble again, and you let me think that, didn’t you?”

Keiran laughed, knowing the game he’d been playing.

“Will you come, Mum? And talk to everyone?”

“Oh, Keiran. I don’t know. I’m an artist. I don’t usually give talks. The author did most of the interview on television. I just talked about the auction.”

It was Keiran’s turn to look disappointed.

“How about if I come and talk, not just about the book, but about how you can overcome difficulties?” I suggested.

Keiran turned slowly away from me.

“Keiran, tell me. Was the fight you got into about me?”

He swallowed and nodded.

“Was someone teasing you?”

“No, Mum. He was rude about you!” Keiran’s head jutted forward and his bottom lip wobbled. “He said you couldn’t do anything.”

“Ah,” I replied. “Couldn’t you just have talked to him? Did you have to fight?”

“He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t understand.” Tears glistened in his eyes.

I put my good arm around him and hugged.

“I see I’ll have to come and give a talk, then,” I told him.

“Great!” Keiran broke free of my embrace and punched the air. “But it’s OK now. No-one’s listening to him because they’ve seen you on the telly. They think you’re great.”

Keiran’s affirmation was kind, but it was still a scary thing for me to go and talk to the children.

I discussed it with Mrs Frenkel and she thought combining it with a chat about overcoming difficulties was a great idea.

So I wrote a draft speech and collected together some examples of my work. I tried it out on Keiran. “How does this sound?” He clapped and cheered. I didn’t think he was a particularly discerning audience.

“Do you think the children will understand?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied. On the day of the assembly we walked to school together. Keiran held his head up high and introduced me to his friends.

Most of the children said hello and asked if I’d brought some pictures.

It was a daunting prospect to get up on the little stage and see the mass of faces beneath me.

The children waited patiently as it took me a few minutes to climb the steps.

Keiran was in the front row, sitting cross-legged with a frown on his face as he watched me get comfortable.

The stroke I had a few years ago has left my left arm paralysed and the left side of my face wooden. It’s hard to lift my left leg, too.

Keiran’s shoulders relaxed as I got into place.

I opened up my paper, resting it on the lectern, and found attached to the top a little picture that Keiran had drawn, similar to the ones I had put in his pencil case.

My eyes welled up with tears and for a moment I couldn’t focus on the words on the page.

I hoped my talk would show the children that they could do anything they put their minds to, and that overcoming difficulties was part of the journey, but it needn’t put them off.

It was possible to achieve their dreams.

I held up a copy of one of my drawings that was to be auctioned.

Boys either side of Keiran nudged him and pointed and he beamed and nodded, happy to be the centre of attention.

It’s a relief Keiran has settled into school and has friends, but I’ll never stop worrying altogether.

Of course not. I’m a mother. n