Mrs Partridge

Mrs Partridge gives me that look. The one that makes you feel like you’ve done something bad, even when you haven’t. She’s far too busy to deal with me, and tells me to take a few minutes to reflect on what I’ve done. She goes into her office, not quite closing the door, so she can keep an eye on me. I can keep an eye on her, too. She’s a funny kind of busy, just sitting there with her chin on her hands, staring at the wall.

A couple of seconds is all it takes to think about what I’ve done. I cut a chunk out of Vicki Ashton’s fringe when I was meant to be cutting out pictures for a life cycle diagram. I made a right mess. When Miss Taylor asked me why I did it, I said I was attention seeking. She didn’t know what to say, and her mouth just hung open while she thought about it. I couldn’t help it, I just started laughing. That helped her out a bit, because she could say
‘It’s no laughing matter, Bradley Walker.’ Then she sent me to Mrs Partridge. On the way out I told her she was a stupid cow. You should’ve seen the other kids’ faces.

Mrs Partridge is still busy looking at the wall, so I pass the time thinking about how crap my life is now, since my mum and dad got divorced. Considering the time they spent fighting over me, you’d think they’d be falling over themselves to be with me. But most of the time I spend sitting in my bedroom. Or should I say bedrooms. I’ve got two of everything, including a chip on each shoulder. I’m very well balanced. That’s Uncle Kevin Who’s Not Really My Uncle’s joke. He thinks it’s hilarious. I think he’s bloody hilarious. Not in a good way.

The divorce has had a detrimental effect on my behaviour. It’s done wonders for my vocabulary though. My new favourite word is ‘acrimonious’, which is probably quite an unusual word for a ten year old boy to know. But then I’m quite an unusual ten year old boy.

The bell goes for playtime and Miss Marsden comes past on her way to the photocopier.
‘Hello, Trouble’ she says, and she ruffles my hair. She’s the only person in the world I would let do that. She was my very first teacher, and she’s okay, although I’d never tell her that.

‘I’ve just caused some trouble, actually.’ I say. Then I tell her what I did. Miss Marsden’s not like a lot of teachers. She bites her bottom lip and her shoulders shake a bit, like she’s trying not to laugh. But she looks sort of sad at the same time. She has to go, but before she does she puts her hand on top of mine and gives it a bit of a squeeze. She’s all right, Miss Marsden. For a teacher.

Playtime finishes and Mrs Partridge still doesn’t deal with me, which is just fine by me, because I’m missing Circle Time, which is where Miss Taylor makes us all sit round and talk about feelings and stuff. My feelings are none of her business, stupid cow. Mrs Partridge is lining up her pens on her desk, making sure they’re dead straight and all exactly the same distance apart. Maybe this helps her concentrate while she thinks about what to do with me.

It’s not as easy as you might think. Normally, if you do something bad you go in The Book. If you go in The Book three times a letter goes home, and your parents come in. If you do something really terrible, like kill someone, all the Book stuff gets forgotten and you get to stay at home for a couple of days which, let’s face it, is no-one’s idea of a punishment.

Mrs Partridge has got two problems. For a start, if she puts me in The Book she knows I’ll tell Dad, and he’ll probably complain like last time. He made a right show of us, telling her she was victimizing me and she should be more sympathetic to my situation. The situation he caused, I thought, and I could tell she did too, but neither of us said anything. He said he’d write to the governors, and if he got no joy there he’d go to the local authority. He really had it in for her. Since then, she hasn’t put me in The Book. She’s just given me what she calls ‘a good talking to’ and sent me back to class.

This time, though, what I’ve done might be a bit too bad for that. I was lying before, about what I called Miss Taylor. I called her something much worse. I’m watching way too much telly in my bedrooms. So here’s the next problem. If I have to get sent home, which home does she send me to? It’s half past two on Friday afternoon. Changeover day. Dad’s meant to be picking me up from After School Club at six. Mrs Partridge knows he’ll go ballistic if she gets him out of work early, but if she phones my mum instead he’ll say she’s keeping him in the dark. And if he turns up and I’m not here there’ll be murder all round. I expect she wishes I’d just disappear. So do I, sometimes.

She stops arranging her pens and puts her head in her hands, like she’s trying to pull her hair out. She rocks backwards and forwards a bit in her chair. I know I’m a pain, but I didn’t think I was that bad.

I move my chair a bit, so my feet can touch the wall opposite, and I start kicking it. The secretary looks up from her computer and tells me to stop in a dead snotty voice. Then she tells me to stop chewing. I offer to stop breathing as well. She sighs and shakes her head. I start picking my nose and eating it. She pretends not to notice.

The way things are going, it’ll be time for my dad to collect me before Mrs Partridge has even got round to doing anything with me. I hate weekends. Every Friday night’s the same. Dad takes me for a pizza and asks me loads of questions about Uncle Kevin, like he’s collecting evidence. Does he stay the night, all that kind of stuff. He thinks I don’t know what he’s up to.

Mum’s just as bad. Every Sunday night when I get back she sits outside the bathroom door while I’m having my bath and makes me go through the weekend, minute by minute. She’s dead easy to wind up. This one time I told her Dad had a new girlfriend who was really young and wore a bikini to work. I said I didn’t know what her job was, but she was very good at gymnastics and she earned loads of money. Obviously, it was a complete lie. As if someone like that would go out with Dad.

Mrs Partridge is looking at the photograph frames on her desk now, lining them up so they’re level with her pens. Bloody control freak. I’ve been in her office that many times I know what they are without being able to see them. One’s a school photograph of her little girl, who looks about five, and one’s of her boy, who’s about my age. The one in the middle is all of them together – Mrs Partridge, her husband and the two kids, all with their arms wrapped round one another, grinning away like they’re in some kind of smiling competition.

I saw the kids in real life once. They came to the Summer Fayre, which was on a Friday, after school. They go to one of those posh schools that you have to pay for. They were in their uniforms. The girl had this stupid hat on, and the boy had a blazer and his tie done up properly, even though it was roasting hot. The pair of them went round staring and pointing as though they were in the zoo. They wouldn’t join in with anything, though, like they were scared to touch anything in case they caught common people’s germs.

The funny thing is, and not many people know this, Mrs Partridge isn’t really posh at all. She used to be called Angela Johnson and she was in the same class as my mum’s friend Dawn. Dawn said she lived on the Foxmeadow Estate, which is about as rough a place as you can get. Her dad and her brothers were always in and out of prison. And she’s got the cheek to put on that fake voice and act like she’s better than everyone else. I’m keeping what I know to myself, like a secret weapon.

While I’m watching, Mrs Partridge does something a bit mad. She takes the middle photo, the grinning family one, and puts it in her desk drawer. She slams the drawer shut, then a few seconds later she opens it again, takes the photo out, and dumps it in the bin by her chair. Weird, or what? She gets a tissue from the box and blows her nose so hard I can hear her from where I’m sitting. Gross.

Suddenly, she swivels round in her chair and our eyes meet through the crack in the door. I look up at the ceiling and start whistling. She’s just about to stand up when her phone rings. Not the one on her desk; her mobile, which is in her jacket pocket. She presses it to her ear, and goes to stand looking out of the window, with her back to me.

Now, I’ve got very good listening skills when I want to have, and I reckon this might be a chance to learn something interesting. At first though, I think I’m going to be disappointed, because she doesn’t say anything. Whoever’s calling her must be shouting, because she holds the phone away from her ear. A long time goes by and when she speaks she sounds more like Angela Johnson than Mrs Partridge. She tells whoever it is that they made their bed when they chose that bitch over her. Then she calls someone, presumably that bitch, a name even worse than what I called Miss Taylor. I’m guessing she’s not talking to the Chair of Governors.

Mrs Partridge goes quiet, then she tells the other person not to be there when she gets home. She listens a bit more, and when she speaks again her voice is a bit softer, and sadder, not so angry. She tells the shouty person she won’t stop them seeing the children. She puts her phone back in her pocket and goes back to her chair. I watch her put her hands over her face, and I can tell she’s crying, because her whole body is shaking.

For one tiny little moment I feel sorry for her. I want to do something nice. I want to go in there, put my hand on her arm, and tell her everything will be all right. But I can’t do that, can I? Because for one thing, I’m not meant to be listening, and for another I know as well as she does that it won’t be all right at all. So when she blows her nose again, comes to the door and says
‘Right, Bradley Walker, I’m ready for you now.’ I put on my best ‘couldn’t give a you know what’ face, shove my hands in my pockets and swagger into her office, ready to give her a hard time.