Read A Small Boy's Cry for Free Online Page B

point in rushing. No point plunging into something only to find out it was the wrong thing – that would only stress him out more.
    So we needed to be patient – though right now I had other things to think about anyway. Having my final cup of coffee, throwing something for dinner into the slow cooker and making sure the house looked the way I wanted it to look when I returned home at the end of the day.
    Well, hopefully, anyway. I gave my work shoes a quick polish before slipping them on my feet and grimacing at my reflection in the hall mirror. That was the one major downside of doing what I did – that I had to get so trussed up to do it. Smart black skirt and jacket, black tights, shiny shoes. And a crisp stripy blouse – it was all so not me! I’ve always been much more of a jogging bottoms and T-shirt type, more a ‘bundle my unruly hair any-which-way into a ponytail’ sort of woman than one who enjoys spending hours in front of a mirror blow-drying it and having to wear make-up all day.
    But there was no choice, not if I wanted to be seen as a professional. Part of my job involved meetings with fellow professionals – head teachers, social workers, educational welfare staff, educational psychologists – so I had learned quickly what the sartorial rules were. I needed to dress to impress if I was going to by taken seriously – an uncomfortable sacrifice for someone like me. I’d rather spend time with a hundred unruly teenagers than be sat around a conference table with adults of that calibre – intimidating was what it was, even if necessary.
    As ever, however, all thoughts of anything other than the job in hand left my mind as soon as I walked through the school gates, and I was greeted by the usual cacophony of shrieks and yells that were synonymous with every Monday morning.
    â€˜Morning, Miss – did you have a nice weekend?’
    â€˜Miss! Brandon Smith’s been telling lies about me!’
    â€˜Mrs Watson, can I come to you instead of doing PE today?’
    Smiling at the little crowd that threatened to engulf me, I pointed at the oversized hall clock. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later,’ I reassured the group around me. ‘And yes, I did have a nice weekend, thank you, but right now it’s time you all got off to registration.’ I grinned at them. ‘And guess what I need?’
    â€˜Coffee!’ came the chorus, as the kids began dispersing. ‘Coffee, Miss, you’re off to get your coffee!’
    They weren’t wrong. My love of coffee was almost as well known about me as my love of creating order out of chaos. Not that the staffroom was chaos, exactly, but neither was it a shrine to housewifery. I knew I was regularly the subject of whispers and odd looks as I stood by the drinks-making area in the corner, furiously wiping spills and polishing teaspoons. I’d often wait behind, too, after the bell had gone for classes, plumping cushions and straightening papers and journals. No one ever mentioned it – well, not to me, not yet, at any rate, but I was pretty certain they knew it was me.
    There was the usual air of sudden evacuation in the room as I entered, as the assembled teachers – often 25 or so at this time of day – headed to their classes to deal with registration. I, on the other hand, still had half an hour to kill, as the students currently with me would not come to my classroom till after that was over, at around 9.30. I made my coffee, trying to resist the urge to do the washing-up as well. Which was ridiculous; there was a lady whose job it was to come in and do that during lesson time, but it was a challenge for me not to beat her to it.
    Still, I resisted. I had plenty to be doing anyway. There were the lesson plans for each child in my unit to be finalised – currently five – plus some writing-up of stuff from the previous day. I did a daily ‘life