The Mistake I Made by Paula Daly Page A

afternoon away from Spanish. Or the War of the Roses. I forget which was his least favourite at the time.
    ‘George is not ill, Mrs Toovey,’ Hilary Slater said.
    ‘He’s not? Oh, that’s a relief,’ I replied, laughing nervously.
    Silence.
    ‘Would it be possible for you to pop in around three-thirty for a meeting?’ she asked in a way that wasn’t really a question.
    I hesitated. ‘George is in after-school club today. I’m afraid I work until five. What is this about exactly?’
    Wayne was openly staring at me at this point and I tried to step away from the desk to prevent him from hearing. The phone cord, however, was too short and so I remained within earshot.
    ‘I’d rather speak to you in person,’ she said carefully.
    ‘I understand that, but …’ I paused. How to word this without sounding rude and dismissive? Not possible. ‘I don’t want to reschedule patients, Mrs Slater, unless absolutely necessary.’
    Wayne was making big swiping gestures. Tell her no , he mouthed. No Way.
    ‘I wouldn’t ask you to come in unless it was absolutely necessary.’ ‘Then perhaps you could stay a little late?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘We could do the meeting at say, five o’clock. I’m sure I could get away from here slightly early if—’
    She cut me off. ‘Not possible. Mrs Toovey. George has been stealing.’
    ‘He’s been what?’
    ‘Stealing.’
    ‘Stealing?’ I repeated back, blindsided, and Wayne stopped what he was doing and stared at me, all interested.
    ‘That’s right,’ she said.
    ‘I … I … assume you have proof?’ I stammered. ‘I assume you wouldn’t be throwing these allegations around unless you were absolutely sure, because if you were to—’
    ‘There is no doubt, Mrs Toovey.’
    ‘Shit,’ I whispered, and then quickly apologized.
    ‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Okay, I’ll be at the meeting.’
    Unless you plan meetings to coincide with the ferry crossing times it’s often hard to arrive at appointments bang on time. Unusually for me, in this instance, I was early. I stayed in the car outside school, electing to avoid the other mothers, since George would not be departing along with the rest of the children. In fact, he had not been allowed to rejoin any of the afternoon lessons with his classmates and had been working with a teaching assistant on his own in the school’s IT lab.
    I fiddled with the radio, trying to get a decent reception. Depending on your position, Hawkshead could receive sketchy transmission signals. Lightning, however, had no such trouble getting through and surge suppressors were essential if you wanted to protect your electrical items. I’d lost a freezer and two mobile phones since moving here.
    Eventually, I gave up and chose to sit in silence. I observed the women in the playground in groups of three or four, making light conversation, the gist of which was likely to be: No, I am undoubtedly the worst mother in the school because … None of it said in earnest, of course. None of it truthful. The men were spared this litany of self-deprecating nonsense; they were allowed to stand alone, unspeaking, radiating ambivalence. You go in acting like that as a woman, and it’s noted.
    When the playground had cleared I made my way inside. I had decided not to defend George. I would listen to what Hilary Slater had to say. Tell her I would deal with it accordingly. Do whatever was necessary to stop him doing it, and as quickly as possible.
    But when the secretary showed me into the head teacher’s office and I saw George sitting on a too-tall chair, his thin legs dangling, his head downcast, I was overcome.
    I rushed towards him. ‘George,’ I said, squatting beside his chair, ‘are you all right?’
    He nodded without looking up.
    Seconds later we were joined by Hilary Slater, George’s class teacher and the Year Six teacher, who wore a sickly, cloying scent which filled the room, making me queasy.
    ‘Mrs Toovey,’ began the head, ‘thanks