Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret.

Apparently not. ‘Well, I’ll just come right out and say it,’ she continued. ‘David and I have decided we’re going to move in together. Just as soon as we’ve found a nice flat.’

I stared open-mouthed at my pretty, young daughter. And then at Mike, just to check he was as horrified as me.

Strangely, he didn’t seem to be. And Riley looked positively indignant at my expression. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you look so surprised? We’ve been together ages! I’d have thought you’d have been happy for me.’

‘Love, you’re too young for such a big thing!’ I said, gathering my wits and shooting Mike a call for support with my eyes. ‘What’s the rush anyway?’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m not too young at all,’ Riley said dismissively. ‘You just want to keep us like flipping babies! I’m a grown woman,’ she added. ‘And I’ve made my decision. In fact, while you were away, me and David have been flat-hunting.’

Ah, it was all making sense now. No wonder she was so keen to pack us off to Wales, I thought dejectedly. I stood up, struggling to keep a rein on my temper. Inexplicably, I also seemed to be on the verge of angry tears. ‘Oh, is that so?’ I snapped at her, banging my chair back into place, while Mike looked on, his expression apparently stunned. ‘Well, you can tell David that the plans have changed. It’s ridiculous, Riley. You’re both far too young to be thinking about that sort of thing right now. And the last thing you should be doing is wasting money on rent. You should be saving your money so you’ll have something for a deposit, when you can afford to buy somewhere.’

Like a house. Down the line. A good way down the line, too. Far enough down the line that I didn’t have the spectre of my little girl leaving home – leaving me – on the horizon. Because that was what it was really all about.

But it seemed it was going to happen, even so. For the first time in her life, my daughter took me on and went against me, insisting that, no matter what I said, she was moving out and there was nothing that her dad and I could say to change her mind. Not that Mike was saying anything, it had to be said. Not a peep.

Boxes suddenly started appearing on the landing, packed with things from her bedroom, almost taunting me, daring me to try to stop her, and relations between us were frosty, to say the least. Poor Kieron and Mike avoided both of us whenever we were in the house together, both hating the tension and the inevitable confrontations.

I behaved ridiculously, looking back – being both petulant and petty, grabbing things she’d packed and pointing out they weren’t hers to take with her, even going so far one day as to remind her that this was real life; that if she was leaving, then she’d have to find the money to buy home comforts of her own.

Cover myself in glory, I did not. It was almost a kind of madness. So much so that one day, just a week back, she’d collared me in the kitchen, grabbed my hands and said, ‘Mum, can’t you just be happy for me?’

It was at that point that I realised what I’d so far not seen. That it was me being the child here – a child who was simply afraid. Not for my daughter – she and David were clearly very much in love, and David was a hard worker who would always provide for her. No, I was afraid for myself. Maybe of acknowledging that I was getting older, maybe of the terror of empty nest syndrome. Either way, the realisation hit me like a brick when it did arrive. It was enough to end hostilities and was the first in a long line of lessons to come – reminders that the balance had shifted, and would keep doing so; that there were things my daughter could teach me. My adult daughter.

Which was not to say everything was immediately hunky dory. It was still difficult for me to let go, hard not to welly in. They duly found a flat to rent (only a few minutes from home, which cheered me up no end) and every night after work the pair of them would be round there, cleaning and painting. But now I’d come round to it, I still couldn’t let them alone. Hence this morning’s terse exchange, following my suggestion the previous evening that when I’d finished school for the day I could pop round and do the bathroom with my bleach spray and marigolds, the subtext of course being – and it wasn’t conscious, honestly – that they wouldn’t do it quite as well themselves.

And so came the text: Spoke to David and we’d rather sort the flat out ourselves Mum, so please don’t go round there, we’ll take you to see it when we’re done.

And so off went my text, which was supposed to be light-hearted, but clearly wasn’t: Fine, if that’s what you want, but don’t blame me if you both come down with something with all those germs!

And so to Riley’s riposte. A clearly heartfelt ‘whateva!’

I now texted back a ‘love you too’. On balance, it was helpful to be back in school again, whatever was – ahem – thrown at me, and as I closed my phone I reflected that having other things on my mind that I could hopefully do something to change, I would be much less preoccupied with things I could – and should – do nothing about. Like the fact that my daughter was grown and had a right to her own life. That where she led, Kieron would surely follow. No, I thought, pushing up the sleeves of the elderly cardigan, it was better to be here and be focused once again – on the poor kids who, in way too many cases I’d seen here, didn’t have the luxury of such trivial non-problems.

And not just the kids. The door flew open just as I was reaching for my staple remover. It was Gary, with a single word: ‘Help!’

I’d been quick to do just that while we were still in the meeting room, obviously, going as far as to suggest I grab the key to the lost property cupboard, just in case there was anything in there that would fit him, while someone – me, for preference – rinsed his trousers.

He’d declined, but, looking at him now, it seemed he was having something of a rethink. ‘Given the colour of them, I thought they’d dry without staining,’ he explained, gesturing towards the dark bloom that now spread even further than I remembered. ‘But when you look at this bit’ – he then gestured to a separate patch that had already dried – ‘I figured I was just going to end up with a big, obvious ring, so I doused them with water, as you can see –’

I nodded. ‘I sure can.’

‘And then tried to use the hand-dryer in the gents’ toilets – which was worse than useless – and then I remembered.’ He crossed his fingers. ‘Do you still have your hairdryer by any chance?’

In other circumstances I’d be hooting with laughter at the state of him, but not today. ‘I am so sorry, Gary,’ I told him, for the umpteenth time. ‘Really. Look at you. Such a clumsy thing for me to do – I’ve had a crappy morning, and my nerves must have been on edge. And then that bloody ringtone …’

‘On edge?’ Gary said with feeling. ‘Trust me, you and me both!’

‘You too?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Nerves-wise, absolutely.’

‘Why? What’s up?’ I asked, concerned at his suddenly vexed expression.

‘How long have you got?’ he said. ‘No, no. Bell’s going to go at any moment. Hairdryer first, explanations after.’

I did indeed have my hairdryer; in fact, I had what was called my ‘beauty cabinet’ – in reality a large plastic crate stashed on a shelf under my desk, which housed all manner of girly indispensables. It had grown almost organically; I had so many girls come to the Unit who’d not even had the time to run a brush through their hair in the morning that I had built up a supply of essentials. It was also a valuable icebreaker.

But right now, it had a different sort of job to attend to. Plugging it in, I gave it a blast in Gary’s general direction. ‘All sounds very mysterious,’ I said. ‘Spill, or the crotch gets it!’

Needless to say, he took it from me and attended to his wet patch, and so it was that the tableau presented moments later was of me looking on, grinning, while Mr Clark, his back to the door, was busy blasting his lower torso with hot air. At least, that was how Tommy Robinson found us.

I heard him before I saw him, even over the blast of my high-wattage hairdryer. Owner of an unmistakable Cockney accent – unmistakable in our school, anyway – Tommy was a year 9 pupil who’d been with me the previous term. A pupil I had a great deal of affection for.

‘Well, I ain’t gonna keep this quiet,’ he said, a smile widening on his astonished face. ‘This looks well sus, this does. Miss, what’s going on?’

There was no doubt about it; the sight of the school’s child protection officer blow-drying the band of his underpants – as he was by now – wasn’t one you saw every day. Gary took it as only he could, grinning ruefully at Tommy as he switched off the hairdryer, before touching his nose. ‘I’m saying nothing, kiddo,’ he told Tommy, ‘except do not get on the wrong side of Mrs Watson while holding a cup of tea, okay? Lethal, she is!’

Tommy nodded, grinning toothily, and I’m sure he believed it too. Which didn’t mean it wouldn’t be all round the school by the end of the morning.

Well, so be it. Nothing to be done. ‘Hi, Tommy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘Cushty, Miss,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d bob in and say hello, like, as I was passing. Though I can’t stop,’ he added. ‘Bell’s about to ring.’

‘Indeed it is, Tommy,’ Gary said, picking up the papers he’d been carrying. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

I smiled. No doubt to impress upon him the wisdom of keeping his intelligence to himself.

‘Hang on!’ I called as he went to follow Tommy through the door. ‘You haven’t told me yet. Why is today such a bad day to get tea on your pants?’

Gary smiled. ‘That will have to wait now, oh, impatient one. Though, seriously,’ he added, ‘I really would value your input. Tell you what, my office for lunch? Then I’ll tell you all about it. It’s juicy gossip, so make sure you bring biscuits!’

With that he rushed off, to avoid the inevitable gridlock on the corridors, leaving me open-mouthed and wondering what on earth he was going on about, my domestic worries happily now forgotten.

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