It Could Never Happen Here, page 13
‘Two teas please, Mr Cafferty,’ she said instead. ‘One with lots of milk, one with a dash.’
‘If your mid-term plans fall through you know where we’ll be,’ said Lorna, giving the sixth-class teacher a meaningful look. ‘And you’ll throw me into the mix for those weekly progress reports, right? Beverley spoke very highly of the one you did on Amelia. Whatever you’re doing for her would be perfect.’
The teacher nodded, and the woman moved on.
‘Don’t give them anything.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t tell them a thing about yourself,’ she elaborated, as Mr Cafferty glanced at his phone then stuffed it back into his pocket. He took a tea from Mrs Walsh and passed it forward.
‘Oh, it’s fine, I don’t mind,’ he said.
‘There’ll be a pool going on your first offspring’s date of birth by the end of this evening. And the most popular Google search in Cooney tonight will be Jess Cafferty wedding planner.’
His face twitched. ‘We kept our own names.’
‘Well, lucky for you,’ said Christine, leaning forward to take the second cup that the teacher seemed to forget he was holding. ‘And for her.’
The reverberating echo of a throat being cleared brought Christine’s attention to the stage. Nuala Patterson was standing in front of a lectern embossed with the school crest. Balancing the two cups, Christine worked her way back across the hall.
There were three chairs set up on the stage. The principal had vacated one, while another was occupied by a young guard, presumably from Aberstown Station. (Cooney did not have its own police station. While this could easily have become a petition issue, residents embraced it as proof of Cooney’s low crime rate.) The third chair was filled by Dr Cian O’Sullivan, a child psychologist from north Cork. The Southern Gazette had run several articles on him. He was also a second cousin of Nuala Patterson.
She slipped into the chair beside Conor and handed him his tea-y milk.
Principal Patterson welcomed them all and set out the evening’s running order. She looked tired, but then maybe Christine was projecting. She’d heard rumours Leo Patterson and his dad weren’t coming back. She couldn’t imagine the strain something like that must place on a family.
The principal listed Dr O’Sullivan’s many accolades – though only his local address got a round of applause – and said he would be talking about the parents’ role in keeping their children safe online. He had agreed to do two workshops as part of the Relationship and Sexualities Programme with the sixth-class students, this coming Thursday and Friday, and would explain what they entailed. A few rows in front, Lorna Farrell blessed herself at the word ‘sexualities’.
The guard would talk to them about the legalities of uploading and sharing images online. And finally – you could hear the defeat in the principal’s voice already – there would be time for questions. Glass Lake parents never waited until the end to ask questions.
She did not recognise the guard and so suspected it was the same one who’d found Porcupine’s abduction so hilarious. They’d told the children the truth now. Or the half-truth, in Maeve’s case; Porcupine was on his holidays at Mrs Rodgers. Conor wanted to leave the cat – he still wasn’t the better of being gaslit by a woman twice his age. But Christine wasn’t giving up. She had a plan – working title: Operation Liberation – and currently had all three kids marking down Mrs Rodgers’ movements in a notebook she’d left on the windowsill in the front room.
Principal Patterson retook her seat and Dr O’Sullivan approached the podium. He rested a few pages on the lectern and pushed his thin spectacles down his nose so his brown eyes were smiling over them. ‘Everyone sitting comfortably enough to talk about sex?’
A nervous energy sparked through the auditorium as parents shifted in their seats. Lorna folded her arms as if to say, ‘That sex talk’s not getting in here.’
Christine wrote down the doctor’s opening gambit, even though it would never make it into print. Derek talked a good talk, but they all knew the typical Southern Gazette reader was over seventy, politically conservative and mainly bought the paper for photos of their grandkids and death notices of their friends. The only time they were sitting comfortably enough to read the word ‘sex’, never mind talk about it, was in a highly serious context, preferably criminal.
The doctor talked about how technology and discussing sexual health had the potential to make us feel foolish. This got a low rumble of recognition, including from Conor, while others, such as Lorna Farrell, remained stony-faced.
‘But your children are technology natives,’ he said. ‘So, let’s gather up those awkward emotions and place them, at least for now, under our chairs.’
Across the room, a man mimed putting something under his seat. His wife yanked him back up.
Slides flashed up on the whiteboard and Dr O’Sullivan talked through them: sexting; inappropriate social media pages; explicit chatrooms; mislabelled videos; grooming; exposure to pornography, both accidental and intentional. Lorna’s hand was flying up to her forehead with such regularity now that she should have just left it there. Her husband Bill cleared his throat loudly.
The doctor focused on sexting. He explained that some young people saw it as part of relationships or friendships. Others were mimicking what they’d seen in porn.
A dry cough spread through the hall.
A graph explained that five per cent of children had sent a sexually explicit image by the time they’ve finished primary school. ‘If your child has engaged in sexting, process the information carefully,’ he said, as a slide titled ‘How Parents Should Respond’ flashed up. ‘Remember: they will be aware of your reactions.’
The Farrells were no longer the only people squirming. The collective murmur was now colliding with a faint titter and the sound rippled through the hall. Christine took down some of the bullet points as the doctor worked his way through them. These were more palatable and should work for one of Derek’s beloved lists.
‘I’m sorry,’ came a voice from the back of the hall. A woman in a wine-coloured fur coat rose from her seat. She neither looked nor sounded particularly sorry. ‘Can you stop, please? We’re talking about children here, not teenagers. They’re eleven and twelve. This isn’t relevant. And, frankly, I don’t think it’s appropriate.’
A hubbub of agreement went up around the woman and she folded her arms defiantly.
Dr O’Sullivan leaned into the microphone. ‘While sexting is concerning amongst primary school children, it’s not uncommon. Remember five per cent have sent an explicit photo by the time they leave. That’s one in twenty of your children.’
The woman’s response was lost in a general swell of discontent. Bill Farrell was on his feet now.
‘That’s a country average,’ he shouted up at the stage, chest puffed out. ‘We’re talking about Glass Lake.’
A sea of heads bobbed in agreement. Dr O’Sullivan frowned. He didn’t understand the distinction. Which showed that while he was from near Cooney, he wasn’t from Cooney.
‘Isn’t this the school’s responsibility?’ said a man near the front. ‘Teachers are meant to teach. They just need to tell the students what is acceptable behaviour and what is not. That’s it. We don’t need to start talking to them about grooming, for Christ’s sake!’
This got a small smattering of applause.
‘I’m not suggesting I talk to the children about grooming. These slides are for the adults—’
But Fiona Murphy was on her feet now. ‘It’s not up to teachers to control what our children do online,’ she said to the father near the front. ‘Parents need to check their kids’ phones. It’s up to us to make sure they’re not doing anything they’re not supposed to. Right, Doc?’
‘I’m not sure checking their phones is the best idea,’ said someone else. ‘It’s better to talk to them. It builds trust.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the not-sorry woman at the back, ‘but we’re here because of one incident. One boy and one girl sending each other pictures. At least, that’s what the Southern Gazette said.’
Christine slouched in her seat.
Dr O’Sullivan looked to Principal Patterson, who nodded. The woman looked exhausted. And Christine was sure she wasn’t projecting this time.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘Right,’ echoed the woman. ‘So why can’t the school just talk to those parents, of the two perpetrators, and stop tarring everyone else’s kids with the same nasty brush? It’s ridiculous that we all have to come here for a telling-off. This has nothing to do with my daughter. She knows not to send naked pictures of herself. We raised her better than that.’
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How dare Imelda Dargle call Beverley Franklin a bad parent? It didn’t matter that Imelda – who was still wearing her coat even though the auditorium was warm, and it was hideous – didn’t know she was talking about Amelia. She was implying the parents of both children involved had done a bad job. And after Beverley had cast Imelda’s daughter as the Good Witch of the North. She made a mental note to cut some of her lines.
The so-called doctor was talking again now. More blame, no doubt, all directed at Beverley. Was he a real doctor, or just one of those people who’d spent too long at university? He had the air of the latter.
She could almost laugh at the irony of this man telling them not to judge or blame their children, while he was standing up there, judging and blaming her. His ‘How Parents Should Respond’ guide could have been re-titled ‘How Beverley Got It Wrong’.
What should she have done, in the heat of the moment, when she walked into her baby’s room to be confronted by … that? Told Amelia to carry on? Offered to hold the phone for her? Suggested she try the bathroom, for better light?
Across the room, Christine Maguire was scribbling into a notebook. She must be reporting on this, too. What had the woman been thinking, talking to her on the way in? She might as well have got up on stage and pointed to Beverley: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my anonymous source!’
She did agree with Imelda on one point, though. It was ridiculous that they were having a public conversation. This could have been solved with a swift expulsion. Nobody was going to lobby to get Woody Whitehead back into the school. She’d spotted Connie Whitehead on her way in, seated in the back row – a sure sign that she didn’t give a fiddler’s about what was happening on stage.
The so-called doctor was now explaining how aside from sexting (who knew the man could talk about anything else?) he’d be giving the children the ‘tools’ they needed to stay safe online. Were the Lakers paying for this guff? Nuala Patterson was remarkably good at wasting other people’s money.
‘Shouldn’t we name the children involved, so as to stop suspicion falling on the innocent kids?’ said a voice from the front. ‘Or at least name the male student. It’s always the boys who start it.’
Beverley gave this a loud round of applause. Finally, someone was speaking sense.
‘Spoken like the mother of a girl,’ retorted someone else, to another smattering of applause.
‘Hi, mother of a boy here,’ came a familiar voice from the back of the hall. ‘I’d be happy to hand over my son’s mobile, should the school decide it does want to monitor phone use.’
‘Well, we’re not handing over our son’s property to anyone!’ retorted a father in Beverley’s row.
‘I’m just saying my son has nothing to hide.’
‘I don’t know who you are, lady, but that’s not how it works here.’
‘Sorry,’ said the woman, whose voice Beverley recognised but couldn’t place. ‘I should have introduced myself. I’m new here. My name is Tamara Watson.’
Beverley froze.
It couldn’t be. Surely.
She turned in her chair, eyes travelling up the aisle until they hit on the woman sitting at the edge of the second-last row, legs sticking out to the side, crossed and swinging.
Tamara Watson. In the flesh.
She looked exactly as she had when Beverley last saw her six months ago. She hadn’t seen Tamara since she left Southern Pharmaceuticals, which was also the last time she’d felt this humiliated. And that time, it had all been Tamara’s fault.
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Nuala Patterson tried to muster up the vigour required to keep the Glass Lake parents in line. The young Garda Delaney had an odour of deep-fried chips. Leo had smelled like that sometimes, when he refused to change out of his football gear. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it. She took her time crossing the stage to the podium, breathing it in deeply. But guilt-free thoughts of her son were impossible now, and before she had exhaled poor Mike Roche was also in her mind. A lot of people in Cooney had spent more time mourning Mike Senior moving away than they had Mike Junior dying. Even Nuala felt she didn’t give the late teenager the reflection he deserved.
‘You try taking my son’s property off him and I will have you charged with theft so fast you won’t have time to open the photo gallery,’ one of the school’s older parents was saying to the new woman. ‘You can’t tar all boys with the same brush. Our son knows right from wrong.’
‘I’m really not suggesting we check anyone’s phones,’ said the doctor, though nobody was listening to him any more.
‘Our boy has never done anything like sexting,’ the father continued, his bald head growing red and shiny.
‘That you know of,’ said Fiona Murphy, who was seated between Butcher and the new woman, Tamara. ‘Kids are very good at hiding stuff.’
‘We check his phone regularly,’ shouted the father, jabbing his finger in Fiona’s direction. ‘Check his messages, check his Facebook. That’s how I know my son’s not up to anything.’
‘Kids don’t actually use Facebook, John. Maybe that’s why you’re not finding anything.’
‘Also, children can have two accounts on any given social media platform,’ came the voice of Claire Keating. ‘One for their friends to see, and one for their parents.’
‘I’m guessing you’ve never heard of Finstagram, John?’ said Fiona. ‘Fake Instagram. No? It’s the cover account; the one they want adults to see. John Junior probably has about six of them.’
‘I know exactly what my son has and exactly what he’s up to. He’s not even that interested in computers.’
Fiona made a half-arsed attempt at coughing. ‘Okay, Boomer.’
The father’s chair scraped against the floor as his wife’s (much younger) hand flew up from the chair beside him and held him in place.
Butcher Murphy was also on his feet now, ready to defend his former spouse.
‘He finds the internet distracting,’ retorted the father.
‘Get away out of that!’ scoffed Fiona. ‘I gave John Junior a lift home from summer camp this year, and the boy barely registered the car had windows.’ Fiona mimed some sort of ape pushing buttons with his thumbs.
‘How dare you!’
‘He thought I Spy was a new Apple tablet!’
‘You take that back,’ the man shouted, fighting to break free of his wife’s grip as Butcher pushed his way out into the aisle.
‘Just try it, Slaphead!’
Nuala stepped in beside Dr O’Sullivan, who readily backed away from the podium. In the middle of the stage, Garda Delaney was looking worried. One didn’t expect a parents’ night to require riot gear.
Nuala pulled the mic towards her.
‘Okay,’ she said, as Butcher Murphy pretended to play bongo drums, ‘let’s take a break.’
18
••••••
Beverley moved both ham sandwiches to her left hand and reached out to the passing platter with her right to take a slice of fruit cake. The teenager carrying the tray was Arlo Whitehead. Did he now do everything around here? Would he be teaching Amelia’s class next?
‘The language the doctor used,’ Lorna Farrell was saying, as she held a teacup in one hand and a saucer in the other. ‘You wouldn’t get it in a brothel. And I didn’t care for his tone one bit. He’s talking like the students are a bunch of criminals.’
‘Taking or sending an explicit photo of a minor is a criminal offence,’ said Beth Morton, who was also standing in their circle. ‘We deal with this kind of thing regularly at secondary school.’
‘But they’re taking the photos of themselves,’ said Lorna.
‘If they’re taking photos at all,’ clarified Bill.
Sandwiches consumed, Beverley stuffed the fruit cake into her mouth. But the unsettled feeling in her stomach refused to be buried. She surveyed the room, turning her head as far as it would go without making it obvious she was looking for someone.
‘It’s still technically illegal, even if the images are of themselves,’ said Beth.
‘Well, I doubt that’s true,’ scoffed Bill, taking a bite of his own fruit cake.
Beverley had lost sight of Tamara Watson when everyone got up from their seats. She wouldn’t fully believe the woman was here until she was standing in front of her. What would Tamara be doing in Cooney? And at a Glass Lake parents’ night? Did she know someone else in this town? She had been sitting beside Fiona. Was that why Fiona was acting so smug lately? Did they know each other? Had Tamara told her what happened at Southern Pharmaceuticals?
The Whitehead boy passed them again, and she grabbed another sandwich, taking the opportunity to glance swiftly over her left shoulder.
Lorna caught her eye and smiled conspiratorially: ‘Someday you’ll have to tell me where you put it all.’
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Arlo tried to wipe his forehead with the cuff of his shirt, whilst still balancing the two trays. Seamus had asked him to help with parking. Before and after the event. During it, he was supposed to be free. If he’d known he’d have to get up close with the parents, he’d have declined the job. He’d been sitting outside, alternating between trying to get the baton to work and rereading his dad’s letter, when some woman had shouted at him to come inside and make himself useful. The torch from his phone must have given him away, not that he needed it. He didn’t even need the letter any more. It was short, eight lines in all, and he knew it by heart. Charlie Whitehead wanted him to visit.
