''The Pervert''

‘Have a nice weekend, John. Do try not to get knocked down again, won’t you.’ No recognition that I’ve even said anything. He and the other boys inevitably cross the road without a single stop-look-listen between them.

Most of the pupils have gone now, home for two days of fast food and television whether they like it or not. Friday afternoon is always welcome. I really love my job and all, but children can be even more tiring than real people and it starts to get you down after a while. I’m especially glad this week is over, because it’s been my turn at Playground Duty. Directing students to the office telephone when their parents don’t come to collect them – drunk, I always suspect - isn’t a very fulfilling experience.

Here comes Mr Jones, flask of smoking coffee in hand. The man simply refuses to venture out in the cold without some overheated beverage. He’s been minding the far entrance and still ought to be. There are reasonably decipherable rotas about this sort of thing, though Mr Jones has never shown other people’s hard paperwork any respect. Usually he’ll retire to his office after five minutes of Playground Duty, making only cursory glances out of the window to ensure none of the fights turn bloody. Now he’s at my assigned lookout post, because obviously the little woman isn’t capable of watching a gate unaided.

‘Want a sip of coffee?’ he asks, proffering what is for all intents and purposes a vat of exhaust fumes.

‘No thanks. How hot is that stuff?’ One must be courteous to one’s colleagues.

‘Very. I ordered a special flask for it.’

‘I see. What’s so special about it?’

‘I don’t know. It didn’t come.’

‘Oh, so it’s not that flask?’

‘Don’t be silly, this is just an ordinary flask.’ A momentary silence. ‘Sorry if I didn’t make myself clear.’ He looks genuinely sorrowful for an instant.

A crow wrestles an empty milk carton on the tennis court. This place is full of birds picking at refuse. I even hear there are rats at night, though now I think about it that was from Benjamin Tyler, hardly the most reliable of sources. Yes, Tarbrook is a dump.

‘These poor kids come from such awful homes,’ intones Mr Jones at the sight of Paddy Longshaw and his father having a tearful reconciliation at the gates, social worker present. ‘Really messes some of them up.’

‘Maybe it’s here we mess them up,’ I opine. We had a boy who killed himself last year. Naturally everyone was shocked. The Head had given him a break-time detention for his untucked shirt, so Kyle went home and slit his wrists open like fresh oysters to ‘’make you all wish you’d treated me better’’. When the local newspaper suggested Tarbrook was packed with potential suicides, the Head had issued a statement to the effect that life is hard and children are better off getting used to it at a young age. I can’t help thinking that we were too busy teaching Kyle the harshness of life to ever show him the beauty of it.

Mr Jones isn’t listening anymore, bless him. Instead he’s waving inanely at some distant figure. And now I hear it: ‘Yoho, Mr Jones, yoho!’ It’s Mrs Snipe, doing her award-winning impression of an air raid siren.

Lily Snipe is a parent we dread. She chats with school staff whenever possible, be they a respected governor or a spat-upon cleaner, but alas I’m her personal favourite, having already narrowly evaded her twice this week. Only the quick witted avoid regular reports on dear little Jack’s numerous uncertified health problems – ‘I’d take him to a doctor but it upsets him so’ – the truth being her son lives in constant fear a medical professional might one day expose him. If allowed to continue at current rates, Jack will make a damn good try at feigning illness every Monday morning for the remainder of his school career. Mother and son are looming towards us now, a nightmarish mirage in the desert of the playground.

‘Make it look like we’re talking!’ I instruct Mr Jones, so keen am I to not have my Lily-less run of good luck spoilt.

‘We are talking.’

‘No, make it look like we’re deep in conversation. Good friends who don’t want to be interrupted.’

‘I thought we were good friends who don’t want to be interrupted.’

‘Yoho, Mr Jones, yoho!’ again, this being Lily Snipe’s favoured greeting, for reasons known only to her. With a ruddy countenance and triple chin she can’t afford to be anything but relentlessly cheerful.

‘Hello Mrs Snipe!,’ Mr Jones bellows back. She has taken root within comfortable shouting proximity, Jack’s hand clasped in hers. To my knowledge a conversation with Lily Snipe has never registered less than ninety decibels.

‘Hello,’ I say, at such a public-spirited volume that I doubt she even hears.

‘I just wanted to personally give you the note for the trip next week,’ she explains to Mr Jones, ‘because Jack isn’t good with notes!’ She waddles closer for this purpose, inclines her head to grin at me during the changeover, and said sheaf of paper ends its days in a muddy puddle.

‘Oh sorry, Mr Jones!’

‘No matter, Mrs Snipe.’ Mr Jones solemnly bends to fish out the note, then rethinks. ‘If you could just sign a piece of paper saying we have your permission to take Jack on the trip...’

‘Okay! It will do him the world of good!’

‘Are you looking forward to the visit, Jack?’

‘He’s been talking of little else this past fortnight!,’ Mrs Snipe yells convivially on her spawn’s behalf. ‘Anyway, we must dash! Friday night is our family night!’ That’s the twenty-first century: loving family interactions scheduled in advance. ‘We play board games,’ she adds with a conspiratorial wink, presumably lest eavesdroppers should steal the idea for their own parent-child bonding sessions.

‘She’s a nice woman really,’ Mr Jones reminds me.

‘Yeah I know.’ I think of all the times Lily Snipe has volunteered to help at school events. Over-friendliness may be preferable to unfriendliness.

Mr Jones departs, muttering about spreadsheets. I decide upon one more circuit of the grounds. I start with the staff car park, where a few rule-breaking parents have inevitably snatched the free spaces. Then on to the Cricklewood Entrance. It’s here that I see him. He’s parked near the pedestrian gate, watching late leavers trickle out. His deadened expression suggests a father cursing faulty contraceptives, yet I don’t recognise him. Does this enigma pose a threat to the children in my care? I shall find out.

He hasn’t any distinguishing features, the type to be easily overlooked in a police line-up. His most striking characteristic is a somewhat overgrown beard, making it impossible to pinpoint age. So far he hasn’t noticed me, his gaze fixed intently on Rosie Kent and her mother. Paused on pavement, the woman is berating her daughter as they search a little pink rucksack for some misplaced item. Clearly I’ve captured a potential paedophile in the act. His species sicken me and I intend to tell him so, but first I better check for certain he isn’t Rosie’s new stepfather or something. If that was the case it wouldn’t do to accuse him of sexual deviance – the mother is a PTA bigwig after all.

I stroll towards Mrs Kent, uncomfortably aware of my entry into the debauched spotlight of our resident Peeping Tom’s vision. Upon my arrival Rosie seems on the verge of tears, such is the parental disapproval being heaped upon her. I have no wish to see such a sweet child embarrassed before her friends over some trifle of Mrs Kent’s, who I know can be a very demanding woman.

‘What’s the problem, Rosie?’ I ask.

‘She’s lost her jumper!’ snaps Mrs Kent, who always feels entitled to speak for her possessions. ‘I’ve told her to be careful with it!’

‘Where did you last see it, Rosie?’

‘I dunno,’ the girl whimpers.

‘Well I found a jumper in my classroom just now. Do you think it could be yours?’

Rosie nods enthusiastically, given a last-minute reprieve and now keen to press home her advantage. ‘See mummy? Miss has it!’

‘Oh thanks,’ Mrs Kent says, smiling at me. ‘You think it’s Rosie’s?’

‘Well I only found one. Would you like to come and get it?’ I hope she’s willing to wait until Monday.

‘Oh, is it okay if Rosie gets it on Monday? We want to get home cos Friday night’s our family night.’

‘No problem. Oh, one thing Mrs Kent! Tell me, do you know the man in that car opposite?’ I motion with my eyes rather than my hands.

Rosie’s mother stiffens. She openly stares at him, all hope of discretion now vanished, not that he deserves discretion, yet the man makes no movement. She squints to see if a friend or relative might be hidden beneath all that facial hair. For a moment she appears to recognise him, yet shakes her head: ‘Afraid not.’

Rosie chimes in, fully recovered from her tears. ‘Who’s that man, mummy?’

‘I don’t know sweetheart. Come on, let’s go. We’ll get it on Monday!.’ She snatches up the rucksack, thanks me again, and marches her offspring down the street.

Newly buoyed up by the assistance I’d given Rosie, whose legendary sensitivity had seen a marked improvement during last year’s residential trip away from home, I endeavour to deal with the man in the car. While traversing the road I make a mental note to steal a second-hand jumper from the school office, hoping my lie has spared strife for both an underpaid mother who can’t readily afford to replace lost items and an overworked daughter who only wants something to keep her arms warm. School policy dictates we charge even for second-hand uniform, but school policy also used to sanction beating people senseless.

Finding a gap in the row of cars that will stream down this road incessantly for the next few hours, I approach the man in the car, crossing behind his vehicle. He hesitantly winds down the driver’s window. ‘Excuse me, are you collecting a student?’

He opens his mouth as though to say something triumphantly witty, then simply shakes his head.

‘Well I’m going to have to ask you to move on then,’ I firmly insist.

‘Move on....move on to where?’ he asks in local vocals.

‘I don’t know, anywhere other than here. The multi-storey car park’s nice.’

An expression of hurt puzzlement, as if I’m bullying him. ‘I like it here. I like watching.’

‘If you like watching things, we have a good local cinema too.’

He shakes his head gravely. ‘I like watching people.’

This conversation has become a little too creepy for my liking. ‘Do what you want, just don’t come here.’

‘I’m minding my own business.’ I feel a slight twinge of guilt until I remind myself he’s probably bullshitted his way from police custody countless times.

‘Why would a grown man want to sit here watching people?’

‘I’m not a pervert! I don’t mean her any harm!’

A-ha. ‘Who’s her?’

‘Her in general. Them. I mean them. Can’t you see how beautiful they are?’ I don’t wish to know whether he means women or children.

I shrug. ‘Beauty doesn’t last.’ When did I grow so cynical?

‘That’s what makes it beautiful. You don’t understand. No one ever understands anyone.’ And then he starts crying. I hate making men cry.

At this point I walk away. It isn’t my problem anymore. When there’s nothing to say, best say nothing. I have just reached the other pavement when he calls ‘Goodbye Mrs Watt’ and drives away.

How does he know my name? Naturally I hadn’t told him it, as doing so would be tantamount to a ‘come stalk me’ invitation. Only an ex-student would address me with that formal title anyway, though I dread to think I’ve ever taught a boy who spends his adulthood lurking outside playgrounds. He must have been a real misfit...

After that depraved display I desire simple-minded chatter. On my way to the staff room I glance upward, just in time to see a face flit out of sight. It was Mr Jones, I have no doubt. The world is full of voyeurs. Boundless shame and guilt when you confront them of course, as in that sordid spectacle outside.

Later as I count my felt-tip pens (three missing), doubt appears like sewage in the water supply. Perhaps I’d been a bit harsh. They say these people have unresolved childhood issues; it’s probably what attracts them to the as-yet-untainted innocence of our pupils. Adolescence ruins us all.

Penned in by traffic at the roundabout, I realise who that odd man was. At home I unearth my old photograph albums, each cherished and then forgotten. Eventually I find the boy I’m looking for, amidst my smiling class of sixteen years earlier. Second row up, first on the right. George Tanner. His youthful eyes were once so vibrant, now so darkened.

It’s most out of character for me not to recognise a student, especially one whom I remember so well, a student for whom school reunions were invented. Everybody would want to see how far he’d come, how much money he’d made. What terrible sadness had befallen him since youth?

I ought to have treated him better this afternoon. In retrospect he’d been more pitiful than predatory, crying in front of a stranger and all. Not that we were strangers of course, though you wouldn’t know it from my behaviour. George had been a pleasant child, his end-of-term reports always exemplary. Pointless now.

I’m still flicking through bygone faces when my daughter comes home. Time to cook dinner. I replace the albums with rather more care than I took them out. Lucy tells me all about her day, how she solved a sum no one else could and then followed it up by leaving her lunch somewhere. So strangely moved am I by it all that I switch off the oven and order a takeaway instead. It’s the second time this week, but we can afford it.

My primary responsibility is to Tarbrook and its current attendees. How would I feel if he’d been spying on Lucy? I hope he’s outside a different school on Monday.