LITMIR.BIZ

      The Morrow is an independent day school in Hampshire with extensive grounds and beautiful gothic buildings of pale-grey stone. From the look of it, there might be as many mullioned arch-topped windows as there are students. The head teacher, Dr Nina Adebayo, is a stocky, muscular woman in her mid-forties with short, no-nonsense hair. She’s wearing a red trouser-suit with a white blouse and red high-heeled shoes. She takes me to her office for a chat, once we’ve dropped Kitty off with her possible future form teacher and classmates.

      ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible experience at Kitty’s present school,’ she says, handing me a mug of tea. ‘I’ll be frank with you: we get a lot of children coming here whose original schools couldn’t quite cut the mustard on the pastoral-care front. It’s one of The Morrow’s great strengths.’

      I imagine what Rich would say to that if he were here.

      ‘Vinery Road’s a great school,’ I say, though it’s an effort to produce the words. I don’t really believe them any more. No school that can’t adequately protect its pupils from extreme distress should ever be called great. ‘I’m not sure it’s their fault that they couldn’t do anything,’ I tell Dr Adebayo. ‘The boy in question … none of his behaviour falls into the categories listed as bullying in their anti-bullying policy. According to him, he simply likes Kitty and feels a special affinity with her – one based on nothing. They’ve barely spoken. He claims all he wants is to be friends with her and make sure she’s okay. And that leads to him staring at her all day long, hovering near her, sending her messages saying she’s all that matters to him. Sitting there silently weeping at his desk when she speaks to other people – and not only boys. Even girls, even if all she’s saying is, “Chloe, pass me that ruler,”’ I add bitterly. ‘It’s got so bad that Kitty’s having panic attacks every day, not sleeping much more than three hours a night. She’s paralysed with terror that something she might do could make him try to kill himself.’

      I hear Rich’s voice again in my mind: Stop, Sonia. If you go too far, you’ll lose sympathy. The truth is that I would love nothing more than for Philip Oxley to commit suicide, as long as Kitty didn’t blame herself for it. I don’t care if that makes me a terrible person. My most urgent wish is for that boy to not exist.

      ‘He’s never unkind, and he falls into the category of vulnerable, protected student, so the school won’t expel him. All they can do, all they’ve done and will ever do, is have long, sensitive talks with him where they explain that he needs to give Kitty space. When he denies that he spends all day staring at her – that he picks up her hairs when they fall on the floor and adds them to his collection of Kitty memorabilia – they ask Kitty if she might be imagining things!’

      ‘Mrs Woolford, you don’t need to tell me. I know, believe me. Why do you think we drafted our anti-bullying policy in the precise way that we did? What this boy’s doing to poor Kitty is stalking. He’s menacing her, and putting her mental health at risk.’

      ‘Yes,’ I whisper, fighting back tears. ‘Thank you.’ I’m Dr Woolford, not Mrs Woolford, but I don’t bother to correct her. Her take on Philip Oxley is the right one – that’s what matters.

      Dr Adebayo pulls her chair in closer to her desk. ‘I can promise you this: a child at The Morrow who behaved in that way would be given two warnings and then, if the problem didn’t stop, they would be asked to leave the school. All parents sign a contract when their children start here. In doing so, they agree that if their child’s behaviour creates an intolerable environment for another pupil, they will accept the school’s decision that the child must be removed. It’s non-negotiable. We get to decide who’s creating hostile environments and who isn’t – me and the board. I can personally promise you that I won’t let anyone make this school an unpleasant place for Kitty to spend her days.’

       In which case, I don’t care if, as my husband quipped, somebody pushes a child out of a top floor window every three years. As long as it’s not my child, or anyone she likes. Or the child of any parents I grow to like. Oh, all right, I obviously would care…but not as much as I need never to see or think about Philip Oxley again.

      ‘I’ll give you the tour of the school in a moment, but first: do you have any questions?’

      I open my mouth, then freeze, thinking that Dr Adebayo might react to the name ‘Lucy Ross’ in the way Rich and I react to hearing That Boy’s name.

      ‘Shall I answer the question you’re not asking me?’ She smiles. ‘I can’t believe you don’t want to know about the death of Lucy Ross.’

      I nod. There’s no point denying it.

      ‘That’s fine. I wanted to know too, when I came to The Morrow. Oh, I’ve only been head here for a year. Most of the staff and pupils are relatively new. When a tragedy like Lucy Ross happens, there’s a mass exodus, as you can imagine. All I can say is that this is the same school she died in in name only. Yes, it’s the same building, the same physical grounds. But it’s not the same people, which means that effectively it’s a completely different school. You’ll see when I show you round: the atmosphere is lovely and positive. Nurturing. Creative.’

      ‘But there are some people still here from two years ago?’ I ask. If only there were none – nobody at all left at The Morrow from when Lucy Ross died – I could feel happy about sending Kitty here.

      ‘Yes, a handful,’ says Nina Adebayo. ‘But really no more than five or six people. Garry Phelps, a physics teacher. Our office manager, Jenny Pethers, her son Max, Ariella Huxley and her brother Rocky.’ She raises an eyebrow, and I wonder if she’s tacitly acknowledging that the Huxley siblings’ names tell us something about their parents. ‘And Nelly,’ she adds in a different tone altogether, with a worried expression on her face.