Pipe boy

This all happened along time ago, and, media hysteria not withstanding, social services are loads better these days. And I’ve changed a few facts to disguise events and personages, but what follows sort of did really happen, once upon a time.

When I first became a teacher, I rather romantically imagined myself as being able to save vulnerable children from the terrible things in their lives. 20 years later, I know that very occasionally that happens – but far more often you are merely a powerless witness who knows that something bad is happening but without enough concrete evidence for anyone to actually do anything about it.

The Christmas holidays were fast approaching. Two weeks away from school may be a cause for celebration for most children, but not for pipe boy. Five days of safety left, five days or warmth, respect, of company.

Nine year olds from trouble backgrounds who are dispatched to my office for swearing do not usually have the emotional literacy to explain that they have been rude and aggressive because they are terrified. Eventually we decoded his behaviour. He had found a piece of work too hard, and, to cover his shame, had sworn at the teacher. As a school we try hard to make the classroom a safe place, where it’s ok to make mistakes, to take risks and to fail without ridicule, indeed, with applause. This was, however lost on him.

He wasn’t exactly the most academically gifted student ever to walk through our doors. It transpired that at home, his family, led by his father would taunt him about how thick he was and get his younger siblings to jeer at him and call him ‘mental’. And ‘mental’ he would become, lashing out violently, until his dad restrained him with a rope and, on one occasion, threatened him with a knife. After these occasions, he would run away for the day, lie low. I asked him where he went. To a friend’s house, he said, but sometimes their mum would get tired of him and chuck him out, and then he would wander around the estate. But he told me not to worry, he knew a special place where he could keep warm. There was this place with a pipe, and he’d sit by the pipe all alone until he judged it safe to return home.

After I rang social services, I expected the cavalry to turn up at school and whisk him to safety. Instead, I got a message that his case would be assessed after Christmas. With the end of term galloping towards us, I tried to find some sort of lifeline to get him through the holidays. I gave him the childline number. ‘If things get really bad, ring that number, ask for help’. His face lit up. ‘Will they send me a grown up to talk to me when I’m lonely?’ I had to concede that probably not, but they would talk to him on the phone and get him help if he really needed it. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I’ll be alright, after all, I’ve got my pipe’.