Standing at the door of the school, pressing the buzzer, I could see two teachers in the staff room chatting. They never so much as glanced my way.
I even buzzed the way those air horns are blasted at football matches, but still nothing.
I looked back at Genghis sitting in the van in his sunglasses and envied him; he never had to deal with nonsense like your beautiful daughter being accused of racism.
Eventually the secretary came and let me in with an impassive hello. God, if vibes could kill.
She told me to wait in the hall with the other parents; two mummies I recognised but didn’t know.
We had been told on the phone that a Brazilian pupil had been racially abused and the suspects were in the principal’s office.
I could see the top of Imogen’s head through the window and had to calm my boiling blood. I also had slight tremors at being in a school – any school – given that I was a teacher on sabbatical; it was like visiting a prison you were once a guest of.
I stood beside the two women and straight away they started firing questions. What’s going on? My Minnie would never do anything bad to anyone. Will they be expelled? Will the police be called?
“Look, I’m a teacher too and I’m sure this is just a storm in a tea cup.”
After a few minutes, the principal emerged with three prisoners in tow.
“Go back to your class, girls. I’ll send for you again shortly.”
Imogen looked up at me, with dark tear lines and a blubbering lip. I winked reassuringly, a wink that said later we would be cosied up on the sofa watching Captain Underpants and eating Haribo in our jammies.
Then as we were marched into the office, I was suddenly transported back to my primary school in Belfast. It was the small chairs and tables, the noise of the fluorescent lights thrumming softly.
I still remember my first day of P1 vividly, sitting on the floor and the teacher asking how everyone travelled to school that morning.
Such-and-such got a bus and such-and-such walked with their mummy and such-and-such came in the car. But when she said “How about you Fabien?”, I said I came on a magic carpet.
I remembered the teacher’s long, curious pause and I knew in that moment that life was a game that I better learn the rules.
We squeezed into the principal’s office as she sat down with a sigh, peering at us with big, brown eyes.
There was a bit of the giraffe about her; long neck and a small head, with a large, strong body. Eventually she clapped her hands together in a manly way.
“Welcome everyone to the school. It’s just a pity it’s about a pupil from a racial minority being teased. But we shall endeavour to root out the problem and put it to bed. Yes?”
The two mummies quaked and said “Yes, miss”. I glanced at them.
“Yes, Mr McQuillan?”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Well, someone called the girl a name, and it seems others laughed.”
“Who called her the name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It certainly does matter.”
I crossed my arms.
“Did Imogen call anyone a name?”
“Well, that’s…”
“Did Imogen call anyone a name? Yes, or no?”
“Well, no…”
I was shaking with relief, not that I ever doubted my daughter, but the two mummies’ eyes were darting left and right like bad card players. Their children were the culprits.
We were dismissed a few minutes later, and I left them muttering sullenly to themselves.
“They were laughing at her hair and I told them off and I got blamed as well,” Imogen later explained.
Captain Underpants was jumping through a window as we munched our Haribo.
“You were brave. Like a hero,” I said.
“A superhero,” she said, snuggling up.