and hard.
The chattering parents spot him and fall silent.
The headmaster approaches the corner where the boys are fighting and stops to watch, still smiling his cold smile.
After a moment, the boys sense the headmaster and quickly untangle themselves, standing straight, expressions fearful.
It’s a little creepy how all this is done in near silence, but I suppose at least the headmaster can keep order. Tom’s last school was chaos. Too many pupils and no control.
I kneel down to Tom and whisper, ‘Have a good day at school. I love you so much. Don’t think about Dad.’ I stroke Tom’s chin-length blond hair, left loose around his ears today. More conventional, I thought. Less like his father. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m scared, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day. What if Dad—’
I cut Tom off with a shake of my head and give him a thumbs-up. ‘It’s fine. We’re safe now, okay? He has no idea where we are.’ Then I hug him, burying my face in his fine hair.
‘I love you, Mum,’ says Tom.
‘I love you too.’ I step back, smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on then. You’ll be a big kid – going into class all by yourself. They’ll call you Tom Kinnock in the register. Social services gave them your old name. But remember you’re Riley now. Tom Riley.’
Tom wanders into the playground, a tiny figure drowned by a huge Transformers bag. He really is small for nearly nine. And thin too, with bony arms and legs.
Someone kicks a ball towards him, and Tom reacts with his feet – probably without thinking.
A minute later, he’s kicking a football with a group of lads, including two of the black-haired boys who were fighting before. The ball is kicked viciously by those boys, booted at children’s faces.
I’m anxious. Those kids look like trouble.
As I’m watching, the headmaster crosses the playground. Mr Cockrun. Yes. That’s his name. He’d never get away with that at a secondary school. His smile fades as he approaches the gate.
‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You must be Mrs Kinnock.’
The way he says our old surname … I don’t feel especially welcomed.
‘Riley now,’ I say. ‘Miss Riley. Our social worker—’
‘Best not to hang around once they’ve gone inside,’ says Mr Cockrun, giving me a full politician’s smile and flashing straight, white teeth. ‘It can be unsettling, especially for the younger ones. And it’s also a safeguarding issue.’ He pulls a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘They’re always fine when the parents are gone.’
Mr Cockrun tugs at the stiff gate. It makes a horrible screech as metal drags along a tarmac trench, orange with rust. Then he takes the bulky chain that hangs from it and wraps it around three times before securing it with a gorilla padlock. He tests the arrangement, pulling at the chain.
‘Safe as houses,’ he tells me through the gates.
‘Why the padlock?’ I ask, seeing Tom small and trapped on the other side of the railings.
Mr Cockrun’s cheerful expression falters. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why have you padlocked the gate?’ I don’t mean to raise my voice. Other parents are looking. But it feels sinister.
‘For safeguarding. Fail to safeguard the children and we fail everything.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Mrs Kinnock, this is an outstanding school. We know what we’re doing.’
I pull my coat around myself, holding back a shiver. It’s a very ordinary wool coat, bought while I was with Olly.
I was a shadow then, of course. Hiding behind my husband.
I’m hoping that will change here.
‘It feels like I’m leaving Tom in prison,’ I say, trying for a little laugh.
Mr Cockrun meets my eye, his hard, black pupils unwavering. ‘There is a very long waiting list for this school, Mrs Kinnock. Thanks to social services, your son jumped right to the top. I’d have thought you’d be the last parent to criticise.’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘We usually pick and choose who we let in.’ The politician’s smile returns. ‘Let’s make sure we’re on the same page, Mrs Kinnock. Not start off on the wrong foot.’
He strolls back to the school building, and I’m left watching and wondering.
When I get back to our new Victorian house with its large, wraparound garden and elegant porch pillars, I sit on the front wall, put my head in my hands and cry.
I try not to make a sound, but sobs escape through my fingers.
Things will get better.
Of course I’m going to feel emotional on his first day.
I’ve been invited to a party, but I’m on the outside, not knowing what to do with myself. I’m not a skier or snowboarder, so I’m … nowhere. Standing on the balcony, looking at the mountains, I feel very alone.
Morzine is one of the world’s best ski resorts. I’ve heard it described as ‘electric’ after dark. Tomorrow, the slopes will be tingling with pink, white and yellow snowsuits. But tonight, they’re white and calm.
It sounded so adventurous, being a chalet girl out here. But the truth is, I’m running away. Things with Mum are unbearable again. I thought they’d be better after university, but if anything they’re worse. Her need to tear me down is stronger than ever.
It’s not about blame.
All I know is that I needed to get away, for my own sanity.
Behind me, Olympic hopefuls talk and laugh in their day clothes, drinking sparkling water or, if they’re real rebels, small bottles of beer.
Most of them aren’t interested in a twenty-something chalet girl with straight, brown hair and floral-patterned Doc Marten boots.
But … someone has come to stand beside me. He’s a tall, blond man wearing ripped jeans and a loose, light pink T-shirt. His light tan and white panda eyes tell me he’s a skier or snowboarder – probably a serious one, if the other guests at this party are anything to go by.
‘It’s Lizzie,’ the man asks. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘You’re still wearing your name badge.’
