Wolf Iron

Chapter 9 / For the Love of Eleanor

Headmistress Barr sat in a cramped office with a chair that was far too big for her and bland walls that begged remembrance from a time when Warrington Secondary was actually a mental hospital instead of a school. And so she sat on her desk, quite engaged with the Dating Section of Reeve. And truthfully told, staring out the window and then back at her phone, she found her immediate surroundings not the least bit romantic and in no way helpful. She began to compose a message.

Oh hello there, I'm so glad that you've gotten back to me, John. I've seen your Clout Rating on Reeve and I'm intrigued.

Backspace. Just backspace on all that. Why do I sound so old? I'm not that old, I'm only in my mid forties for chrissakes. The ancient professors here on tenure still give me dirty looks. As if I didn't earn my position as Headmistress and as head of the Head of the Almskirk City council. The clarty English bastards.

Hey John :). I'm right chuffed to hear from you and I reckon we could go for some drinks if you'd fancy.

Her thumb hovered over the Send button.

No. It's all shite. It has to be the exact meeting point of nonchalant and flirty. She thought some more when an ad popped up about the funding of a power plant being built in town. She furiously reached to tap the Skip button but instead sent the message.

Damn she thought. She watched the message send and then hastily threw the mobile into her desk drawer. Maybe he won't see it at all, he's a braw man, I'm sure he's got all the bonnie lasses on him. Eleanor bit her thumbnail, a nasty old habit, and waited a bit longer. The Reeve group was called Busy Working Love, a group made for professional adults, looking for brisk, clinical, professional love. Eleanor sighed and thought what a bawlbag she must be.

Then she heard the dreaded vibration of a mobile from her drawer and she grabbed for it with ringless fingers.

What's this? Not a message from John, but a message from Prof. Harcourt? 

-To Headmistress Barr,

There's been a scuffle in the Dining Hall and one student is quite injured. We've separated the perpetrators. Perhaps if their Headmistress had been there in the Dining Hall, this would not have happened. 

-Prof. Sharon Harcourt.

Attached was a shaky video of the commotion that had ensued, shared by a student on Reeve. Eleanor gritted her teeth and hung her head low. Cripes sake, these kids will be the death of me. Then a knock at her door. 

"Ma'am? We have a Mr. Barlow Morris waiting in the lobby for you." 

She shook her head. That Morris lad has been nothing but trouble since he came. She ran to the door nonetheless and opened it to see her secretary Alana and quite a deflated and red-faced Barlow sitting down and nursing his face with a cold pack of freezer squash.

"Well my God, let him in then. Are you okay, young man?"

Barlow sat and sniffed and said nothing.

Eleanor cupped a hand to the boy's chin and inspected his swollen eye. "And where about is the other boy, Alana?" 

Her secretary paused a second. 

"Um, it's a girl actually, ma'am. We don't think she's a student here. At least, we don't have any records of her. Anyway, she's in the Detention Hall."

Eleanor felt flustered and hot and looking at Barlow again, she shook her head.

"Well, my God, come into my office, you wee scunner. We'll get to the bottom of this. Thank you, Alana. Come on then, you."

Eleanor took another look at her phone and then at the barely touched salad on the table. 

"Okay, Mr. Morris, why don't you tell me what happened?"

Barlow sat silent and dejected; thankful that the light only touched the unbruised side of his face and said nothing. 

"My, my, the lass really put a sockin' on you, didn't she?" Eleanor said, inspecting the bruise and reaching to touch it, felt Barlow's immediate recoil. "Just what did you do, young man?"

The boy, his face a pink freckled mess, said nothing. 

Eleanor sighed and turned back to her desk where she sat down in front of a computer that probably had the same amount of processing power as her phone and began to pull up his file. "Have it your way then." 

She cleared her throat as her fingers punctiliously hammered his name into the old keyboard with a jammed spacebar button and tutted when she found his history. 

"Okay, Mr. Barlow Morris here...15 years old... entered Warrington ventriculation from a Dulwich Preparatory School in London 16 months ago..." she lowered her spectacles down and took a pointed glance at Barlow, -"because of a mandatory expulsion." She spun back around in her chair and crossed her legs. "Now, Mr. Morris, I do believe we've had a discussion before about your coming here to Warwick. Do you remember our talk?"

He said nothing and wiped the beginning of a tear off from his bruised eye. It stung. 

Eleanor cleared her throat and began again with a sigh. "Mr. Morris. You will have to talk with me unless you want to be expelled from yet another school." She narrowed her eyes. "And for the same exact reason that you were expelled from the last one." 

Barlow's voice choked in his throat and he sensed his eyes welling up again. He stifled a cough to disguise a sob and the only word on his tongue was...sorry. He couldn't bring himself to face the Headmistress. 

A part of Eleanor's heart melted when she saw the young man sitting in front of her, trying his hardest to hide the pain. A part of her heart always melted when she saw an unhappy child and perhaps it was because of her background in social work that she immediately thought of his family life. 

She glanced back at her computer screen and saw that he only had one emergency contact on his file: an aunt from down the way that she had surely never seen before on PTSA Night. The day she had met with a 13 year old Barlow she had not noticed anything peculiar about the boy other than the fact that his parents didn't even bother to show up to discuss his transition to Warwick. But none of that can excuse a bully. Especially not a big lad like him picking on a girl no less. 

"Barlow", she said gingerly while standing up and leaning against her desk, "why would you ever go and try to fight a girl?" 

Barlow sniffed and wiped his nose stuffily. "I swear I wasn't trying to fight with her. I didn't have any problems with her." 

Eleanor uncrossed her arms and tapped her long fingers against the desk behind her. "So... you had problems with someone else?"

He scratched his pudgy knuckles on the underbelly of his neck and contemplated telling the truth. 

"...He said something about me," he said while fidgeting, "to everyone. He was sodding me off in class." 

"And is that what happened at your last school?"

Barlow looked up, shocked at the Headmistress's pivot in conversation. 

"Because I remember the talk we had, Barlow, when you first came. And I remember you were expelled because of a rather nasty wallap you had with another student." She kept her eyes steady on his. "Was it because of he said something to you? Or about you?" 

Barlow's fists clenched again and he took a deep breath. He didn't like to think about what happened. Many people had talked to him about the "incident." Counselors, officers, therapists. Surely, no effort was spared on Barlow's behalf. But in the end it didn't matter. 

Barlow bit his lip to catch its tremble. 

All he had done was try to make things right.