by Jo Middleton
I don’t know why primary schools don’t just think of their target audience – tired, flustered parents – double the price and make all of the prizes wine. They’d have enough money for that new set of steel drums in no time.
Jess was desperate to win the Brut gift set for Ian but after we’d spent more than it would have cost me to just go into a shop and buy it she settled for winning a Kellogg’s shower gel. Kellogg’s as in cornflakes. Don’t ask me, because I didn’t understand it either. I can only assume they have taken two things that happen at a similar time of day, and thought it it would work to combine them into one product. Like Gordon’s Gin putting their name to a collection of children’s bedtime stories. (Not actually a bad idea.)
I won a pack of six Jaffa Cake mini rolls. Best Day Ever.
After the excitement of the tombola we sat on the grass eating Soleros and watched the talent show. I use talent in the loosest possible sense of the word.
It was mainly small girls singing songs with inappropriate lyrics about love and relationships – ‘just let me love you for tonight’ – but I did enjoy Aaron the Amazing and his Marvellous Magic Show. Aaron looked to be about six, but he had the confidence of a thirty-two-year-old man after two pints of lager on a sunny day. I mean sure, you could see the handkerchiefs sticking out of his sleeve throughout his whole act, and the rabbit that appeared ‘as if by magic’ from under his hat had to be carried on by his mum, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter.
Hearty applause all round for Aaron.
‘Thanks for a great day, Mum,’ said Flo when we got home. I tried not to look startled.
Monday 9 July
Had a browse through the job section of the Dorset Echo. Slight panic about handing in notice.
Wednesday 11 July
Scandalous moments in Aldi – 1, but massive, so probably counts as at least 6.
An amazing thing happened to me today. Ian picked the girls up, as usual, from school, so after work I went to Aldi. I like looking at the special offers without Jess taking all the men’s thermal long johns out of their packets or demanding that I buy her a set of three barbecue tools.
I was contemplating a spiraliser and how switching carbs for courgettes would definitely make me a much better person, when I spotted a familiar face. She was wearing sunglasses and her usually coiffed hair was under a Disneyland Paris cap, but it was definitely Cassie.
I once overheard her at toddler group saying that she only ever shopped at Waitrose because she couldn’t bear to make a risotto without their truffle oil, so I was a bit surprised to see her looking with such interest at an £8.99 ladies summer blouse. I was even more surprised when I looked in her basket and saw a packet of wafer-thin ham and two family bags of cheese puffs.
I ducked behind the own-brand gin display and watched her make her way to the checkout, stopping on the way for Aldi’s own-brand Fruit Shoots.
I was beside myself!
I’d already taken my phone out to take a picture of her very presence in Aldi, so I was ready as she reached for the Fruit Shoot substitutes. The photo shows her glancing out cautiously from under her cap. It’s like the front cover of Now magazine – ‘playgroup stalwart falls out of nightclub at 3 a.m. with no underwear’.
I sent it to WIB.
‘What the fuck?’ said Sierra. ‘That’s incredible. This could blow Busy Beavers wide open. We should send this to the BB group.’
‘But they’d know it was us,’ said Lou. ‘I don’t want to be the troublemaker.’
‘Nah, we just get a burner phone,’ said Sierra, ‘like drug smugglers do in films. Then it will be an anonymous number and no one will be able to trace us.’
‘I think one of us would have to add the burner phone number to the group, though,’ I pointed out. ‘Anyway, we don’t need to expose her, we’re better than that. I’m just happy knowing about the photo.’
‘You are far too nice, Frankie,’ said Sierra.
Thursday 12 July
We chickened out of Busy Beavers today and hung out at my house instead. Sierra had wanted to go in and confront Cassie, but I would rather not. There are some people who are oblivious to logical arguments – whatever you say to them, they are never going to be in the wrong so it’s just not worth it.
‘You know there’s only one session left next week, anyway?’ pointed out Lou. ‘And then it’s closed for the summer holidays.’
‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘Aren’t the summer holidays prime time for needing to hang out with other parents?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ said Sierra. ‘Maybe we should invite everyone here instead, every Thursday? The nice ones anyway.’
‘Or,’ I said, glancing around at the piles of laundry and empty wine bottles, ‘we could not?’
‘Why don’t we do something at Chapter One?’ suggested Lou. ‘That upstairs room is lovely – would Dylan let us leave some toys there and meet up once a week, do you reckon?’
‘Amazing idea!’ said Sierra. ‘You ask him, Frankie, he’s your boyfriend.’
‘He is not my boyfriend!’ I protested. ‘I’ve only been there a few times. He’s a nice guy, that’s all, friendly.’
‘Sure, sure,’ said Sierra, ‘so ask him, then, if he’s so friendly.’
So I did. He was well up for it, especially when I said we’d be sure to let people know about the newly refurbished kids’ corner. We agreed we’d go to Busy Beavers for the last session next week and invite our favourite parents to our summer holiday club.
Spent a long time in bed wondering about Dylan. I hadn’t really thought about him like that, but he is quite cute in a slightly less attractive and more dishevelled ‘Hugh Grant in Notting Hill’ kind of way. Plus, he does own a bookshop – that’s got to be a big tick. But then there’s the whole ‘recently dead wife’ thing, which he’s clearly still coming to terms with. No one wants to try to fill the shoes of a much-loved dead wife, do they? Still, maybe one to file away.
Saturday 14 July
Jess insisted on dressing herself this morning in tights and a wool dress, even though the forecast said twenty-four degrees. At 10 a.m. she came into the kitchen where I was washing the breakfast dishes, complaining about being too hot.
‘Why don’t we change you into something a bit cooler?’ I suggested, quite sensibly I thought.
‘No,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest and looking cross.
‘Well, maybe just take your tights off?’ I said. She glared at me and went off into the living room.
Five minutes later I looked up from the dishes to see her in the front garden, completely naked, squatting next to my tub of mint.
‘Jess,’ I shouted, scooping her up and bringing her back in, ‘you know you shouldn’t be out the front, plus you can’t just go running around outside naked!’
‘It’s OK, Mummy,’ she said, ‘I was walking.’
Monday 16 July
Ian came over for tea tonight so we could have a brainstorm about the holidays. We’ve already agreed that he is going to have the girls for a week near the end of August so he can take them to see his mum for a bit.
Jess is very excited about this as Ian’s mum has a dog. She’s convinced that she is going to be allowed to take the dog out for walks by herself and that they will have adventures together in a haunted forest and catch ghosts and smugglers – this is what happens when you read impressionable children Famous Five books. Ian’s mum, Jacqui, lives in Hull, so I’m not sure there will be a huge amount of haunted forest action going on.
Flo is less excited as it means she has to share a bedroom with Flo for a week, plus Jacqui believes in switching the Wi-Fi off at 6 p.m. in case it gets ‘too expensive’.
So that’s one week taken care of. It’s just the other five that are starting to worry me a little. Ian is going to do his usual weekends and Wednesdays, but we agreed that with me not working I would take on the rest of the time as work is really busy for him at the moment.
We do have a bit extra money now, thanks to Ian, but I need to save most of that to cover living expenses until I find a new job. Finances aside, though, the difficulty lies in finding activities that appeal to both a teenager and an almost four-year-old. They both like Burger King, but that isn’t really a six-week plan.
We sat down around the table, I sliced up the pizza, and discussions began. I had a corkboard (Poundland) that I’d procured especially.
I have to say I was pretty impressed by Flo’s focused negotiation skills – ‘I’ll do zoos, that’s fine,’ she started with, eyeing the corkboard suspiciously.
‘How about activities at the castle?’ said Ian.
‘No, absolutely not. Nothing that involves role play for me or actors. It’s degrading.’
‘The cinema?’ I said.
‘The cinema would be OK,’ she conceded, ‘as long as the film is a minimum PG certificate and I get a popcorn combo.’
‘Indoor trampolining centre?’ asked Ian.
Flo shrugged. ‘Sounds a bit lame.’
‘What about the Exeter Children’s Festival?’ I suggested, thinking that the word ‘festival’ might give it an edge of cool.
‘Really?’ she sighed. ‘But that’s for kids!’
‘OK, how about this nature trail?’ I asked, the picture of innocence, proffering a leaflet I picked up at the museum. This was a strategic move to make the kids’ festival seem relatively appealing.
‘NO!’ She looked visibly horrified. ‘All right, I’ll do the kids festival and trampolining, so long as I definitely don’t have to do any form of outdoor crafts.’
‘Deal.’
You might think this seems a little one-sided and that we should have consulted Jess a bit more, but, quite honestly, it makes no odds where you take her as long as she has at least three ponies with her and they sell ice cream.
I added the cinema, trampolining and the kids’ festival to the corkboard. It still looked pretty sparse.
‘I mean, obviously we can fill in a lot of these spaces by going out for nice walks and things like that,’ I said, unconvincingly. ‘And maybe playing games at home?’
Flo snorted.
‘What about one of those activity camps, Flo?’ suggested Ian. ‘You know, where you get to go away for a week and learn survival skills or something?’
‘Seriously?’ said Flo. ‘You want to pack me off to some damp, failing country house in the middle of nowhere so I can spend my time cracking codes made out of twigs with a load of nerds?’
‘I would be fun!’ I said. ‘How cool would it be to abseil down a cliff?’
‘Really? Not fun at all,’ said Flo.
‘It’s honestly not like that nowadays,’ said Ian, offering Flo his phone, ‘have a look at this one – six days of water sports in the Mediterranean – that could be fun.’
Flo sat up a little bit, her interest piqued by the word ‘Mediterranean’. To be honest, my interest was piqued. When I was at school I went on a couple of residential camps but they were both in Somerset, in exactly the kind of crumbly country house Flo was imagining. One was a four-day drama course where we wrote and staged our own play (I think it was about Take That, which was probably my idea), and the second was a whole week of Shakespeare. I loved it, but I think I could also have got on board with snorkelling off the Languedoc coast.
I had a look at the website.
‘Ian, it’s £779!’ I said. You can get a lot of wine for that.
‘But what an amazing experience,’ he argued. ‘I have some of the flat money put aside for the girls, this could be something we could spend it on if Flo was keen?’
She looked surprisingly keen. I took the phone to look again at the website. The main photo was of a tall-looking boy in a wetsuit, holding a surfboard, his curly, blond hair blowing seductively in the wind. Flo took the phone back.
‘This does look more fun than Viking brass rubbings at the castle – or whatever it was you wanted me to go on,’ she said.
‘You could always ask Sasha if she fancied going with you?’ suggested Ian.
‘Maybe, Dad,’ she said, still looking at the picture of the boy with the surfboard, ‘although it might be better actually not to have anyone I know there, to force me to make new friends?’
There were only spaces left on the first week of the summer holidays, so we booked it. She’s off to the South of France in ten days. I feel really proud of Flo. Going off to a different country with a group of strangers feels like a very brave thing to do.
I’m going to try not to look too much at the empty spaces on the corkboard.
Tuesday 17 July
Final swimming session of the term, so I dressed sparingly and took a seat poolside, ready to be impressed with all the progress Jess has made.
As far as I could see she has made none. I wasn’t expecting her to be doing lengths of butterfly or anything, but I thought she might at least be able to make it halfway across the width of the pool without stopping to swallow mouthfuls of water/wave at me.
It was disheartening to say the least. Perhaps swimming is one of those things that just suddenly clicks? Perhaps she will look as if she is drowning for months and months and then one day it will just happen and she’ll throw the woggle to one side and front crawl gracefully to the side.
I stopped after the class to have a word with the teacher, a bouncy young man called Gregg who looked as though he was barely old enough to buy a lottery ticket.
‘Oh, we’re so pleased with her!’ he said. ‘She’s making such good progress!’
Is she, Gregg? Is she?
I may give it a break after the summer.
Thursday 19 July
When I got to Busy Beavers this afternoon there was a group of parents gathered around the noticeboard. I spotted Sierra and Lou sitting over in the far corner, so I went over.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Has Cassie published a ranking of her favourite mums or something?’
‘Not quite,’ said Sierra, avoiding eye contact. I looked at Lou. She looked shifty.
‘Why don’t you go and have a look?’ said Lou. They were both acting very mysteriously. I walked over to the noticeboard, just as I saw Cassie coming in through the main door. A mum near the back of the group spotted her too and nudged the women in front of her. A hush fell and the parents parted as Cassie walked towards the noticeboard.
We both looked at it at the same time. Pinned across the top of the parish council notices and toilet cleaning rota was an A2 printout of a photo, showing a woman in a Disneyland Paris cap taking a four-pack of Aldi Fruit Shoot down from a shelf. The photo was a bit blurry, having been blown up so big, but it was clearly Cassie.
I looked at Cassie. She looked at the photo.
It was like watching Regina George get hit by the bus at the end of Mean Girls.
Friday 20 July
Last day of work today. I collected all of the snacks I have secreted in various cupboards and drawers around the office and set my emails to redirect to Steve. (Ha ha!) Cecilia came in with a card and Maggie brought me a tray of my favourite chocolate and orange brownies.
After lunch Steve announced that he had a meeting in Honiton for the rest of the afternoon and just walked out. Just like that! Not even a ‘good luck for the future’ or ‘thanks for all your hard work’. What an absolute dick! It was only me left, then, so I spent a happy hour in Steve’s office rearranging things in a subtle but annoying way, turning books upside down on the shelves, adjusting the height of his office chair, that sort of thing, and then I went home.
Saturday 21 July
I went into Dorchester today to go to a few recruitment agencies and look around for shops that might be looking for staff. All of the mai
n car parks were full so I ended up finding a two-hour space on a side street with a parking meter. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until I realised that all I had in the handy change compartment of the car was twenty-seven pence in sticky coppers, a fistful of sweet wrappers, and a lip balm that had melted in the sun and not made it as far as the bin.
‘No cash?’ asked a sign on the side of the machine. ‘No problem! Just call our payment line to pay by card.’
I called the number.
‘To park your blue Seat, registration number WR05 SKO at location number 2179, press one,’ said the robot. This threw me for starters, as I’ve never owned a Seat. I waited for more options.
‘To park the same vehicle at a different location, press two.’
‘To park a different vehicle, press three.’
I pressed three.
‘To park your silver Skoda, registration KY64 KRR, press one,’ the robot instructed me. I think that was a hire car Ian and I had a couple of years ago to go to a wedding in Scotland.
‘To register a new vehicle, press two.’ I pressed two.
‘To register a new vehicle, please say the registration now.’
‘TV05,’ I said in my loudest, clearest voice, ‘YVU.’
‘Please say the vehicle make now.’
‘Renault,’ I said.
‘In one word, please say the colour of your vehicle,’ said the robot.
‘Grey,’ I said, wondering if it wasn’t perhaps more of a silver but keeping quiet so as not to confuse things.
‘This may take a moment,’ said the robot. Why?
‘Please confirm that the registration of the vehicle you wish to park is T … P … 0 … 5 … Y … V … N … If this is correct, say yes.’
‘No!’ I shouted at the robot. The P for a V I could kind of the understand, but since when has a U sounded like an N?