The Only Boy For Me

by Gil McNeil

  He tried to hold out for a St Bernard, or possibly an Irish wolfhound, but I made it clear if he wanted to be dragged through the mud by a large stupid animal he could go horse-riding like everybody else. So rabbits were the easiest solution to the I-Must-Own-A-Pet-Or-I’ll-Die crisis. They’re very sweet, but make a terrific noise at night leaping about. I keep thinking they’re being eaten by foxes and have to rush out into the back garden with a torch. Last week I staggered out into the pitch black clutching a fish slice to ward off predators, only to find them perfectly happy in their hutch, staring at me, and smirking. I feed the goldfish in the pond, who are my kind of pets. A bit of food every now and again, and they’re happy. They managed to have babies last summer so there are lots of tiny little fish hurling themselves about. Very sweet. Realise with horror that time is getting on: I need to fix up meetings for next week when I’m in the office, sort out childcare, and there are sausages to buy. I can’t really afford to spend half the morning pretending to be Dr Dolittle.

  Chapter Two

  This Sporting Life

  Wake up early, and plan a relaxing day mucking about until I remember I’m on the bloody swimming rota. Charlie wakes up, and is not pleased. He makes me promise not to wear my swimming hat, and then moves on to his new campaign for me to buy more exciting breakfast cereal – preferably a brand which makes the milk go an unusual colour. I ring up Leila for sympathy, but she is having none of it, and says she’d love to go swimming, as it’s bound to be much nicer than the day she’s going to have: she’s got a big pitch for a new account, and the client is famously neurotic and demanding.

  Leila is Charlie’s godmother, and she’s been my best friend for years, ever since we worked together at a huge advertising agency which is thankfully now defunct as it was crap. She takes her godmotherly duties very seriously, and was most put out when I refused to have a proper christening. She wanted to publicly renounce the devil: apparently she’d seen it in a film, and had already bought the perfect hat. She turned up at the hospital when Charlie was born with a beautiful silver spoon from Tiffany’s, engraved with the words ‘For Charlie’. Apparently Tiffany’s were rather anxious about this until she reassured them that it was for a two-day-old baby, and not illegal substances. She’s MD of a huge advertising agency, earns bucketloads of money, and is very good at spending it. But she does have to work incredibly hard and is always threatening to quit and go off and live a different life. Her latest fantasy is that she’s going to be a crofter on a remote Scottish island. The plan is to buy a few sheep and a spinning wheel, and knit wonderful jumpers. She’s started on a scarf, but it’s gone a bit triangular.

  I wish her luck with her meeting, and she says if the swimming gets too tough I should just go off and have a sauna or a massage or something. I’m not sure she’s entirely grasped the range of facilities on offer at the local pool. Perhaps she is thinking of her gym, which has every bit of kit going, a restaurant, a juice bar, and comfy leather armchairs in reception. The reception area of our local pool consists of cracked lino and one metal bench.

  Charlie refuses to put on his school uniform and wants to go to school in his pyjamas, but I have a flash of inspiration and divert his attention by suggesting that he might be able to have soup in a flask as part of his packed lunch. He is thrilled with this unexpected news, and spends ages choosing which soup he’d like, and then the trip to school is accomplished in record time, and I’m back home and out in the garden before I know it. Start digging the flowerbed which I plan to turn into a mini vegetable patch so Charlie can grow some carrots. After digging for about five minutes, it gradually dawns on me that the ground is frozen solid so I abandon the spade and poke about in the herb garden for a bit and chat to Buzz and Woody. I’m tempted to let them out for a run, as they are being so amusing, but know this would be a big mistake as it took nearly an hour to get them back in at the weekend, and I don’t think missing swimming because I was chasing rabbits round the garden will be deemed an acceptable excuse.

  I turn up at school just as lunchtime play is finishing, ready for the afternoon swimming session. The dinner lady is just clocking off, and when I explain I’m going swimming with the children she says, ‘Never mind, dear, it will soon be over,’ which I don’t think is very nice. I’ve taken the precaution of putting on my swimsuit under my jeans to save time and potential embarrassment in the changing rooms: I had visions of fourteen little girls staring fixedly at my huge bottom. But wearing my swimming costume means that I can’t stand up straight without the straps cutting off the circulation in my arms. I’ve developed a sort of hunchback walk, which Charlie thinks I’m doing on purpose to amuse his classmates. Mrs Oliver is off sick again, so Miss Pike is coming with us. She looks delighted. We get on the coach after a slight delay because this week’s driver, who looks about ninety, cannot remember how to open the doors. I just hope he can remember the way to the swimming pool. Miss Pike sits next to me with a plastic bucket. It looks rather ominous, and all my worst fears are confirmed when she explains that someone’s always sick on a coach journey, and it’s best to be prepared. Lovely.

  We eventually arrive at the swimming pool, after going round the same roundabout twice. The driver looks exhausted, and says he’ll wait for us on the coach, and have a little nap. The children all swarm off the coach and charge into the changing rooms. A very severe-looking swimming instructor with a crew cut appears, and starts blowing his whistle and marching about like he’s in the army. The children ignore all his requests for them to line up, until Miss Pike claps her hands and asks them nicely, whereupon they line up instantly. The swimming instructor is not pleased. I get to the side of the pool and find two other swimming instructors lurking. The children are divided into Drowners, Slow Drowners and Almost Swimming. Charlie is in the Almosts group, and so Miss Pike puts me with the Drowners: she’s obviously learnt from bitter experience that it’s hopeless putting parents into the same group as their children. I like being with the Drowners because they go in the baby pool which is about six inches deep, with tepid water. The other parent helper, who’s the father of one of Charlie’s friends, Tom, is put with the Almosts which means he has to go in the freezing-cold main pool and try to stop them from reaching the diving board.

  There are lots of whistles blowing, and a frantic holding of polystyrene floats, and they’re all given tips on how to put their faces into the water, and not inhale. This goes quite well with Charlie’s group, who all plunge their heads underwater quite cheerfully. But a small girl in my group is having none of it, and becomes hysterical. I’m debating whether I should try to intervene, or slap the swimming instructor who is glaring at her in a most unhelpful way, when Miss Pike marches over and says, ‘Now come on, Cecily, if you don’t want to do it just say no thank you nicely.’

  Cecily stops shrieking, and cheers up. I wish I’d thought of this: the poor thing was obviously frightened out of her wits and I’d done nothing to help. She then astounds us all by saying she’d quite like to have a go, if Miss Pike will hold her hand. Miss Pike kneels down at the side of the pool and holds her hand, and looks like she’ll fall in at any moment. Cecily puts her face very close to the water, and gets a spontaneous round of applause from all the other children. I’m almost moved to tears, and realise that, despite the general Lord of the Flies motif that surrounds group activities with children, they can actually be very sweet.

  This impression soon disappears as the lesson draws to a close, and we have to try to get thirty shivering wet children dressed. An extraordinary amount of time is taken up trying to reunite them with their socks, and I’m sure some of them are not wearing the same clothes that they came in. The girls seem much better at coping than the boys, except for Cecily who cannot get her shoes on and bursts into tears again. I help her, and she gives me a look of undying devotion and whispers that she has sweets in her bag, and will give me one on the coach if I will sit next to her on the journey home. Not sure if I should encourage swee
ts, but I thank her anyway and promise to sit with her, as Charlie has made it perfectly clear he’d rather die than have me anywhere near him. Although he’s ignored me for most of the afternoon, he now decides I may come in useful to do up his shoes.

  ‘Did you see me doing my swimming, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, darling, you were brilliant.’

  ‘Can we buy chocolate from the machine now, like we did when we came last time?’

  ‘Last time we were on our own, Charlie; today we’re with your class and we can’t get chocolate for everybody.’

  ‘Cecily has sweets in her bag, you know, Mummy. She always has sweets, and then she’s sick.’

  Oh marvellous. I hastily renegotiate the seating arrangements, and promise Cecily I will sit with her next time, but I need to sit with Charlie today as I think he might get a bit silly. Luckily this is all too believable and she accepts without a murmur.

  The coach driver has fallen asleep, so we have to bang on the coach doors to try to wake him up. Miss Pike asks me if I know how to resuscitate people. I don’t, and neither does she. We knock a bit more quietly, and I get my mobile phone out ready to dial 999 if he starts going blue. But thankfully he wakes up, and once he’s found his glasses and remembered how to open the doors we all pile back on. I do feel a bit mean when I notice Tom’s dad sitting down next to Cecily, but it’s the only spare seat left by the time he gets on the coach. I wonder if I should warn him, but decide that he probably usually relies on his wife to deal with children being sick, so the experience will be good for him.

  The journey back to school takes ages, and the children get very silly. Miss Pike has to stand up twice and clap her hands. Tom’s dad gets lots of practice with the bucket and a packet of Wet Ones. We finally reach school to find groups of parents waiting in the playground looking slightly anxious. Kate says, ‘Christ, you look exhausted,’ and then we concentrate on getting our kids into cars and home. Swimming has obviously totally knackered Charlie because we have a lovely relaxed evening sitting by the fire watching telly, and he even does his school reading without a murmur. Bedtime goes well, but at the last minute he bolts for freedom. It turns out it’s vital that he checks whether a werewolf has hidden itself under the bed in the spare bedroom.

  Unfortunately he finds a long-lost piece of Lego under the bed, a crucial bit which means he can now fix the portcullis back on his Lego castle. Very tricky negotiations follow, and I confiscate the offending piece because if I don’t he will be up until midnight.

  ‘I hate you, Mummy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t hate you. But it’s late, and you’ve got school tomorrow. What about if we get up early and do Lego before school, and I might make crispy bacon for breakfast?’

  There’s a long silence while Charlie weighs up the merits of accepting this deal, or continuing to throw a fit in the hope that I will cave in and let him get cracking on the castle. I put on my special determined face, hoping it will sway him. It does.

  I wake up late, and so does Charlie who has managed to stay in his own bed all night. I start grilling the bacon and the smoke alarm goes off, as it always does, and I have to bash it with a wooden spoon. The noise is so piercing I’m sure it’s caused a crucial blood vessel in my brain to burst as I develop a sharp headache shortly afterwards. The bacon is pronounced crispy enough, and his Lego castle is coming along fairly well, although it’s already caused him to exclaim ‘bugger’ twice, and ‘bloody stupid thing’ once. I pretend I didn’t hear, because both phrases have been picked up from me in previous Lego-building sessions, and we set off for school in fairly good time, although there’s a last-minute panic when we realise I’ve totally forgotten his packed lunch. I make a hasty cheese sandwich, and try not to think of other mothers sending in their children with fresh pasta and small green salads. Charlie discovers a packet of chewing gum in the glove compartment and is in bliss.

  ‘Why is it called a glove box?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s just what they’re called.’

  ‘That’s stupid; they should call it the chewing-gum box.’

  ‘Yes, well, anyway, you’ve got to finish your chewing gum before we get there, Charlie. You know it’s not allowed in school.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Charlie, stop asking silly questions.’

  ‘It’s not a silly question. Honestly, Mummy, you are rude. Oh look, there’s James. Stop the car.’

  ‘I can’t park in the middle of the road, Charlie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I manage to park and remind him that he has to finish his chewing gum, and miraculously find a tissue in my coat pocket for him to put it in. But he has a much better idea: he will try to spit it on to the roof of the mobile classroom. He gets so excited arguing about the merits of his plan that he swallows the chewing gum, nearly chokes, and is furious.

  ‘You did that on purpose, Mummy.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything at all, Charlie, you did it yourself. Now calm down; look, James is waiting for you.’ With this he stamps off across the playground and begins briefing James on my appalling behaviour.

  Drive back home and ring up Edna, to arrange for her to come in tomorrow and look after Charlie while I’m at work. Edna lives in the village, on her own since her husband died, although her grown-up son does come to visit her occasionally, usually to ask for a loan. She doesn’t like her daughter-in-law, who she refers to as That Woman. With good reason, though, as the woman does sound like a complete cow. Edna is very kind and gentle, and adores Charlie. She also needs the money, since she keeps having to bale out her son. She loves cleaning, and has a passion for bleach and polish and can get a shine on any surface. I have to rush about making sure nothing is too hideously filthy before she arrives.

  I agree with her that she’ll turn up at seven am tomorrow like she usually does. She says that she wakes up early anyway and likes an early start. Can only hope that one day I’ll feel the same. She offers to do the ironing, which is brilliant. I wash the kitchen floor, which is revolting, and then forget and go into the garden and walk back across the wet floor leaving muddy footprints. Great. I’m in the midst of wiping the floor again when Edna rings to ask if I want anything at the shops, as she’s just about to go out. I tell her, not for the first time, that I think she should be officially recognised by the Church of England as Saint Edna, Patron Saint of Working Mothers. She is very pleased.

  Charlie has games practice today after school, which means I have to lurk about on the freezing playing field trying to be encouraging. Harry Chapman’s dad has been ‘volunteered’ to run these sessions by his wife, who has her sights set on a seat on the PTA committee. They’re doing hockey today, and nobody has a clue. Charlie is especially hopeless, but likes the running-about bits and is very keen on using his stick as a submachine gun. Just as I’ve lost all feeling in my feet, and am thinking about heading back to the car for a five-minute warm-up, there’s a hideous scream and Charlie runs towards me wailing, with blood pouring from his nose. Apparently Harry has whacked the ball hard, and much to his surprise it’s flown up into the air and managed to clout Charlie sharply on the nose during its descent. It’s the only ball Charlie’s managed to stop for the entire session.

  I gather Charlie in my arms and make soothing noises, and then realise that my newly dry-cleaned mac now looks like it’s been involved in some sort of accident at an abattoir. Charlie is distraught and claims Harry did it on purpose, which clearly isn’t true as Harry is lurking about at the edge of the field looking close to tears. Finally I manage to get Charlie to accept an apology from Harry, and Harry compliments Charlie on all the blood. Charlie is suddenly transformed into a bloody-but-not-defeated hero, and rushes back to finish the session. All the other boys clap, and Charlie is absolutely thrilled. Eventually it is over and we can go home. I must remember to never let him attempt hockey again, or the dry-cleaning bills will be astronomical.

  Charlie is very stroppy all evening, and keeps saying his nose
might be broke. He rings up Nana and Grandad to tell them about his hideous sporting injury, and they commiserate. Mum suggests we get an X-ray and I have to spend ages reassuring her that he is exaggerating somewhat, and his nose now looks perfectly normal. My mac, on the other hand, does not. Mum is hugely relieved and says I once did exactly the same thing with a cut on my chin. I’d been playing on the swing in the back garden, and decided to try to get off head first. Apparently I managed to completely ruin her favourite pink angora jumper.

  Edna turns up at seven in the morning, but unfortunately I’m still fast asleep. She creeps into my room with a cup of tea, and I nearly have a heart attack. Admittedly she’s a bit tiny for a burglar, and they don’t usually bring you a cup of tea, but I have an anxious moment before I wake up properly. Edna goes off to make toast, as she insists that I don’t leave the house without eating something. I get dressed in about five minutes flat, bash the smoke alarm with the wooden spoon, give Charlie a quick kiss goodbye, and escape to the car before he can think of any vital questions to detain me. Halfway up the motorway I realise that I’ve forgotten to put on any earrings, and I have one black sock on, and one navy. Bugger. Barney is bound to notice and make sarcastic comments.

  The traffic is inexplicably light, and I reach the outskirts of London in record time. I decide to treat myself to a bacon sandwich at my favourite café, run by a nice woman called Maggie in the backstreets of Deptford. I met her when we did a shoot nearby and the catering van didn’t turn up. As I walk into the café I notice that the floor is wet, but realise too late to avoid skidding right up to the counter. I manage to avoid falling flat on my face by grabbing hold of the till to steady myself, and we all agree that £1,379.98 is a bit steep for a bacon roll. The café is full of workmen, who all compliment me on my graceful slide. Maggie explains that they’ve been having a marvellous time watching customers skating up to the counter, and have persuaded her not to dry the floor because it’s so entertaining.