The Only Boy For Me

by Gil McNeil

  People start moving off, clutching their route maps. Some of them are Very Keen. Whole families have appeared in matching tracksuits, and appear to have enough kit to climb Everest.

  ‘Good God, look at that man, the one who just ran past. He’s got one of those watch things on; you know, those things that count your pulse and beep when you’re going to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Roger, dear, I think you’ll find that’s to measure his pace.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what a pacemaker looks like. I thought you had to have them sewn into your chest, not wear them like a watch. Oh, I might get one now I know how jazzy they look.’

  ‘Do shut up, Roger.’

  ‘But really, look at him, jogging all over the place. What an utter prat, on a school sponsored walk. Honestly.’

  We all agree, especially as Pacemaker Man keeps yelling at his two little boys to keep up. They look very miserable.

  ‘When are we going to stop for lunch?’

  As we have barely got out of the pub car park, I have to explain to Charlie that we’ll have to go a bit further. This is greeted with howls of outrage. Kate opens a packet of wine gums as a diversion, and peace is restored. James, Charlie and William announce that the wine gums have made them drunk, and start doing silly walks. The gap between us and the rest of the group is growing steadily, and the really keen types who set off at a brisk trot are now tiny dots on the horizon. The route veers off into the woods. Things get increasingly muddy. This is going to be a very long day.

  The boys now have so much mud on their wellies they can barely lift their feet up, and we have to keep stopping to help them wipe it off. The children start to whine, and then move into advanced whining mode. Roger starts a game of I Spy, and cheats shamelessly, claiming to have seen a tiger, and a Red Indian. The children almost believe him, and keep peering into the trees. We decide to stop for a rest, but the ground is far too wet to sit on so we balance on fallen tree trunks, and drink coffee while the children eat. We all have swigs from Sally’s flask, and agree that really the countryside is very beautiful. Roger slips off his tree trunk and sits in a muddy puddle, and the children think this is the most hysterically funny thing they have ever seen. Ever. Luckily Roger is not the sort to go off in a huff when being laughed at by five children and three women. A very rare man indeed.

  He informs us that even his pants are wet, which sets us all off again. Sally finally stops laughing, and gives him a kiss. The children think this is revolting, and make noises as if they’re being sick. Kate and I exchange envious glances. We set off again, much happier, and emerge into open countryside. We pass one of the matching-tracksuit families, in the midst of a blazing row. The parents are arguing very loudly about whose fault it is that they forgot to bring their flask of coffee, and the children are arguing about whose turn it is to carry the map. One of the children has clearly fallen head first into a puddle, and is covered in mud from head to foot. We are now almost in sight of the main group, and pass another family where all is not well.

  William says maybe it will turn out like the tortoise and the hare and we will actually be the winners. We all say how clever of him to have thought of this, but the chances of us actually winning are slight as some of the jogging tracksuit brigade have probably already finished, and are back home having cold showers. I give William a mini Mars bar as a reward for such positive thinking, and Charlie sulks.

  Then it begins to rain. Hideous nightmare half-hour follows where nearly everyone is on the brink of tears and tantrums, and we run out of sweets. I find a packet of Polos in the bottom of my bag, but sadly no four-by-four off-road vehicle which is what we really need. Still, the Polos work wonders for a while. William says that the dentist told him Polos are the worst sweets in the world, and he’s not allowed to have them now. James and Charlie look at him like he is an orphan from a war zone, rather than a child with parents who have a firm policy on sugar. Roger says he once bit his dentist when he was a small boy, and the children all look at him with admiration. Roger hastily launches into a long explanation about how it was years ago, and dentists are lovely now and give you stickers. The children look unconvinced. Sally says Roger can take William to the dentist next time. I wonder if they have stickers that say ‘I bit the dentist today’ as well as the usual ones about Tommy Toothbrush.

  The rain continues and we trudge on. The route is now taking us back along the road at the other side of the village, and the end is in sight. We finally reach the finishing point, and Mrs Harrison-Black says, ‘Oh, thank God, we were just about to send out a search party for you. Ha-ha.’ Kate fixes her with one of her special withering looks. Apparently she learnt how to do it at Finishing School. I can’t believe she actually went to a finishing school, but she says it was her mother’s idea and as it meant she got six months in Switzerland to flirt with ski instructors she agreed to go. It obviously paid off because she’s very good at withering, and even Mrs Harrison-Black takes a step backwards. The children suddenly discover reserves of untapped energy, and run around saying hello to all their friends. I invite Kate and Sally and Roger to supper, and say I’ll make pizzas. Kate says she’ll rent a couple of videos and Sally and Roger offer to bring the wine. The children all get madly excited and Charlie wants balloons so it will be a proper party.

  The pizzas are a huge success, and the boys disappear upstairs to Charlie’s room to play with Lego. We keep hearing sounds of muffled crashing, and the mess in Charlie’s room is phenomenal, but I try not to think about it. Phoebe and Rosie watch Little Women on video, and adore it. As do we all, except for Roger who keeps snorting at the more saccharine moments, and says the film should really be called Boring Women and when will there be a gunfight?

  The film finishes and everyone starts to leave. William throws a fit and clings on to the sofa sobbing that he doesn’t want to go home. I finally bribe him to go by lending him a cowboy hat, and a bow and arrow, which Charlie reluctantly agrees to part with, but only if he looks after them. William solemnly promises he will, and they all pile into the car and William waves his hat out of the window as they drive off down the lane. James then bursts into tears and says he doesn’t want to go home either, and he wanted to borrow the cowboy hat. Phoebe says he’s being a stupid baby, and James kicks her. Kate frogmarches them to the car, and Charlie hops up and down saying Phoebe is the most horrible girl in the world and deserved to be kicked. I tell him to shut up, and he tells me I am very rude. Could get a great deal ruder, but decide instead to ignore all his protests and get him into pyjamas and into bed before he has time to think of any diversionary tactics.

  ‘Mummy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we go on another walk tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can we have pizza then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I hate you, Mummy.’

  ‘Goodnight, Charlie.’

  He’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. I creep out of the room because the floor is covered with a layer of small pieces of Lego. There is even Lego in the bathroom sink. Perhaps I’ll be able to throw some of it away tomorrow when he’s not looking. On that happy thought I collapse into bed, and have complicated dreams about sponsored walks through porridge, with Barney shouting at us all to hurry up, because the light is going. I hope this is not an omen for the shoot next week.

  Chapter Three

  Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  Apparently a local policeman visited school today and gave a drugs talk in assembly. Charlie has clearly been most impressed by this, and is sitting in the bath giving me a lecture.

  ‘Mummy, I’m going to say no to drugs, and you must too.’

  ‘Of course I will, Charlie.’

  Though right now I’d say a very definite yes to a large gin and tonic.

  ‘Good, and if anyone offers you extra tea you must say no.’

  ‘What do you mean, extra tea, darling? Tea is alright, isn’t it?’

  Ch
rist, I’m not even going to be allowed to drink tea now, without lectures from Charlie on the evils of drugs.

  ‘You know, Mummy, extra tea, it’s a drug and the policeman said it looks like a sweet sometimes. Isn’t that awful – you might think it was a nice sweet and it would be a drug. So you must never take sweets from strangers either, Mummy, because it could be extra tea.’

  ‘I think you mean Ecstasy, darling, not extra tea.’

  ‘How do you know, has someone tried to give you some?’

  Charlie narrows his eyes and looks at me very hard, scanning my face for signs of drug abuse.

  ‘No, of course not, but I saw it on the news and it’s definitely called Ecstasy.’

  ‘Well, if anyone tries to give you some you must say no and tell a ponsible adult, like Miss Pike. Who will you tell, Mummy, because Miss Pike is not at your work, is she?’

  No, thank God. I have visions of her trying to get everyone to sit nicely, and Barney telling her to fuck off.

  ‘The word is responsible, Charlie, not ponsible. And I am a responsible adult, so I won’t need to tell anyone.’

  Charlie does not look convinced that I qualify as a responsible adult, so to avoid an ugly scene I change the subject.

  ‘Anyway, darling, it’s great that you listened so well and know all about drugs. Did the policeman say anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes, loads. He told us all about stranger danger, and if you see a stranger you’re allowed to do anything to them and then run away. Even biting.’

  He pauses for the full marvellousness of this to sink in. I can tell he’s thrilled at the prospect of biting the first stranger he meets. I must act now to avoid the possibility of legal action in the not-too-distant future.

  ‘Biting is not allowed, Charlie, not unless you’re really sure you’re in danger, not just because you don’t know someone. You can shout and kick and run away far better than hanging about trying to bite somebody. And anyway it’s very rare that anything ever happens with strangers, so don’t worry too much about it.’

  I hope this is the right line to take; I hate these kind of conversations and know sooner or later I will have a vivid nightmare where Charlie is being dragged off by nutters and it’s all my fault because I told him not to bite them. Charlie meanwhile sits calmly in the bath singing rude songs of his own devising. We wash his hair, and he claims I am trying to drown him. I must book a hairdresser’s appointment soon: his hair is getting so long he can barely see out from under his fringe. I did try to cut it myself once, but lots of little tufts sprang up out of nowhere and he ended up looking like he’d had a rather major electrical shock.

  I finally get him into bed and am tucking him in, when he sits up and I can tell from the look on his face that he has important news to share.

  ‘Mummy, you know sausage rolls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, James had them for his packed lunch, and he let me have a little bit and it was brilliant, though I didn’t get much sausage because James was saving it. Can I have sausage rolls tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow, darling, I won’t have time to go to the shops.’

  ‘We could go to the shops before school.’

  I have a strong suspicion that this is a ploy to try out his new police-approved biting technique.

  ‘No we can’t, I’ve got to go to work tomorrow and Edna’s coming. But I’ll get some tomorrow while you’re at school.’

  ‘Alright, but get proper big ones not the little tiny ones, because they’re no good. I’m really hungry now, Mummy. Can I have a snack?’

  ‘No, it’s bedtime. Now stop chatting and settle down, it’s sleep time. Sweet dreams, darling.’ I back out of the doorway swiftly before he can think of anything else to say.

  I go up to check on him half an hour later, expecting to find a sleeping child. Instead I’m greeted as I open the door with a red-faced Charlie saying furiously, ‘Go away, Mummy, I’m having a waggle.’

  I’m not quite sure how to react to this. I’ve been adamant that playing with your willy is fine in private, but not in Marks and Spencer’s, however long the queue. But somehow it feels deeply dodgy to have interrupted him. I have visions of family therapy at some point in the future, where I’m accused of hampering his psycho-sexual development. I decide it might be best to simply ignore it.

  ‘I just wanted to say goodnight. You should be asleep really, you know.’

  ‘That’s OK, Mummy. I love my willy. I bet you wish you had one.’

  Apart from late on Saturday night when the gin and chocolate supplies have run out, I can honestly say I never have, but naturally do not share this information with Charlie.

  ‘No, darling, I like what I’ve got.’

  I know this is a pathetic euphemistic defence of female sexuality, but I’m too tired for anything more robust.

  ‘Well, I think willies are much better. You know, if you have a hole in the front of your pyjamas you can poke your willy right out. You can’t do that with your bottom, can you, Mummy?’

  Not unless I am very drunk, no. But I can’t let this slur go unanswered.

  ‘No, I can’t. But you wouldn’t have been born if everyone had willies, so both sorts are good. I love my bottom and you love yours, so that’s great. Now go to sleep, you’ve got school tomorrow.’

  Please God he does not share this conversation with Miss Pike.

  I go back downstairs feeling shattered, and make a cup of tea. I’m halfway through it when Leila rings. She thinks it’s all terribly funny, and vows to adopt waggling as her new word for the week. The conversation moves on to other favourite euphemisms and we end up nearly hysterical. Our favourites are tinkle and hampton. We both think they’d make very jolly names for characters in a children’s series. We finally get round to what she rang for, which is to fix up a visit at the weekend as she thinks it’s too long since she last saw Charlie. The lovely prospect of a day with Leila is only slightly marred by the fact that she tends to ask what time Charlie goes to bed about half an hour after she arrives. She adores him, but her boredom threshold for child-centred activity is very low, in common with most of my friends who don’t have kids. Last time she came down she got involved in a Lego-building session which nearly sent her into a coma. Also she usually wears some item of exquisite clothing that Charlie manages to stain permanently. I make her promise to wear something washable and arrange for her to come down on Sunday. I also confirm we’re meeting for supper tomorrow night, for some Charlie-free gossip time. If the weather is nice on Sunday we can go to the beach and Charlie can run about getting soaked. I can’t wait.

  Edna is due at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so I set the alarm clock extra early so I can get up and clean the kitchen before she arrives. I wake full of good intentions, but end up standing in the kitchen watching the birds building a nest in the hedge opposite the window. I’m tempted to put some kitchen paper out for them to make duvets with, but suspect they prefer the twigs and straw from the field next door. I do manage to remember to spray Jif cleaner all over the kitchen surfaces, which suggests a recent cleaning spree. And even through I know this won’t fool Edna for long, it makes me feel better. I’m dressed and ready to go by seven thirty, when Charlie belts downstairs and starts telling me all about his dream about Egyptians. Smiling vaguely, I try to steer the conversation away from pyramids and then Edna diverts his attention by offering to cut up fruit and take all the peel off for breakfast. Charlie is thrilled because I usually refuse this kind of fiddly task. We all troop into the kitchen and Charlie does a dance while listing all the different kinds of fruit he’s going to eat. He finally decides on pineapples and strawberries, and I beat a hasty retreat to the car before he discovers that we only have apples and a mouldy old orange.

  The motorway is a nightmare: a lethal mixture of lorries, heavy rain and lots of people clearly desperate to get into hospital as quickly as possible by crashing their cars into the central reservation. I find myself stuck behind an old git i
n a Mini Metro doing fifty miles an hour in the middle lane trying to overtake lorries but failing dismally. Each time I try to get into the outside lane some bastard in a BMW speeds up and refuses to allow me to move out. It feels like I will be stuck like this for ever. Eventually I lose my temper and accelerate so I’m almost inside the exhaust pipe of the old git and then I move sharply into the outside lane without giving the BMW driver time to speed up and block my way. He is furious and starts flashing his lights at me. I retaliate with my new favourite trick, which Barney taught me. I switch on the rear fog lights which light up the back of the car in a major way, suggesting I’m about to make some sort of emergency stop.

  It’s very stupid of me to get drawn into such ridiculous behaviour, but most gratifying to see that it works, and the BMW driver brakes and pulls back. He’s obviously decided I’m mad, and I proceed to confirm his conclusion by moving back into the middle lane once I’m safely past the old git in the Metro. The BMW instantly speeds up to pass me but he can’t resist slowing down when he’s level with my car to give me a threatening look, whereupon I give him a one-finger salute while keeping my eyes firmly on the road. I’ve got purple nail varnish on, which I think adds a touch of style to hand gestures. I know, without looking, that he is distraught. Brilliant.

  I finally make it to Soho and the car park, only to discover that the few remaining spaces are on the roof, up a hideous wobbly metal ramp which shakes as you drive on it. An idiot in a Range Rover gets halfway up and then loses his nerve and reverses back down, causing havoc as two cars are behind him. What is the point of designing cars with four-wheel drive and the ability to climb cliffs if they sell them to idiots who can’t park them? All the car parks in Soho are awful, but the train costs a fortune, takes hours, and there are only two choices home at night: five pm or five fifteen pm. After that you have to go via Aberdeen. So I’m stuck with the car. I manage to drive up the wobbly ramp and park, and make it into the office with just enough time to realise I have left a crucial folder in the car, but no time to go back and get it. Perfect.