by Gil McNeil
He walks off down the drive, and I return to the living room to find Charlie crouched by the window pretending to shoot the doctor in the back as he gets into his car.
Charlie’s first day back at school turns out to be much harder than I’d expected. Loads of parents come over at the school gates to say hello and generally welcome him back. Miss Pike appears and doesn’t seem to mind that Charlie nearly knocks her over with a hug. Suddenly Mrs Harrison-Black looms into view and shouts, ‘Oh there you are, young man. Honestly, you gave us all such a fright. Poor Dr Bennett was besieged with panicking parents. I told them not to be so silly, but you know what people are like. And here you are looking as fit as a fiddle.’
Charlie shrinks behind me and looks nervous, as if he’s being accused of frightening the whole school on purpose. I’m on the verge of telling her to fuck off, despite the long-term consequences of swearing in front of Mixed Infants, when Miss Pike says in her special loud voice, ‘Thank you, Betty. What an unfortunate way to put things. I think what Mrs Harrison-Black is trying to say, Charlie, is that it’s very nice to have you back at school, and we all missed your lovely smile. Now, dear, do you think you could ring the bell for me and be my special helper today?’
There’s a gasp from all the parents standing nearby, as Mrs Harrison-Black is revealed as a Betty. She always signs her PTA letters Mrs Robert Harrison-Black, which is ludicrous, and we always wondered why. Betty is just not the kind of name she would feel was appropriate. I always knew Miss Pike could be lethal when she needed to, but this is a triumph. Mrs Harrison-Black goes bright red and rushes off to her car, and Kate says, ‘Goodbye, Betty,’ to her as she runs past. Marvellous, marvellous.
Charlie bolts off to get the bell, which is normally strictly out of bounds to the under-tens. I’m not sure Miss Pike meant him to ring it for quite so long, or quite so loudly, but she’s smiling as she wrestles it back off him. Everyone smiles indulgently, and lots of parents give their children an extra cuddle before they leave. It’s a bit like that film Truly Madly Deeply where Alan Rickman talks about a little girl who has died. Her parents have put a bench in her favourite playground with a plaque on it which says ‘For Rosie, who used to like to play here’. And every parent who reads it flinches and goes over to their child and holds them very tight for a moment. I’d like to hold Charlie very tight for a moment but he’s off running around in circles. Then he trots into his classroom quite happily, holding Miss Pike’s hand and occasionally hopping.
We’ve agreed that I’ll pick him up at lunchtime because Miss Pike thinks that a full day might be too much for him on his first day back. I find myself close to tears, and Kate puts her arm round me. I can’t quite believe I’m finally back on my own again, without a small child watching my every move. We decide to go back to my house rather than Kate’s, just in case the school rings, so we drive off in convoy and a very emotional hour or so follows while I recount the full saga. But thankfully we soon grow tired of talking about what might have happened and how lucky we all are to have healthy children, and move on to better things: gossip and scandal. We agree we will call Mrs Harrison-Black Betty at every opportunity from now on, and Kate tells me that there was almost a fight at ballet last week when Mrs Bates found that her daughter Sophie had not been picked for a role in the forthcoming show. Sophie dances like a small elephant, and was not deemed suitable for the part of a gladioli. Phoebe is to be a daffodil, but is refusing to wear yellow.
We hate Mrs Bates because she’s bossy, a terrible snob, and sometimes wears a leotard to pick up Sophie, and doesn’t look fat in it. But more importantly she once disparaged a salad Sally made for the school picnic. There have also been dramas at the recent PTA meeting on literacy, when someone pointed out that there were two spelling mistakes on the information leaflet. And the fire drill didn’t go well, as Miss Pike forgot it was a drill and had to have a lie-down in the staff room. And then three boys from Year 6 went missing, and were discovered in the school office trying to ring an Adults Only chatline. Suddenly it’s time to pick up Charlie, and I rush off feeling much happier.
Charlie is furious.
‘Mummy, Miss Pike said I had to do some reading even though I’ve been ill, because my reading is so nice she wanted to hear it.’
‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it, darling, you love reading.’
‘Yes, but I was playing and I was busy.’
‘Well, never mind, you’ll need to get used to being back at school and I’m sure Miss Pike will help you.’
‘Miss Pike is a bugger.’
‘Charlie, you love Miss Pike.’
‘I used to love her, but now I think she’s a bugger.’
‘Stop being silly. Let’s talk about something else. What do you want for lunch? You can have anything you like.’
‘Lobster.’
‘Charlie, stop being silly.’
‘I’m not being silly. I think it will be lovely and just what I need to build up my strength. I feel as weak as a kitten.’
I cannot imagine where he picks these phrases up from. He eventually agrees to cheese and crackers, with butter on but not too thick, and peaches for pudding and we spend the afternoon in a haze of jigsaws and Lego. I opt for an early supper and bath; the pasta is described as disgusting muck but turns out to be edible if there is chocolate cake for pudding. I made the cake during the afternoon, to get away from all the Lego. Actually I think I’m developing an allergy to Lego: every time I see piles of it all over the floor I feel an overwhelming desire to tip it all into the bin. The cake has turned out, as usual, rather flat and not at all like the picture in the book. Maybe Delia is less tense than I am, and does not have to dodge quite so much Lego. Charlie eats it, but asks if we can have a proper cake next time, from a shop.
I finally get him into bed at seven thirty, although it feels like midnight, and I read bloody annoying baby books for the umpteenth time. He’s rediscovered them all and wants them read to him again and again. He pretends to snort with derision at the baby-style plots and the endless repetition of phrases like ‘I love you, Little Bear’, but actually he adores them. He falls asleep and I lie watching him. I realise that I really do love him more than life itself, and never really understood what that phrase meant before. It’s all very gratifying, but I also realise I’m on the verge of getting cramp, have to face the supermarket tomorrow and must see about getting some work soon or my bank manager will have a heart attack.
Barney rings, and announces that it looks like the job with the flying piano might be happening, and if I feel up to it he’d like me to come in on Friday and run through it with him. He doesn’t want Lawrence to do the job because he’s bound to panic.
‘I mean, you know what he’s like. I think the combination of the piano and the pool is just going to be too much for him.’
‘What pool?’
‘Well, I’ve worked on the script a bit. Now the piano comes down the stairs chasing the waiter and then they both end up in a swimming pool.’
‘Barney, you’ve got to be kidding. It’ll be a nightmare.’
‘Yes, very probably. But great fun, and I think I’ve worked out a way to do it. Well, almost, and I’ll make up the rest as we go along.’
‘Oh, so that’ll be a nice change then.’
Friday morning, and Edna arrives to look after Charlie. She’s been itching to get her hands on Charlie and start feeding him up, and has come round every day to see her boy. In fact she and Mum have developed a sort of vaguely competitive home-baking routine. I get into the office and realise that this job is going to be horrendous. But it will also involve at least three days in the studio, which will cheer up the bank manager enormously. Lawrence tries to be nice and asks about Charlie, but soon reverts to his normal behaviour and gets very snippy when I turn my desk round so it’s no longer facing the wall in the darkest corner. He says this ruins his entire redesign of the office and is getting very agitated, when Barney comes downstairs and stands behind
him making faces. Lawrence finally works out what’s going on, and goes off in a huff for lunch and doesn’t come back until five. Barney has another meeting tomorrow with the agency for the piano job and says he’ll let me know if we get the go-ahead so I can start booking everything. He reckons we’re sure to get it because he’s heard no one else is up for it, as they all think it’s impossible. This has naturally encouraged Barney no end, and he keeps doing drawings of the set which no one can understand. He is interviewing stuntmen, who are all mad, and has asked me twice if I know how to scuba dive.
Mack comes down for tea on Sunday, which goes fairly well, although hideous tension mounts over the fate of the last KitKat. I must try to remember to never ever buy a pack of six of anything when there are five people for tea, and three of them are children. I try to make out that I don’t want my KitKat, but this is overruled as an obvious lie and anyway Mack has already eaten his so that still leaves one child KitKat free. Mack suggests Charlie should have it because he’s not been very well. Charlie thinks this is an excellent plan, but Alfie looks close to tears so I come up with a compromise and cut it up into three pieces, with the children watching very, very closely to see each bit is the same size. The result is declared acceptable by the panel and peace is restored. I attempt a bit of bonding with Daisy and tell her that I think her pink shirt is very pretty. She’s pleased and says her mummy has got one too, just the same. But then she adds that she doesn’t think they do them big enough for me, just in case I was wondering.
The children watch a video after tea, and Mack and I try to work out when we can meet next.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could get up to town, is there?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘I’m sure he’d be OK, you know.’
‘Yes, so am I. But I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Mack, but I’m just not up to leaving him at the moment. Maybe in a few more weeks. I mean, I’m going to be working and everything; I’ll be away enough as it is.’
‘I know. I just want a bit of time with you on our own. Maybe we could get a weekend away before Christmas?’
‘Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.’
I can tell he’s not very happy about this, and thinks I might be being just a little bit too fussy. But he’s trying really hard not to show it.
‘I know this isn’t ideal, Mack. But I’m going to need time to get over this, and so is Charlie.’
‘Of course you are, don’t be daft. Look, forget I said anything, it’s fine. I’ll come down here, there’s no problem.’ He puts his arms round me and we are just about to kiss when Daisy thunders in. She’s furious because Alfie has said that he’ll be sitting in the front of the car on the way home, because Daddy has promised he can, even though it’s her turn.
Mack looks panic-stricken and it appears he has indeed promised both children that they can sit in the front on the journey home. Daft bugger. A small riot erupts and Charlie joins in with great gusto, saying he wants to sit in the front, even though he’s not actually going in the car. I suggest that they stop halfway and swap over; eventually they accept this and Mack looks eternally grateful as he drives off. Charlie promptly bursts into tears and says he wanted to go too, and sit in the front all the way, and he wants another KitKat. It takes me half an hour to calm him down, two satsumas and lots of back-stroking. He falls asleep in my arms, and I am pinned to the sofa and can’t move. I finally struggle to my feet and get him upstairs and into bed. I’m so exhausted I go straight to bed myself, and then get woken up by Mack ringing. He tells me that the seat-swapping plan was not entirely successful, because Alfie refused to swap and clung on to the car door and had to be dragged out. Daisy was furious and wanted Alfie to be made to spend the rest of the journey in the boot. But they’re now both asleep in his bed, looking angelic.
‘The only problem is I’m far too knackered to go to bed and wrestle with them both for a bit of duvet.’
‘What about going in the spare bed?’
‘I tried that last time. The little bastards climbed in during the night, and it’s half the size of my bed. Actually I was thinking about the top bunk. I reckon that’d fool them.’
‘Good plan. But be careful. Last time I slept in a top bunk I nearly killed myself falling out in the middle of the night. Kate and I took the kids on a narrow boat for the weekend. It was hell.’
‘I bet. What on earth possessed you to do that?’
‘Well, it looked like fun in the brochure, and Kate loves boats. Or at least she thought she did before we went. But it rained, the kids all got diarrhoea and there were millions of midges. The only thing we could find to stop them biting us was Phoebe’s face paints. We all looked like something out of Apocalypse Now. All we needed was old Marlon saying “The horror, the horror” every twenty minutes.’
‘Sounds unforgettable.’
‘Oh it was magic, believe me. Now if you don’t mind I’d like to get back to sleep. Off you go and clamber into your bunk, tie yourself to the rail by your socks and lift up the ladder. You can ring me tomorrow and tell me if it works.’
Charlie is not keen on going to school in the morning, and it takes breakfast with Buzz and Woody, and the promise of a special cake for tea – a ‘proper’ shop one – to get him into the car. Then Ted turns up on his milk-float and blocks the drive, and Charlie bolts out of the car and begs for a lift to school on the back of his float. Ted looks like he might agree, so I have to swiftly intervene and claim it is illegal. This prompts a long complicated conversation about whether it might be possible to report the Government to the United Nations, or failing that Blue Peter, for its flagrant breach of human rights in banning children from riding on milk-floats.
I spend the entire day trying to book people and equipment for the piano job, but only provisionally because we still don’t have a firm date. I pick up Charlie from school and drive home via the local petrol station. It’s a tiny little place with only two pumps, which I usually avoid as the old lady on the till is not keen on credit cards because she can’t work the machine. I pull the lever inside the car to release the petrol flap, and it flies open rather more energetically than usual. In fact it flies right off its hinges. I finally get it back on, but it will not shut, and hangs off the hinges looking pathetic, and makes a terrible grinding noise when I try to shut it. The old lady comes out to help, and gives it a terrific whack which forces it closed. But I feel certain this is only temporary. I wonder if the AA would come out for a recalcitrant petrol flap. But I reckon this is probably not what they had in mind when they decided to call themselves the fourth emergency service. Although from Kate’s recent experiences with them, where they took two hours to arrive and tell her they don’t fix punctures before driving off and leaving her stranded in torrential rain, I’m not quite sure what they do mean.
I decide I’d better go to the garage which services the car, and drive along with visions of the petrol cap flying off and injuring a passing motorcyclist, who then crashes into the back of the car and ignites the petrol tank, which turns us all into toast. Charlie senses all is not well.
‘Is this an emergency, Mummy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why can’t we go home then?’
‘Look, it’s not an emergency but we need to get it fixed.’
‘So it is a sort of emergency then. Good. Bugger, fuck, bastard, sod. You said you could only say swear words in an emergency, so I’ve said them. I’ve got a new word too – do you want to hear it?’
‘No.’
‘Twat.’
‘Charlie!’
‘That’s my new word. I think it’s a sort of twit mixed in with bottom.’
‘Right. Now, don’t say it again. It’s not that sort of emergency. In fact it’s not an emergency at all. You’re being very silly.’
He glares at me, and refuses to get out of the car when we arrive at the garage. I run into the service department and shout, ‘My flap won’t shut,’ while looking over my shoulder
to make sure Charlie has not got out of the car and sneaked off to play in the car wash. I realise with hindsight that yelling ‘My flap won’t shut’ to a room full of bored motor mechanics was not a very good idea. Once they stop laughing they all wander out and tut and shake their heads, and say the entire car will have to be resprayed, and the job will take months and cost a fortune. I tell them to stop buggering about or I will let Charlie out of the car, and he’s tired and hungry and due a major tantrum at any moment. Miraculously they decide that one man with a small screwdriver should be able to manage, and the flap is rehoused on its hinges, squirted with oil, and pops open and shut again as if nothing had happened. I thank them profusely and get my purse out to pay them, but they say, ‘Oh no need for that, it’s all part of the service,’ whilst giving Charlie doubtful looks as he’s opened his door and is yelling, ‘I am hungry, I am hungry,’ at the top of his voice. I tell him to shut up, thank the mechanics and get back into the car.
Charlie and I scream at each other for ten minutes, and then move on to an endless debate as to what might be available for tea. We finally get home and I park the car, and Charlie gets out and slams his door very hard. The petrol flap shoots open, hovers for a moment, and then falls into the flowerbed. I ring the garage and speak to one of the mechanics we met earlier and book the car in for tomorrow morning. Make supper in a very bad temper, and manage to burn my hand draining the pasta. I sulk for a bit, but Charlie doesn’t notice, so I end up whining about my sore hand until he makes a fuss and then I feel guilty for being so pathetic. Bathtime goes on for ever but I finally get him into bed and settle down with a gin and tonic, and promptly fall asleep. The phone wakes me up at around midnight, and the sound of an animal in distress on the other end of the line makes me sit bolt upright and wonder if it’s some sort of weird agricultural crank caller. Eventually Leila emerges from the wailing and says she and James have split up, and she wants to die. Or kill James and then die. It takes me about twenty minutes to get her to stop sobbing, and then a more or less coherent story begins to unravel.