I held out my hand and reluctantly, unhooking the key from his caravan club key ring, he placed the key back into my hand.
‘Thank you,’ I said earnestly.
With a nod of his head he turned and shuffled back down the corridor, one key worse off than he had been when he arrived.
The snow had continued to fall thick and fast and the older two children were starting their new school the following day. Understandably they were a little unsettled and nervous. I laid their new red uniforms out on the floor ready for the morning and set the alarm clock for an early morning call. Hopefully some sort of normality would be restored by the time they returned home from school tomorrow, the removal men would have delivered the rest of the furniture and Matt would be here.
The next morning I woke up to the shrill sound of the alarm and for a moment couldn’t quite remember where I was. Surprisingly I had slept like a log. Opening the curtains I admired the blanket of snow covering the never-ending fields in front of the Shack. The sheep were difficult to spot as they blended in but their dark eyes stared balefully back at me.
So this was it, the first day at their new schools for the two older children. Eva and Samuel were very nervous whilst getting dressed into their uniforms and by the time they were standing in their class line for the first time they looked incredibly anxious. Understandably everyone was staring at them, pointing and whispering, wondering who the new kids were. The school bell rang and the lines of children began to filter into the building. I gave them a kiss, ruffled their hair and headed for the gate. I looked back and caught a final glimpse of their faces as they disappeared inside – they looked at me as though I had abandoned them in the lion’s den.
I was in need of a few supplies and headed up the high street to check out the local shops. Pulling the double buggy backwards through the slushy grey snow on the pavements, Matilda and Daisy took in the new view all around them. Manoeuvring the double buggy through the door of the local butcher’s shop was a struggle and immediately there was silence and all eyes were on me. There were four women standing at the counter. The first lady nudged the second lady who nudged the third and so on. If they were dominoes they would have all fallen flat on their faces.
I had no absolute clue why they were staring at me in this way.
My northern roots were just about to get the better of me so I counted to ten and pressed my lips hard together to ensure a flippant remark didn’t escape from my mouth then I asked for a pound of back bacon and four faggots. I didn’t have a clue what faggots were but I’d overheard the woman at the front of the queue order a couple as I walked in so I thought I would give them a try.
The second lady in the queue was trying to whisper but certainly wasn’t making a very good job of it.
‘That’s her, you know that’s her. She looks a lot younger than I expected.’
I actually wondered what my crime was. All I wanted was a piece of meat for tea. The kind butcher intervened.
‘Good morning,’ he piped up. ‘How are you settling in? Did the kids get off to school OK? What time are the removal men arriving?’
Standing back in surprise my mouth fell open.
Did everyone know everything in this village? He carried on, addressing the small crowd in the butcher’s shop.
‘This is the young lady who has moved into the headmaster’s house overlooking the valley.’
I did want to make it absolutely clear I hadn’t moved in with the headmaster but for the second time in my life I was genuinely speechless. The first time was when Mrs High School Musical turned up at parents’ evening wearing her fishnet stockings and a mini skirt, her ploy clearly to impress the male teacher so he would promote little Troy on to higher level reading book. Goodness knows what that woman would do to move little Troy on to free reading? Everyone in the queue was eyeing me suspiciously. One lady spoke; she must have been the gutsy one as she spilled out the question they all wanted the answer to.
‘How many children did you say you have?’ she enquired.
‘I didn’t,’ I replied.
‘Is it three?’ she continued.
‘No I have four.’
‘All the same father?’
‘Of course all the same father.’
She gave an approving nod to the rest of the queue.
‘That’s unheard of these days,’ she muttered as she turned her back to me and proceeded to order some sliced tongue.
This was supposed to be the good life. The heating was broken, we were squeezing ourselves into the Shack and the orange and brown swirly carpets were giving me blinding headaches. There was nothing good about it so far.
Tossing the faggots into the net basket underneath the buggy I dragged the pram a little further along the slushy pavements towards the post office. On a Monday morning, it turned out, this was not a good idea. The coffin dodgers were out in full force, queuing up for their pensions. It appeared that this was their weekly outing when they stood in the queue and had a general chit-chat about absolutely nothing.
A couple of excited pensioners stood before me and I had no choice but to listen into their conversation. They were excited that Pearl appeared to be missing from the queue – according to them this usually meant there was a possibility that she had passed away.
This was a positive outcome for them and the rest of the queue-dwellers usually because it meant they had a funeral to look forward to, which generally included free food and drink at the wake. ‘Rent-a-mourner’ sprang to mind.
I glanced over to a couple of women chatting to the side of me, who were perusing through the paltry birthday card assortment. Hearing the postmaster shout ‘Camilla Noland’, the woman next to me immediately looked over, waving in acknowledgement when she realised she had forgotten her book of stamps at the counter. I watched her plod over to the counter and back again to carry on her conversation with her friend.
Camilla Noland was not an inch over five foot three. Her hair was ginger and she was well-groomed with a blunt fridge in a bob; she definitely had a look of Janice Battersby about her. It was difficult to tell her age but my guess would be probably late thirties. Her leathery tanned skin aged her, making her appear older than her years, and was probably down to the overuse of sunbeds.
I didn’t need to be a detective to identify that Camilla more than likely owned horses. It was clear she was a woman with determination, squeezing into her size 12 jodhpurs when clearly she was nearer a size 16. She was what I would class as a big unit, substantial rear-end probably a dead ringer for the Welsh cob she more than likely owned. Her matching navy blue quilted jacket topped off her outfit to perfection.
The queue was moving slowly. Inching the buggy forward, and being careful not to clip the ankles of the customer in front, I could now hear Camilla’s conversation clearer.
The pair of women were gossiping about a child-minder who allegedly spent most of her day playing games on her phone, updating her Facebook status and chain-smoking whilst ignoring Camilla’s child, Rosie, who she was paid to look after her.
Camilla was shooting from the hip, she was taking no prisoners, and continued to tear into the reputation of the child-minder, Penelope Kensington. According to her version of events Penelope had ruined a brand new pair of Rosie’s trainers and Camilla was furious, she was going to demand that Penelope replaced the trainers or refunded her back the cost.
The woman she was talking to seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, her eyes were glazed over and she occasionally responded by tipping her head from side to side like a puppy waiting for a treat. When I finally escaped from the post office I tried to establish on a scale of one to ten who was worse; Camilla Noland or Mrs High School Musical? Chuckling to myself I couldn’t decide so I made an executive decision, I allocated them both the first two seats on my bus, the bus to be driven over the cliff never to darken my door again. There were eight seats remaining.
The day flew by without any hiccups and it was already ap
proaching school pick-up time.
Matilda and Daisy were participating in an afternoon sleep but I managed to lift the pair of them gently and strapped them safely into their car seats without a murmur from either of them.
Eva and Samuel had been on my mind all day and I was anxious to collect them both and listen to their exciting tales of their first day at their new school. The school wasn’t too far away but with the children still asleep my plan was to park as near to the school as possible and let them snooze a little while longer before the school bell rang.
Driving slowly past the school gates my eyes were rapidly searching up and down the road trying to locate a convenient parking space. Quickly indicating to the left I couldn’t believe my eyes: as luck would have it there was a vacant space straight outside the school gates. Quickly pulling the car into the empty space I parked the car.
Resting my head against the back of the seat I closed my eyes for a couple of minutes. Then feeling my head tilt forward I shuffled down in my seat and leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes again.
I must have dozed off for a moment and with only a few minutes to spare before the bell sounded I quickly bolted upright. In super-fast speed I strapped the children into the double buggy and eagerly pushed them through the school gates to wait for Eva and Samuel.
Standing at the back of the playground I closely observed all the doors because I wasn’t sure which ones Eva and Samuel would escape from.
I was alerted to a group of mothers that were standing in front of me, they appeared quite agitated. One mother in particular was hopping from foot to foot, her arms folded across her chest and was continuously looking in my direction. There was no mistaking the disgruntled look on her angered face. I glanced behind me to catch a glimpse of who she was staring at but there was no-one standing behind me.
How very strange.
Intrigued, I watched the woman from afar, her shoulders were raised, her chest thrust forward and she was nearly hyperventilating. I wasn’t sure if I should go over and suggest she take deep breaths or ask her friends to call an ambulance but the group of mothers didn’t seem concerned or look that friendly so I made my decision it would be best to let her collapse on the spot if needs must.
Their mutterings were becoming louder and now the whole group were staring at me from over their shoulders with raised eyebrows. I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable and my nutter radar started beeping incessantly in my head but I knew they couldn’t be looking at me. All I had done in the last ten minutes was park my car. I looked around for reassurance but there was nothing from anyone, just stares of resentment.
Straining my ears to listen, the only words I could identify were ‘Penelope’ and ‘parking space’. This was the second time today I’d heard the name Penelope; I wasn’t sure which of the mothers she was or maybe she wasn’t here. I watched the woman with the disgruntled look on her face turn around and prance off down the playground in her skinny jeans and Ugg boots but not before she glanced back over her shoulder in my direction one last time. She had definitely been under the surgeon’s knife; there was no mistaking that her chest was artificially constructed and her wrinkle free forehead suggested her dabble with Botox.
I was beginning to realise this village life wasn’t quite what I expected and everyone seemed to be well and truly into everyone else’s business. This Playground Mafia were even more high maintenance than the ones I had left behind if muttering over a car park space was the norm. I considered giving this Botox Bernie – with her artificial chest and disgruntled wrinkle free face – a seat on my bus. I couldn’t believe I had lived in the village for less than a few days and already had three candidates for the bus. I would need a double decker at this rate.
Camilla Noland was cutting it fine when she arrived at the school. I watched her saunter up the playground towards the group of displeased mothers that were still muttering amongst themselves. This woman seemed familiar to me and since I noticed her this morning in the post office I had racked my brains all day to why.
Suddenly it dawned on me. One afternoon a month or so ago, Matt and I had arrived in the village to view the Shack for a second time and make a visit to the local school. Before heading back up north we stopped by at a quaint pub on the outskirts of Tattersfield for lunch.
Realising that’s where I’d seen her before, I remembered that Camilla also had a lunch date that day in the very same pub. She was seated at the table next to us. The man Camilla had been dining with was built like a string bean, very tall and very skinny with overgrown messy blonde hair that hid his unusually long ears. I remembered him because Matt had made me laugh when he commented that he was the spitting image of one of those Quentin Blake illustrations from the Roald Dahl books.
That lunchtime in the pub the two of them were very cosy, very cosy indeed. They had situated themselves right in the far corner of the pub, their legs were entwined under the table and they were holding hands, looking deep into each other’s eyes. Camilla was constantly tutting because the man’s phone was repetitively beeping with text messages – they were coming through thick and fast. The phone was lying on the table next to the man and every time it beeped he strained his neck to read the display.
‘It’s her again.’
‘What does she want now?’ Camilla gave the man a withering glance.
Removing his hand from Camilla’s grasp the man buried his head into his hands. The beeping continued.
Matt and I looked on in amusement.
‘Have you seen the size of her to him?’ Matt whispered over to me with a chuckle.
Sneaking a glance over at the pair of them I knew exactly what Matt was thinking.
‘Behave! They will hear you.’
Camilla at the time was dressed in horsey attire, riding boots, jodhpurs and the same quilted navy blue jacket she had been wearing in the post office.
‘She must ride him like a bucking bronco. Quick, check his legs for any marks, do you think she uses a riding crop on him?’ Matt hooted loudly.
‘Stop it, stop laughing,’ I hissed. ‘They will notice us.’
Looking over in their direction, Camilla and her lunch guest were glaring at us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I spluttered apologetically. My face blushing from embarrassment. Kicking Matt under the table I raised my eyebrows at him.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll rein it in!’ he chortled.
Casting my mind back, I had been mesmerised by Camilla and her gentleman friend. Matt had wandered over to the bar to order our food then disappeared off to use the loo. I pretended to be preoccupied with my phone but their conversation was proving to be more interesting than my Facebook feed.
‘Penelope wants to know where I am,’ the man whispered to Camilla.
‘Where does she think you are?’
‘I’m not sure but she is asking some very awkward questions, the texts are coming through thick and fast.’
Camilla leaned forward and looked down at the message on the phone.
‘What am I going to say?’ he asked with genuine concern written all over his face.
‘You aren’t going to say anything, we are going to enjoy our lunch without your wife disturbing our precious time again,’ Camilla responded loudly, clearly annoyed.
Listening into the conversation I rapidly concluded that they must be having an affair.
Quickly tapping on my phone I sent Matt a text message. ‘The couple at the table next to us are having an affair!’
Matt had been a while now and I knew exactly what he was up to – he was sitting on the toilet playing with his phone and trying to secure the next level of Candy crush. It didn’t matter as there was plenty to amuse me at the table next door.
‘I do know Penelope is getting a little suspicious; she does think you may be having an affair.’
‘What? How do you know that? Why haven’t you told me?’ The man was clearly agitated.
‘Sshh keep your voice down, someone migh
t hear you.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s all under control,’ Camilla reassured him. ‘Penelope is my friend and she confides in me. I’m cleverly keeping her off the scent, she has no idea.’ She smirked with satisfaction.
The little minx, I thought to myself whilst sending Matt another text to get his backside off the toilet because the food had just arrived.
‘Remember that dalliance you had with the farmer’s wife?’ Camilla mused, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You didn’t get busted then, did you? I saved your neck that time too.’
From their mutterings I surmised that this wasn’t the man’s first affair.
A smug smile spread across the man’s face, he must have cast his mind back to the incident whilst Camilla continued whispering over the table. Little did she know I could hear every word.
They upped and left the table just as Matt finally returned.
‘Did I miss something? I just got your text.’
‘Miss something, miss something? Those pair were having an affair and it’s not his first one! Apparently the man had an affair with a farmer’s wife and was discovered by the farmer when he returned home to find that man sat there “at it” on the kitchen table. No doubt the farmer wanted to cut off his tail with a carving knife but instead filled his trailer and dumped two tonnes of fresh horse manure onto the man’s drive at home. That woman sat opposite had saved his skin by occupying his wife whilst her own husband helped to shift the manure.’
‘And now she is having an affair with him?’ Matt enquired.
‘It appears that way and it sounds like her husband must know him too … what tangled webs they weave and the wife was none the wiser!’
Finally hearing the school bell ring I shook myself out of my reverie. The children started to filter out to the playground from their classrooms. Pushing the pram across the yard I made my way towards the furthest door. I wanted a quick update from Eva and Samuel’s teacher to check how they had coped with their first day at school. I spotted Botox Bernie again; she had now accosted another group of mothers who had gathered around the netball posts. She was spouting on about her latest shopping spree and the purchase of a designer coat that cost her in the region of £400. I suppose it made a change from the relentless reading book conversations at the last school. This group of mothers appeared not to be entertaining her self-indulgent ways and after a few eye rolls the group soon dispersed, leaving her standing on her own.
A Year in the Life of a Playground Mother: A laugh-out-loud funny novel about life at the School Gates (A School Gates Comedy Book 1) Page 4