The night was a great success. The north and south brought together with no major hiccups. My old friends joked that I was the new Felicity Kendal – they couldn’t believe I was clucking around with my chickens and galloping around the countryside on my ponies. They were happy for me, genuinely happy for me. Just like real friends should be.
Penelope’s behaviour puzzled me, one minute she was kicking me out of her house and then tonight she resembled a limpet, clinging to my every move and listening to my every word. Penelope was full of herself, introducing herself as my new best friend. I’m not a gambling man – obviously I’m not a man at all – but the odds on this friendship surviving a year weren’t brilliant. In fact it was odds on in my opinion – it just wasn’t going to last.
After lots of drunken laughter, chilli and rice it was time for everyone to vacate the Shack. There was only so much Matt and the dog could take of the conservatory. My friends ordered a taxi and after numerous hugs and a lovely catch-up they headed off towards their hotel. Penelope had ordered a taxi for herself along with Josie and another friend she had invited. On the way out of the door Penelope turned and faced me and thanked me for a wonderful evening.
‘You are the best thing to happen in this village for a long time,’ she gushed.
I felt myself flush. I’m not sure if this was the wine or the embarrassment of the compliment. She said that she was glad she had finally found a genuine friend.
Standing on the doorstep we arranged to walk again the following morning, followed by a quick lunch session because Matt was home to look after the children. I still felt a little sorry for Penelope. She was having a difficult time at home coming to terms with Rupert’s affairs and she was still getting over the fact she didn’t own a flat screen telly. Little Jonny’s Oxford fund was also diminishing fast, as her mother was currently sunning herself on the beaches of Barbados. So I thought it was only fair of me not to judge her mood swings and to be a supportive friend in such difficult times.
As I watched Penelope climbing into the taxi at the bottom of the path my phone rang and flashed with Penelope’s name on the display. Promptly I answered the call but soon realised Penelope must have accidently pressed the buttons on her phone. I was astounded, shocked to the core. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing through the open line. This woman was like Jekyll and Hyde; what the bloody hell happened to change her from the lovely Penelope – my apparent new best friend that had ambled down the path – to the venom-spitting Penelope climbing into the taxi? The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head again, that’s what happened. The taxi pulled away from the curb and I witnessed Josie and her friend sitting on the back seat open-mouthed. They looked speechless. Penelope launched into a vicious verbal attack on me when I wasn’t even there to defend myself.
‘She is a complete liar,’ she proclaimed. ‘She pretends to be someone she isn’t. She doesn’t even own her own horses; she just pretends she does to make herself look important and rich. I can’t believe she stands there claiming she has horses when she doesn’t.’
What was Penelope’s problem? Penelope needed a slap, a bloody hard slap! A slap to knock her into next week, ideally to land on a day beyond Friday so I didn’t have to witness her pathetic weigh-in antics. If she wasn’t careful I was going to be the woman to do it – my northern roots never let me down. So what was I going to do about this? I decided to do absolutely nothing. I didn’t need to explain myself to the likes of her. I knew I had BOUGHT my horses with my own money and I didn’t give a neigh what she thought!
Four
April
Camilla Noland had been pretty quiet of late, which was a blessing in disguise for Penelope. She must have been in arrears on her rent in the parking space she usually occupied outside the school gates because she hadn’t been there for a while.
The only bonus for Camilla’s bearing a child was the monthly collection of her child benefit money. Which it seemed she used to pay to get rid of her kid at every opportunity.
Penelope bleated on about Camilla’s ‘poor daughter’. Rosie was constantly dumped at the before- and after-school clubs, so Camilla could secure some free time for herself.
Biting down on my bottom lip was beginning to become a habit. I wanted to say, ‘She has more time to herself now she isn’t rolling in the hay in the back of her horsebox with your husband,’ but I refrained on this occasion.
Penelope had an opinion on anything and everything and even if you didn’t want to hear it, you got it. Penelope thought it was outrageous that Camilla never attended a school concert or a sports day and usually had to be reminded that she even had a daughter. I did wonder if Penelope would have an opinion of Rupert and Camilla if she knew about their little indiscretion.
I hadn’t really spotted Camilla for a while, that is until she was suddenly standing in front of me in the local chemist. Looking flustered she quickly stuffed some nit lotion into her carrier bag. I could only assume this was for her daughter and about time too as her school class was rife with lice. How did I know this? Well unlike Camilla Noland I did attend Mother’s Day assembly and had witnessed her daughter constantly itching her head. When the school notified us of the nit outbreak Penelope apparently telephoned the local education authority reporting her for neglect. According to her version of events the nits could actually be seen crawling in Rosie’s hair. I wonder if Camilla ever reported Penelope for neglecting Rupert.
Imogen was no longer talking to me. She would now pass me in the playground without even making eye contact.
Each day this did lead to a slightly uncomfortable fifteen minutes in the playground while I dropped off Eva and Samuel but compared to the hour’s walking with Penelope on a daily basis, it was bearable. The joys of the school playground.
I had no real idea why suddenly all communication broke down; my only thoughts were that it was something to do with Penelope. I think Imogen made a conscious decision to stay away when Penelope took up all of my time and to be honest I didn’t make any effort to save the friendship. Imogen was never likely to pass my seven-year rule. I decided not to give her a seat on ‘the bus’ because deep down I did believe she was a decent person.
With all the exercise I’d lost over a stone in weight now and looked hot to trot. Penelope had lost weight too but now had a huge upper body and stick thin legs. A weird body shape like the majority of villains in the animated Pixar movies. Apart from telling me how great Little Jonny was – still no mention of poor Annabel – Penelope’s new pastime was tearing apart Wendy and Annie.
Maybe I’m disillusioned; if Matt was having an affair, why would I blame the other woman, friend or not? My normal way of thinking, not that I am always right of course – although I usually am where Matt is concerned – would be to blame the husband. Rupert has a brain. I’m not quite sure how intelligent he is but he knows the difference between right and wrong. He was a married man and married men shouldn’t be sleeping with other women. Yet he did, it was his decision. In all honesty if I was Rupert married to Penelope, I would probably have had affairs as well. She must have driven him insane. She was driving me mental and I only had to put up with her for an hour a day walking. Not a week went by without her buying a new coat or the latest electronic gadget. She claimed that they never had any money – no bloody wonder with her constant spending. She was so materialistic it was unbelievable.
Penelope fell out with Rupert on her last birthday and didn’t speak to him for two whole days because he bought her an expensive bottle of perfume and flowers. She threw the flowers at him and burst into tears. What was wrong with the woman? Penelope wanted an iPad. She had hinted and hinted for ages. Rupert had noted the hints but thought this was a test to see if he would spend the money and if he did she would make his life hell for being so extravagant. So he didn’t buy her one and she still made his life hell. It was a challenge Rupert was never going to win.
One particularly cold morning in April I was left speechless. It’s no
t very often I’m speechless but on this occasion I was definitely lost for words. The knock on the door in the morning usually meant Penelope was waiting outside ready for our walk. The children were already strapped into the pushchair and waiting patiently. I collected my coat from the cupboard, and headed out the door, straight into the arms of Mr Fletcher-Parker – and I mean STRAIGHT INTO THE ARMS.
He held me in a headlock under his sweaty armpit, completely trapping me.
‘This village is a much better place since you arrived,’ he spluttered and then grasped my face in a tight vice grip, planting his horrible lips onto mine.
This was unexpected and way too touchy-feely for my liking. It was way too anything for my liking. By the time I had caught my breath he had gone. I felt sick. Had I just dreamed that?
I rang Matt immediately, explaining what had happened to make sure I was still on this planet and I hadn’t ventured through a Doctor Who wormhole – whatever one of those is – into another universe without knowing. He was no use whatsoever. I could hear him in hysterics at the end of the phone. He thought it was the funniest thing ever. I wondered how funny he’d find it when I put a stop to his marital rights for a while. A long while.
I scrubbed the insides of my mouth red raw like a mad woman, trying to eliminate Mr Fletcher-Parker’s – from this point now known as Frisky Pensioner or ‘FP’ for short – sterilised milk taste, a taste I recognised from having a cuppa at my gran’s house.
UGH.
I headed out to find Penelope with Matilda and Daisy who were still strapped into the pushchair and probably wondering what all the commotion was about. This definitely wasn’t my morning and hurrying down the path with the pushchair in tow I was hoping not to be jumped upon again. This time I nearly took the ankles off the next door neighbours whilst running slap bang into them with the pram. Luckily for me, I hadn’t clapped eyes on them since the day they nearly drowned my cat. I knew that I should have stayed in bed today.
I hadn’t been thrust through a wormhole – more’s the pity – and I hadn’t imagined Frisky Pensioner’s advance, which was even more of a pity – but the neighbours had witnessed it through their front window and shot right round to the Shack. I sacked Penelope off – she was probably out buying a new coat anyway – and pushing the pram back through the front door I invited the neighbours in for a brew. Plonking the children down in front of the television again I certainly wasn’t going to win any mother of the year award but it would keep them entertained for a while. Inviting the neighbours into the kitchen they sat down at the table whilst I flicked the kettle on and made them a brew.
Then it all came spilling out – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. What they were about to tell me made for very interesting listening.
It turns out I wasn’t the only one Frisky Pensioner had tried to get frisky with. Don and Edna – our next door neighbours – had lived in the village for over forty years, the same length of time as Frisky Pensioner. They had all been good friends until the summer of 1969, when it turned out Frisky Pensioner – known as ‘Filthy Pillock’ back in the day – had taken quite a liking to the number 69. Frisky Pensioner worked the night shift at the factory, which left him skulking around during the day while his wife was putting people behind bars in her day job. Frisky Pensioner thought he was God’s gift to women. He was a flirtatious man and everything that came out of his mouth was an innuendo, a suggestion with a motive.
Don had worked days, leaving Edna at home by herself. One summer’s day in particular it was extremely hot and Edna was lying on the sun lounger in her garden, topping up her tan. She had the feeling that someone was watching her and as she looked up at Frisky Pensioner’s back bedroom window, a shadow appeared to move behind the curtains. It wasn’t unusual for his curtains to be closed while he slept in the afternoon before heading off to work. But Edna was convinced he was up and had been watching her through the gap in the curtains. She told me that this had unnerved her so she moved her sun lounger to a part of the garden which wasn’t overlooked. After a while she removed her bikini top – strap marks weren’t a good look in those days either – and dozed off, with the sun beating down on her. She was suddenly woken by the sound of rustling so she grabbed her top, placed it back on and standing up slowly, convinced she could hear some faint panting. The sound was filtering through from the other side of the fence and was louder towards the middle panel. She crept along the fence line, head bowed and ears tuned in to the sound, slowly homing in. Then she saw it – an eye looking back at her. Frisky Pensioner had been spying on her topless sunbathing through the peep hole in the fence, a manmade hole that he must have drilled on a previous occasion.
This certainly wasn’t the story I had heard from Frisky Pensioner regarding the neighbours’ hostility. The story didn’t stop there. Edna took herself back into the house and clambered into the shower. When she had finished showering she wrapped herself in a towel and returned to the bedroom. She was just about to remove her towel when she suddenly had the feeling of being watched again. She hurried to close the curtains and spotted Frisky Pensioner standing in the garden with his pants around his ankles, exposing himself.
When Don arrived home he didn’t hesitate to march round and give Frisky Pensioner a piece of his mind. They never spoke again. I was so relieved I had confiscated the key from him when I arrived in the village because I may not be a farmer’s wife but I would have definitely chopped it off with a carving knife if he had pulled that trick on me.
At this moment I felt like a complete idiot. Even though Don and Edna had nearly drowned my cat – not quite as bad as my previous cat perishing in the tumble dryer – for which they sincerely apologised, I should have never believed Frisky Pensioner. Not only had he snogged me on my own doorstep, he also had history of peeping through fences and exposing himself. Never judge anyone based on someone else’s opinion; in future I will always remember there are two sides to every story. Not sure what other side there was to the story of Penelope slagging me off in the taxi – only time would tell.
This advance – if that’s what you call it – from Frisky Pensioner happened on a Wednesday. That meant one thing – it was Friday in two days’ time, the day Mr Fletcher-Parker routinely bangs on the door to collect his fresh eggs. I was not looking forward to that; in fact I was dreading it. I thought about moving house quick. I thought about closing all the curtains and pretending someone had died – a bit extreme I know, but there was no way on this earth that Mr Fletcher-Parker was getting near any of my eggs again unless he wanted to end up being scrambled.
Matt had decided it wasn’t hilarious after all; his only hysterics were now regarding not getting his leg over. I thought he would have learnt his lesson by now and would remember that I meant business after I failed to purchase him a chicken when we first arrived in the village.
Thursday morning Matt was up – not literally, due to the sex ban – and out early in the morning. Even the cockerel was fast asleep and hadn’t yet cock-a-doodle-dooed. I couldn’t sleep and ventured downstairs to make myself a brew. I was standing in my kitchen in my nightie, looking out of the aluminium framed kitchen window on to my large garden at 5.30 in the morning hugging a mug of tea, when unexpectedly the back gate flew open and Frisky Pensioner strolled into my garden. What was he doing lurking in my garden at 5.30 in the morning? I was like a rabbit in headlights, rooted to the stone kitchen floor. I was literally frozen to the spot – frozen being the operative word – as after all I was wearing next to nothing. He must have seen Matt leave. He must have been watching. The wicked side of me took over and I considered staying there pretending I hadn’t noticed him and granting him a flash of my chest, which would hopefully result in a heart attack. I certainly wouldn’t be giving him the kiss of life. But no, quickly crouching down, I hid behind the kitchen units, spilling a mug of hot tea all over myself. Well at least that warmed me up. What the clucking hell was he doing in my garden at this time in the morni
ng?
I remained crouched down, peering over my kitchen cupboards trying to see what he was up to. I couldn’t believe I was hiding in my own Shack wearing nothing but a nightie! I tracked him as he sauntered towards the bottom of the garden. I felt like I was playing a game of Twister, placing my hands and feet on the floor in an attempt to manoeuvre myself into a position where I could see him. He suddenly reappeared so I quickly ducked back behind the cupboards. Cupping his hands around his eyes he gawped in through the window – Frisky Pensioner versus the woman in the nightie. I stayed where I was, completely still with my heart pounding in my chest, desperate not to be spotted. Eventually, he pulled away from the glass and strolled straight back out through the gate again. I was fuming. This village life was definitely different from back home. If you entered anyone’s back garden in the early hours of the morning up there, you would be taking your life into your own hands, literally. But round here, the villagers clearly thought your property was open to anyone – at any time. Well not my back garden. My back garden was my back garden. I immediately went to Matt’s tool box – not a euphemism – and screwed – again not a euphemism – a lock onto the back of the gate. That would put a stop to any unwanted early morning garden creepers. I was now freezing, bloody burnt and much drained. I telephoned Matt before I returned to bed. He definitely wasn’t in hysterics this time. In fact he was quite supportive. By the end of the conversation he was hinting that maybe it was time to end the bedroom ban. No chance, I thought, as I returned to bed. I would keep Matt sweating a little while longer! Unfortunately, this was not going to be the last time I saw FP – Frisky Pensioner or Mr Fletcher-Parker – this week.
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 11