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)

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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 13

by Christie Barlow


  My decorum and self-control were slowly departing and staring at Penelope I asked her to explain herself. She was sitting in my Shack, eating my home-cooked pie, drinking my sherry – well Wendy’s technically – and slating my son. Penelope needed a reality check. If Little Jonny was such a fantastic footballer, why hadn’t he been scouted by one of the big clubs? I let Penelope dig her hole a little deeper while I sobered up quickly, listening intently to her every word to ensure she didn’t defame any more of my children. I wanted to knock her over the head with a blunt instrument, any heavy object that was close to hand would do.

  Penelope lived on a different planet. She had now moved on to Little Jonny’s intelligence. Little Jonny was going to set the world on fire. The only time Little Jonny would be setting the world on fire was if he grew up to be an arsonist – or dropped a fag butt under the local Scout hut and accidentally burned it down. Or would Little Jonny end up being a cheating bastard like his father after marrying someone like his mother? I cruelly imagined Little Jonny getting Annie’s daughter up the duff in the future years. It was a known fact that Penelope was already planning different high schools to Annie’s kids, as heaven forbid they were educated at the same establishment. I rolled my eyes at Matt.

  Matt tried his best throughout this torture to engage Rupert in conversation, any conversation that wasn’t about the children. To be precise any conversation that wasn’t about Little Jonny. I did contemplate putting a Little Jonny swear box in the middle of the table. I would have been quids in by now if I had. Matt steered the chat on to cars.

  ‘Cracking car you have, Rupert. How long have you had that beauty?’ he asked.

  Rupert looked relieved and his face beamed as he told us of the proud day he went to pick up the car.

  I sat back wondering where this conversation was heading, knowing full well that Rupert had had Annie in tow when he went to collect his new car.

  I kicked Matt under the table and mouthed, ‘Change the subject,’ but there was no stopping Rupert, he was in full throttle.

  The excitement on Rupert’s face was clearly visible, reminiscing about the day ‘they’ went to collect his pride and joy. The copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed had loosened his tongue a little too much and stopped him in his tracks when the word ‘they’ left his mouth. He knew full well he had practically ordered Penelope that day to attend a children’s birthday party with both children so he could share that moment with Annie.

  Unfortunately for him Penelope was hanging off his every word and clocked the word ‘they’ as soon as it left Rupert’s mouth.

  ‘Cake, anyone?’ I piped up, quickly trying to diffuse the situation but by that point it was too late. Rupert had had his cake and eaten it that day and most probably on the back seat of his new car.

  If tonight’s experience was anything to go by, it really wasn’t a million dollar question why Rupert had affairs. I didn’t need to ask the audience or phone a friend. Even the Playground Mafia knew the answer to that question as it was allegedly discussed at length at the last Petty Tedious Army meeting. If you need to know anything about anyone, just sit next to Botox Bernie at a PTA meeting. Let’s be honest here, the time at these meetings isn’t spent discussing fundraising for the school, the time is spent gossiping about whose husband or wife was having an affair with who.

  The night concluded with The Verve’s ‘Lucky Man’ blasting out from the iPod. Penelope turned to Rupert and curtly reminded him this was his song. He was the lucky man being married to her. I couldn’t work out if Rupert had developed a nervous twitch or if he was simply rolling his eyes in our direction. I didn’t think Rupert was a lucky man. I thought he should have escaped from the marriage a long time ago.

  From that moment I decided I quite liked Rupert. His behaviour and demeanour suggested he was a man up for a laugh, he was a joker, and Penelope squashed his personality. Where she was concerned he never laughed and who could blame him, being stuck with her since the age of eighteen. The poor bloke had had enough.

  And on that final note I raised my glass to a lovely evening and toasted Wendy for donating the bottle that helped the evening along.

  Penelope and Rupert left shortly after the cake.

  ‘I’ll see you Monday morning for our walk,’ announced Penelope.

  We shut the front door behind them just in time for our giggles not to be heard.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his slippers tonight,’ said Matt.

  ‘And I’m glad I’m not in the back seat of his car or honking his horn,’ I replied.

  The Lucky Man was definitely in for a long night.

  Five

  May

  On Monday morning I was greeted by an eager and enthusiastic Penelope. She had a plan. I like a good plan but joining Penelope for a coffee in the local cafe after our walk didn’t seem like much of a plan to me.

  We began our walk on the usual route along the main road of the village. Anyone that passed us in the car couldn’t miss us. We wore the same coats, same shoes and, as of this morning, now carried the same bags. Penelope couldn’t thank me enough for Saturday night. She gushed about how well everything had gone. I was beginning to doubt we were even at the same dinner.

  A small, black bubble car raced past us and beeped. I glanced up but didn’t recognise the vehicle.

  ‘I don’t recognise that car,’ I muttered. ‘They must like your new bag.’

  Penelope didn’t cotton on to my sarcastic tone. I loved my bag. I had never seen another one like it until now. Penelope must have trawled the Internet for weeks trying to find a matching bag.

  ‘That was Rupert,’ she replied.

  ‘What was Rupert?’

  ‘In that black car.’

  I had to assume he was driving a courtesy car and maybe his mean machine had recently seen too much action. It was probably due a service or an MOT.

  ‘Is his in the garage then? I’m surprised Rupert can fit in that car, he looks way too tall,’ I babbled on.

  My phone beeped announcing the arrival of a text message from Matt. Matt is a busy man and never usually texts me during his working day; according to him there is money to be made in his business world. I knew it must be important.

  DO NOT MENTION RUPERTS NEW CAR X, it read.

  I couldn’t remember any mention of Rupert buying a new car less than forty-eight hours ago when they were sitting around my patio table eating my pie. The ample amounts of alcohol must have clearly been more intoxicating than I recalled because I didn’t remember a thing about Rupert buying a new car.

  ‘It’s his new car,’ spluttered Penelope.

  Her face was that blotchy shade of red again and I was lost for words. According to Matt I wasn’t to mention it but it was already too late.

  Fumbling with my phone I quickly typed a message back to Matt.

  I have just seen Rupert in a ridiculous small black bubble car! What is going on??!!! (SHOUTY CAPITALS ARE NOT NEEDED) X

  Beep…

  PENELOPE HAS MADE HIM SELL HIS PRIDE AND JOY! ANNIE WAS THE FIRST ONE TO HAVE A RIDE IN THE SPORTS CAR. LITERALLY! SORRY FOR CAPS, PHONE PLAYING UP X

  Trying to hold on to my laughter I bit the inside of my cheeks and pretended to have a coughing fit.

  Penelope glared at me.

  ‘Sorry I don’t know what’s come over me. Was the new car an impulsive buy? I wouldn’t have Rupert down as a bubble car man?’ I feebly spoke.

  After it came to light that the attractive Annie had accompanied Rupert on his first drive in his new sports car, Penelope had given him twenty-four hours to dispose of the car – together with his private number plate – or she would dispose of him. Rupert was gutted and heartbroken when he chugged off in his pride and joy, complete with heated leather seats and firm suspension, to webuyanycar.com. On his way to the local branch he switched on the stereo and for the second time in forty-eight hours heard ‘Lucky Man’ blasting out. There was nothing lucky about Rupert; he was under no illusio
ns about that. Rupert’s instructions were to return with a car that wasn’t a status symbol and wouldn’t attract women. I personally thought he would be better suited to a scooter; he wouldn’t be able to give anyone a ‘backie’ on one of those without being spotted! In all honesty his new bubble car did fit the criteria she had given him – you couldn’t argue with that. According to Penelope, there was no way Annie would recognise this car around the village. I begged to differ as the new car was hilarious. Eat your heart out, Mr Bean! Little Jonny would be a laughing stock when his mates clocked the new car. I felt sorry for Rupert again. He had worked hard for the sports car. It was the only thing that was his.

  After the walk and a quick change of clothes we ventured into the local town for coffee. I don’t even drink coffee but I went along as I felt responsible for Matt changing the conversation to cars on Saturday night. Penelope was feeling better since the car was removed from her life. I wanted to enquire when the house would be going up for sale. Rupert and Annie had spent many a children’s party entertaining themselves while Penelope was off hob-nobbing with the PTA mothers at school. But let’s face it; it wasn’t my problem. Approaching the local shops I quickly changed the subject.

  ‘Lovely bag that, Penelope. Where did you get that from?’ I enquired.

  I wanted to nip into Home Bargains, which was on our way to the coffee shop, for some toiletries. Penelope reluctantly followed me in.

  ‘TART,’ Penelope suddenly shouted at the top of her voice. ‘You TART.’

  There was no need to call me a tart, everyone who knew me knew I wasn’t a tart, I was a one-man woman and my clothes were certainly on the conservative side.

  I was just about to protest when Penelope suddenly raced off like the Bionic Woman.

  ‘TART,’ she continued screaming.

  Everyone stopped and watched her as she bounded past the fellow shoppers like a wounded gazelle. They were all thanking their lucky stars she wasn’t shouting at them.

  Then I spotted her. She was standing in a pretty, bright-coloured summer dress weighing up this week’s special offers on cat food. She had slim, toned, tanned calves and as she reached up to one of the higher shelves, her dress lifted slightly to reveal a recurring theme – she had amazing thighs too. Again, I could see why Rupert had named her ‘Hot Legs’.

  To be honest, if I was gay I probably wouldn’t have said ‘No’. Rupert must have thought he had the winning poker hand when he’d first met her but this was perhaps not the time to bring that up in conversation. I’m pretty sure no-one was interested in anything I had to say at this moment anyway.

  So there I was, standing in Home Bargains in my mid-thirties – and let’s just get this straight, this was not on my list of things to do before I was forty – watching Penelope push Annie into the shelf of cat litter which was now spilling all over the floor. This gave a whole new meaning to cat fighting.

  Annie was now face down in the bargain bucket of the cheap, own-brand cat food. The bystanders started to gather round them in a semi-circle which reminded me of my high school days and the kids gathering round in a similar fashion whenever a scrap broke out on the school field. Well there was only one thing for it; I squeezed through the crowd, leaned across the bodies on the floor, bent down and picked up some reduced cat biscuits and carried on walking, pretending I didn’t know either of them. I suppose technically I didn’t know either of them. I just had the unfortunate pleasure of walking with one of them on a daily basis and allegedly the other one was a tart.

  Apart from the fracas in Home Bargains, the week was pretty quiet until Thursday when my eyes were opened to the wicked ways of the Playground Mafia and a way of making money out of other poor mothers without them even knowing.

  The scheme was very clever and rewarding and identifying the victim took a genius but somehow Penelope had got it down to a fine art. When I witnessed it happen, I naively thought she was being friendly and paying someone a compliment. How wrong was I?

  It was quite a chilly Thursday afternoon. The school bell rang and all the children ran out to greet their mothers, still wrapped up in their winter coats. However, you got the feeling that the weather was about to get warmer and the days of wearing these bulky coats would soon come to an end.

  Penelope identified her victim as he ran to the arms of his mother. She wandered over and positioned herself right in front of the mother, who was chatting away to her son about his day at school.

  Her timing was impeccable.

  ‘What an absolutely lovely coat your son is wearing. I’ve admired it for a long time and would like to get my son one. Can I be cheeky and ask where you bought it from?’

  I glanced over at the mother who I had never seen before and took a glimpse at the boy’s coat. Yes, it was a very trendy coat and looked very, very expensive.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ the mother replied beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘At last a woman with taste,’ she thought.

  The designer coat had probably cost the woman in the region of ninety pounds and right at the end of the season the only person to comment on her son’s coat was a stranger in the playground.

  ‘It is this season’s and was very expensive. George is growing out of it now but it’s in beautiful condition. Your son looks slightly smaller than George so I can pass it on to you when we have finished with it if you like?’

  Let’s get this straight; Penelope wasn’t the least bit offended. She may as well have taken the coat off the boy’s back there and then.

  ‘Oh yes please, that would be very kind of you,’ gushed Penelope.

  By the following morning the mother had packaged up George’s coat and handed it over to Penelope in the playground.

  ‘The warmer weather looks like it’s finally arrived. Hopefully your son will love the coat as much as our George did.’

  To be fair, George did look secretly pleased that he wasn’t trussed up like a chicken in his puffed out designer coat any longer. I couldn’t quite imagine Little Jonny in this coat either, it just wasn’t his colour. It would clash with the colour of his face, which had been permanently red since his mates had spotted Rupert driving his new car around the village.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. This is extremely kind of you,’ responded Penelope, in a very over the top sickly voice.

  People in this village were so kind, I thought to myself. This woman doesn’t know Penelope from Adam yet she has handed over a coat that was probably still worth in the region of fifty quid. Penelope was in a very jolly mood that morning and swung the carrier bag containing her newly acquired designer coat the whole way on our walk.

  Then, twenty-four hours later, while I was sitting in Penelope’s conservatory – with its matching blinds, cushions and vases – with a cup of tea in my hand, the motive behind the scheme was revealed. Right in front of me, Penelope’s laptop was sitting open on her eBay page. I wasn’t being nosey – it was just sitting there facing me. There were numerous items listed on her selling page – a couple of Rupert’s old jumpers and some worn out school shoes. At the bottom of the page, I spotted the lovely designer coat she had cunningly conned from the woman in the playground with bids at fifty-one pounds already. I couldn’t believe my eyes – no wonder Penelope had been swinging that carrier bag! Penelope wasn’t interested in the coat for Little Jonny at all; she was only interested in making a few quid. It was one thing selling your child’s birthday presents on eBay but Penelope had handpicked that mother in the playground simply to make some money. It was the easiest fifty quid she had ever made. I just stared at the screen gobsmacked. I couldn’t believe the underhandedness of it all.

  All in all, the month of May was going well and I was starting to feel a little more settled, so the thought of looking for a job crossed my mind. Well, it was only a thought at this stage. I didn’t need to rush into anything but it would be the excuse I needed to get out of this walking lark with Penelope. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when I had lande
d myself an interview by mistake and it was all the fault of my clucking good hens.

  I had grabbed the country life in the village with both hands. I had ponies and chickens. The chicken census revealed that we now had twenty-three and I had eggs coming out of my ears. The children were clucked off with eating eggs. So there was only one thing for it – I put a poster up in the local village hall.

  ‘Clucking good eggs for sale,’ it read.

  My sign was also still outside the house but not many people ventured past the Shack so sales were slow. I was also hoping to attract customers that didn’t sexually harass me like FP. Matt thought my OCD – Obsessive Chicken Disorder – was getting out of hand and wagered ten pounds that I wouldn’t sell any more eggs. Within ten minutes of the poster going up, I was sold out and was raking in the money. To add insult to injury, I took the tenner off Matt and invested it in an incubator. I started to receive regular orders and the chickens couldn’t produce eggs fast enough. There was a lovely woman who started to purchase my eggs on a weekly basis and this was how I landed my interview for a job, working part time at a mother and toddlers pre-school. This would be perfect because Matilda and Daisy would be able to stay and play whilst I earned a little bit of extra money.

  I wasn’t sure I really wanted a job but the extra money would definitely come in handy, especially now I needed a different coat – a different coat to Penelope’s that is. I made a list of the advantages and disadvantages of taking the job – well that’s if they offered it to me. The advantages included extra money, making new friends and, best of all, it might not leave any time to walk with Penelope every morning. The only disadvantage was never being able to enjoy a full free day to myself again until all the children had left home. The interview was to take place the following morning at 9.30am, giving me just enough time to drop the kids at school beforehand.

 

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