More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  ‘Peter. The only job going at St Hilda’s is to work as an apprentice in the school canteen. And the reason that they’re offering a free lunch is because they’re paying below the minimum wage.’

  ‘But I bet nobody would ask me to perform my own birth using interpretive dance,’ he snaps. ‘So it would be well worth the drop in salary.’

  ‘To be fair, mate, she said we’d be using mime, not interpretive dance,’ calls Danny. ‘I think the two art forms are incredibly different.’

  Beside me, Peter bristles and I have to work hard not to laugh out loud. It is an ill-hidden secret that Danny has an almighty crush on the terrifying Adele.

  ‘Do you think they might have two apprenticeships going?’ I ask Peter.

  ‘No!’ he snatches the paper back out of my hands and holds it to his chest, looking possessive. ‘I saw it first. It’s mine!’

  ‘Oh bloody hell,’ I groan, taking another swig of coffee. ‘I’m doomed. I’m going to end up doing supply teaching and drinking whisky for breakfast.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Peter pulls a packet of chocolate digestives out of his briefcase and offers one to Isobel and then one to me. ‘Why on earth would you ever want to be a supply teacher?’

  ‘I need the money,’ I confess. ‘Dylan’s starting university this year and I’m not sure how much longer I can do the whole three-day-week thing. If I even have a job here by September.’

  Peter grimaces. ‘That’s not good, Hannah. You know that supply teaching is the worst job going. You’ll end up babysitting Year Seven in Physics and having to pretend that you know something about quantum mechanics or some such nonsense.’

  ‘I heard that!’ shouts Danny. ‘And only an English teacher would have the audacity to describe quantum mechanics as nonsense.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ retaliates Peter. ‘All that gubbins about a cat in a box and is it alive or dead and it could be either until you look at it. It’s just an illogical riddle.’

  ‘You’re talking about Schrödinger’s Cat and you’re completely missing the point, as per usual.’ Danny’s face is starting to go red. ‘For your information—’

  ‘Did anyone do anything nice at the weekend?’ I ask, looking around the room. ‘Anything not related to school or physics or cats? Anyone?’

  Isobel stretches her arms in the air and yawns.

  ‘I made my boyfriend go to the cinema with me,’ she tells us. ‘Not that he was very happy about it.’

  ‘Is he not a film fan?’ I ask. ‘I’d have thought a night out with you at the cinema would be a great way to spend a Saturday evening!’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she says. ‘He usually loves watching films. It was my choice of film that got him upset.’

  ‘Oh my god!’ squeals Cassie. ‘I bet I know what you watched!’

  Isobel looks at her and grins. ‘You should do. You’re the one who told me to take him in the first place!’

  ‘So what did you see? Was it something gory?’ I smile. ‘Nick refuses to watch any horror film with me.’

  Isobel laughs. ‘No, it was nothing like that. We went to see that Fifty Shades film. You know, the one with Jamie Dornan in it!’

  ‘Oh.’ I gulp, and next to me, I feel Peter sink a little lower in his seat. Nobody else says a word and it feels like the responsibility is purely on me to keep the social awkwardness at bay. ‘And was it a nice film?’

  I sound like my mother. Although in all fairness, my mother would probably be dealing with this better than I am.

  Cassie splutters into her mug of tea. ‘It’s not supposed to be nice, Hannah. It’s about BDSM.’

  I stare at her, mentally running the acronym.

  ‘What does the D stand for?’ I ask. ‘I think I can work out the others but I don’t know that one. Is it “dictatorship”?’

  ‘You’re pretty close.’ She grins at me. ‘It’s “discipline”, Hannah. Have you even read the books?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘I’ve read them,’ pipes up the Design and Technology teacher. ‘And I’ve seen the films. They’re okay but not as good as the books.’

  ‘Me too,’ adds Mrs Knight, who must be sixty-five years old if she’s a day. She’s been at the school teaching Home Economics since the very beginning of time and is as much a part of the establishment as the walls and the desks. None of us know her first name and even the Head refers to her by her full title. ‘I wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about, to be honest. It seemed quite tame to me.’

  My mouth drops open and all eyes turn to stare at her as we contemplate what she’s just said.

  ‘There are some pretty racy scenes in there, Mrs Knight,’ ventures Isobel. ‘Didn’t you find any of them even a little bit shocking?’

  Mrs Knight smiles kindly at her. ‘Not at all, dear. I was a teenager in the Swinging Sixties, you know.’ Her eyes glaze over as she takes a trip down memory lane. ‘My goodness me, I don’t think the likes of Christian Grey would have been able to keep up with us, back in the day!’

  For the second time in fifteen minutes, the silence in the staffroom is absolutely deafening. And then Mrs Knight blinks away whatever flashback she is happily reliving and looks at me.

  ‘You really should read the books, Hannah dear. You’re an English teacher now, for heaven’s sake. Aren’t you curious about how literature is evolving in the twenty-first century?’

  So now it’s my failure to read the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy that is making me a crappy teacher? Excellent.

  ‘I’ll lend you my copies,’ offers Isobel. ‘It won’t take you long to read them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say weakly, ignoring the snorts of muffled laughter coming from Peter and Cassie. ‘I’m sure they’ll be very informative.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard that they’re really badly constructed,’ says Danny. ‘The author made an absolute fortune on the back of some poorly written fan fiction.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot about it,’ teases Peter. ‘Are you a secret fan of erotic fiction, Danny?’

  Danny flushes bright red. ‘No! Not that it’s any of your business what I read. And erotica can be a very well-respected genre, actually.’

  ‘All I know is that they’re easy to read and the author probably never has to work another day in her life,’ says Cassie. ‘I’d have written it if I had the slightest bit of writing ability. She’s one of the highest-earning authors ever. I bet she doesn’t give a monkey’s flea-ridden backside what any critic says about it. It’s her who got the last laugh.’

  ‘And she isn’t pretending that it’s a literary masterpiece,’ adds Isobel. ‘It just is what it is.’

  ‘Maybe I should try writing my own version,’ chuckles Mrs Knight. ‘I remember on one occasion, ooh – it must have been forty-seven years ago now, when I met a very charming young man who could do this amazing thing with his—’

  The bell rings, thankfully saving us all from discovering exactly what the charming young man had done that was memorable enough to be remembered almost half a century later.

  I leap out of my chair, brushing biscuit crumbs from my skirt.

  ‘I’ll pop the books in your pigeon hole tomorrow,’ promises Isobel.

  ‘Maybe you’ll be inspired to do some writing of your own,’ says Peter, heaving himself up. ‘I bet E.L. James isn’t contemplating becoming a kitchen hand in a school canteen.’

  ‘So you know who wrote them, then!’ shouts Danny, triumphantly. ‘And you were having a go at me!’

  ‘Daniel, my son.’ Peter puts his hand on Danny’s shoulder and propels him out of the room. ‘Who do you think she modelled the love interest on?’

  I can still hear the sound of Danny retching as they walk down the corridor.

  Chapter 10

  The day starts badly.

  ‘Mum!’ I haven’t even opened my eyes before an anguished howl pierces the silence of the sleeping house. ‘Muuuuum!’

  ‘If he’s been sick,
it’s definitely your turn,’ I mutter, rolling over in bed and prodding Nick in the ribs.

  ‘But he’s calling for you, babe,’ murmurs Nick. ‘He wants his mummy.’

  I scowl. I have told the kids more times than I can count that if they need us, they have two fit and able-bodied parents and that their father is just as capable of fighting off night-time monsters, or fetching glasses of water, or moving the bloody hamster to the landing where its unrelenting nocturnal exercise regime won’t keep them awake, or cleaning up vomit from the middle of the duvet cover as I am. But it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I lecture them. It is still my name that gets screeched whenever they are in need.

  ‘Mum!’ The shouts are getting louder, so whatever is ailing our child clearly isn’t hindering his ability to walk. I stay buried beneath the cover and pretend that I’m still asleep.

  ‘You have to wake up.’ Benji is standing right next to my side of the bed now. I can feel his presence looming ominously above me. I keep my eyes scrunched shut while stretching out my foot and jabbing Nick on the leg.

  ‘It’s World Book Day, Mum! And we forgot!’

  Bloody hell. How could I possibly have forgotten about bastarding World Book Day? For the past week, Facebook has been filled with photographs of children posing in elaborate costumes, each one more impressive than the last.

  I sit bolt upright in bed and stare at Benji, trying to conceal my panic.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I tell him, my voice high-pitched. ‘We’ll just find your costume from last year.’

  Benji frowns. ‘I can’t be Where’s Wally again – nearly everyone was in that costume and it’ll look like we just haven’t bothered.’

  ‘We haven’t,’ mumbles Nick, from beneath the duvet. He is no use whatsoever.

  ‘We can sort something else out then,’ I say, clambering out of bed. ‘Let’s go and have a look in the dressing-up box.’

  I pull on my dressing gown and smile reassuringly at my son.

  ‘We’ll find something brilliant!’ I tell him. ‘Nick! Get up and put the kettle on and then make sure that the other two are awake.’

  Nick groans something incoherent and I speed out of the room, sweeping Benji along in my wake. The morning has hardly begun and I am already busy, busy, busy, doing something that wasn’t even part of my already overscheduled day.

  ‘Let’s just drag the box out and then we can look at our options,’ I say once we’re in Benji’s room. I kneel down next to the bed and pull out the plastic container, unperturbed by the thick layer of dust on the top. ‘It’s like a treasure trove. I bet there’s some fabulous costumes in here!’

  I lift off the lid and gaze inside. There are no fabulous costumes in here. The dressing-up box has been desecrated.

  ‘Amazing!’ crows Benji, swooping in over my shoulder. ‘I’ve been looking for that Nintendo DS game for ages! And look, there’s my Nerf gun. I thought Dylan had stolen that!’

  He starts rummaging through the contents, flinging items onto the floor. I watch as a mountain of plastic crap and old comics and the occasional item of clothing piles up next to me.

  ‘Where are all the lovely costumes?’ I ask him, my voice sounding strained even to my ears. ‘Why is this box full of rubbish?’

  ‘This isn’t rubbish!’ says Benji indignantly. ‘This is my stuff. It’s treasures, like you said.’

  I hold up an empty crisp packet and a broken matchbox car with three wheels. ‘This is not treasure.’

  Benji snatches them both off me and clutches them to his chest. ‘They’re mine! You gave me this car when I went to hospital. It’s precious.’

  ‘It’s broken,’ I point out.

  ‘It’s memories,’ he volleys back and he has me there, because I am always going on about how they should all keep memory boxes that they can look at when they’re old and withered and their youth is in the long-forgotten, mythical past.

  ‘And the crisp packet?’

  Benji’s face spreads into a beam.

  ‘That’s from the day that Logan came over and you let us have a picnic in the garden but you said we could only eat healthy food because you’d just got that blender thingy and you wouldn’t stop whizzing up yucky vegetables and pretending that they were delicious smoothies. And then Logan got stung by a bee and you remembered that you had loads of yummy food hidden in the cupboard that you always say is for grown-ups and you gave us loads of coke and chocolate and crisps to make him stop crying.’ He holds the packet aloft. ‘He told me later that it didn’t even hurt that much, but he didn’t want to say that in case you took away the treats and tried to make us drink spinach smoothies again.’

  ‘Guess what you and Logan are having for tea the next time he comes over?’ I tell him, shaking my head. ‘Totally scrumptious kale and beetroot milkshake. With pasta made out of courgettes. Sound good?’

  Benji grimaces and sticks his tongue out. ‘I’m going to ask if I can live at Logan’s house,’ he informs me. ‘They eat normal food over there.’

  I ignore him and push my arm into the box, feeling around for anything that might be vaguely fancy-dress related. The sound of feet pounding along the landing momentarily distracts me, followed by a slamming bathroom door that makes the house rock on its foundations.

  ‘Dylan!’ hollers Scarlet from outside the door. ‘Get out now! I told you I was first today!’

  Dylan starts singing loudly from the sanctuary of the bathroom.

  ‘Let it go! Let it go!’ he wails, clearly standing just on the other side of the locked door. ‘Don’t hold it back anymoooooore!’

  ‘Don’t let it go!’ yells Benji, quick to get in on the action. ‘We don’t want wee all over the carpet!’

  He cracks up and Scarlet’s head pokes around his bedroom door.

  ‘You’re hilarious,’ she tells him. ‘Mum. Tell Dylan to let me in.’

  ‘Wait your turn,’ I say, before twisting to direct my voice towards the wall separating Benji’s room from the bathroom. ‘Dylan! Hurry up. Your sister is waiting.’

  ‘I remember this!’ Scarlet crouches down next to me and pulls something out of the box, her anger forgotten. ‘I wore this for Halloween one year.’

  Thank every deity that is worshipped by man. She’s only gone and found a costume. Maybe this day actually has a fighting chance.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, taking it from her. ‘Benji! We’ve got your Book Day outfit sorted. I can assure you, nobody else is going to be wearing something like this!’

  Scarlet turns to look at me. ‘Are you being serious? You’re actually going to make him go to school wearing that?’

  ‘Why not?’ I shoot her a look before giving Benji a big smile. ‘It was good enough for you and I think he’ll look great! Come on, let’s put it on.’

  I reach out my hand and tug Benji towards me. He seems reluctant, but when I glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table, I can see that his reluctance will have to do one. We have forty-five minutes to get everyone up, washed, dressed, breakfasted and out of the door, complete with homework and packed lunches.

  ‘Step in through the top,’ I coax him, holding the neck of the costume open. ‘There we go! Both feet in.’

  I yank the material up his legs, feeling surprised when the ends fall just below his knees.

  ‘How old were you when Granny made this?’ I ask Scarlet.

  ‘Six,’ she tells me. ‘I was six years old, Mum. And I’m a girl.’

  ‘I don’t think World Book Day is about reinforcing gender stereotypes, darling, do you?’ I say brightly. ‘And besides, it’s ridiculous to assume that this outfit is just for girls.’

  Scarlet shrugs. ‘I’m just saying. You’re the one always going on about how we need to help him get prepared for secondary school. I’m merely suggesting that making him a laughing stock isn’t exactly going to help his street cred.’

  ‘Who’s a laughing stock?’ asks Dylan, emerging from the bathroom. His eyes alight on his little brother. �
�Oh, right! That’d be Benji, then!’

  ‘Nobody is going to be laughing at you,’ I say, pulling the rest of the costume over Benji’s resisting arms and twisting him round so that I can do up the tie at the back. ‘You’ll look amazing.’

  ‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Dylan leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. ‘Is this some cruel and unusual punishment that you’ve dreamt up? Because I’m fairly sure that Benji would rather have a smack than be forced to wear this monstrosity.’

  Sometimes I really, really dislike teenagers.

  ‘It’s not a monstrosity,’ I say, ramming the headpiece down over Benji’s alarmed face. ‘And if you’ve got any better suggestions for bloody World Book Day then by all means, voice them now. I am all ears.’

  I rock back on my haunches and look at my youngest son.

  ‘Take a look in the mirror,’ suggests Scarlet, her voice shaking. ‘The big one by your door, so that you can get the whole fabulous effect.’

  I stand up and Benji steps cautiously across the floor. It’s possible that the eyeholes are a teensy bit small. Hopefully they’ll reduce his visibility when he sees his reflection.

  There is silence as he moves in front of the glass and then a slight whimpering sound comes from inside the woollen head.

  ‘What book character am I supposed to be?’ he whispers.

  Dylan and Scarlet look like they’re about to explode. I am ready for this question.

  ‘You’re the lamb!’ I say, moving to stand behind him and putting my hands on his shoulders. ‘The gorgeous, sweet lamb!’

  Benji erupts. ‘I am not going to school dressed like a lamb!’ he screeches, wrenching off the white, fleecy head. ‘That’s not even a real book character!’

  ‘It is!’ I tell him. ‘There are loads of stories with lambs in.’

  ‘Like what?’ he howls, while Dylan and Scarlet rather unhelpfully start spluttering with laughter. ‘Tell me one story that has a lamb in it. I bet you can’t. I need a different outfit!’

  ‘“Mary had a Little Lamb”,’ I say. ‘Actually, it was quite a kick-ass lamb because it followed her to school one day, which was incredibly independent and anti-establishment.’