I need to talk my way through this situation; a costume change is definitely not on the cards. One, because we are running out of time; and two, because there is no other costume.
‘Everyone will laugh at me.’ Benji’s shoulders droop and he hangs his head low. ‘Nobody else will be wearing something like this. Logan’s going as Mr Twit and Jasper McKenzie is going as Spider-Man and a load of people are dressing up as Gangsta Granny.’
I kneel down in front of him. ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘Nobody will laugh at you, Benji.’ I pause, narrowing my eyes at my oldest children who finally stop sniggering. ‘And it’s good to be different from everyone else, you know? Nobody wants to be a sheep.’
The words are out before I can stop them. Over by the door, Dylan loses it entirely and yelps with mirth while Scarlet sits on the floor with her hand shoved over her mouth, desperately trying to hold back the brewing hysterics.
‘But you’ve made me a sheep!’ wails Benji. ‘And I’m not going to school dressed like this.’
‘Everything all right in here?’ asks Nick, popping his head around the door. ‘Have you got a costume sorted yet, mate?’
Benji pauses, midway through scrambling out of the lamb outfit.
‘No! Mum thought I could go as a lamb but I can’t, can I, Dad? Tell her that I can’t!’
Nick grins. ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ he tells Benji. Then he turns to me. ‘What are the other options, Hannah?’
I sink down onto the bed and subject my husband to a serious dose of stink-eye.
‘Well sadly, I lack the ability to whip a World Book Day costume out of my backside, ample as it may be. So I’m afraid that our son is limited to attending school as a lamb, or,’ I take a deep breath and force myself to keep my voice steady, ‘as a regular schoolboy who forgot to remind his parents that an outfit was required.’
‘There was a letter,’ Benji reminds me. ‘I gave it to you last week.’
So there was. I remember skimming the contents and telling myself that it was ages away: World Book Day is in March and we were still in February. My bad.
Nick glances at his watch. If he goes to work now then he’ll be sleeping with his precious Betty for the rest of the week.
‘I’ve got the perfect thing for you,’ he tells Benji. He looks across at me. ‘You guys go and get breakfast started and we’ll be down in a minute.’
I have no idea how he thinks he’s going to conjure a costume in the next sixty seconds but I’m just grateful that he has a plan. Benji can go to school dressed as Hannibal Lecter for all I care, just as long as we don’t have to stand in the playground being subjected to sympathetic glances from the perfect mothers, all muttering behind my back about how there’s always one child who gets left out and how honestly, it’s tantamount to neglect not to ensure that your child is dressed up; even though most of their kids will be dressed up in random princess and superhero costumes that aren’t even from books and it isn’t called World Fucking Disney Franchise Film Day, is it?
I stand up and point at Dylan and Scarlet.
‘You. Make me a cup of tea. You. Put some bread in the toaster.’
‘Sir! Yes, Sir!’ Dylan salutes and snaps his heels together before marching dramatically out of the room. Scarlet follows at a more sedate speed and I am vaguely interested to see that she doesn’t even go near the bathroom, despite the door now being wide open. Obviously her moment of need has passed. That, or she didn’t need to go in there in the first place and, like her brother, was just engaged in some bizarre sibling ritual about who can do something first.
I walk downstairs and start gathering apples and packets of raisins for their packed lunches. I’m expecting Nick to take a while, despite his confidence, but true to his word, he and Benji walk into the kitchen just a couple of minutes after us.
‘Ta-da!’ Nick throws his arms out and gestures at our son. ‘What do you think?’
‘He’s wearing his dressing gown,’ states Scarlet. ‘Who’s he supposed to be?’
‘Look closer,’ Nick tells her and we all crane to stare at Benji, who is looking bemused but pleased.
And then I see the book, peeping out of his dressing gown pocket.
‘You’re a genius,’ I tell Nick. ‘That is actually brilliant!’
Nick puffs out his chest. ‘I have my moments,’ he agrees. ‘And I have to admit, this is pretty great.’
‘Nobody will be dressed like you,’ I tell Benji. ‘It’s really clever!’
‘Nice one!’ says Dylan, putting his hand up so that Benji can give him a high-five. ‘Good choice of book, little bro.’
‘Dad chose it,’ Benji tells us. ‘I haven’t read it yet but he says I can next year.’
‘He’s wearing his dressing gown,’ repeats Scarlet. ‘How does that make him a character for World Book Day? Who is he even supposed to be?’
‘Arthur Dent,’ chant Nick and Dylan in unison.
‘He’s from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,’ I tell her. ‘Look, Benji’s got the book in his pocket!’
‘So why is he wearing a dressing gown,’ she asks, confused. ‘Nobody goes hitchhiking in a dressing gown.’
‘He isn’t expecting to have to go anywhere,’ Dylan explains patiently. ‘But Earth gets demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass and Arthur Dent ends up escaping by hitching a ride on an alien spaceship. Which is why he’s in his dressing gown.’
‘It sounds stupid,’ mutters Scarlet. ‘You should just draw a scar on his head and let him go as Harry Potter. Nobody’s even going to know who he is.’
‘I’ll know,’ Benji tells her. ‘And I can show them the book.’
The smoke alarm goes off; the toast is ready. Nick takes a slurp of his tea and then pulls me in for a hug.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he tells me. ‘Have a good day.’
‘You too,’ I say, reaching up to give him a kiss. ‘Thanks for helping this morning.’
I’m feeling less manic than I was ten minutes ago. There’s a vague chance we’re actually going to get out of the door on time. The day can yet be saved.
‘No worries.’ He shoulders his bag and opens the front door. ‘You need to relax, Hannah. We’re all quite capable of sorting ourselves out, you know. You don’t need to organise everything on your own.’
I nod at him and give him a wave. I know that he’s right; it’s a conversation we have a lot. I’ve always been someone who likes to know what’s going on and I hate leaving things to the last minute, but since becoming a parent, it sometimes feels like I’m responsible for everything in the universe, every second of the day. As Nick constantly reminds me, the world will not stop rotating if I take my foot off the accelerator now and again. I don’t have to breathe for anyone but me.
I turn back to face the kids. In the few seconds that I’ve been saying goodbye to Nick, Benji has managed to knock over an almost-full bottle of milk. Dogger is enthusiastically lapping it up as if she’s a cat and I don’t know if milk is okay for dogs and I haven’t got time to Google it. And Scarlet is screeching at Dylan and telling him that it wouldn’t kill him to put the peanut butter away when he’s finished with it and that every time he leaves the lid off the margarine he is contributing to the marginalisation of women everywhere and is he okay with that? Is he? And Dylan is asking if what she actually means is the margarine-alisation of women and that surely any attempt to butter her up is patronising and anti-feminist.
I know that I’m lucky to have times at home with the kids and not have to work all week, but it’s mornings like this that make me long for a high-powered job with a six o’clock commuter train into London. I picture myself tucked into a window seat, clutching a cup of takeaway coffee and watching the world flit by outside the glass.
And then I sigh loudly and take a step towards the chaos.
Chapter 11
It’s been another joy-filled half-week of living the teaching dream. Now it’s Thursday again and I’m facing the prospec
t of two days off work: two days that I should be grateful to receive but that actually only serve to pile guilt onto my laden shoulders.
I start every Thursday with great intentions. I plan to clean the house and organise the food cupboards and get all the shopping done and sort the laundry and make sure that all my planning and marking is up to date for the following week.
Usually, by the end of Thursday, I have achieved one fifth of those tasks and spent a lot of time shouting at the inane and illiterate status updates on Facebook.
Today, though, once Nick has left for work and the kids are all safely deposited at school, I settle down in the kitchen and open the notebook that Scarlet gave me for my birthday. Things cannot continue as they are. I need a plan.
I am immediately thwarted by the fact that Scarlet has already commandeered my notebook. Her messy writing is scrawled across the first page and I peer to take a closer look.
Reasons My Name Should be Spelt Scarlett With Two Ts.
- Scarlett with two ts is more exotic and much more glamorous.
- Scarlett Johansson is a very successful actress and makes loads of money.
- It looks better with two ts.
- Scarlet with one t is a colour, not a name.
- If you actually love me then you should want me to be happy and I will be happy all of the time if you let me be Scarlett with two ts.
I do what any decent parent would do and rip out the page before writing my own title at the top of the new, blank piece of paper.
Potential Ways to Make Money and Also Find My True Calling
Then I spend two minutes rummaging in the bottom of my school bag for a ruler, because really, how can I hope to take myself seriously if my plan looks shoddy?
I don’t find a ruler but I do find the raunchy books that Isobel, true to her word, had left in my pigeon hole and which I had instantly rammed into my bag before anyone could see them and start up the whole awkward conversation again.
I stack the books neatly on the table and go on a hunt, eventually unearthing a ruler from the cutlery drawer. Then I carefully underline the title before sitting back in my seat and chewing on the end of my pen. Ways to make money. There must be loads of them for someone like me. I have tons of skills.
A few minutes tick by while I try to let my mind roam around my options. The only problem is that my mind doesn’t appear to want to dream up new and innovative ways to earn some extra cash or think about where my passions might lie. Instead, it’s wondering if Scarlet remembered to take her water bottle to school this morning because I’ve been noticing that she often forgets, and dehydration is no joke. And it’s contemplating whether it can be bothered to cook chilli tonight or if it can get away with serving up pizza and chips for the second time this week. And then it decides that actually it isn’t at work today so how on earth can it justify anything other than a nutritious and delicious meal for the rest of the family who have all been out at school and who deserve hearty fare? And then it starts whimpering and saying that this is exactly the problem and it isn’t as if it spends all day painting its nails when it isn’t at school and that it’s sick to death of feeling obliged to cook and clean and shop and do the laundry when it is working just as hard as everyone else but nobody seems to understand that.
I just need to write something down. Anything, just to get me started.
Determinedly, I write the number one at the side of the page, enclosing it in a small circle. It doesn’t look quite special enough though, so I take my pencil case out of my bag and find my neon highlighters, carefully shading in the circle in pink before adding small lines in yellow that look like the sun’s rays.
When I’m finally happy with the presentation, I glance at the clock. It’s now twenty to ten. I have spent thirteen minutes doing absolutely faff all.
I steel my resolve and write down the first thing that pops into my head.
Dog Walker.
I embellish the page with tiny doodles of puppies, twisting the idea around in my head. I walk Dogger every day. Surely it wouldn’t be too much hassle to take another couple of dogs with us? And I remember that Cassie was talking recently about a friend of hers who does it and according to Cassie, he makes loads of money.
But then again, Dogger is quite a daft dog and I have to watch her at all times when she’s off the lead. I’m not sure that I could pay attention to more than one animal at a time. And then there’s the poo. I love Dogger and so I’m prepared to deal with the necessary disgusting elements of dog ownership but there’s no way on this planet that I could cope with picking up after someone else’s pet. Urgh – the thought alone makes me feel sick.
I strike a neat line through the words.
It’s okay, I tell myself. I’m not going to find the perfect solution first time. This is what brainstorming is all about. I just need to keep going.
What are you good at, Hannah? I ask myself. What skills do you have? I think for moment. Since leaving university I have effectively had two roles. I am a mother and I am a teacher, so it makes sense that I should utilise those strengths and work out how I can make use of them. I am used to looking after other people’s children and I understand the needs of young people.
The answer is staring me in the face. I write down Child Minder before frantically crossing it out again.
Not a chance. Just because I spend my days teaching other people’s kids does not mean that I necessarily like them. And teenagers might be tricky but little kids are a different thing altogether. They’re needy and demanding and random. There is absolutely no way that I could remain sane and be a child minder, not without the aid of copious amounts of red wine; and I suspect that being responsible for minors while under the influence is probably frowned upon.
I stand up and walk across to the window. It’s finally stopped raining and the first few spring flowers are attempting to brave the elements. I feel an urge to pull on my wellies and go for a walk; anything to get away from my growing sense of unease.
Whistling to Dogger, I attach her lead and grab my coat.
It’s cold outside, the weak early-spring sun doing little to warm the air, but I walk briskly while Dogger plods along beside me. The grass verges are springing to life, delicate primroses pushing up between clumps of daffodils. Part of me is aware that I should love this sense of freedom, knowing that I have free rein to go wherever I want until three o’clock.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing truant. Nick is at work and the kids are at school and I am just here, wasting time worrying about money. I might as well be at work.
I should be at work.
I reach the local shop and pause for a minute, staring at the window. There are always several postcards taped to the glass, some of them advertising situations vacant and others requesting any work that might be available. I scan through the jobs.
Person wanted to muck out stables.
I could do that! I mean, I’m not really a massive fan of horses, ever since a traumatic school trip to Dartmoor when the pony I was given to ride turned out to be the size of a Shire horse with the personality of a sloth. Everyone else disappeared onto the moor while I sat helpless and terrified, too scared to do anything to encourage my steed to stop eating grass and actually walk, other than to whisper expletives beneath my breath. I read the rest of the postcard.
Person wanted to muck out stables in return for riding lessons.
Oh. Perhaps not, then.
I move onto the next one.
Book Keeper required. Must have relevant qualifications and excellent references.
My attempts to stick to a weekly food budget probably won’t impress.
Sighing, I turn back down the lane and head for home, ignoring Dogger’s plaintive looks as we pass the stile for the field. There’s nothing for it. Unless I’m prepared to take up Scarlet’s suggestion of applying for a job in Nando’s then I’m going to have to suck it up and talk to Miriam about getting put on the list for supply cover.
It’ll be grim and depressing and there’s absolutely no future or career advancement in it but at least it’ll bring in the extra money that we need. I am just going to have to put my big girl knickers on and remind myself that it’s no big deal if I have to spend the next twenty years in a job that I dislike. People do it all the time.
I slam through the garden gate and trudge down the path towards the front door, angry with myself for being so pathetic. Who exactly do I think I am? I have a lovely home. I have a job that isn’t demeaning or degrading (although Adele somehow terrified me into agreeing to showcase a talent for the end of term Christmas show last year and my rendition of ‘Respect’ got me booed off stage by Year Nine, even though I’d spent weeks watching YouTube videos of Aretha and thought my vocals were a fairly passable interpretation of the original – that was pretty degrading).
You’re forty-three years old, Hannah, I curse myself as I walk into the hall and hang up my coat. This mid-life angst and diva-esque soul searching is neither appropriate nor attractive. You’ve had your time and now you need to put everyone else first. I plod into the kitchen and put the kettle on, slapping away the little voice that is whispering in my ear, asking me if I even know when my time supposedly was and whether, in the past eighteen years, I have ever once stopped putting other people before me.
Kettle boiled and tea made, I make my way back to the kitchen table. I will make a new list outlining how much money we need for the next year, and then I will work out exactly how many supply days I’ll need to do.
As I reach for my pen, something else catches my eye.
The stack of books that Isobel lent to me.
I reach out for the top one, glancing furtively around the kitchen as if someone might be judging me. The cover looks innocent enough. I flick it open and pick up my tea. Mrs Knight was probably right. It’s my duty as an English teacher to stay abreast of the latest developments in fiction, so to speak. And after Isobel went to all the effort of bringing them in for me, it’d be rude to immediately hand them back. I’ll read the first chapter, just to get a feel for the genre.
More Than Just Mom Page 9