Happy Families

by Janey Fraser

  Chapter 7

  BOBBIE

  ROB WOULDN’T STOP nagging her about that hideously embarrassing lunch party at his sister’s. It was really getting on Bobbie’s nerves. On and on he went for the rest of the weekend, while nursing his BlackBerry, even in bed.

  Why couldn’t the kids behave? It’s not as though they were babies any more. How could they have let him down in front of his sister and her husband? And – the worst bit – why couldn’t she, Bobbie, control them? She was with them all the time at home, wasn’t she?

  Sometimes Bobbie felt that her husband was just an onlooker when it came to family life; exonerated by his demanding job that kept him safely away from the real action at home. It made Bobbie turn away at night, furious with both him and for herself for having agreed to move away from their friends into the boring, semi-rural countryside and a new school which the kids hated.

  The only upside was the house. How she adored their beautiful semi-detached Victorian honey-bricked home in a lovely shrub-lined road, with those wonderfully airy square rooms and sash windows overlooking a good-sized lawn. They could never have afforded it in London. It was – along with the school’s fantastic reputation – the only reason she had allowed herself to be dragged, kicking and screaming, from Ealing. Now she wished she’d stuck to her guns.

  Then, as if that wasn’t enough to spoil her weekend, there was a huge piece on Dr Know in one of the Sunday supplements which she took with her into the loo to read, one of the few places where she could have a minute to herself.

  WOULD YOU LET THIS MAN REPROGRAMME YOUR KIDS? ran the headline. Afterwards, there was a whole page of interviews with parents who had been on his television show. Some swore that his no-nonsense advice worked a treat. Others declared he’d ripped their families to shreds through his Jerry Springer-type interview methods and they were still recovering.

  Bobbie shivered. She had to do something. Fast. For Mum’s sake, although heaven knew what she was doing with a man like this. A celebrity crush was one thing, but dating a child expert who thought couples should have to pass a parent-suitability test before they were even allowed to conceive was something else.

  Mum, however, was either unaware of her new boyfriend’s reputation or didn’t care. In fact, she’d sounded deliriously excited when she’d rung during pre-school panic hour on Monday morning. Bobbie had been haring around getting ready whilst at the same time looking under general household debris for clean knickers and trying to get the kids up. (‘Now, Jack. PLEASE’)

  ‘I’m having such a wonderful time, darling! Herbert took me to this brilliant party in London last night and we met all kinds of famous people including …’

  ‘JACK! GIVE DAISY BACK HER MOSHI MONSTERS. NOW! Mum, that’s great but I’ve got to rush. We’re late for school and Jack will lose his golden time again. Damn!’

  Bobbie began to choke as clouds of chemicals engulfed her. Bugger. She’d just put on fly spray instead of hair spray. That’s what came of trying to do five things at once. And of not unpacking all this stuff that was still in a box in the corner of the bathroom after the move.

  ‘What’s golden time, dear?’

  ‘They get an extra five minutes on the computer and – NO, DAISY. DON’T CLEAN JACK’S SHOES FOR HIM OR YOU’LL GET POLISH ALL OVER YOUR SCHOOL UNIFORM.’

  Too late. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. Bye, you two!’

  Sometimes the only way to get the children to school was to pretend you were going without them. ‘I’M IN THE CAR!’ she yelled out, still in the hall.

  ‘AND JACK’S IN HIS BOXERS!’ yelled back Daisy from upstairs. ‘HE CAN ONLY FIND ONE SOCK!’

  So what was new? Socks divided themselves in this house before you could say ‘Not on the floor – in the bin.’

  Bobbie rustled around in the tumble dryer. Yes! A matching pair. Pink was cool for boys nowadays, wasn’t it? Eventually, she managed to bundle both kids into the car (school was just too far to walk), lob a couple of cereal bars into the back and put on the Mandarin for Juniors CD to drown out the arguments.

  ‘I WANT THE ONE WITH NUTS IN IT!’

  ‘NO, I DO.’

  ‘I’M THE ELDEST. TELL HIM, MUM. TELL HIM!’

  Would they ever reach a stage where they actually sat still in the car and made polite conversation, wondered Bobbie as she double-parked out of desperation next to a people carrier in the school car park. Maybe when they were thirty. If they all got that far.

  ‘Quick! Run!’ she instructed, shooing them out with a kiss that somehow missed. Jack hared off, straight into a squat freckle-faced boy who began squawking. ‘He’s hurt me! He’s hurt me!’

  ‘Jack!’ began Bobbie, getting out of the car to apologise. The boy’s mother, who was quite obviously pregnant, glared, her piggy eyes narrowing.

  ‘Isn’t your kid the new one who nicked my Wayne’s gluten-free packed lunch?’

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ She looked down at the boy whose screams had begun to subside although there was a massive bruise developing on his right knee. Jack meanwhile had shot out of sight, as had Daisy.

  ‘So you should be! If you can’t bloody well look after your kids properly, don’t bloody well have them.’

  The bell! Saved by the bell, which was ringing out from the cosy-looking, red-roofed building with ‘Corrywood Primary’ on the board outside. ‘Sorry,’ Bobbie repeated again, dashing back to the car where the owner of the enormous people carrier was honking her horn furiously. Oh God. There was a notice on her windscreen. Probably another complaint.

  IMPORTANT!

  THE CORRYWOOD PERFECT PARENTS’ COURSE WILL START ONE WEEK EARLIER THAN ADVERTISED!

  PLENTY OF PLACES STILL AVAILABLE!

  THERE WILL BE ONE SESSION FOR PARENTS OF THREE- TO ELEVEN-YEAR-OLDS AND A SEPERATE ONE FOR AGE TWELVE PLUS. BOTH WILL BE HELD AT THE MAIN SCHOOL AT 7 P.M. SEE YOU THERE!

  It was a sign! (One that had been written by the teaching assistant, judging by the spelling.) So her sister-in-law was running the older group, not the one for Jack and Daisy’s age. Maybe she would go then. Even if the course didn’t improve her parenting skills, it might at least help her make some friends …

  ‘Hi, everyone!’ The young teacher with the bouncy ponytail beamed brightly. They were a smallish group with one or two familiar faces from the school gates, including – help! – the pregnant woman from the playground this morning. The one with the squat, freckled son whom Jack was always upsetting.

  What bad luck! Desperately looking around for an escape, Bobbie took in the classroom with its map of the world on one wall and a chart displaying the current members of the cabinet by the window. The chairs had been seated in a horseshoe shape away from the desks. Was it too late to make a bolt for it? Pretend she’d just received an emergency message from Mel, who was babysitting? No. That wouldn’t work. Mel would only tell Pamela and it would all get back. Bobbie might still be new here but she could already see how the mother mafia worked!

  ‘Some of you will know me as Miss Davies.’ The young teacher flicked back her ponytail as she spoke and Bobbie noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. Poor thing was nervous! ‘But for the purpose of these sessions, please feel free to call me Judith. Sorry about the change of date, by the way. I’m afraid someone made a mistake in the office.’

  There was a sniff of disapproval from Pregnant Mum along the lines of bloody well having to find a babysitter at the last minute.

  ‘I’d also like to add’, continued Judith with the earnestness of a sixth-form prefect, ‘that this is a new parenting programme which we’ve drawn up ourselves, here at Corrywood. So we’re open to any suggestions and comments. Remember – we’re here to help you.’

  ‘I don’t really need any help,’ murmured a very tall, scarily skinny woman with a small mauve butterfly tattoo on her arm and blue streaks in her hair. (Thank goodness her own pink highlights had washed out now, Bobbie thought.) ‘I just, er, want to take it in.’

  Another mum
who felt awkward; Bobbie felt a surge of relief.

  ‘Some of you’, began Judith slowly, ‘might feel a bit embarrassed being here. You might think that parenting is something we ought to be able to do without help. Try seeing it like building a house. You wouldn’t do that without being taught how to lay bricks, would you? It’s even more important to learn how to lay the foundations for a family.’

  Wow! Put like that, it made sense.

  ‘Actually,’ flustered the mum with the butterfly tattoo, ‘I could do with some advice. But only if it doesn’t involve star charts or the naughty step. That kind of twaddle only works if your kids will sit on it in the first place – and mine won’t, whatever that Dr Know on telly says! Not unless I glue them by the seat of their pants.’

  There was a loud mutter of agreement. If only they knew. Bobbie still couldn’t believe Mum was actually dating the man – let alone coming to lunch with him. Maybe, with any luck, their relationship might fizzle out before then. No. That wasn’t fair. After all, Mum seemed so happy …

  Judith, meanwhile, was taking notes. Her handwriting, Bobbie could see, was very small and neat. ‘I’ll do my best. Now, let’s introduce ourselves, shall we? Just a bit about yourselves and why you are all here.’

  Help! She was looking straight at her. It was like being back at school. Did she really have to go first? ‘Er, I’m Bobbie. Short for Roberta. Mum had this thing about The Railway Children.’

  Only Judith seemed to get it. ‘I have two children,’ she continued, feeling a bit stupid now. ‘Well, three and a half actually, if you count my husband and his BlackBerry.’

  This time, there was a burst of laughter. Actually she wasn’t being funny. It was the truth. ‘I’m here because I’d like to change my family. Preferably for someone else’s. Anyone want to do a swap?’

  Silence again. Didn’t they realise she was joking? Bobbie had never regarded herself as a naturally funny person but since having children, she found herself coming out with some crazy things. Maybe it was an internal mechanism trying to keep her sane.

  ‘Seriously,’ she added, ‘I’d just like them to do what I say. You know. Go to bed when I ask. Eat what I put in front of them. Live together without trying to murder each other. Go shopping with me without eating stuff before we’ve paid for it. Stay at the table when we’re eating. Do their homework on time, too.’

  There was a wave of enthusiastic nodding.

  ‘I’d like my kids to go to bed when I say, too,’ sighed a woman with what looked like baby sick on her shoulder. ‘Especially my Alfie. He’s the worst. But it’s difficult when you’ve got eight of them.’

  ‘Talk about too many kids!’ whistled Pregnant Mum. ‘Are you Catholic or just plain careless?’

  ‘Both actually.’ She glowered. ‘And proud of it.’

  Heavens, you could almost smell the gunpowder.

  ‘When are you due?’ asked Bobbie quickly, instinctively trying to keep the peace.

  Pregnant Mum glared. ‘I’m not.’

  Shit. Bobbie sank into her seat. Now she really had made an enemy for life. But the woman really did look as though she was four, if not five, months gone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m still trying to shift post-baby weight too.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ The woman glowered. ‘It’s me fibroids.’

  Horrifically embarrassed, Bobbie kept only half an ear on the rest of the introductions. The woman with the butterfly tattoo had a son and daughter. ‘My son’s addicted to his laptop. On it all night, he is! Then he won’t get up for school in the morning. The last time I took it away, he hit me.’ She pointed to her tattoo. Flipping heck! It was a bruise.

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Judith gently.

  ‘Nearly nine.’

  They all tried to hide their shock at that but it was pretty obvious, looking round the group, that they were thinking the same. Not ‘How could she let him get away with that’, because, as any parent knew, there was no stopping a kid at times, but ‘What was wrong with children nowadays that they tried to hurt their own parents?’

  Was this the first step to Borstal? Bobbie thought of Jack in the Reduced Bread shelf, clutching his stolen Easter egg, and shivered.

  ‘My daughter’s fifteen,’ added Butterfly Mum. ‘She’s from my first marriage. She keeps getting tattoos and I think it’s a cry for attention. In fact, I wasn’t sure which group to come to; this one or the one up the corridor for the older group. I might slip in and out if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Me too,’ added Too Many Kids Mum. ‘Why don’t I just take notes for you?’

  Judith nodded doubtfully. ‘We could give it a go.’

  The only man in the group was a dad who was bringing up his ten-year-old daughter alone. His name was Matthew and he wanted some advice on how to stop worrying. ‘I get really panicky about whether Lottie’s eating the right stuff; if she’s been run over when she’s home late; or if a headache is really the sign of meningitis or a brain tumour.’ His face crumpled and for a minute he looked like a little boy. ‘Her mother died of cancer and, to be honest, it’s made me a bit paranoid.’

  Poor man! Then Not Really Pregnant Mum said she was bloody well fed up with her children swearing at her and that she wished her kids would shut up sometimes and give her some peace. To think she’d criticised Bobbie! And a mum with an American accent said, in a broad Southern accent, that she’d like some advice on how to stop breastfeeding.

  ‘This course is for toddlers upwards, I’m afraid,’ said Judith, colouring furiously.

  ‘Sure. I get that. But Byron’s just turned six! In fact, he’s exactly six years, two months and four days.’

  There was a collective gasp and several muffled sniggers. ‘Maybe our later session on “Letting Go” might help,’ said Judith nervously.

  Wow! Surely no parenting programme on earth could provide magic answers to this lot. But Judith was nodding her head up and down excitedly as though they had all just gained grade As. ‘Excellent! Now I want you to keep that list and at the end of the course, we’re going to go back to it and see how far we’ve come.’

  ‘Do you have kids of your own, Judith?’

  This was from the woman whom she’d mistakenly thought was pregnant. The girl shuffled her papers as if embarrassed. ‘No, but I’ve been a teacher for some years now and I’ve done the Perfect Parents’ training course.’

  There was a snort. ‘Then you don’t know what it’s like, do you?’

  ‘Give her a break.’ Bobbie heard herself say. ‘Let’s just see how it goes, shall we?’

  Not Really Pregnant Mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well of course, you’re the expert, aren’t you?’

  Judith Davies gave a little cough. ‘I think we’ll have a film now.’ The lights began to dim and Bobbie felt her eyelids grow heavy. Don’t go to sleep, she told herself urgently. But it had been such a long day …

  ‘So, Bobbie!’ Judith’s chirpy voice woke her with a start. ‘What did you think?’

  Think? Think about what? Too late, she could see the end credits on the whiteboard in front of them. ‘The film about positive praise,’ repeated Judith slightly stiffly.

  Positive praise? Had she missed out on something here?

  ‘Would anyone like to help Bobbie out?’ Judith smiled tightly around the rest of the class.

  ‘Sure.’ The good-looking widower in the suit was speaking up. ‘Positive praise is finding something in your children’s behaviour that you can flag up.’

  ‘So what can you praise in your own children, Bobbie?’

  She racked her brain, horribly conscious that all eyes were on her. Bobbie’s mind flew back over the previous week. Daisy and Jack must have done something right! ‘Er, I could praise them for being alive.’

  Judith frowned. ‘Would you like to expand on that?’

  ‘Well, Jack nearly ran out in front of a car the other day and I only just saved him.’ She shivered. ‘It was awful.’

  ‘Actu
ally,’ said the man in the suit quietly, ‘that’s exactly the sort of thing I’m terrified about.’

  ‘Right,’ squeaked Judith, ‘time for some role play, I think. Is everyone comfortable with that?

  No. Please don’t pick me. Please …

  ‘Bobbie! I’d like you to pretend you’re Jack. I’ll be the mother. OK? I’ve just asked you to go to bed. Now, how would Jack react? Put yourself in his shoes.’

  Suddenly, Bobbie found herself lying face down, nose to the ground. Her arms and legs were flaying furiously: all the frustrations of the last eight years were coming out. ‘I’M NOT GOING TO BED BEFORE DAISY! IT’S NOT FAIR.’

  There was a nervous titter. ‘Now, Jack! Daisy’s older than you so it’s only fair.’

  ‘PISS OFF!’

  There was a gasp. ‘That’s not very nice.’

  ‘YOU’RE NOT VERY NICE EITHER!’

  Judith sounded as though she was struggling. ‘If you don’t go to sleep, you’ll be too tired for school.’

  ‘DON’T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL! I HATE IT! AND I HATE MISS DAVIES!’

  There was another gasp. Had she gone too far? Bobbie staggered to her feet. Suddenly she was a mother again. A very embarrassed mother. ‘He doesn’t really mean that. It’s just that he misses his old school and his old teacher.’

  Miss Davies was nodding uncertainly. ‘Right. Of course. Now, Matthew, how about you doing the same exercise? The point is to try and listen calmly to your children – just as I did there – without getting down to their level.’

  Bobbie slunk back to her seat.

  ‘Is it really like that at your house?’ whispered the American woman.

  ‘Course not.’ Bobbie gave a hysterical little laugh. ‘It’s much worse.’

  The class was ending now, thank goodness. ‘Remember to practise positive praise for homework!’ Judith glanced at her notes. ‘It says here that we should all give each other a good-luck hug. Is that all right with everyone?’

  Bobbie drove home, kicking herself. What a fool she’d been! Why hadn’t she toned Jack down in that role play? Now his reputation would be worse than it was already – not to mention hers. Still, that positive-praise stuff sounded as though it might have possibilities. Maybe, she told herself, creeping into the house so as not to wake up the kids, she’d give it a go in the morning.