We have twelve children and babies on the shortlist, one of which will get a rosette (and complimentary sitting, naturally) then go forward to the national finals. The winner of this prestigious event then gets a brief (off-season) trip to Walt Disney World, and their face on the cover of Family Choice.
Angharad has to be odds-on favourite – many of the characters that looked so cheerful and cutesy mid morning are now showing the strain of their post-bedtime outing, and, if not actually bawling, keep threatening to.
Our rotund Area Manager – an ageing clown like figure who shows up once a month to ‘gee us up’ and grope bottoms, calls everyone to order, and assembles the children for a publicity shot – one in which he also appears, holding a randomly selected two year old, and also the cheesiest grin imaginable. Which is no joke if you are being repeatedly kicked in the crotch. SHR.
Then we mill, and re-group, then mill some more and then disperse, until it is time for the winning child to be announced. And wouldn’t you know it? Angharad wins.
‘Julia!’ chortles the Area Manager. ‘Why don’t you do the honours for us!
We’re terrifically proud of Julia,’ he explains, reverentially, to the children, ‘because she has recently been doing some very exciting photography, taking pictures of the very, very famous pop group, Bike, for a book. Isn’t that exciting? Who’s heard of Bike?’
Am I in some sort of trouble for freelancing, or is this torrent of gush loins-related? I wonder vaguely who I should berate for this misinformation but I’m cringing so much by now that I don’t even bother to correct him. The children remain stony faced and silent, until one pipes up with a chorus of Round and Round the Mulberry Bush. While I take the proffered rosette, I find myself humming a few bars of Kite’s latest single, and wish myself, fervently, back in that other world. Then I advance on Angharad, shake hands with Rhiannon, and actually manage to walk back to my tripod without wiping my hand.
At the end, Rhiannon comes over to me.
‘Look..’ she begins to say, hands out, palms upwards. I look down at them, then at Angharad, who is standing right beside her. I shake my head.
‘I’d rather not,’ I reply.
*
We’re being so terrifically grown up and mature and all that stuff, that I’ve actually agreed to have Richard round for an hour or two, so that we can discuss the kids’ and our holiday plans. Not that they much care. For Max, any enforced absence from his Playstation (and new Nintendo VS, of course) is torture and Emma has a permanent face on at the very idea of being separated from the boyfriend that she is continuing to maintain isn’t one.
But I want to go on holiday, and Richard wants to go on holiday, and we obviously can’t go together.
I’ve been having a few thoughts about Richard since seeing Rhiannon again, last night. I’m becoming frighteningly disinterested in him. In fact, I’m also confused about exactly why becoming disinterested should be something to be frightened about. We’ve split up, so surely that’s a good thing, isn’t it?
What I’ve mainly been doing though, is realising that me being so upset about the possibility of a Richard/Rhiannon thing resurfacing wasn’t really about Richard at all. It was what Rani said. I don’t want him but I still want him to want me. And I’m not even sure that I care about that now. Mad, eh? No man, no sex, no nothing in that department, so why do I feel so together?
‘By the way,’ I say, chattily, over some of that nice coffee Howard recommended, ‘did you hear about Angharad winning the face2Face final?’
He gives me one of his looks.
‘I’m not surprised. She’s a pretty girl,’ I add.
‘Hmmm,’ he says, getting his diary out.
Max is upstairs in his room and Emma is at a friend’s house, so we can get on with the business of planning their school holidays without the fag of having to actually refer to them. Richard is keen to take them to the rainy corner of France for a week (no surprise there, then) and I am still undecided.
The main problem is that we both want to go away the week after next, having both, independently, booked the time off from work.
‘So change it,’ he says, smiling nicely. ‘It’s much easier for you.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s harder. I’m not high up, like you.’
‘But I’ve projects to see to and meetings already scheduled. For me to change involves inconveniencing lots of other people.’
I smile nicely too.
‘And for me to change puts me in a difficult position with my boss. It’s a very busy time. You know that.’
He continues to smile. ‘But you are surely not so indispensable that you cannot change your holiday without the whole Time Of Your Life empire crumbling.’
I continue to smile also. ‘Like your five-years-late millennium pod thing will, you mean?’
He politely ignores ‘five years late millennium pod thing’. ‘I mean that you are not going to lose your job just because you ask for a different week off.’
‘But suppose Rani and Greg have already booked holidays? And I might lose my job. Now my extra-curricular activities are common knowledge, they might decide to kick me out and get a trainee in instead. And then where would we be?’
Less smile, more grimace. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Children cost money to bring up, Richard. With only one income…’
‘Mummm!’ this is Max. ‘Colin someone on the phone!’
Richard sits and taps his pen on the table, tap, tap, tap, while I go out to the hall to answer the phone.
When I finally return he is looking less tense. He is drinking more coffee and smiling agreeably. He must have been doing deep breathing exercises or something. As per his own post-marital guidance literature, perhaps?
‘I think…’ he begins, but I hold up my hand.
‘Don’t worry, ‘ I say. I will change my holiday. We’re going to go away next week instead.’
‘Oh!’ he says. ‘Where?’
‘To Croydon.’
‘Croydon?’
‘To Croydon. To spend a week with my Mum.’
Which, as it turns out, is probably going to be the best place for us.
Richard is just about to ask me what possible reason I could have for wanting to spend a week in a drab South London suburb eating entrails, when the rattle of the gate heralds Emma’s return. She comes in flushed, which is usual these days, and heaves her school bag from her shoulder.
‘Good day?’ I enquire.
‘Good enough,’ she replies. ‘What are you doing here, Dad?’
‘Organising our holiday.’
‘Your Father thought you’d enjoy spending a week in France, in a Gite.’ In the rain. While your father sits in a deckchair, in his (awful) sandals, scouring day old newspapers and saying ‘put the kettle on, Em’.
He starts to launch into how lucky he’s been getting a place from a colleague on the council, especially given the short notice, what with everything that’s happened and suchlike, but Emma has already perfected the Richard Potter special, and her withering expression completely dries his flow.
‘And next week, ‘I add (is no end to the horrors parents inflict on their children?) we’re going to Croydon to spend a week with Gran.’
‘Next week?’
‘We leave Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’
‘As in the day after tomorrow. And we’ll have to pack for both because Dad will drive to Gran’s to collect you at the end of the week. You’ll be going over by Eurotunnel. Won’t that be exciting?’
‘God!’
‘Less of that tone with your Mother, young lady.’
‘And you’d better let me have your games kit and stuff out of that bag before you stomp off. I need to crack on with the washing.’
And that was when the photo fluttered out.
Looking back, I guess for Emma it must have been one of those dreadful, heart-stopping moments that you r
e-live all your life, in slow motion. Like when my Mum pulled ten Number Six out of my school summer dress pocket. At the time, though, she moved like a splash of hot lava. Not fast enough though. Richard was nearer.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’ Then his face dropped an inch.
After that, it began doing all sorts of strange things, involving colour, contour, eyeballs – the lot. And his voice went the usual half octave lower. A sure sign that impending doom was due shortly. I leaned over to see.
‘But that’s him! It’s him, Richard! Good grief!’
And then I thought; CONDOMS. Then; EMMA, then; SEX.
Richard said,
‘So. Damon Bugle, no less.’
Emma sat down (I think her legs had decided they wanted to take no further part in things) and wrenched the picture from her Father’s hand.
‘So?’ She said, knowing full well that ‘so’ was the only appropriate response one could make to a confrontational parent with murder on their minds, but with a rather disturbingly vivid blush that totally belied her innocence.
‘So Damon Bugle is your boyfriend, is he?’ I said.
‘Sort of.’
‘What does ‘sort of’ mean, exactly?’ Richard asked. We exchanged a look that wondered whether we should invoke the ‘C’ word at this juncture. I felt not. Emma shrugged.
‘I thought you said Damon Bugle was a geek,’ I went on. As opposed to the sex crazed maniac that may have already deflowered our vastly underaged daughter. Oh, God.
‘Well he’s not. He doesn’t just play chess you know. He’s also vice captain of the sixth form debating society, for your information. And he plays rugby for the Lions. And…’
She’d got it pretty bad.
‘Okay,’ said Richard. ‘So he’s not a geek. We get the picture. But what concerns me is that you’ve been very reluctant to discuss him with us, and you haven’t brought him home either. You are entitled to your privacy, of course, but your mother and I have been very concerned about your behaviour lately. It’s not like you to be furtive. And the love bite…’
‘Dad! It was only a love bite, for goodness sake. I’m fifteen, you know. Or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘And fifteen is too young to be getting up to the sort of thing that means you come home with a love bite…’
At which point, Emma’s face became redder still and tears began to plop out of her eyes. This is it, I thought. This is where she tells us she’s pregnant. Then – hey, condoms, of course. My relief was immense. But then I thought; Sex! My baby! She’s only just got rid of her Barbies! I put my arm round her, prepared for the worst. She yanked it away.
‘Oh, leave me alone, both of you!’ she sobbed, rising from her seat. ‘You just don’t understand anything about anything. You don’t care about me. You just don’t understand anything about being in love. I hate you!’ On which note, she fled from the kitchen.
‘God, the little bastard,’ said Richard. ‘If I’d known…’
‘Urghhhh,’ I said, ‘And there was me telling Carol Phelps that Moira shouldn’t have taken it so badly. Badly! And thinking what a responsible lad he must be! God! If only I’d known…’
‘Do you think…’
‘I dread to…’
‘You don’t think…’
‘I hope not…’
‘We’ll have to…’
‘I know. When she’s calmed down…’
‘Do you think I should…’
‘No. Not now. Let’s think about this for a while. We don’t want to…’
‘God, no. That’s exactly what sends them straight into their arms, isn’t it…’
‘Exactly. God, I feel so responsible. I’m her Mother. I should have realised…’
‘You’re right. This is partly our fault. All this upheaval in her life, and…’
‘And me being so wrapped up in myself, and…’
‘I wouldn’t say that..’
‘Oh, but I have. What with work, and me being…’
‘Well you have been…’
‘And I’ve been worried about Lily, and spending a lot of time…’
‘And you have been going out a fair bit…’
‘And forgetting that she’s really only a child still, and…’
‘And it’s hardly a good example, is it? All this gadding around…’
‘Well I wouldn’t exactly call it…’
‘But you have been…’
‘No, I haven’t. I was just saying…’
‘And she is a girl, Julia. Look, I’m there for her, she knows that, but she’s hardly going to come to me for advice about that sort of thing, is she? She needs a mother’s guidance..’
‘What do you mean ‘gadding’?’
‘Simply that…’
‘Oh. Oh! So you’re Mr Squeaky Clean Stop At Home, are you?’
‘Well I…’
‘Well I nothing!’
‘I certainly haven’t been dressing up in strange clothes and pretending I was fifteen, quite frankly.’
‘Oh, that’s what I’ve been doing, is it? How dare you…’
‘Look, I only meant..’
‘You meant exactly what you said. You think Emma’s going off the rails because of me. Because I’m a crap mother and that I’m more concerned with myself than with the good of my children. Well thanks a lot.’
‘I said nothing of the kind. I just think you should think about the affect this is all having on the kids. Being carted back and forth all the time, and you going out with bloody hippies and whatnot. Children need stability. They need a secure family life. They need…’
‘What you need is a kick in the balls. How dare you lecture me about family life! You were the one who poked that bitch round the corner. This is your fault, okay?’
I could almost see Richard’s knees scrunch together as I said this. His superior tone made a bolt for it, too.
‘Look, I know it was me who did that, but..’
I stood up. Same effect. He was visibly shrinking. ‘Oh, and pardon me for taking offence!’ I bellowed. ‘I suppose I should have just said – oh, diddums, you must be feeling so guilty, poor thing. Please accept my apologies for feeling a teeny bit bloody upset about it. And what’s with this ‘that’? You make it sound like you just put a shelf up wrong or something – that’s if you ever bloody bothered to do that sort of thing in the first place – it was infidelity, Richard. You were unfaithful to me. Where’s the book that says infidelity is no longer a bad thing? Huh?’
He stood up as well, arms across crotch, looking weary.
‘I think I’d better go. This is getting us nowhere.’
‘It’s getting me bloody wild. Yes, you’d better.’
Bastard.
By the morning, the pace, tone and general ambience of the Potter household has subsided from seething hotbed of fury to a more manageable smouldering den of resentment. Emma and I are circumnavigating the house with care and lowered faces.
Despite being so angry with Richard that I want to hack off his willy and put it in a blender, my mood is lightened by two things.
The first of these is Max’s admission that he took a small tube of writing icing with him to school yesterday, and surreptitiously autographed all my fairy cakes with the legend JP (plus heart). That he went on to charge an illicit five pence for them is something I shall overlook. That it is a very sad woman who’s day is lifted by something as inconsequential as a fan club of twenty odd eleven year old boys I shall also overlook. I am clearly a star. They were sold out in minutes.
And then there is Moira and the canapé moment.
Moira Bugle, I realise, must have known about Emma. And must be living in fear at this very instant, that I, Julia Potter, celebrity brawler, may be on my way round to re-arrange her son’s face. Hah! SHR!
But I’m still bloody mad. Thank Heavens, for Richard’s sake, for Croydon.
Now, I know that by the mi
ddle of next week I will be fantasising about stashing hamburgers, wine boxes and intelligent conversationalists under my bed, and attaching clothes pegs to my tongue to stop me from screaming at her, but sometimes my Mum is the only person who can make me feel better.
Within moments – no, micromoments – of me telephoning, she was enthusing about me, fit to bust. I almost decided she’d developed dementia and thought she was speaking to someone from Pottery Workshop about me. But no. The word ‘you’ was definitely in there.
‘So I went down to Smith’s and bought a dozen copies – I thought I’d pop a couple to your cousins in Penge. And, of course, everyone at Potty (Potty?) thinks it’s all terribly exciting. In fact, Minnie Scrivens – you know, with the cellulitis – wondered if perhaps you might be able to get that television lady’s autograph for her grandson. Anyway, I said I’d ask. I mean, she should really make some sort of amends, shouldn’t she? Oh, and I’ve had a couple laminated – I thought I could use them as placemats, and I’ve written to Great Auntie Bet in Canada – she always likes to know what you’re up to. Anyway, when you come you can see. I could get some done for you as well, if you like. Oh, and there’s a thing! We’re having a little bit of show on the Wednesday – nothing grand – just a small exhibition of the term’s best efforts – my Mondrian ring tree’s going in – did I tell you? And you could come along, and bring the children – oh, it would be lovely! Everyone’s dying to meet you, now they’ve seen you in the paper.’
I fear this as only a woman who knows that she has been number one topic of conversation at a certain corner of Pottery Workshop for the past half dozen years can. And now I have achieved cult status as well. I wonder if perhaps I should dye my hair green. It would be such a pity to disappoint.
‘It all sounds wonderful,’ I enthuse obediently. ‘And the children are so looking forward to seeing you. And please don’t worry about planning loads of meals and suchlike (some hope). I expect we’ll be doing lots of day trips. We could even hit the coast a couple of times if it’s nice.’
As always, I regret the word ‘coast’ immediately. For my mother, the word ‘coast’ evokes a Pavlovian response involving hard boiled eggs, salad cream, two dozen brawn sandwiches, cold sausages, pork and egg pies, crisps, individual fruit tarts and (always) a Swiss roll. And topped with a treatise on burger bar catering. McDonalds, she’ll say, serve such unhealthy food.
Julia Gets a Life Page 16