Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum!

by Rosie Rushton

  Ginny took a deep breath. ‘Oh, hi, Ruth – I was just about to phone you. I, er …’

  ‘Doubtless you can guess what I’m phoning about – I … ‘ Ruth’s voice petered out.

  ‘Look, Ruth, don’t,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. I wouldn’t have had that happen for the world, honestly I wouldn’t. The thing was, I couldn’t block off the call once they’d put it through – and of course, she gave a false name, so I hadn’t a clue who it was till I heard her voice. Even then it took me a few minutes to suss her out.’

  ‘Oh Ginny, I’m not blaming you – it’s that daughter of mine I could cheerfully throttle. And I feel so embarrassed …’

  ‘Don’t — there’s no need, honestly.’

  Ruth sighed. ‘Anyone would think, listening to Laura, that I was having a rip-roaring affair and it just isn’t like that. Melvyn’s a friend – a good friend – but we’re not, I mean …’

  Ginny murmured soothingly, wondering whether Barry’s lunch was meant to smell so strange. Why couldn’t he have just made spaghetti bolognese?

  And what’ll Peter think? We were just beginning to be friends again.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t have been listening to teenage junk like that,’ said Ginny reassuringly.

  ‘I hope not. Except that those kids of Betsy’s have the radio on all the time, apparently. Still, knowing him he won’t have sussed anything. Oh, why did she have to do it, Ginny? Why didn’t she just talk to me?’ Ruth sounded near to tears.

  Ginny sighed. ‘Because she’s an adolescent, because she thinks she knows everything, because she believes you know nothing – in short because she’s an irritating, self-important, thoroughly normal teenager.’

  ‘And what will her friends think of me? Worse, what will her friends’ parents think? They’ll see me as some sort of hussy, they’ll …’

  ‘Stop it, Ruth,’ interrupted Ginny. ‘Listen. First, how many parents do you think would have been listening? Answer – hardly any. Second, of those listening, how many would recognise Laura’s voice – remember, she called herself Becky. They will all have been too busy vacuuming carpets and cleaning cars and yelling at their own kids to worry about some child on the radio with a moan about her mother.’

  Ruth laughed weakly.’I suppose so. I suppose I’m doing what Laura does all the time – making a mountain out of a molehill and turning a drama into a crisis! Anyway, I told Laura she couldn’t go to the club tonight – I thought it was time I came down hard. Showed her who was boss.’

  ‘Quite right, too. I’ll do the same with Chelsea,’ said Ginny.

  ‘No, wait,’ interrupted Ruth. ‘I’d just decided – and then Claire Farrant phoned – she’s the mother of that new girl,Jemma …’

  ‘Oh yes, I know – her husband’s the new consultant at the General – we did a profile on him in the paper last month,’ said Ginny.

  ‘Well, she said that she would only let Jemma go if she went with Laura and Chelsea. So – what could I do? I relented. Now madam will probably think I’m a soft touch – oh, and by the way, Claire’s driving.You can give Barry the night off! Oh, and Laura wants to come to your house to wait for the lift,’ continued Mrs Turnbull. ‘Apparently Wordsworth Close is beyond the pale.’

  Ginny groaned. ‘Honestly, kids! Who’d have ‘em? Er, Ruth …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We are still friends, aren’t we?’

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘Good.’

  Chelsea, who had been leaning over the bannister eavesdropping on her mother’s conversation, heaved a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been banned from the club.

  ‘CHELSEA!’

  “Well, not yet anyway.

  She scurried back into the kitchen. Her mother was wielding a dirty saucepan. ‘Can’t you ever do anything to help?’ she shouted. ‘There are dishes in the sink, bits of egg yolk on the counter tops – you might at least have cleared things up while I was sorting out the mess you made with my friendships.’

  Chelsea thought it best not to question her mother’s reasoning. It wasn’t she who had cooked some South American garbage for lunch. Why couldn’t her dad do it? However, under the circumstances, it might be a good idea, she thought, to do something helpful with a cloth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sumitha Gets Through Stage One

  Over on Wellington Road, Sumitha was counting the minutes until her parents left for their night away.

  ‘Now Sumitha, behave yourself while we’re gone,’ said Mr Banerji, as he meticulously packed the boot of the car. He was a man who paid great attention to detail, from the mirror shine on his black shoes to exact timing of the number of minutes his daughter spent on her French homework.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ said Sumitha, wondering what her father would say if he knew what she was really planning.

  ‘We’ll drop you off on the way, and then I can see Mrs Turnbull before we go,’ said Sumitha’s mother. ‘Get your things, dear.’

  Sumitha’s heart sank. If they dropped her off, something was bound to be said about their planned night out.

  ‘We don’t have time, Chitrita,’ said her father. ‘We are running late already.’

  ‘But, Rajiv, it will look so rude …’ began Mrs Banerji, adjusting the jade and gold sari she had bought for the occasion.

  ‘It’s OK. Mum,’ said Sumitha. ‘Why don’t you just drop me at the end of their road. I’ll say hi to Mrs Turnbull for you and explain that you had to dash.’

  ‘Well, if you are sure …’

  ‘Chitrita, we must get a move on.’ Sumitha’s father was not one to be kept waiting.

  All the way to Wordsworth Close, Sumitha’s father and mother gave instructions. ‘Say please and thank you. Offer to help with the clearing up. Don’t leave wet towels in the bathroom.’And all the way Sumitha said yes and no in what she hoped were all the right places.

  As she waved goodbye to the disappearing car, Sumitha heaved a sigh of relief. For one awful moment, she had thought her plans would be destroyed. If they had gone to Laura’s house, and if Laura’s mother had said anything about the club night …

  She rang the bell. ‘Hello, dear,’ said Laura’s mother, ‘Are your parents not coming in?’

  ‘No, Mrs Turnbull, they had to dash off,’ said Sumitha. ‘They asked me to say thank you for them.’ Sumitha gave her one of her winning smiles.

  ‘Oh dear, and I was going to check with them that it was all right for you to go to the club tonight.’ Mrs Turnbull looked anxiously down the road.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Sumitha. ‘I’ve got my stuff in the bag.’ She held up her rucksack.

  Well, she didn’t say they knew about the stuff in the bag, did she, she reasoned with herself. Just that she had it with her.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Laura’s mum. ‘Laura! Sumitha’s here.’

  Laura appeared from the hallway. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked with a knowing look.

  ‘Great,’ said Sumitha. ‘Just great.’ They taught you at drama class to keep a straight face. It was proving a useful attribute.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr Turnbull Thinks Things Through

  Laura’s dad had driven out to the old house at Preston Abbott to take one last look. Betsy was at home looking after a pallid Daryl and Sonia had gone bowling with her friends. Peter had been thinking a lot about the past and wanted to see the house once more. It looked even more of a monstrosity now than it had when they lived there, he thought. Of course, it had been a crazy house to buy – it had stood empty for two years before they found it, which was why they had got it so cheap. It had once been a vicarage, in the days when the clergy lived in style, and he and Ruth had had great ideas about doing it up, restoring it to its former glory, and filling it with antiques.

  They soon discovered that big rooms look nice but cost a bomb to heat, and old houses harbour damp and woodworm. They spent all their money just keeping warm and repairing the roof, and in the end they began to hate t
he house for taking up all their time and most of their money. They stopped having holidays and bought drainpipes instead, and every winter they did battle with the ancient boiler and moved all the furniture as close to the fire as they could.

  When he and Ruth decided to split up, the one thing neither of them was sad about was leaving the house. But Laura was devastated. The Old Vicarage suited her sense of style and her love of the dramatic. She told everyone they had a resident ghost, and sat for hours in the dilapidated summer house writing stories about imaginary families who lived there in the past. She always gave her address as The Old Vicarage, Preston Abbott, when in fact it was The Old Vicarage, 26 Woodland Lane, Preston Abbott.

  ‘Don’t put the road in, Dad,’ she said when he had some letterheads printed. ‘It looks much more uppercrust without.’

  Peter chuckled to himself. Laura was like that – always wanting things to look just right. She told her friends he was an international financier, when in fact he worked as an accountant with an import/export company. When they had spent ten days camping in the Loire Valley, she told people that they were ‘visiting a friend’s chateau’. She was, he feared, something of a snob. But a very loveable little snob.

  He did hope she was happy. He had been sure of it – she was always chattering nineteen to the dozen when he had her for the day, and when she phoned him, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. But then occasionally, he wondered. Like this morning. He couldn’t get the radio programme out of his head. If only Daryl hadn’t decided to throw up all over the car he would have heard the rest. It sounded as if Ruth had got a new man friend. Well, good for her – it would help Peter feel less guilty if he knew she was happy. Only Laura obviously had a problem, and that bothered him. Perhaps he should phone tonight. Yes, that was it – he’d phone and talk to Laura and find out what was what.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jemma Covers Up

  Jemma glowered at her reflection in the mirror and yanked the elastic band off her pony-tail. Should she put her hair up now? She had been copying a picture in Yell! magazine and reckoned it made her look much older. But if she went downstairs with a French plait, her mother would only have a purple fit and then everything else might be revealed. She’d just have to do it at the club.

  ‘Come along, Jemma love, time to go.’ Mrs Farrant’s voice floated up the stairs.

  Jemma took a deep breath. This was it. She really had to make a good impression tonight. Making friends when you turn up at a new school in the middle of the term isn’t easy at the best of times, and when you have a mother who insists on treating you as if you were at infant school instead of practically fourteen, who puts dinosaur biscuits in your lunch box and who delights in making you a laughing stock in front of the entire world, it’s even harder. But Laura Turnbull had been really nice to her, and when she had invited her to The Stomping Ground, Jemma couldn’t believe her luck. She wasn’t about to blow things now.

  She slipped the mascara, eye shadow and lipstick she had bought that morning (when she was supposed to be getting toothpaste and bubble bath) into her anorak pocket and pulled the zip right up to the neck to hide her clothes. She hated this childish anorak, but for once it served a purpose. She slipped the silver slingbacks she had ‘borrowed’ from the back of her mother’s wardrobe into her bag. Her mum wouldn’t notice. She never wore them; she never wore anything remotely stylish. With a bit of luck, Jemma just might get away with it.

  ‘Now listen, Jemma petal,’ began Mrs Farrant as she manoeuvred the car out of the driveway and on to Billing Hill, ‘don’t accept anything from anyone tonight, not sweets, not drinks …’

  ‘Oh Mum, stop it – I’m not a baby,’ said Jemma with a sigh.’I’m only going to a club – not into a den of sleaze, you know.’

  ‘Yes, well, you can’t be too careful,’ said her mother. ‘Now, are you sure you’ve got everything? Money for the phone, comb? Will you be warm enough? It’s still very chilly at night. What have you got on under there?’

  ‘Er, oh, my cream shirt,’ said Jemma hastily, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  ‘Oh, lovely, pet – the one I got you from Kids’ Stuff. Very pretty.’

  ‘I think we are just coming up to Chelsea’s turning now,’ said Jemma quickly, in order to change the subject. ‘She said it was first left past the church.’

  ‘All right, love,’ said Mrs Farrant, pulling up outside Number 19. ‘I’ll just pop in and collect your friends.’

  ‘MUM! Just toot the horn!’

  Mrs Farrant sighed. ‘Darling, tooting horns is very rude. I’ll reverse into their drive and you can go to the door.’

  There was a teeth-jarring crunch as Mrs Farrant attempted to get into reverse. A laurel bush shuddered as the rear wheel careered into a flower bed.

  ‘Oh Mum,’ sighed Jemma, ‘stay where you are. Just don’t do anything. Just sit there.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Finishing Touches

  While Jemma was attempting to sort her mother out, Chelsea, Sumitha and Laura were putting the finishing touches to their ensembles.

  ‘You’re sure I look OK? You don’t think this top makes me look too fat? What about my spot? Does it show?’ Chelsea frowned in the mirror.

  You look great, honestly,’ said Laura, who was staring wide-eyed into the bathroom mirror with her tongue sticking out as she tried to draw an even line with her mum’s Seductive Cinnamon eyeliner.

  ‘But you want to be a novelist, not a supermodel,’ reasoned Chelsea.

  ‘That,’said Laura,’is not the point.’

  ‘Anyway, auburn hair is a sign of creativity,’ said Sumitha knowledgeably. ‘Loads of poets have auburn hair.’

  Laura felt better.

  ‘What do you think Jemma will wear?’ she said, pouting her lips and applying copious layers of Sunburnt Rust. ‘Her mother’s really old-fashioned about clothes and make-up and stuff.

  ‘She seems a bit of a goody-goody – Jemma, I mean,’said Chelsea. ‘She’s really babyish. I know she’s the youngest in the year, and all that, but she’s a bit feeble. She won’t even go to the cafeteria until someone goes with her. Why did you go and invite her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Laura. ‘I felt sorry for her, I suppose. She doesn’t know anyone and that day when her mum turned up at the classroom door to fetch her, she looked so embarrassed. I mean, imagine having your mum do something like that. Those awful maroon tights she had on!’They all tittered.

  ‘Not to mention that rain hat,’ said Chelsea, giggling.

  ‘Girls, Mrs Farrant’s here.’ Ginny called up the stairs.

  Sumitha stood stock still. ‘Isn’t your mum driving us?’ she said to Chelsea.

  ‘Nope. Mrs Farrant wants us to hold little Jemma’s hand.’ She pulled a face. ‘And in exchange, she gets to do the driving.’

  ‘Oh no,’ gasped Sumitha. ‘I thought we’d be meeting Jemma there.’

  ‘Well, what difference does it makes who takes us, as long as we get there?’ said Laura.

  ‘But Mr Farrant is the new ear, nose and throat surgeon at the hospital where my dad works,’ said Sumitha. ‘Dad does all his X-rays and stuff, and if Dad gets to hear about tonight …’

  ‘Oh, he won’t,’ said Chelsea, throwing on her black leather jacket and running one last blob of product through her hair. ‘Fathers never talk about things like that. Come to think of it, Jemma’s dad probably hasn’t got a clue that there’s a club night on. Mine lives in a world of his own,’ she added reassuringly.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Sumitha did not sound convinced.

  ‘Girls! Come on – don’t keep Mrs Farrant waiting!’ Ginny sounded irritated.

  They clattered downstairs.

  ‘Now Chelsea, remember what I told you,’ began Ginny. ‘No smoking, no accepting anything from …’

  ‘Oh Mum, don’t go on – you’re not on the radio now.’

  Tm just reminding you,’ said Ginny calmly. ‘Better safe than sorry.
Have a great time, girls – see you later.’

  Chelsea, Sumitha and Laura piled into the back of Mrs Farrant’s Polo, giving each other a sidelong glance at the sight of Jemma in her lime green and lilac anorak buttoned up to the neck. They couldn’t been seen hanging round the club with someone like her! They’d have to lose her once they were inside.

  ‘Hi,’ said Jemma. She looked anxious.

  ‘Hi,’ they said.

  The inside of the car was boiling hot. This was because Mrs Farrant kept mistaking the temperature regulator for the windscreen wiper button. Chelsea and Laura unbuttoned their jackets. Jemma looked purple in the face, but still remained buttoned up.

  ‘My goodness, Chelsea dear, that is a short little jumper, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Farrant. ‘Won’t you be frightfully chilly later on?’

  ‘Mum … ’ hissed Jemma, sinking further into her anorak in mortification.

  ‘It’s a cropped top, Mrs Farrant.’ Chelsea smiled sweetly.’It’s very of the moment.’

  ‘It’s very revealing, isn’t it?’ replied Jemma’s mum, peering through the driving mirror and swerving rather violently into the middle of the road.An oncoming lorry driver made a gesture which indicated what he thought of middle-aged women drivers.

  Mrs Farrant was rather surprised at all the girls – they were wearing a great deal of make-up. She was glad that Jemma wasn’t like that – she always thought it was such a pity when children grew up too soon. She peered through the mirror again and narrowly missed the kerb.

  ‘Mum … ’

  Jemma found her mother’s driving only marginally less of an embarrassment than her fondness for frilly blouses and white ankle socks. She had failed her test four times before passing, and only persevered because Mr Farrant was always too busy at the hospital to take the twins to playgroup or Sam to his swimming lessons.

  Fortunately, Mrs Farrant was not too sure of the way to The Stomping Ground and the rest of the journey passed without further comment on the fashion leanings of her passengers. After three wrong turnings, two circuits of the St Andrews roundabout and a brief trip the wrong way up a one-way street, they arrived. ‘Now, petals, you three will keep an eye on Jemma.’ ‘MUM!’Jemma slammed the car door and headed for the entrance. The others offered beatific smiles and obedient nods to her mother and made a dash for the entrance.