The Playgroup

by Janey Fraser

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It’s the start of a new term at Puddleducks Playgroup, and for Gemma Merryfield it’ll be her first year in charge. Watching the new arrivals, she can already tell who the troublemakers will be, and not all of them are children!

  What Gemma doesn’t realise is that former banker Joe Balls, now head of Reception at the neighbouring school, will be watching her every move. As far as he’s concerned, Puddleducks puts too much emphasis on fun and games, and not enough on numbers.

  But when one of the children falls dangerously ill and another disappears, Gemma and Joe have to set aside their differences and work together …

  About the Author

  Janey Fraser is a writer and journalist who has also written five novels under the name Sophie King. She lives in Devon with her husband.

  This book is dedicated to

  William, who insisted on taking his cricket ball to playgroup.

  Lucy, who cried because she was too young to go to playgroup.

  Giles, who was always trying to escape from playgroup.

  My husband, who has taught me to take time out to play.

  Also to the real Puddleducks playgroups and Corrybank primary schools everywhere, who do such a great job both for children and parents.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to my agent Teresa Chris. I am also very grateful to Gillian Holmes for her clever eye; to Marissa Cox for her publicity expertise and everyone at Arrow. Also to The Romantic Novelists Association, with particular thanks to Katie Fforde, Kate Furnivall, Linda Mitchelmore and Margaret James.

  THE PUDDLEDUCKS PLAYGROUP

  NEWSLETTER

  SEPTEMBER ISSUE

  Welcome back, everyone! If you’re new, we’d like to give you an extra-special hello! Here, at Puddleducks Playgroup, we understand that your first day might seem daunting. But we’re around to make sure you settle in – and that includes nervous parents!

  We’ve got all kinds of activities to keep you amused and also help you learn! There’s our new Pyjama Drama group and our weekly Wriggle and Giggle Musical Movement group. This term, we’re very fortunate to have Kitty Macdonald (of Britain’s Best Talent fame) who will be running a music workshop morning and helping us with the end-of-term nativity play!

  Please also put the following date in your diary: on September 30 there will be a Parents’ Social in the main hall, so book your babysitter now!

  Here is some advice to make the autumn term go with a swing.

  VITAL DO’S AND DON’TS

  DO make sure every item of clothing is clearly labelled – including underwear!

  DO fill in the enclosed medical form, especially the allergy section.

  DO fill in the Emergency Contact form together with your doctor’s details.

  Please be aware that this term, we have a new security code which has been fitted on to the main door. If you are late, you will need to ring the bell so one of the staff can let you in.

  Right! That’s it! We hope your little Puddleducks will have a splashing – sorry, smashing! – start. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

  PS. Do any of you mums have a secret talent? If so, we’d like to hear from you. At Puddleducks Playgroup, we welcome outside speakers who can tell us about their own area of expertise. So if you’re an artist or a writer or a singer or even if you have just come back from an interesting holiday, please get in touch.

  THE PUDDLEDUCKS SONG

  We are the little Puddleducks

  We love to learn through play.

  It keeps us bright and busy

  All (two beats) through the day!

  Chapter 1

  ‘MRS MERRYFIELD, MRS MERRYFIELD. We went to More-ishus. And it rained.’

  ‘Hi, Gemma! Nice tan! Listen, I’m pretty certain Molly is dry now but just in case she’s not, there’s a spare pair of pants in her sandwich box. That’s the one with the picture of a giraffe on it – sorry I didn’t have time to label it.’

  ‘Morning, Miss Merryfield. Had a good break? Darren, have you said hello to your playgroup leader?’

  ‘Gemma, I’m so sorry. But we’ve just had Beth checked again and it turns out she’s allergic to wheat as well as salt, sugar, any kind of additives and – get this – any food that’s yellow. Weird, isn’t it? So can you make sure she doesn’t have any biscuits at breaktime?’

  The stream of traffic on the first day of term was always hectic with the children running up to swing on her arms, wrap their small warm bodies round her legs, bobbing up and down, unable to stand still for a second and announcing in breathy excited voices exactly what they’d been up to in the holidays. It was like lots of different hands playing piano notes at the same time.

  The parents too would understandably want to chat, some calling her Gemma because they felt they knew her, while others preferred a more formal address. As for the children, she’d given up explaining that she was a Miss. In their minds, any woman like their mum had to have a Mrs in front of their name.

  And there were so many people milling around, all needing something different from her. For a start, there was Darren’s mum squatting down by the playdough table to settle in her three-year-old, who was nervous about coming back after a whole summer off.

  Then there were mums like Kyle’s who arrived in skinny tops and casual jogging bottoms (so casual that they looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed and were going back to watch daytime TV) and just waved goodbye to their children without a second glance. Kyle’s mother always dressed her son in a skimpy Power Rangers T-shirt, winter and summer, even though Gemma kept asking her to bring in something warmer. It had got to the point now where she just lent Kyle something from the Lost Property box when his arms went blu
e.

  And of course there were the one-offs like Clemmie’s mum, who used to be a model, and arrived every day in beautifully cut trousers, earrings and flawless foundation complete with lipliner. ‘Don’t forget your handbag, Clemmie darling. It’s got your oatmeal snack in it so we can keep an eye on those naughty calories.’

  Some parents came from the council flats down by the bottom end of the canal. A good smattering came from the smart houses up at the top end where house prices had been known to go into seven figures. There were also a lot of in-betweeners from roads where you could park your car in the drive and those where you couldn’t. It was a testament to Puddleducks that families who could have afforded to go private were actually keen to send their under-fives to a state playgroup like this one.

  Mind you, there were times when she felt she did run a private one-to-one service.

  ‘I’m reely sorry to bother you, Gemma. But Mikey’s lost his favourite sweatshirt and we think he might have left it behind here last term. Could you have a quick look for it when you have a second? You can’t miss it. It says, Granny went to Adelaide and came back with a new Grandad. Not very funny, actually, under the circumstances but I’ll tell you about that one later.’

  ‘Miss Merryfield? Could I have a word? Poppy is awfully upset because she only got three gold stars at the end of last term for her letter outlines and Alex got four even though Poppy can do lovely p’s and q’s whereas Alex, I couldn’t help noticing from his work-sheet over there, still gets his b’s back to front. We did a teeny bit of practice during the holidays. So I wondered if you could bear this in mind because it does make a difference to her confidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Morning, Mrs Mayfold. Did you have a good holiday? Lucky you, having eight whole weeks off.’

  Merryfield, she tried to say to Sienna’s mum, who was always getting her name wrong, partly because she usually conducted a conversation while checking her iPhone for emails at the same time. As for the long holidays, like most teachers, Gemma was used to digs like that. She’d actually spent quite a lot of time preparing for the new term. Besides, as Miriam had warned her before going on maternity leave, you couldn’t win with Sienna’s mum, who always criticised everything. She was already complaining to the father behind her about someone’s parking outside.

  Gemma’s eyes softened. She liked Toby’s dad, although he was married so of course she didn’t like him that way. No, it was because he was one of that increasingly common breed of fathers who looked after their children while their wives went out to work. It wasn’t, they had both told her confidentially at the last parents’ evening, what they had intended, but redundancy and the cost of childcare had made it work out that way, and actually it was panning out quite nicely, because it meant he had more time to be with the children.

  ‘Sorry to bother you.’ Toby’s dad, always polite, was pushing a packet of tablets into her hand. ‘It’s the last of Toby’s antibiotic course. It was just a chesty bug and he’s not infectious any more, but he does keep making some rather bad smells because of the medicine and . . .’

  There was a squeal behind him. ‘Chesty bug? Are children allowed into playgroup if they’re sick?’

  Gemma’s heart sank. When it came to going back to playgroup after an illness, there was always a fine line between ‘almost better’ and ‘completely better’. The mother who had squealed, in what sounded like an American twang, was new. Poor thing. She’d need reassuring.

  ‘Have you got a letter from the doctor to say that he is fit for playgroup?’ Gemma smiled apologetically. ‘You might remember that we need that now.’

  Toby’s father nodded enthusiastically, delving into his jeans pocket and bringing out a scruffy envelope along with a nappy wipe, a black dog-poo bag (clean), a tissue (not so clean) and a smattering of small change which then scattered all over the floor.

  ‘Oh my word!’ The alarm was evident in the twang. ‘Danny might try to eat those coins. He’s always putting things in his mouth.’

  Danny! It was coming together now. This was the American mother who had already rung her twice with all kinds of questions. Were the Puddleduck sweatshirts optional, because polyester made Danny’s skin itch? Did the staff ratio conform to the current guidelines here in the UK?

  ‘Please don’t worry, Mrs Wright,’ soothed Gemma, looking past her to where Danny had already shot off to the messy corner, where one of her helpers was introducing the new intake to the joys of splashing in bowls of soapy water and measuring containers.

  The painfully skinny woman with the short, spiky haircut and a worry groove on her forehead frowned. ‘It’s Carter Wright without a hyphen. Not just Wright.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Gemma smiled, mentally kicking herself for not having memorised the register properly. ‘I do understand it’s difficult leaving your son for the first time. All our parents find that at first. But we do take great care of the children. I promise.’

  Toby’s dad, bless him, was nodding enthusiastically again. ‘Honest. Toby’s our baby and I didn’t know what to do with myself when he started here – only two and a half, he was – so we got a dog. I know, crazy isn’t it. By the way, congratulations.’

  Gemma’s heart threatened to stop. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Congratulations!’ repeated Toby’s dad, beaming. ‘I gather you’re our new pre-school leader while Miriam is on maternity leave. What did she have?’

  Gemma’s heart began beating again. ‘A boy. Nicolas. That’s Nicolas without an h.’

  ‘Great news! Did you hear that, everyone? Miriam had a healthy baby boy! We ought to rustle up a parent collection.’

  Gemma watched Toby’s dad springing into action and already wheedling donations from some of the other parents as they finally drifted out of the exit door, through the enclosed outdoor play area and get on with their own lives until 11.30 pick-up time. Some of them were, at the same time, reading spare copies of the playgroup newsletter she’d brought in. Miriam had said that was a great idea, although, at the moment, Miriam thought everything was a good idea apart from giving birth again.

  Trailing behind them was the American mother with the spiky haircut, reluctantly looking back at her son who was now blowing bubbles. ‘You don’t think he’ll try to eat that stuff, do you?’ she asked Gemma plaintively.

  It was all she could do not to give the poor woman a hug. ‘He’ll be fine. Please don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him.’

  ‘DON’T WANT TO STAY! DON’T WANT TO STAY!’

  Oh dear. By the door was a screaming human tourniquet of Gap meets Boden as Daisy, who had just been presented with twin baby sisters, entwined herself around her mother’s legs. The American woman gave her a look that said, Is this what they do when we’re not here? and turned away, head bowed, towards the car park.

  ‘She’s been really clingy ever since these two came along.’ Daisy’s mother’s watery brown eyes appealed to her. ‘I can’t leave her like this!’

  Gemma could have said the usual stuff about not worrying because most children stopped crying once their mothers had gone. But she also knew that if she was a mother herself, that wouldn’t really help.

  So instead she had another trick up her sleeve.

  ‘Daisy?’

  Gemma pretended to be surprised by the voice which came from the back of her throat, her lips hardly moving. It was an action she’d been working on over the summer, much to her landlady’s amusement.

  ‘Daisy? It’s me. Mouse.’

  Daisy opened her eyes a fraction as Gemma knelt down with her hand inside the hand puppet made out of an oven glove, felt scraps and sequins. Mouse was the class’s favourite toy. When they had Quiet Talk Time, during which the children would sit in a circle and take it in turns to say something about the day, it was tradition that Mouse would be passed around at the same time and they were only allowed to talk if they were holding him. It worked brilliantly in stopping other children – even Billy – from interrupting.


  Animal distraction had been a trick that her grandmother had taught her. So far, it hadn’t failed to work.

  ‘Hello, Daisy.’ Gemma crouched down so she was on the same level. ‘I wonder if you can help me. There’s something very tiny inside my pocket and it’s trying to get out.’

  The yelling got louder. Daisy’s puce face was now firmly buried into her mother’s feet so the poor woman was in danger of falling over, complete with twin slings.

  ‘Oh no!’ Gemma somehow managed to make her voice loudly authoritative and yet calm at the same time. ‘Mouse says he’s got a terrible headache from all this noise. He wants you to stop and see what he’s been getting up to in the holidays.’

  Slowly, she pulled out the felt finger mouse she had made: a smaller version of the glove puppet, created from fabric remnants sold by the craft shop on the high street. Bending her finger up and down to indicate distress, she made whining noises so it seemed that miniature mouse, with his red-sequinned eyes, was crying. Daisy lifted her head very slightly in concern.

  ‘It’s Mouse’s new baby and it’s his first day at Puddleducks Playgroup,’ explained Gemma. ‘Poor baby mouse is feeling a bit scared and wants you to help him make a pasta calendar with the rest of us, or maybe do some leaf printing. By the way, he says he loves your daisy tights!’

  There was a sudden painful knock on her shoulder. ‘Me! I want to hold Mouse. Me. Me.’

  Gemma liked to think of herself as a patient teacher, but Billy would have tested the fortitude of St Trinian. Last term, she’d had to see his parents when Billy had given another child an impromptu bowl-shape haircut with the aid of a plastic Christmas-pudding dish from the playbox and a pair of so-called safety scissors.

  ‘You can hold another baby mouse,’ said Gemma, delving in her other pocket for the spare she’d made in case this happened. Daisy had stopped crying now and was tenderly stroking Mouse’s whiskers, which were loosely sewn on with large tacking stitches in brown thread. Sewing had never been one of Gemma’s strong points.

  ‘No!’ Billy had grabbed a plastic hammer from the toy toolbox now and was banging it against the Wendy house with huge, angry thwacks. ‘I want the big proper Mouse.’ He pointed to Daisy’s. ‘Not this stupid one.’