The Playgroup

by Janey Fraser

  ‘Really?’ Joe could hardly believe it.

  ‘That’s down to Miss Merryfield here.’ Beryl flashed a warm smile of approval at Gemma, which made Joe feel like the least favourite child. ‘The parents, including Miss Dalung, say she’s a real gem.’

  Turning back to Joe, she sniffed, making it clear she didn’t feel the same way about him. ‘Not that that means we should be complacent. I want to take a look around and see if anyone could have got in without us knowing. I’m absolutely certain that none of the staff would pull a stunt like this, and several parents have approached us promising that none of them would have done anything to jeopardise a child’s safety by talking to the press.’

  Joe cleared his throat. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, all this is very naïve. Most people would do anything for money.’

  Beryl shot him a sharp look. ‘Not in Hazelwood, they wouldn’t.’

  He exchanged a glance with Gemma, finding, with a surprised flash of relief, that her face confirmed exactly what he was thinking. Beryl wasn’t living in the real world.

  ‘There are some oddballs out there,’ began Gemma tentatively.

  Joe nodded gratefully. ‘She’s right and I do think, if you don’t mind me saying, Beryl, that we should have talked to the parents more formally about the situation.’

  Ignoring Beryl’s hostile expression, he reached into his pocket for the notes he had made earlier. ‘Now I’ve got a few suggestions.’

  They spent the next half an hour putting forward various ideas, which included Joe’s proposal to write to the Press Complaints Commission about the invasion of a child’s privacy. As Gemma pointed out, they couldn’t afford to have photographers peering over the fence like the ones she’d sorted out the other day. He had to hand it to her: she had guts! Pity he hadn’t been there to see it.

  ‘Right,’ said Beryl at the end of the meeting. ‘All that sounds good. Better be getting back now, hadn’t we, before school starts.’

  He turned to say goodbye. ‘See you tonight then,’ he said to Gemma.

  Beryl raised her eyebrows.

  ‘We live in the same house,’ explained Gemma, flushing.

  ‘Not like that,’ added Joe, but Beryl was already clucking something about it was none of her business but she was glad to see that they were getting on so well. She then bustled off, leaving Joe to shuffle from one foot to the other in front of Gemma, feeling that he ought to say something. On the fourteenth floor, when you needed to get out of an awkward situation, the best plan had been to surprise the opponent with an unexpected comment.

  ‘Nice loo paper, by the way.’

  Gemma’s face relaxed. ‘Thanks. I ordered it from this new educational supply company to improve my children’s spelling.’

  Big mistake. They were never ‘your’ children: he’d learned that in the inner city, where he’d seen too many teachers trying to help kids who then spat in their faces afterwards.

  ‘Pity you can’t do the same with their maths.’ The comment slid out of his mouth before he could stop it and, too late, he could see he’d hurt her.

  ‘We’re working on it. The numbered loo paper is coming in next week.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing it.’ There was a pause. ‘Not, I mean, that I intend to make a habit of sitting on Puddleduck loos.’

  They both laughed, and Joe felt a sense of relief that he had saved the situation. It had been surprisingly nice just now, when they’d been working together rather than against each other.

  ‘Just one thing.’ She was moving towards her desk as she spoke, and her authoritative tone made him feel as though he was the junior and not her. Something inside him bristled.

  ‘I hope you don’t feel,’ she said smoothly, ‘that you have to find another room to rent, just because of me. I’m sure it will work out if we don’t get in each other’s way.’ She coloured again. ‘I mean, what I’m trying to say is that I’m a very private person. In fact I was thinking. Suppose you use the bathroom before, say, seven, and I use it at seven thirty. Does that give you enough time?’

  There was something in that. After all, it would be a pain finding somewhere else to live right now. Maybe he and Gemma could make it work just until Christmas and then he’d start flat-hunting. ‘I prefer to get up earlier. How about six thirty and seven?’

  She seemed amused at this. ‘I’ll find my kitchen timer.’

  Was she poking fun at him? Ed had always teased him about his strict timekeeping.

  ‘By the way, what are you going as on Wednesday?’

  ‘Going as?’

  ‘For the assembly. You know, the Significant Figures.’

  ‘Oh that.’ He tried to sound as though he hadn’t forgotten about it. ‘I’m still making up my mind about that one. Are you still going as the first Queen Liz?’

  He’d tried to phrase this casually, but somehow it came out in an awful pseudy way.

  ‘No. I decided my dress wasn’t right.’

  Her voice had a slight edge to it. Women were so odd about clothes! In his experience, you never knew how you were meant to react. Was she expecting him to assure her that the dress would be perfect, even though he hadn’t seen it? That would have been just what Ed would have required.

  ‘At the moment,’ she continued more brightly, ‘it’s a toss-up between Mother Teresa, because that’s quite easy with a double sheet, or Peter Pan, because I’ve still got my old green school tunic.’ She flushed. ‘You never know when that sort of thing will come in handy, do you?’

  Suddenly he had a mental vision of Gemma in tights. Where on earth had that come from? ‘I’m sure you’ll find something. Is that the time? I must be getting back to the main school. See you later. As for the security lapse, I don’t need to remind you that as Beryl said, this simply can’t happen again.’

  Chapter 21

  JOE CAME AWAY from the meeting knowing that he’d confused Gemma with his blow hot, blow cold approach. He felt confused too, and not just by the girl. It was this place! Corrybank and Puddleducks and Hazelwood, all rolled into one. Somehow, teaching had seemed much simpler in the inner-city school, even though they’d had a community police car outside all day, in case a pupil or parent whipped out a knife.

  Yet the issues here in this suburban town were just as challenging in their own subtle way and, to be frank, he didn’t always know how to deal with them.

  ‘Explain more,’ Mike said when he rang that night for a general chat.

  Joe tried but it wasn’t easy sitting on his bed with his back to the wall, knowing that Gemma might or might not be listening on the other side. Even though this was a Victorian house, the walls weren’t all as thick as one might think. He had definitely heard her laughing on her mobile the other evening, and had felt awkward in case it was at him. ‘Everyone here seems more sensitive, somehow,’ he attempted.

  Mike roared with laughter. ‘You mean they’re offended by the famous Joe Balls waspish comments?’

  Joe shifted uncomfortably. ‘Something like that. But there’s something else too. You’ll never believe who turned up at my door the other evening.’

  Mike whistled. ‘Not Ed?’

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it, after everything she said.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! How did she know where to find you?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me,’ Joe said quietly.

  ‘You think Lynette might have given her your address?’ Mike’s voice sounded reflective at the other end. ‘If she did, mate, it would only be because she’s worried you’re lonely.’

  Joe’s throat tightened. They had all been such good friends at uni, the four of them. They’d been a striking four, too: two tall, strapping lads each with attractive auburn-haired girlfriends. In some ways, the girls looked quite alike, but their personalities couldn’t have been more different. ‘But Lynette knows why Ed and I split up. Why would she have done such a thing?’

  ‘Point taken. I’ll ask her. Meanwhile, how did you feel when she
turned up like that?’

  He’d been asking himself the same question. ‘Confused. It doesn’t help that she’s started leaving messages on my answerphone, asking if I feel like a drink sometime.’

  There was a groan from Mike’s end. ‘You’re not going to fall for all this, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He tried to sound firmer than he felt. Of course Ed had done something he could never forgive, but it was still difficult to move on when you’d shared so much history. ‘There’s something else too.’

  ‘Don’t tell me! You’ve got another woman after you. Honestly Joe, I don’t know how you do it. How many proposals did you get at your last place? Six, or was it seven?’

  Joe couldn’t help feeling a slight flush of pride. ‘Nine and a half actually, but before you ask how I worked out the half, the issue I was talking about was what I’m going to dress up as tomorrow.’

  There was the sound of crashing from Mike’s end, which no doubt came from one of the boys. ‘Sorry, Joe, can you repeat that? For a minute I thought you were into cross-dressing.’

  ‘Very funny. I’ve got to dress up as something tomorrow for Significant Figures. Nothing to do with maths. It’s a project to teach the children about people who meant something in history, and staff have to do it too.’

  There was another crashing sound and then Lynette’s voice chipped in. ‘Hi, Joe. Sorry to take over but Mike’s needed to sort out the troops.’

  Joe felt a flash of envy. Usually he managed to keep that part under control, but he had a sudden picture in his head of himself as a dad with two small boys and he began to wonder, yet again, if that was ever going to happen. He told Lynette about his costume problem.

  ‘Have you got a spare sheet and pillowcase?’ Lynette’s voice had taken on a professional edge. ‘Because if so, you could go as . . .’

  ‘Mother Teresa?’

  ‘Only if you want a sex change. I was thinking more of the Dalai Lama. And by the way, I couldn’t help overhearing. It wasn’t me who gave Ed your address. I wouldn’t do that. Must go. The boys are flooding the bathroom again. Byeeee.’

  Lynette hadn’t given Ed his address? Then how had she found him? The only person who knew his new rented address, apart from his friends, was the school secretary. Ed’s mouth tightened. If Diana-but-call-me-Di had given that out without permission, he truly would have an axe to wield. Meanwhile . . .

  Within minutes, he found himself standing at the door of Gemma’s bedsit. Too late, he wished he’d been a bit nicer at their last meeting, which might possibly account for the cold look she was giving him now. ‘Sorry to bother you. I’m not actually after tea bags but I did wonder if you had a spare sheet and a pillowcase. My spares are all in London.’

  Her frostiness melted. ‘I take it you’re going as the Dalai Lama?’

  He was astonished. ‘How did you know?’

  She shrugged, and he observed for the first time that she had rather pretty shoulders under that skinny top. ‘It’s one of the easier dressing-up options. You can always tell from someone’s linen cupboard if they’ve got kids in school plays because there’ll be at least two pillowcases with a half-circle cut out of the side.’

  She was already bending down, getting something out of a small pine chest of drawers and revealing, presumably unintentionally, a rather attractive band of brown flesh between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her top.

  Joe tried to look away but found himself inexplicably drawn to her bottom, which was exactly as he liked them: not too small but not obvious either.

  ‘Will these do?’ She suddenly turned round to catch him staring.

  ‘Perfect,’ he stammered, which was a complete first for him. He’d never, even when Ed had been at her worst, stammered. ‘Thank you.’ Then grabbing the not-so-neatly folded offerings from her hand, he almost bolted back into his own bedsit, feeling like a spotty, gauche sixth-former all over again.

  Chapter 22

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Joe got up before his 6.30 a.m. time slot to give himself enough time to sort out his outfit in his office. Now how exactly had Lynette suggested that he twisted those sheets?

  ‘Morning, Mr Balls,’ said a breathy voice.

  Joe glanced at Di in yet another of her too-tight skirts. Just the person he needed to talk to! ‘May I have a word?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She stood in front of him, her bottom lip quivering as she stared at his costume. Joe felt his old irritation rise to the surface and, remembering Lynette’s advice, tried to imagine how the Dalai Lama might have reacted when faced with a school secretary who might or might not be in the wrong.

  ‘Di, can you tell me if you’ve given out my address to anyone?’

  Instantly, the woman went a deep shade of red. ‘Only to your wife, sir. She rang the other day.’

  So Ed had called the school! His ex-wife’s effrontery was astounding, but it didn’t excuse a severe lapse of security on the part of the school. He took a deep breath. It would be so easy to lose his temper, but that wouldn’t help. ‘Didn’t it occur to you, Di, that if the caller had been my wife, she would have had my address anyway?’

  Another deep flush. ‘It did, but it’s none of my business, sir, and she did say it was urgent.’

  ‘Exactly. It wasn’t your business. Especially as, whatever you were told, she isn’t my wife. Not any more.’ He gave her one of his famous fourteenth-floor stares. ‘I don’t need to tell you, Di, that after the recent security scare at the pre-school, it is imperative, absolutely imperative, that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Do I make myself clear?’

  Presumably the answer to that was yes, since the woman then scuttled back to her office, leaving Joe to go back to his classroom where Gemma and her helpers were already arriving for the Significant Figures joint assembly. Slightly disappointedly, he saw that she’d gone for the Mother Teresa look. Meanwhile, there was an assortment of loud, highly restless small Supermen, a couple of popes, John Lennon, Princess Diana, Henry VIII and, rather alarmingly, a miniature panda. Clearly, the parents had some imaginative interpretations of significant figures in history.

  At his inner-city school, there had been no place for middle-class dressing up. Joe could hardly believe how much trouble parents had gone to here. There had clearly been a run on pillowcases and sheets, but there was also a fair smattering of quite professional-looking papier-mâché hats and face paints. One mother could be heard confessing that she’d hired her child’s Winston Churchill costume, complete with mock cigar.

  Inwardly, Joe groaned. As he’d tried telling Gemma on more than one occasion, it was maths that was really important in life. Anyone could dress up or play pretend games.

  ‘Mr Balls, could I have a word?’

  Help. It was Eco Mum. Joe had heard one of the other mothers call her that, and it had been so apt that it had stuck in his head. ‘My daughter was in Puddleducks last year,’ she began, ‘and they did two recycling projects in the space of nine months.’

  It had provided a project during her last pregnancy, presumably.

  ‘I had rather hoped that by now, Mr Balls, Jemima would have done something similar, but so far nothing has happened.’ Her forehead, gleaming with some ghastly and doubtless recycled cleanser stuff, thrust itself forward in indignation. ‘Our children are our only hope in saving the world.’

  Please! Of course recycling was important, although he had to admit that the ‘Recycled’ label on loo paper always made him recoil. But the woman was overstating her case.

  ‘So I thought,’ continued Eco Mum urgently, standing in what looked like home-knitted Yeti boots, ‘that we could enter an eco project for that bank award.’

  Boring! Boring!

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ began Joe carefully, ‘that we might need something more cutting-edge.’

  Gemma touched his arm. ‘I agree,’ she said quietly. ‘In fact, one of my mums has just come up with an amazing idea. Mrs Carter Wright, would you like to tell Mr Balls abou
t it?’

  It was the quiet American woman with the short urchin haircut whose son was always kicking balls round the classroom, just as he was doing now. ‘Danny, stop it,’ ordered his mother in a resigned twang that suggested she’d said that more than once already. ‘I’ve just started doing a mosaics class, and the tutor said he could help us build a mural on the playground wall in Puddleducks. It would be a picture of the whole town, and we could get some of the businesses and shops and churches and other groups to help us.’

  Gemma’s face was beaming. ‘Great idea, isn’t it?’

  In principle, perhaps, but just think of the practicalities! ‘Who owns the playground wall?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘I presumed it belonged to school.’

  ‘Might be a party wall. How much is it going to cost?’

  ‘We’ve got to check, but . . .’

  ‘And how long will it take? We’ve only got until December.’

  Both the American and Gemma looked deflated, as well they might.

  ‘I suggest you do a bit of forward planning before we decide.’ He tried to move away but his foot slipped on his sheet. Bugger! To his horror, he found himself on his bottom, splayed on the floor and – even worse – with his underpants showing! He knew he should have worn trousers under that bloody sheet. That wretched Bella girl, who was dressed up as Princess Kate, was openly sniggering, and some of the children were laughing too.

  ‘Mr Balls!’ A tall, pretty blonde woman, whose husband had left her six weeks ago and had already been in twice to tell him about it in great detail, was at his side immediately. ‘Mr Balls, are you all right?’

  His right ankle was throbbing mercilessly where he’d caught it on the table leg, but he wasn’t going to say so. ‘Fine, thank you.’ Picking himself up with as much dignity as possible, he limped towards his desk. ‘Right. Let’s begin, shall we?’

  After the Significant Figures assembly, during which each one gave a brief account of his or her life and why they had been important in history, Joe and his throbbing ankle had spent the rest of the week submerging his class in arithmetic. Of course, under the National Curriculum, he had to make sure that other subjects were covered too, but since it was maths that they were woefully weak in, he considered himself justified in pinching some lesson time from wishywashy areas like story-writing.