The Playgroup

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The Playgroup Page 17

by Janey Fraser


  ‘Yes, Daisy, I was, but that doesn’t mean that all friends get married. Now come on and let’s leave your poor teacher in peace until tomorrow! Bye!’

  Gemma didn’t know what to say as they continued walking along the towpath. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could manage.

  Barry was grinning. ‘I’m flattered actually, although I am a bit worried about the Mrs Merryfield bit. I didn’t realise you were married!’

  ‘The children call everyone Mrs, regardless of whether they’re married or not.’

  This time, she could swear, Barry’s brush of her hand was not accidental. ‘Theirs is a simpler world, isn’t it?’

  ‘At times.’

  The warmth of his touch had made her feel slightly dizzy.

  ‘I’m here until the new year. And I’d like to think,’ he added, his hand now firmly holding hers, ‘that we’ll get to know each other a bit better over that time. What do you think?’

  Gemma’s voice came out as though someone else was speaking. ‘I’d like that too.’

  Kitty’s voice could surely be heard through the wall next to which Joe was probably sitting. ‘That’s fantastic. He sounds fantastic too. Oooh, Gemma, that’s so romantic.’

  ‘Maybe, but the fact remains that . . .’

  ‘Don’t start that all over again. Oooh, Gemma, you will tell me what happens, won’t you?’

  Yes and no. There were some things that were private. All she did know was that every time she’d been out with Barry that week, to the wine bar or to the pizza place or the cinema, she’d felt a definite funny-bone tingle. He was amusing and entertaining, not to mention a good son. While she’d been at work he’d taken his mother to visit his sister, and come back bursting with pride at being an uncle. ‘I love babies, don’t you?’ he had said and Gemma had nodded and said that yes, she loved children too, while Joyce smiled her approval across the kitchen.

  If only they knew.

  Meanwhile, she had Parents’ Evening to think about. Even as a child she had worried about them, although she’d always been so conscientious at school. It had been her brother Tom who was the tearaway. So she understood why the Puddleducks parents now worried about their children’s progress, especially as in today’s world so much was expected of kids.

  It was even more complicated these days, with everything having to have an Aim or an Objective, which needed to be measurable. Learning had to be both physical and emotional, which was why they had to focus on sensory activities like the feel of cornflour and water (‘No, Billy, you mustn’t eat that – it’s for touching’) and construction (‘If we put two blocks on the pile, Lily, how many will we have altogether?’) and writing, even if it was just making a mark on the sand. Then there were role plays, which in her day had been called dressing up, and Small World activities, like doll’s houses, all of which required feedback both on paper and across the table at Parents’ Evening.

  Gemma found it awkward telling the mother in doggy slippers and a badge saying Kyle’s mum that her son’s role play, which invariably involved the only soldier’s outfit in the box, wasn’t always socially acceptable. It wasn’t the outfit, although that had caused some fighting due to its rarity; it was the dialogue that went with it.

  ‘Sometimes,’ explained Gemma nervously, ‘Kyle comes out with some unacceptable sentences.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m going to kill you, you . . .’

  Gemma stopped, unwilling to fill in the three-word expletive. The woman’s slippers shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t say stuff like that. Is that what you’re accusing me of?’

  Gemma tried to keep her voice even. ‘No. I’m not. But I’ve explained to Kyle that we can’t use words like that, and it would help if you could do the same.’

  She gave the woman a firm but reasonably friendly look. Such a fine line to tread! There had been a horrible case recently in the papers about a child who had role-played a scene of domestic abuse. When the pre-school leader had approached the parent, the latter had turned the tables and accused the pre-school leader of com mitting the abuse. The teacher had to be suspended until the case could be investigated. It was ascertained that the parent was indeed guilty, and the poor child had to go into care. The pre-school leader was reinstated, but her career had clearly been damaged.

  This woman in slippers, thought Gemma as she watched her walk huffily out, with all five of her children in tow because she ‘couldn’t afford a sitter like’, might be exactly the sort of parent who could have sold the story about Lily to the papers.

  No. She mustn’t think like that. It wasn’t fair. She had absolutely no proof. She had heard some of the mothers whispering and wondering if Dilly Dalung might turn up for Parents’ Evening, and many of them had got dressed up for it. Clemmie’s mum’s plunging neckline, Gemma thought, was probably in aid of the promised visit by the so-called ‘dishy’ Reception head.

  ‘That was his ex-wife, you know,’ she heard her say. ‘Yes, he’s definitely single.’

  Bella, who was handling Sienna’s mum (‘I have to tell you that I am not happy about the parking arrangements every morning’), rolled her eyes at Gemma across the room. Gemma had just finished speaking to Poppy’s mum.

  Yes, she had read the report that one in five children can’t write their own name when they reach the age of five, but Poppy was doing very well with her outlines – honestly! – and really didn’t need any extra homework. Playgroup was meant to be fun.

  Then an extremely tall woman with bird-like features and a haughty demeanour sailed up, wearing a badge saying Danny’s grandmother.

  ‘Good evening. My daughter-in-law wasn’t able to attend because Danny has a cold, but . . .’

  She stopped.

  Gemma did a double take. No. It couldn’t be. Not her.

  ‘I thought you were meant to be Mrs Merryfield,’ said the tall lady faintly as she sank heavily down on the child-size red plastic chair, almost missing it altogether.

  Gemma felt the room close in on her. It was difficult to breathe, and the silver chain around her neck seemed to tighten. At the same time, her throat began to pulse and her ears felt as though they were popping underwater when she tried to speak. ‘The children call everyone Mrs.’

  Patricia’s mouth tightened. ‘What are you doing here, my dear? Please tell me you are a figment of my emancipation.’

  Imagination, Gemma wanted to say. It’s imagination. ‘I work here!’ She felt her lips move as though someone else was manipulating them, rather as she manipulated the finger puppets. ‘I’m the playgroup leader. May I ask why you are here?’

  But even as she spoke, she had a horrible feeling that she already knew the answer.

  ‘You can see why.’ The bird-faced woman with hooded eyes pointed to the name badge on the stately bosom which preceded her. ‘I’m Danny’s grandmother. Nancy and Sam moved here because it was within commuting reach of London and . . .’

  Danny’s grandmother? Then . . .

  ‘Yes! That’s tight.’

  Gemma had forgotten Patricia’s habit of coming out with the wrong words every now and then.

  The older woman was leaning forward now, clutching Gemma’s wrist. ‘Danny,’ she hissed, ‘is Sam’s son.’

  But he couldn’t be! Sam hadn’t wanted children! That had been the whole reason for splitting up. He’d made his feelings clear, but not until it had all been too late.

  ‘And he’s still holding a candle for you! He told me.’ The woman was glancing over her shoulder now. That’s why he hates discussing marriage with Nancy.’

  Gemma’s head was reeling. ‘Does she know about me?’

  Patricia gave her a scornful look. ‘Don’t be silly, dear.’

  Gemma was trying to make sense of it all. ‘If Sam still feels something, why hasn’t he tried to contact me?’

  There was a heavy sigh. ‘Wish I knew, dear. You young people are so difficult to pin down. I was married at your age with a five-year-old son!’
<
br />   Something didn’t add up. ‘But I’ve been searching for him on Facebook and everywhere I could think of.’

  Sam’s mother’s lips tightened. ‘He dropped part of his name, silly boy. Thought it sounded too grand, even though it’s been in the family for at least two generations. Then he went to the States and New Zealand before finally seeing sense and coming home. He’s got a very good job, you know. Travels all over the place. And he’s very highly regarded by his company.’

  It was as though his mother was trying to sell him, but it was the name bit that threw her. Sam’s name was Fortnum-Wright but he had dropped the first bit, which explained why she couldn’t find him on Facebook. But why was Danny, whose lovely long fair eyelashes and brilliant blue eyes were so like Sam’s, now she came to think of it, called Carter Wright without the hyphen? She asked Patricia to explain.

  Patricia’s lips tightened. ‘The Carter name comes from her. She insisted that if he wouldn’t marry her, they should combine their names.’

  No guesses as to who the ‘she’ was!

  ‘It’s too long ago now,’ said Gemma faintly, horribly conscious that the next parent in the queue was now hovering. It was Tracy’s mum, who had been lobbying some of the Puddleducks mothers to join a slimming group she’d started. Gemma dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Besides, he has a son. I couldn’t break up a family. That’s not me.’

  Patricia’s grip on Gemma’s wrist grew tighter. ‘Nonsense, dear. I still don’t know what happened between you. But I do know that he’s not happy with Nancy. Shall I give you his mobile number, dear? Not his work one. The private one.’

  Chapter 26

  ‘LISTEN,’ NANCY HAD said to Brigid at the first opportunity after her friend had walked in on her and Patricia, ‘please don’t tell anyone that Sam and I aren’t married.’ She had been worrying that Brigid might have heard Patricia’s words to that effect.

  ‘Blimey, Nance, what are you going on about?’

  Awkwardly, Nancy explained that she and Sam weren’t legally married, although she saw him as her husband and wore a ring because otherwise it would be a bit embarrassing.

  Brigid waved her hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense! Loads of people aren’t married at Puddleducks, including me and that stupid moaning cow, Sienna’s mother. But if you’re worried about it, of course I won’t mention it to anyone else.’

  Meanwhile, if it wasn’t for the mosaics course to distract her, Nancy would have gone mad. At first she’d thought Patricia would only be here for a few days, but now it seemed as though she had no firm departure date in mind.

  ‘I can’t think why you didn’t tell me about your problems, dear,’ Patricia announced one evening after insisting on cooking Beef Wellington – a dish that the British seemed to regard as a treat, although how anyone could enjoy the combination of heavy pastry and meat, Nancy simply couldn’t understand.

  Nancy, who had managed to get Danny to bed early partly because he was exhausted by pre-school, poured herself a large slug of wine to shut out Patricia’s voice. The bottle had been a sympathy present from ‘the girls’ as she now called Brigid and Annie, both of whom had been appalled by her tales of the ‘motherin-law’ from hell.

  Stand up to her, they both said. Nancy was trying. ‘Sam and I don’t have problems, Patricia.’

  ‘My dear child, it’s obvious! No, I won’t have one, thank you. I don’t believe in drinking. Did you know that alcohol is more dangerous than rugs?’

  Drugs, Nancy wanted to say. It’s drugs.

  ‘Besides, you’ll be setting Danny a bad example. If children grow up watching their adults condone a habit like alcohol, they’ll do the same. It’s exactly like marriage or, as in your case, living together. If you two continue to squabble, Danny will think that all parents do this.’

  Patricia paused for a sigh-breath and Nancy seized the opportunity to leap in. ‘We don’t squabble all the time, but Sam has found it difficult to adjust to parenthood.’ Simply saying the words out loud made her feel they were true. And, she reflected, weren’t British men meant to be rather reserved with their emotions?

  Patricia nodded briskly. ‘Exactly like his own father. But my dear, you haven’t helped, have you? The way you fuss around that child is totally unnecessary! Always fretting when he gets a cold, or leaving messages on the phone for that nice Miss Merryfield at playgroup, to check that the security lock is working. Yes – I heard you the other day when we both went to pick up Danny. You ought to take a leaf out of her book. She’s got all those children to look after, yet never once have I seen her flap!’

  Nancy drained her glass. ‘That’s because she isn’t a mother herself.’

  Patricia looked peeved. ‘There’s no need to snap, dear.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I think you are, dear. I’m only trying to help. That’s why I’ve been tidying up. You haven’t happened to spot my hysterical novel, have you? I’d almost got to the last chapter and now I can’t find it.’

  ‘Historical,’ said Nancy tightly. ‘Don’t you mean your historical novel?’

  ‘That’s what I said, dear. Do pay attention. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m doing my best. That’s why I picked up Danny today so you could carry on with your muriel and that’s why I’m cooking dinner, even though I have to say that I think it might be a good idea if you have a bit of a cupboard sort-out.’

  Mural! It’s a mural. Nancy’s thoughts drifted to the collection of large paving stones which she, Doug and some of the other mums were working on. The picture really was taking shape!

  Annie and Brigid had been roped in too, despite their commitment to belly dancing, t’ai chi and photography classes. ‘We’ll find you some great pebbles during our canal walks with the kids, won’t we, Brigid!’ Annie nudged Nancy. ‘Provided we haven’t let them fall in first. Don’t worry – only joking.’

  Meanwhile, they were all learning fast from Doug, who was a clear, patient teacher. ‘There are all kinds of ways to make murals,’ he explained as they crouched down on the floor, looking at the outline he had sketched on the paving slabs. ‘But I’ve found this one works well. The trick is to smooth the concrete on very lightly – great, Nancy! – and then press in your different-coloured stones and pebbles.’

  It was really coming on! Of course, they couldn’t do it without Doug’s help, but already Nancy could see the outline of Puddleducks rising out of one of the slabs, and Corrybank Primary on the one next to it.

  Toby, the dog dad, had created part of the park, and someone else was working on the church. Tracy’s mum, whom she’d mistakenly taken to be expecting, had glared when Nancy had invited her on to the Puddleducks mural team, saying frostily that she had other things to do.

  It wasn’t easy, because murals took time and time was what none of them had. Yet somehow, partly because of non-mural parents who offered to babysit, the picture was coming together and might, with any luck, be ready for the deadline.

  ‘And another thing,’ snorted Patricia, bringing her back to the present. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re becoming slightly obsessed with this muriel business. It’s only a competition, my dear.’

  One more glass of red. And, hell, why not, maybe a third. Otherwise, how on earth was she going to get through half-term with her mother-in-law? The prospect of a whole week stretching out in front of her without Puddleducks or Gemma Merryfield, whose lovely warm smile made her feel that she wasn’t the neurotic mother that Sam and his mother thought she was, filled Nancy with panic.

  ‘Just one more thing, my dear.’

  Again?

  ‘Have you considered doing a course on CBT for your problems? I’ve been doing one myself. It stands for Controlling Behaviour Therapy, you know. In fact, I do believe I have the number in my address book. I’ll just nip up and get it. By the way, is that your phone ringing?’

  She picked it up. Nothing. Then it rang again and there was a brief period of silence before someone spoke.

  ‘Nanc
y?’ Sam’s voice seemed a very long way off. ‘Is that you? You sound different.’

  Of course she sounded different. She’d had two glasses of wine when normally she had one a week, if that. She told Sam so.

  ‘Three glasses?’ She almost heard him smiling. ‘Is my mother that bad?’

  ‘That bad? She’s driving me nuts with her muriels and her hysterical and her search for non-existent suet and her insistence on hot-water bottles even though it’s not that cold.’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  The sympathetic tone in his voice made her feel a bit better.

  ‘Listen,’ he said soothingly. ‘I know this might sound like a silly idea and I’m pretty certain you won’t leave Danny, but I just wondered. Do you fancy coming out here for a few days? My mother could babysit and it’s such an amazing place.’ His voice dropped. ‘I’ve missed you, Nancy. More than I realised, and I think I’ve been a bit unfair to you. Please don’t say no. Just think about it.’

  Chapter 27

  OF COURSE IT was out of the question! How could Nancy leave her son? How would he sleep if he wasn’t curled up against her all night? How would she manage without him? On the other hand, was Patricia right when she’d said Nancy wasn’t doing her son any good by being such a neurotic mother? She was beginning to think she might have a point.

  They were in Doug’s studio, working on the outline of the pretty church with that lovely spire at the top of the high street while the children were at playgroup. But it was difficult to concentrate after Sam’s phone call the night before, and somehow she’d found herself telling the others about it.

  ‘You must go,’ insisted both Annie and Brigid in one breath as they crouched side by side, sifting through an assortment of stones and broken glass from old wine and beer bottles.

  ‘She’s his grandmother,’ added Annie. ‘Pass me that pebble, will you? No, not the grey one. The bluey-looking one. It will be good for them to have time together. And you need to see Sam. Molly’s mother’s husband, the first one, wanted her to move up nearer to his job in Stockport, but she didn’t want to disrupt the kids.’

 

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