by Gil McNeil
If I can just shake off the panic attacks and transform myself into a capable grown-up and find us somewhere to live, we’ll be sorted. Houses I can afford with my half of the sale of this place are as rare as hen’s teeth round here, and I don’t want to move too far because Dan’s just got into the only good local secondary school, where you don’t have to pay or go to church for years to guarantee a place. It’s remarkable how many local parents discover a previously hidden faith when their children are around eight, but as soon as they’re eleven and safely in their secondary school of choice, they stop attending every Sunday. Perhaps if the Church would admit that half their regular congregations are only there for a good school place, or to arrange a wedding, they might spend a bit less time obsessing about women vicars and gay bishops and a bit more time trying to work out why most of the general population seem to regard their local Vicar as about as vital to modern life as a chocolate teapot. I’m almost tempted to write a letter to the Archbishop. But then again, I might need to start turning up every Sunday too if I can’t find us a decent house nearby, so possibly not.
I could try asking Dad for a loan, which will make today even more of a treat. He gave Roger and Georgina a “loan” for thousands for their hideous new conservatory, full of horrible teak furniture and triffid-like foliage, and the biggest television I’ve ever clapped eyes on. But Roger is the firstborn, and the golden boy. And I’m… well, I’m not the golden girl, that’s for sure. Not even bronze, especially if I’m wearing trousers. Talk about a Mission Impossible. And even if he does agree, I’ll have to pay him back, so it won’t exactly solve the problem, but it might be the only option unless we want to live in a caravan in someone’s garden, maybe the grounds of Pete’s school. I’m sure the Board of Governors would love that. I might suggest it next time I see him. I bet his pulse would go up a bit at the prospect of his ex-wife and three sons in a trailer by the tennis courts. His special new watch will probably go into meltdown.
I’m debating having another cup of tea versus waking up Dan and Ben, when the phone rings again. Mum probably wants to check what colour shoes I’m wearing. I must stop this, or I’ll morph back into my teenage self, choosing outfits on the basis of what was likely to most annoy Dad. The pink-and-orange sari was a definite winner—it’s a shame I don’t still have it, or I could wear it for supper tonight. I’d probably get frostbite, but it would be worth it.
“Hi Mum.”
“Sorry, darling. Just me. Is there fog in Devon? It’s terrible in town. I can hardly see the end of my road.”
Lola. Brilliant. A cup of tea and Lola, the perfect way to jump-start a tricky day.
“No, but they’re forecasting freezing rain.”
“What a treat.”
“Mum’s already been on the phone getting agitated, and it’s going to take me hours to get there.”
“And the wanker formerly known as your husband is having the boys tonight right?”
“Yes, in theory. Although I bet he leaves it all to Janice.”
“And how is the lovely Janice?”
“Busy buying new dresses with matching jackets so she can look like a proper headmaster’s wife. The ankle chain has gone, and so has her perky smile. But living with Pete will do that for you. Actually, I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for her.”
“Sometimes I worry about you Molly Taylor, I really do. How can you possibly feel sorry for the woman who nicked your husband? I mean, granted you were thrilled someone was finally taking him off your hands, but seriously…”
“Not thrilled exactly Lola.”
“Admit it darling.”
“Well how tragic does that make me? We’re all so much happier, it’s like the whole house suddenly got lighter, especially at meals, without him lecturing us all like he was addressing a school assembly and leaning back in his chair and saying ‘That was very nice, Molly,’ like he was being polite to the domestic help. It used to make me want to pour custard over his head.”
She laughs.
“Like there’s ever any custard left at the end of meals at your house. And anyway, if you’d left him years ago you wouldn’t have had Alfie, and he’s my absolute best boy in the whole world.”
Lola is fond of Dan and Ben, but she adores Alfie, and it’s a mutual adoration which shows no signs of waning. He trots round after her looking devoted, and she buys him presents and takes him out for treats on his own, without his big brothers.
“How is my gorgeous boy?”
“Watching cartoons. Dan and Ben are still asleep, so he’s king of the castle for a bit longer. Why are you up so early?”
“Aren’t you impressed? It’s my Pre–Festive Season Assault.”
“On?”
“My tragic fucking life. I’ll be in elasticated trousers by Christmas if I don’t get a grip.”
“They’re comfy.”
“ ‘Comfy’ is not the right look for killer agents darling. I saw Nigel Jones last night at a party, tottering around on six-inch heels in a black-leather miniskirt, trying to nick half my clients.”
“You’d think he’d know better.”
“She. Nigella. She calls herself Nigel so people won’t think she’s going to make them a tray of cupcakes and lick the spoon in a lascivious manner.”
“Seems fair enough to me.”
“Not if she’s after my clients it bloody isn’t.”
“I can’t see any of them having the nerve to leave you Lola, not really.”
“You’d be surprised darling. They’re like toddlers—leave them alone for a moment and they wander off in search of something new and shiny.”
“Or paint the television screen bright green with finger paints.”
“You’re never going to get over that, are you? I was only on the phone for five minutes. Seriously. And it washed off, didn’t it?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Well then, get over it. Alfie’s a creative spirit—I’ve told you, that’s why we get on so well. You need to encourage him. I’ve been thinking, maybe we should enroll him in art classes. I bet they do some great ones at the Tate.”
“Do they have televisions you can paint?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll get someone in the office to research where the best places are. Then we can go shopping afterwards. He’s such a sweetie to take shopping.”
“Not in the local supermarket he’s not. He was having races up and down the aisles with Dan last time I took them. I nearly got thrown out.”
“Sounds like fun. Anyway, back to special me. I’ve got so many events coming up it’s enough to make a girl weep. I’ll be so tinselled out by the time we get to Christmas I might have to shoot someone. Probably my mother. And that fucker Clive is in meltdown. He’s way over budget on his latest shoot, and I’m supposed to magic up some more finance, even though they’re practically sending him cash by the lorry load as it is. Nathan from the studio’s ringing me every day whining about money. Talking of whining, how’s Pete doing with the child support?”
“Late again, and he likes to be called Peter now. It’s more fitting for a headmaster, apparently.”
“I wish you’d let me hire a hit man.”
“Can I get back to you on that?”
“Not if you’re still planning on giving him half the money from the sale of the house, no you can’t.”
“It’s what we agreed in the divorce. Apparently Janice needs to make lots of alterations to the Headmaster’s House, to bring it up to her exacting standards.”
“Can’t be that exacting darling, given her taste in men. You should tell him he’s got a free house with his job, so he can fuck right off. I still don’t get why you have to sell.”
“Because we agreed a fifty-fifty split and I can’t afford to buy him out, but also because I think it will be good for us. If I can find somewhere I can afford, it’ll be a new start. I’ve applied to go full-time at school, but all the budgets are being cut. Going part-time when I had Alfie was a big mistake
you know.”
“Yes darling, but you were knee-deep in small boys, so you didn’t really have a choice did you?”
“I suppose not, but I can’t afford anywhere round here on a part-time salary, especially anywhere with four bedrooms. Even three is out of my price range. I may have to sleep in the kitchen.”
“What, like Cinderella? Please. Can’t the boys share?”
“Are you mad? Nobody can share with Alfie, not unless they like sleeping covered in bits of Lego. And Ben can’t share with Dan, they’d kill each other. Even Ben has his limits. No, I’d rather sleep under the sink in the scullery than have the three of them going tonto every half an hour, trust me. They were all so sweet when they were babies. I don’t know what happened, apart from a maelstrom of testosterone and a divorce in the family. God knows how I’m going to get through the next few years. Maybe I should just leave them in the dark to sweeten up a bit, like rhubarb.”
“Don’t talk to me about bloody rhubarb. I don’t know which bright spark decided it should become so trendy, but if I get one more pudding with a surprise rhubarb element, there’s going to be trouble. And get a grip darling—you don’t want to turn into one of those old bat mothers who bang on about how sweet you used to be while you’re desperately trying to learn how to be a champion shagger.”
“And how is your mother?”
“Driving me crazy, planning Christmas lunch and trying to set me up with one of her friends’ reject sons, Jeffrey. He’s an accountant.”
“Handy for the business.”
“Not my top criterion when interviewing new candidates for the Dance of Delight.”
We’re both giggling now. Lola discovered the delightful dancing euphemism in some Pre-Raphaelite poem she was studying when we were both at university and it still reduces us to giggles twenty years later.
“Anyway I’ve met him. Dance of Death, more like. Which reminds me—oh, sorry. That wasn’t very subtle. Are you sure you’re okay about today? You don’t want me to drive down with you?”
“It’ll be fine. And anyway, I’m dreading it enough already without having you and my father in the same room.”
“Old bastard.”
“Charlotte Linford, what would your mother say?”
“I don’t give a fuck what she’d say. He is.”
“I know.”
“I’ll come if it will help darling, I’ll even try not to have a pop at your dad. I loved Helena. It’ll be a tough day, funerals always are.”
“I know. I just hope Bertie is okay.”
“Well give him a big hug from me. That’s what we want, you know, a couple of Berties.”
“Oh yes, that’s just what I need—a barking-mad pensioner to replace my ex-husband. How perfect.”
“Someone to spend the next forty years with, who doesn’t cling or watch your every move, or bore you to tears and then sneak off to shag someone else.”
“It sounds great, but I draw the line at my very own Bertie. He’s always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Actually, never mind the sandwiches—he’s missing the whole hamper. And the thermos flask.”
“Yes, but he’s lovely barking. He doesn’t wander around with no trousers on or anything.”
“True.”
“Is he bringing the parrot to the funeral?”
“Betty? I bloody hope not. She bit Dad on the ear last time they met.”
“He should definitely bring her then. Put the ‘fun’ back into ‘funeral,’ that’s what I say. When are they reading the will? That’s another moment where a parrot could come in handy—cut the tension while everyone waits to hear who gets what. I bet Roger’s already got someone on it, working out how he can get his hands on all that money.”
“He’ll have a hard job, since there is no money. The house will go to Bertie, and he’s as fit as a fiddle. Barking mad of course, but fit, so Roger will just have to wait.”
“She was rather wonderful, old Helena, wasn’t she? I always loved that house. Georgian gorgeousness with hints of ancient manor house, a timeless classic, been in the same family for generations and all that bollocks. Ooh, if Bertie can hang on for a couple of years, I might make enough money to buy it. And then we can all live in it and grow sheep. You can learn to spin and weave artisan garments, or make some special kind of designer cheese. It’ll be fabulous.”
“Sounds great. Will you be weaving too? Or churning?”
“I’ll come down for rural retreats. We can keep the parrot in case your dad pops round.”
“Excellent.”
“Tell Bertie I’ll come down to see him very soon, as long as he promises to make me one of his gin slings. Call me later darling, and wrap up warm. I’m off for a swim, and then I’ve got an hour with my sadist trainer. Christ, who’d live my life?”
I would, it would be wonderful for a day every now and again: waking up child-free, where my biggest decision was where to have dinner and what to wear. Not how to jazz up mince or make packed lunches for three boys who keep changing their minds about who will or will not eat cheese.
“Mum?”
“Morning, love.”
“Where’s my PE kit?”
“I’ve got no idea. Is Dan up yet?”
“I don’t want cheese in my sandwich. I hate it.”
“Ham?”
“I’ll just have bread, unless there’s chicken?”
“Of course there is Ben—I got up at five a.m. to roast one specially.”
“Excellent news Mother. I’ll have chicken too, thanks.”
“Morning, Dan. Ham or cheese, or you can make your own packed lunch, how about that?”
“Cheese is fine, I suppose.”
“Thank you. That’ll be three pounds ninety-nine, sir.”
“You’re so hilarious Mum. I’ve got a cramp from laughing so much. I may need tablets.”
“If you find any, give me a couple. You can have a fruity vitamin if you like.”
They both grin. There’s a limit to how much healthy food one woman can force into three growing boys without paratroopers on standby, so I give them multivitamins every few days to top things up. It makes me feel like a proper mum, and they like them, even if they pretend they don’t. I hand Ben the packet.
“I’ll have one Mum, if you promise I’ll grow up big and strong.”
Dan snorts.
“You’ll need more than a multivit for that. You’ll need a total body transplant, O puny one.”
They start shoving each other as Alfie races in to join the fun.
“There’s toast and honey for anyone not pushing their brother. Alfie’s already had his.”
“Yes, but I need some more, I really do. And Mum, Dan is pushing Ben and that’s not allowed, is it? Tell him Mum.”
Dan glares at Alfie.
“Good morning Annie Rose, and how are we today? Wearing our PJs inside out, I see. You total knob.”
Alfie hates being called Annie Rose. He’s not that keen on being called a total knob either, obviously, but at least it’s vaguely masculine, whereas “Annie Rose” is guaranteed to cause drama. It seemed like such a good idea when he was born, letting his brothers choose his name, and the Alfie books were some of their top bedtime reads, particularly the one where Alfie’s new baby sister, Annie Rose, arrives. Let the big brothers name the baby, and peace will reign triumphant throughout the land, was what I was hoping for. Little did I know they’d be calling him Annie Rose at crucial moments and totally screwing up my day on a regular basis.
“Dan, stop it.”
“What?”
“Dan. Please.”
“Mum, Dan said ‘knob’ and that’s very rude, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and you can stop it too Alfie. Just ignore him. Ben, do you want toast? I’ll make you some more too Alfie, if you stop whining. Dan, when you can be civil, you can join us. Otherwise…”
“You’re not going to make me sit on the naughty-step, are you? A nice little time-out, so I can think about not
being a naughty boy? One minute for each year of my age. Excellent. That’s thirteen minutes of peace. I might have a little nap.”
Sometimes I really wish I believed in smacking children.
“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting you need to think about anything Dan. You’re always so kind and encouraging to your little brother, who looks up to you so much and only wants to be just like you. Always helpful to your mum, particularly when she’s got a hell of a day in front of her. Do you want me to help you polish your halo?”
He hesitates.
“Let’s start again, shall we? Good morning Dan, I hope you slept well, and if you could try to avoid upsetting everyone within two minutes of coming downstairs, I’d be very grateful. I can make you something to eat, or you can strop off upstairs and come back down when you’re ready to be nicer. My guess is a few years should do the trick. It’s up to you. Toast? Which is what you’re going to be if you carry on being annoying.”
He grins.
“Please.”
“Anything you’d like to say to your baby brother?”
“Sorry Alf.”
“I’m not a baby Mum. You’ve got to stop saying that. I’m in Year One at school now, not silly Reception.”
Dan nods.
“You tell her Alf. You’ve got to stand up for yourself in this family.”
Alfie heads back towards his cartoons, skipping.
“Only five more minutes Alfie. Big boys don’t watch too many cartoons.”
Ben shakes his head.