The Not So Perfect Mother: A feel good romantic comedy about parenthood

by Kerry Fisher

  ‘Mum, Denim says he’s got the latest iPhone. But his is only an iPhone 4, isn’t it? That’s not the latest one, is it? Marlon’s got an iPhone 5. He got it early, cos his birthday’s next week and his mum bought it when she was filming in America. But Denim keeps hitting me when I say that. Can you tell him that his is an old one? He keeps calling me a liar.’

  Even though people skills had been the focus of Harley’s Personal, Social and Health Education ‘prep’, he could still fit what he’d learnt into an eggcup. I’d taken such a battering that week that my alcohol-dulled reactions were a bit pterodactyl. Sandy, on the other hand, was quick off the mark.

  ‘You spoilt little shit. Do you know how many bloody night shifts it took me to get the money together for that? He’s only had it a few months and now he’s going to be at me for the new one. Denim and Gypsy not good enough for you now you’ve got all them poncey little Lord Fauntleroys to play with? Sorry if their stuff isn’t quite up to your majesty’s high standards.’

  The colour had risen in Harley’s cheeks. His grey eyes were wide, wide open. He glanced sideways at me. I could feel the puzzlement in him. And in me. Sandy had always been such a soft touch, always telling me to ‘leave off of them, they’re just kids’.

  I pulled Harley to me. Sandy had called my son a shit. I never swore at kids. Especially not other people’s. Sandy was bristling away on the other side of the table. We usually ganged up against the woman a few doors down whose kids nicked bikes on the estate, Sandy’s bully-boy boss who smelt of Brut, the bastards in the council’s housing repairs department. Not each other. I looked straight into Harley’s eyes, willing him to go with me on this one.

  ‘Why don’t you go and say sorry to Denim and say that you think you made a mistake?’

  ‘I didn’t make a mistake. Marlon has got an iPhone 5.’ I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to shake him. ‘Harley. How would you like it if Denim told you that something you’d got new was a load of old rubbish? You wouldn’t. Go. And. Say. You. Are. Sorry. Then I think it’s time to go. Tell Bronte.’

  I screwed the cap back on the Malibu. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Sandy carried on attacking some stubborn hairs with her tweezers, head bent over her crotch.

  ‘I s’pose it’s to be expected if you fill their heads with fancy ideas. But you’re not going to be able to afford all that stuff, neither.’

  I hated the satisfaction I could hear in her voice.

  8

  End of day dismissal was a formal affair at Stirling Hall. A teacher stood by the door and shook the children’s hands before delivering them directly to the collecting parent, unlike Morlands where they spilled out into the playground and were allowed to wander off with anyone who wasn’t carrying a shotgun.

  Bronte came out, hat on straight, duffle coat buttoned up to the top. Her voice sounded really clear when she said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Peters.’ Not quite top end of town posh but not council estate rough either. My proud mother moment was snuffed out as I realised that Mr Peters, the Head of Upper School, was beckoning to me. As I squeezed forward through the gaggle of parents, Jen1 was coming the other way. I caught her eye and smiled but she looked straight through me. Maybe she could only recognise people dressed in Jasper rather than George.

  ‘Would you have a moment to pop into my office, Ms Etxeleku? Take a seat in reception, I’ll be right with you,’ Mr Peters said.

  I nodded, running through the checklist in my head of all my crimes for that week – only ironing cuffs and collars on the school shirts, not ironing Harley’s rugby shirt at all, chocolate digestives for snack two days running, forgetting to check Bronte’s English homework for capital letters and full stops. I was about to disappear through the door, when Clover pulled on my arm.

  ‘Hi. If you’re going to be a few minutes at the school, why don’t I relieve you of Bronte? She can play with the twins. You can pick her up when you’ve finished. We live right at the end of the lane that runs adjacent to the Royal Oak pub. You can’t miss us, it’s the only house down there.’

  Bronte was tugging at my T-shirt and hopping from foot to foot. ‘Can I go with Clover, Mum? I want to see their guinea pigs and rabbits. Please?’

  ‘That would be great. I just need to find Harley and tell him to wait here for me,’ I said.

  Clover fiddled with the toggle on her anorak. ‘I think Harley is waiting for you in Mr Peters’ office. Why don’t you bring him over too and stay for supper when you’ve finished?’

  Usually Clover talked loud enough for the whole class to share her thoughts. Her low voice and the way she kept shaking her head at Orion were making me twitchy.

  I mumbled a thank you and dived into the entrance corridor lined with posters about five fruit and veg a day, anti-bullying slogans and the benefits of cycling. The squeak of my Crocs on the grey tiles was getting faster and faster. At a corridor crossroads, I saw signs for the physics lab, dance studio, music room but no bloody reception in the business of receiving mothers who were only used to classrooms numbered one to six. Mr Peters caught up with me in a waft of spicy aftershave. ‘Ms Etxeleku, thank you so much for coming in. I won’t keep you a moment, I just wanted a word about Harley.’

  ‘Is he okay?’ I said, almost having to trot to keep up with his long strides.

  ‘He’s fine, absolutely fine.’ He steered me left into a room with three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of a huge mahogany desk. Harley was in the middle one, with his head bent forwards, slumped on the padded velour armrest. He didn’t bother to look round.

  ‘Take a seat, Ms Etxeleku.’

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said, reaching for Harley’s hand. He squeezed my fingers tightly, needily, staring straight ahead without blinking. His breath was whistling in and out of his nose.

  Mr Peters sat on the edge of his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. His black shoes were smooth and shiny, teacher-like, but I could see an inch of purple and lime spotty socks peeping out under his trousers. He ran his hand over his short hair. ‘This is a bit of a delicate matter, Ms Etxeleku, but there’s been a little problem today between Harley and one of his classmates. From what I understand, there was a bit of teasing that got out of hand, and then the matter seemed to take rather a violent turn.’

  ‘What do you mean, violent turn?’

  ‘Harley punched the boy in question in the face.’

  I didn’t speak. I pinched the bridge of my nose and stared down at the hole in the knee of my tracksuit bottoms. All the bad decisions I’d not so much made as allowed to happen – letting Harley mix with the older boys on the estate, shrugging off the odd punch-up in the back alley, not being there when he came home from school – crushed in on me. I’d done my best, which was crap and the crap was about to hit the fan.

  Harley tugged at my hand. ‘Mum. Mum. I’m sorry. He was calling me a pikey. He said that you dressed from jumble sales and Oxfam, that Dad stole car wheels for a living and that we lived in a caravan under the bridge by the station. Dad said if anyone laughed at me, I should punch them hard enough to make their brains rattle.’

  The desk creaked as Mr Peters stood up. He loosened his tie slightly. ‘Ms Etxeleku. This wasn’t all Harley’s fault. Hugo was being very unkind. At Stirling Hall we have a zero-tolerance bullying policy and we do take it very seriously.’

  Oh God. Hugo. No, please God. ‘Jennifer’s son?’

  ‘Yes, I have already seen Mrs Seaford this afternoon. Hugo did sustain a cut eye and some bruising to his cheek, so as a precaution, she is going to take him to A&E to get him checked out.’

  I could feel sweat running down my back. ‘Will the police be involved?’

  ‘As I am sure you will appreciate, Ms Etxeleku, we cannot allow boys to take matters into their own hands, whatever the provocation. Mrs Seaford wanted to involve the police but I think I have managed to dissuade her from that course of action on the grounds that her son’s appalling behaviour would also com
e under scrutiny.’ His dark eyes were serious but kind.

  I kept swallowing but I couldn’t seem to get any moisture in my mouth. I looked at Harley. He wasn’t making any noise but huge gloopy tears were pouring down his face and making dark circles on his white shirt. I patted his hand gently and he got up and poured himself into my arms, burrowing into my shoulder until I could feel the damp heat of his face.

  ‘May I talk frankly?’ Mr Peters said.

  I nodded, though I knew that ‘frankly’ meant Harley would be emptying his desk.

  ‘Your son has great potential. I think Stirling Hall could help mould him into a fine young man. He is struggling with the academic work, but we have set up some one-to-one tutoring so we could potentially bridge the gap. He has real sporting talent and Harley’s drama teacher tells me he can see star quality there.’ A cufflink clinked against the desk as he leaned back.

  I was getting hot under the weight of Harley leaning into me. I tried to relax my shoulders while I waited for the ‘but’.

  ‘Stirling Hall does have many boys from, let’s say, very comfortable backgrounds. However, the philosophy of the school is to ensure that every boy who comes here accesses the same opportunities. That does, of course, mean that all parents need to support our Platinum rules that include “We solve our disagreements by talking to each other”. I understand your circumstances are quite unique, so a period of adjustment is to be expected while Harley learns what is required of him.’ He unbuttoned his jacket. To my ironing lady’s eye, his blue striped shirt looked hand-tailored.

  My heart lifted a little, a bit like it did when I thought I’d missed the bus but a big queue was still standing there when I came racing round the corner.

  ‘But—’ he said.

  There it was. I looked to see how far it was to the door. I wondered if I could make a dash to the van before I started blubbing.

  ‘But we cannot have boys brawling. I know that some head teachers turn a blind eye to these sorts of disputes, but this is not the way of Stirling Hall.’

  A shooting pain through my back tooth reminded me to unclench my jaw.

  ‘So. What I propose is that I suspend Harley,’ Mr Peters said.

  ‘Suspend? What? How long for?’

  ‘I think it would be fair to suspend Harley for two days and Hugo for one, which means Harley would be back in school by Thursday. I do have to say, Ms Etxeleku, if there is another occasion of this severity, Harley is likely to face expulsion. You may wish to convey that to your husband.’

  Many years of practising good manners obviously helped him to leave out ‘your arsehole of a husband’.

  ‘Of course. Thank you, thank you so much. Harley won’t let you down again, will you, Harley?’ Something relaxed in my body as though someone had been standing on my shoulders and had finally hoicked themselves over the wall. Mr Peters smiled down at me. He looked quite boyish when he smiled, almost cheeky, probably not much older than me.

  Now that a second chance was on the table, I wanted to stop patting Harley’s shoulders and drag him outside by the ear. Bellow at him for being so bloody stupid. Shake him till his teeth rattled. Ban him from ever talking to anybody on our estate over the age of five again. Ground him until he was twenty-five. Or maybe I just wanted to cry.

  Harley peeled himself off my shoulder. His mouth was twitching with the effort of holding back his tears. He shuffled from one foot to another, staring at the floor, then finally seemed to gather the energy to speak. ‘I won’t let you down. Thank you very much, sir. And sir? I’m really sorry.’

  ‘You’re a good lad. Now get out of here and learn to keep your fists to yourself. You come to me first if there’s a problem.’

  I wondered if Mr Peters had a wife.

  Harley and I drove towards Clover’s. We took the turning by the pub where the smart townhouses gave way to fields and farmhouses and the road became an unsurfaced lane. Filthy splurges of water shot up the side of the van every time I clunked down a pothole. At the very end, hidden by mature sycamore and chestnut trees, stood a huge ivy-covered building with a dark slate roof. The windows looked as though random bits of putty were keeping them in their peeling wooden frames. Wellies, riding crops and scooters lay tangled in the front porch. Harley and I weaved our way to the door, dodging mini mountains of horse manure. I lifted the lion’s head door knocker. Judging by his green teeth, Brasso wasn’t on Clover’s shopping list.

  Clover opened the door in a black swimming costume patterned with huge poppies. She looked like the potato men Bronte used to make – a big round body stuck on thin little cocktail sticks. Unlike Sandy, she was a stranger to the Brazilian, the Hollywood, and apparently, the Bic. I felt as though I’d blundered in on her in the shower, but she waved us in with all the confidence of a size zero model.

  ‘Come in, come in, hello Harley. Sorry, the girls really wanted to go for a little dip so Bronte borrowed a costume, hope you don’t mind. Orion’s in the pool as well, so do you want to go in, Harley? I’ve been in with them but you can all keep an eye on each other now, can’t you? Don’t worry about taking your shoes off, the whole place is so fucking filthy, keep meaning to get on top of it, but with the horses we’re always dragging in more muck so it seems a bit of a waste of time.’

  We trailed behind Clover. The couldn’t-care-less-ness of someone who could greet near strangers in a swimsuit despite having gargoyles of cellulite hanging from her buttocks thrilled and shocked me. She led us into a huge kitchen with an Aga at one end where Y-fronts, stripy tights and hiking socks were drying, filling the room with the smell of damp sheep. A ginger cat as big as a pillow stretched out on the long pine table.

  Harley grabbed my arm. ‘Is that a real bird?’ he said, pointing to a blue parrot on the dresser.

  I was doing a double take when Clover said, ‘That’s Einstein. We found him in the garden about four years ago.’

  ‘Wicked! Does he talk?’

  ‘Yes, he says a few things. Orion is really good at getting him to speak, he’ll show you later.’

  I wondered if it pooed everywhere. Clover led us out of a back entrance and into a massive garden full of apple and pear trees. ‘The pool’s out here. Careful where you walk. Orion is supposed to be on bleeding doggy-doo duty but he’s not very diligent.’

  She grabbed Harley’s arm and steered him through the mud to the pool house, where shouts and squeals rang out. Through the steamed-up glass, I saw Bronte giggling away as she tried to balance on a blow-up dolphin and keep up with the twins. Orion was sitting on the end of the diving board, swinging his legs. As soon as we stepped through the door, he leapt in and swam over to us.

  ‘Hey, Mike Tyson. Are you coming in?’ Orion was on his own in finding Harley’s fisticuffs funny, but I felt relieved that at least one child was still speaking to him.

  ‘We’d better go and let you get on,’ I said to Clover.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to get on with. I’m going to dig out a pair of swimmies for Harley, then I’ll get you a drink.’

  She found a towelling robe for herself and a pair of Speedos that would have been tight on Action Man for Harley. He stiffened beside me, backing towards the pool door like a dog on its last journey to the vet.

  ‘Have you got boxers on, Harley? You have? Why don’t you swim in those?’ I said.

  For once Harley did as I suggested, stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor and dive-bombing the girls. I envied and resented his ability to bounce back when the skin on my face was so tight and pinched that it felt like someone had tied my ponytail too tight.

  ‘Come on, I bet you need a drink,’ Clover said. I hoped Clover-speak was the same as Sandy-speak and that I wasn’t going to get a mug of stewed nettles and cat hair. Back in the kitchen she threw open the fridge and hooked out a bottle. ‘Drop of shampoo?’

  Champagne on a Monday night where I lived was because someone had got out on appeal. ‘Just a drop, thanks, cos I’ve got to drive back,’ I
said.

  ‘We’ll call you a cab. You can leave the car here.’

  Clover must have seen the cash register tinging in my eyes.

  ‘Anyway, we can worry about that later. You can still have a glass.’

  I wiped the rim of the tumbler she gave me with the bottom of my sweatshirt while she had her back turned.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ Clover said. Just as we clinked glasses, the kitchen door opened and a tall, slim man with dark, curly hair came in. It had to be Lawrence, Clover’s husband. He was an older, more groomed version of Orion. In his suit, he looked as though he’d stumbled into Glastonbury by mistake. Clover introduced us and he said hello without really registering me, just raised an eyebrow at the champagne bottle. He poked about among the roasting tins, colanders and saucepans piled high in the butler’s sink, pulling out a rainbow-coloured welly before he found a mug.

  Although nothing suggested he was the least bit interested in who I was or what I was doing there, Clover filled him in. ‘Poor old Maia’s had a terrible day. Hugo was beastly to Maia’s son, and they got into a bit of a punch-up and Hugo came off worse. He’s an arrogant little sod, he had it coming to him.’

  ‘Like mother, like son. Jennifer’s pretty arrogant herself,’ Lawrence said. I was surprised to hear a Mancunian accent.

  ‘She’s not that bad. At least she does all the class admin like the fete and tickets for the school play that no one else wants to do.’ Clover topped up her champagne. I shook my head as she pushed the bottle towards me.

  ‘Don’t be so naive. She loves lording it over people. If Jennifer hadn’t managed to trap Leo, she would still be touting cheese and pickle rolls around Canary Wharf,’ Lawrence said.