In no time, have created beautiful sample of cardigan and Copydexed it to a piece of white card to be sent to Rose. Post it on the way to nursery to collect The Beauty and experience utterly fulfilling moment of having cake and eating it. I am a working mother, and today it’s going according to plan. Hooray.
Float into the nursery school on a cloud of conceit, scarcely stopping to glance at the lesser mortals around me. Cloud evaporates, though, when The Beauty shows me her morning’s work, and she appears to have made a very similar garment to the one I have just posted, only hers has pink appliqué flowers on it. I shall capitalise on this undermining of my talents as a designer and call my company Child’s Play. Am rather pleased with this notion and try it out on Hedley when I see him driving past, as The Beauty and I are footling about near the road on our way back from the nursery. I wave and he stops and reverses back to me and The Beauty, who has climbed on to the garden wall for a better view. With her bunches and dungarees, she looks exactly like one of the Waltons.
‘Hello man,’ she greets Hedley.
‘Hello child,’ he replies with a very real attempt at a winning smile. He points at The Beauty’s jacket picture which I still have in my hand, and taking off his glasses, leaving a red mark on either side of his nose, he attempts neighbourly pleasantries.
‘I’m pleased to see you’re hard at work,’ he says. ‘That one looks rather good, doesn’t it. Most useful. Sort of thing my ex-wife wears.’
Rather touched by his enthusiasm, but can’t face telling him that this one is not my design but is a playgroup daub done by The Beauty, and conceit falls another notch as a result of his mistake. Maybe I should employ The Beauty as chief designer and just concentrate on marketing as I have such good ideas, particularly the name of the business.
‘I thought I’d call it Child’s Play,’ I mention, casually tucking the picture behind my back before he sees The Beauty’s name across the corner. Hedley is still in his car, and at this he revs the engine and crashes into gear.
‘You can’t call it “Child’s Play”! You may as well call it “The Emperor’s New Clothes” and be done with it. Don’t for God’s sake let them start thinking it’s easy, or they’ll just make their own. Have you no sense?’ he yells, and departs in a cloud of disapproval. Very lowering.
June 29th
Children at school, The Beauty asleep and I am sewing individual lavender heads on to my pink cooking apron. Rose telephones, delighted with the neoprene drawing.
‘It’s great. Get it made up as soon as possible. I wonder if you can find something that will seal real toothpaste so you can use it. The colours are so tingly, so minty.’ She coughs. ‘Anyway, sorry, mustn’t get carried away,’ and her tone changes. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got to look for better manufacturers,’ she says regretfully. ‘The garments you are trimming just aren’t up to it. Also, you’ll never be able to keep up with demand.’
Rumbled. Actually, I had wondered how long it would be before she noticed that these are my clothes. Amazing that she still hasn’t cottoned on to this detail. ‘Don’t worry Rose, I’ve got some great contacts,’ I say, running my eye down the jumble sale and car boot column in the local paper. ‘I’m in negotiation with them now. We should have new clothes to trim by Monday.’
June 30th
Horrible wolf-whistling outside the house at first light indicates the return of Gertie. How she travelled eighty miles from St Neots is shrouded in mystery, but she is there on the gravel, on her perch, a brown envelope dangling beneath her. This time the bill is for three hundred and sixty-two pounds including carrier. Having opened the bill, I leave her outside the front door, singing ‘Old MacDonald’ at the top of her voice, and pray she will not wake the children until I have composed a pithy email to David.
I shall have to call the RSPCA if you don’t stop forcing that parrot to travel across country through the blazing summer. She will remain at the parrot hotel until you collect her, as I would rather not take responsibility for the life of such a valuable creature which does not belong to me.
July
July 1st
Email from David to the children, completely ignoring me, and reiterating the fact that Gertie does not need to be in quarantine, and that he has paid her hotel bill. Reluctantly realise that I am outmanoeuvred, and allow Gertie to come with me to school to tell the children the good news. I park in good time, and becoming rather carried away by being in the camper van, turn up the Andy Williams tape that Gertie inspired me to buy in a charity shop the other day.
The door is suddenly wrenched open, and a hatchet-faced Giles glares in.
‘Mum, why did you come in this awful car? And can you please turn the music off and don’t swing.’ The final instruction comes as I sway in time to ‘I Love You Baby’ and clap a bit to keep up with The Beauty, who has made the back of the van into a tented nightclub with spangly scarves and a couple of those Day-Glo sticks you get for camping.
‘I thought you’d like me to bring Gertie.’
‘I’d like you to be quiet,’ he says, reminding me horribly of his father for the first time in ages.
Felix appears, rolls his eyes and says, ‘Mum, let’s face it, you’re just too weird.’
So much for cries of joy and upturned, happy little faces.
July 3rd
Wake the children early, even though it is Saturday, as am anxious to beat the stampede at the car boot sale. The boys are cross and taciturn on the way in the camper van, and grunt as I explain our tactics.
‘I’ve got to try to find clothes, so you must look after The Beauty. I’ll give you each a pound so you can buy anything you fancy.’
Deep sigh from Giles. ‘Mum, you’re really sad. Where have you been? You can’t buy anything for a pound any more.’
‘Oh, can’t you? I was hoping all the clothes would be fifty pence each. Do you think I’m wrong?’
‘Of course you’re wrong,’ he hisses, before subsiding again into silence. The car boot pitch is on a giant field sloping towards the cliffs. The sea glitters and heaves beyond, melting into sky as the sun rises, and intense blue floods the horizon. By the time I have extracted The Beauty from her car seat, the boys have also melted away, having helped themselves to fistfuls of coins from the jam jar of change I collected from the bank yesterday. The bank girl looked a little pitying as she watched me slide all the pounds into my jar, but did not offer one of those nice Sheriff-of-Nottingham-style pouches, even though I rattled my jar in a most tragic fashion. Anyway, can only hope that a purchase will act as mood-altering therapy on the boys and send them back to be helpful. Trap The Beauty in her buggy where she writhes and screams as if in an electric chair, rubbing the palms of her hands woefully against her eyes.
Reach the rows of stallholders considerably harassed, and fed up with the glances of sympathy The Beauty is receiving from total strangers who sneer at me before passing on. Even though it is not quite eight in the morning, the field swarms with people in a state of tranced-out dementia. All are seeking the ultimate bargain, and their hands move ceaselessly over the items on the tables while their eyes are craning to see what canny stallholders are keeping back. The Beauty and I swiftly adopt the same methods, and within moments I have found three cashmere golfing sweaters, and with ruthless bargaining, secured them for a song. Golf appears to be a theme, and the pushchair begins to sag beneath harlequin socks, waistcoats, yet more jerseys and one vast pair of plus fours, which I think may be big enough to turn into two skirts if I just cut off the bits I don’t need and add some elastic. By the end of the first aisle, I have spent all my money and have a fine haul of clothes and ephemera.
Giles and Felix are in high spirits now that they are doing something, and have adopted the gypsy-jackdaw mentality, eschewing WarHammers and other bargain plastic toys to haggle for sequins and glass beads. Giles rushes up to show me a tin of marcasite buttons, sparkling like fish scales as he runs his hands through them like a trader in a souk.
Souk trading at its most obvious. I protest, ‘No fear. I gave you that pound in the first place. You keep them if you want them, and I’ll keep this.’ Tuck my arms around a plastic bag splitting with the weight of a dozen Tintin books. Giles is no match for this lure, and thrusts the buttons at me, throwing in a Barbie-doll pink jeep he had been planning to keep for The Beauty’s birthday.
‘Cool. Thanks, Mum.’
Felix chips in. ‘Yes, thanks, Mum. We’ll take The Beauty now, she can play with us.’ And, leading her to the edge of the field, they spread their Tintin books on the grass and settle down to read, hardly noticing as The Beauty brooms her pink jeep up and down their backs and legs.
July 4th
Giles is revising for exams and insists I test him.
‘Come on, Mum, ask me about turning fractions into decimals. Just make up a sum with fractions and I’ll do it and you can see if I’ve got it right.’
Fat chance. I have no idea how to do such a thing, and am sure fractions were abolished when Britain went decimal. Thought that was what the decimal point was for, in fact. Shall I confess to being a total dimbo, or shall I affect an air of comprehension and try to bluff my way through? Either way will not help him with his revision. But who can? It is pointless to depend on their father, as he is increasingly distancing himself from them as Helena expects him to be a New Man-type of father to the twins. Am amazed that she wants this, and more that she achieves it, as in our marriage, Charles never once changed a nappy or spoon-fed a baby. It just was not appropriate, and anyway, he was too chilly and thin-lipped to cope with the jolly roundness and gurgling laughter of babies. He has mellowed now, of course, but we never see him.
David would be a much better bet for revision tips; and for the thousandth time I wish I had never had that fateful conversation. Suddenly have a good idea. Giles and Felix have a robust email relationship with him. All is not lost, and I will not after all have to confess to dimness.
‘Darling, I’m really sorry, fractions aren’t my thing. Why don’t we do a whole page and email it to David? That way it’ll seem more like an exam, and I can help you revise something else.’
Giles sighs but agrees, and vanishes into my study to write this mysterious, coded email. The Beauty and Felix are engrossed in a game which involves Felix lying on the lawn like Gulliver, with many small teddies strewn about him and a plastic teapot, cup and saucer balanced on his chest. Gertie is marching around him, head on one side, observing proceedings and looking like a member of the royal family with her hands, or rather wings, clasped behind her back. I take advantage, and escape outside to the water butt to set up my new sprinkler system. Erect a series of hosepipes linking sprinklers around the garden, with much tourniquet work at the joins. Moment of truth comes when I turn on the outside tap. There is a brief pause, then most satisfactory jets of water sparkle in every direction, including all over the washing, almost dry, on the line. Rush to remove it and fail to notice the wheelbarrow blocking my path. I fall over, screaming and swearing.
‘Sodding hell. Why does no one ever put anything away in this godforsaken dump?’ Felix and The Beauty pop their heads round the wall to have a look.
‘She’s all right,’ I hear The Beauty informing Felix. ‘She’s just had a little bump. Stop fussing about, Mummy, you’re fine.’
‘You’re fine. Put your pants on. Put your pants on,’ cackles Gertie. That parrot is a bad influence.
The beautiful fountain splutters, gurgles and dies, and an ominous swelling appears in one of the hoses. Also, have grazed my shin on the wheelbarrow and will now have foul scabs instead of glossy suntanned legs for the rest of the summer. Decide to let nature, or rather gravity in the form of water pressure, take its course with the hose, and return to Giles and his revision, disconsolate, brooding on the pointlessness of my existence. Only a few months ago, I was forced to hire a water pump to deal with the quagmire that was then my garden if I did not want to lose every plant to root rot. Now I have desert in the place of swamp, and having started watering, will be chained to this chore until the weather breaks.
‘We’re doing biology now, and we need to start with photosynthesis,’ Giles announces, revealing another gap in my education. He plonks his textbook on my knee and I try to look relaxed and alert as well as knowledgeable.
‘Oh, yes. Chlorophyll and things. I remember,’ I lie, comforting myself with the thought that none of it looks any use to anyone except biology teachers anyway. I would much rather Giles learnt a few practical things like wiring plugs, washing up properly and ironing his shirts. In fact, a decent watering system for my garden would be a fine project to kick off with, and that should surely count as biology, or at least biology supplement.
Giles sees straight through me.
‘Mum, there’s no point in doing this if you don’t understand it,’ he says patiently, making me feel about four years old. ‘I think I’ll go over to Byron Butterstone’s to revise.’
Am incredulous and outraged at once. ‘Does his mother understand all this? I bet she jolly well doesn’t.’
‘No, but we can test each other, and he’s got a really cool computer which can talk.’
‘Shall I drive you there?’
‘No thanks, I’ll go on my bike. See you later, Mum.’
Hugely relieved not to have to do any revision, but heartstrings are twanged as Giles spins away on his bicycle with Lowly trotting by his side. He is independent now, and I will soon be redundant in all areas, not just prep. Worse, though, than being redundant is being passed over. Giles has frequently mentioned the superiority of the Butterstone household with regard to parents (two, and apparently amusing and good-natured at all times), food (ice cream and pizza and a tap on the side of the fridge dispensing Coke all day and night) and siblings (just one silent sister). And since the camper van got going, he has been eloquent on the subject of the Butterstones’ cars (one Jaguar, a Mercedes and a new Land Rover). Can do very little to reach these standards in our household, so will doubtless suffer the ignominy of Giles moving out to live in the next village with them soon.
Telephone rings as I contemplate this prospect. It is Bronwyn Butterstone, perfect mother and number one seed in the local lawn tennis club.
‘Oh, Venetia. I thought you would want me to let you know Giles has arrived safely. I know how difficult it is to stop yourself ringing when they cycle off, just to check they’re safe. Anyway, we’re going water-skiing later on and we’d love to take Giles, so shall we drop him home this evening?’
‘Yes of course. Thank you. I was just about to ring, I’ve been mentally following his progress,’ I lie smoothly, determined she shall think me caring, although it has never occurred to me to check up on Giles, who is much more grown-up and safety-conscious than I am. Put the phone down and try to think of something to do with Felix and The Beauty that could be considered on a par with water-skiing. The options include painting some shelves for Felix’s room, planting out some very overgrown hollyhock seedlings and picking strawberries to get ahead with jam-making. Ask Felix to choose.
He picks himself up from the teddy chaos on the lawn and says, ‘Those are all really chod, Mum. Why can’t we go out somewhere?’
‘OK then, where would you like to go?’
Expect hours of indecision, but Felix answers instantly, ‘Let’s go to the Badlington Tank Collection. It’s my favourite place. And can I have some money to buy an Airfix, please?’
The Beauty also adores the tank collection, and a happy afternoon is spent among the trappings of war until The Beauty climbs up a ladder into a cappuccino-coloured tank, a relic of the Gulf War, and therefore camouflaged for dust and desert rather than mud and rural fields like the Second World War ones, and vanishes. Felix and I, inspecting a glass case in which the Charge of the Light Brigade is taking place, complete with puffs
of smoke and sound effects, do not notice her absence until an elderly blazer-wearing man taps me on the shoulder.
‘I think the noises in that tank are less than authentic,’ he says, winking. We turn to hear Miss Bossy Boots, her voice booming as if from the bottom of a well: ‘I need to do the driving. It’s my car and we’re going to London.’
Felix collapses in a heap of horror. ‘God, Mum, why did we have to bring her? She’ll break it and we’ll have to pay for it.’
Am distracted by this. ‘I wonder how much a tank costs?’ I muse.
Thudding sounds from within the tank suggest that The Beauty is now charging up and down and we are about to find out the price of one Gulf War relic, until recently in perfect condition.
‘Wheee! I’m bouncing about. It’s like a boat, isn’t it!’ confirms this, and Felix begins to resemble one of the wounded soldiers in the Light Brigade, rolling on the ground groaning.
‘She’s ruining it, she’s ruining it.’
I am pretty sure that even The Beauty’s demolition skills are no match for a tank, but am as keen as Felix to get her out before anyone official sees her. As I begin to climb what I hope are the main steps, she appears in a gun turret, a tiny frontierswoman in her Liberty-print apron and smocked dress, selected as Sunday best by me this morning. Am about to coax her down, when someone behind me causes her to cackle a mad ‘ha ha’ and disappear again like a puppet.
‘She is the original for Annie Get Your Gun, isn’t she?’ Hedley, wearing a khaki windcheater with a suspicion of dandruff on his shoulders, appears from behind a giant cannon. His hands are behind his back, but I catch a glimpse of a helmet which he is trying to conceal beneath his jacket. Am less astonished than I should be to see him here; this is his sort of place. Wonder what his excuse is, though.
Summertime Page 14