School Run

by Sophie King

  ‘Darling, as I’ve said before, please call me Harriet. I’ll do my best but it’s a bit difficult to test you and drive at the same time.’

  ‘You wrapped up Susie’s birthday present last week while you were driving,’ pointed out Kate.

  ‘Yes, but she shouldn’t have.’ Bruce was full of righteous indignation. ‘You’re meant to have both hands on the wheel.’

  ‘I was at traffic lights for most of the time,’ said Harriet. ‘Tell you what, Beth, why don’t you ask me the questions and then you can tell me if the answers are right? You could pretend to be the teacher.’

  ‘She’d like that,’ said Lucy. ‘She’s bossy enough.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Poor girls, thought Harriet. She didn’t know how much they knew about Pippa but she was pretty sure there’d be some tension at home. ‘Right, let’s have question number one.’

  Beth coughed importantly. ‘What does CAP stand for?’

  ‘This isn’t biology, is it?’ enquired Harriet, doubtfully.

  ‘No, geography.’

  ‘CAP? Gosh, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Common Agricultural Policy,’ announced Beth, with relish. ‘It’s something that the EU introduced to make sure that farmers have a decent standard of living; that there’s a good balance of food in Europe and that everyone can afford food at a reasonable price.’

  ‘Beth, you are clever. Bruce, did you know that?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t care anyway. Look! No, idiot, over there! It’s my art teacher and he’s smoking!’

  Harriet smiled at the indignation in the back. There had been so many anti-smoking talks at school that they were all deeply against it. She wondered briefly what they would say if they met her father. She hadn’t seen him for nearly two years but last time they’d met he was still getting through at least forty a day.

  ‘He shouldn’t smoke! He also teaches us PSHE and everyone knows smoking’s bad for you.’

  The young were so unforgivingly moral, thought Harriet. ‘What about the next question, Beth?’

  ‘Give five examples of farming.’

  ‘Er, poultry, dairy, arable . . . I can’t think of any more. Sorry.’

  ‘Reindeer and diversification,’ sang out Beth. ‘Diversification is when the farmers. . . .’

  Harriet tried to listen but her thoughts kept returning to her father. Since the divorce, she hadn’t seen much of him and the children had only ever visited him three or four times. She had blamed him for that – he never suggested they came up to Yorkshire – but her fears about Charlie were now making her wonder if she should have made more effort with her father. If she and Charlie split up, would the children still bother to visit or take their own children to see him?

  Harriet sighed. Divorce had so many long-term effects, right down the generations. Was Monica right about children being more resilient than she thought? She’d been devastated at sixteen (only four years older than Bruce) when her own parents had split up. But they had been vitriolic towards each other and her mother had actively discouraged her from seeing her father. No wonder they weren’t close now.

  In contrast, the children seemed to have accepted Charlie’s absence. Then again, they would. He often went away on business – if not for two months at a time. Would they be happy to see their father only at weekends? Would she be happy to sleep and sort out the day-to-day domestic crises on her own? She’d coped during the last two months. But she would feel a huge gap. She and Charlie had been together too long for her to start again.

  ‘Look!’ said Bruce. His voice, cutting into her thoughts, made her swerve.

  ‘Don’t point like that,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s distracting for the driver. You almost hit me.’

  ‘Yes, but look! Too late. You’ve missed it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A big photograph,’ said Kate, looking behind them. ‘Above those roses.’

  ‘It was a boy,’ added Lucy, full of importance at having seen it too. ‘Do you think he’s missing?’

  Harriet wondered whether to tell the children the truth, if only to make them cross the road more carefully. Despite what she was always telling them, she’d seen Bruce and Kate fly across without checking. That was the trouble with taking them everywhere by car. They weren’t streetwise, as she’d been at their age.

  ‘People put flowers by the road when someone’s been hurt,’ she said. ‘Maybe that boy was run over there.’

  ‘Do you think he was killed?’ whispered Beth.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s why you need to look carefully when you cross the road.’

  ‘Stop going on.’ Bruce sounded impatient. ‘Mum, drop me here. Now! No, not by those girls! God, you’re so embarrassing.’

  Kate giggled. ‘He fancies that one on the right – the one with the earring in her nose, don’t you, Bruce?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Don’t hit me.’

  ‘I didn’t. Crybaby.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Harriet. There was no point in reading the Riot Act – not just before they went into school. It would only upset her and Bruce, even though he hid his feelings. Far better to praise him when he did something right. The first time she’d read that in an American magazine, brought home by Charlie after a trip, she’d dismissed it as rubbish. But when she put it into practice, she found that praising him and ignoring some of the bad things worked better than Charlie yelling at him.

  Bruce didn’t bother to say goodbye. She watched him, in her wing mirror, walking past the girls and flushing when one turned to say something. He was only young, but already the opposite sex was playing a part in his imagination. Long may that last. The thought of a teenage bed-hopping Bruce was too much to contemplate.

  ‘Got everything, girls?’ she said, getting out and going through the boot to check they hadn’t left anything behind. Lucy’s violin, Kate’s shoulder bag – so heavy she could barely lift it – Beth’s hockey stick. ‘’Bye. Your mum’s picking up tonight, remember.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Harriet turned round to see the broad-shouldered man from the waiting room yesterday. He was parked alongside her in a red Fiesta with an L-plate on the front, but there was no sign of the daughter he had mentioned.

  He was holding something out to her. ‘Hi. It’s me. Nick. From yesterday. Remember?’

  She nodded, embarrassed.

  ‘This must have fallen out when your bag fell open. Sorry – I must have picked it up by mistake.’

  ‘My phone!’

  The man patted his top pocket, grinning ruefully. ‘Couldn’t live without mine.’

  The back of his car was packed with camera stuff – tripods and big black boxes. ‘Well, I expect you need it in your job,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Yes. Actually, I was wondering . . .’

  On Nick’s behalf Harriet made an apologetic sign at the van behind. The driver was hooting.

  ‘I’d better move on,’ he said. ‘See you, then.’

  She got back into the car, deflated. He was nice – at least, he seemed nice. God, Harriet. Just because your husband might or might not be leaving you, doesn’t mean you have to start noticing every bloke who smiles at you.

  She turned on the mobile and pressed the unlock key. She’d been looking for it all over the house, ever since yesterday, wondering if Charlie had phoned again. When she’d rung it from the landline, in the hope of locating it, she had connected with its answerphone. MESSAGE, it now said. Message! The kids had taught her how to text soon after Charlie had gone to Dubai. It was part of a campaign that was being run in schools nationwide, sponsored by the parents of that poor girl who had been murdered. ‘Teach Ur Mum 2 Text’, it had been called, and Kate had taken it seriously. As a result, Harriet could just about send a message to the children – and receive one.

  ‘Bck early. Thursday. Flight arrives 11.10. Will get taxi.’

  Shaking, she scrolled down to reply: ‘Will meet u at airport. Luv H.’
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  It was only after she’d sent it that she realised he hadn’t said ‘love’ in his text or even dropped in one tiny X.

  Harriet drove home as fast as she dared. Thursday! Tomorrow. And still so much to get done. Her hair for a start – thank goodness she’d got her appointment this afternoon for her highlights. And the house – she’d have a good tidy-up. Charlie hated mess. Oh, God, the bathroom cabinet! Bruce had accidentally brought it down off the wall. His story was that he had just opened the door and it fell off. Kate had said he was clambering on top of it. Harriet had been intending to get someone in to Rawl-plug it back but, with so little time, she’d have to do it herself.

  She pulled up outside the house and headed straight for the garage to find Charlie’s drill. It wasn’t there, although nearly every other piece of DIY equipment was present. She’d have to go next door to borrow one.

  Her neighbour, a kindly man in his late sixties, took ages to find his. ‘Must be here somewhere. Ah, yes, thought so.’

  He produced it with a grin. ‘Under the stairs. Never use it myself. Goodness, Charlie’s lucky to have a handy wife – and a pretty one.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry I can’t stay but I’ve got to dash.’

  Her neighbour had nodded understandingly. ‘I know. You young ones, always rushing around. My daughter’s the same. Hardly see her.’

  Harriet took the drill and escaped. She wasn’t going to get into another guilt trip about her father. He had left her mother and had only himself to blame. She was going to concentrate on getting the house ready for Charlie.

  Standing on a chair, she tried to remember how her husband did it. First she needed to drill a hole into which to push the Rawl-plug. Then she had to lift the cabinet (just possible if she balanced one side on the basin) and twist in the screw. Simple.

  She plugged in the drill and pressed the button. Nothing. She pressed again. Still nothing.

  How was she ever going to cope if she couldn’t even do something as simple as turning on the drill? And now the bloody doorbell was ringing.

  ‘What?’ she yelled out of the window.

  Her elderly neighbour was standing below. ‘I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong drill, dear. That one doesn’t work. It’s why it was under the stairs.’ He waved another at her triumphantly. ‘You need this one. It’s a real corker. My daughter gave it to me for Christmas. Shall I come up? The door’s open.’

  Thank heavens! ‘Yes, please.’

  He brought it up to her. ‘Can I do it for you?’

  ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll do it myself.’

  Harriet plugged in the drill, held it against the mark she’d made on the wall and pressed the button. There was a loud roaring noise and red plaster dust flew everywhere. She wasn’t hopeless. It had been the drill, not her.

  ‘You’re not going to lift that cabinet on to the wall on your own, are you, dear? If you don’t mind me saying so, that really is a two-man job.’

  Harriet eyed it. ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

  Her neighbour smiled. ‘My dear, it’s a pleasure to be needed.’

  After that, she had to make him a cup of tea, cut a slice of home-made Victoria sponge and listen to his warblings about the daughter in France who always had him over in the summer. Eventually, she explained about her hair appointment and made it to the salon just in time.

  After the drill scene, it was a relief to sit still for a while.

  Highlights always took ages but she had booked a manicure as well.

  ‘Going somewhere special, then?’ asked the girl, as she buffed Harriet’s nails while another girl wrapped her hair in foil.

  ‘Not really. I just felt my nails needed doing.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘My husband’s coming back tomorrow after a business trip.’

  ‘Ah, that’s sweet. You want to look nice for him, then.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  For a ridiculous second, Harriet felt like a bride on her wedding day. No, that was stupid. She and Charlie had had all that. Now they had to face some hard home truths. The hair was just a form of self-protection: she wanted to look good – or at least as good as any other woman Charlie might have come across.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she told the girl, when she’d finished blow drying it.

  ‘Glad you like it. Do you want some spray to keep it in place?’

  ‘Just a bit. Actually, I must dash or I’m going to be late for the children.’ She pressed a pound into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks very much.’ She should have given her more but she’d run out of cash. If she was quick, she could nip to the bank before Pippa brought the children back. But first she needed the chemist. While she had been flicking through a magazine at the hairdresser’s, she’d spotted an advert for a tampon-like device that strengthened the pelvic floor. Worth trying, especially if Charlie was coming home.

  Harriet blushed as she scanned the shelves. ‘Excuse me, I’m trying to find something called Aqualift,’ she said shyly, to one of the assistants.

  ‘Over there, on the pregnancy-products aisle,’ said the girl, loudly.

  Harriet looked round, worried that someone she knew might be about. Pregnancy products? That hadn’t been there when she was expecting. Still, here it was – and there was a shelf full of Aqualifts, indicating a needy market. Harriet examined the pretty blue box curiously. It looked like one of Kate’s Polly Pocket toys from when she was younger but inside there was a white plastic cone. According to the instructions, you added small metal weights to it to strengthen your inside.

  Harriet paid at the counter, then headed to the bank. The queue, as usual, was horrendous but she couldn’t remember her pin number which had changed last week. That ruled out the hole in the wall. Why were there only ever two cashiers? To pass the time, she read most of the leaflets on the stand. Saving Up for a Baby. Saving Up for Your Wedding Day. There should be Saving Up For Your Divorce or Uncertain Future, she thought. Now, that would be really useful.

  Finally, it was her turn. Harriet pushed across her credit card. ‘A hundred pounds please. In tens.’

  ‘I just need to check your balance,’ said the girl.

  Harriet sighed. She came here every week and the bank knew perfectly well they were good customers. Charlie earned an extremely respectable salary, although during his absence he had suggested she had a separate housekeeping account to make it ‘easier’. He would, he promised, pay part of his salary into it. Harriet had been surprised but with the upheaval surrounding his departure, it hadn’t seemed significant. Since then, though, she’d noticed that the staff’s attitude to her at the bank had been less friendly; almost as if she was a less important customer now that she had a separate account from her high-earning husband.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t give you the money,’ said the girl, pushing a piece of paper towards her. ‘You’re already overdrawn and extra money will take you above the agreed overdraft.’

  ‘But I can’t be. My husband was paying in some money this week.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If you would like to see the manager, you can join the queue over there.’

  Mortified by how much the people behind her could hear (why didn’t banks have a private room any more for this kind of thing?), Harriet took the piece of paper, screwed it up and walked out. Why hadn’t Charlie paid in the money? A cold shudder went through her as she realised that this was what it would be like if she was on her own: she would be worrying constantly about her outgoings. She hadn’t been used to this – and it wasn’t fair. She would tell Charlie so. Enough was enough.

  17

  EVIE

  ‘There have been unconfirmed reports of gunfire at the school in Ohio where a schoolboy is holding his classmates hostage . . .’

  Why was the news always so depressing? Evie slid a CD into the slot. Ella Fitzgerald’s rich, throw-it-at-me-and-I’ll-survive voice always gave her strength, even on a day like this when she was stuck behind a stupid L-driver who was meandering all over the road. There should be a l
aw banning them from driving in rush hour.

  Thank God Martine had been able to take the kids to school that morning. This was the third time in as many months that the bloody Discovery had refused to start, which meant she’d had to take Robin’s old Saab to the office. She hated not driving an automatic – damn, she’d stalled again. She disliked his choice of radio station and she couldn’t believe the mess this car was in.

  God, she was in a bad mood – as Robin had pointed out that morning. But he’d been in a filthy one too. Evie had written features on how redundancy affected marriages but, like all the other gritty issues in life, you never knew what they were really like until you’d experienced them yourself. She didn’t need one of the glib consultants they used on Just For You magazine to tell her that Robin’s lack of self-esteem had spread to below the sheets. On top of that, with the way things were going, they might not be able to afford Jack’s fees at the pre-prep in two years. As it was, Robin felt it was unfair: the girls were at state school for financial reasons, and he thought Jack should follow suit.

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ she told herself firmly. She’d sort it out, as she always did. It wasn’t for nothing that she’d been up all night, working out a fierce campaign to get her career back on track. She’d got some cracking ideas, if she said so herself. All she had to do now was sway Bulmer at the all important meeting on Friday morning.

  But first she needed to stop off at Boots to get another pair of tights. At the last lot of lights, she’d noticed a snag in the pair she was wearing. Evie checked the mirror, to ensure that there weren’t any traffic wardens on the loose, then parked on a double yellow and leaped out of the car, straight into a passer-by who loomed up out of nowhere.

  ‘Ouch!’

  Evie looked in dismay at the old woman. She seemed familiar – a former cleaning lady? A neighbour? ‘Look where you’re going,’ grumbled the woman, rubbing her shoulder.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Evie.

  ‘Well, you can make up for it by taking one of these.’ She handed Evie a leaflet.