Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  I originally had my hair booked in for Saturday but had to bring it forward on account of the agenda change. It’s not an issue though as Mark pulls it so straight that I could leave it for a week and it still wouldn’t look any different. Not that I’d do that, of course. It’s so time-consuming, straightening my own hair. Firstly blowing it as straight as I can get it, secondly taking the irons through it piece by piece and, lastly, wondering where on earth the last three hours went to, that I gladly hand over twenty quid each week now just to spare myself the pain.

  “Hello, gorgeous!” Mark chirps at me excitedly as he removes the wet towel, roughly drying my hair and kissing the air noisily. “You look faaab! Dish the dirt then, darling!”

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror I cringe. My hair has started to frizz already and splashes of black mascara garnish my cheeks. Gorgeous! Is he blind or what?

  “Nothing to tell,” I shrug. “Although ask me next week and there might well be.” A dirty laugh escapes, followed by a squeal of delight from Mark as he clasps his hands together.

  “Well, remember me when you’re married off to this rich tycoon, won’t you?” He empties his pockets, pulling out the lining, and purses his bottom lip, looking truly pathetic. “The lowly skint hairdresser you once confided in.”

  “Mark, if I ever had enough money you know I’d hire you to be my personal stylist. I wouldn’t hesitate.” I’m deadly serious. “You’d have to come on holiday with me though, maybe to the Maldives or the Caribbean so it wouldn’t be too cushy a number! And let’s face it, you’d pose no threat to my future husband so I can’t see him objecting.”

  He squeezes the melon-scented serum from its container and smooths it through my hair right down to the very tips.

  “Don’t be sooo cheeky, Miss Thing!” he snorts effeminately. “A man like me could turn the even straightest of men gay! You might be the one who needs to look out!”

  I guess I never thought of it that way before, although it’s a chance I’d be prepared to take. Having a blonde Swedish au-pair however, isn’t. What am I talking about? I haven’t even got a boyfriend and I’m talking husband, kids and nanny! Usually I confide in Mark over everything, but the utter embarrassment of the Simon issue is simply too much. Although he’d love it. Vomiting on a white rug has some degree of humour to it, assuming you’re not the owner of the rug or the vomittee of course, but exposing your body in agent provocateur lingerie to the wrong man, I simply can’t see the funny side of that personally.

  “What are we doing today, my lovely?” Mark asks, standing back, assessing his options. “I’m thinking Farah Fawcett?”

  “I was just thinking poker-straight actually, Mark.”

  He looks disappointed.

  “My date isn’t until tomorrow and I doubt those flicks would survive overnight!” I laugh.

  “Have it your way then.” He sighs. Ever the Drama Queen. “Straight it is.” He pouts sulkily. “And boring.”

  Prima donna!

  The Sunshine Coach pulls up outside of Noah’s Animal Farm. Chantelle and I watch eagerly, standing by ready to assist.

  A dozen young faces pressed up against the glass grin excitedly and the vehicle gasps loudly to a complete standstill.

  As the children frantically collect their belongings, desperate to disembark, the bus rocks from side to side with the commotion. The doors open with a loud hiss and one by one each child is assisted and lowered to safety.

  Chantelle and I exchange grins at the sound of the children’s voices, excitable and giddy. Tittering girls and boisterous boys huddle together as they’re rounded up like cattle.

  A stern-faced, robust woman marches towards us, holding out her right hand. “Hello, ladies, I’m Pat Donnelly. Chairperson of the Church for Children group.” We exchange formal handshakes. “Jolly delighted to meet you,” she announces confidently.

  Actually, speaking with a mouth full of marbles would be a more accurate description. There aren’t many of her type left in Liverpool. She must be from old stock.

  “I hope you know you’ve your work cut out today, ladies?” She raises an eyebrow, gesturing towards the group of children who are now lined up two by two, holding hands and looking particularly angelic. How cute are they!

  “We’ve come prepared!” I reply cheerfully, lifting my leg to demonstrate my commitment to practicality and showing her my rather clean-looking Caterpillar boots. Chantelle follows suit, pointing to her pink wellies. She looks suitably unimpressed but we both ignore her sternness and continue to smile broadly at the children.

  Nothing can dampen my exhilaration today. I’m so desperate to get stuck in and I just can’t wait to hold their chubby little hands and watch their innocent faces as they experience a little farm life and benefit from a dose of good clean air. I want to experience that maternal bond everyone talks about and imagine for just one moment that I have my own children. I yearn to feel that sense of a love that’s so strong and so unbreakable that it takes my breath away and sends my heart into emotional overload.

  “It’s going to take a little more than footwear to protect yourselves from some of these little monkeys,” Pat replies coolly, winking at me in particular. “They bite, you know.”

  My face drops momentarily and then I realise she’s joking. I laugh, relieved. Although I notice she doesn’t.

  “Tina,” she takes my arm, “let me introduce you to Charlie and Jake. You’ll be looking after these two boys today.”

  Excitedly, I follow her lead towards the group of children, waving as they wave back at me, and suddenly I am overcome with the pleasure of guarding someone else’s child. It has to be one of the highest privileges.

  Walking down the line, I become aware that my face is fixed in a joker-like grin. But it feels as good as it does natural. I make a point of saying hello to each and every child and momentarily feel like a member of the Royal Family at the end of a Royal Variety Show. I decide to omit the small talk. Stopping dead, Pat roughly taps the shoulders of two small boys about six years old, standing tall and intimidating them. I immediately stoop down to their level to introduce myself properly, conscious not to do the same as she does. I watched it on Supernanny. She says to always come down to the child’s eye level and that way you won’t be bullying them by looming over them.

  “Hello, Charlie. Hello, Jake, I’m Tina,” I say affectionately, keen to strike an instant rapport with my two boys. I stretch my arm past Charlie towards Jake and ruffle his hair in a playful gesture. “Aaaahh!” A piercing scream escapes from my lips in a pained knee-jerk response.

  “Charlie – no,” Pat says calmly. “Let go right now.”

  “Aaaah! Get him off me!” I screech as his teeth sink deeper into my arm.

  Charlie releases his grip and I pull away in a state of shock. A perfect cast of milk teeth stares up at me and I watch in horror as the blood surfaces and my arm begins to throb. Really throb.

  Pat coolly whips out an antiseptic wipe from her bulging canvas bag and roughly scrubs my arm before speed-wrapping a small bandage around the wounded area and taping it down with a large plaster.

  “There now – all sorted,” she dismisses the incident as I continue to gape at the two boys in horror. “I did warn you, Tina.” She smirks knowingly. “I told you they bite.”

  Yes but . . .

  Marching the group through the main entrance like a captain leading his troops into battle, she turns every now and then to check we’re all in tow. Chantelle, a few rows up, casts me a apologetic glance as I hold my arm up to her, showing the damage done. She winces sympathetically.

  Feeling wounded, although more emotionally than physically, I watch as the other assistants take the hands of their perfectly behaved children and wonder for a split second if I should try to do the same. Think like an adult, Tina. They’re only children. I tell myself that they’re only little and perhaps I scared them off by making physical contact too soon?

  I quickly decide to write of
f the biting incident as an isolated case although I am definitely in favour of adopting a more cautious approach.

  “Jake, Charlie, would you like to hold my hand?” I ask with firm authority. The boys nod at me obediently, lifting up their little arms to show me grubby hands with dirty fingernails. I take hold of each small hand gently and with relief at their apparent eagerness. Thankful for their apparent change in temperament. Wasn’t a good start for any of us but still there’s plenty of time for a happy ending.

  The group comes to an abrupt halt as Pat stops suddenly in front of a large cattle shed.

  “It’s five minutes to eleven, troops!” she shouts. “We’re going to take a seat inside here just in time to feed the goats at eleven o’clock.”

  The children squeal excitedly, rushing towards the shed, and my arms are almost pulled out of their sockets by the two boys swinging from them. We follow Pat into the large open shed and take a seat on the low wooden benches provided. Perfectly lined up, row by row.

  Placing myself in between Jake and Charlie, I point to a staff member wearing a rather trendy head microphone and dressed in a royal-blue polo shirt embroidered with the Noah’s Farm logo.

  “That lady is watching us so we’d all better behave really really well.” I smile down at them positively. “Can you do that for me, boys?”

  “If that stupid goat comes near me I’m gonna punch him!” Jake replies violently. His clasped hand smacks the air as he mimics the action.

  “Yeah and I’m going to – eh – kick him!” Charlie joins in.

  I’m horrified. Kicking! Biting! How aggressive are children today?

  I hear a faint bleating as the goats are led into the shed by what look like teenage volunteers – probably local children earning some pocket money.

  “Absolutely no kicking allowed!” I lecture, shocked at how Pat-like I sound. Repulsed even. I’m so glad I haven’t eaten yet. I point to the supervisor who has started to tell us about a Nubian-type goat. “Charlie. Jake. Look!” A tiny goat is trying desperately to extricate itself from her tight grip. The lead is free from slack to keep the creature close and she pokes and prods it in various parts of its anatomy, lifting its ears and allowing them to flop down.

  “Sometimes we call them Lop-Eared Goats,” she explains passionately. This makes the children laugh hysterically. Why do children laugh at the most ridiculous things? “It is also known for its high-quality butterfat and milk production.”

  “Uuurrghh!” yells Charlie. “Milk is so gross!”

  “Yeah, it’s like puke!” adds Jake.

  “Boys!” I snap. “That lady is in charge here and she will ask you to leave if you continue to be so rude and naughty.” The firmness in my voice settles them and for a moment they look as cute and as run-of-the-mill as the other kids here.

  Their little necks strain as they try to see over the top of people’s heads, frantically following the direction of the bleating. As the noise becomes louder, a baby goat appears at the top end of our bench, sucking vigorously on a milk bottle held in place by one of the teenagers. He gives the bottle to the first child to hold while the tiny goat simply follows the scent of milk, supping on its teat pleasurably. One by one, each child takes a turn of holding the bottle upside down as the goat follows obediently with its head tilted up, eager to take the bottle from anyone prepared to feed it. It really is a beautiful sight. This little white creature, all innocent and trusting, sucking away on the rubber teat without a care in the world.

  Why isn’t my life so uncomplicated and immaterial? Maybe I’ll come back as an animal.

  “Look, boys, it’s nearly your turn,” I tell them excitedly. I’m really starting to enjoy myself now. Aren’t kids great when they do as they’re told!

  As the goat wobbles towards us I keep a mindful eye on the children’s feet, ready to grab them just in case they deliver their threat. And why wouldn’t they?

  “Here it is!” Charlie yells, pulling on my sleeve with excitement. “Look, look!”

  I note his sparkling eyes, wide and amazed. His bottom barely touches the bench as he shifts about with uncontrollable exuberance. His face is quite angelic, albeit a little dirty and a good scrub wouldn’t go amiss. I don’t know what the history is behind these kids and neither do I want to, but I hear that many of them are pretty disadvantaged. Suddenly I’m grateful for the head-start I’ve had.

  “Now be careful not to scare him, Charlie. He’s very little.” I grin proudly at the teenage boy, taking the bottle from him and carefully passing it on to Charlie. I watch as Charlie holds the bottle high, taking it way out of the animal’s reach and his face begins to look a little scared.

  “Hold it lower, Charlie – he can’t reach it.”

  The goat’s neck is practically distorted as it jumps up to reach the teat, frustrated at it being given and then taken so rudely away.

  “Quickly, Charlie.” I apply a little weight to his arm, lowering it to a height where the creature can reach it without suffering from goat-induced whiplash. But Charlie whimpers in fear, holding it up high again in a fit of panic.

  The goat suddenly takes remedial action and jumps onto its hind legs, reaching up impatiently and bleating with aggression.

  “He’s jumping on me!” Charlie screams. “Help! Help!”

  In reaction his hand flies into the air even higher, taking the bottle with it, while a hungry and frustrated baby goat cries out with distressed anxiety.

  Once more it jumps up, balancing on its back legs, and lands with its two hooves on Charlie’s lap, where it stresses and strains to reach the milk. Almost eye to eye with Charlie, his bleating sounds become more and more agitated and the teenage volunteer quickly attempts to control the situation. He leans towards Charlie, ready to take the bottle from him, but now tired and angry, the goat resorts to violence and roughly head-butts Charlie causing the bottle to spin from his grip. It catapults through the cattle shed, travelling backwards, and I reluctantly turn to assess the damage, hearing a thud followed by a yelp.

  Oh my God. It’s hit a child.

  The injured child bawls, nursing her head and a frenzy of attention gathers around her.

  “Calm down, Charlie, he’s not going to hurt you,” I say slowly and with a firm reassurance. I watch the young guy running across the shed to retrieve the milk and hope the goat will follow suit. Not a chance. I hear the teenager shout for a first-aid kit, pointing down to the injured child. Her muffled cries fill me with horror and I stand to witness her holding her injured head which has an already impressive swelling. The poor mite must have taken the full force.

  Charlie is sitting there deadly still with his eyes firmly shut and his breath sucked in. He’s practically turning blue. Quickly – do something.

  I place my hands beneath the goat’s stomach, slowly lifting it from Charlie’s lap and holding it close to me. I grimace at the feel of its coarse hair and try counting to ten in a distraction bid. A warm sensation hits my legs followed immediately by a strong putrid smell and I glance down to see drops of urine trickle from him, falling onto jeans that are already soaking wet.

  “Aagghh!”

  In utter horror I release my grip. The goat falls from mid-air, hitting the floor clumsily and yelping as it tries to regain balance. Its hind legs lash out with aggressive punishment and I shriek as my shins take the full force of his assault. Not once, but twice. “Oouch!” I bend, doubled over, to rub the throbbing pain and, thrusting my hand up the inside of my jeans, I feel an immediate swelling. A fresh waft of goat’s urine rockets up my nose. I suddenly feel ill.

  Abandoning the boys I rush outside, gasping for fresh air, desperately trying to remove the taste of urine from the back of my throat by swallowing repeatedly. The burning sensation eases a little but my head is still light and floaty from drawing too many short breaths and the stench is overpowering.

  Feeling a little more composed and reluctant to give in to the circus of events, I turn to recommence my childcare dutie
s but the full force of the weight placed on my legs makes me wince and I hobble a little further before stopping dead. My jeans are soaked through. The Caterpillar boots are for the bin. And I stink. My legs hurt beyond belief and my arm is probably in need of a tetanus injection if the inside of Charlie’s mouth is as dirty as the outside.

  Oh God! I can’t do it. I can’t go back in.

  Half-running, half-limping, I rush back to the car and grab my handbag. Scribbling on a blank cheque, I sign it shakily before rushing across to the Sunshine minibus. I glance around, quickly lift the wiper blade and leave the cheque safely underneath it, praying that it won’t rain. Prayers! What use are they?

  That’s it. Enough is enough. I’ve given all I can give and taken all I can take. It’s a generous donation and isn’t that what these places are crying out for? Money. Bloody army training wouldn’t even prepare you for a day like that so it’s easier to admit when you’re out of your depth and simply surrender. I surrender.

  I climb into the car and tear away like a joy-rider, feeling guilty for not saying goodbye to Chantelle but nobody else.

  Of all the bloody days! I have the date of my life tonight.

  I fight hard with myself not to feel bad about yet another ludicrous episode. What control did I have over it? I did nothing wrong and, as for running off like that, what else could I have done? I’ve no change of clothes, I stink to high heaven and there was no way on God’s earth I was going to perform mouth to mouth on Charlie even if it did look like he needed it. And as for knowing how to handle animals, do I seem like that type of girl?

  Working with animals and children definitely isn’t my ultimate purpose in life . . . but as for studs . . . now we’re talking . . .

  14

  Absolute heaven!

  Immersed in a deep warm bath, the water laps around me as my body shuts down into a state of relaxation. A towel is wrapped tightly around my head to stop the humidity from curling my hair, although given how dirty I feel from the inside out it’s killing me not washing it. But I just don’t have the inclination nor the arm-power right now.