Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Scared.”

  “Why would you be scared?”

  “Miss Carter will get cross with Josie for not bringing it to school and it will be all my fault.”

  “No, she won’t. Miss Carter is lovely and kind. She never gets cross—you know that.”

  “But I’m frightened she might this time and then Josie will cry.”

  “And how do you feel about Josie crying?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Goodness. That’s a very grown-up feeling. And it’s not a very nice one, is it?”

  Hero shakes her head.

  “OK, so would it help if I came in and had a word with Miss Carter?”

  Hero gives a nod of her blond curls, some of which are damp with sweat and plastered to her forehead.

  “Fine—let’s go.”

  Claudia gets up and takes Hero’s hand. “What a morning,” she gushes in our direction. “I’ve got Sebastian at home with some bug that’s doing the rounds. Now this. I’m exhausted before the day has even started. But I can’t blame Hero. She’s such a people pleaser. Upsetting others is one of her greatest fears, and irritating as it is, she’s showing an emotional intelligence way beyond her years.”

  Claudia bids us cheerio and she and Hero disappear into school.

  “Oh, fuck off,” Tanya mutters.

  “That’s a bit strong,” Ginny says.

  “Well, it’s how I feel. Why does her kid get the cute, socially acceptable neuroses?” Ginny and Tanya want me to come to the coffee shop with them, but I can’t. I’m taking Mum for her annual physical. The NHS offers one, but Mum insists it’s not thorough enough. There’s no MRI scan or colonoscopy. So she pays. The investigations are so extensive that they take nearly all day. She loves it more than Christmas. It’s her one treat to herself. I usually drop her off at the clinic. When it’s all over, she gets a cab home. Today I’m particularly grateful that she’s making her own way home because I have been called in for an after-school meeting with Rosie’s teacher.

  • • •

  Claudia is right about Miss Carter never getting cross. She is sunny and kind and American. She calls her pupils honey pie and sweet pea. Miss Carter is the kind of person who hugs herself while declaring: “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” The kids adore her.

  I collect Sam from his class and suggest he and his sister wait for me on the playground.

  “But why does Miss Carter want to see you?” Rosie says. “Have I been bad?”

  “Of course not. I suspect she’s noticed that you’ve been looking a bit tired lately and that you’ve been taking time off.”

  “Promise you won’t tell her about Denise. She’ll laugh. Or the Hitlers.”

  “It’s OK, darling. I promise.”

  I send the kids on their way, but they don’t move.

  “I reckon you did do something bad,” Sam says.

  “Shuddup. I did not.”

  “I bet you farted and everybody smelled it and felt sick.”

  “No, I didn’t!” Rosie kicks her brother’s leg.

  I tell Rosie to stop kicking and warn Sam that I will take away his chess set if he doesn’t stop taunting his sister. “Now say sorry. Both of you.”

  Grumpy apologies are exchanged and I shoo them off. Sam charges ahead of Rosie toward the playground.

  I’m a few paces from Miss Carter’s classroom when I see Claudia coming out. At her side is a smiley, much-cheered-up Hero. “I just wanted to check with Miss C that Hero had a good day. Apparently she did.”

  “I played in the Wendy House,” Hero says with a nod of her curls.

  “Good for you,” I say.

  Hero asks if she can go to the playground for a few minutes. “Yes, but literally for a few minutes. We mustn’t be late for ballet.”

  Claudia turns back to me. “So, how is everything going? Hero let it drop that Rosie’s been having a few issues. But it won’t go any further. You have my absolute word. These things happen.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. It’s hardly a secret.”

  “Really? You surprise me.”

  “Rosie’s a bit tired, that’s all. She’s finding it hard to sleep.”

  Claudia looks confused but doesn’t say anything, so I carry on. “If you ask me, she does too many after-school activities and her brain gets overstimulated.”

  “Don’t they all?” Claudia says with an I-feel-your-pain eye roll. “In fact, I’ve just submitted a paper to one of the psychology journals on the dangers of hothousing children. These kids are going to burn out if their parents aren’t careful. And to my shame, I’m just as guilty as the next mother. But I have to say that Hero handles the pressure better than most. I’ve taught her lots of coping strategies.”

  Of course she has. I’ve finally decided I don’t much care for Claudia. I tell her it’s been nice chatting, but I should get going because Miss Carter is waiting for me.

  “Absolutely… . Oh, before you go, I forgot to ask—how’s Sam doing?”

  “Oh, you know … getting himself a bit wound up about this big chess tournament.”

  I must stop giving this woman so much information. She’s only going to use it against me.

  “He’s such a talented boy. His parents must be so proud of him.”

  “We all are.”

  “But you must wonder if Sam and Rosie would be doing better if their parents hadn’t chosen to leave them.”

  I’m considering boxing Claudia’s ears with my handbag when Miss Carter—ponytail, ballet pumps—appears at the classroom door. “If you’d like to come in, Mrs. Devlin, I can see you now.”

  I mutter, “Bye,” to Claudia and follow Miss Carter inside. We squat opposite each other on tiny plastic chairs. Miss Carter thanks me for coming. I’m aware that she isn’t quite her gladsome Anne of Green Gables self.

  “OK, I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “I don’t want to worry you, but I’m concerned about Rosie.”

  “I know what you’re going to tell me. The child’s exhausted. She does too much after school. Her brain is always on the go and she’s not sleeping. I’ll discuss it with her mother and see if we can’t take some of the pressure off her.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I have noticed Rosie looking a bit out of sorts lately and she has been absent a few times. But that isn’t why I asked to see you. I’m pretty sure that the issue I’m concerned about isn’t related to her lack of sleep.”

  Miss Carter explains that a few days ago when the children came in from morning play, she asked them to sit down on the floor mat. “I clapped my hands and said ‘crisscross applesauce,’ which is what we say to the kids back home when we want the class to sit down quickly and cross their legs. One boy didn’t hear me. Rosie, who was already sitting down, looked up at him and told him: ‘Miss Carter said crisscross applesauce … motherfucker.’”

  It’s so shocking and yet so cute that it’s hard not to laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s what she said.”

  “Good Lord. Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Then it hits me. This is what Claudia was driving at just now. Hero didn’t tell her mother that Rosie was coming to school tired. She told her that Rosie had said motherfucker. If she heard, then all the kids must have heard—which means all the parents must know. Although it was odd that Ginny and Tanya hadn’t said anything this morning.

  I’m nonplussed. “But where on earth did she get it from?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me.” The lovely Miss Carter’s perfectly tweezered eyebrows are knitted in concern. I can tell she feels sorry for me.

  “I have absolutely no idea.” That’s not quite true. I know Rosie is familiar with the F word because that day over lunch, before Abby and Tom went to Nicaragua, she was demanding to know when she would be allowed to say it.

  “Could it have come from the TV?” Miss
Carter says.

  “No. She doesn’t watch adult shows. Maybe she picked it up from one of the other kids?”

  “I admit that I didn’t ask her, but I sincerely doubt it. I have never heard that word used in the lower school.”

  “I take it that all the children heard her say it.”

  “A few did, but they don’t know what it means and I didn’t make a big deal of it. None of the parents has complained, so I’m pretty sure it was forgotten by home time.”

  But it wasn’t. Hero remembered and told her mother.

  I apologize profusely to Miss Carter, tell her I’ll investigate and get back to her.

  As I’m leaving she hands me a small pile of Rosie’s paintings. “I’ve just taken down a whole bunch of the kids’ artwork to clear some wall space. I thought Rosie might like hers.”

  “I’m sure she would.” I’ve barely got the sentence out when the painting on top of the pile catches my eye. It’s a picture of a lone naked woman with long tubular-shaped breasts. I know it’s me because she’s written Granmar at the bottom in fat black letters.

  “Good Lord. I don’t know what to say. What must you think of our family? You see, I was getting out of the bath the other day and Rosie came barging in and …”

  Miss Carter is laughing. “Please don’t worry. The children often paint pictures of their parents naked. Alarm bells only start going off if we see an erect penis.”

  Anne of Green Gables just said penis.

  “Well, thank the Lord for that.” I stutter my thanks, apologize again and can’t get out of the door fast enough.

  By now we’re too late for French class, so I tell the kids we’re going straight home.

  “Yay!”

  I decide that their delight speaks volumes about their after-school activities.

  “So, what did Miss Carter want?” Sam says. “Has Rosie done something bad?”

  “Sam, I’ve already told you. Miss Carter called me in to talk about why Rosie isn’t sleeping. Now will you please mind your own business?”

  When we get home, Sam takes his cheese and Marmite sandwich to his room. He wants to play chess. Rosie decides to eat hers at the kitchen table. I make myself a cup of tea and join her.

  “Sweetie, I need to ask you something. Miss Carter didn’t just want to talk about you being tired. She mentioned something else, too. She said you used a bad word in class the other day.”

  “You mean motherfucker?”

  Again I’m fighting the urge to laugh. This innocent, cute little girl who sleeps with a carrot seems so at home with the word.

  “I do,” I say with what I hope is appropriate gravitas.

  “Miss Carter didn’t tell me off. She just said it wasn’t very nice and I shouldn’t say it anymore. So I haven’t. Except for now. But that’s only because I’m explaining.”

  “That’s fine. But what I’d like to know is where you got it from.”

  “Some big boys were saying it.”

  “Big boys? You mean in the senior school?”

  “Yes, they were really big. Nearly as big as Daddy.”

  “And where did you hear them say it?”

  “At lunchtime. We had to eat lunch in their dining hall because ours was cold. Miss Carter said the heating broke down.”

  “OK … and you’re certain you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Yes. It was definitely the big boys.”

  “Fine. We won’t say any more about it. But please—don’t ever say it again.”

  “I won’t. I already promised.” She pauses. “Grandma, please don’t tell Sam I said a bad word ’cos he’ll tease me.”

  “OK. It can be our secret.”

  “Good. But you can tell Mum and Dad.”

  “I can?”

  “Yes, ’cos they’re too far away to punish me.”

  “But I might punish you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you’re my grandma. You have extra-special love for me and Sam, and that’s why you spoil us. It’s the same with all grandmas.”

  There are no flies on this child. “You think?”

  “Yes.” She starts grinning. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe … but woe betide you if I catch you saying it again.”

  “What does woe betide mean?”

  I’m in the middle of explaining when Mum appears. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. They put needles in my arm, electrodes on my chest. I was pushed and poked and prodded. They shoved cameras up my behind… .”

  Instead of giggling, Rosie looks thoughtful. “They must be very small cameras to fit up your bottom.”

  “They’re not that small—believe you me.”

  “So, could you see all your insides?”

  “The doctors could. I couldn’t bear to look.”

  “Of course you looked,” I say, laughing. “Don’t fib. You loved every minute of it.”

  “I did not. I hate it. I simply accept that it has to be done. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that for a woman my age, I’m in pretty good shape.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “Ach … what do doctors know? I’m telling you, people have all these tests, the doctors tell them they’re fine and a week later they drop down dead.”

  “So why do you put yourself through it all? It costs a fortune.”

  “I do it for you—because it gives you peace of mind.”

  CHAPTER

  eight

  “So it’s all Zane Needlzz’s fault,” Ginny says. “Well, I hope you’re going to read Mr. Needlzz the riot act.”

  Ginny thinks the whole thing is a hoot and can’t stop laughing. Tanya, on the other hand, is beside herself and can’t stop apologizing.

  The three of us are sitting at the long teachers’ table in the school dining hall. The first meeting of the spring fair committee is due to start in ten minutes. We are the first to arrive and I have been telling Ginny and Tanya about motherfucker-gate. I’ve barely begun when Tanya stops me. “Oh God. Crap. This is my fault.”

  “What do you mean? How can it be your fault?”

  It turns out that a couple of Sundays ago, Tanya and her husband, Rick, invited Zane Needlzz and a bunch of other hip-hop artists on their record label to their place for lunch. “With these guys, every other word is fuck or motherfucker. But in our business you barely notice. And there was Cybil, being as good as gold, watching kids’ shows on her iPad. I had no idea she was taking it all in. I’m so, so sorry. She must have told Rosie. Christ, I’m such a shitty mother.”

  “OK, first of all, you’re not a shitty mother and second of all, you can’t be certain that Cybil told her. Other kids in the class could easily have picked up the word.”

  “It was Cybil. I know because she’s been going round the house calling Rick and me motherfuckers. When we asked her where she got the word from, she said it was from Zane and his friends. This is totally down to me. I’m really sorry. I feel so guilty.”

  I tell her she has no need to feel guilty and that these things happen. But she says she wants to confess to Miss Carter. Ginny and I can’t see the point.

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” Ginny says.

  Ginny is shaking her head and smiling. “You know what’s sweet? That Rosie concocted that story—about older boys using the word—in order to protect her best friend.”

  “She’s a good kid,” Tanya says.

  Ginny says she’ll second that. “That is a very sophisticated lie. It would seem that it isn’t just Hero who has emotional intelligence beyond her years.”

  I can’t help agreeing with them that Rosie’s loyalty is commendable. But I will not let her get away with lying. They both insist I don’t come down too hard on her.

  “I won’t.” Like Rosie says, I’m her grandma. I have special love. Plus she was lying for the best of motives. “The more important problem is that since Claudia has hinted heavily that she knows Rosie sw
ore in class, should I be worried about her gossiping?”

  “Of course she’ll gossip,” Tanya says. “It will be round the school in no time.”

  “Great. But at least she doesn’t know it was Cybil who told Rosie, so you’re in the clear.”

  “Maybe. But Cybil’s six. There’s nothing to say she won’t start boasting to the other kids that she was the one who told Rosie. At some level she still thinks it’s cool.” She pauses. “I suppose you two know Claudia’s giving a talk this afternoon in the school hall.”

  We tell her that we did not know that.

  “Haven’t you seen the notices? They’re all round the school. The woman’s got a new parenting book out. She’s off on a lecture tour to publicize it and she’s starting it here.”

  “How very thoughtful of her,” I hear myself say.

  Tanya says she would rather wipe her arse with sandpaper than go. Ginny and I are inclined to agree.

  We have to break off because mothers are starting to file in for the spring fair meeting. Ginny gets up. “Over here, ladies. Pull up some extra chairs if you need to.”

  Here they come—fifteen or so stay-at-home mums, bright-eyed and ponytailed. I suggested to Ginny that we have the meeting in the evening to give the working mothers a chance to play a part in organizing the fair, but she and Tanya were adamant that none of them would come. They took the view that most of them were in high-powered jobs, which meant they worked late. Or they thought getting involved with school fund-raisers was beneath them. They preferred to donate fancy raffle prizes. “Which is absolutely fine by me,” Ginny said.

  “Not exactly a huge turnout,” I say to Ginny.

  “It’ll do. I don’t want too many cooks spoiling the broth. A small group of volunteers is easier to manage.”

  Several women are pushing those big three-wheeled industrial-strength strollers, which cost a fortune. I remember the stroller I had for Abby. It weighed ounces and folded up in seconds. How on earth do they get these things on the bus? I’m laughing to myself. What am I thinking? This lot doesn’t take the bus. What’s more, I am reliably informed by Abby that most of them have two strollers—one for strolling and a lighter one for traveling that is stored in the Range Rover. Abby says I wouldn’t believe the extent to which stroller competition is a thing. I don’t think it was when she was small. In my day everybody went for cheap and lightweight. But Mum said that back in the forties and fifties, all new mothers aspired to a grand, coach-built pram like the one the Queen had for Prince Charles.