The Nursery

by Asia Mackay

  Yvonne’s face remained impassive. ‘We do not believe in reading children horror stories.’

  Weather Mum looked startled. ‘That’s not what I . . . Ms Yvonne, we are talking about fairy tales. You know, all the favourite classics like Cinderella or—’

  ‘Cinderella?’ Yvonne cut her off. ‘I cannot support a political story re-imposing beliefs of “us” and “them”.’

  Weather Mum frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cinderella is an allegorical depiction of how we treat immigrants. She’s the invisible help maligned and living in rags and doing all the work no one else wants to. The Prince symbolises benefits and the help that our great country can offer. Yet in order to receive it the needy are forced to dance around numerous bureaucratic applications and only if the glass slipper fits, if they tick all the boxes, can they be fully assimilated into the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Right,’ said Weather Mum.

  ‘But what about Sleeping Beauty?’ asked Felix’s mum. ‘My son loves that one, even though it’s about a princess.’

  Yvonne shook her head. ‘Sleeping Beauty is a tragic story. I mean, the whole pricking of a finger on a spinning wheel, we all know what that really means.’

  ‘We do?’ I asked.

  ‘She was raped,’ Yvonne announced.

  I looked round the room at parents struggling to hold it together. Will actually looked up from his phone.

  ‘What the fuck?’ is all he breathed into my ear.

  Yvonne sighed. ‘The poor girl spiralled into a towering depression from which only medication – symbolised by a kiss – could rescue her from. It’s a terrible story where even if you don’t understand the deeper message it perpetuates some pretty disturbing ideas about consent.’

  Rochelle raised her hand. ‘I guess you feel the same about Snow White? I do agree that fairy tales really shouldn’t romanticise the idea that it is acceptable for men to kiss unconscious women.’

  Weather Mum shot her a filthy look.

  Yvonne nodded at Rochelle. ‘I’m afraid it goes so much deeper than that with Snow White. It’s really a commentary on how the patriarchy represses women.’

  Will chuckled. ‘I thought it was all just nice songs and little people.’

  Yvonne ignored him. ‘The talking mirror is male – the evil queen’s actions are in response to toxic masculinity ranking women by their looks and pitting them against each other.’

  We were all silent as we digested this.

  ‘So . . . so . . . the evil queen is not a baddie?’ asked Rochelle, pen poised over her notebook.

  ‘The man behind the mirror twisted and turned the evil queen’s insecurity on looks and age into a weapon. Young and old, Madonna and whore – society wants us women to fit neatly into boxes. Snow White is a symbol of the male ideal of purity, youth and beauty that the evil queen cannot measure up to and so she tries to destroy her. With an apple. Just like Eve.’

  The fact a nursery teacher had just said ‘whore’ in a nursery was the least surprising takeaway from that speech.

  ‘And why does the evil queen fail to kill Snow White? Because another man sexually dominates her incapacitated form, egged on by seven small men who are clearly a personalisation of the seven deadly sins.’

  ‘I just . . . I . . . what?’ Will looked around the room. ‘What’s going on?’ I gave him a sharp jab with my elbow. He swivelled to me. ‘She’s nuts, right? We let this woman look after our child and she’s totally nuts.’

  Yvonne continued, ‘So, you see, women can try and take control of the narrative, take charge of their own image, yet the overwhelming power of the patriarchy means they will fail. The man in the mirror belittles the evil queen and turns her against the sisterhood, yet when she tries to destroy this male concept of female perfection she cannot succeed because a woman is no match for a man’s virulent sexuality. The evil queen is ruined twice over by two different men.’

  We all sat in silence for a minute. A respectful quiet to mourn the loss of fairy tales’ innocence.

  ‘On reflection,’ said Weather Mum weakly, ‘the books you read are fine. Totally fine.’

  The coup was crushed.

  ‘Please do feel free to stay for a drink,’ trilled Yvonne as we all got up to charge for the exit. We passed by her, heads down, muttering about needing to get back for the babysitter.

  Halfway back home I realised in the rush to exit I’d left Gigi’s runner bean plant under my chair. I relayed this disaster to Will and we analysed just how much not having the plant she’d been talking about all week would screw up our morning.

  Will sighed. ‘You go on. I’ll get it.’

  ‘You’re my hero,’ I said to his departing back.

  *

  By the time Will walked in, wilted plant in hand, the kitchen table was unpacked with Chinese takeaway.

  ‘Ta-daa. Look, honey, I ordered.’ Deliverooing on the walk home was a mark of genius on my part.

  Will dropped the plant on the kitchen counter, went to the fridge and took out a beer.

  ‘Rochelle was still there when I got back to the school.’

  Shit.

  ‘She couldn’t stop talking about how funny it was seeing you and Johnnie Mac being dropped off in a chauffeur-driven limousine.’

  ‘He’s actually an old friend.’

  Will stared at me. ‘You know that his music is on every bloody playlist I have. And you’ve never thought to mention you’re actually mates with him?’

  ‘It’s a bit awkward.’ I walked past him to the drawer for the bottle-opener. ‘We had a bit of a thing. It was years back.’

  ‘You. And Johnnie Mac.’

  ‘Yes. Well, kind of.’ I took the beer out his hand, opened it and handed it back. ‘It wasn’t anything serious.’

  ‘Jesus. That song. “Lady.” It’s about you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I . . . Well . . . Not necessarily.’

  ‘The three freckles were a pathway to heaven. A heaven that’d torment me to hell.’ He quoted one of the lines of the song. ‘You really think there are others out there with three freckles underneath their hip bone leading down to—’

  I cut him off. ‘He’s a rockstar. He’s probably slept with hundreds of women. Odds are, when talking about such vast numbers, there could be one or two, maybe even three with freckles round there.’

  ‘Who are you kidding? God, to think I used to chuckle when I heard that song and thought about my own little pathway to heaven. And now I find out it’s a fucking well-trodden road as this guy has slept with my wife.’

  ‘Look, it’s not that big a deal.’

  ‘I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t mention it. I mean, it’s pretty amazing. Even in an anecdotal kind of way. How was it that at no point when we were in our getting-to-know-you stage, that lying in bed discussing exes, you felt any desire to say, “‘Hey, funny story – I screwed around with a rockstar and it messed him up so much he wrote a song about it?’”

  ‘I just found it a bit embarrassing. You know I don’t care about celebrities and all that showbiz stuff.’

  ‘How did you even meet?’

  ‘It was through work. He was assisting us on an intelligence matter. Look, you know I can’t say more. National security.’

  ‘How. Convenient.’

  ‘Come on, Will, it’s not that big a deal.’

  ‘And what the hell were you doing with him a few days ago? Being driven back from a bloody lunchtime quickie?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We were at the same work meeting. You don’t have anything to be jealous of.’

  ‘Don’t try and make me out to be some crazy, jealous husband. Look at Jake – I’ve never said a word about whatever history there clearly is between you two. I like the guy, I even let you make him godfather to our child. It’s a little different when it’s some rockstar who, up until today, I thought the closest we both got to was drunk dancing to his music. What the hell else don’t I kno
w about you?’

  He stormed out of the kitchen holding his beer. I sat down at the table and looked at all the food laid out. I was positive he’d come back and I’d hand him a plate of his favourite noodles and his anger face would drop and we’d have a little giggle about how his hunger had ruined his big exit.

  But he didn’t come back.

  Part Five

  Tantrum

  tantrum, n.

  1. An uncontrolled outburst of anger and frustration, typically in a young child.

  2. A fit of rage.

  From: euromillionslottery@goldenticket.org

  To: lex.tyler@platform-eight.co.uk

  Subject: You are a WINNER$$$$$

  MISSION: #80521

  UNIT: WHISTLE

  DATE: Saturday 5th October

  ALERT: PENG DEPARTS TOMORROW EVENING

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  HATTIE WAS HOLDING COURT at the front of the meeting room. ‘Today Lord Wycombe and his family will be hosting Peng and the delegation in their modest little forty-bedroom castle in Oxfordshire, where they’ll be treating them to the full aristocratic experience. Peng gets there for lunch and then will partake in a pheasant shoot followed by a spot of duck hunting, rounded off with a champagne reception and a four-course black-tie dinner.’

  I’d got to work this morning with a renewed vigour for succeeding in this mission. Sitting at breakfast, Gigi had sung-shouted ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’ to us as she spoon-fed porridge to her dolly, and I had apologised to Will again. Holding his hand, we’d reached another temporary truce as I’d promised quality time away together next week. Now we really needed to wrap this mission up so I could deliver. Peng, alive, and out the country. Frederick, back at Six, and out of my life. And me, focusing on my family.

  ‘We all know this is the prime time for the Coyote to strike,’ Hattie continued. ‘It’s a security nightmare and I’ve only been able to get Lex inside the castle. They would only grant permission for one Diplomatic Protection Officer as it’s a private event and they’re claiming they have more than enough security present to keep Peng safe.’

  ‘Frederick will be there too,’ I said. ‘He told me he was at school with Lord Wycombe so has already got himself an invite.’

  Jake snorted. ‘’Course he has. Why am I not surprised they’re chums?’

  ‘Jake – we’ll be on-site monitoring the perimeter. With Lex and Frederick within the main party, at least we’ll have eyes in the midst of any potential action.’

  ‘Peng’s spending the afternoon surrounded by people holding shotguns. I’m not sure just Frederick and me are going to be enough protection.’

  ‘Let’s just bear in mind the Coyote is going to need an exit plan,’ said Hattie. ‘A gun for hire is for profit. No point in succeeding in the mission if he’s taken out or caught in the process. He needs to walk away from this and that is our best hope of catching him.

  ‘Remember, things are looking up. Tenebris are running scared. They’re making mistakes. And we’re very close to unmasking the Snake. Peppa is now the prime suspect. Daddy Pig’s marriage is imploding – there’s a flurry of activity online and the audio is all about divorce lawyers and shouting matches. Even if he was the Snake he wouldn’t have time to be covertly passing on information. George Pig has now told Kate about her mother and he’s got his hands full with her grief and guilt and all the rest. I still don’t like those suspicious emails but it’s looking unlikely he’s the Snake.’

  ‘What are we waiting for then?’ asked Cameron. She took a bite of the large bacon sandwich she had just unwrapped. ‘We pick up Peppa now and we end this,’ she said through her mouthful.

  ‘We have no direct evidence that Peppa is the Snake,’ said Hattie. ‘The Committee have clearly stated we cannot act until we have something, anything, confirming our suspicions. Peppa will shortly be attending the WAF pottery café morning and we’ve intercepted a text message from an unknown number – it’s registered to a pay-as-you-go – saying they must meet today.’

  ‘No confirmation on where or when?’ I asked.

  ‘None. They must’ve arranged it in person or using some form of communication we haven’t managed to monitor. It’s why we can’t let her out of our sight today. Getting that dolly with the tracker into play is vital so that Cameron and Robin can monitor her while we’re all away at the shoot.’

  ‘I’m heading to the WAF meet now. I’ll let you know when the switch has been made.’

  I stood up and picked up my bag. Jake came up to me.

  ‘I hear Will found out about Johnnie.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Just that he needn’t worry. He was just a twat in tight trousers. That you never gave a shit about him and that—’

  ‘I meant, what did you tell him about how we met?’

  ‘I said he was an informant. What did you say?’

  ‘Something similar, thankfully.’

  Jake looked at me. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re stressed. You’re not normally this stressed.’ He took my hand and held up my left thumb and ran a finger over the bitten-down nail. ‘You haven’t given this little guy such a battering since that time we were trapped out in the middle of the Sahara.’

  I looked at my thumb. I had no idea I did that.

  ‘Lex. Come on. Talk to me if you need to. I’m family, remember?’

  ‘It’s just Will stuff. Keeping things hidden is hard. This mission is hard. Not getting enough sleep is hard.’ I shrugged. ‘Everything is hard. But don’t worry, I’ll get through it. And it helps knowing you’re here if I need you.’

  ‘Always,’ said Jake softly.

  I looked around the meeting room. ‘Where’s Robin?’

  ‘He’s late. When he gets here I’ll give him a lecture about the responsibilities of timekeeping when he’s got his own unit.’ It seemed Jake was also coming around to the idea of us finally granting Robin his freedom from our watch.

  *

  I walked into the Fulham branch of Potty for Pottery holding Gigi’s hand. At one end of the expansive café was a large soft play area, complete with ball pit, slides and mini trampoline. The cacophony of cries, screams and laughs were interspersed with the crinkle and thud of little bottoms hitting plastic matting. I looked around at the children flinging themselves down the slides. Alternating mothers shouting, ‘Archie/Matilda/Otto, do you need a wee?’

  I already missed the quiet solitude of the Platform.

  Gigi had torn off into the ball pit.

  I looked around. No one else from our WAF group was here yet. I surveyed the room. Whoever Peppa was meeting could be here now.

  There were a group of seven or so mothers at a large table by the café counter. All had prams parked next to them. Half had babies clamped to their breasts. They were the perfect advert for the sign that hung on the wall behind them: Potty for Pottery WELCOMES breastfeeding AND bottle-feeding mothers. AND fathers. The sign was doing its best to be as politically correct as possible.

  It was busy, with most of the larger tables taken by groups of parents catching up for a Saturday brunch as their offspring catapulted themselves round the soft play.

  I walked between tables and heard snippets of conversation between the mothers.

  ‘Marnie is a wonderful sleeper. We are very blessed.’

  ‘Araminta doesn’t sleep at all. But it’s because her mind is so active she finds it hard to shut down. It’s one of the real downsides to her being so intellectually gifted.’

  Competitive parenting didn’t take time off, even on weekends.

  A line of women stood alongside the soft play area, a few chatting to each other, most shouting instructions at children who were being threatened with time-outs, the thinking step, the naughty corner and a clip round the bleeding ear – the mum who kept shouting that threat was being stared at more than the misbehaving toddlers.

  ‘She clearly wasn’t hugged
enough when she was a child,’ sighed the tall, willowy mother who had arrived next to me. Her disapproval radiated out every perfectly manicured pore. She had a shaggy brunette cut with a fringe and was wearing a block-print jumpsuit with Isabel Marant trainers.

  ‘Her son does look a terror.’ I motioned towards the curly-haired boy running around, pushing over anyone who came near him.

  ‘Frieda, sweetheart. Go to the slide!’ the tall mum shouted to a little girl in grey harem pants and a chequered hoodie. She motioned towards a slide on the opposite side of the soft play to the pusher.

  ‘Great outfit she’s wearing.’

  Tall Mum smiled. ‘I only buy gender-neutral clothing.’

  ‘I completely agree. It’s so important that girls don’t feel stereotyped.’

  Tall Mum nodded approvingly. It was good to meet a kindred spirit. Someone else who understands that the lines between what was for girls and what was for boys could benefit from being more blurred.

  ‘Mamaaa, I want snack.’ Gigi came bounding up to us. She was wearing a bright pink flowered dress with a puffball skirt, teamed with rainbow socks and pink sparkly trainers.

  Did I need to explain that I let her choose what she wanted to wear this morning? That the dress was bought by a doting grandmother? Or that the awful trainers were a result of a hungover shoe shop trip where I didn’t have the energy to fight the ‘But I love them!!!!!’ tantrum. Tall Mum’s nose may have wrinkled at my daughter, the pink explosion.

  My street cred dented, I needed to make a retreat.

  ‘Come on, Gigi. This way.’

  I took her back towards the table that had a ‘Reserved for Alexis’ sign.

  ‘Let’s sit and wait for everyone.’

  I pulled a couple of rice cakes out my bag and handed them to Gigi while I scanned the room again. A man at the table next to us stood out. He was wearing sunglasses and had a baseball cap pulled down low. I stared at him again. He definitely didn’t look famous. And that was surely the only excuse to be so questionably attired in a soft play centre on a cloudy October day. Unless of course he was just trying to be cool. But he didn’t seem to be a poser. He wasn’t lounging back in his chair, guffawing with equally ridiculously dressed friends. He was alone, staring down at a cup of coffee. I hadn’t even seen him with a child. One to watch.