I didn’t say anything. I knew I was being a total dog in the manger, but this whole thing with Seb seemed dangerous. He might feel he knew his mother, but we tend to look at our mothers through rose-tinted specs. I remembered Amanda from years back – a week’s suspension from school was nothing compared to what I really believed she could muster if she was crossed or thwarted in any way. And Grace having a passionate affair with her son was one hell of a thwart.
Amanda came from a long line of Old Midhope mill owners. They’d built their factories in the heart of the Pennines where the water was soft and plentiful and the sheep that produced the wool grazed for free on the coarse moorland grass. The spinners and weavers who had made their living for centuries, working at home in their cottages, were forced to abandon their looms and work in the mills for the woollen magnates who now ruled the roost, jack-booting over any odd peasant who caused ‘trouble at t’mill’ or got in the way of their ascent.
Genes would out – Amanda wasn’t Frank Goodners’ daughter for nothing: she wouldn’t think twice about getting rid of anyone she thought might be a fly in the ointment of her game plan. And if we were implicated we’d be in the firing line.
‘Look, Grace, you as much as anyone know what Amanda is like. She would absolutely loathe the idea of you having a thing with her precious son. Can’t you see what she will do if she finds out? She knows how you and I have always come as a pair, and she won’t have anything to do with something that involves you. You are involved with me, you know you are.’ Here I drew breath and then went on, my voice rising as I pictured the worst scenario. ‘The minute she finds out that Seb is having anything to do with you she’ll find a way to persuade David Henderson to pull out of this deal. And much as I didn’t want Nick to get involved with him – them – in the first place, he is now up to his neck in it and has to go forward. If this whole thing falls apart my family has had it. Can’t you see that?’ Frustration and an excess of hormones were in danger of bringing on a crying fit and I banged the tin of polish down hard on the granite worktop.
‘I’ll make sure Seb keeps this to himself. There’s absolutely no reason why Amanda should know anything. It’s nothing to do with her. And,’ Grace added as she gathered up her things and headed for the door, ‘we’ll make absolutely sure we keep out of your way too. You obviously can’t get your head around this at all. It’s a shame because I feel like a fifteen year old – I need to talk about Seb, tell you all about him, how he kisses and things. I want to tell you the little things he says and how gorgeous he is and what it’s like on the back of his bike going over ninety miles an hour.’ She paused before carrying on. ‘You know, Hattie, I’ve always done what other people wanted me to do. I did what my parents said, and I went along with what Daniel wanted. Now I’ve got to the age of thirty-eight and I’m going to do what I want for a change.’
‘What?’ I looked at Grace incredulously. ‘You’ve always done just what you wanted. Your dad wanted you to be a solicitor and join his firm, but you insisted on being a teacher. Daniel always did your bidding until recently. I’ve always done what you wanted me to do since the age of eleven.’ I paused, racking my brain for other examples of her bossiness. ‘You even change Jamie Oliver recipes because you say he hasn’t got it quite right.’
She pulled on her leather gloves and then removed them again in order to pin more securely her Remembrance Day poppy, which had fallen drunkenly to one side of her jacket.
‘It’s just that I’d rather you find somewhere other than my garden to play at being Lady Chatterley,’ I added when she didn’t respond to my little outburst.
‘Lady Chatterley?’
I nodded towards her poppy, last seen through the potting-shed window flagrantly waving at me from the depths of Sebastian’s groin.
Grace looked puzzled for a second and then blushed as crimson as the flower in question.
‘My goodness, you don’t miss a trick do you? What exactly did you see?’
‘Enough to realise you were having fantasies about Sebastian being in a D. H. Lawrence novel.’
Grace looked me straight in the eye, shrugged her shoulders and said loftily, ‘That’s just poppy-cock, Harriet. Absolute poppy-cock! Oh, and just one more question, Harriet. How long have you had CGD?’
‘CGD?’
‘Compulsive Granite Disorder. You’ve got a very nasty dose of it. You’re forever cleaning and polishing that bit of granite. I should see someone about it if I were you, before it’s too late.’ And with that she sailed from my kitchen, slamming the door behind her for good measure.
‘Did you know Grace is having a thing with Sebastian?’
Nick turned from where he was folding newly laundered shirts into a case in preparation for another trip to Italy the next morning. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘What sort of thing? The only sort of thing. And it includes having rampant sex in our potting shed, and using poppies as sex aids.’
‘Really?’ Nick laughed what can only be described as a particularly dirty laugh, and then sobered up as he realised just who Grace had been entertaining in my shed.
‘Sebastian as in David’s son?’
‘You know any other Sebastians?’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t let Mandy or David know. They’re both incredibly precious when it comes to their only son. I can’t see them being over the moon at the idea of his being seduced at my house.’
I snorted. ‘And by someone old enough to be his mother?’
‘This is not going to do my partnership with David Henderson any good at all, Harriet. Bad enough that you say your brother is still involved with Amanda, though to be honest, Hat, I think it’s all wishful thinking on John’s part. And as for Grace, well this is absolutely not on at all. You are going to have to have a word with her. Warn her off.’ Nick was beginning to sound as pompous as I must have sounded when berating Grace earlier that day.
‘Me? Why me? I can’t tell Grace who she can and who she can’t have sex with!’ I snapped, remembering I’d spent most of the afternoon doing just that.
‘Well for goodness’ sake, don’t say a word to either David or Mandy and let’s hope it all fizzles out.’ I passed Nick a couple of Ralph Lauren polo shirts I’d bought when we were able to afford such luxuries. They’d lasted well, thank goodness.
‘Talking of Grace, I actually had a drink with Dan this evening. Bumped into him in the bank as I was getting some more euros and we popped next door into The Rose and Crown for a quick one.’
I stared at him. What is it about men that they can have riveting news circulating in their heads but forget to pass it on?
‘Nick, you have been home exactly one hour and twenty-five minutes. You have sat opposite me at the table and eaten my chicken casserole, and yet you forget to tell me you have just had a drink with my best friend’s errant husband?’
‘It was a very quick drink,’ Nick protested.
‘And?’
‘And he wonders if he’s made a mistake in leaving Grace.’
‘What? He actually said that?’
‘Well, not in so many words. But that was the general gist of the conversation. Unfortunately, we’d only been chatting five minutes when his new woman arrived.’
‘Camilla?’
‘Is that what she’s called? She’s a cracker isn’t she? Gorgeous red hair. I gather they’d been away on holiday for a few days. Actually, there was something about her that reminded me of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes. Can’t pinpoint it exactly.’ Nick looked at me intently, searching my face for clues and then laughed. ‘Must be that you’re both gorgeous!’
‘Do you still think so?’ I said, snuggling into him. ‘That I’m gorgeous, I mean?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, slapping my bottom. ‘Now let me finish my packing.’
Hmm. Not so gorgeous then that he could forget about his trip to Italy for one minute in order to ravish me there and then? I went downstairs fee
ling disconsolate once more.
Chapter 19
The first morning of the new half term began badly and carried on in the same vein throughout the day. Granny Morgan’s alarm clock which, like its namesake, could behave itself for weeks before unexpectedly, and for no good reason, going off in an indignant sulk, had failed to wake me on time. It was India, shaking me awake, that had me rushing to the loo for a two-minute bout of dry retching.
‘Aren’t you well either, Mummy?’ India’s plaintive little voice came from the other side of the bathroom door.
‘Me? I’m fine darling,’ I yelled cheerfully, between retches. ‘Just trying out this super, new, minty mouthwash. Gargle, gargle, spit.’ I leaned my sweaty forehead against the cool tiles. ‘Out I come. All done now. Mmm. Lovely. And how are you?’
India looked at me doubtfully. ‘You don’t look as if that was lovely. You look all pale and yucky. And I don’t feel well. My throat hurts and I think my ear hurts’
‘You think your ear hurts?’
‘Yes it does. I know it does – in my ear.’
Was India playing up because she didn’t want to go back to school after the holiday? If so, I knew the feeling. The last thing on earth I felt like doing was teaching thirty-two bolshy eleven year olds. I wanted my head under a pillow and to have it stay there until all the problems hanging over it were whisked away by my Fairy Godmother.
This was all I needed on the first day back at school. Normally I’d have bundled India back into bed and asked Sylvia to come over, but Sylvia had gone off on one of her jaunts back down South. Nick, due back from Italy two days ago, was still living La Dolce Vita in Milan.
‘Oh darling,’ I cajoled, ‘just get dressed and let’s see how you feel then. Things always seem worse when you’ve just got up.’
Shouting to Liberty and Kit to sort themselves out, I quickly showered, dressed and, going downstairs, considered making scrambled eggs for everyone. I only considered it. The kitchen clock informed me there was no time; the fridge informed me there were no eggs – and not much else either. I must do a shop, I thought, grabbing a box of All-Bran and a rather suspicious looking carton of low-fat milk.
‘Is this all there is for breakfast?’ Liberty asked, looking disdainfully at the kitchen table.
‘Have some toast and marmite,’ I suggested, throwing her the remains of a stale loaf.
‘Marmite? You’re joking. Marmite is scrapings from the devil’s underpants.’ She visibly shuddered. ‘Bethany’s mum always gives her warm croissants, and freshly squeezed orange juice.’
‘Well bully for Bethany’s mum,’ I snapped.
I dropped the elder two off at their school bus stop and set off for India’s school, planning to leave her in their Early Morning Club – a boon for working mothers.
‘My ear still hurts,’ India wailed as we pulled up into her school car park.
My heart plummeted. The last thing I wanted to do was to abandon my class to some unknown supply teacher – not only would it go down badly with Valerie Westwood, I’d be catching up all week, getting my class back under control. While I generally take my hat off to supply staff, we seemed to have been landed with a bunch of eclectic, if not downright dangerous, stand-in teachers lately. Margaret Walker – Jennifer-the-baby-sitter-having-sex-on-my-Persian-rug’s mother – had, only the other day, given over-the-phone instructions to the supply teacher of her class of six-year-olds.
‘I was about to start introducing Sets,’ Margaret had informed the newly qualified, and obviously very eager, young man who would be taking her class the next morning. ‘Nothing fancy, just the usual stuff, if you wouldn’t mind starting that.’
Give the guy his due. He’d gone overboard with diagrams, posters and other visual aids which he’d proudly shown to Margaret on her return at lunchtime. Tony Drummond, our new head teacher, had had to send out a letter of apology to thirty sets of parents as to why their little cherubs were now rather more in touch with human reproduction than when they’d been dropped off at school that morning.
And just before half term Grace had left her class with a supply teacher who, according to the kids, had sat with her coat on all day and, apart from whispering a few basic instructions, had not spoken to the class at all. She’d only removed herself from Grace’s chair during the PE session in the hall. Still wearing coat, hat and scarf she had stood, rooted to the spot while almost forty thoroughly overexcited children swung from the ropes shouting ‘Geronimo’ as they flew past her through the air narrowly missing her woollen-hatted head and those of a set of visiting prospective parents
‘Let me have another look, darling,’ I now said, praying I wouldn’t see anything untoward that would mean I had to stay at home. India proffered her ear, looking at me dolefully with her big brown eyes.
‘I really think you’ll be fine once you get inside out of the cold,’ I said heartily, and bundled her up the drive and into school.
Phew! Three down and one to go. But what sort of mother was I? Oh God, what if there was really something wrong with India? Meningitis? Swine flu? She was only six for heaven’s sake and I’d left her – poorly. I had to get back to her. I dithered, did a dangerous U-turn and was greeted by a blast of outraged horns and raised fingers. Heart pounding, I pulled in to the nearest lay-by and scrabbled in my bag until I found my mobile. Shit! No credit. Taking a deep breath I turned once more and, putting my foot down, abandoned the main road in favour of a little known rat run, and was in school with just enough time to leave a message at India’s school for them to ring me if she became worse.
How on earth could I do this with a new baby in tow as well? The simple answer was that I couldn’t. Trying to get the pictures of dead babies ‘plucked untimely from their mother’s womb’ from my mind, I thanked, as I always did, the guardian angel who had seen fit to give me an hour’s free period every Monday morning.
‘Ah, Harriet,’ said the guardian angel, aka Valerie Westwood, as I took off my coat. ‘Just the person I wanted to see. I’ve a new child for you.’
My heart shifted southwards for the second time in half an hour. There wasn’t room in my classroom for any more children. And new children often brought baggage with them, whether they’d moved house and school because of a split in the family, or had behaviour or friendship problems at their old school.
‘Nice little boy. Something to do with the Duke of Leeds,’ Valerie went on. ‘I’ve sent him out into the playground with Daniel Sanderson.’
Oh well, at least he sounded a bit different. The only child I’d ever had with anything amounting to fame attached was a supposedly well-known stand-up comic’s illegitimate son. He used to make me laugh, so maybe there’d been something in the rumour.
Derek, who’d been standing in for Ray, our usual caretaker whose legendary bad back had now kept him off work for almost a year, was waiting for me in my classroom.
‘He’s gone again, lass,’ Derek said importantly. I bet he’d been there since the early hours awaiting my arrival so that he could be the one to break the news.
‘Oh not again.’ I sighed. ‘I really thought he was on his last legs this time. That’s why I didn’t send him home with one of the children over half term. The little bugger must have had a new lease of life and made a run for it again.’
‘I’ve popped in every day to look at him and feed him, like you said. He was here yesterday afternoon when I checked on him.’
‘Are you sure he’s not hiding? You know, having a game with us?’
‘He’s a bloody ’amster, lass, not Bruce Forsyth.
I laughed at that. ‘You know as well as I do that Humbug is no ordinary hamster, Derek. He is the Houdini of all hamsters.’
And he was. I was actually very attached to him, as were the children who came into my class, but he did have a Colditz approach to life – he was off whenever he got the chance.
‘I don’t think he can survive another adventure,’ I now said to Derek as the bell went and my cl
ass began to line up outside the classroom door.
‘I think you’re right, love. I’ll keep an eye out for him while I’m cleaning up.’
Two minutes into the new school half term and I was already fed up. I hadn’t seen or heard from Grace since she’d swept out of my kitchen after frolicking in my potting shed with the gorgeous Enrique. I missed her terribly, needed someone to talk to, but she was obviously keeping out of my way. I considered popping down to her classroom, but my kids were barging in, shrill with their news of half-term holiday events and outings. Usually fairly laid -back about my class’s behaviour in the cloakroom, I surprised myself as well as the children and Donna, my ETA, who was sorting books, by completely losing it and shouting, ‘Out, out. OUT!’
Lady Macbeth was a mere novice compared to my ranting this Monday morning. I was of a mind to take it one step further and shout, ‘Out, Damned Class,’ as thirty-five bewildered eleven year olds backed out of the cloakroom, falling over themselves and each other to escape the madwoman bearing down on them. Catching sight of a row of open-mouthed mothers who’d just delivered their children into what they presumed was my safekeeping, I thought better of it.
‘This is no way to come into school, especially on a Monday morning,’ I stormed as my class lined up outside the cloakroom in what can only be described as gob-smacked silence. ‘Any repeat of this morning’s appalling bun fight in my cloakroom and we shall spend break times and lunchtimes practising how to proceed in a much more orderly manner. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Blimey, what’s up with her this morning?’ I heard Darren Slater mutter from behind his reading book.
‘Time of the month probably,’ Toby Armitage giggled, totally oblivious to the fact that he was in earshot. ‘My dad always says that about my mum when she’s in a bad mood.’
Adrian Pettifer shook his head and sniffed in disagreement, for all the world as if discussing the current state of the economy rather than my menstrual cycle. ‘Nah. The flying Tampax was only just before the holiday.’ All three boys now giggled, but very quickly flushed as, one by one, they became aware of my furious glare in their direction.
Goodness, Grace and Me Page 24
