by Emma Murray
Don’t get me wrong, Misery aside, I like most of the Rocking Horses mums. They always say hello, and if I bump into one of them on the street, they stop to exchange a friendly word or two. ‘Polite’ is the word I would use. Which is all very fine and nice. But while I’m happy to engage in the odd bit of small talk, there are days where I could do with something a bit less ‘nice’. I often look at these mums and think, wouldn’t it be such a relief if one of you would just let rip and go on a big rant about your troublesome toddler? Tell me about the time little Eddie shit in the bath and smeared it all over the walls, or how Josie punched you in the face so hard you thought she’d broken your nose. Stop feeling so self-conscious and tell me something real. Above all, do not use the words ‘challenging’ or ‘tricky’ when you’re describing your toddler’s appalling behaviour. Sentences like, ‘Well, Jasper’s behaviour has been a bit challenging lately,’ are prohibited. Try using language like, ‘Jasper was such a shitbag yesterday that I wanted to throw him out the window.’ And while you’re at it, try swearing for a bit. It may not sound pretty but it sure is cathartic.
In fact, tell me I’m not the only one who has to lock herself in the bathroom for a couple of minutes lest I lash out at my daughter in frustration; and tell me that I’m not the only mother who is humiliated down to her very core when her child throws the mother of all meltdowns in a supermarket. I promise I won’t judge your parenting skills and I promise that whatever story you tell me, I will better it. That’s the conversation I want to have when I’m pushed to the very limit as a parent, and yet apart from with Bea, that dialogue simply never takes place.
And it’s not for the want of trying. Last year, when Anna turned three, and David was on a work trip, I decided to get eight of the nursery mums and their kids over for a barbecue. I thought getting a few drinks into the mums might encourage them to loosen up a bit. Officially, the party was from two until five o’clock. The last of our guests stumbled out of our house at 11 p.m.
On the face of it, the party was a huge success. Just like the popular children’s book The Tiger Who Came to Tea, the mums ate all the food in the cupboards, and drank all the drink in the house (including copious amounts of ‘Daddy’s beer’). By five o’clock, the alcohol had done its work, the kids had been collected by nannies or partners, and the mums were in no rush to leave. Deep and salacious conversations were taking place in every corner of the house; guilty secrets were being shared – the types that would never have been revealed sober. One mum announced she was going to sell her troublesome toddler on eBay, with no refunds or returns, while another went one better and said she was going to sell her husband. Others competed by sharing murderous thoughts about their spouses, or their silent yearnings for an everlasting holiday from their children.
They were those glorious rare conversations that seldom take place within a group of near-strangers, the ones that create and cement the bonds of friendship. And when the last of my red-faced and incoherent party guests stumbled ungainly out of the front door, I hugged myself with the knowledge that I had finally found people who felt exactly the same as I did. But as it turned out, just like the tiger in the book, these jolly party guests never came back.
Instead, things almost went back to the way they always had. Polite nods and small talk at the Rocking Horses’ gates, but no acknowledgement of the party whatsoever. It was almost as though it had never happened. But one thing did change after the party: the false promises. The hand on the shoulder, the intense stare into the eyes, followed by, ‘We must go for a coffee,’ or ‘We must catch up for a cheeky glass of wine,’ or my personal favourite, ‘You and David must come over for dinner one night.’ Yet when I suggested dates, I would be gracefully dismissed with a wave of a hand. ‘Sorry, love, those dates simply don’t work. But, honestly, we must…’
I couldn’t figure it out. Hadn’t we all bonded that night in my house? Weren’t we now supposed to be friends? Why bother suggesting a coffee or a night out when you don’t mean it?
One night, over a second bottle wine at her flat, Bea attempted to clear it up for me. ‘It’s a middle-class London thing. Happens all the time. You can have the most intimate conversation with someone you barely know one minute, and then they scarcely acknowledge you the next. Londoners of a certain age and social standing don’t feel obliged to form new friendships because they form their friendship groups earlier in life. By the time they reach our age, they don’t really need anyone else.’
Which, if it was true, was probably the most depressing thing I had heard in a long time. Surely Bea’s theory couldn’t be right.
‘Bea, I’ve been living here for years and I’ve always found it easy to make friends with Londoners from all walks of life,’ I told her adamantly.
‘Ah, yes, but that was before you became a new mum,’ she said. ‘People have more to hide. Everyone’s so petrified of being found out that they haven’t a clue how to raise their children that they’ve stopped sharing their stories. Different vibe.’
But I wasn’t convinced. Maybe the Rocking Horses mums ‘just weren’t that into me’.
In any case, I can tell you one person who certainly wasn’t that into me and that was my Rocking Horses nemesis, Misery.
Today, Misery is wearing her usual drab garb: the army-green canvas all-weather raincoat, big shit-kicker boots, and over-long stripy Oxfam scarf in faded mustard. A what-may-have-once-been-cream-but-is-now-a-dirty-beige woolly hat sits atop long, thin (or ‘streely’, as my mother would call it) light brown hair, which spills forlornly halfway down her hunched shoulders. She looks like a cross between a homeless person and ‘Sadness’ from the kids’ movie Inside Out.
Yet, here we are – the only two people at the nursery door – and social custom dictates that one of us should at least wave a hand in greeting. Just as I prepare to do this, she surprises me by speaking.
She cocks her head in a self-important way, blows her greasy fringe away from her eyes out the corner of her mouth like a defiant teenager, raises her eyebrows and says, ‘Cheerios?’ in a sarky way.
For a moment I am nonplussed, and then the penny drops. Of course, Misery would have seen my Cheerios comment; she does nothing else but troll people’s posts all day long. Well, she picked the right day for a battle. After last night’s fight with David, and Anna’s night horrors, I am in no mood to discuss the pros and cons of breakfast cereals.
‘Yes, Cheerios,’ I say, evenly. ‘Anna loves them.’
I say the name ‘Anna’, loudly, fervently hoping that she will overhear and come over and save me from this pointless conversation.
To my shock, Misery says, ‘Mara loves them too.’
I can’t believe my ears. One of the Organics gives her child a sugary cereal? How can this be? Suddenly, I feel an odd sense of kinship with Misery. Maybe we are not so different after all.
‘But she’s not allowed to have them,’ Misery adds, destroying any previous notions I may have had about her. ‘They are full of sugar, you know. She has home-made yoghurt instead.’
Before I can give her the finger, the nursery door opens, and the manager Heather sticks her head out. ‘Come on in,’ she cries in thick staccato Glaswegian.
Heather is one of those people who should not be working around children. Not because she’s a paedophile but, like David’s mother, Rose, she simply doesn’t like them. The difference is that unlike Rose, Heather is both open and unapologetic about it, which is both refreshing and concerning. Heather regularly complains to anyone who will listen about ‘the headaches’ she gets from ‘all the noisy children’ and that she has to have a ‘lie down’ on the couch in her office when it all gets too much.
Everyone – parents and staff alike – is terrified of Heather and with good reason. If Heather takes a dislike to a parent – usually one who ventures an opinion about how the nursery is run – she will phone that parent incessantly if the slightest thing happens to the child at nursery. Instead of simply administerin
g Calpol to a child suffering from a mild cold, she will call that child’s parent at work and demand the child be picked up because that child is ‘ill’ and shouldn’t be at nursery. As nobody wants to be on the other end of that conversation, we all make sure we stay on the right side of Heather. I, in particular, have made sure I am at least halfway up her arse. The thought of having to take Anna home from nursery sooner than I need to fills me with horror.
The only time Heather is forced to interact with parents is when endless paperwork (usually another hike in nursery fees) needs to be signed or when a parent is taking their child out of Rocking Horses for good. (Trying to take your child out of nursery is like trying to resign your gym membership – very, very difficult.)
Having said that, Heather’s administration skills are impeccable and she runs the nursery so efficiently that it sort of makes up for her lack of personal skills.
I sidle past Heather, giving her a cheery arse-licking ‘Good morning’.
‘Is it?’ she replies aggressively as she steps into her office.
Then I walk Anna to her rotting pre-school room, and prepare for what I like to call ‘the cut and run’, which is basically a speedy exit that leaves no time for clinginess or sobbing on either side. I give Anna a quick kiss goodbye, do the 180-degree swivel towards the door, and switch the turbojets on.
As I reach the car, I spot one of the nursery mums, Nell, coaxing her son, Tristan – or ‘the spitter’, as Anna calls him – to get out of his car seat. Nell is one of the mums who went to my barbecue party, and was easily the most entertaining. After the seventh bottle of Prosecco, she pulled me into the bathroom to tell me that it was a miracle she had got pregnant at all, given her sexual preference for ‘taking it up the arse’. Then she laughed hysterically, pulled down her pants, and did a wee in front of me. She was the best drunk I had ever met, and a real contender for a lasting friendship – or so I thought. But like the rest of the mums who I felt I had bonded with, Nell is part of the ‘we must’ brigade. If she tells me one more time how ‘we must’ go for coffee, I’m going to scream.
Looking flustered, she gives me a quick wave. She has Tristan by the hand now, and is walking my way.
‘Someone’s not too keen on going to nursery today!’ she says brightly.
That ‘someone’ spits on her shoe, but we both pretend not to notice.
‘He’ll be fine once he gets in,’ I say, following the standard script for nursery small talk.
‘Oh, yes, it’s always the way. Always act up for us but great for other people!’ she laughs.
So far, so benign.
I give her a quick nod, and reach for the car door. There’s literally nowhere to go from here. But to my surprise, she puts her hand on my arm.
‘Do you know, Saoirse, I have been given two free tickets to Billy Elliot, The Musical, and my husband refuses to go. Can you believe that?’ she says, with a frown.
Intrigued by this line of conversation, I turn and give her my full attention.
‘Why won’t he go?’ I say.
‘He hates musicals,’ she replies.
And then we say at the exact same time, ‘I mean, who hates musicals?’
Then we laugh in a conspiratorial way that makes my heart beat a little faster. Is it possible? Are we bonding?
Feeling emboldened by our new camaraderie, I say, ‘Well, if you’re looking for someone to go with, I’m happy to volunteer. I’ve always wanted to see Billy Elliot.’
Nell looks at me in such shock that you’d think I had just invited her to swingers’ party. Clearly, I have misread the situation – again.
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean…’ she falters. ‘I’m sure I can persuade my husband to go…’
Deciding to brazen it out, I wave away her embarrassment and tell her not to worry, and I’m sure her husband will enjoy it once he gets there. And then she says, ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he will.’
Tristan hurries on the awkward goodbyes by spitting on Nell’s other shoe. She tells him off this time, probably grateful for the distraction. I give her a quick wave as I get into the car, but she doesn’t notice. It’s only when I go to put my foot on the brake that I notice a large globule of white saliva dripping down the side of my black boot. The little shit.
Trying to put the most recent social fail out of my head, I drive home quickly, conscious I have very little time to get started on this bloody pitch.
An hour later, I am staring at a blank Word document. I will the words to come but I’m exhausted from last night, and I can’t seem to clear the fog in my mind. I start to panic. After another hour of typing and deleting, I leave my tiny office and head downstairs to try to clear my head. I put on a wash and have a cup of tea. It is 11 a.m. I need to pick up Anna at 3 p.m. I march back upstairs to my office with shoulders-back resolve and force myself to face the dreaded screen once more.
But it’s no good. Fighting my best instincts, I click into Vale Mums, where I am surprised to find no further comments have been made on my Cheerios post. Clearly, Misery wanted to say her piece to my face rather than cyber-judging. Besides, Rosalind has posted a question asking about childcare during a family holiday abroad and all hell has broken loose.
Misery:
WHY would you need childcare on a family holiday, Rosalind? Just curious (plus confused emoji).
‘Because she needs a FUCKING break,’ I mutter angrily at the screen.
One by one the rest of the Organics chip in with similar comments, ranging from ‘Gosh, the only real quality time I get with my children is on holidays!’ to ‘Sooo many friends have had terrible experiences with their children at those holiday clubs abroad – really would tread carefully.’
Rosalind ends the discussion, defeated.
Thanks, mums! You’re probably right. I’ll hold off on putting them in a holiday crèche for now.
Three of the Organics post patronising ‘thumbs up’ emojis in response.
Shaking my head in anger, I switch back to the empty page, willing myself to concentrate. Right now, I’m furious. Maybe I can channel some of that into my writing.
A flash of an opening sentence suddenly appears in my mind and I quickly place my fingers on the keyboard to capture it before it flits away. And then the landline rings and the thought is gone. I shout loudly in frustration.
The only people who call me on the landline are the gas and electricity people, and David’s mother, Rose, because she’s too tight to call me on my smartphone.
As none of the above are of any particular interest to me, I ignore it. If someone really needs to contact me they can leave a bloody message. But then the phone rings again. I swear as loudly as I can, snatch up the phone, and say, ‘WHAT IS IT?’ in the angriest voice I can muster. On the other end, there is a pause, a little sigh of disapproval, and then a harsh clipped voice that I immediately recognise, and my heart sinks.
It’s Heather from Rocking Horses.
Fuck.
‘Saoirse, you need to pick up Anna. Now.’ Heather spits, staccato-like.
‘What’s happened, Heather? Is Anna sick?’ I say as nicely as possible, trying to claw back any favour I have ever won from her.
Unless Anna has thrown up all over the place, developed a bumpy rash, or broken at least two of her limbs, she can stay where she is.
Heather coughs self-importantly, sucks in her breath and grandly announces, ‘Your daughter has harmed another child.’
Shit. That’s not good. That other kid was probably at the mercy of one of Anna’s numerous meltdowns. However, I’m standing firm. Unless that other child is en route to A&E, there is everything still to play for.
With unnecessary drama, Heather goes on to tell me how Anna ‘worked herself up into a state’ after some kid snatched a doll from her. Apparently, she threw herself onto the floor, kicking and screaming, and another child (an ‘innocent passer-by’) inadvertently tripped over the frenzied body of my daughter and fell against a table, where said child suffered a
cut on the forehead.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ I say, with, I hope, just the right amount of concern to talk Heather out of sending my child home early. ‘That’s terrible! Does the other child have concussion or need stitches?’
Heather replies, slightly less confidently, ‘Well, no, the child just needed a plaster.’
I have her now.
‘The thing is that I’m working, Heather, and it would be quite difficult for me to pick up Anna so early in the day,’ I say in a wheedling voice that makes me lose all respect for myself.
But Heather digs her heels in.
‘I still need you to get her,’ Heather replies in aggressive mode.
The gloves are off. No more nicey-nice.
‘So, just to clarify, Anna didn’t hurt a child deliberately, and everyone is fine so why can’t she stay where she is until home time?’ I ask, not even trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
‘Anna has locked herself into the staff room and she is refusing to come out,’ Heather explains gruffly, without a trace of accountability.
And this is where I lose it.
‘Let me get this straight. My daughter is trapped in an E.coli-riddled windowless room, and you and your staff of eight are unable to get her out. Have I got that right?’
‘Well, yes,’ replies Heather, as if this sort of thing happens all the time.
And then with relief and a strange sense of enjoyment, I give myself full licence to let the tensions of the last twenty-four hours verbally rain down on that child-hating nursery Nazi. When I have used up every swear word I have ever learned, I finally run out of steam.
Heather responds in an irritatingly polite voice that I’m to pick up Anna in the next twenty minutes or she will call the police and report me for verbal abuse. Suddenly, I’m very, very tired.
I tell her with as much dignity as I can muster that I am on my way. Weary and defeated, I get back into the car with angry tears once more prickling my eyes.
