You must go and help her,
You must save the day!’
As much as I’m not sure that I like the fact my sons are being cast as non-verbal lackeys, they do a hilarious job of charging up and down the stage and making ghastly grunting noises. Matt and Ben find it hilarious as do most of the audience. Gia’s clicking finger can’t move fast enough. This only goads them on to show off more until I see a teacher flap her hands about in the wings telling them to calm down. It’s then I notice the baboons in the production. One of them has a mini fur coat on, neither have made an attempt to make their buttocks shine pink: Maisy Tyrrell and Harriet Jordan. I point it out to Matt and we both look at each other then over at the vultures who don’t seem wholly impressed at the way my five-year-old twins have confined them to a big hole in the savannah. And there things draw to a close, with Ciara banging out a lovely doleful duet with her giraffe friend (namely the tallest boy in school dressed in what looks like the remnants of an old sofa). Then everyone comes on stage to sing along to what sounds like a do-gooder’s rehash of a Michael Jackson anthem. They all wave their hands, from hula dancers, to scuba divers, to rhinos, to sea anemone, and the poor lad who got cast as the sun and was made to wear canary yellow tights. Nobody seems to care though, parents take photos and children look bemused, my twin boys jump up and down at the side of the stage and punch each other in the arm. I think I’m proud. I think about what this means. If Donna is the wily and graceful dolphin and Jen and Paula are the gossiping baboons, surely that makes me the big clunky rhino with my weathered skin and surly eyes. I pout a little. Even a hippo would have been better than that.
Play over, we all assemble in the school hall where I get excited over the prospect of custard creams and tea served out of a big silver urn. I always think there’s a lovely retro quality to having tea at school. I dig around for egg mayo sandwiches but the budget doesn’t seem to have stretched to that this year. I pocket more biscuits to make up for that and hang around with Ben, Matt, Gia, and Millie. The Tyrrells and Jordans stand to the side of the room turning their noses up at the UHT milk. Ben skims through the photos on his camera phone, giggling.
‘Jools, those twins are fricking hilarious.’
I smile back. After the group finale had finished, Ted thought it a good idea to launch himself off the stage in the style of Kung Fu Panda, shouting out how no one was to mess with him. In the process he toppled a teacher off her chair and tore a large hole in his tracksuit so everyone could see his underwear. No doubt, this will be what everyone talks about for years to come. I suspect clips will make their way on to some Saturday night outtakes show. The children come running in at this point, past us and to the table filled with flimsy cups of neon squash. When they see us they wave and we give them all hugs for their efforts before they fly off again to play with friends. A tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see the sprightly young lady from before. Matt looks her up and down.
‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to introduce myself … given you’ve been sleeping with my husband and all …’
Matt, Ben, and I freeze as she laughs. Gia looks like she might throw her cup of tea at her.
‘I’m Lindsay. Sam Pringle’s wife.’
Matt still can’t seem to move his face whereas I finally get the joke and laugh nervously so that I cloud the air with biscuit crumb. I go to shake her hand. Ben goes to explain everything to Gia in a hurried mix of what sounds like Spanish and GCSE French.
‘Jools. Campbell. I am so sorry about all of that. I was mortified that events got so twisted.’
She puts an arm on my shoulder.
‘Oh, we had a good laugh about it. The school made a statement on our behalf as well. I just wanted to wish you luck for Friday. Sam and I are rooting for you. We even have that poster from The Sun on our kitchen fridge.’
Yes, The Sun poster. An A3 monstrosity that came with yesterday’s issue which you could stick on your front window, fridge, or as I saw it yesterday, in a car window to pledge your allegiance. ‘Campbell’s SouperMum!’ or ‘Masterchef McCoy!’ For one, I’m worried my new moniker looks a bit like a really bad typo. The picture is of me waving my finger at McCoy on the BBC sofa, mid-gurn and looking like I have multiple chins.
‘That’s very kind. To be honest, I need all the help I can get.’
She smiles as Mr Pringle approaches us, buoyant at the success of the play and that Ted falling off the stage was the only minor mishap. There are kisses and congratulations all round.
‘I mean Ben studied drama so he knows his stuff.’
Ben nods even though I know this is far removed from the experimental, nouveau-street theatre he is normally accustomed to being involved in. Mr Pringle is all smiles; this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him since our whole newspaper debacle but he’s been very good at glossing over any awkwardness for Hannah’s sake and making light of the situation. His wife’s hand goes into his while Matt and I let the initial panic of her introductions wash over us. They’re a sweet couple, in those early throes of new marriage where I suspect frequent sex and date nights still figure quite highly. I notice her look over my shoulder and suddenly grimace.
‘So are they the ones, Sam?’
I turn to see Paula, Jen, and their family entourages standing behind me, collectively mocking the biscuit selection with old lady carryalls. I smile at Matt. Mr Pringle nods but whispers something under his breath. Ben realises this is his cue to leave and stand next to Gia and Millie while Matt and I lean in to try and make out what he said.
‘I have half a mind to …’
‘Linds, seriously not here.’
I sense the urgency in his voice and back down, fake smiling like I might not be interested in what she says next. She turns to me and whispers into my hair, ‘You know it was them, right? The ones who took the photos of you and Sam and sold them to the papers.’
My head swings round to face them. Matt’s nostrils flare quite unattractively.
‘Another mother dobbed them in. Completely pathetic if you ask me. And as for their other behaviour …’
Their what? It was them, really? Was this payback for having given Paula’s kids fish fingers? My mind spins as I try to decide how I should deal with this news. Lindsay gets in there first, and before I know it she’s waving at Paula, who sashays over. Of course, she ignores me and has done ever since McCoy labelled me a food cretin, but now I know why. Guilt. Do I miss her? Christ, no. But I miss the satisfaction that comes from looking after her kids. Their guts must be aching for a bit of gluten right about now.
‘Hello. I’m Paula Jordan. And you are?’
‘Lindsay Pringle. We spoke once. I think you called my house once at three in the morning?’
What? Did she just say that? Or have I eaten too many custard creams? Paula goes a shade of pomegranate while Matt and I take two sidesteps to the left. I hand Matt a chocolate bourbon. There is some fantastically awkward silence. Greg looks at his wife curiously. Mr Pringle tries to pull his wife away, as Ben acts as Gia’s dodgy interpreter. Plus, he’s holding a sandwich. There are sandwiches?
‘We’ve been calling about school matters, actually,’ says Paula, not very convincingly. ‘I find your insinuations quite curious.’
Lindsay looks like she’s gearing up for a retort while her husband stands there, eyes to the school parquet flooring. Ben has a selection of sandwiches – tuna, cheese and pickle, and, ka-ching, egg mayo. I scan the room with one eye on sandwich alert while the other scans the conversation in front of me.
‘Important school matters, actually.’
It’s a voice so loud and haughty I look to the ceiling to see if it is God himself. No, just Jen Tyrrell. I’ve never spoken to Jen Tyrrell in my life. Mainly because she’s the sort of person who doesn’t let you get a word in edgeways but also because there’s an air about her as though she think she’s better than you and everyone else in the room. She strides over with her husband, Hugh Tyrrell, the heavy treader in all t
his, the muscle, though I can’t make out if he ever has an opinion on anything or is simply henpecked into submission. Ben shifts me a look, less confused, more excited that his graduation present is going to contain an actual live fight. He takes Gia and Millie off to stand behind the curtains.
‘Well, if by that you mean ringing at eleven thirty in the evening after you’ve downed a bottle of red to tell my husband how you haven’t had sex in a year then that sounds particularly pertinent to school matters, yes.’
Lindsay Pringle in your lemon yellow tea dress and Monsoon cardigan – you are officially my most favourite person who exists. I see Sam Pringle turn a lovely shade of beetroot. Ben chokes on his tea, Matt’s eyes open up like they could fall out of their sockets. I want more! Who hasn’t had sex in a year? But from the way Paula’s face drains of colour (which isn’t actually that hard given how pale she is) I think I know the answer. You drink wine? I thought you only drank mung bean tea. Our post-play date conversations could have been far more interesting if you’d told me you drank alcohol. Jen Tyrrell makes a valiant attempt to spare her BFF’S blushes.
‘Your husband has been a confidante to all the mothers in the class.’
‘But how is that his job? His responsibilities are to look after your kids, not you.’
‘Linds …’ Sam grabs her arm but she hasn’t had her say.
‘And to top it all off and make your coffee mornings all the more interesting, you make up stories about him and Mrs Campbell to entertain you and earn you a quick buck. Frankly disgusting behaviour.’
Hey, that’s me! Jen Tyrrell glances over at me a little evilly. Not knowing what to do, I put a hand up in the air like I’m acknowledging my name has just been said. Lindsay just shakes her head. Paula sidles up to her at this point, trying to draw attention away from her sexless marriage. Parents next to us have started to crowd around like they’re here to watch a hanging. Sam Pringle finally gets a word in.
‘Mrs Tyrrell, Mrs Jordan. I am appreciative that you want to involve me in your kids’ lives but I am a teacher, there are boundaries, and to make up stories is just plain wrong and completely inappropriate. It sends a really bad message out to the kids.’
It’s a statement so official that I wonder if he’s been trained by Luella. But it’s a final word on the matter, we don’t have to draw it out any further. Maybe I can go and find a sandwich. Or not.
‘I’m inappropriate? Really?’
Mr Pringle’s shoulders seem to slump back into their sockets as he realises what he’s done has not so much drawn a line in the sand but created a sandstorm of angry mother.
‘What I meant was …’
‘If I’m inappropriate then what about Mrs Campbell here?’
Woah, that’s me again! But I’m inappropriate? Is it this top? I pull a shocked and confused face. Angry and Scottish to the left of me barges in.
‘Excuse me?’ he half bellows.
Matt is ready to charge at her like a, well, rhino, but I hold his arm back.
‘Ever since her little rant in the supermarket, I can’t think of anyone more inappropriate than her. Flaunting herself in the public eye, all those stories about her mother and her ex-boyfriends and family.’
Paula nods, still trying to detract from the fact that good ol’ Greg Jordan can’t bear to sleep with her. Lindsay Pringle looks at me and smiles in support. Matt might be foaming a little out the corners of his mouth.
‘What sort of message is she giving my kids? That it’s all right to get pregnant when you’re twenty, marry someone you hardly know, and reject your own mother?’
Silence descends over the crowd like fog. Jen Tyrrell has been publicly put down and man, is she coming back with a vengeance. Damn Donna leaving early. I am quiet, my jaw is locked. I look over at Gia, who obviously doesn’t understand half of what has gone on but wishes she could get involved. I look over at Matt, who’s speechless with rage, and I look over at my kids standing by the doors to the hall. Jake and Ted at the front, Hannah towards the back, squash in hands trying to make out words from behind reinforced glass panels. Matt and I look at them and realise retaliation is futile when they’re party to these events. They’ve already endured so much at school, they don’t need this. We have to take the high road.
‘We all know what you’re about, Jools Campbell. You’re trying to make out you’re some celebrity mother or chef but I can’t think of anyone less qualified to talk about such things.’
And there it is, the final poisonous dart fired, leaving me reeling from the fact it’s been let out into the air like that. I feel my eyes glaze over, like skin over custard.
‘And who are you again?’
I don’t recognise the voice at first; maybe because he’s made an effort to sound authoritative like a knighted Oscar-nominated actor – a bit Gandalf trying to scare off a dragon. I turn and he slips a hand into mine.
‘Jennifer Tyrrell. And you are?’
‘Ben Hartley. Jools’s brother. Can I ask your qualifications as a mother then?’
‘Well, I … that’s not what I meant.’
‘Well, from where I was standing, it sounded like you may have a masters on the subject, a doctorate perhaps?’
He turns to face the crowds in the same way one might in the Globe during a meaningful soliloquy. I can tell he more than half likes the attention and the wonderful acoustics.
‘Trust me, half of what you read in the papers is rubbish, much like a lot of what just came out of your mouth.’
Jen Tyrrell glares at Ben, framed by her husband and her furry cardigan. What possesses a woman to buy a garment like that? What possesses a mother to have such a sour personality? The people around us stand to attention.
‘And are you a parent? You know then what it’s like to have kids and have experience on the subject?’
‘No. I am not a parent.’
‘Then how does this concern you?’
‘Because I’m the person in this room who probably knows Jools the best. Yes, as you’ve kindly pointed out to everyone today, she was twenty years old when she became a mother …’
I look over at Ben, who refuses to look me in the eye else I collapse into floods of tears.
‘But trust me, she was also a mother long before Hannah ever came on the scene.’
He pauses, half pouting, half trying to hold back what I hope are not drama student tears.
‘So to berate her in front of everyone here only shows your insecurities, your jealousy, and is a great insult to someone I hold very dear.’
I grab his arm and pull down on his sleeve, trying hard not to cry. The crowd is moved. Unfortunately, this only eggs Ben on.
‘And I am very proud of her. Better to go out into the world and have a dignified opinion on parenthood as opposed to having a career as a tanorexic middle-aged woman in badly fitting Matalan, spreading gossip to entertain herself.’
Lindsay Pringle snorts a little. Matt stands there immensely proud of his brother-in-law, his chest out. I close my eyes in preparation for the inevitable Tyrrell comeback.
‘And how old are you?’
‘I’m not sure how that’s relevant but I am twenty-one.’
‘Because I take great insult from someone half my age spouting diatribes about my life. Your youth reeks of ignorance.’
You can tell half the crowd are doing some simple maths in their head.
‘Your age reeks of regret, bitterness, shades of vindictiveness.’
I look over at Jen, who is running out of words, out of plausible ways to defend herself in the face of such eloquence and calm. She panics.
‘Well, at least I knew my husband before I married him.’
If Matt was a cartoon character he’d go ten rounds with this woman like Popeye. But he is restrained for the kids and his mother and simply shakes his head and holds my hand in response. I’m surprised if his tongue is still attached given how much he’ll have to bite into it. I want to be angry, so angry. But for some reason
I refuse to be. I can’t think of anything bad to say when my kids are glaring at me like that from that door. If they weren’t, though, it would be too damn easy to just lay into her. You want to talk about husbands? From what I hear Greg Jordan shags the nanny at the park! In the bushes by the tennis courts! Donna also reckons Hugh Tyrrell has a fondness for trying on his wife’s shoes. Other parents around us think differently and are aghast at the low blow, others are just glad for the entertainment.
‘You’re telling me you knew you were going to marry some overweight, hirsute man? Wow. I applaud your good taste, lady,’ adds Ben.
The room shudders a little with laughter. Surprisingly, a sweat patch-addled Hugh Tyrrell doesn’t flinch. Paula and Greg seem less interested in being involved in this fight now. Greg’s eyes seem to dart around the room with worry that everyone might think he’s impotent, Paula knowing she’ll never be able to take on the verbal prowess of my little brother. Jen just stands there, boiling in her furry cardigan, part furious, part indignant that her family life is being picked apart bit by bit. Welcome to my world, Jen Tyrrell, welcome.
‘Just … just … go to hell, you jumped up little fag!’
I’m not sure what happens next. Speaking for myself, all I know is that the little part of my brain that is dedicated to loving my family and being a mother, that goes all lioness when people try and infringe on my little unit, starts to fizz in my head. This deserves a breaking of silence. I’m gearing up for a McCoy style rant. I look over at the Pringles, all open-mouthed in shock. I look over at Matt whose eyes are so wide they almost glow white. Ben stands there, eyebrows raised from not having heard that word since the late nineties. Words line my throat as I go to speak. But I’m too late.
‘That’s IT! Get the hell out of my school. NOW!’
People suck in air like vacuums. I turn to see Mrs Whittaker, face red like rhubarb, quite literally. Even her ears pulsate bright pink. Mr Pringle steps in and holds her hand back.
‘Alice, please, you’ll …’
This isn’t even a tumbleweed moment. Parents, children, and other teachers stand about like this is huge game of Stuck in the Mud. Jen opens her mouth so wide you can see she still has some old metal fillings at the back.
Souper Mum Page 25
