I avoided mentioning my daily dance with insanity. I did, however, confess that I was using his establishment to avoid meeting new people at a playgroup that I had felt pressured into joining so I could keep my husband off my back.
He didn’t laugh at my childishness or tell me to be honest with Ben, he simply absorbed the information and shrugged. I didn’t need an opinion on my behaviour, it was just nice to have someone to talk to and I knew my inner voice wasn’t great at the sympathy. We only stopped talking when his son-in-law, Michael, came in to start cooking.
Only then our bubble of intimacy was truly burst.
Chapter 4
“I enjoyed that Amy,” he said.
“So did I, Joseph.”
For the first time, in a long time, I meant it. As a rule, if it involved small talk I would run a mile, but his strange mannerisms and his voice that sounded like honey made me relax and talk about the little things in my life. I almost felt a bit more like myself. I refused the offer of lunch and promised that I would be back the same time next week.
“This can be your haven, Amy. Perhaps we can help each other in some way?” he asked.
That piqued my curiosity, “How’s that?”
“You said you did PR, yes?”
“Well, yes in a previous life, but I can refer you to someone in my old work who can give you advice for this place?”
“No, I like you Amy and I think you and I will do great things together.”
He said it so confidently that I almost believed him.
“You come again and we’ll make a plan together, I will pay you and we will make my café work.”
“You can pay me in coffee and tray bakes,” I said with a greedy smile. “I’ll be back next week and we can plan our world domination.”
“Good, good. I’ll see you then.”
His back was already turned before I got to the door. The fact there was no lingering goodbye made me like him even more.
The encounter with Joseph was enough to bolster my spirits and make me brave enough to face the playgroup, or it could have been the caffeine boost. Either way, I was marching towards it with purpose while Arthur’s little legs could barely keep up. I was extremely late for it, but I figured that I should at least show up for the little time that was left.
When I walked into the freezing cold community hall I saw all the little cliques forming already.
Wasn’t this the first day? How am I already on the back foot of this?
I tried not to let the paralysing fear of forming new friendships stop me so I let go of a restless Arthur’s hand, and watched as he sprinted towards the blocks knocking a smaller child out of his way.
Please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t cry.
She cried – loudly.
The mother appeared from behind me and swooped up the little crying girl, soothing her as only a parent can do, whilst simultaneously throwing me a look of disgust.
“Well this couldn’t have gone better,” I muttered sarcastically.
I vowed to give it fifteen minutes then I could sneak out the back while they were all drinking watery tea and, no doubt judging mothers who chose to formula feed their children.
Bunch of bitches.
Of course I’d no idea if that’s what they were talking about; but it was easier to decide that they were the problem, rather than me. I felt completely awkward in my own skin at the best of times, so I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I had to remind myself that they were just normal people. Since Lily, the ‘new’ me was cautious of everything. I was afraid of expressing an opinion in case I offended someone, afraid of offering words of advice to anyone that needed it in case I was wrong and I ruined their life, afraid of raising my voice in case someone actually heard me.
Arthur was happy and had managed to find a little group of like-minded hooligans who also liked piling blocks on top of each other and kicking them over. I wouldn’t go as far as saying they were playing ‘together’, more like tolerating each other’s presence.
Like mother like son.
The fifteen minutes were up and as I gathered up our coats and manoeuvred my way over to the blocks I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Not leaving are we?” she said.
I just stood, dumbfounded, not thinking of an excuse to leave quick enough. As the silence extended she introduced herself and I quickly realised I wasn’t going anywhere.
“My name is Margaret Clunting and I’m the Chairwoman of S.M.U.G”
“Smug?” I asked, slightly concerned that she was having a laugh at my expense.
“No, dear: S.M.U.G. It stands for: ‘Special Mums United in Growth’. It’s my brainchild and we run several of these little groups across the town to reach out to struggling mothers so they can get out and feel like they’re part of a wider community. It can be very isolating as a mother, you know?”
I stared at her blankly and before I had a chance to offer my name or any type of verbalisation she had already left to introduce herself to another woman who just walked through the door. I hoped she would be as clueless as me but she knew all about S.M.U.G and was delighted that there was one on her doorstep. My eavesdropping gleaned that she was already attending two other groups in different parts of the town.
This recognition earned her an automatic ‘in’ with the other women who were stood in the corner scrutinising those who they did not recognise, namely: me.
I put down the coats and settled back down on to my hard plastic chair knowing I wasn’t going to get out of there anytime soon.
Time stood still in Smug Club and I vowed never to darken its doors again. I was bored out of my mind and I didn’t want to run the risk of taking out my phone to play around with a new game I’d downloaded. It had the world’s catchiest little theme tune. Judging by Mrs Clunting and her gaggle of Cluntettes, I had a feeling that anything but utter adoration and all-consuming supervision of one’s child during Smug Club would be frowned upon.
I called Arthur over to see if I could somehow convince him to leave, but he decided he’d prefer to stay with his new ‘friends’.
“Traitor,” I mumbled under my breath.
The door opened once again and that’s when I spotted her. A vision of colour, warmth, and light who exuded unadulterated confidence and had the air of some sort of bohemian goddess. I’d never before been more jealous of a person. She had tattoos down both arms, a nose ring and her hair fell loosely at her shoulders. She lit up the room and I instantly wanted to be her friend.
Unfortunately, Mrs Clunting had spotted her too and was quick as a flash to head over and introduce herself.
“Well, that’s that then.”
I resigned myself to solitude and got back to hoping time would move faster.
Within seconds I heard a howl of laughter reverberating throughout the room.
“You’re kidding me, right? Your actual name is Mrs Cunting? That husband of yours must have the skilled tongue of a rock star to convince you to take that shite name.”
I can’t be sure, but in my recollection, everything went instantly silent around the room. Cups shattered on the floor as the Cluntettes gasped and someone fainted at the vulgarity of this vile woman’s language. The fainting was an exaggeration but you get a general idea.
“I would ask you to refrain from using that type of language in any situation where there are young people around. It’s highly offensive and isn’t very big or clever. My name, madam, is Mrs Clunting and I am the founding member and present Chairwoman of S.M.U.G. You are very welcome to join our gathering here today with your children but I suggest you revise your use of the English language or you will be asked to leave.”
I was waiting for her to sheepishly apologise for the outburst but she smiled a sickly sweet smile and said in a very posh revision of her normal voice: “But of course, Mrs Clunting, I will take my needlework to the corner and continue to mend my husband’s socks, while my darling children increase their intelligence
by playing with that decapitated doll. I shan’t be any more trouble.”
The sarcasm was lost on Mrs Clunting, she returned the smile before tottering back to her gaggle of followers in the corner.
To my happiness the bohemian was coming my way, dragging reluctant looking twin girls behind her.
“Right then you heard the woman; go play and don’t make any trouble or there will be no iPad until you’re thirteen.”
The threat was believed and the two children skulked off to find the aforementioned decapitated doll.
My new best friend (and hero) sat two chairs away and took out her phone. Within seconds I could hear world’s catchiest theme tune.
I groaned inwardly at her devil-may-care attitude and went back to staring at Arthur. He was now trying to hit everyone else’s towers with a wooden hammer.
“I am Thor!” He roared as he bashed the last one out of existence, leaving a total of three children in tears.
I ran over and picked him up from the carnage, offering a weak smile to the mothers who were trying their best to comfort their devastated children. I believe this counted as our second strike. If I was lucky he’d pee on the slide and we’d be asked to leave.
I took my wriggling miscreant over to the seats and explained that he wasn’t allowed to play ‘Thor’ with his hammer like he does at home because it would scare the other children. I knew this was not sinking in – nor did he care about the emotional wellbeing of other children. Instead, he just rubbed my cheek with his chubby hand before running off again.
“He’s a great character,” the woman said.
The softness in her voice caught me off guard and I blushed because someone was actually speaking to directly to me.
“He’s the devil,” I replied.
“Nah, he’s spirited. I like that with kids. I want to keep as much mischief in mine before ones like Cunting, over there, try and beat it out of them. What kinda name is Cunting anyway?”
“It’s Clunting,” I corrected.
“Yeah, sure it is,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “My name is Elle, by the way. Have you been to one of these things before?”
Without thinking I said: “I’m Amy. Do you mean like a parent and baby group, or a Smug Club one?"
Her laughter echoed through the hall again.
“Smug Club? That sounds about right. I pity the next father that tries to come into the room. They might just crucify him for trying to parent equally. I mean, really? What makes them ‘special’? We’re all special. My husband is a bit of a plonker but I wouldn’t make him feel like that, you know? I sound just like them, don’t I? Spouting these judgements before I even know the facts.”
She paused for a second and I thought she was going to change her mind about her evaluation on them. After a heartbeat, she said: “Nah, I’m going to stick with it. Screw ‘em.”
She had a mellifluous voice and her South African accent made her sound exotic compared to the Northern Irish twang I was surrounded by daily. I’m not even denying it, I had a huge crush. I was desperate for a friend and this magical cursing unicorn ticked all the boxes.
The conversation was easy. She had moved to Ireland when she was twelve with her mother after her parents’ divorce. She admitted that she worked hard on keeping the accent because the alternative would be “hideous”.
I tried to decide if I should be offended by this or not but I decided she could probably punch my child in the face and I’d blame him for getting in the way of her fist. I told you: I was desperate.
I had no idea what she was talking about when she eventually stopped speaking, she’d obviously asked a question but I had no idea what it was.
Keep it light, keep it light, keep it light, keep it light.
“Sorry?” I asked in a panic.
“What do you do when you’re not sat with outcasts like me?” she repeated.
“Oh, well I used to work in a PR firm before I lost my baby and my mind.”
Crap.
“Cool,” was the only answer she offered in response to my miserable attempt at light-hearted conversation.
Well done, Amy.
We went back to looking at our children.
I was mortified but when I looked at her I noticed she wasn’t remotely bothered about my social faux-pas. After an eternity of awkward silence (in reality less than five minutes) I worked up the courage to finally say something.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?” She sounded confused as to why I was apologising.
“I didn’t mean to overshare; I’m really bad at this,” I continued.
“No, I think you’re great,” she offered, “If your goal is to make people feel really uncomfortable.”
Her voice was kind and she was smiling as she spoke.
“How about some tea?” she asked.
I nodded in agreement and watched as she headed up to the counter. It didn’t take long before I heard the raised voices.
“Ah bloody hell, all I said was ‘shift your arse’. I meant it in a nice way,” said Elle.
“I think you should leave,” said Mrs Clunting, “I don’t think S.M.U.G is the place for you or your parenting… style.”
“Are you kicking me out of Smug Club? Oh, no! How will I ever survive?” she said in mock terror.
Her theatrical gasp was paired with the flailing of arms that nearly knocked a tray of tea out of the grip of a passing woman.
“Does this mean I don’t fall under the special category?” she continued. “You know what? You judging bastards are the reason why mums don’t think they’re good enough. I bet you spend your free time on those websites making others feel like shite for formula feeding, or using jars or going to work. Like anyone needs the advice of you lot on what makes a good mum.
“We’re all trying our best and as long as the kid is happy and healthy then who the hell cares if I curse or let them pick out their own clothes or stay up when they like?”
“I care,” said Mrs Clunting, stepping in front of the line of fire once again. “We all care here and that’s what makes us ‘special.’”
Her use of air quotes made me want to gag.
“Now, I don’t know what type of hippy commune you were raised on but we don't need the aggravation of a free spirit or whatever it is you think you are,” she continued.
“You’re no better than us. Don’t dare look down on those who make the effort to go organic or care that our children aren’t dressed like they’ve been dragged through a ditch. I know there’s a rise in the ‘anti-mum’ club online but I refuse to expose my child to this type of behaviour, so just leave.”
For a second Elle looked taken back, unsure of herself even, I doubt many people had stood up to her quite so vocally, or publicly, before. The blush in her cheeks was rising but she refused to take her gaze from Mrs Clunting.
Everyone in the room had been silent from the start of the altercation. I hadn’t taken a breath since it began, and I had started to get dizzy. I’m not sure if my light head was caused by a lack of oxygen or if it was down to my complete discomfort at any type of confrontation.
“Kids,” she called in the direction of her stunned daughters. “It’s time to leave this poorly disguised cult for brain-dead conformists and get back to the real world.”
Every word she uttered was laced heavily with venom and her gaze didn’t leave Mrs Clunting for a second. The kids must have recognised the tone as serious and dutifully joined their mother. Only when she could feel the children beside her did the staring match end. She went to pick up her belongings that were still on the chair beside me. I knew I should have picked up her jacket or at least given one of my ever-so-useless sympathetic smiles. I was embarrassingly bad at empathy but it was the only way people who knew about the breakdown looked towards me now, so I had managed to practise mirroring it back to them. I just sat there in shock waiting for my brain to kick in again but nothing happened.
“You coming?” asked Elle
.
Is she serious? Of course I’m not going; what would all the other people think if I left? They’d think I was some sort of rebel mum who was in cahoots with this woman.
“No, I think Arthur is happy where he is for now,” I replied, meekly.
“Suit yourself, but if you think you’re going to get a sympathetic ear or genuine advice from this bunch of wankers then you’re sorely mistaken.”
I could feel the other women look at our exchange trying to gauge if I was going to leave too. To my shame, I kept my head down and pretended that Arthur needed me.
As she left, I heard one of her children say: “Scew ‘em, Mum. You’re the best.”
I didn’t look back or watch as she left. I kept my gaze transfixed on the blocks that Arthur was building. I assumed she had gone when the noise level began to increase again.
I didn’t leave the floor for the remainder of the group. I must have seemed like a dedicated builder, but the reality was: I was ashamed of myself.
Why do I care what this bunch of strangers thought of me?
I instantly regretted not taking Elle up on her offer. Sure, she had the mouth of a sailor, and she scared and fascinated me in equal measure, but at least she was real.
When they gathered the children round for a group sing-song I took the opportunity to get our stuff together so we could make a swift exit after the nineteenth verse of ‘The wheels on the bus’.
I hoped that Arthur wouldn’t make a scene before we left – something that was never guaranteed.
The last strains of the song were in the background when I felt a hand on my shoulder, it was Mrs Clunting.
“Amy is it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, curtly. I wasn’t being rude because of her talk-down to Elle, I was just trying to keep the conversation as short as possible so she would lose interest and leave me alone again.
“Well Amy, on behalf of the S.M.U.G I would like to apologise for that outburst earlier,” she said with a voice that sounded almost earnest – almost.
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 5
