For the second time in fifteen minutes Botox Bernie seemed unhappy but I could only assume this by the look in her eyes as there was absolutely no movement from her forehead. The children came out from school quite happily and the teacher confirmed that only a few tears had been shed by Eva earlier in the day. She’d gotten a little upset during the lunchtime break because she missed sitting next to her old friends. The teacher soon buddied her up with a lovely girl and she seemed much happier as the day went on.
When we got back to the Shack, Matt had arrived home. There was a huge pot of chilli bubbling away on the stove and fresh bread had been baked. If nothing else, the bread masked the musty odour of the wood-chip wallpaper and the torrid smell coming from the avocado toilet. Kicking off their Wellington boots the children skipped up the long corridor towards the back door, once inside they grabbed a mug of hot chocolate and settled themselves down comfortably in front of the telly.
‘Come on then, you pair, tell me about school. Did you enjoy it? Have you made any friends?’
Samuel was first to reply.
‘A boy asked me what football team I supported but I didn’t have time to answer before he asked me what level reading book I was on.’
‘What was his name?’ I enquired.
‘Everyone calls him Little Jonny for some reason,’ he responded.
Eva told us that there was a girl in her class with the same name as her, a smiley girl who seemed nice and friendly.
I was relieved both of them had survived their first day of school, it couldn’t be easy adapting to a new house and school all in one day. After washing our hands we all huddled around the table. I scooped ladles of chilli onto everyone’s plates whilst Matt tore the fresh bread and placed it in the basket in the middle of the table for us all to share. Just as I sat down at the table the doorbell rang and the dog, finally realising that this was now his house, started to bark. Opening the front door I peered all around but there was no-one was there.
Strange.
Then I heard that noise again, the shuffling sound, closely followed by the back door being flung open with Mr Fletcher-Parker standing as bold as brass in my kitchen again.
‘Good evening, all, I’ve just popped in to see how you are all settling in.’
He had popped in all right, right through my back door again and was leaning himself against my prehistoric free-standing cooker.
Matt looked up in amazement.
‘We are all OK, thank you, Mr Fletcher-Parker,’ I managed.
‘Please call me Fletch,’ he insisted.
‘Where do you live?’ Samuel enquired.
‘We live just a few doors down but we haven’t spoken to your neighbours for over fifteen years, they aren’t the friendliest of people. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves where they’re concerned.’
The conversation continued on and Matt was introduced to our omni-present pensioner.
He carried on to inform us that if there was anything at all we needed we must not hesitate and let him know. I thanked Mr Fletcher-Parker, politely. I wasn’t quite up to calling him ‘Fletch’ just yet!
At this point I hadn’t actually clapped eyes on the other next door neighbours and now I was feeling reluctant to pop next door and introduce myself if they weren’t the friendliest of people.
Overnight the silent snowflakes fell thick and fast from the night sky leaving a pristine, untouched fresh blanket of snow covering the ground the following morning. After dropping Eva and Samuel at school I again dragged the double pushchair along the pavements through the snow in the direction of the post office to purchase some milk.
Turning around, I leant against the post office door and hauled the pushchair in backwards over the step before spinning it round and heading towards the far end of the shop to retrieve the milk from the fridge. It was like déjà vu: there was Camilla again standing in exactly the same spot, wearing exactly the same attire as yesterday but talking to a different woman.
Joining the back of the queue I could hear every word of their conversation and was quite surprised about their lack of discretion. Camilla was happily chatting about Penelope Kensington again and was confirming to her fellow gossiper that the rumours were indeed true about Penelope’s husband, Rupert.
The next minute my jaw fell open as I continued to listen.
‘How did he manage to pull that off?’
‘It was all down to my quick thinking. I roped in my husband, the farrier, to help him shift the tonnes of manure whilst I occupied Penelope.’
‘Gosh, that must have taken ages.’
‘It did, two hours to be precise.’
‘What’s happened to the farmer’s wife?’
‘The farmer took her back for the time being but I’m not sure how long that relationship will last.’
Shuffling forward in the post office queue, the penny suddenly dropped.
The man that Camilla was sharing her lunch date with in the pub was no other than Penelope Kensington’s husband.
Scrutinising Camilla’s face I couldn’t believe she was standing there as bold as brass confirming the rumours to the other woman regarding Rupert’s affair when indeed she had also been playing away with her child-minder’s husband. She didn’t even look guilty, not even for a brief moment.
As the queue moved forward I strained to listen to the conversation and definitely decided I was Team Penelope for the time being. The poor woman had taken a slating for two mornings running.
‘Keep this to yourself, don’t say it’s come from me,’ Camilla remarked as they ended the conversation and the women parted company. Shaking my head, the only thought that crossed my mind was who needs enemies when you have friends like Camilla.
I spent the rest of the day trying to organise our furniture, clothes, toys and games into a house that was half the size of the one we had left behind. Matilda spent most of the day watching DVDs whilst Daisy gurgled and kicked her legs from the comfort of the Moses basket. The day flew by and glancing up at the clock I couldn’t believe that school pick-up time was fast approaching again.
Wrapping the children up warm in their coats and strapping them securely into the car we headed off in the direction of the school. The road outside the school gate was lined with cars, mainly Range Rovers I noted, and numerous mothers were already heading through the school gates.
I couldn’t believe my eyes: the same space was vacant, how lucky was I? For two days running I had found a parking space directly outside the school gates.
Manoeuvring into the space I almost jumped out of my skin. Hearing a loud screech followed by the incessant beeping of a horn I slammed my brakes on.
Looking up I came face to face with an outraged woman glaring at me from behind the wheel of her Fiat Panda who was trying to park her car in the same space.
I quickly in my mirrors to ensure the children were OK. Luckily they were none the wiser.
How bloody stupid, the woman driving the other vehicle could see I was nearly parked in the space.
‘Let the battle commence,’ I thought to myself edging forward into the space. I was now parked securely in the space but feeling the other woman’s eyes burning fiercely in my direction I avoided any further eye contact. The car sped off leaving the other mothers wandering through the school gate turning around to see what all the commotion was about.
Securing the children in the pushchair I made my way towards the gates. Feeling a tap on my shoulder I looked round to find a pleasant-looking woman facing me.
‘Are you new here?’ she enquired with a warm smile.
‘Yes second day here,’ I responded.
‘I heard the beeping and noticed where you had parked.’
‘Is there a problem parking there? I couldn’t see any double yellow lines?’
‘That’s Penelope’s space. She has parked there for years. I don’t think she was very happy.’
Hearing the bell ring I wandered towards the back of the playground leaving the ple
asant-looking woman making her way to the other end of the school.
It was at that very moment I realised that I had laid eyes on Penelope Kensington for the very first time: she had been the angry woman fighting me for that parking space.
She wasn’t what I was expecting, in fact on first impressions I would have never put her and her husband together at all.
Penelope Kensington was a very masculine-looking woman; she was tall but by no means feminine and resembled a Russian female weight-lifter. She had jet black, shoulder length bobbed hair and a fringe that acted like a curtain hiding a deep furrowed brow. I gave her the once over and immediately concluded she was a smoker. Her fingers were stained and her nails painted, probably in an attempt to disguise the yellow colour from the nicotine.
I noticed Botox Bernie was still lording it about at the bottom of the playground exercising her vocal chords again. The price of her designer coat was yesterday’s fish and chip paper but she was still insistent on telling anyone that would listen. Bring back Mrs High School Musical. She was shallow but at least she didn’t pretend otherwise.
I was holding on to the handle on the pushchair, rooted to the spot. I scanned the playground observing the little groups and cliques that were apparent. These cliques never survive when one member’s child overtakes another with their reading books. The mothers are fickle and will then shuffle on to the next friendship, choosing a friend whose child is usually a little less intelligent than their own to ensure their offspring are never out-shone. The new friend’s child will then be invited for tea, providing an opportunity for the mother to rifle through the child’s book bag looking for evidence of their reading stage. While tucking into their sausage, beans and ‘smiley faces’ the child is subjected to ‘Spanish Inquisition’ style questioning to determine which table they sit at during literacy and numeracy lessons.
There is one major problem with Planet School – the mothers. If mothers didn’t exist, the school would run incredibly smoothly. Primary school children just want to skip, play hopscotch, run around and kick a ball to each other. It doesn’t matter to them who is higher up the Oxford Reading Tree scheme. It’s the competitive mothers who relentlessly push their children that cause all the rifts on Planet School. These mothers are in and out of the school building on a daily basis, complaining about anything and everything. As soon as the door is open, they hover outside the staff room waiting to accost the teacher who can usually be seen running to take refuge in store cupboards or even hiding in the toilets until they are saved by the bell. The worst thing about being a teacher is the mothers. These mothers think they know more than the experts, they think they know what’s best.
What do they do when they think their child is not being pushed to their full potential? Let me tell you – they invest in the dreaded workbooks that every child detests. Their poor kids, after spending a day at school, are faced with yet another textbook before tea.
‘It’s for your own good, Troy. You want to grow up and be a brain surgeon, don’t you?’
Actually all little Troy wants to be is a train driver. He wouldn’t even mind working in McDonald’s as long as he was entitled to free burgers. This is when these kids have had enough. They start finding mischief as respite for their over-worked minds and begin to bully their classmates and become generally unpleasant. No doubt they will progress to stealing cars and mugging old ladies in a few years’ time.
These types of mothers all belong to the PTA – the dreaded Parent Teacher Association. The PTA in my opinion stands for the ‘Petty Tedious Army’, ‘Particularly Troublesome Army’ or even the ‘Pathetic Tampering Association’, take your pick. They make you believe they take part in these groups for the good of the school and the community but, as you look around the village, you begin to notice that the same mothers turn up everywhere. They are involved in absolutely everything ranging from Knit and Natter at the village hall – that’s Stitch and Bitch to the likes of you and me – to making the tea at clog dancing in the church hall on a Friday. They’re not doing this out of the goodness of their hearts, they are doing it to find out everyone’s business and they don’t miss a trick.
In reality, think about the children you went to school with. How many of them grew up to be a brain surgeon or an inventor or a rocket scientist? The majority of people end up with a bog standard job and a family, pay a mortgage and never let the Oxford Reading Tree scheme cross their paths again. None of these mothers would pass the seven-year rule of friendship. Step away from the staff room, step away from the workbooks, let kids be kids.
In the playground on the second day no-one spoke to me at all, which wasn’t such a bad thing but, on the third day, the thing I was dreading most happened – Samuel was invited to another child’s house for tea.
Margaret’s words of wisdom rang through my head. ‘The first person who invites your kids for tea – AVOID!’
Well I suppose someone had to be first.
Samuel skipped over to where I was standing on the playground and excitedly told me that he had been invited to Miles Lawrence’s house for tea. I didn’t know who Miles was or who his parents were.
Penelope Kensington was loitering not far from where I was standing. Witnessing the look on her face, she seemed a little put out when she overheard Samuel’s excited chatter; she looked across in our direction.
‘Good luck with that,’ she muttered before quickly turning back and facing the other way. Samuel pleaded with me, he wanted to go and pointed to where the child and his mother were standing. They were both staring in my direction so I thought it was only polite that I ventured over to them for a chat.
Imogen Lawrence appeared a nervous character. She barely made eye contact while talking to me but when she opened her mouth to speak, out came a booming voice which I wasn’t expecting.
Imogen gave me directions to her house along with her telephone number and I agreed to drop Samuel off in half an hour.
Arriving home, Samuel quickly changed out of his school uniform and into his playing out clothes.
Luckily for me Matt arrived home early from work due to the continuous bad weather which meant I didn’t have to drag all the other children out again whilst I dropped Samuel off.
Imogen’s house was easy to find from the directions she had provided. Parking the car on her gravel drive we walked towards her front door and rapped on the knocker.
Imogen very kindly invited us both in and Samuel ran off to play with Miles while she made me a cup of tea.
She appeared very friendly and shared with me that she too had once been a newcomer to the village. It had taken her a while to feel settled and to make friends. She knew how difficult it was for the children as she too had been an outsider. I thanked her for her kindness and arranged to pick up Samuel after tea. So far so good, nothing at all to suggest she might be a nutter. No mention of reading books and, having a quick scan around her living room, there were no workbooks in sight. Maybe, just maybe, I was reading too much into Margaret’s comments and I began to relax.
I left Samuel for a couple of hours. The snow was beginning to thaw so I decided it was about time I went in search of the local supermarket as we really didn’t have much food.
Earlier in the day I’d bumped in to Mr Fletcher-Parker after my morning visit to the post office and he had provided me directions to the local supermarket. He was turning out to be a very lovely neighbour indeed and always made me feel extremely welcome.
After placing my pound coin in the supermarket trolley, I set off amongst the aisles of hell. I wasn’t sure whether I had actually died. Everyone I saw – and I do mean everyone – was around seventy years of age. The aisles were narrower than usual and they were filled with wrinklies shuffling their feet and pulling their fabric shopping trolleys behind them. They were clearly in no rush to get home, dilly dallying in the middle of the aisles they stood discussing the funerals they had attended that week and debating which wake had provided the better food. They h
ad preferred the thinner-sliced loaves at Fred’s wake to the thicker slices used to make sandwiches at Betty’s. The larger slices of bread played havoc with their dentures. I heard conversations about grave plots, the new woolly slipper boot which was now a bargain price down at the market and the scandal surrounding the discovery that the sherry was watered down at Knit and Natter.
I turned the corner to the next aisle and did a double-take. There were Camilla Noland and Rupert Kensington in the flesh, having a rendezvous amongst the Andrex quilted toilet rolls which were on special offer. They stuck out like a sore thumb, cavorting like a young couple on honeymoon. They must have figured out that no-one under eighty visited this supermarket so they were quite safe, unless Penelope’s great-grandmother needed to pick up some ginger biscuits. Staring down at my watch I panicked; I’d lost track of time and it was nearly time to pick Samuel up from Imogen’s. Managing to grab only a few essentials I paid quickly and threw the couple of carrier bags of food onto the back seat of the car before trundling back along the high street towards Imogen’s house to collect Samuel.
I arrived at Imogen’s, still a little flustered from the lack of food I’d purchased on my shopping trip. We chatted on the doorstep whilst Samuel was putting on his shoes and grabbing his coat from their cloakroom. Telling Imogen I was disappointed with the lack of variety in the supermarket down the road and that I hadn’t managed to purchase a lot of shopping, she laughed.
‘No-one goes to the coffin-dodger supermarket; there’s a more upmarket one a few miles up the road.’
I am useless at directions so Imogen did a very kind thing and offered to take me to the other supermarket later that evening. Well, to be exact I would take her, as her husband, Steve, was using their car to ferry Miles to football training. I loaded Samuel into the car and headed home, spotting Camilla and Rupert returning to the village in separate cars. I wondered if they had taken advantage of the ‘buy one get one free’ offer on Andrex quilted toilet paper. It was a great offer; I wished I’d picked some up.
A Year in the Life of a Playground Mother: A laugh-out-loud funny novel about life at the School Gates (A School Gates Comedy Book 1) Page 5
