Divas Don't Knit

by Gil McNeil

  ‘It’s very easy. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time.’

  ‘I doubt it – I’m hopeless at that kind of thing – but we can but try. Now, I wanted a word with your son. There he is. Archie, come here for a minute, would you, young man? I want to tell you how pleased I was to see you being so kind and helpful in our assembly. Let’s shake hands, shall we?’

  He holds out his hand and Archie shakes it, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Very well done, Archie. Here, have a toffee.’

  He hands him a toffee wrapped in shiny paper from his jacket pocket.

  ‘But please save it for later, there’s a good boy. Now then, I must find Mrs Finch, I think she’s been looking for me.’ He heads off up the corridor, stopping to chat to children as he goes.

  Annabel’s sulking as we go into the classroom to collect paintings and bookbags. Hobnobbing with the Head and a toffee for Archie: I’m not sure I could have been more annoying unless I’d got a special T-shirt printed with ‘I Hate Mrs Morgan’ on the front. Shame, as Ellen would say.

  ‘I remembered it, Mum.’

  I’m helping Archie put his coat on. ‘You did, darling, and you were brilliant.’

  I risk a quick hug, even though we are technically still in public and this is a clear breach of the rules. There’s a muffled ‘Get off! Get off!’ and he emerges, slightly red-faced.

  ‘Can we go and find Jack now? I want to tell him Mr O’Brien shaked my hand, and gave me a sweet, because he only does that if you’ve been very good.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I was the best, wasn’t I, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love, you were the best in your whole class. And Jack was the best in his.’

  He looks at me and smiles.

  ‘Yes. But only I got a sweet.’

  It’s just past midnight and I can’t get to sleep; I think I’ve eaten too much but Connie arrived with two trays of pastries from Mark for our Stitch and Bitch Christmas party, and they were so delicious we’d eaten half of them before anyone else had arrived. And then Cath brought a quiche and Tina and Linda had made sausage rolls, including some cheese and chive ones for Olivia, who’s decided to be a vegetarian, mainly to annoy Cath, we think, but we’re trying not to take sides, and Maggie and Angela both brought cakes too, so I feel like I’ve been eating for hours and hours.

  Angela was proudly showing off her photographs of Penny and Sally holding baby Stanley, who’s got lots of wispy hair. There were a few photographs of Stanley’s dad too, who looked very nice, and Tina said she thought Stanley was a very lucky baby to have three parents who obviously love him so much, which was just about the perfect thing to say really, and Angela looked very pleased. And then we had a competition to see who was having the most hideous Christmas lunch, and Cath won, with seventeen grown-ups and five children. Connie’s going to lend her some chairs because she hasn’t got enough, which I think is probably the least of her problems. I can’t imagine cooking for that many people without requiring professional assistance, but she seemed quite relaxed about it, unlike Maggie, who told us that she might be out of a job in the New Year, because they all got called into a special meeting at the library today, and apparently the council are looking at merging branches, and a property developer has already put in an offer for the building. We’re all going to try to help, and Cath’s starting a petition, which cheered Maggie up a bit.

  It’ll be terrible if the library closes, because lots of people won’t be able to travel to wherever the new branch is, and some of the older ones pop in nearly every day for a chat, according to Maggie, to meet their friends and look at the papers. The children’s section is really sweet, with lots of paintings on the wall and bean bags, and I’m going to make an extra effort to take the boys in more regularly, because it’s obviously a case of Use It or Lose It. The only potentially tricky moment was when Angela said she hoped Peter wasn’t involved, which he’s bound to be, what with him being on the parish council and being the local estate agent. But we all pretended we hadn’t heard her, and Cath started talking about making posters to put up in all the shop windows.

  It’s ten past one, and I still can’t get to sleep, so I’m downstairs making tea and wrapping up the knitting-needle case I’ve made for Grace for Christmas; I’m seeing her tomorrow, and I hope she’s going to like it, because trying to work out what to get for someone with impeccable taste and vast amounts of money isn’t easy. I haven’t seen her for a while because she’s been busy with meetings about the new films, and it looks like she’s definitely doing the French one next year, and possibly a remake of Bedknobs and Broomsticks, with lots of special effects and more sex. I don’t remember there being any sex at all in the Angela Lansbury version; but I do remember loving the rabbit and the bits when they were all bobbing along under the sea.

  Christ, I wish we were staying here for the holidays and we could sit by the fire and watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks and eat too much chocolate instead of being satellites revolving round Planet Mum. Dad will disappear as much as he can; he’s like the bloody Invisible Man sometimes, only with carpentry tools. And I really hope he hasn’t Made Something with Wood for the boys like the year he made me a Noah’s Ark. It must have taken him ages, and he was so proud of it, but secretly I hated it because all the animals were different sizes, so the rabbits were nearly twice the size of the sheep, and what I really wanted was one like my friend Alison’s, with plastic animals with faces and a Mr and Mrs Noah who had clothes you could take off. While Dad was making us toys we didn’t appreciate, Mum was always trying to ignite some artistic flare in us; she’d give us boxes of expensive modelling clay or fabulous paint sets, and then look bewildered and irritated when we weren’t that interested. She liked taking us round museums on Sundays, too, when she’d tell us all about the Surrealists in such a loud voice that people used to look at us, until Vin started refusing to get in the car.

  I always end up feeling that I’m being Disappointing when I’m with Mum. I used to feel it with Nick, too, sometimes; like I wasn’t quite up to scratch. But it’s different now. The past year has made me feel that I’m not just someone who spends all her time at home, redecorating everything in sight while her brain slowly melts, not that I ever was that person, but I used to feel like her sometimes. What with a new house and a new business, and new friends, I feel I’ve started to achieve something. So if Mum thinks she’s going to play her usual game of I’m a Very Special and Artistic Person and You’re Not, then I think she might be in for a bit of a surprise.

  Chapter Eight

  Stress in Venice and the Chocolate Orange

  It’s four o’clock on Christmas Eve and we’re at thirty thousand feet somewhere over France. Archie’s sitting by the window, looking small and wide-eyed with the thrill of it all, and Jack’s busy being the debonair jet-setting older brother, listening to Harry Potter on CD, which we borrowed from Maggie at the library, and occasionally sneaking excited glances through the window when he thinks Archie isn’t looking. I’m completely knackered, but after a large gin and tonic and a packet of crackers I feel a tiny bit less like running down the aisle screaming, Let me off! Let me off!

  The food arrives and it’s just as revolting as usual, and scaldingly hot, but the boys enjoy buttering their rolls with their little plastic knives. Stewart, our flight attendant, comes round with the teas and coffees. Archie gives him one of his best smiles, and waves a piece of roll at him.

  ‘I’m masticating.’

  Stewart hesitates for a second, teapot in mid-air but since he’s obviously a seasoned professional he rallies and carries on pouring my tea, with a rather fixed smile on his face.

  ‘Archie, there really isn’t any need to tell people when you’re chewing your food, I’ve told you before. People don’t really want to know.’

  Stewart relaxes slightly and rests his teapot on my tray. ‘Don’t worry, you’d be amazed what people get up to when their trays are down, madam. Honestly, nothin
g would surprise me in this job. Would he like another roll?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec. I can’t wait to tell the purser, he’s going to love it.’

  Archie looks puzzled.

  ‘Who’s the purser? Does he do the money?’

  ‘Yes, poppet, that’s exactly what he does. And precious little else, if he can help it. Back in a minute.’

  After Stewart’s collected our trays, and the purser has been down for a quick look at the Masticator in 25A, it’s time for trips to the toilet, which are a big hit with Archie, who particularly enjoys pressing the flush mid-wee to see if he can get sucked down the toilet and out into the clouds, just in case Father Christmas is having an early practice run on his sleigh.

  ‘Don’t do it again, Archie.’

  ‘Yes, but if you did get outside it would be lovely.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t, it would be very cold.’

  ‘I could put my hood up.’

  I’m pretty sure finding yourself on the wrong side of the emergency exit at thirty thousand feet would mean that getting the hood of your sweatshirt to stay up might be the least of your worries, but I don’t want to frighten him, and anyway he’s pressing buttons on the sink now, and if I’m not careful I’ll end up with a soaking wet trouser leg.

  By the time we’re back in our seats and playing endless rounds of Animal, Vegetable or Mineral, but without the Minerals because Archie just makes them up, my trousers are starting to dry. And then the captain announces we’re beginning our descent and preparing for landing. Jack checks that his seat really is in the upright position, to the sound of tutting from the man behind us; although he’s in no position to tut as far as I’m concerned because his daughter has been standing on her seat for most of the flight, doing a kind of inflight cabaret performance of I’m a Very Gifted Child in an annoyingly nasal voice. I’m sure we’re all meant to be applauding and wishing we had such a marvellous child, but I don’t think I’m alone in wishing she’d just shut up and sit down. She kicks the back of my seat for a while, and then stands up and leans over to ask me if I know how to say ‘Hello, my name is Sophie’ in Italian, because she does.

  I try to pretend I haven’t heard her, but she tells me anyway, and then sits down and resumes her kicking. I wonder how many air-rage incidents are sparked off by middle-class children; quite a few is my guess, especially on flights to Venice.

  Jack gets nervous while we’re landing, and grips my hand very tightly, while Archie gives us a running commentary on what he can see on the ground, including things he must be making up unless Italy’s gone back to the Jurassic Age during our flight.

  We finally make it through passports and into the baggage hall, which in typical Italian fashion is very beautifully designed but doesn’t appear to be working. There are hordes of people crowded round stationary luggage carousels, and an atmosphere of mild hysteria, but it’s such a relief to be off the plane and away from the sound of Sophie telling everyone about her favourite food that I really don’t care.

  The boys are getting chilly, so I find their woolly hats at the bottom of my bag, and reassure myself that I’ve still got the passports, for the hundredth and eleventh time. Jack finds a trolley by running and sitting on the first one he sees, and since we’re in Italy nobody hurls him to the floor, and he’s very pleased with himself as he wheels it back towards me. Archie’s sulking because Marco Polo airport doesn’t give out free packets of Polos, but he cheers up when Jack starts wheeling him backwards and forwards on the trolley, at a very sedate pace because I think they both realise I’m not in the mood for any Nonsense.

  I’m just starting to relax when I hear the unmistakable tones of Sophie and her parents, who come and stand right beside us. Excellent.

  ‘Daddy, I want a trolley to sit on like that boy.’

  ‘There aren’t any trolleys left, darling.’

  There’s a definite hint of gritted teeth in his tone now. Shame.

  ‘But I want one.’

  He turns to me and smiles, as if to signal that I should be turfing my children off our trolley and donating it for Sophie’s sole use. Like that’s going to be happening any time soon.

  ‘I want one now.’

  All the English passengers in the vicinity who’ve got trolleys hold onto them more tightly.

  Jack turns round. ‘You can have a go on this one if you like, but just a go.’

  Everyone smiles at him, apart from Archie and me, who are both completely horrified.

  ‘No. I want one of my very own.’

  Sophie’s mother finally cracks. ‘Sophie, don’t be silly. Say thank you to the nice boy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know you’re tired, darling, but it was very kind of him to offer.’

  This slight hint of public criticism is too much for Mr Sophie.

  ‘For God’s sake leave her alone – it’s not as if it’s his personal trolley.’

  I stare at him, and he reddens. And Mrs Sophie raises her eyebrows. Christ, the poor woman; it just goes to show there’s always someone worse off than you. I must try to remember that during the next few days.

  Sophie continues whining, and hits her father with her Barbie bag, which is gratifying, and we’re finally reunited with our suitcase and our big black nylon bag, which looks much flatter than the last time we saw it. I’m so glad I didn’t bother to take the ‘FRAGILE’ stickers off. We’re trundling towards the automatic doors with Archie balanced on top of the suitcase, giving Sophie the evil eye whenever he catches a glimpse of her, when a torrent of Italian greets us as the doors open, and we are surrounded by crowds of people standing waving and kissing. And then we spot Vin and Dad and I feel like bursting into tears, but I always feel like crying at airports so I’m hoping this is only temporary.

  Dad pretends not to recognise the boys because they’ve got so big, and we hug as Vin pushes the trolley towards the exit.

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Oh yes, fabulous. Packed full of horrible kids and snooty parents, and that was just the row behind us.’

  He laughs. ‘Well, I can top that big time, we had a three-month-old on ours, all the way from bloody Australia, and she never stopped screaming. Me and Lulu had to walk her up and down for ages to get her to stop, and every time we tried to sit down she started up again.’

  ‘That was nice of you.’

  ‘It was the only way to shut the little sod up, I remembered it from the midnight shuffle when Jack was little.’

  ‘You only did that once.’

  ‘I know, but it’s stayed with me.’

  We both look at Jack, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that he no longer requires walking up and down to get him off to sleep.

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  Vin rolls his eyes.

  ‘And Lulu?’

  ‘Great, and dying to see you. Come on, we’re over here. We have to get the bus to the boat.’

  Bugger, I’d sort of forgotten about the boat thing.

  ‘Dad’s borrowed one from his friend Gianni, so we won’t need to catch the ferry.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Oh dear. The last time I saw Dad in charge of a boat we were in Greenwich Park and he bashed it into the side so hard Jack nearly fell out; and a lagoon is a lot bigger than a boating pond. Bugger. I wonder if there’s anywhere I can buy a couple of lifejackets?

  It’s foggy and cold outside, and getting the luggage onto the bus takes a fair bit of heaving, and lots of sarcastic comments from Vin, but when we get to the port Dad’s friend Gianni is standing smiling and waving at us, next to his very beautiful and highly varnished water taxi, and before we know it we’re racing across the lagoon in a very glamorous fashion, feeling like visiting VIPs. The boys are madly impressed, as well they should be, since this has got to be the most expensive way to arrive in Venice. Dad’s telling them about all the different kinds of fish you can catch off the little islands.

  ‘Are you doi
ng lots of fishing, Dad?’

  ‘A fair bit.’

  Vin shakes his head. ‘Don’t get him started. He goes out with all his mates for hours, it’s his new excuse for disappearing.’

  Dad smiles.

  ‘And then they all come home drunk.’

  ‘Well, you have to take a nip of something to keep the cold out.’

  The lights of Venice start twinkling at us through the mist, which is rather magical. There’s still enough light to see, but all the edges are blurry, and there’s something slightly unreal about the way it suddenly rises from the water like Atlantis, only with much better shops. The boys keep standing up to look out of the windows as we chug up and down canals, which are all a bit eerie and silent apart from sudden bursts of light and noise as we pass little squares. I remember how knocked out I was the first time I came here with Nick. We were supposed to be attending a television festival, but we were stuck in a hotel miles from the centre so we pretty much gave up trying to get to the festival events, and just wandered about getting lost and having a blissful time.

  The boat stops beside some stone steps, in front of a rather grand-looking building with a large grey wooden door, and Dad and Vin start getting the luggage off. We thank Gianni, who kisses me four times and calls the boys ‘bambini’, and then the door opens and Mum comes out, wearing clogs for some reason, and a long purple skirt with a dark-green poncho. She’s looking very Bohemian, with her hair in a velvet turban, and kisses me in a very Italian lots-of-cheek-kissing kind of way, and then turns to the boys.

  ‘Now, darlings, you must remember to call me Mariella. None of that dreadful Granny nonsense, because I couldn’t bear it.’

  They both nod.

  ‘And Josephine, darling, what on earth have you been doing to yourself? You look dreadful. It must be working in that shop. I told you it was a bad idea, didn’t I? You need to be using your brain, not working on a till all day.’

  She laughs, as if she’s being very witty, and turns to Jack.