by Gil McNeil
“Well, could you ring him back and tell him I’m from Head Office and I’d like a word? Thanks.”
I saw Ellen do this once, and it worked wonders.
She looks at me again and presses a button on her phone.
“She says she’s from Head Office.”
She puts the phone back in her pocket, and we stand waiting, with Pearl glaring at all of us and dropping bits of bread on the floor, like we might need to retract our steps, while Jack and Archie lean against the checkout and sigh.
The manager appears, in a shiny suit, looking very pleased with himself. “Good afternoon, madam. Can I help?”
He’s clearly waiting for my special Head Office credentials, but I’ve already worked out what I’m going to say. I’m channeling Ellen, which always works, well, nearly always.
“I’m a customer who spends a great deal of money here. I’ve got a trolley full of shopping, and your till has broken. So this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to take my kids to the car, and you’re going to sort it out. Here’s my card, and my loyalty card. You can bring me my trolley and my receipt, with everything repacked, and if you’re smart you’ll bring me a bunch of flowers, to say sorry for the inconvenience and your staff appearing to think this is all highly amusing and somehow my problem. And then I’ll tell you exactly who to call in Head Office so you can report in. But I do need you to do it, not one of your staff. It will give you some excellent practice in customer relations at the sharp end. Upskilling is so important. Thank you.”
I hand him my card, pick up Pearl, who is now fortunately silent. The supervisor winks at me, and the manager stands with his mouth slightly open.
“Come on, Jack, Archie, we’re just going to wait in the car, I’m sure it won’t be long. This nice man is going to sort it all out for us.”
We walk to the car, and I’m half pleased that I’ve managed to be so assertive, and half terrified that security will appear and insist I leave the car park and we’ll have to go somewhere else and get all the bloody shopping all over again. I’ve just sat down in the driving seat when my phone beeps.
Christ. Maybe they’re texting me to tell me my loyalty card has been canceled and I’ve been banned for life.
“Jo?”
Bloody hell, it’s Martin. What perfect timing.
“Hello Martin.”
“How are you?”
“Fine thanks. Well, actually we’re in the middle of a bit of a drama in the supermarket, but apart from that.”
“Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry, about the last time we spoke. I didn’t mean half of it, not about you. I should have said it to Patsy, not you. But I think a break has probably been good, and I hope we can talk when I’m back? Can we?”
“Of course we can, Martin.”
“Oh, thank God for that. Good, well, I should be home by the end of next week, so maybe we could meet up then?”
“Sure.”
“This job has been mad. I’m sorry I haven’t called before now, but Mum says you’ve been in Devon.”
Here we go. Damn. I really don’t want any more drama today.
“Yes. Daniel was working down there, so we had a few days in a hotel.”
He hesitates, and then rallies. “That must have been nice.”
“Yes, it was. The boys learnt to surf.”
“Look, I better go, they’re calling me into the next meeting, but I suddenly thought this is ridiculous and I should call you. I’ll come round when I get back. And I’m really pleased, that you’re still speaking to me. I’ll call you soon.”
The line goes dead.
Bloody hell. Part of me is really glad he called, and part of me thinks it’s a bit of a cheek and I should have been cooler; he was totally out of order, and I’m not sure we can just go back to normal, whatever that is. But if I’m being strictly fair, I have managed to have another interlude with Daniel, which is exactly what he was accusing me of when I hadn’t. Oh God, this is complicated. I think the ostrich thing is going to come in very handy if I can pull it off; otherwise I’m going to be a nervous wreck.
The manager from the supermarket taps on the window, which makes me jump. He’s got the trolley full of bags of shopping, and a bunch of pink roses. Blimey; I didn’t think I’d been that scary. How gratifying.
“Here we are, madam, and I do want to apologize once again.”
“Thank you and I’ll be writing to Head Office, to tell them how well you handled this. Let me just write down your name.”
He hesitates, and then smiles.
“Thank you, madam. I thought you were one of our mystery shoppers for a minute there. Be just my luck for a till to go down for one of them.”
Great, so that’s something else to add to my list: write a letter to the bloody Head Office, wherever they are. Still, the roses are very pretty.
“I’ll send you a copy of the letter, let me just write down your name.”
He stands waving as we drive off.
I call Ellen, after bath time, which I’m celebrating with a small gin and tonic. I think I may need a little bit longer to get out of holiday mode.
“You didn’t.”
“I did. Thanks to your excellent example, I’m finally getting the hang of causing havoc in shops.”
She laughs. “And how did Dovetail sound?”
“Fine.”
“I still think you should have given him more of a hard time.”
“I’m not into all that game playing, Ellen. I haven’t got the energy.”
“So what are you going to tell him, when you see him?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
“That’s my girl.”
“No, I’ve literally got no idea. I’ll see what he says, I suppose. If he’s still being all pompous and sounding like his mother, he can bugger off. But if it was just a one-off, well, he’s allowed to get grumpy once in a while, Ellen. We are quite a complicated package, one way or another.”
“And Daniel?”
“There’s no And Daniel. I never thought there was.”
Actually I am slightly disappointed that he hasn’t rung. Not surprised, but a tiny bit disappointed.
“See how it goes, darling; stranger things have happened at sea.”
“True. Usually to Martin. Well I know one thing for sure.”
“What?”
“Whatever happens I’m not getting a stupid orange anorak.”
She laughs.
“Good decision, darling.”
I’m thinking about how mothers tend to get themselves into quite a few tricky situations on behalf of our children as I pour myself a tiny bit more gin. I’d never have gone to bloody Devon in the first place if it wasn’t for Pearl. Still, tomorrow is another day as Gran says, and the boys are at school next week, so there are only a few more days of the school holidays before I can get back to normal. Hurrah. And as for anything else, I’m definitely not going to think about it.
It’s Wednesday morning and the first week of the new school term, and just to add to the pressure of getting back into the swing of school mornings, I’m in my sodding tabard on the walking bus.
“Come on Archie, what are you doing, love?”
“Putting my bag in the hall for my sticker.”
“Right, well that’s good, but come and have some breakfast.”
Bugger. We’re running out of stickers. We’ve had a holiday amnesty over the past few weeks, so I better get some more or there’ll be complaints to the management.
“I don’t like my new school shirts, Mum, they’re all scratchy.”
“No they’re not, Jack, they’re just new.”
And a size too big, since he’s growing so fast. I even put all the new kit through the washing machine to get rid of that new-clothes chemical sheen that tends to bring on Jack’s eczema on his elbows. Thank God they’re only Aertex shirts and not proper ones or I’d have been ironing until midnight.
“Can I take Peter to school?”
&nbs
p; “Don’t be silly, Archie.”
“I’m not. People walk to school with dogs, so we can walk with Peter.”
“On the walking bus, are you joking?”
He grins. “Natasha’s got a goat called Gladys.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t bring her on the walking bus. Now eat some cereal please.”
Pearl has refused to eat cereal, so I’ve fobbed her off with a slice of toast.
“Bit of bacon?”
“Not today, sweetheart, but you’ve got lovely honey on your toast.”
She throws her cup on the floor.
Great.
It’s a perfect September morning as we make our way to the bottom of the High Street, sunny but not too hot, and Pearl’s happily eating a second round of emergency toast after I diverted the beginnings of a second tantrum by silently cutting up apple and pear for people who weren’t yelling. But I must add bacon to the shopping list, because there’s only so many times she’ll fall for a slice of apple, and I’d prefer a bit less tension on school mornings.
Connie’s waiting with Maximo in his baby sling, fast asleep. She looks tired; she’s definitely missing her mum and those enforced afternoon naps.
“Do you want me to have a go?”
“Yes please.”
We carefully execute a sleeping baby plus sling transfer maneuver, and I keep moving, swaying from side to side like I might be about to start a slow waltz, which is pretty vital if we don’t want him to wake up, which we seriously don’t, and then we’re off. Connie gives a modest baby-proof peep on her whistle, and Pearl starts singing her less baby-proof version of “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands,” with accompanying clapping, as we walk up the High Street, collecting children as we go, like a maternal version of the Pied bloody Piper. Fortunately baby Max is oblivious, making an occasional sucking movement with his mouth, like he’s feeding in his sleep. He looks adorable, and it’s much easier walking with the baby in the sling when you’re pushing a buggy, it gives you something to lean on, so I’m quite enjoying myself in the sunshine as Pearl moves on to singing “I’m a Little Teapot,” despite the restrictions of the buggy interrupting her usual spout impressions.
The kids are excited about being back at school, however much they pretend they’re not, and by the time we reach the school playground, they’re all hopping and jumping and chattering away. Just one more reason to thank my lucky stars I’m not a primary school teacher.
“Mirabelle does not look happy.”
I’ve shared Ellen’s triumphant renaming of Annabel with Connie, and she’s enjoying it almost as much as I am.
I’m still doing the maternal waltz and moving slowly backward and forward when Mr. O’Brien comes over.
“I wonder if we could have a quick word. Oh, is this the new baby, Mrs. Maxwell? Isn’t he a little star being so quiet?” He pauses and looks at the chaos in the playground. “Trent, please don’t do that, it could be very dangerous. Could you hang on for a minute, Mrs. Mackenzie? Only Mrs. Berry and I would like a word.”
“Of course.”
Why does Archie’s teacher want a word? Bloody hell, what now? It’s only the start of term; even Archie can’t have done anything yet.
“Here, give him to me. I will take the bambini to the café, yes?”
“Thanks Con, I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
We manage a reverse sling maneuver as Maximo starts to snuffle, so Connie sets off at quite a trot, with Pearl waving her tiara.
The kids are lining up now, sort of, after a great deal of bell ringing by Mrs. Tindall.
I wait by the main doors as they file in.
Mirabelle is giving me a very Hard look, clearly desperate to know why I’m lingering, no doubt hoping against hope that Mr. O’Brien has finally come to his senses and is about to expel at least one of my children, if not all three of them, if they can do advance expulsions for babies.
Mr. O’Brien is smiling. “That’s better; I always forget how much noise they make. Let’s sit in the staff room. Mrs. Berry will be along in a minute; she’ll just get them settled with her new classroom assistant; nice woman, Mrs. Bentley, you’ll like her. It was Mrs. Berry who thought of the idea, so I want to wait until she’s here to tell you about it herself.”
Bugger; I’ve got a horrible feeling this is going to be another in-school knitting project. Better than an issue with Archie of course, but I was half hoping it was a walking bus update or something boring like that. Even a quiet word about how we can All Help Archie Be a Bit Less Lively would be better than another bloody knitting project with mixed infants. I’m trapped now, in a staff room that is looking very first-day-of-term tidy. In a few weeks’ time it’ll be full of piles of paper and half-drunk cups of coffee, and no doubt I’ll be knitting something annoying. Damn.
Mrs. Berry comes in, looking flustered. “Sorry about that, they’re all as high as kites. Your Archie’s been telling me all about his rabbit. Can he really do magic tricks with him?”
“Not so you’d notice, no.”
She smiles and looks at Mr. O’Brien. “Yes, right, so the thing is, we’ve been thinking about our Christmas play.”
Double bugger; I knew it.
“Certain members of the PTA are very keen that we do a proper Nativity play this year, as I think you know.”
We all smile. Annabel has been lobbying for a proper Nativity for ages; I think she sees Harry in a starring role. Actually, he’d make a perfect Herod.
“So we’ve decided to do one, but not the usual, where only a few children get the choice parts.”
We all smile again. Bang goes her dream of Harry as Joseph, or one of the Kings. I’m not really sure what other starring roles there are apart from the baby Jesus, and not even Annabel could think Harry would pull that one off.
“We’ll do it as a whole school project, where every class makes something. We can use papier-mâché, and cardboard for the stable walls and the crib, and we can make up bales of straw, that kind of thing. But for the animals and the people we thought some knitting might work, and then we can bring everyone together to build a Nativity scene onstage, during the concert.”
“That sounds lovely but—”
“If you could help us, we’d be so grateful.”
“I’m not sure I follow you. You want to knit a Nativity?”
Mr. O’Brien smiles, and Mrs. Berry nods. “Yes, there are so many lovely songs we can use as themes: ‘We Three Kings,’ ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks,’ ‘Little Donkey.’ ”
“So you want me to knit a donkey?”
She laughs. “Not life-size, of course.”
“Thank God for that.”
We’re all laughing as Annabel opens the staff room door.
“So sorry, I didn’t realize. I was just looking for the PTA folders. Good morning, Mrs. Mackenzie, is this a PTA matter? Because if so I’m more than happy to be consulted; as President I do try to keep up with any issues our parents might be worrying about. So often I can sort things out without taking up any of Mr. O’Brien’s valuable time.”
Mr. O’Brien stands up.
“No thank you, Mrs. Morgan, we’ve just finished a very useful curriculum planning session, and Mrs. Mackenzie is very kindly helping us again with her expert knowledge. We’ll be starting a new project for our Nativity, none of that old-fashioned nonsense where a few children get the starring roles and everyone else is a sheep. Thank you again, Mrs. Mackenzie, for offering to help, and I’m sure the concert will be a triumph. I’ll leave you and Mrs. Berry to start working on the planning.” He ushers Mrs. Morgan out of the doorway. “Now then, Mrs. Morgan, I did want a word about the library. We’d like to order some more books with all the money we raised at the fayre, but the teachers do need to choose the titles, so they link into our literacy themes. Last time some of the books weren’t quite what we were hoping for. I’m not sure who chose them, but there are some wonderful new books now, so I’ve drawn up a list.” He clo
ses the door as he goes out.
“Bloody hell he’s good. Oh, sorry.”
Mrs. Berry laughs. “No, you’re right. Jim’s great with her.”
“He certainly is.”
“Are you sure you can manage this knitting project? I didn’t like to ask you because I know how busy you are, but what’s that thing they say? If you want something done, ask a busy woman?”
“It’ll be fine as long as we have enough volunteers, but I’m still a bit worried about the sizes. Are you sure I’m not going to have to work out how to knit a life-size sheep or anything?”
She laughs. “Perish the thought.”
“Or cattle. Actually, I have no idea how you’d even start to knit a cow.”
“As long as it’s big enough to see onstage. But it needn’t be huge. The children can hold things up before they put them into the display, and we’ll get an army of helpers, I’m sure we will, like we did for our beautiful new banner. Each time I look at it, it makes me smile. Every single child in the school knitted something for it, that’s the best thing of all. They’re all so proud of it.”
“So sort of normal toy size, that kind of thing?”
“Yes, and Mrs. Pickering will help, and Mrs. Johnson, and all the staff, well, most of them. We just need the ideas. Whenever I look in your shop windows, they’re always so full of beautiful things, and so original. I loved the Teddy Bears’ Picnic, and the beautiful seahorse.”
“I’m not sure there was a seahorse at the Nativity, was there?”
She smiles. “Possibly not, but the one in your window is so beautiful, let’s have one anyway. We can be as creative as we like, make whatever animals the children would like to make.”
“I’m not knitting dinosaurs, thanks.”
“Apart from anything Jurassic, or cartoon-based.”
“That’s clever. I’ll knit you a seahorse of your own if you’d like one. It can be your Christmas present from Archie; it’ll make a change from our usual bottle of bubble bath.”
“I do wish parents wouldn’t do that. I worry about the expense for some of my families, you know, and I get so much, it lasts me for months.”
“Well, hopefully your new seahorse will last a bit longer. I’ll put some lavender in, and then it’ll be vaguely useful.”
