Similarly, on Billing Hill, all was not sweetness and light. At Number 47, Mr and Mrs Joseph were seated at the breakfast bar; Jon was still asleep. Mrs Joseph was feeling a little bleary-eyed; her irate husband had crashed into the bedroom the previous evening and spent the next hour holding forth about the ingratitude of his son, and how he had no doubt it was his mother who had put this ridiculous idea into his head, and did she honestly think he had spent the last fifteen years working all the hours God made to educate his son, just to see him throw it all down the drain?
‘Maybe,’ his sleepy wife had ventured to suggest, ‘Jon just doesn’t share your ambition.’
‘And what would you know about ambition?’jeered Mr Joseph, thumping his pillow in annoyance. ‘You’ve never had any – been quite happy to make your posies and teach people how to fiddle around with flowers. Well, that’s you. I had to do things the hard way – night school, taking any job that came my way, pulling myself up the executive ladder by my shoelaces. And I made it, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, dear, you’ve done wonderfully well,’ murmured Mrs Joseph, wishing he would shut up long enough for her to get to sleep.
Her husband grunted. ‘But it’s going to be different for Jon. Jon is going to hit the big time. And he won’t do it going to some third-rate art college.’
‘So let him go to a first-rate one, then,’ retorted his wife, to her own utter amazement. ‘What’s the point of keep trying to get him to do something that’s going to make him miserable? Doesn’t happiness count for something?’
Her husband had looked at her witheringly. ‘Happiness, Anona, does not pay the bills.’
And there’s no point being miserable in comfort either,’ snapped his wife. ‘I should know – you say I never had any ambition, but what chance did I have to do what I really wanted? None. And why? Because I was doing my best to support you while you studied and worked. I didn’t begrudge it, I admired you and I was pleased to see you happy. But doing that sort of thing won’t make Jon happy, and the sooner you realise it, the better.’
Henry Joseph had lain awake for a long time that night. First, the shock of his son’s ridiculous choice of career had bowled him over, and then his wife, normally so manageable, had flown off the handle and virtually accused him of holding her back. Stuff and nonsense. It was her age, no doubt about it. Women turned funny after forty, he knew that. But he still couldn’t get to sleep.
And now Henry was taking his anger out on an innocent piece of toast, slamming on the butter with total disregard to hardening arteries and high cholesterol. His wife, meanwhile, was calmly reading Floral Arts magazine and wondering whether she could make a Japanese willow arrangement for Mrs Farrant next door.
‘Anyway’, grunted Henry, ‘what would you have done, if you had had a choice?’
His wife raised her eyes from the page in surprise. ‘Oh, interior design, dear. And actually, it’s not too late. I’m thinking of becoming a mature student.’
For only the second time in his life, Henry Joseph was lost for words.
Next door at Number 49, Mr Farrant was enjoying a leisurely Sunday breakfast and revelling in the fact that today he did not have to dash to the hospital to remove a paper clip from some five-year-old’s left ear, or yank out a couple of dozen tonsils before lunch. He was hunched over a bowl of muesli, which his wife assured him was frightfully nutritious (though he would have preferred sausages and bacon), reflecting on his first few weeks at Leehampton General and flicking through the pages of The Lancet.
Not that it was a very quiet breakfast. The twins were having a competition to see who could flick the milk from their cereal bowls the furthest and Sam was sitting under the table being a Monster From Outer Space which involved chewing his father’s left ankle. Jemma was gazing into her mug of tea with the expression of someone awaiting the firing squad.
‘Come on Jemma, eat up now,’ encouraged her mother.
‘Oh, leave me alone!’ muttered Jemma.
‘Jemma!’ admonished her father,’Don’t speak to your mother like that! What has got into you?’
‘I’m fed up with being treated like a kid of nine,’ said Jemma.
‘Well, maybe when your manners are those of an adult you will be treated as such,’ interrupted her mother.
Jemma burst into tears and rushed out of the room.
‘What brought all that on?’ asked Mr Farrant.
And his wife related the saga of the clothes and the make-up and the club and waited for her husband to reassure her that she was perfectly right and that she was the best judge of what was right for the children.
‘Jemma does have a point, dear,’ he said instead. ‘She is almost fourteen and frankly, she usually looks about eleven. And it has to be said, you do tend to go on a bit, don’t you?’
His wife stared at him.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you worry about her, but the one thing you cannot control is the passage of time. She’s growing up and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop that.’
‘But she’s just a little girl,’ began his wife.
Mr Farrant, who was used to keeping calm in crises, when people bled on to the floor of the operating theatre, or a trainee nurse dropped a scalpel on to his toe, decided that it was Sunday and who cared? He thumped his fist on the table.
‘No, Claire – she is not a little girl. Not any more. She is rapidly turning into a young woman – or as rapidly as you will let her. And let me tell you something else. If you don’t acknowledge that fact pretty fast, you will lose her. And you don’t want that, do you?’
Claire Farrant poured herself another mug of tea and started doing some serious thinking.
Two hours later, Laura’s mum was entertaining. Or rather, pacifying. Either side of her kitchen table sat Rajiv and Chitrita Banerji, the former looking very severe and erect, the latter rather scared and shrunken.
They had come to collect their daughter, who had disappeared rather smartly the moment their car was heard pulling up outside.
‘I really had no idea that you had told Sumitha she was not to go to The Stomping Ground,’ repeated Ruth, pouring proper coffee from her cafetière (she thought the Banerjis in their present mood warranted the filter stuff and not the instant). ‘Naturally, had I known, I would have kept Laura home too. But no harm’s been done,’ she added.
‘I am sure, MrsTurnbull, that you meant no harm,’ said Chitrita, nibbling on a piece of supermarket flapjack that Ruth was trying to pretend was home made.
‘I am not in favour of such places,’ said Rajiv. He was dressed in a dark suit and blue pin-striped shirt and looked more as if he was ready for a board meeting than a relaxing Sunday, thought Ruth. She wondered whether he ever let his hair down.
‘Sumitha knew that; she had no right to deceive you. The fault lies with her,’ Mr Banerji continued. ‘But I am surprised you did not think to consult my wife and I about the decision.’
Ruth hesitated. She wondered whether Mr Banerji was as fierce as this with all the patients he x-rayed. ‘I agree.That was entirely my fault.When Sumitha said that you … anyway, I see it this way,’ began Ruth, taking her life into her hands.’These days our children have to learn to live in the world as it is, not as we would prefer it to be. I feel that the occasional evening like this – and they are very well supervised, I made sure of that – gives them a taste of freedom without too great a risk. And of course, a girl as well brought up as Sumitha … ’
‘Exactly She is indeed a well brought up girl – and not accustomed to such places,’ emphasised Mr Banerji. But Ruth noticed that his expression had mellowed a little at praise of his daughter.
‘I think she didn’t want to upset you – and yet she wanted to go with all her friends. Such a charming girl is bound to be popular – Laura tells me that she is an amazing dancer,’ said Mrs Turnbull, grovelling like crazy. ‘You must be proud of her.’
Ten minutes later, after a rundown of Sumitha’s prowess at drama and danc
e, her ability to make a wonderful Khashir Rezala, and her great likeness to the paternal grandmother in Calcutta, Rajiv stood up.
‘You believe I am hard in forbidding my daughter to attend. Perhaps so,’ he said, inclining his head.
Sumitha, who was listening at the door with Laura, gave her the thumbs up. Your mum is absolutely brilliant,’ she whispered. ‘She’s a miracle worker.’
Laura was about to smile when she remembered she had not forgiven Sumitha.
‘But,’ Mr Banerji continued, ‘I act in the interests of my daughter’s reputation. I would not want her turning out like most English girls. Many of them have no selfrespect. We have standards, you see.’
‘And so, Mr Banerji, do most English families,’ said Ruth quietly.
‘Of course they do, of course they do,’ interrupted the hitherto acquiescent Chitrita. ‘We are all parents trying to do our best, are we not? And often, I fear, getting it wrong. Raising children, it is not an easy task. My daughter, she thinks I am prehistoric. But then, that is life, I suppose – being derided by one’s offspring.’ She smiled and turned to pick up her handbag. ‘We must meet again for a talk, we two.’ She winked at Ruth. We are going now, Rajiv. Come, Sumitha,’ she called. ‘Come, Rajiv.’
And to everyone’s surprise, not least his own, Rajiv did as he was told.
In Thorburn Crescent, Chelsea was reapplying her eyeshadow for the third time since breakfast when the doorbell rang.
‘Get the door, Chelsea, can you?’ Ginny called from the kitchen.
But Chelsea was already there.
‘Hi, you said it’d be OK to call round.’ Rob stood on the doorstep looking incredibly edible in a pair of maroon cycling shorts. He grinned and Chelsea’s intestines did a double back flip with pike.
‘Sure – come in,’ Chelsea said, wondering if her kneecaps would continue to hold her up. She led Rob into the kitchen. ‘Mum, this is Rob.’
‘Hello, Rob – coffee?’ Ginny brandished the cafetière.
‘Please.’ Rob flicked back a quiff of sandy hair and grinned again.
‘It was good last night, wasn’t it?’said Chelsea, wishing she could think of something more sparkling to say. Her heart was behaving in a highly undisciplined manner.
‘Yeah, I had a really good time,’ said Rob and turned to Ginny. ‘Mrs Gee, I’ve read loads of your stuff in the Echo – my mum thinks you’re tremendous.’
‘Well, thank you Rob,’ said Ginny, giving him one of her most dazzling smiles.’And please, do call me Ginny.’
Chelsea cringed.
‘Actually, I want to be a journalist,’ said Rob, ‘and I was just wondering … ’
‘Do you want to come upstairs and listen to my new Crackdown CD?’ said Chelsea in desperation, knowing precisely where this conversation would lead.
Rob ignored her. ‘I was wondering whether you could give me some tips – you know, about subjects to take and how to get work experience, that sort of thing,’
‘Well, I’d be happy to,’ said Ginny. ‘Of course, that’s if you really think that silly old me … ’ Chelsea fought down a desire to vomit.
‘Oh, anything you can tell me will be such a help,’ said Rob.
Ginny fluttered her (well, Superdrug’s) eyelashes. ‘Well, in my experience, what you need to do is … ’
Ten minutes later Ginny said, ‘Chelsea, make us some more coffee, love. Now Rob, take a look at this piece I did on latchkey kids … ’
Chelsea’s stomach was all knotted up. She thought she might cry.
Fifteen minutes later, Ginny said, ‘Chelsea, I think there’s some shortbread in the green tin – be a love.’
Silently Chelsea hoped her mother might choke on it.
Twenty minutes later, Chelsea grabbed the opportunity of her mother leaving the room to find her copy of The Writers’ Handbook to say, ‘Rob, do you want to come up and see … ’
‘Oh sorry, no, I’d better be going soon. My mum will blow a fuse if I am late for lunch. Thanks a million, Mrs … Ginny,’ he said, as Ginny swept back into the room. ‘I’ll bring some of my stuff round some time and perhaps you can tell me what you think.’
‘Be happy to, Rob. And have a go at that Young Writers’ Competition. Nice to meet you. Ciao!’
‘Bye, Rob,’ said Chelsea.
‘Cheers, Chelsea, see you around,’ said Rob.
But he didn’t look round.
‘Well thank you very much. Mum,’ said Chelsea and flounced upstairs. She threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.
‘I hate her, Aardvark,’ she sobbed. ‘Not content with showing off in front of the world, now she’s stealing my boyfriend. I hate her!’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Friendships Under Strain
It had been a pretty horrid week. Not only would Laura not speak to Sumitha, but she did her best to stop Chelsea and Jemma doing so as well.
‘But why?’ asked Chelsea, whose logical and scientific mind always demanded reasons for agreeing to do anything. ‘She hasn’t done anything to me.’
‘Oh great, some friend you turned out to be!’ snapped Laura. ‘She just tried to take Jon away from me, that’s all!’
‘But Jon was never with you!’ said Chelsea. ‘How can you have something taken away when you never had it in the first place?’
Laura sniffed. She didn’t want to admit to herself that Chelsea had a point.
‘Anyway, he’s got spots,’ said Chelsea. Rob didn’t have any spots. Rob was wonderful. But thanks to her mother,she’d probably never get the chance to be alone with him for a single second.
Laura went off in a huff and cornered Jemma.
‘You’re my friend, aren’t you?’ she demanded.
‘Of course,’ said Jemma.
‘So you won’t have anything to do with Sumitha, will you?’ she asked.
Jemma hesitated. She wanted to be friends with everyone. And besides, she had nothing against Sumitha. In fact, she had got on with her very well at The Stomping Ground. They both knew what it was to have difficult parents.
‘Well, I mean, I – well, she’s really nice,’ she said.
‘Nice? Nice? You call wrecking relationships nice? How would you feel if she stole your boyfriend? Not that you are likely to find out – I don’t suppose Mummy will ever let you off the leading reins long enough to get one!’
And she stormed off, leaving Jemma feeling terrible. As if things weren’t bad enough as it was: her mother was acting all injured and silent, even though Jemma had said sorry a dozen times; her new found friends were at loggerheads; Laura who had started out being so nice to her, thought she was a baby like all the others; and Gran still hadn’t replied to her letter.
Sumitha felt awful too. If she really thought that Jon was Laura’s boyfriend, she wouldn’t have dreamt of muscling in. But he wasn’t – she knew that. Anyway, it was pointless worrying about it. He went to a different school, was a year older – she’d probably never see him again. Except. Except that Dad, after much muttering behind closed doors with her mother, had announced that providing all his rules were adhered to, she could go to The Stomping Ground once a month. He had actually smiled when he said it. And if Jon went there regularly, she just might see him again. But somehow, with the argument with Laura still hanging over her head, she didn’t feel as good about it as she should.
Chelsea’s week went from bad to worse. On Tuesday night, Rob called round – and spent forty-five minutes closeted round the table with her mother, discussing his entry for the Young Writer of the Year competition. On Thursday morning, he called on the way to school – but only to show her mum the finished article.
So by Thursday morning, which was double English, which Chelsea hated, followed by double science which Laura loathed and current affairs which none of them liked, the mood was not good. Jemma and Chelsea were fed up with mothers, Sumitha was fed up with Laura and Laura was resolved to hate the Bestial Betsy and Sumitha in equal amounts for the rest of her life.
And then, suddenly and most surprisingly, things started looking up.
Meanwhile Jon, the unwitting cause of so much tension, had been having a rather better time. He’d felt more at ease since coming clean with his father – even if he had been furious. And Parents’ Evening was quite soon, he was sure his teachers would be complimentary about his art. That is, if his blustering father let them get a word in edgeways.
Chapter Thirty
Confidences Over Coffee
That Thursday morning, while the girls were brooding on the injustices of life, their mothers were drinking coffee in Mrs Farrant’s sitting-room and attempting to make some sort of sense of the world they lived in.
Jemma’s mum had thought the coffee session would give her the chance to get to know the other mothers a bit better and make her peace with Mrs Turnbull. She had been so busy worrying about her husband’s new job, and Jemma’s new school, and whether Samuel was going down with the mumps, that she had only just realised how much she was missing all her old friends. And she knew she had been rather snappy when she dropped the girls off after the club night, and wanted to patch things up.
Ruth was a bit wary of facing everyone after Laura had taken to the airwaves, but she knew she’d have to do it some time. And Ginny was probably right – maybe no one had heard it. Mrs Banerji was delighted at the prospect of a chat away from the somewhat domineering presence of her husband and Ginny, who, when Jemma’s mother had phoned, had been throwing dictionaries around her study, partly because she was suffering from writer’s block and partly because Barry had been unusually pointed about her new fringed suede jeans, was glad of an excuse to forget earning a living for a couple of hours. And Mrs Joseph thought that meeting a few new people would be much more stimulating than worrying about family relationships.
Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum! Page 9
