Heavy Metal
‘Hi, Chelsea, how did the shopping … what in the name of heaven is that?’
‘What?’ Chelsea gave her mother what she hoped was a cool stare.
‘Your ears – you’ve got half a dozen things in them.’ Ginny put her hands to her face.
‘Three studs and a ring, actually,’ said Chelsea.
‘Well, take them out right now!’ said her mother.
‘No way,’ said Chelsea, ‘I’ve only just had them done. Why should I?’
‘Because the school rules are one stud only; because you look trashy and cheap; because …’
‘Oh, that’s right, suddenly you take notice of how I look. Normally, you can’t be bothered to even notice, you’re so busy tarting yourself up and flirting with my boyfriend. Well, tough luck because I’m keeping them and …’
‘Oh no you are not, young lady. Now get them out this instant or I’ll…’
‘You’ll WHAT?’ screamed Chelsea. ‘Write about me in the paper? Tell the world how silly Chelsea did something wrong again? These are my ears and I am making a fashion statement. So there.’ Chelsea was running out of things to say.
Ginny got up and put her arm on Chelsea’s shoulder. ‘Oh Chelsea love, you’re far too pretty to need all that metal junk in your ears,’ she said.
Chelsea looked at her. ‘That’s the first time you’ve said I’m pretty,’ said Chelsea. ‘Am I really?’ she added.
Ginny sat down and pulled Chelsea down beside her. ‘Of course you are, you nincompoop. I’m sorry, love – I suppose I am so used to knowing how beautiful you are, I forget that you need to know that too.You’re gorgeous, as a matter of fact.’
Chelsea looked slightly appeased.
‘And what’s all this about me flirting?’ continued Ginny, recalling the conversation with the others over coffee.’You surely don’t mean chatting to Rob?’
‘Chatting, you call it?’ mumbled Chelsea. ‘You positively drool over him. It’s obscene.’
Her mother suppressed the desire to laugh. ‘I’m sorry love, I didn’t think. It’s just that he’s so keen on the idea of being a writer, and it boosted my ego, someone wanting my opinion on something other than acne and boyfriends! But flirting? That’s crazy – he’s just a spotty kid!’
‘He’s not spotty’ snapped Chelsea. ‘Not very’
You really like Rob, don’t you?’ said Ginny.
Chelsea shrugged – then nodded.
‘Then go for it – and I’ll keep out of the way – I promise,’ said her mother. ‘But get rid of that metalwork – it’s not you, love.’ She grinned. ‘I wish I looked like you, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
Chelsea smiled a watery smile. ‘Everyone says you’re the smartest mum in my year.You should be – you spend enough time dressing up.’
‘I suppose I am a bit vain,’ said Ginny ‘When you get middle-age spread and grey hairs sticking through and your chin starts to sag, you have to work flat out to fight Mother Nature. I look in the mirror some mornings and wish I was twenty again. Am I a real drag?’
‘Well,’ said Chelsea, ‘sometimes you are sort of unmother like.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Ginny, ‘let’s go out next weekend after I’ve done the show.You choose something you like for me to wear, something suitable for mothers,’ she added, pulling a face,’and I’ll treat you to some nice drop earrings for the one hole I am about to let you keep open!’
Chelsea smiled. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but you have to promise not to show off in the changing rooms,’ she added sternly.
‘I promise,’ said Ginny dutifully.
Chapter Thirty Four
Let Me Put It This Way
BELLBOROUGH COURT SCHOOL
NORTHANTS
Dear Parent,
The Parents’ Evening for your son/daughter will be held on Thursday, July 6th at 7.00 pm. It is sincerely hoped that parents will attend this event, as it provides an opportunity for helpful consultation between school and home and an effective and supportive monitoring of pupils’ progress during the year.
Please complete the slip below, on receipt of which times will be allocated with the appropriate members of staff.
Yours sincerely,
Stephen Ellwood
Director of Studies
I will/will not be attending the Parents’ Evening
I will/will not be accompanied by my son/daughter
Jon had dreaded Parents’ Evening. A week ago he had told himself that this time he was going to speak out, stand up for himself and what he wanted, and not let his father ride roughshod all over him. That was last week.
Tonight, standing in line waiting with his father to speak to Sweaty (otherwise known as Mr Ellwood, but given his nickname on account of his aversion to antiperspirants) his courage was not quite so much in evidence. He guessed Sweaty would be on Dad’s side – teachers always were. He wished Mum had been there as well, but she was lecturing the Women’s Institute on The Place of Ferns in the Indoor Garden.
Ever since he had told his father that he wanted to go to art college after GCSEs, relations between them had been strained to say the least. But the odd thing was, his mother had been really laid back about it – positively encouraging, in fact.
She had raised the subject the morning after Stomping Ground. ‘Your father says you want to go to art college when you leave school,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’
So Jon had taken a deep breath and sat down and told her how the only thing that really excited him was putting his ideas down on paper – not in words, but in pictures. He tried to tell her how the idea of spending all day every day drawing fired his imagination. He liked doing cartoons and he dreamed of being a newspaper cartoonist like Mac or Giles.
There were lots of other things he thought he’d enjoy, like designing book jackets or even theatrical design. But to find out about it all he needed to go to art college. And to go to art college it would help to have art and design at GCSE and A-level, as well as things like ceramics – not stupid history. And Bellborough Court was a very academic school, and not the least bit arty.
Jon snapped his attention back to the present as he heard Sweaty speak.
‘Good evening, Mr Joseph – and Jonathan.’ Mr Ellwood waved them to a seat. ‘Now let us see – ah, yes. Here’s Jonathan’s file.’
‘Now look here,’ began Jon’s father before the teacher could get a word in edgeways, ‘my son seems to have his head filled with ideas of art college and such stuff and nonsense. Perhaps you can sort the lad out – 1 don’t seem to be able …’
‘Splendid idea,’ said Mr Ellwood. As I am sure you realise, Jon is tremendously talented on the art side. Look at this – straight A’s all this year. And that design he produced for the cover of the school magazine – such flair. I have often thought it a shame that he wasn’t able to spend more time on this side of things.’
‘But, good Lord, man, Jon’s aiming for Cambridge, law, that sort of thing …’ Jon’s father began, his already florid complexion taking on a cerise flush.
‘Jon?’ Mr Ellwood turned to Jon with a somewhat surprised expression on his face.
‘I don’t want to go to university – it’s Dad’s idea,’ muttered Jon, his heart pounding. His father was not partial to being contradicted.
Mr Ellwood sighed inwardly. What on earth possessed this man to imagine that his son was Cambridge material? Jon was struggling on the academic front already and that was just with GCSEs. He took a deep breath.
‘Well, to be quite frank with you, Mr Joseph, Jon is not really an academically-inclined lad – and certainly not Cambridge standard, you know,’ he explained. ‘Whereas when it comes to art…’
‘Well, then, it’s up to you lot to make damn sure he becomes Cambridge standard, then, isn’t it? What in the blazes do you think I am pouring out all this money for? Flaming art college? If he was going to art college, he might as well be at the local comprehensive.’
‘I wish I was,’Jon heard his voice say, to his extreme surprise.
‘JON!’ his father expostulated.
By now, three quarters of the room were casting sideways glances at the gesticulating Mr Joseph. Jon lowered his eyes and prayed that the floor would open and swallow his father up.
‘Mr Joseph,’ said Mr Ellwood, mentally counting to ten, ‘Jon could go a long way in the art world. He shows great promise. As you know, he is studying GCSE art here at Bellborough, but when it comes to A-level, he would have more opportunity of achieving his full potential in that field at a school with studios, pottery kilns, all the equipment he needs. And Bellborough is not that sort of school.’
‘This is preposterous,’ blustered Henry Joseph. He stood up and turned to Jon, beckoning him to leave. But Jon had already left.
‘Perhaps Mr Joseph,’ began Mr Ellwood,’I could show you something.’
Chapter Thirty Five
The Art of Compromise
Jon sat by the bike sheds feeling utterly fed up. When Sweaty had turned up trumps and said how good he was at art, he’d had a sudden burst of hope. But of course, Dad had to go blustering on about what he thought and what he wanted and they hadn’t got anywhere.
He knew he wasn’t clever – he just about managed, but that was only because he worked flat out. All he wanted to do was design, draw, paint.
He thought about what that girl Sumitha had said – ’Go for it – they’ll come round in the end.’ For a few days, he had believed her. Well, she’d been wrong, hadn’t she? And for a brief spell, he thought his mother was going to talk Dad round. He wished he had more guts, bit like the girl he’d knocked off that bike. I bet she would have stood up for herself, he thought, grinning at the memory of her holding forth in the middle of Billing Hill. I bet when she wants something she just goes out and gets it, he thought.
‘We’re going, Jon.’ His father emerged from behind the science block. Jon thought he looked somewhat subdued. They walked to the car in silence.
When they were in the car, his father coughed, looked at Jon and coughed again.’You didn’t say anything about doing a cover for the school magazine,’ he said.
‘There didn’t seem much point,’ said Jon. After all, magazine covers don’t count for Cambridge entrance, so I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘Mr Ellwood showed it to me – it’s pretty damn good.’ Mr Joseph gave Jon a half-smile.
‘Thanks,’said Jon.
‘He showed me those caricatures of politicians you did, too, and your design for the scenery in the school play. Pretty hot stuff. Look, I…well, I think you are wrong. In fact, I think you are mad. But, if you really are set on this art caper, I suppose I shouldn’t stop you.’ ‘Really? You mean, I can drop chemistry and …’ ‘Hang on, hang on. Now look, I still think that in a year or so, all this will be water under the bridge and you will be realising that art college will be a waste of your brain. Because you do have a brain, whatever they say. But – well, if you want to switch to Lee Hill and take ceramics and art and all that bunkum once your GCSEs are over – and your mother seems to think that’s what you should do – well, I suppose I’ll agree.’ ‘Dad – that’s wonderful!’
‘But on one condition. You still study hard at the academic stuff for these exams and you try to keep an open mind.’
Yes, Dad,’ said Jon dutifully ‘And – thanks. Dad. I know you are disappointed in me.’
His father coughed again. ‘No, no – I’m not. In fact, when I saw that drawing you did, I was pretty damned proud. I wonder where you get it from? I never could draw. Wonder what the chaps at the club would say if my son became cartoonist for the Daily Telegraph?’ he mused.
Chapter Thirty Six
Designs on Dress
LEE HILL SCHOOL
WESTON WAY LEEHAMPTON
Parents’ Evening – Years Nine and Ten
All parents are reminded of the Parents’ Evening to be held on Friday, July 7th at 7 pm. This evening is for parents and guardians and pupils. Brothers and sisters are not permitted to attend.
Tea and light refreshments will be available, proceeds to the Tennis Court Resurfacing Fund.
Signed
Rachel Hopkirk
Head of Studies
Ginny was not really in the mood for a Parents’ Evening. She hadn’t heard a word from Warwick since he left for Indonesia and she was worried about him. He might phone this evening and then she would miss him. And to make matters worse, Chelsea was hovering round her while she changed.
‘Mum – if you wear that, I stay at home,’ declared Chelsea.
Ginny sighed. ‘Mum, did you hear what I said?’ Chelsea repeated.
‘Oh, Chelsea, what is the matter with you?’ said her mother. ‘What is wrong with this suit?’
‘Mothers don’t wear shorts suits. Not normal mothers anyway. Not mothers with knobbly veins at the backs of their knees.’
‘Oh my God, where?’
‘Only a little one,’ appeased Chelsea. ‘But please, Mum. Take those shorts off and put a skirt on. Please. For me.’
Ginny was not the only mother being subjected to scrutiny. Jemma had made her mother remove her navy cord skirt and put on her best cream suit, and Laura was lecturing her mother on topics she had to avoid.
‘Don’t talk about anything embarrassing, will you?’ she said. ‘Don’t go on about Melvyn and you, or about Dad and the Bestial B, or the house …’
‘Laura, I am going to school to discuss YOU. Your ability or otherwise in maths, French, history – not to hold forth about our private business. Remember, it’s not me who washes our dirty linen in public.’
‘Oh that’s right, rake up the past, throw my mistakes in my face, why don’t you? Just say the bare minimum, OK?’ demanded Laura.
‘Mum,’ said Sumitha,’Dad won’t make a scene at Parents’ Evening, will he?’
‘Why should he?’ asked her mother.
‘Well, he’s still cross about my hair, isn’t he? If he says anything at school…’
‘Of course he won’t – after all, it wasn’t the teachers who cut your hair, was it?’
‘No – but I don’t want him to go on about discipline and English kids and …’
‘Sumitha,’ said her mother, ‘your father will be fine. Trust me.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
Mrs Banerji wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Mums 2 Teachers 0
In the event, the four girls returned home from the Parents’ Evening in varying degrees of shock and amazement.
Laura’s mother had taken on the might of Miss Hopkirk, who had been endeavouring to teach English to Years Eight through Twelve since the Middle Ages and looked like an undernourished weasel.
She had declared that Laura’s work had dropped off in recent months, but that of course she wouldn’t blame Laura. ‘After all,’ she said coyly, ‘she is merely a victim. Such difficulties for a young person to handle.’
Mrs Turnbull, who was pre-menstrual and whose waistband was digging into her flesh, reminding her at three-minute intervals that the Hip and Thigh Diet called, said,’And what difficulties are those, Miss Hopkirk?’
Miss Hopkirk threw a sidelong glance at Laura. ‘Well, the – er, the – at this age – er – one doesn’t like to dwell, but er – the domestic upheavals are obviously taking their toll. One parent, you know…’
At this point, Ruth’s hormones staged a walk-out. ‘Are you implying. Miss Hopkirk, that my daughter’s falling marks are my fault? That I am wholly to blame for a decline in grammatical standards? Do I write her confounded essays? Am I responsible for late homework? Perhaps, Miss Hopkirk, I am also the cause of global warming, rising prices…’
‘Mum!’ hissed Laura.
‘Oh, Mrs Turnbull,’ Miss Hopkirk’s neck elongated itself in fury and turned a livid shade of violet, ‘I only meant that since Laura has lost a parent, she…’
> ‘No, you listen. Miss Hopkirk. Laura has not lost a parent. She has not even temporarily mislaid one. Her father is alive and well and sees her regularly.’
‘Oh yes, but…’
‘But nothing!’ snapped Mrs Turnbull. ‘Laura is a great kid. Most of the time she does her best. She is loved by me, by her father, by her whole family. If her work has dropped off, could it possibly be because she finds your teaching uninspiring? Or because she is a normal teenager who spends three hours on the telephone and ten minutes doing homework? Whatever the cause, we will sort it out. Laura and me. And her father. Without nasty insinuations from dried up old spinsters like yourself. Good evening!’
Laura was lost for words.
Miss Hopkirk had a hot flush, two Anadin and a cup of tea and settled down to see that nice Mrs Gee from the newspaper. At least there was a mother who knew what was what.
‘It is surprising, Mrs Gee, that with a mother as talented as yourself, Chelsea produces some very mediocre English literature critiques,’ she simpered.
‘Miss Hopkirk, my daughter is a person. She is not a carbon copy of me, nor would she want to be. Chelsea is brilliant at science, she doesn’t faint at the sight of blood as her mother does, she can add up and get the right answer first time and she is going to be a vet. I do not believe, Miss Hopkirk, that when splinting the leg of an Alsatian, one needs the ability to analyse Dickens’s use of the past participle. Good evening!’
Miss Hopkirk had another cup of tea and a sniff of lavender oil to calm her nerves. Modern parents had no idea.
‘Jemma’s grasp of languages is excellent,’ said Mr Horage, flicking through a folder of French and German essays and wondering why Mrs Farrant was wearing what appeared to be a wedding suit to Parents’ Evening. ‘Really excellent.’
Jemma grinned. Mrs Farrant looked suitably impressed.
‘And, of course, Jemma will benefit enormously from the forthcoming trip to Paris,’ he said.
Jemma’s heart missed a beat.
Mrs Farrant said ‘Paris?’ in tones of one trying to translate Arabic.
Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum! Page 11
