The Little Things

by Jane Costello

  I drive round the block twice before securing a non-prohibited parking place, drop him off, then rocket two streets away to the twins’ infant school, where parking spaces are in equally short supply. This time I have the added joy of battling with a pushchair you’d need a PhD in applied engineering to construct.

  I race to the school gates with one twin on either side of the buggy and have them successfully dropped off, when I finally take a deep breath and try and compose myself.

  ‘Things can only get better, eh, Ol?’ I say, peering into the pushchair.

  At which point he vomits on his sweatshirt.

  Chapter 4

  The rest of the day shows little improvement. I never thought stay-at-home mums had it easy – not ever. But you can’t appreciate how not easy until you’ve attempted this stuff yourself. Having cleaned up Ollie using an entire pack of baby wipes unearthed from the glove compartment, given him a drink and wrestled him back into the car, I drive home buzzing with a queasy adrenalin. Then I pull into the driveway, turn round and find him asleep – except that I know from Suzy’s instructions that he never sleeps at this time of day, only after lunch.

  I try to wake him, gently at first, by calling his name and nudging his shoulder. Then I unstrap him and lift him from the car, increasing the shrillness and volume as I jiggle him up and down.

  But, after a few minutes, I realise with a stab of despair that nothing is going to wake him. Panic rises up in me as I put together the pieces of this morning’s jigsaw: how inconsolable he was, the pungency of his nappy, the vomiting, and now this – overwhelming lethargy.

  He’s unwell – clearly – but I have no idea what the hell it is kids get these days. Meningitis? Measles? Diphtheria? I strap him back into the car seat, my head swimming as I Google his symptoms on my phone and am confronted with a list of medical possibilities that each contain more syllables than a Greek dictionary. I briefly consider phoning Suzy, then an ambulance, but, deciding not to waste precious time, I race round to the driver’s seat again.

  By the time we reach Alder Hey Children’s Hospital twenty minutes later, I am again dripping with sweat and muttering a succession of prayers that involve my promising to live a life of devout restraint if only my poor nephew is allowed to live! Our stumble into A&E is like the closing scene of a disaster movie, Ollie deathly pale and immobile in my arms.

  ‘I NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR!’

  The receptionist looks up and concern flickers to her brow, enhancing my certainty that something’s very wrong. We’ll get you in ASAP, love,’ she reassures me, taking down some rudimentary details before bustling me straight into triage.

  I am midway through recounting to the nurse the full, dramatic detail of Ollie’s deterioration, when he wakes up. She leans in and beams at him.

  ‘Hello, you!’ she singsongs. ‘Have you been scaring your poor auntie to death?’ He gurgles contentedly and grins back. ‘Let’s just give you a little check over, shall we?’

  Ollie’s basic observations are normal, so we are sent to a waiting room, where we sit for two and a half hours to see a doctor – with only my car keys and some bacon crisps from a vending machine by way of entertainment.

  It strikes me during this time that Ollie couldn’t look more happy and healthy if he were starring in an advert for a Center Parcs holiday. But I can’t take any chances, not on my first day.

  The doctor who finally sees him confirms that the vomiting was ‘one of those things’, that he fell asleep probably because he’d been up all night and that I should simply keep an eye on him and make sure he has lots of water. I emerge from the hospital fizzing with relief and, despite the staff’s reassurances that it’s always better to get things checked out, unable to shake the feeling that they must think I’m a raging neurotic with a serious perspiration problem.

  The living room is devastated when we return and it takes an hour and a half for me to tackle it, with Ollie plonked in front of Peppa Pig. I resolve not to mention to Suzy that I let the permitted ten minutes a day of television slide; I’ll have enough to confess when I fill her in on the Alder Hey trip.

  I consider sitting down for a cup of tea, but guiltily realise that the Peppa Pig marathon I’ve just enforced on Ollie is the equivalent of my sitting in front of all five seasons of Breaking Bad in one weekend. So I decide to do something creative with him, which I know is a phrase Suzy and Justin approve of.

  I scan the room, looking for ideas, when it hits me: we can paint! All kids love painting – and this has the added benefit of leaving us with something to show for my efforts.

  I go into this strategy with my eyes wide open, by the way: I know that paint plus toddler can be a messy affair. But I’m not stupid, you see: I’m going to prepare for the worst. I cover the entire floor area of the living room with yesterday’s Guardian, Sellotaping it down forensically into every corner. I dig out some overalls to protect Ollie’s clothes and, when there is literally nothing left uncovered, the paints come out.

  At the risk of sounding self-congratulatory, they are a roaring success.

  Okay, we don’t produce anything worthy of the Saatchi Gallery – there’s only so much you can do with half a potato – but in twenty fun-packed minutes we manage to produce almost thirty pictures, which is a hell of a work rate.

  We’ve started experimenting with hand painting when the phone rings. I glance at the screen and realise it’s James. The thought of talking to a living breathing grown-up is just too much to resist. Holding Ollie’s picture still with one hand, I answer the phone with the other.

  ‘Hello beautiful,’ he says.

  ‘Oh God, it’s so good to hear your voice,’ I hear myself reply.

  He laughs. ‘How’s your first morning been?’

  ‘Eventful,’ I reply, before filling him in on the catalogue of mayhem. It strikes me, as I’m recounting how I discovered six pieces of jammy toast stuck to the window of the car, that this might be a little boring. ‘Sorry – I’ll shut up now,’ I mumble.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he reassures me. ‘I like hearing what you’re up to.’

  ‘I seriously miss you, James,’ I confess.

  ‘I miss you too. Dubai will never feel right without you here.’

  ‘I bet that’s not true,’ I protest, secretly a bit pleased at the thought.

  ‘Well, it is. God, there are so many parties, Hannah. I’m having to work twice as hard in the gym just to keep on top of it all.’

  ‘And how’s the job itself?’ I ask, feeling my throat tighten slightly.

  ‘Hectic. I’m about to appoint a PR company and am torn between three. It’s one of those times, you know, when you really could do with a second opinion.’

  ‘I’d be happy to take a look at their applications if you’d like,’ I blurt out, then pull back. ‘Only if you want me to, of course. I mean, it’s none of my business, I know, and—’

  ‘Hannah, don’t be silly,’ he interrupts. ‘I’d love your opinion.’

  ‘You’re not just humouring me?’

  ‘I promise I’m not.’

  ‘Because if you’re only trying to reassure me that I could be a valuable contribution to a marketing department, even if my days in the immediate future involve being knee deep in poo and paint . . .’

  It’s at that point that I realise I’ve been looking wistfully out of the window – and not at Ollie. I must’ve glanced away for only seconds, half a minute at most. But in that time he has toddled to the television and is in the process of painting the screen bright red.

  ‘OLLIE!’ I shriek, dropping the phone as I dart towards him. When he turns round, it is like the scene from a horror movie involving a devil creature that takes possession of small children.

  I start to try to wrestle the paintbrush from him, but he responds with one of his almighty fits, flinging himself on the floor and screaming as if he’s trying to break the windows through the power of sound alone.

  I finally get the brush off him –
but not before splattering myself with paint – when I realise that James is still hanging on the phone. I pick it up breathlessly. ‘I need to go – but send those PR applications through.’

  ‘Hannah, honestly don’t worry about it. It sounds like you’ve got your hands full.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly – I’d love to help!’ I trill helplessly. ‘Love you!’

  ‘I love you too, darling. More than I can sa—’ I slam down the phone and grab the pot of brown paint water from Ollie before he manages to drink it.

  Chapter 5

  I curl up on the sofa and start to look at the PR briefs when Ollie finally goes down for his nap, two hours after he’s supposed to. The first is dreadful – I’m amazed James shortlisted it – and even more amazed that he’s underlined bits, adding an enthusiastic ‘FAB IDEA!’ in the margin.

  I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it is I decide to rest my eyes – just for five minutes or so. All I know is that I wake to the sound of Ollie shrieking through the monitor as if a yeti had emerged from his wardrobe and asked if he has the time.

  I race upstairs to bring him down for a drink and a snack and it’s as I’m slicing a banana that I glance at the clock – and realise I should be outside Noah and Leo’s school in about seventeen minutes.

  ‘Arghhh!’ I shriek, grabbing my car keys, bag and phone and darting out of the house. I click the lock on the car and have an overwhelming feeling I’ve forgotten something – then realise it’s Ollie.

  Having darted back for him, I almost manage to make it to school on time. I would do too if I hadn’t realised I forgot the snack and the drink Suzy instructed me to take before karate. I pull up in the forecourt of a Spar, unstrap Ollie, grab the first three limp sausage rolls I can find, along with three Froot Shoots, before buying them, strapping him back in and diving back in the car.

  I have to park miles away, so am about six minutes late with the school door in my sights as I speed across the playground so fast that Ollie’s cheeks are pulled back against the wind as if he’d had a facelift.

  I make my apologies to Noah and Leo’s form teacher, before grabbing both children and walking coolly away from the school, my heart thundering at the thought that I’ve got to get them changed and to karate in less than twenty minutes.

  I turn the corner, out of the teacher’s sight line, and holler, ‘RUN, CHILDREN!’

  The kids continue to dawdle behind me without a care in the world. ‘WE NEED TO GET TO KARATE!’

  ‘Did you get us a snack, Auntie Hannah?’ asks Leo.

  Not prepared to waste time, I reach in my bag to grab two sausage rolls, spin round and shout, ‘CATCH!’ Leo looks up as I throw the first in his direction, leaps to catch it successfully, and grins in satisfaction. ‘Wow! Great catch! Ready, Noah?’ I ask, flinging the next one.

  I’ve never been brilliant at sports, aside from a brief, unglittering career in the school rounders team. And my throw is a perfect illustration of why.

  Instead of landing in Noah’s cupped hands, my aim goes hopelessly awry and the sausage roll hurtles over his head in the direction of another, significantly smaller, child. There is literally nothing I can do to stop it thumping him on the nose with an unceremonious splat. He promptly bursts into tears.

  I’m no expert, but I feel immediately certain that assaulting someone else’s five-year-old with a sausage roll is probably not the done thing.

  ‘I am so sorry!’ I bluster, rushing over to the little boy, scooping up the sausage roll. ‘I am really, really sorry.’

  His dad is standing next to him, quietly seething. ‘What was that?’

  I straighten up. ‘What?’ I ask shiftily.

  ‘Whatever you threw at my son’s face?’

  The guy looks to be in his early thirties and is nice to look at, in a hot-bloke-next-door type of way. In the gush of first impressions I try to work out who he reminds me of, realising a split second later it’s an actor from Doctors (though far from my favourite).

  ‘I didn’t throw it at your son’s face. At least I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’

  ‘Okay. But what was it?’

  I wonder if there’s an easy way to say this. ‘A sausage roll,’ I mumble, proving that there apparently isn’t.

  His lips tighten. ‘Why would you throw a sausage roll at Nathan?’

  ‘He wasn’t the target!’ I reply, feeling on the verge of sanity now. ‘God Almighty!’ I bluster. ‘Can a woman not just throw a sausage roll these days without being accused of abuse?’

  I spin round to check on Leo and Noah and register the silent mortification in their eyes. The thought that they’re embarrassed makes me feel the need to underline my point. ‘Seriously, it was only a sausage roll.’ Nathan stops crying and glares at me. ‘But for the record . . .’ I bend down and plead with him softly. ‘Again. I really am sorry.’

  His dad clutches Nathan’s hand. It’s only as I stand up that I register how tall he is – six foot one or two with a crop of dark-brown hair, a strong jaw and paradoxically long eyelashes. His shoulders seem to relax slightly. ‘I think he’ll live, don’t worry,’ he concedes. ‘He just got a bit of a shock, didn’t you, Nathan?’

  There’s something about the way he says this that makes me feel like he’s being smug, though I can’t entirely decide whether I’m gleaning this conclusion from my unfaltering dislike of the Doctors guy.

  Either way, Nathan huddles behind his dad.

  ‘Would you like some sweets to make up for it?’ I offer, removing the Haribos from my pocket that I confiscated from Max on the way to school. I extend my arm to him as I notice his dad stiffen. The little boy goes to take one when I realise my faux pas. ‘Oh, God, sorry! SORRY! It’s before dinnertime. Sorry, but you can’t have them,’ I tell Nathan. ‘Your dad says.’

  The guy sighs. If there is a time when I’ve felt like a greater moron I can’t recall it. ‘You’d better let him have one now,’ he tells me. ‘As long as you don’t mind. Just one, though. Say thank you, Nathan.’ He glances at me awkwardly. ‘We’d better go.’

  And, as he picks up Nathan’s school bag, I reassure myself that I don’t necessarily have to see this man ever again. Even accounting for the fact that this is the twenty-first century, the dads on pickup duty are still – just – in a minority. So this could be a one-off. And, if it isn’t, there’s always the shrubbery for me to hide in. ‘Sorry again,’ I mutter.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay.’ He shrugs. ‘Come on Nathan, or we’ll be late for karate.’

  Smug Dad is already at karate by the time we stumble into the church hall covered in sausage-roll flakes and Froot Shoot spillages. I stay for ten minutes – hovering at the door to check that the twins are settled in – before going to pick up Max from his after-school drama class. I sigh with relief when I remember that Suzy will collect the twins after their karate class on her way home from work.

  I note with reluctant interest that Smug Dad has a book with him. It’s got a dark cover, so it’s either a thriller or Fifty Shades of Grey, even if I can’t imagine his being enthralled by Anastasia Steele’s antics (though I might be wrong).

  He doesn’t open it, whatever it is. He’s too enthralled in watching Nathan and the other children as they giggle and play one minute, then fall under a miraculous spell of concentration seemingly at a click of the sensei’s fingers.

  He’s difficult not to look at for some reason, especially when he smiles at his son, so I force myself to be distracted by Ollie instead, who wants to copy the big boys by jumping around.

  And at least he doesn’t look back at me, not, that is, until I get up to go. At which point it feels as though his eyes are burning into my skin, leaving me unduly flustered and with a pink glow flourishing on my cheeks.

  I tell myself not to look up at him but, idiot that I am, I can’t stop myself. And when our eyes connect for that fraction of a second – and he lifts up his hand to wave – there is a swoop in my stomach that makes the colour in my cheeks
deepen, followed swiftly by an urgent desire to get out of here.

  Suzy arrives home with the twins at just gone 6 p.m., just after I’ve dished up Max’s dinner. I couldn’t tell you why I greet her with the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘Oh, my God! I’m so happy to see you.’

  Her eyes enlarge. ‘What happened? Have they been that bad?’

  I let out a long breath and pull myself together. ‘Actually, no, they’ve been good,’ I tell her, realising that this – the truth – is almost worse than having to report bad behaviour. The fact that they’ve been impeccable and I still feel as if I’d been through a marines’ assault course doesn’t bode well.

  ‘Well, they look it.’ She grins. ‘It’s never usually this peaceful, Hannah. Who are these imposters and where have you put my real children?’

  I allow myself a small swell of pride. Because I did it: I got to the end of the day. I keep that thought with me at 9 p.m. as I climb into the bed that might just be the most uncomfortable thing in the known universe. But it doesn’t matter. Because I spend the next ten hours in a coma.

  Chapter 6

  I’d love to say the next three weeks get easier, but that would be a big fat lie. The thought that I’ve plummeted from being the sort of person who prided herself on her efficiency and drive to never being on time for anything is more demoralising than I can express.

  I make blunders daily, forgetting to tell Suzy about orchestra practice, leaving permission slips in the car. Then failing to organise costumes for the twins on World Book Day until I spot it on the notice board the day before. At which point, all we’ve got time to conjure up is two versions of Fantastic Mr Fox – using waistcoats pilfered from Justin’s three-piece suits, an entire box of Benefit World Famous Neutrals eye shadow and a couple of fluorescent feather dusters, which make for the most psychedelic of tails.

  I also cannot acclimatise myself to how horrendous the roads are within a 100-metre radius of the school. It’s like some weird, twilight zone that turns drivers into dead-eyed zombies, prepared to plough each other down without a thought for the fate of humankind.