by Gil McNeil
Everyone else seems to have gone for variations on the long-dresses theme, with a few cotton pinnies, and Jane Johnson and Tina Davies have joined us with long floral skirts, but they’ve sensibly chosen white pin-tucked blouses rather than milkmaid décolletage. And then there’s Mrs Denning, who’s also Annabel’s friend, wearing her Victorian bathing costume, which is particularly brave of her given the size of her bottom; horizontal stripes are terribly unforgiving.
Annabel has kitted herself out with a megaphone, and looks very pleased with the size of the crowd as she opens the gates.
Mark and the kids make straight for the bouncy castle.
‘Hello, Mrs Marwell.’
‘Hello, dear. How much are these flamencos?’ She holds up a pair of pink plastic flamingos.
‘Everything’s £2, but you get a go on our lucky dip, and you can win the shawl, or a box of cakes.’
Mark’s made us a box of cakes, which is waiting for the lucky winner in a white cardboard box under the table in the shade, and we’ve put Grace’s shawl up on a box in the middle of our table, covered in gold tissue paper. The combination of sheer chiffon and beautiful silver beading looks dazzling in the sunshine.
‘What sort of cake is it, dear?’
‘Hazelnut and white chocolate ones, and meringues.’
‘I’m not that keen on nuts – they get under my teeth, but go on then, since it’s for a good cause.’
She hands me a fiver, and I hand her back £4 in her change; she’s always knitting for charity and I know her pension doesn’t leave her much spare, and she won’t notice the bonus in her change, she never does.
‘Did I win then?’
‘You have to unfold a ticket from the glass bowl.’
She doesn’t win, but she’s very happy with the flamingos, which are destined to stand next to the gnomes by her pond. She thinks they’ll scare off the herons.
‘Are there lots of herons round here then?’
‘Yes, and they’re right little Bs, excuse my French – have all your goldfish if you let them. I tell them every morning when I’m feeding them, keep down at the bottom, but I lost two last week.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the new school flag, dear. Mrs Pickering was telling me all about it. Lovely to get the kiddies knitting – we all did it in my day. Well, the girls, of course. There’d have been a big fuss if you’d asked the boys to join in. Not like nowadays. Anyway, see you later.’
We’re unpacking more bric-à-brac and trying to arrange it attractively, which isn’t easy, as the crowd builds up. Connie’s been telling everyone Grace wore the shawl to a film premiere, which for all I know she may have done, and we’re running out of our stock of old carrier bags as people buy two or three things in an effort to win it.
The big china bowl where we’ve put the folded-up raffle tickets is getting emptier by the minute, when Jane Johnson wins the box of cakes. She’s thrilled, and says it’s the first time she’s won anything in five years of working at the school in the office, and I’m really pleased for her, but if the shawl goes soon we’ll be stuck trying to flog a load of old tat with no bonus items. Damn; we should have thought of that.
Gran arrives with Reg and Betty, and brings us over a cup of tea. Mark’s on the field behind the playground playing an impromptu game of football, and hordes of children seem to have attached themselves to him for the afternoon, including Trent Carter and Kyle, who are in goal between piles of jumpers. He waves at us, looking rather panicky, which makes Connie laugh.
‘Should we get someone to rescue him, Con?’
‘No, he likes it.’
Mr O’Brien comes over and compliments us on the woolly elephants, which are selling really well, before heading off to the playing field with his whistle to join in the fun as Martin turns up with Elsie and Trevor, and the football game gets two more players, one of whom runs off with the ball and has to be chased right across the field.
Mr Nelson comes over to look at a wooden box with a broken lid again, and stares at Connie’s chest very hard until she does a little jiggle that makes him retire rather speedily, sweating profusely. I get the last of the bags in from the car. Cracked-glass butter dish, anybody?
I’m selling the last knitted elephant to a small girl from Archie’s class who he insists on calling Nettle, which can’t be right so I’m trying to hear what her mum calls her, as Mrs Pickering, everyone’s favourite school-dinner lady, unfolds her ticket and wins the shawl.
‘But I never win things.’
Connie smiles.
‘Let me put it on for you.’
Mrs Pickering drapes the shawl around her shoulders as she wanders off in a daze to show her husband.
Connie starts putting the last few things on the table back into one of the big cardboard boxes.
‘I think we are finished now, yes?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What shall we do with these?’
‘Stick them in my car, and I’ll put them into recycling next time I’m at Sainsbury’s.’
‘Brava.’
‘It was so great that Mrs Pickering got the shawl.’
‘Yes.’
‘Connie?’
‘I helped a little bit.’
Ten minutes later we’ve stashed the leftover boxes of tat in my car and I’m standing on the stage next to Annabel, who’s edging forwards as Mr O’Brien draws the raffles and hands out bottles of wine and boxes of chocolates. Mrs Nelson comes up the steps and hands him a slip of paper, looking rather grim-faced, and he announces that the total raised for school funds today looks like being nearly £900, which is a record, and everyone claps.
‘And we must all give a special round of applause to Mrs Mackenzie and Mrs Maxwell for raising £217 on their white-elephant stall, which is another record.’
Everyone claps and Mark kisses Connie.
Annabel looks furious.
‘Now, before we go we’d like to unveil our new school banner. Over to you, Mrs Chambers.’
She helps two of the bigger boys from the top class wheel in a display board and lift it up the steps to the stage, and there’s a hush as she stands in front of it.
‘Thank you, Mr O’Brien. I think most of you know that we’ve been learning about knitting this term, and everyone has made something for our new banner. So before we admire their work I’d like to thank Mrs Mackenzie and everyone who’s been helping in our classrooms.’
There’s applause as the boys lift the sheet off the partition to reveal the new banner in all its glory. God, she must have spent hours sewing on more people and trees because there are no blank spaces any more, and someone, probably Mrs Pickering, has embroidered gold thread around the letters of the school name, and sewn on little glinting silver shapes on to the sea, and what look like green beads into the trees. It looks brilliant, and Mr O’Brien seems almost overwhelmed, and kisses us both.
Annabel’s got a face like thunder when we climb down from the stage but Mrs Chambers is beaming.
‘Isn’t it marvellous, something we can really be proud of, and everyone took part. Could you come to the staff room for a minute, only I forgot your flowers. I meant to give them to you to say thank you.’
‘You didn’t need to, honestly, I really enjoyed it.’
‘Well, good, because Mrs Pickering says she’s happy to help with the knitting as part of art on Wednesday afternoons, and we were both hoping you’d let us have some simple patterns she can use with the ones who’d like to knit.’
‘Of course I will.’
She’s showing me a book she’s bought on knitting with kids in the staff room when we hear Annabel and Mrs Nelson going into the secretary’s office next door.
‘They look like total sluts in those ridiculous outfits.’
There’s a thrilled gasp from Mrs Nelson.
‘I know. Isn’t it dreadful?’
‘I’m not surprised. That wool-shop woman’s always thought she�
�s better than the rest of us with her fancy friends. Of course illegitimate babies are obviously all the rage, so normal standards of decent behaviour don’t apply to her, apparently.’
Christ. Mrs Chambers looks terribly embarrassed as I stand up and walk towards the doorway carrying my bouquet of flowers.
Actually, as Ellen would say, fuck this.
‘Hello, Annabel. I thought it was you.’
Mrs Chambers is standing behind me, as Annabel falters; I think she’s desperately trying to work out if I’ve heard her, or more importantly if Mrs Chambers has.
‘I bet you’re pleased with how well everything’s gone today. You must remember to thank Connie.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Thank Mrs Maxwell. She did most of the work on our stall and her husband made the brilliant cakes. Such an important part of being the President of the PTA, thanking people for all their hard work. Don’t you think?’
Mrs Nelson looks positively frightened now as Annabel tries to rally.
‘Yes, of course. I always thank my team.’
‘Do you? I must have missed that bit. Anyway, I’d better go and find the kids. Oh and by the way, Annabel, nobody says illegitimate any more, unless they’re a total bigot, of course. Great outfit, although you do look a bit hot. That’s one advantage of dressing like a slut; it’s wonderfully cool.’
I walk back along the corridor towards the hall, feeling very very pleased with myself. I’m feeling shaken, but not really stirred, and for once in my life I’ve managed actually to say what I wanted to say, instead of thinking of it ten minutes later. And serve her right.
Mrs Chambers is smiling.
‘That was wonderful. Well done you.’
‘Cow.’
‘Precisely. I can’t wait to tell Mr O’Brien. It’s made my day.’
‘Mine too.’
We’re laughing as Annabel storms past us, looking livid, with Mrs Nelson trotting along behind her.
Shame.
* * *
Mark has to head back to the pub to get ready for the evening rush, so Martin and Reg walk home with the kids and Trevor, and I drive back with Connie and Gran. She’s made a summer pudding, and I’ve got cold chicken in the fridge so I’ve only got to make salads and boil some potatoes and we’ll be set.
‘Shall we eat in the garden?’
‘Lovely, pet – it’ll be nice and cool under the big tree.’
The boys are having a lovely time in the garden while Nellie plays in the tent, and we drink tea in the kitchen and make the salads.
I’ve rinsed out the cool bag back we had at school and I’m putting it back in the boot of the car when I notice Martin is tied to a tree in the front garden, with what looks like Trevor’s extendable dog lead.
‘Having fun?’
‘I’m a hostage.’
‘Right.’
‘Only I can’t actually move my hands, and I think they’ve sort of forgotten I’m the hostage. You couldn’t untie me?’
‘Why didn’t you shout?’
‘They were only playing.’
‘Martin.’
‘I was too embarrassed. I thought I’d undo it and slope back into the house, but I’ve only made the knot tighter.’
The little swines have wrapped the lead round his legs and the tree trunk, and then round his hands before knotting it.
Archie comes thundering through the side gate.
‘Mum, don’t let him free – he’s our prisoner.’
I carry on unravelling dog lead.
‘Don’t be silly, Archie. You can’t leave people tied to trees.’
Trevor’s running round us now, barking.
‘We’ll tie you up next.’
‘Oh no you won’t, not if you want any pudding tonight.’
He tuts.
‘Tea, Martin?’
‘Please. Or possibly something stronger.’
‘What, like for shock? Being taken hostage must have taken its toll.’
‘I think I’d prefer it if we never mentioned this again, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll think about it. What’s it worth?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For me not to tell your mum horrible big boys tied you to a tree?’ He shakes his head.
‘I’m never going to live this down, am I?’
‘All right, I promise, subject closed.’
‘Great.’
‘Come on, Houdini. You can help me lay the table.’
He sighs.
Supper is a triumph. We carry an odd assortment of chairs out into the garden, or rather Connie and Martin do, while Reg supervises. I’ve even found some candles, which we’ve stuck in plant pots, and Connie’s sprinkled rose petals on the tablecloth.
There’s an impromptu game of football after supper, and I’m having a quiet five minutes on the sofa before I make coffee; two helpings of summer pudding have put paid to there being any chance of me even managing to stand in goal.
When I wake up Gran’s sitting knitting, and it’s nearly dark.
‘The boys are in bed, pet – we didn’t like to wake you. Reg has gone back with Martin to see the barn. Sounds like it’s coming on a treat, doesn’t it? And Connie says she’ll call you tomorrow. I gave the boys a quick bath. Our Archie had ever so much ice cream in his hair – I don’t know how he does it.’
‘Thanks, Gran.’
‘Do you want a drink, pet?’
‘Please. What are you knitting?’
‘A blanket for the baby.’
‘Who’s had a baby?’
She looks at me.
‘Oh, right. Great.’
‘I’m making a few little things, so I can get ahead of myself.’
‘That sounds good.’
That’s what I need to be doing, getting ahead of myself instead of falling asleep on sofas when I’ve got people round for supper.
‘Tea?’
‘Lovely. I’ll do it. You stay there.’
Tea, at the end of a perfect day, when I finally got to tell Annabel Morgan to piss off, without actually using the words piss off. How perfect is that?
Chapter Six
August
Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax
The first week of the school holidays heralds the end of the heatwave, so I’ve been trying to think of things to do in the rain that don’t involve spending money or watching twelve hours of television every day. Olivia’s doing more days in the shop, and Betty’s standing in for Elsie when she has her week in Spain, so it’s all getting pretty complicated; and proper mothers have action-packed itineraries all worked out, with trips to museums with bloody worksheets prepared in advance, and all I’ve got is a new straw hat and some jelly shoes for the boys to wear in the sea. Still, we’ve made bread, and a rather disastrous fruit cake, and taken Trevor for damp walks on the beach, and by yesterday I was so desperate I even agreed to a treasure hunt, and had to spend ages writing out clues, which I’m crap at, followed by a mammoth post-treasure-hunt-putting-things-back-in-drawers session after Archie got a bit overenthusiastic. But at least all the towels are now neatly folded in the airing cupboard and Jack’s favourite Batman pyjamas have resurfaced.
Today is almost sunny, so we’ve got high hopes for today. Archie’s already wearing his snorkel: one of the great things about having a beach hut, or rather Gran having one, is that you can head off for a picnic without having half a hundredweight of assorted bags slung round your neck, while you try to carry fishing nets and buckets and spades without poking anybody’s eye out. Jack’s filling a carrier bag with plastic soldiers but everything else we need is already in the hut, apart from lunch, which I’m about to make: polenta and sun-dried tomatoes in a balsamic dressing anybody? Or possibly Babybels and KitKats.
Ellen calls while I’m buttering rolls.
‘How’s it going, darling?’
‘It’s the school holidays – how do you think it’s going?’
‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘What are you doing for your birthday? Shall I come down?’
‘I thought a picnic on the beach and a barbecue.’
‘In Broadgate?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked.’
‘What if it rains?’
‘Then it’ll be a picnic and barbecue in my kitchen.’
‘I can’t wait. Okay, count me in. I’ll bring Harry, if he’s around. He’s feeling pretty pleased with himself at the moment, now he’s passed all his tests.’
‘What tests?’
‘Didn’t I say? We had our appointment with the fertility guru, and everything’s fine.’
‘That’s brilliant.’
‘He says we should give it a year, relax and he’s sure we’ll get pregnant. God I hate the way they say that, we’re pregnant. It’s total bollocks. Or, we can start treatment now, and he’ll relieve me of the ten grand and we can buy one instead.’
‘That sounds hopeful.’
‘I know, but a year, they’ve got to be joking. And now I don’t know if I want one because I can’t have one, if you know what I mean. What if I get pregnant and have it and then realise I’m not really up for it? Christ, I don’t want to turn into a breeder just because I can. And trying to talk to Harry’s a complete waste of time. He just says he wants what I want. As if I knew – I’m so busy at work there’s never time to think properly about anything. They’re talking about me doing thirty-minute specials now.’
‘That’s great, Ellen.’
‘Yes, but not if I’m in a fucking smock, it won’t be.’
‘Why don’t you think about it when you’re on your sailing week?’
‘Luxury yachting, darling, please. I’m not climbing ropes, at least I hope I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ll have plenty of peace and quiet then.’
