by Hatch, Ben
‘No,’ I say, and outside looking up at the window I see Mrs Randall holding Charlie. But he won’t look at me. His face is buried in her shoulder.
Numbed, I drive to Phoebe’s school off Church Road in Hove. I don’t really hear what she’s saying. I’m thinking about Charlie. I find a space. I turn the engine off. It’s five minutes before the gate opens.
‘Do you want a little chat?’ I ask Phoebe.
I undo her belt. She climbs forward to sit beside me in the passenger seat.
‘What shall we chat about?’ she says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not school.’
‘OK.’
‘I know, what about my new shoes?’ she says.
In the heel of each of her black shoes there’s a toy – a little doll in one and a plastic cat in the other. I bought them for her in Lymington. She takes off her shoe and lifts the red flap inside the heel and reaches into it and takes out the doll.
‘I’ll have the doll,’ she says.
She takes off the other shoe and takes out the cat.
‘You have her cat.’
She hands me the cat.
Through the windscreen I watch children file past holding the hands of their mothers. There are several very small ones in sparkling uniforms that must be in Phoebe’s reception year. We play with the doll and the cat. Phoebe races the doll up the seat like it’s a cliff face. It falls off and my cat helps it back up. When it’s a couple of minutes to, Phoebe says very seriously, ‘Daddy, I think we should put the toys back in my shoes in case we forget them.’
I hand her back the cat. She puts it and the doll back in her shoes. Phoebe fastens them.
‘There,’ she says.
‘Are you ready, pops?’
‘Not yet.’
She puts her thumb in, leans into me. I stroke her hair. We watch children going in. Phoebe makes remarks.
‘I like her hat.’
‘That’s a big lunch box.’
Eventually she nods at the door.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to be late, Daddy.’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’
‘Did you forget I was going to school?’
‘Yes,’ I lie.
I open the door and grab her stuff – her book bag, her sandwich box, the PE kit and her water bottle. She climbs out. We walk from the car park to the school entrance holding hands. With her cold tiny hand in mine, every time she says something cute I feel myself about to go.
‘I wonder if there’ll be a hopping club. I haven’t told you about my old hopping club,’ she says.
‘No, you haven’t. What is it?’
‘Well, it’s a club and we hop.’
‘I see.’
‘It was in my old nursery, Daddy. Jessie didn’t want to play. She played with someone else but if she wanted to hop she could. In hoping club you don’t have to do it all the time. You can do it if you want and not do it if you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter – you’re still in hopping club.’
‘It sounds great, hopping club.’
‘It’s just hopping club, Daddy.’
At the gate, amongst the scrum of goodbyes, I remind her she’s got her favourite tea tonight.
‘I know, Mummy told me already.’
She pulls an exasperated face.
‘Give me a kiss, pops.’
I bend down and kiss the side of her face. I hand over her book bag, her lunch box, the PE kit and her water.
‘Daddeeeee!’ she says.
I bend down. She twists my head so she’s talking in my ear.
‘I can play with Mr Nobody,’ she says, smiling.
I stand up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If I can’t find anyone to play with. I can play with Mr Nobody.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Daddeeee!’
I bend down again.
‘Cuddle,’ she whispers in my ear.
I cuddle her. I whisper in her ear. ‘I love you.’
There are older children lined up the other side of the gate.
The teacher bends down, puts her hands on her knees, and asks Phoebe’s name. Chewing the end of her water bottle self-consciously Phoebe whispers it. The teacher bends down again and cocks an ear. Phoebe says it again.
‘Well, Phoebe, this is Ella,’ says the teacher. ‘She’s in year six. She will take you to your classroom.’
Ella takes Phoebe’s hand. The teacher smiles and holds her heart at me and Phoebe walks into the playground with Ella. I watch her go. I watch her until she’s round the bend and out of sight. She doesn’t look round once. I walk back to the car through the knot of children arriving. My little girl, my tiny little girl is in school. I drive home saying it over and over to myself: my tiny little girl is in school. In the house Dinah’s waiting for me in the kitchen.
‘Well?’
‘She was great.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Not so good.’
‘What about you?’
‘Not so good.’
‘Come here.’
And when Dinah hugs me I can’t hold it in. Great fat tears bubble up and explode from my face. Dinah tries to pull me back. But I press my face further into her shoulder.
‘You’re picking them up at lunchtime!’
Phoebe’s only doing half days for the first term. The same hours Charlie’s starting at.
‘I know. But…’
‘She’ll be bossing them around in no time,’ says Dinah. ‘Put that kettle on. Mary called by the way. She’s coming this weekend. I’ve booked the Ginger Man restaurant.’
‘Good.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
I put the kettle on. Dinah returns to the study and when I come in to give her the cup of tea, I say, ‘Listen, I know it’s too early and not a great time to suggest it but you know how long it takes to plan.’
‘Oh God, what?’ says Dinah.
‘We’d do it differently. Less driving. Not so many one nights at places. And obviously we wouldn’t have so long. But take the whole summer off again. What do you think? Frommer’s: France with Your Family? Surely nothing can go as wrong next time.’
The draft guidebook copy sections in this book were not ultimately used by Frommer’s in this form. The guidebook was published as Frommer’s England with Your Family (Wiley, 2010).
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Jennifer for suggesting I write this book, Mark Henshall for his support and encouragement, Anna for all her help and patience, and my two kids, Charlie and Phoebe, for going along with it all.
Have you enjoyed this book?
If so, why not write a review on your favourite website?
Thanks very much for buying this Summersdale book.
www.summersdale.com
