Stand by Your Man

by Gil McNeil

  ‘Oh yes. And drums. Or violins. They’re the worst, I think – it goes right through you. We have to have a rota for our music assemblies at school, otherwise everyone just hides in the staff-room.’

  ‘I wish I could just hide somewhere – look at him. He’s using it as a sword now. Alfie, stop that. You can’t have a recorder if you’re going to be silly with it.’

  ‘Oh yes I can. Mrs Trent said I can have one, and she’s in charge.’

  ‘Get in the car. Now. Or there’ll be no cartoons.’

  ‘Yes, come on, Lily. Let’s go. Don’t do that, darling, you’ll frighten Jack.’

  ‘Alfie. I mean it.’

  I’ve just had a really good idea.

  ‘I know. Let’s go home and ring up Daddy, Alfie, and you can play him a lovely tune down the phone.’

  A trouble shared is a trouble halved. And anyway he was only telling me last weekend that I should be doing more to encourage Alfie’s creativity.

  11

  November

  Rocket Man

  Garden Diary

  Sow over-wintering varieties of vegetables. Prune shrubs. Protect any late vegetables with fleece in frosty weather.

  I go into a pruning frenzy with Frank and Mr Channing, who cut back all the bushes to small stumps. I can’t believe they’ll ever grow to full size again but they promise they will. We cut down the last of the herbs, and the smell is wonderful, and then we have another bonfire to get rid of all the pruned bits of bush, and I take the precaution of putting Alfie in his wellies, which he can’t actually get off without help, so that we don’t lose any more slippers. He wants to pretend we’re camping, and cook sausages by poking them into the fire on sticks, but since I know this will end in tears or food poisoning, and most likely both, I persuade him that frying the sausages indoors and then eating them outside will be just as good. It’s all going rather well until it starts to pour with rain, and Alfie drops his sausage in the mud. I try telling him that this makes it even more like proper camping but he’s furious and throws his fork into the bonfire.

  Alfie’s driving me crazy with his recorder. Mum doesn’t seem to mind, but if I have to hear ‘Little Donkey’ one more time I think I’m going to crack. Molly says the chickens all run inside the hen house whenever Lily starts to play, and I don’t blame them.

  The school’s planning a little concert for the end of term, which should be a laugh. They’re going for a modern theme and are putting on a musical extravaganza called Music From Around the World. Music to Drive You Round the Bend, more like it. Apparently the top class have got bongos, and Alfie’s very jealous. So that’s something to look forward to: bongos from year six, and ‘Little Sodding Donkey’ from reception.

  I’m on the parent-helper rota for Alfie’s class this afternoon, and I’m down to help with arts and crafts. I’m not really looking forward to it, to be honest, and Molly’s been giving me her top tips.

  ‘Wear clothing you can burn afterwards, and try to spot the trouble-maker as soon as you arrive.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that then?’

  ‘Oh it won’t be hard – believe me. It’ll probably be a boy, although girls can be lethal too. And he’ll be wandering about while everyone else is sitting down, and he won’t make direct eye-contact, or if he does he’ll just stare at you.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Just take him to one side and offer him a fiver if he cuts you some slack and behaves. That usually works.’

  ‘Thanks so much. That’s very encouraging.’

  ‘And if anyone sees you just tell them it’s positive-behaviour modification. That’ll shut them up.’

  Alfie’s nowhere to be seen when I arrive, and Mrs Trent says he’s making models with Miss Pilchester in the hall.

  ‘Do go and have a look, if you’d like to, before you start with your group. I thought papier mâché, they all enjoy it so much, and we’re making masks for our concert.’

  Oh how fabulous, papier mâché. My favourite. I wander along to the hall and only just manage to see Alfie, since he’s hidden behind the enormous box that he’s painting red. At least he’s got his painting pinny on, although he’s still got quite a lot of red paint on his trousers and shoes.

  ‘Hello, Mummy, look at my rocket.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  Miss Pilchester, who must be at least eighty and has been a general helper at the school for decades, seems to be having a lovely time. She’s sitting surrounded by pots of glue and lots of cardboard tubes and bits of shiny paper, cutting up a large sheet of black card.

  ‘I’m helping Emily make booster rockets.’

  ‘That’s very nice.’

  Christ. I don’t think I can do this.

  My group are all sitting waiting expectantly in their aprons when I get back to the classroom, and Mrs Trent’s already briefed them, and they’re raring to go.

  ‘Now, Beaver Group, say hello to Alfie’s mummy. She’s going to help you make your masks.’

  Bloody hell. Within five minutes there’s glue everywhere. I think one small boy’s actually stuck to his seat. We’re tearing up newspaper like our lives depend on it, and our balloons are deflating rapidly. They’re quite hard to keep hold of and keep shooting out of our hands and sticking to the floor, which requires lots of getting up and running round squealing. Mrs Trent’s already had to come over twice, to restore order, and Andrew’s already popped his balloon and had to start all over again.

  ‘When can we paint them?’

  ‘I think they have to dry first. Probably in a day or two.’

  ‘I’m going to do a tiger.’

  ‘That’ll be nice. What about you, Andrew?’

  ‘A larn.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Yes. A big larn to eat people right up.’

  A couple of the girls look rather worried.

  ‘It could be a nice lion, couldn’t it? Like Elsa in Born Free. Have you seen that film?’

  ‘Yes. But my dad says it’s crap.’

  ‘Oh, I quite liked it.’

  He gives me a pitying look.

  ‘My best film is Hannibal. He eats people, you know.’

  He treats us all to quite a good impression of Hannibal Lecter, and the girls look even more worried. Actually, I’m feeling slightly nervous myself. I wonder if I should offer to slip him the fiver now, or wait until later.

  ‘I think that’s just made up, to make the film more exciting. It isn’t real, you know.’

  ‘Yes it is. My dad says. He says they ought to bring back hanging. That’s when they kill you, on a bit of rope.’

  We’ve finally covered our balloons, clothing, chairs and most of the table with small pieces of newspaper soaked in glue, so I think we’re about done, when Mrs Trent claps her hands and says ‘Fingers On Lips, Everybody. Now.’ Some of my lot will probably get their fingers stuck to their mouths permanently.

  Everybody who’s finished tidying up has to sit on the mat and choose a book to read, quietly, and we have to be quiet little mice, and must tiptoe and make very tiny noises. So we all tiptoe about, until people start squeaking a bit too much, and Andrew says he’s going to be a rat and bite Louis, and then Mrs Trent finds a special job for him, helping her with the paint pots.

  Alfie comes back in with the rest of his group, and Miss Pilchester seems to have managed to get them all cleaned up and out of their aprons without any fuss at all, which is more than I can say for most of my group who are still trailing about with bits of newspaper. She helps me finish tidying while Mrs Trent sits down and starts reading them all a story.

  Just before home time she gives them all a leaflet from the Fire Brigade.

  ‘Now, everybody – Andrew, stop that, dear, that’s not very nice, is it – do you remember the lovely fireman who came to see us in assembly?’

  Yes, they do.

  ‘Well, he’s given us these leaflets to take home, to remind us. Sydney, if you keep doing that you’ll have to go and sit in
the home corner. To remind us all about how to be safe with fireworks. Can anybody remember some of the things he told us? Some of the things we have to remember not to do on Bonfire Night? Andrew, I hope you’re not being silly again.’

  Lots of little hands go up in the air.

  ‘George?’

  ‘Not to stick sparklers in your eye.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I think he said not to wave them about too much, didn’t he? Especially not near your face, or anybody else’s.’

  ‘Yes, and you’ve got to wear your gloves.’

  ‘Well done, George, that’s very good remembering. We must all wear our gloves, to keep our fingers safe. Anything else? Louis?’

  ‘You’re supposed to keep your fireworks with your biscuits?’

  ‘Very good. We have to keep our fireworks in a biscuit tin, not a cardboard box. Does anybody know why? Sydney, please stop wriggling and sit up properly. Tommy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know why we’re supposed to keep our fireworks in a biscuit tin?’

  ‘In case you want a biscuit?’

  One or two of the girls snigger, but Tommy doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘I like biscuits.’

  ‘That’s very nice, Tommy, but I think there’s another reason we’re supposed to keep our fireworks in a tin. Alfie, do you know why?’

  Oh dear.

  ‘Yes, so the box doesn’t catch on fire and blow you up, because it’s very hard to set fire to biscuit tins, unless you’ve got a bomb. If you’ve got a bomb you could blow it right up.’

  ‘Thank you, Alfie. Well done.’

  I feel quite proud of him – he must have been really listening to Fireman Sam in assembly. What a rotten job that must be, touring round schools talking to mixed infants and trying not to give them all nightmares. Unless you get to bring your fire engine, of course. I bet that goes down extremely well.

  ‘Let’s all line up nicely with our coats on now. Natasha, I don’t think you were first, were you? Go and sit back down on the mat. I think I’m going to choose people who are sitting nicely today, and the first person to go and get her coat and line up by the door can be Hannah.’

  Alfie and I talk about the firework leaflet on the way home, and I congratulate him on remembering about biscuit tins.

  ‘We can use our biscuit tin, can’t we, Mummy? And I can eat all the biscuits.’

  ‘We’re not having the fireworks at our house, remember? Mabel’s having a firework party for her birthday, isn’t she? And Charles is doing the fireworks.’

  ‘Has he got a biscuit tin?’

  ‘I’m sure he has.’

  ‘And gloves?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  Charles calls to ask me if I think Mabel would prefer a Barbie cake for her birthday, or one of Mrs Bishop’s special creations.

  ‘Barbie, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Only Mrs Bishop’s already started on hers, I think.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right – let her make one too. They’re fabulous, her cakes, and there’ll be loads of people round. Tell her you don’t want to waste one of her special cakes on the kids, but if she could make one for the adults you’d be really grateful.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. She’ll like that.’

  ‘Has Lola decided if she’s coming yet?’

  ‘No, she’s not, thank god. She’s got some party at work, and anyway she’s furious with me again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mainly because the article about the garden was so nice, I think, and nobody rang up to ask her for her comments on gardening.’

  ‘Good job they didn’t really. Bully someone else into doing it, and then try to take all the credit. Not very Vita Sackville-West, is it?’

  ‘That’s never stopped her before. She loves giving her opinions on stuff – she thinks it makes her look important. Every time I talk to her now I realise how much happier I am. I really think you’ve got it right, you know.’

  ‘Got what right?’

  ‘Being a single parent. It’s so much simpler.’

  ‘It’s not always simple, you know. I mean for a start most of us don’t have a big house in the country. Are you still getting deluged with food parcels, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. Fishcakes yesterday, from Mrs Norris, and some lovely vegetable soup from Elsie. And Mrs Bishop, of course, casseroles ahoy.’

  ‘Well then. Nobody’s even made me a sandwich, let alone a casserole. Well, apart from Mum, obviously, but you know what I mean. People don’t usually rally round for single mothers – you’re either a brazen hussy or an idiot.’

  ‘Oh. So are you a brazen hussy then? How lovely. Do you have a special outfit? Because you don’t usually look very brazen.’

  God, how annoying. He’s making fun of me now.

  ‘It’s not funny, Charles. A man only has to walk down the street pushing a bloody buggy and everyone thinks he’s a hero.’

  ‘Sorry. Well, you can have some of my soup, if you like. It’s rather good, actually.’

  ‘Alfie hates soup, but thanks. And I’m glad it’s all working out, I really am.’

  ‘Well, the children are definitely much happier, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it? I was thinking about it the other day, actually, and I don’t think I was a very good father to them when Lola and I were together, you know. Somehow they seemed to get lost in the middle.’

  He goes silent. I think he’s remembering just how unhappy they all were.

  ‘And I really enjoy looking after them now. Well, apart from the squabbling and the endless bloody searching for things. They seem to lose things the whole time – I think we’ve got some sort of black hole in our house, a sort of anti-matter chamber that absorbs socks and PE kit. But I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘I always knew you were a good dad.’

  ‘Oh Alice, what a lovely thing to say.’

  ‘Well, it’s true.’

  Actually, I really love vegetable soup. I wonder if there’s any way I can try to backtrack slightly on the soup thing.

  Janet’s still sulking about our winning the silver medal and my not having insisted on a mention for the firm in the magazine article. She’s whining on at me about the state of my desk, and I’m just about to tell her to get stuffed when Brenda comes in and says there’s a call for me, from a new client who’d seen the job I did for the Franklins. When she puts the call through it’s actually her, back on reception, saying Janet’s an old bag and I should just ignore her.

  And then Mum rings to say Alfie’s brought his spaceship home, because Mrs Trent says they haven’t got room for it in the classroom.

  ‘I had to get your father to put the roof rack on, and then I kept worrying that it would rain and the car would get covered in red paint. Have you seen the size of it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I saw him painting it. It’s just a big box, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s three big boxes, glued together. It’s huge. It must have taken him hours.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I can’t wait to see it.’

  ‘You won’t be able to miss it – it’s too big to get up the stairs. I’ve put it in the middle of the living room and it’ll have to stay there until you can persuade him to take it apart and get it up to his bedroom. I’ve tried telling him but he won’t have it. I hope you’re not planning on having any visitors round.’

  I’m sure she’s exaggerating, but when I get home I realise she’s not. Houston, we have a problem. It’s absolutely enormous.

  ‘Alfie, it’s lovely. But I can’t get into the kitchen very easily. Do you think we can move it a bit?’

  ‘All right. But we’re not going to unstick it. Nana says we can, but she’s just being stupid.’

  ‘Alfie. Don’t be rude. Say sorry.’

  ‘Sorry, Nana. Look, Mummy, it’s got writing on.’

  ‘For The Queen of the Galaxies’ is written on the side, in glittery paint. I’m assuming he means the star systems, and not chocola
te bars.

  ‘Mrs Trent helped me, doing the writing. It’s for you. It’s a present. You can take it to your work, if you like. Or you can sit in it, or anything. It’s your very own starship. Look, I’ve drawed on the handles and the buttons and everything. And it’s got missiles.’

  We sit in it and have a quick tour of the planets while Mum lays the table for tea. I never actually knew I wanted a starship before, but now I realise what I’ve been missing, and at least if I do take it into work Janet will be pleased. She’s been trying to get me back in my box for ages.

  ‘It’s lovely, darling. Thank you so much.’

  I’m going to have to build up really slowly to getting it upstairs. Maybe I can do it while he’s asleep.

  I’m on my way back home after dropping Alfie at school the next morning when I notice a large ‘For Sale’ sign has appeared by the turning into our lane. Christ. There aren’t any other houses round here. Charles must have put the house up for sale. Bloody hell. He might have said. I drive up to the house and find him in the garden, digging over a flowerbed.

  ‘I saw the “For Sale” sign.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry about that. I meant to say.’

  ‘You meant to say? Well, thanks a lot. Honestly, I thought we were friends, Charles. When were you going to mention it – when the removal van arrived?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Well, I think you’re mad. I mean why on earth sell now? It’s ridiculous. The children are only just starting to settle. And what about the garden? What are the Garden Society supposed to do? Hope the new owners will let them in occasionally?’

  ‘Look, it’s sweet of you to be worried but –’

  ‘I’m not being sweet. Don’t be so patronising. And I’m not worried. Jesus. I just thought we were friends, that’s all.’

  ‘Alice. If you’d just shut up for a minute, I’ll explain.’

  Oh. Bugger. He’s smiling.

  ‘I’m not selling. I only asked them to value it, but you know what they’re like, estate agents, always pushing their luck. I’ve just been talking to them, actually, and it’ll be gone by this afternoon. The sign, I mean. So there’s no need for the lecture. And we are friends. I hope.’