by Sophie King
7
WHAT MUMS KNOW – MESSAGE BOARD
From Scummy Mummy: The best way to discipline the kids is to be consistent. If you say you’re going to do it, DO IT!
Mark watched Freddy sitting at the top of the tall, shiny blue swimming-pool slide, fear and determination etched on his face. He wanted to go down, needed to go down, to save face in front of his sister.
‘Get a move on, Freddy!’ he called, from the spectator gallery, cupping his hands round his mobile phone. There was so much shouting and laughing it was difficult to make himself heard. He raised his voice: ‘Just do it. You’ll be fine once you let go.’
He turned to speak into the phone to his client, a company that made electronically coded building bricks. ‘Sorry, there’s a lot of noise here. Right. I’ve got Kiddy magazine to agree to run a piece in November.’
Go on, Freddy. Go on.
A mother next to him, wearing a baby sling, tutted. ‘Poor kid’s scared. That jumbo slide is really steep.’
Couldn’t she see he was talking? OK, so a noisy indoor swimming-pool in the summer holidays might not be the best place to take part in a telephone conference but he’d had no choice. His client had been insistent on this particular time, just as the kids had been insistent about coming here. It was so hot and steamy that he could feel sweat breaking out under his armpits.
‘Well, I’ll push for December, but it was November they were talking about.’
The woman nudged him. ‘Your son’s in trouble up there. Aren’t you going to do something about it?’
Mark wavered. Freddy looked terrified. ‘Hello, can you hear me? Sorry, I’m losing you. The reception’s terrible. I’ll ring back.’
Sometimes lying was the only option.
‘Freddy,’ he called, ‘just let go and you’ll be OK.’ He glanced at the woman, whose lips were tight with disapproval. ‘He’s well within the age limit,’ he said defensively. ‘He’s small for eleven but he can do things when he wants to.’
Like telling his dad to fuck off. What would the woman, who was dressed in neat pink jeans that co-ordinated with the sling, think of that? Maybe that was why he didn’t feel much sympathy for Freddy at the top of the slide. It was easier to be nice to kids when they were nice to you – he hadn’t appreciated that when he was working in a proper office and only saw them in the evening.
‘He’s at Coneywood School, isn’t he?’
‘Sorry?’
It was so noisy, with the kids’ voices bouncing off the walls, that he could hardly hear himself, let alone the woman.
‘I said, he’s at Coneywood School, isn’t he?’
Mark nodded, bracing himself.
The woman shifted the sling and stroked the baby’s cheek with one finger. ‘Thought I recognised you.’
Her perfume, which was strong, reminded him of a heady, expensive fragrance Hilary had worn in the early days and which he’d never liked. The combination of that with the chlorine was potent.
‘Really?’ Be polite. Don’t say anything that might lead to more conversation.
Florrie’s voice floated down from the platform where her brother was sitting. ‘Come on, Freddy, just one little push.’
Visions of the labour ward flashed into his head. The word ‘push’ always did that to him. Hilary, eyes wide with panic. Hilary, out of her mind with pethidine, swearing at him, telling him how much she hated him for putting her through all this.
‘Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat,’ chanted Florrie.
‘Don’t push me!’
There was a queue of impatient kids behind his son. Mark felt as though the walls were closing in on him – why the hell had he agreed to come here? ‘Just turn back and come down,’ he called.
‘I can’t. I’ll fall.’
‘No, you won’t.’
Mark felt hotter. Every mother in the place was looking at them now: the over-ambitious father with the terrified child at the top of the slide.
‘I’ll get him,’ yelled Florrie. ‘This way, scaredy-cat!’
Mark watched his children disappear over the back of the slide and, hopefully, down the steps.
‘I wouldn’t let him do that again,’ said the mother. Her baby whimpered and she put her finger into its mouth. ‘There, there, Mummy’s here.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Mark, stonily. He stared hard at her, willing her to appreciate her rudeness. But the message in her eyes was all too clear. Single dads can’t cope. Children need their mother.
And the worst thing was that Mrs Busybody, with her pristine pink jeans, matching sling and hair that was blonde all the way through, not dark at one end and light at the other like Hilary’s, was right.
The walk home through Cornmarket and down past the old Jam Factory was a nightmare.
‘Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat. Couldn’t jump from the mat,’ chanted Florrie.
‘Shut up, Florrie. You used to hate heights too.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did.’
‘How do you know? Mum was at home then.’
Mum, alias Hilary, who had been so like the other mothers they were threading past now – taut, intelligent, highly nervous, and usually graduates who had found themselves unable to leave the city of spires. Who had married and had children they were incapable of looking after. Who needed to get out to preserve their self-esteem.
Two months. That was how long she’d been gone. Another four to go.
‘Dad, when’s Mum coming back?’
‘I told you,’ said Mark, carefully. ‘Just before Christmas.’
‘I don’t see why she had to go to America.’
‘We’ve been through this before. It was a great opportunity and she couldn’t turn it down.’
Freddy kicked a Coke can along the pavement. Honestly, the rubbish problem in Oxford was getting worse, Mark thought.
‘If Mum was here, she wouldn’t have told me to go down that slide.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Florrie.
Freddy spun the can so it landed in the gutter. ‘Just do.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Do. Why can’t we ring her when we get back?’
Freddy was walking ahead. The back pocket of his shorts, Mark suddenly noticed, was ripped off, making him look uncared-for.
‘Because it’s difficult to get through. It’s easier for her to ring us, you know that. And what happened to your back pocket?’
‘He tore it off. It’s cool.’
‘Shut up, Florrie. Why can’t we email Mum instead?’
‘I told you that, too. She’s still getting her email address sorted. They’ve had big problems with the server.’
‘Anyway, you need to get on with your project,’ said Florrie sharply. ‘I’m doing mine. It’s on foreign holidays.’
‘I didn’t know you had holiday homework, Freddy,’ said Mark, ‘and you promised me you’d try really hard at school next term.’
‘What’s the point?’ Freddy scowled. ‘One of the richest men in Britain left school early so why should I bother?’
Thanks a bunch, Richard Branson. ‘He was unusual, Freddy.’
‘I want to be unusual too.’
Why couldn’t Mark ever win? ‘What’s your project about, anyway?’
‘Your anus.’
‘Freddy!’
‘It is.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘It’s the planets. Uranus, Mars, Venus, that kind of stuff. It’s no big deal, Dad. I can download it from the internet.’
‘But you don’t take it in if you do it like that. In my day, we made notes from books and really understood it.’
‘My very envious mum just stole Uncle Ned’s underpants,’ said Florrie.
‘What?’
‘It’s how our teacher taught us to remember the position of the planets from the Sun. The first letter of each word stands for a planet. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars . . .’
‘Shut up, Florrie. You’re such a show-off. And it’s all crap, anyway.’
&nb
sp; ‘Freddy! You’re not to use words like that.’
‘Why not?’ Freddy glared at him. ‘What will you do?’
Refuse to take him on holiday, even though they couldn’t afford one anyway? Threaten him with a lifetime’s pocket-money deprivation?
It was at times like this that you wanted to punish them, but you had to carry out your threats. That was what some woman had said on What Mums Know today, and she was right. And occasionally, as someone else had added on the message board, you had to ignore bad behaviour so they took notice of you when you did get mad.
Besides, all things must pass. That was true too. One day Hilary would be home. So why didn’t that make him feel better?
He waited until after supper (Daphne’s lasagne from the freezer), when Freddy was doing his trumpet practice, to write to Hilary, saving the important bits for the end.
We had some problems at the swimming-pool today. Freddy got stuck at the top of the slide and Florrie called him a scaredy-cat. He’s still kicking other kids, by the way.
How’s it going at your end? Mark
He was the scaredy-cat for not having the balls to accept it was all over, even before she’d gone. But no, here he was, pretending as usual that everything was fine and telling her about Freddy’s problems as though she was capable of caring. How did other single dads manage? More and more men were left to bring up their families. Daphne had cut out an article from the Sunday Times, which was meant, presumably, to make him feel better. He was, he thought wryly, as he made his way upstairs to the office in the top bedroom, almost as fashionable as his son’s torn shorts.
He shut the door, turned on the computer (still so slow – he really ought to get it checked out) and stretched back in his ergonomically designed office chair, gazing at the book-lined wall in front of him. For the first time that day, he felt at ease. This was his only refuge. The only place in the house where he could pretend everything was normal.
Squawk, squawk.
What the hell . . . ? It sounded as though a parrot was loose. Bet Freddy had gone and downloaded another of his screensaver sounds. Yes. It was the Jungle Jingle, which made him feel as though he was in the Amazon instead of outer Oxford. Honestly, the things kids could do nowadays. Mark turned down the speaker volume and opened his inbox. For once, it was relatively empty. Nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow, apart from a very small parenting magazine that wanted a sample of a baby holdall that one of his clients had designed.
‘Please let me know when you hope to run the review,’ he emailed back. Probably never would. Most journalists asked for samples and it was only after persistent nagging that one or two might mention the product on their pages so that he earned his commission from the client.
Still, he was lucky, or so everyone kept pointing out, that he had the kind of job that lent itself to working from home. What they didn’t realise was that there was no dividing line. He couldn’t switch off when he left the office because the office was constantly there, in the spare room at the back of the house. And he had to get the kids to be quiet when important clients rang so that he didn’t look like some unprofessional nerd as he had at the pool.
Mark took a sip of water. His finger flirted with the keyboard. What Mums Know. Nicely designed home page. Easy to read. Log in. Username: Mimi.
MESSAGE BOARD
Hi, everyone. I’m new to this site. But I’d really appreciate your advice. I took my eleven-year-old son swimming today and he didn’t want to go down the jumbo slide. I tried to get him to do it to get over his fears, but he freaked out and his big sister had to haul him off. Was I wrong? My son has also started kicking and pushing other kids at his new school, even though he should be too old for this kind of thing.
PS My husband is scared of heights. Could it be hereditary?
PPS My husband works away from home and the kids only see him every few months. I’m worried this might be affecting their development.
Send.
He hadn’t meant to say so much but it had been scarily easy to bare his soul to a screen that didn’t frown at his sex.
www.nortypics.com
Mark stared, shocked, as a picture of a semi-naked blonde flashed up on his screen. How had that happened? He hadn’t touched anything.
To enter the site, key in your password now.
Had Freddy been playing around on his computer? But even if he had, he couldn’t have downloaded something like this. Not with the NannyOnline system.
‘Dad! Dad!’
‘What?’
Florrie burst into his study, sending a pile of files flying over the carpet, which badly needed vacuuming. ‘It’s Freddy. He’s trying on Mum’s pink silk jumper – the one you gave her last year for her birthday.’ She giggled. ‘Come and look. It’s really funny.’
8
WHAT MUMS KNOW – MESSAGE BOARD
From Lawyer Mum: I drew up a labour contract before I went into hospital to prevent them giving me an epidural. A friend lent me a TENS machine and it was brilliant at taking away the pain.
A TENS machine! She’d have to check it out online but not until she’d sorted this out first. Lisa could hardly believe it. How could the bastards have taken her washing again? She didn’t mind too much about the tea-towels but she needed the maternity pants. Two pairs was barely enough as it was. They couldn’t have blown off the balcony, she thought, leaning over to check. She’d been ever so careful to tie them on to the line with a double set of pegs after the last lot had gone. No. It was definitely the kid next door. Had to be. There was just a low wall between her and them, although she wouldn’t jump over it with the car park six floors below.
‘Morning, Lees, how’re you doing?’
Lisa stared at Kiki. She hated people who were nice as pie one day and cows the next. ‘Your Tommy’s nicked my pants again.’
‘How do you know it was him?’
Lisa coughed loudly, indicating her disapproval at Kiki’s cigarette fumes. So bad for the baby. There’d been a piece on What Mums Know recently, relating cot death to smoking. ‘I hung them out last night and they’ve gone, just like last time. You ought to watch that kid of yours. Saw him smoking the other day. It’s not right. Not at his age.’
She watched as Kiki flung her cigarette over the edge of the balcony. ‘Don’t you go telling me how to bring up my kids. You wait till it’s your turn. Then you’ll know what it’s like.’
‘But Tommy’s only twelve. He shouldn’t be smoking or stealing.’
Kiki screwed up her face. Without her makeup, thought Lisa, she looked even younger. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen when she’d had Tommy.
‘Like I said, you look out for your kid and I’ll do the same for mine, Miss Busybody. If you’re not careful, I’ll get my Colin to come round and have a word with you.’
‘Colin?’ Lisa took a step backwards towards the safety of the flat. ‘Thought it was Liam. Or was that last week?’
‘You little c—’
Hastily, Lisa shut the door and leaned against it in case Kiki tried to ram it. The marks on the other doors in the block showed this wasn’t uncommon. She’d have to go out now and get another pair of pants. Lucky it was Saturday and not a working day. It looked like being an August scorcher too, which would make a change after last week.
Lisa went into the kitchen to put the kettle on – sweet tea was so comforting – and sat down at the breakfast bar, which was getting even more wobbly. Those metal legs needed fixing. She’d already rung the council about it but a fat lot of good that had done. They still hadn’t sorted the wet patch on the bedroom ceiling.
Lisa stroked her stomach lovingly. ‘Better get that done, before you arrive, love.’
There was something else she needed to do before she went shopping. Now, what was it? The trouble with pregnancy was that it affected your memory. Everyone said so, and it was true.
That’s right! She was going to Google that TENS machine, wasn’t she, to find out a bit more?<
br />
Sitting down at the computer, Lisa logged on. ‘TENS’, not ‘ten’. Impatiently, Lisa tried again. Why did computers always think they were smarter than you? That’s better. Lisa read the information in front of her.
‘Look at that, Rose! Transcu – transcu-what-do-you-call-it electrical nerve stimulation. It takes away the pain by pressing pressure points in your body. Blimey, costs enough, doesn’t it? Still, it’d be nice to try one out, wouldn’t it?’
There had been a time when Lisa loved shopping, but now it took ages to get out of the flat: she had to check twice, just to make sure, that the cooker was off and the windows shut. Then sometimes – well, quite often, to be honest – she had to go back and make sure she really had shut the front door and double-locked it. You can’t be too careful, she reassured herself. There had been another break-in last week, only a floor below. Not that there was much to take from her place, apart from the computer, but she still didn’t fancy waking up to find some crazy teenager high on crack, desperate for the next fix and smashing her window.
Right. That’s it. Push door to check it really is shut, then down the concrete steps that smell of piss. Past Tommy Ball and a group of his mates. Ignore them.
‘Got your pants on, Lisa? Big ones, are they? We’ve got a pair just like them, haven’t we, Alex?’
So he had nicked them. If he wasn’t so much taller than her, she’d clobber him.
‘Too posh to talk to us?’
He was walking behind her, so close she felt scared.
‘My mum says it’s no wonder you haven’t got a bloke.’
Nearly at the bus stop. Lisa began to perspire with walking faster. Her body, especially from the waist down, felt as though it was dragging her towards the pavement and her breasts felt large and hot. Amazing to think that something so tiny could make her feel permanently exhausted.
