Chapter 12
Max
What a difference a day makes.
This morning, I’m on fire. In fact, you may call me Mrs Doubtfire.
I overlapped briefly with Molly and the kids yesterday afternoon. Her early start in the kitchen allows her to finish each day in time to pick them up from school. Before I went off to find my brother and have a drink and then dinner with him, we all sat down at the kitchen table.
Molly made us all grilled cheese on toast that was so bloody good I nearly lost my mind.
She’s sticking with her promise to bake me a bread and butter pudding this weekend, using chocolate chip brioche, no less.
I’ll be the size of a house by Christmas if I’m not careful.
Thank God my brother made it clear last night that there’s plenty to keep me active on the farm, namely helping with the annual repair of miles of dry stone walls.
The kids seemed pretty knackered after school, especially Daisy. Nevertheless, Molly and I forged gamely ahead with a parenting chat centring on how to make the mornings more pleasant and efficient for everyone.
And yes, sitting around a kitchen table and playing happy families with the once-love-of-my-life and her two kids was deeply, deeply unsettling. It reminded me of that movie with Nicholas Cage. The one where he wakes up in a parallel universe where he married his first love…
Oh, yeah.
The Family Man.
Enjoyed the movie.
Not remotely interested in reenacting it.
Anyway, I did what I thought was a decent job of pulling my weight. It felt important to put on a united front for these two monsters (mainly the smaller one, to be fair). To show them they didn’t have us outnumbered. That Molly and I were on the same page.
‘This morning wasn’t fun for anyone,’ I told them. ‘Daisy cried. A lot. Toby didn’t cry, but he looked very sad. And I kind of cried when somebody kicked me in the nose. I had tears in my eyes, anyway.’
This earned me a giggle. Daisy splayed her fingers over her open mouth, half in horror, half in delight.
‘How about we make it our mission to have fun tomorrow instead?’ I asked.
Toby’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of fun?’
‘TV?’ Daisy piped up.
‘No. No TV. But fun could mean… pancakes.’
The kids gave me a gratifying ooooh.
‘I can confirm that this guy makes seriously good pancakes,’ Molly told them. ‘But I’m not sure you’ll have time for that.’
The kids emitted a comedic groan in unison.
‘If you guys promise me that you’ll try to bring a positive attitude in the morning, then I will promise to get up early and make a stack of pancakes before I wake you up,’ I said.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ Molly protested, but I shook my head at her.
‘That’s okay. I’m happy to do it, if it means I have a chance of seeing some smiley faces, instead of faces that look like this.’ I pulled my lower eyelids and mouth down at the corners into a grotesque sad face. The kids screeched.
‘That was both of you this morning,’ I said, and Daisy guffawed.
‘Was not!’
‘Was so.’ I pulled the face again and did my least flattering impression of her, pitching my voice to cartoon levels of shrillness. ‘They’re all twisted! Argh!’
Toby practically fell off his chair with laughter while Daisy’s mouth made an O of horrified amusement.
‘You sounded like a mean baby,’ she complained.
‘You sounded like a mean baby this morning, too, to be fair. But let’s not dwell on it. What else? How about some Christmas music and silly dancing while we get dressed?’
Molly raised her eyebrows. ‘Should be interesting. Why don’t we show Max how to put your tights on properly, Daze?’
Molly was right last night. This morning is both interesting and highly entertaining.
I get up at five-fifteen and have Molly’s car defrosted before she emerges downstairs, pale-faced and clearly exhausted.
The look of sheer gratitude and disbelief on her face has me pledging to myself to do this every morning.
I suspect it’s far too long since she’s had anyone around to take even the slightest bit of care of her.
If I can make this heinously early start for her a tiny bit easier, I’ll do it.
‘You okay?’ I ask her as she’s digging her keys out from the bowl on the hall dresser. She turns to face me, and it seems to me her gaze sweeps over my snug white t-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms before landing back on my face.
‘Yeah.’ She tugs at the back of her neck. ‘Just a bit of a headache.’
‘Do you still have your sinus problems?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. But I’m all right.’
‘Okay,’ I tell her. ‘Try to take it easy. And drive safely.’
‘Thanks. I will.’ Her hand moves up to massage her temple. ‘And good luck this morning. I hope it goes better today.’
I jump in the shower after she’s gone. There’s no point in trying to go back to bed now—I’d rather get a head start on our morning of fun.
Molly didn’t look great. Her sinuses have always been her Achilles heel.
When she’s run down or not sleeping enough, she gets terrible blocked sinuses and seriously nasty headaches alongside them.
It’s shitty to hear that they’re still bothering her after all these years.
I’ll have to have a think about how I can make this afternoon easier on her—maybe I can make dinner tonight.
Back downstairs, I brew a pot of coffee and allow myself the luxury of a quiet cup in the silent, cosy kitchen. I’ve definitely lucked out with my room—the considerable heat from the AGA makes its way upstairs, too.
By seven o’clock, I have a stack of pancakes ready to keep warm in the oven and a breakfast table groaning with all the spreads the kids could possibly want. I have a good feeling about this morning.
And my good feeling is warranted. Toby comes downstairs of his own accord, apparently woken by the delicious aroma of my pancakes.
Daisy is sweet and sleepy when I wake her, and amazingly compliant when I remind her that all that stands between her, a stack full of pancakes and our Christmas playlist is her decision to let me dress her.
I even get the tights on in only two attempts.
While the kids eat, I get another cup of coffee and a couple of cheeky pancakes down me and treat them to some exuberant dancing as Last Christmas plays in the background.
Not only are we on time, but no one has shed a tear yet (nope, not even me), and there are happy faces all round.
‘We’re going to be ten minutes early for school,’ I say, glancing at the SatNav as we pull out of the driveway. ‘That is a seriously good effort, kids. I appreciate everyone being cooperative and cheerful this morning. Are you guys happy with how things went?’
In the mirror, Daisy pats her stomach. ‘My tummy is happy.’
I snort. ‘That’s very important. And what about you, Tobes? Did you find this morning a bit less stressful than yesterday?’
‘Yeah. It was fun,’ he says, but his voice is a little listless. Maybe he’s just tired from this morning’s antics. I probably should find a sensible balance between outright war and utter hijinks.
‘What do you guys do when you get to school early?’ I ask.
Daisy pipes up. ‘We get to watch Miss Rawlins feeding Rosa.’
‘Oh? Who’s Rosa?’ I wonder if she’s a particularly tricky child who refuses to eat breakfast at home.
‘She’s our class hamster,’ she clarifies.
‘Oh. That’s pretty cool. Does she like pancakes for breakfast?’
She giggles. ‘No, silly. She eats yucky stuff from a bag.’
‘Pellets?’ I suggest.
Her brow knits. ‘Think so.’
‘And you, mate? What happens in Year Four first thing? Is it all rock and roll over there?’
Toby sighs. ‘We can do colouring or quizzes.’
‘Well, that sounds fun. No furry friends in your classroom?’
‘No.’ I watch his little shoulders deflate in the mirror. I try to catch his eye, but he’s staring out of the window through those thick glasses. I wish I could turn around and ruffle his hair. Tell him to ease up.
‘What’s the plan for today?’ I ask him.
‘We’re practising for our nativity play.’
‘That sounds like fun. Who are you playing?’
‘I’m a shepherd.’ Another sigh.
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Shepherds have good costumes, don’t they?’
He pauses. ‘I don’t know what the costume is yet, but Tristan is a shepherd too.’
I frown. ‘Who’s Tristan?’
‘He’s a big boy,’ Daisy tells me, ‘who’s mean to Toby.’
What the fuck? ‘Is that true, Tobes?’ I crane my head to get a good look at him in the mirror. ‘Is he in your class? What does he do to you that’s mean?’
Toby fiddles with his glasses, and I turn down the volume on Slade so I can catch whatever he feels prepared to tell me.
‘Yeah. He’s in my class, but he’s really tall and big. And he makes fun of me.’
I wait to see if he elaborates, but nothing is forthcoming.
‘What does he make fun of you for—what does he do, exactly?’
Toby’s silent.
‘He laughs at Toby’s glasses, and he pulls them off and tells Toby he’s gonna stamp on them,’ Daisy says. This kid is well-informed.
My hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel. ‘Is that right, Tobes?’
‘He pulls them off, but he doesn’t stamp on them,’ Toby says in a small voice. ‘He just says he will, to scare me.’
Jesus fucking Christ. ‘Who knows about this? Have you told your mum?’
‘Mummy went into school and spoke to Mr Pratt and he talked to Tristan and told him not to do it anymore, but sometimes he does it at playtime when the teachers aren’t looking,’ he says.
The hands gripping the steering wheel are now sweating. ‘Who’s Mr Pratt—is that your class teacher?’
‘Yeah.’
Clearly the name is well-suited. The guy must be a total prat if he’s been made aware of bullying and his response has been to make the aggressor and the victim both shepherds. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with this guy?
I indicate and pull over at the side of the road.
Twisting around, I take hold of Toby’s little hand and run my thumb over his knuckles.
‘Listen to me.’ I hold his gaze. ‘Nobody gets to make you feel scared at school. Nobody gets to make you feel bad or less than for being in any way different from them. Nobody gets to take your glasses and threaten you. And nobody, and that includes teachers, gets to ignore what you say when you tell them that you feel threatened. Do you understand what I’m saying? ’
His little face is white and pinched. ‘But I don’t like being a snitch.’
I nod. ‘I get that. And it’s a hard judgement call sometimes, I know.
But both of you need to remember that it’s not snitching if you’re telling an adult because you feel scared, or vulnerable, or threatened, or you see any other kid in that position.
In those situations, telling an adult is the right thing to do. Got it?’
They both nod, eyes wide, faces solemn. God, it’s shit being a kid.
Especially a kid like Toby, who clearly feels things deeply and already has the weight of the world on his shoulders.
His dad ran out on him, for fuck’s sake.
How the hell is it fair that he also has to deal with shit at school, the place that should be a safe haven?
A reprieve from everything that’s gone down in his home-life in recent months?
I take a deep breath and urge myself to keep it together.
‘Now. If Tristan does or says anything to you today that makes you feel uncomfortable, whether in the playground or during rehearsals, I want you to tell Mr Pratt, and then I want you to come home and tell your mum and me, too. Okay? And your mum will go in and speak to the school.’
Or I will go in, I think, and cause fucking mayhem.
Fuck’s sake.
This is why I didn’t want kids.
The emotions they provoke in you are altogether too complicated, too big, to be remotely helpful. Or healthy.