Chapter 27
I have plenty to occupy my mind over the next couple of days, both in and out of work. Not least the PTA Bounce-a-thon. This extravaganza is the brainchild of Denise Dandy and involves the hiring of a local trampoline park at some obscure, off-peak time in order to fill it with pupils from the prep and pre-prep school.
The cost of a ticket is vastly inflated in the name of fundraising. But most people don’t mind paying an extra ￡6 because it offsets all their mum guilt if they’ve never quite made it to the Halloween disco to volunteer on the tuck shop dressed as a Ghostbuster.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of Denise’s better ideas; simple and straightforward, with little in the way of preparation. Even if, at the last PTA meeting, when nobody else offered to co-ordinate the post-event collection of 140 small, sweaty socks, I heard myself say, ‘Oh, I don’t mind doing that.’
Part of me had thought that, in my Communications Secretary role, I wouldn’t have a great deal else to do for this one. All that was required was a flyer that could be circulated on school WhatsApp groups and the weekly Principal’s newsletter. Or so I’d thought . . .
Because while whipping up a poster on Canva took only half an hour, what I hadn’t counted on was Denise appointing herself in an unofficial role of ‘Artistic Director’ to critique my handiwork.
Just a few thoughts off the top of my head @lisadarling, she begins, after I shared the electronic flyer, naively assuming my job was complete. I think it’s a nice idea overall but what happened to the school logo? Can we fix pls. Also, regarding the three little characters bouncing on the trampoline, I wonder if we should be more inclusive? Perhaps we can include a wheelchair somewhere? Finally, the expression on the little boy on the right is odd. Creepy almost. Can we alter his facial expression?
I’m biting my knuckle so hard I almost draw blood when another one pings – from some random woman I’ve never heard of.
Excellent points @denisedandy. Also – is it me or is the background a bit drab? What do others think? Maybe we could produce a few different versions and vote on which looks the best.
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Language!’ says my mother, appearing behind me in the kitchen with a gravy boat.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, as another message pings on WhatsApp. This one has been posted by Nora, who finally caved in and joined the PTA last week.
@NoraCTennis I think it looks fabulous. To make best use of everyone’s time, wouldn’t it be better to leave jobs like this to those in the group who have experience of them? Seems counterproductive to be picky when we could focus our energies on raising more money.
I click to text Nora.
Have I ever told you I love you? Thank you xxx
Pleasure. I’ve only been in this group for five minutes and suspect my name is already mud! Creepy? FFS! Xx
I smile and look at the poster. Now she mentions it, maybe Denise has a point . . .
I decide to have a look again later tonight because right now, my priority is the family dinner I’ve cooked to celebrate my mother’s 72nd or possibly 73rd birthday – I’m not sure she remembers herself and, clearly, it’s too late to ask now. I dart to the oven to check on the roast potatoes.
‘They’re fine. Just need another couple of minutes,’ says Mum.
‘Mum, sit down and put your feet up. Please. Let me top you up with some Prosecco.’
‘Well, I’d never say no to that,’ she says, holding out her glass, as I take the bottle out of the fridge.
‘Where’s Dad disappeared to?’ I say, grabbing a pair of oven gloves to remove the chicken.
‘Oh, he’s fixing your gutter.’
‘What?’
I lower the roasting dish onto a trivet and crane my neck so I can see out of the bifold doors. My father is currently at the top of a ladder, which he presumably helped himself to from the garage in order to undertake a little light roofing before his meal.
He’s had this compulsion ever since Brendan left. Every time he walks through my door, I can see him scanning the fittings – on the lookout for wonky skirting boards and dripping taps – to see what DIY tasks might be required now there is no longer a Man of the House.
I have tried to tell him that Brendan was useless on that front anyway, that his leaving hasn’t made the slightest bit of difference and that, while I’m very grateful, he is allowed to just come over to see us all sometimes without firing up a Black and Decker. It falls entirely on deaf ears.
‘What’s wrong with my gutter?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He said something about the “fall” not being sufficient.’
I look out again as he starts doing something with a spirit level.
‘Well, will you tell him to get in here and have a beer instead?’
She walks to the door and opens it up. ‘Lisa says stop interfering.’
‘I didn’t say that ,’ I call out. ‘But I’m about to serve up.’
I wipe sweat from my forehead as Mum puts her glass down.
‘What else can I do?’ she asks.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, which she takes as her cue to start doing everything . Both of my parents are doers by nature. He’s the sort of man who taught himself to rewire a house and plumb in an entire bathroom back in 1978 using nothing more than a Collins manual. She makes her own jam, compost, biodegradable wet wipes and can offer you seven different tips for getting stains out of a linen tablecloth.
There is no doubt I have inherited these sensibilities but I have somehow ended up living a life in which there isn’t a minute in which to put them all into practice – hence the jam recipe she wrote down for me two years ago is still pinned on our corkboard, entirely redundant.
By the time both parents and my children are at the table in front of what – if I do say so myself – is a damn good home-cooked meal, I feel a small twinge of smugness. I feel sure Philippa Perry would approve. So much so that I get a rush of blood to the head and, deciding to emulate the kind of nice, functional families you see on TV, I say—
‘Shall we say grace?’
Leo’s face scrunches up like a bull mastiff. ‘Why? You’re an atheist.’
‘You’re not, are you?’ Mum gasps, nearly dropping her Prosecco.
‘What’s an atheist?’ asks Jacob.
‘Someone who doesn’t believe in God. And no, I’m not. I’m agnostic.’
‘What’s agnostic?’
I sigh. ‘Shall we just dish up?’
The dinner represents one of those rare, blissful occasions when everyone is both on excellent form and well behaved. Plates are scraped clean, conversations are civilised, nobody fights or complains. My mother seems to be having the best 72nd, or possibly 73rd, birthday anyone could ask for. She loves her cake, even though it’s only my old faithful red velvet recipe and falls some way short of the three-tier, knitting-themed spectacle Jacob found on YouTube and suggested I whip up after work one night.
‘There’s not long till your own birthday, Jacob,’ says Dad. ‘Have you had any present ideas yet?’
‘Well, I was thinking of maybe a 3D printer,’ he says, ‘or a freeze-drying machine.’
‘What on earth do you want those for?’ I ask.
‘You can use them on bananas,’ he explains, apparently impressed.
‘You can print out a banana?’ Mum asks.
‘No, but you can freeze-dry one,’ he clarifies.
‘They cost about two grand, Jakey. Bit of an expensive snack,’ says Leo, catching my mother’s eye so they can share a conspiratorial chuckle.
‘Then maybe a Padel racket. I was thinking of joining the club Rowan is in.’
I lower my cutlery. ‘Jacob, you cannot join any more clubs.’
‘You’re in everything , mate,’ Leo laughs, ruffling his little brother’s hair.
My eldest son, it seems, is having a good day. Just like he always does when he’s around his grandparents, both of whom seem to think that the sun shines out of his backside. As is their right, of course. He’s their first grandchild, the apple of their eye and, in their presence, is invariably pleasant, engaging – and basically unrecognisable. After dinner, he stands to clear away the plates and tops up his grandma’s drink, as her loving gaze follows him back to the table.
‘How about a game of charades?’ he suggests. ‘What do you reckon, Granddad – are you up for it?’
‘Go on then, sunshine,’ says Dad, pushing away his chair. ‘As long as you don’t keep choosing songs I’ve never heard of. At least do the odd one from my era.’
‘Mozart then?’ grins Leo.
‘Oi!’
What follows is the most enjoyable hour of family fun I’ve had in as long as I can remember. It would almost have been wholesome if it weren’t for my mother’s attempt to act out Baywatch with the use of two Jaffa oranges as props. As the kids fall about laughing, I can’t help wishing Leo would behave like this all the time .
Afterwards, Dad insists on going back up the ladder – despite having had two halves of Heineken – while Leo invites his little brother up to his room to play Fortnite, a privilege so rare that it was Christmas Day last time it happened.
‘I really don’t know why you worry about that boy so much,’ Mum says afterwards. ‘He’s lovely . Obviously, he hasn’t got that from his father’s side . . .’
‘I know he is,’ I concede – because, frankly, the last couple of hours give me genuine hope. ‘I’m not lucky enough to see this version of Leo as often as you do.’
She flattens her mouth and raises her eyebrow, an expression that might pass for sympathetic until I realise it’s just patronising. ‘Are you going through The Change, love? I was moody then too. Your hormones are all over the place. It’s easy to lose your temper over the slightest thing. You just need to try and keep a bit of perspective . . .’
‘It’s not me , Mum. It’s him ,’ I protest, feeling as if I’m twelve years old again and being – wrongly – blamed for the time my cousin Ali set fire to the curtains on a sleepover.
‘All right, love,’ she says gently, patting my hand. ‘Feel free to talk to me about it. Not that my symptoms were that bad, unless you count biting your father’s head off whenever he left the lid off the butter dish.’
‘You still do that,’ I point out.
‘Well, yes. You’d think he’d have learnt by now.’
Part of me wants to tell her about Leo’s vaping – and the lying about it – but something always makes me conceal the worst examples of his behaviour. Part of it is because I know it would only upset her (she watched a documentary about them once and is now convinced that fruity vapes are one small step from crack addiction, homelessness and withdrawal from civilised society). But there’s some other reason why I don’t give her the full picture, which I struggle to define beyond this: I’m ashamed. In front of my own parents.
‘All I’m saying about Leo is that I wish he would take his GCSEs seriously,’ I continue. ‘He needs to knuckle down and start focusing more. He’s only going to get one shot at this.’
She opens her mouth, clearly trying to think of a way to blame this on Brendan, but fails. In the end, she settles on: ‘Not everyone is academic. Does it really matter in the scheme of things?’
‘Of course not. All any of us want for our kids is that they’re happy and they reach their potential. But he has so much potential – he’s been in the top percentile of his cohort throughout his entire school years. He said the other day he wanted to be a rugby player. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it necessarily?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I say firmly. ‘Leo is great at most sports, better than his classmates, but he’s a weekend player, not some future professional. If he thinks this is an alternative to bothering with actual hard work, he’s living in a dream world. He’s just not good enough.’
At which point, I realise he is standing at the door. Seething.