2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
A six o’clock start should have allowed plenty of time to get out of the house by eight. I crouched down in front of the washer-dryer, trying to force open the door.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’
I looked up as my bleary-eyed boy shuffled into the room. ‘Just this stupid washing machine not behaving itself.’
‘Will my uniform be ready in time for school?’
‘Of course.’ I cursed under my breath, yanking at the door.
‘Why don’t you turn it off and on?’
‘Good thinking.’ I switched the machine off at the plug, counted to ten, and switched it on again. The light turned green, and I opened the door, pulling a soggy shirt out and silently cursing once again.
‘I can’t go to school in a wet shirt. Everyone will laugh.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have it dry by the time we leave.’
‘How?’
We both looked at the window, mottled with fat drops of rain. ‘I’ll hang it on a radiator, then finish it with a hairdryer.’
‘OK. Can I have breakfast? I’m starving?’
‘You’re always starving.’ We walked through to the kitchen and I filled a pan with oats and milk.
‘Can’t I have coco-pops?’
‘Not on a school day. You know what Dad says, porridge is brain food.’
‘It’s gross.’
‘Not if I put berries in it,’ I said, reaching into the freezer.
By half-past seven, the shirt was still damp to the touch. I crept into my bedroom to retrieve the hairdryer, although I could’ve stomped through in hob-nailed boots and not woken Rob, who lay sprawled on his stomach, snoring loudly.
I’d had the hairdryer going on full heat for ten minutes when Bertie appeared at my shoulder, making me jump. ‘Mum?’
‘What is it?’ I asked, blowing frizzy hair from my face and brushing a sheen of sweat from my forehead as the hairdryer blasted out hot air.
‘My tummy hurts.’
‘OK. What have you forgotten?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bertie, we both know a sore tummy is code for I forgot to do my homework .’
Bertie had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Maths.’
‘Sit at the kitchen table and get it done, then. You’ve got twenty minutes.’
‘But I don’t understand it.’
‘Fine. I’ll help you. Get set up and I’ll join you in a minute.’
Five minutes later, hairdryer in one hand, pencil in the other, I helped Bertie work through the endless list of maths questions even I struggled to understand. The school gave out a stupid amount of homework. Rob insisted on paying out a fortune for Bertie’s private education, but it seemed the school palmed off most of the teaching for parents to do at home.
‘What?’ Bertie yelled at me over the squeal of the hair dryer.
‘I said, subtract this number from this number and you’ll get the answer.’
‘What?’
I turned off the hairdryer. The shirt was still a little damp, but it would have to do. ‘Look,’ I said, writing out the answer to the maths problem on a piece of scrap paper.
‘But, Mum, that’s cheating.’
My free hand bunched into a fist beneath the table, and I clenched my teeth. It wasn’t even eight yet, but already the day felt unbearable. ‘Do you want to finish your homework before we leave in five minutes?’
Bertie let out a dramatic sigh and copied my answer down into his book.
‘What’s all the racket going on down here?’ Rob walked into the room stark naked. My husband had a fine physique, but his insistence on displaying it at the breakfast table baffled me. Beside me, Bertie rolled his eyes, waggling a finger in imitation of Rob’s genitals, and making a throwing up motion with his other hand. I suppressed a giggle.
‘Sorry for the noise. I’ve been trying to get Bertie’s shirt dry in time for school.’
‘Shouldn’t you have seen to that yesterday? My uniform was always pressed and folded ready for me the night before.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can you call the repair man again? I don’t understand why he hasn’t come to fix the tumble dryer yet. Oh, and don’t forget it’s parent’s evening tonight.’
‘Yeah, it’s in the diary. I’ll try to make it.’
Try? What did that mean? It wasn’t like Rob had a boss dictating his schedule. ‘Come on Bertie, we’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.’
The journey to school was irritating and uncomfortable. We crawled along in heavy traffic, rain water soaking through my trousers thanks to a hole in the roof of my Mini convertible that Rob still hadn’t got around to fixing. Turning into the long drive of Bertie’s exclusive school should have come as a relief, but as I pulled up beside a collection of showroom-sparkling four by fours, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Thanks to the hairdryer incident, and subsequent drenching on our way to the car, my usually straightened hair now frizzed up in a mass of dark, unruly curls. I’d had no time to put makeup on, and knew as soon as I stepped out of the car, everyone would see the large wet-patch covering the rear of my white jeans.
I grabbed Bertie’s bags from the back seat and shepherded him into the building. Yummy mummies swanned around the corridors, shiny, groomed, their faces plumped and filled to perfection. I nodded to the less scary women, but avoided all conversation, keen to get in and out of the building as soon as possible.
With a quick kiss on the cheek, I shoved Bertie into his high-ceilinged, light-filled classroom and rushed back to the car.
‘Olivia?’
Damn it. I’d almost made it to the door when a voice made me turn. It was Cressida Jamison, supreme ruler of the school mums. Most mothers longed to be initiated into Cressida’s inner circle. Personally, I couldn’t see the appeal. No amount of hair dye, makeup, or plastic surgery could hide the cold eyes and horseiness of her face. And however chocolatey she made her voice, it didn’t blunt the barbs that poured from her tongue.
‘Morning, Cressida. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ drawled Horse Face. ‘I just thought you’d like to know, it seems you’ve had a little accident.’ Around her, her minions sniggered.
‘Yes, I’m aware. That’s having children for you. No bladder control. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get home, change my trousers, and put a nappy on.’ I smiled my sweetest smile and walked as calmly as I could to my car.
The drive home took the best part of an hour. If only Bertie went to the local school, I’d have far more time in my day, and even the possibility of making friends.
The day passed in a blur of chores. The only light relief came at lunchtime, when I sat down to watch the politics show I treated myself to daily. I banked several points to discuss with my sister the next time I saw her.
Before I knew it, I was back at school, waiting outside Bertie’s classroom for the verdict on his achievement. It came as no surprise that there was no sign of my husband. Bertie sat beside me, fidgeting.
‘Are you nervous?’ I asked him, narrowing my eyes.
‘No…’
‘Bertie? Is there anything I should know before we go in…’
‘I…’
‘Mrs Simmons?’
I stood up and took Bertie’s hand, my pulse rate increasing as we walked into the classroom. We sat on small chairs opposite a battle-axe of a woman, otherwise known as Mrs Bright, Bertie’s teacher. She sat on a luxurious swivel chair, which gave her an over-inflated sense of power as she gazed down on us mere mortals.
‘So, Mrs Simmons, I’m afraid Alberto has been getting into rather a lot of trouble lately.’
‘Trouble?’ I looked at Bertie, whose cheeks had turned pink.
Mrs Bright frowned, coughed, then placed a selection of drawings down on the table between us. ‘Alberto has been encouraging vulgar behaviour in the other boys.’
I disguised a giggle as a cough. In front of me were a series of penises in varying colours, shapes and sizes.
‘We were drawing rockets,’ said Bertie, his cheeks now purple.
‘Alberto Simmons, I was not born yesterday.’
‘Bertie, it’s important to tell the truth.’ I squeezed his hand beneath the table.
‘I didn’t start it.’
‘Then who did?’ I spoke directly to Bertie, ignoring the formidable Mrs Bright as she peered down from her perch.
‘It was Jack Jamison. He dared us all to draw them, then blamed me when we got caught.’
‘Mrs Simmons, I’m afraid I’ve spoken to all the boys, and each one named Alberto as the ringleader.’
‘That’s ’cause Jack said he’d punch them if they grassed.’
‘Jack Jamison is one of the best behaved children I’ve had the pleasure to teach. Behaviour like this would be so out of character, it’s preposterous to pin this on him.’ A muscle was twitching in the teacher’s cheek, a bead of spittle squatting in the crease of her lips.
‘I thought teachers weren’t supposed to have favourites?’ I said. Bertie gave my hand a squeeze in solidarity.
‘I am merely stating the facts.’
‘And the contribution the Jamison family made to the new sports hall has nothing to do with your opinion, I suppose?’ I pushed my chair back and pulled Bertie up beside me. ‘I’d hoped to gain an appraisal of Bertie’s academic progress. But I can see my time here is being wasted. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’
‘There’s another matter I need to discuss. Sit down.’
I stayed standing, not prepared to give another inch to the old witch. ‘What is it?’ I said, glancing pointedly at my watch.
‘Bertie has been using foul language in class.’
‘I haven’t!’
‘What foul language would this be?’
Mrs Bright scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. ‘I don’t understand? Bertie can speak fairly good Spanish, but there’s nowhere he would have learned this word.’
‘I assure you he’s been overheard frequently calling his friends this vulgar name. I spent several years living in Spain. Unfortunately for your son, I’m fluent in both the formal language and the slang.’
‘Right, well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll discuss this with Bertie when we get home.’
‘Consider this a warning,’ said Mrs Bright. ‘Whilst we try to avoid exclusions, they are not unheard of for particularly difficult children.’
Tears flooded into my eyes as I looked down at my big-hearted, beautiful boy. Particularly difficult ? The Bertie I knew lit up a room and brought joy to those around him. Yes, he was a free spirit, yes he enjoyed making mischief as much as the next eight-year-old, but difficult? Was I the type of parent who thinks the sun shines out of their child’s backside? I shook my head. No. I knew my son, and the boy Mrs Bright was describing was not the child I’d raised.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Bright.’
We’d made it as far as the door before she called out to us. ‘Perhaps your husband could trouble himself to be here next time. I often find in cases like these, boys need the firm hand of their father.’
It wasn’t until we were in the car that I spoke to Bertie. ‘Why on earth have you been calling your friends polla ?’
‘Mum, I don’t understand. It just means cool in Spanish. I was trying to be nice.’
‘My God, Bertie. Who told you it means cool?’
‘Gramps. It’s what he calls Dad all the time. I asked what it meant, and he told me.’
‘Right, well, I think Gramps has got muddled. Please don’t use that word again.’
‘OK. What does it mean, Mum?’
‘That doesn’t matter, you just need to know it’s rude. Now, what do you want to listen to on the radio?’
As Bertie sang along to his favourite song, I pondered the fact that my father had been calling my husband a dick in Spanish for god-knows how long. I’d have to have a word the next time I visited.