‘SkinnyVentiDecafCappkeepthechange,’ I rattled off, shoving a fiver at the barista and thinking, ‘If Nicolette’s having a breakdown now, then that’s it. It’s a cut-and-dried case. Everybody, left, right and centre, is a mess of cracked shells.’
‘Come downstairs,’ I said to Nicolette, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Fortunately there was no one else in the basement.
‘I’ve got a new bag,’ she said. ‘And this is the receipt.’
I stared blankly at the receipt. ‘My husband bought it for me, from Frankfurt airport.’
‘Well, that’s nice. It’s beautiful,’ I lied. The handbag was mad. It had no rhyme or reason, buckles and straps and loops bursting out everywhere like lunatics.
‘Look at the receipt,’ she said, pointing at it. ‘It’s for two handbags.’
I blinked at the receipt. It did seem to be for two handbags. But so?
‘It’s just a mistake,’ I said. ‘Ring them and get the money back.’
She shook her head. ‘I know who she is. I called her. It’s been going on for eight months. He bought her the identical bag.’ Her face crumpled. ‘It was a present. And he bought the same one for her.’
Got home and checked my emails:
Sender:
Nicolette Martinez
Subject:
The school fucking concert
Just to let you know I don’t give a flying fuck who brings the mince pies or mulled wine this year and you can all turn up whenever the FUCK you like because I don’t FUCKING WELL GIVE A FUCK.
Nicorette
I need it.
Think will give Nicolette a ring.
11 p.m. Just had brilliant night at our place with Nicolette, with the three boys running riot on Roblox and Mabel watching SpongeBob SquarePants while we had some wine, pizza, cheese, Diet Coke, Red Bull, Cadbury’s chocolate buttons, Rolos and Häagen-Dazs, and Nicolette looked at OkCupid, shouting, ‘Bastards! Fuckwittage!’
In the middle Tom turned up, slightly plastered, going on about a new survey: ‘It proves that the quality of someone’s relationships is the biggest indicator of their long-term emotional health – not so much the “significant other” relationship, as the measure of happiness is not your husband or boyfriend but the quality of the other relationships you have around you. Anyway, just thought I’d tell you. I’ve got to go and meet Arkis now.’
Nicolette is now asleep in my bed and four kids are all squeezed in the bunk beds.
You see? Don’t need men anyway.
A HERO WILL RISE
Friday 29 November 2013
This is what happened. Billy had a football match at another school, East Finchley, a few miles away. We’d been told to park in the street to pick them up, as cars weren’t allowed in the grounds. The school was a tall, red-brick building, with a small concrete yard in front of the gates, and to the left, a sunken sports court, four feet down, surrounded by a heavy chain-link fence.
The boys were running round the sports court kicking balls, the mothers chatting round the East Finchley steps. Suddenly, a black BMW roared right up to the school, the driver, an idiotically flashy-looking father, talking on his mobile.
Mr Wallaker strode to the car. ‘Excuse me.’
The father ignored him, continuing to talk on his phone, engine still running. Mr Wallaker rapped on the window. ‘Cars are not allowed in the school grounds. Park in the street, please.’
The window slid open. ‘Time is money for some of us, my friend.’
‘It’s a safety issue.’
‘Phaw. Safety. I’ll be two minutes.’
Mr Wallaker gave him the stare. ‘Move. The car.’
Still holding the phone to his ear, the father angrily slammed the BMW into gear, reversing without looking, turned the wheel with a screech and backed towards the sports court, straight into the heavy steel pole supporting the fence.
As everyone turned to stare, the father, red-faced, jammed his foot on the accelerator, forgetting to take the car out of reverse, and rammed the post again. There was a sickening crack and the post started to topple.
‘Boys!’ yelled Mr Wallaker. ‘Get away from the fence! Scramble!’
It all seemed to be in slow motion. As the boys scattered and ran, the heavy metal post tottered, then fell into the sports court, pulling the fence with it and landing with a terrifying bounce and crash. At the same time the car slid backwards, the front wheels still on the concrete yard, the rear wheels half over the pit of the sports court below.
Everyone froze, stunned, except Mr Wallaker, who leaped down into the pit, yelling, ‘Call 999! Weight the front of the car! Boys! Line up at the other end.’
Unbelievably, the BMW dad was starting to open his door.
‘You! Stay still!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, but the car was already sliding further backwards, the wheels now completely hanging over the drop.
I scanned the boys at the other end of the court. Billy! Where was Billy?
‘Take Mabel!’ I said to Nicolette, and ran to the side of the sports court.
Mr Wallaker was below me in the pit, calm, eyes flicking over the scene. I forced myself to look.
The heavy metal post was now wedged at a diagonal, one end against the wall of the pit and the other on the ground. The fence lay at an angle, buckled, hanging from the post like a ridge tent. Cowering in the small gap beneath the post, caged by the fallen fence, were Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah, their little faces staring, terrified, at Mr Wallaker. The wall was behind them, the fence trapping them in front and at the sides, the rear of the big car hanging above them.
I let out a gasp and jumped down into the pit.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly. ‘I’ve got this.’
He crouched down. ‘OK, Superheroes, this is your big break. Wriggle back to the wall and curl up. Brace positions.’
Looking more excited than scared now, the boys wriggled themselves back and curled up, arms over their little heads.
‘Good work, Troopers,’ Mr Wallaker said, and started to lift the heavy fence from the ground. ‘Now . . .’
Suddenly, with a sickening screech of metal against concrete, the BMW slid further backwards, dislodging bits of debris, the back end swinging precariously in mid-air.
There were screams from the mothers above and the wail of sirens.
‘Stay against the wall, boys!’ said Mr Wallaker, unfazed. ‘This is going to be good!’
He stooped under the car, stepping carefully onto the fallen fence. He raised his arms and thrust the whole of his strength against the chassis. I could see the muscles straining in his forearms, in his neck, beneath his shirt.
‘WEIGHT THE FRONT OF THE CAR!’ he yelled up to the yard, sweat beading his forehead. ‘LADIES! ELBOWS ON THE BONNET!’
I glanced up to see teachers and mothers leaping out of their shock, throwing themselves like startled chickens on the bonnet. Slowly, as Mr Wallaker strained upwards, the rear of the car lifted.
‘OK, boys,’ he said, still pushing upwards. ‘Stay close to the wall. Crawl to your right, away from the car. Then get yourselves out from under that fence.’
I rushed to the edge of the fallen chain-fence, more parents and teachers joining me now. Between us we struggled to lift the buckled metal, the three boys wriggling towards the edge, Billy the last one in line.
Firemen were jumping down, lifting the fence, pulling Bikram out – the metal ripping his shirt – then Jeremiah. Billy was still in there. As Jeremiah wriggled free, I reached forward and put my arms under Billy’s, feeling as though I had the strength of ten men, and pulled, sobbing with relief as Billy came free and the firemen pulled us out of the pit.
‘That’s the last one! Come on!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, still shaking under the weight of the car. The firemen jumped under to support him, stepping on the fence, their weight crushing it down into the space where, seconds before, the three boys had been cowering.
‘Where’s Mabel?’ yelled Billy dramatic
ally. ‘We have to save her!’
The three boys charged off through the crowd in the yard, with the air of supermen with flapping capes. I followed, to find Mabel standing calmly beside a hyperventilating Nicolette.
Billy threw his arms round Mabel, yelling, ‘I’ve saved her! I’ve saved my sister! Are you all right, sister?’
‘Yeth,’ she said solemnly. ‘But Mr Wallaker’th bossy.’
Incredibly, in the midst of the pandemonium, the BMW dad again opened the car door, and this time he actually climbed out, brushing huffily at his overcoat, at which the whole vehicle started sliding backwards.
‘IT’S COMING DOWN!’ Mr Wallaker yelled from below. ‘GET OUT, GUYS!’
We all rushed forward to see Mr Wallaker and the firemen jumping clear as the BMW crashed down onto the steel pole, then bounced, rolled and smashed on its side, sleek metal cracking, windows shattering, broken glass and debris all over the cream leather seats.
‘My Bima!’ shouted the dad.
‘Time is money, dickhead,’ Mr Wallaker retorted, grinning delightedly.
As the paramedics tried to look him over, Billy was explaining, ‘We couldn’t move, you see, Mummy. We daren’t run because that post was wobbling right above us. But then we were Superheroes because . . .’
Meanwhile, chaos was breaking out around us, parents running crazily round in circles, hair extensions flying, enormous handbags lying forgotten on the ground.
Mr Wallaker jumped onto the steps.
‘Quiet!’ he shouted. ‘Everyone stand still! Now, boys. In a second you’ll be lining up to be checked and counted. But first, listen up. You just had a real adventure. No one got hurt. You were brave, you were calm, and three of you – Bikram, Jeremiah and Billy – were cut-and-dried Superheroes. Tonight you’re to go home and celebrate, because you’ve proved that when scary stuff happens – which it will – you know how to be brave and calm.’
Cheers went up from the boys and parents. ‘Oh my God,’ said Farzia. ‘Take me now’ – rather echoing my own sentiments. As Mr Wallaker passed me, he shot me a smug little look, endearingly Billy-like.
‘All in a day’s work?’ I said.
‘Seen worse,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and at least your hair didn’t blow up.’
After the counting, Bikram, Billy and Jeremiah were mobbed by the other boys. The three of them had to go to hospital to be checked out. When they climbed into the ambulances, followed by their traumatized mothers, it was with the air of a newly famous boy band from Britain’s Got Talent.
Mabel fell asleep in the ambulance and slept through the checkups. The boys were fine, apart from a few scratches. Bikram’s and Jeremiah’s fathers turned up at the hospital. A few minutes later Mr Wallaker appeared, grinning, with bags of McDonald’s and went over every detail of what had happened with the boys, answering all their questions and explaining exactly how and why they’d been Action Heroes.
As Jeremiah and Bikram left with their parents, Mr Wallaker held out my car keys.
‘You OK?’ He took one look at my face and said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘No! I’m absolutely fine!’ I lied.
‘Listen,’ he said with his slight smile. ‘It doesn’t make you less of a top professional feminist if you let somebody help you.’
Back home, as I settled the children on the sofa, Mr Wallaker said quietly, ‘What do you need?’
‘Their cuddly toys? They’re upstairs in the bunk beds.’
‘Puffle Two?’
‘Yes. And One and Three, Mario, Horsio and Saliva.’
‘Saliva?’
‘Her dolly.’
As he came back with the toys, I was trying to turn on the TV, staring at the remotes. ‘Shall I have a go?’
SpongeBob sprang into life, and he led me behind the sofa.
I started sobbing then, silently.
‘Shhh. Shhh,’ he whispered, putting his strong arms around me. ‘No one was hurt, I knew it was going to be fine.’
I leaned against him, sniffing and snuffling.
‘You’re doing all right, Bridget,’ he said softly. ‘You’re a good mum and dad, better than some who have a staff of eight and a flat in Monte Carlo. Even if you have put snot on my shirt.’
And it felt like the aeroplane door opening, when you arrive on holiday, with a rush of warm air. It felt like sitting down at the end of the day.
Then Mabel yelled, ‘Mummee! SpongeBob’th finished!’ and simultaneously the doorbell rang.
It was Rebecca. ‘We just heard about the school thing,’ she said, clattering down the stairs, a string of tiny LED Christmas lights woven into her hair. ‘What happened? Oh!’ she said, seeing Mr Wallaker. ‘Hello, Scott.’
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Headgear unexpectedly understated . . . but still.’
Finn, Oleander and Jake came over and the house was filled with noise and chocolate and Hellvanians and Xbox, and everyone running about. I kept trying to talk to Billy, and help him process what had happened, but he just said, ‘Mummeee! I’m a Superhero! OK?’
I watched Mr Wallaker talking to Jake, both of them tall, handsome, old friends, fathers. Rebecca looked at Mr Wallaker and raised her eyebrows at me, but then his phone rang, and I could just tell he was talking to Miranda.
‘I have to go,’ he said abruptly, clicking it off. ‘You guys will look after them tonight, right, Jake?’
Heart sinking, I followed him up to the doorstep and started to gabble, ‘I’m so grateful. It’s you who is the Superhero. I mean are. I mean is.’
‘Are,’ he said. ‘And it was my pleasure.’
He walked down the steps then turned, added softly ‘. . . Superheroine’, and strode off towards the main road, the taxis, and a girl who looks like she’s out of a magazine. I watched him go, sadly, thinking, ‘Superheroine? I’d still like someone to shag.’
’TIS THE SEASON
Monday 2 December 2013
Everything is all right. Took Billy to the child psychologist who said he seemed to have ‘healthily assimilated it as a learning experience’. When I tried to take him for a second time, Billy said, ‘Mummee! It’s you who needs to go.’
Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah are enjoying a period of what can only be described as celebrity at the school and have been signing autographs. Their school celebrity, however, is as nothing beside that of Mr Wallaker.
And Mr Wallaker is friendly to me now, and I to him. But that’s as far as it seems to go.
Tuesday 3 December 2013
3.30 p.m. Mabel just came out of school singing:
‘Deck de halls wid boughs of holly,
Falalalala la la la la.
’Tis de season to be jolly . . .’
It is the season to be jolly. Am going to be jolly this year. And grateful.
Wednesday 4 December 2013
4.30 p.m. Oh. Mabel has now changed the words to:
‘’Tis de season to hate Billy.’
Thursday 5 December 2013
10 a.m. Thelonius’s mother stopped me at the Infants Branch drop-off this morning.
‘Bridget,’ she said, ‘could you ask your daughter to stop upsetting Thelonius?’
‘Why? What?’ I said, confused.
It turns out Mabel is going round the playground singing:
‘Deck de halls wid boughs of begonias,
Falalalala la la la la.
’Tis de season to hate Thelonius . . .’
2 p.m. ‘That’ll teach you to plant such an unimaginative flower,’ said Rebecca. ‘How’s Scott? I mean, Mr Wallaker.’
‘He’s nice,’ I said. ‘He’s friendly, but, you know, just friendly . . .’
‘Well, are you “just friendly” to him? Does he KNOW?’
‘He’s with Miranda.’
‘A man like that has his needs. It doesn’t mean he’s going to be with her for ever.’
I shook my head. ‘He’s not interested. I think he likes me as a person, now. But that’s as far as it
goes.’
It is sad. But mostly I am happy. It only takes a really bad thing to nearly happen to make you appreciate what you have.
2.05 p.m. Bloody Miranda.
2.10 p.m. Hate Miranda. ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m all young and tall and thin and perfect.’ She’s probably also going out with Roxster. Humph.
THE CAROL CONCERT
Wednesday 11 December 2013
The carol concert was upon us again, and Billy and Mabel both had sleepovers so there was wild excitement combined with the utter hysteria of trying to pack two overnight backpacks, get Mabel and me looking human and festive enough to go to a school carol concert, and get there before it had actually ended.
Was trying to put on my best front, as no doubt Miranda would be in the church cheering on her man. Mabel was wearing a furry jacket and a sticky-out red skirt which I’d got in the ILoveGorgeous sale, and I was wearing a new white coat (inspired by Nicolette, who is currently in the Maldives, where her sexually incontinent husband is begging her forgiveness while she tortures him in a luxury hut on the end of a long wooden walkway, suspended over the sea on stilts, sharks circling below). In the absence of any possibility of blowjobs, I had gone for a blow-dry – though the Disney Princess and Mario backpacks didn’t exactly add to the look. Plus Miranda would undoubtedly be wearing an effortlessly sexy yet understated outfit so edgily on-trend that even Mabel would not understand it.
As we came out of the tube station, the ‘village’ looked utterly magical, delicate lights casting shadows in the trees. The shops were all lit up, and a brass band was playing ‘Good King Wenceslas’. And the old-fashioned butcher had turkeys hanging up in the window. And we were early.
Out of a moment’s believing I actually was Good King Wenceslas, I rushed into the butcher and bought four Cumberland sausages – in case a poor man suddenly came in sight – adding a sausage bag to the two lurid backpacks. Then Mabel wanted to get a hot chocolate, which seemed like the perfect idea, but then suddenly it was 5.45, which was the time we were meant to be seated by, so we had to run towards the church, and Mabel tripped and her hot chocolate went all over my coat. She burst into tears. ‘Your coat, Mummy, your new coat.’