CHAPTER FoUR

Clifton Primary Swimming Pool. Possibly the most humid place on the planet north of the Equator, where the windows are constantly misty from all the excess heat, which in turn transforms non-swimming children into manic whirling dervishes, and the parents, sweating elegantly in their fleeces, sit dotted around the viewing terraces chatting on their iPhones trying to handle the rubbish acoustics. I’m feeding Jake and Toby the rest of the mini muffins washed down with apple juice and watching to make sure Ted doesn’t leapfrog down the benches and end up in the pool himself. The power of distraction does wonders for a poorly tummy. I sit and stare at the azure of the pool wondering why I feel so tired and rough. Probably the scotch eggs I ate in the car. It’s been a quiet afternoon. The Sky man did arrive at 2 p.m. and told me he was here to fiddle with my dish. I resisted the temptation to respond with innuendo, given ‘Stuart – Here to Help!’ was five foot tall and three foot wide. So I just made him some weak tea like a good hostess and Ted offered him a Rich Tea finger which he ate like a wood chipper, leaving crumbs all over the freshly washed doormat.

‘Mummy, Toby’s had three muffins and I only had two.’

Toby looks especially pleased with himself, chocolate crumbs lining his collar. Must remember to attack him with wipes before his mother sees. I hand Jake another one as he runs off and I am almost a little impressed that he has been able to count and determine the numerical difference. But that’s always been Jake. Even when he was little, there was always a Stewie Griffin look about him like he knew more than he was letting on. Matt calls him the mastermind, like he might have even sent Ted out first to check on the situation before making his appearance in this world. Ted is different, a follower – but the ever-faithful henchman, the one who’d defend his brother to the core but who probably drew the zebra crossing because he was told to. Must remember to clean the garage floor when I get back.

‘All right, Jools? Paula offloaded the kids on you again?’

I turn to see Donna, mother of Ciara (Hannah’s class), Justin (two years younger ), and Alesha (one year older than Millie; always dressed in Bisodol pink) and who lives five doors down from me. I like Donna immensely. She’s amiable for the fact she is completely ballsy, no holds barred, always says what’s on her mind, which makes for entertaining company in the bear pit of try-hard mothers and their competitive ways. She’s dressed in skinny jeans, knee-high boots, a maxi cardigan, and a T-shirt emblazoned with a slogan I’m glad the kids can’t read. I’m still wearing what I had on this morning but have added a grey hoodie and a bra. I’ll never leave the house without a bra again. Donna being Donna puts her hand in my plastic bucket of muffins and helps herself. She flicks her poker straight black hair away from her face.

‘That bitch is doing my ’ead in I tell you. Told me Harriet couldn’t come to Ciara’s pizza party ’cos she’s allergic to wheat.’

I don’t want to fuel the fire by telling her I’m going to stuff Harriet silly with gluten tonight.

‘Aah, let her be. Sunday, right?’

‘Yep, and tell Matt to come too, bring all your kids. You know what it’s like at mine, friggin’ free for all.’

I watch as Donna feeds Alesha muffin crumbs out of her perfectly manicured blue nails, each nail with a spray-on Celtic pattern. Donna, it could be said, is a little rough around the edges with her tattoos, key chains, and overdone mascara, but I think that’s part of her appeal. In any case, I think I’m closer to being her than someone like Paula Jordan; she from the herd of parents who pretend their children are being educated at Clifton Primary because they’re Guardian reading lefties when in fact they’d sooner go private if they had more money. At least with Donna, what you see is what you get. She’s also full of gossip, which keeps me on my toes.

‘Anyway, did you see Jen Tyrrell this morning? Might as well have mounted Mr Pringle at the gate.’

Jen Tyrrell – Paula Jordan’s BFF but ten times worse. I’m surprised she doesn’t leave a trail of wheatgrass and diet pills everywhere she walks. She’s the sort of mother who also feels the ridiculous need to be queen bee. Recollections of those sorts of girls from school always urge me to give those kinds of folk a wide berth. Mr Pringle – the twenty-something, freshly qualified teacher of the girl’s class – a dewy-eyed looking fella who most of the mothers take great joy in ogling from the school gate. He’s pleasant enough to look at but his youth and energy often make me feel a little woeful about myself.

‘You heard? She’s started a “parents’ discussion forum” so she can go rub her tits in his face every Tuesday night.’

‘What are they discussing?’

‘Crap. Fundraisers, school plays, fucking do-gooding bullshit.’

I laugh. It’s always been the case at Clifton Primary: two very different crowds – one who twizzle the occasional turkey, their kids’ looking they’ve been thrown up on by a Claire’s Accessories; next to the Boden crowd, competing to be the most organic and involved mothers in the land. I’m on neither team, just watching from the middle of their stand offs at the school gate, watching the divide that will never be united. Not by Donna at least who scans the stalls. But there’s no one here to pick a fight with unless she go for the au pair sat waiting for little Maisy: bag of organic dried fruits in one hand and rice cakes in the other.

‘Did you see Hugh Tyrrell at that parents’ meeting last week? I tell you, if I was porking that you’d need to take my eyes first.’

Hugh ‘Huge’ Tyrrell – for want of a kindly word, a ‘portly’ man with hair that sprouts out his collar like errant weeds. I laugh and nod but to be honest, I have become a bit lost for words given my emotional and physical fatigue. Donna picks up on it.

‘You all right? Little quiet.’

‘Crap day. Guess who I bumped into this morning?’

Donna shrugs her shoulders.

‘Tommy McCoy.’

‘What? The real McCoy? You’re joking! He’s fit as.’

‘Maybe, but a real tosser. He was in Sainsbury’s and I think I had a fight with him. It was surreal.’

Donna loves this idea of me being confrontational. Actually, anyone in a confrontation will do for her.

‘Bloody hell, a fight? Was it fisticuffs over the frozen foods?’

‘Fish fingers, actually.’

‘Hope you told him where to go.’

‘I think I did.’

Donna smiles and puts one arm around my shoulders and the other hand into my muffins.

‘That’s my girl! Shame, though. I always thought he was fit. Rumour is he’s hung like a ruddy donkey.’

My muffin lodges in my throat, just as she spies her Justin with his trousers around his ankles about to pee in someone’s handbag and hurdles down to stop him.