Young Wives' Tales (22 page)

The Head’s office is a far more pleasant venue for a school governors’meeting, although in the absence of external governors this meeting now ought to really be described as a Parents’Association meeting. Today we are meeting to discuss whether it’s practical to introduce cooked school lunches, an issue which needs the attention of the governors but grips the heart of the parents, on or off the association. As such we are unlikely to find a resolution today but it doesn’t stop us chewing over the issue.

‘The question is can we afford the significant investment required to employ outside caterers?’

‘We must find the money. The advantage of the children having a hot meal in cold weather can’t be overvalued,’says Lesley Downes, mother of Joe, Year Two.

‘And mums wouldn’t be challenged daily to come up
with something creative for the lunchbox,’says Lyn. ‘Anything that means a job less for me gets my vote.’

‘Yes, but at least if you pack their lunch you know what they are eating. School meals receive such bad press, and unless we get Jamie Oliver to pop to Holland Park every lunchtime to check nutritional content, few of us have much faith in the quality of food made by external caterers,’I point out.

‘True, I don’t like the idea of my Katie and Tim eating chicken’s claws and bollocks and such,’says Wendy Pickering.

I shuffle uncomfortably. Why does Wendy Pickering always have to lower the tone? I don’t think there’s any need for that sort of language, especially in front of the headmaster. It’ll embarrass him.

‘No, Wendy, of course not. None of us want to see the children eating bollocks, since it will only serve as an excuse for why so many of them spout it,’says Mr Walker, with a grin.

Wendy smiles back. She thinks he’s a bit stuck up and she’s still testing him. I think he’s just passed.

‘Now without the governors we can’t definitively resolve this one. But it’s an important issue and I feel we ought to progress it. I think we ought to allow a number of catering companies to pitch to us. Say three or four? We could ask them to present menus and costing plans and if we are impressed by any of them, we can meet them and test the food.’

‘Are you suggesting taking us six women out for lunch?’laughs Wendy. ‘There’ll be talk. I can see the
headline now: orgies at Holland House, womanizing headmaster caught spanking mothers who put their elbows on the table at mealtimes.’

Really, she’s too much.

‘Six women, and the Vicar and good Mr Watkinson and Mr Jones,’laughs Mr Walker. ‘Let them talk. Print and we’ll sue.’

‘I think we should follow Mr Walker’s suggestion. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’I say, trying to drag the meeting back on to a more formal note. Clearly the lack of outside influence has had a detrimental effect on the proceedings and I don’t like things to be slapdash.

We move on to the subjects of the firework display and the Christmas party. The firework party is organized, as there is an extremely efficient subcommittee dealing with it (I’m on that committee). Today we just have to hand out schedules detailing everyone’s duties for the evening. However, the Christmas party is looking shambolic; nothing is booked, not the venue, the DJ, the caterer or even glass hire. I’m panicked about this and think we should have addressed the issue on the first day of term. No doubt all the decent venues will be taken now, and yet it’s impossible to get the committee to see the urgency of making a decision.

‘Why don’t we have it at school? It will save spending money on hiring a venue and then we can spend a bit extra on the food and drink.’

‘We can’t get a licence to serve alcohol on the premises, we’ve tried before,’I point out.

‘We should hire a hall,’suggests Lyn Finch.

‘Halls are too impersonal. It would remind me of being a teenager again and going to the local youth club disco,’says Lesley Downes with a mock shiver of horror.

‘I don’t know that that’s a bad thing. I’d quite like someone to try to stuff their hand down my bra and for me to get a high from half a pint of cider,’says Wendy Pickering. ‘It takes so much more nowadays.’

How did this woman ever get voted to be class rep? I cough, embarrassed for Mr Walker, but he’s grinning. Such a good sport.

‘What about a restaurant?’

‘It gets costly and no one is ever happy with the way the bill is divided.’

‘How about hosting it in one of our homes?’

‘Well, whose house is big enough?’

Lucy’s might be but they’d have to drag out my fingernails before I’d admit as much. There is no way I’m allowing her to become the hostess with the mostest. The last thing I want is for her to have a reputation for generosity stretching across the school. And she would go to town, embrace the whole school Christmas party as though she were entertaining the Queen, just to spite me.

The debate regarding venue flows for about forty minutes. Every time somewhere appears to be agreed upon, someone or other comes up with an objection.

‘I got food poisoning last time I ate there.’

‘They don’t have a late licence.’

‘I’d like somewhere with a dance floor.’

‘The loos are filthy.’

‘How about we hire the upstairs of the Ship pub? You know, on Lottfield Road,’I suggest. ‘The food is decent and reasonably priced. There’s a small dance floor. We’d be able to let our hair down. We can buy our own drinks, so that personal budgets can be managed.’

I realize that I’ve come up with a decent idea when no one says a word. No doubt everyone is searching for an objection (more fun than searching for a solution, often as not) but they can’t uncover one.

‘I take that silence to be agreement,’says Mr Walker. ‘Good. Brilliant idea, Mrs Phillips.’

I feel extremely pleased to be praised by Mr Walker. This must date back to my being a girly swot, when I lived for the praise of my teachers. However, I can’t help feeling a little offended that Mr Walker called me Mrs Phillips. Not Rose. He calls Wendy, Wendy and Lyn, Lyn. But he maintains a formality with me. Does he think I’m some sort of geriatric and therefore I command the respect of a title? How infuriating.

We agree some action points regarding who should book the venue, hire the DJ and communicate with the parents and then the meeting draws to a close. Lyn and Lesley rush off, as they do Pilates on a Thursday night. Wendy Pickering says she needs to dash because she wants to get to Tesco’s. The other two mums are going to the cinema as they’ve got a late pass. They invite me along but I don’t want to take advantage of Daisy.

Mr Walker and I find ourselves left alone to wash
cups and return the chairs to the classrooms we borrowed them from.

‘Good of you to stay behind and help, Mrs Phillips.’

‘No problem. I have a few minutes and many hands make light work.’I carefully replace the mugs in the staffroom cupboard. Despite a thorough wash they are all stained with years of tea drinking. They need to be soaked in Steradent.

‘You came up with some great suggestions at that meeting. There were moments I thought we’d still be debating the venue for the Christmas party until past the Lent term.’

I smile. ‘The same thought passed my mind.’

‘Thanks for backing me up on the school meals, too. I appreciate your support.’

‘No problem.’

‘You are always so much help, Mrs Phillips. If there is anything I can ever do for you in return, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

I look at the beaming young man. It’s past six and I’m surprised to note his chin is shadowed with whiskers. In this light he looks quite rugged. Noting this comes as a bit of a surprise, as the image I have of him is eternally boyish.

‘You could do something for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘You could stop calling me Mrs Phillips.’

‘But you call me Mr Walker, even though I’m always asking you to call me Craig.’He blushes. Poor man, it must be a curse to be a man that blushes, particularly
when you’re faced with 250 kids every morning. Although a bit of colour suits him. It shows up his sparkly blue eyes to quite an advantage. I wonder what he looks like with a tan. I can’t remember. He must have had one last summer, I just never noticed.

‘OK, I’ll call you Craig, if you call me Rose.’

‘I’d love to. Great name. I’ve always liked it.’

‘Was it your mother’s?’I ask.

‘No.’Craig looks confused.

I laugh. ‘Sorry. I think I’m getting paranoid. Yesterday I was pulled over by the traffic police because one of my brake lights was broken. The younger policeman was so thoroughly polite and charming. He clearly took a shine to me. It struck me that I must have reminded him of his mum.’

‘He probably fancied you, Rose.’Now it’s my turn to blush. Craig notices and is mortified. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. None of my business. I’m clearly mixing with Wendy Pickering too much.’He’s trying to joke but he’s still scarlet. ‘I just meant if a guy is nice to you it doesn’t necessarily mean that you remind him of his mother.’Craig turns away and starts to gather up the papers that are scattered on his desk. He knows that he’s been a little over-familiar and he’s nervous that he’s offended me.

‘Actually, I went on a date with a younger man recently.’I bravely offer this fact to let him know I’m not offended. We’re both adults after all. The school bell rang long ago, surely we can have a grown-up conversation after hours?

‘Really? Was it fun?’

‘Not especially. Kevin swore a lot and was rude to me. If I’d wanted that I could have gone cycling in rush hour.’

Craig laughs and I’m encouraged beyond my normal strict boundaries. ‘It was a blind date. Then I met an alcoholic through internet dating. It’s my friends’idea. They are worried about me.’

And so they should be. I seem to have lost my mind. What on earth made me tell Mr Walker – Craig – that? I don’t want him to think I’m the sort of mother who desperately trails the net looking for sex, like some porn addict.

‘I see.’He nods, and there’s something about him that suggests that I have not shocked him and that he really does understand. But how could he? He’s male and young. He’s just got himself a new girlfriend. It’s unlikely that his friends are desperate for him.

‘It appears that if there’s a man in his thirties who lives in London and is single, it’s for a very good reason. He’s too fond of a drink or he’s psychotic, boring, a loser, a loony or a combination of all of the above,’I announce.

‘Oh, right,’says Craig. Unaccountably he’s blushing again.

‘Still, in some ways it’s better than sitting in on my own.’

‘Quite.’

‘And I’ve discovered the comfort of strangers is rather liberating.’I hope this explains my verbal incontinence.

‘Really.’

‘I’d better get going; my sister’s babysitting the boys.’

‘Yes, yes, I mustn’t keep you. It’s been nice talking to you, Rose.’

I smile and leave the headmaster’s office. Over the years I’ve visited various headmasters’offices to be awarded gold stars and merits, which was always a thrill, but I’ve never left feeling quite as spectacular as I do this evening.

Peculiar.

‘Where are you going?’Henry is standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Notably he’s still not wearing his pyjamas, even though bathtime was over forty minutes ago and I’ve repeated my request that he gets into his pyjamas about a dozen times. He is dressed in an assortment of costumes including Woody’s boots (the Sheriff, rather than the film director), Buzz’s trousers, a policeman’s jacket, a builder’s tabard and, finally, Darth Vader’s mask, which is propped at a jaunty angle on top of his head. He looks like a contender for a Village People tribute band.

Although the question is seemingly innocent enough, I know it’s full of resentment and simmering anger so I choose to go on the attack, instead of responding directly.

‘Why aren’t you in your pyjamas? It’s getting late.’

In turn, Henry chooses to ignore my question and follows his own line of enquiry. I’ve noticed that our family can communicate for hours like this.

‘Are you going out
again
?’He sounds like my father
and he’s rolling his eyes with a frightening similarity of manner. ‘You’re
always
out.’He’s hanging on to the door handle with his full weight. I tell him not to loll and consider my defence.

It isn’t true that I’m always out and yet, undoubtedly, my social life has been a veritable whirl since I started my mechanics course. I have been ‘out’on seven occasions in twenty days. Previous to that, on average, I’d manage seven trips out approximately every two and a half years. I’ve attended the mechanics course three times, twice staying late to have a coffee with Susanne and Helen, I’ve been ‘out’to a Parents’Association meeting, twice, and I’ve been on two dates. Tonight is my third date. I’m due to meet Ian. Ian was the only one of the eighteen responses to my internet profile that I was prepared to take seriously. Approximately sixteen of them contacted me to say ‘Get a life,’although not always in such polite terms, one suggested I needed sex (ideally with him and specifically on Wednesday afternoons between two and three o’clock), and the final response was from Ian, who said he also has an interest in antiques.

Yes, this weekend I took the plunge and posted my own profile on to that webpage Connie found. What was it called?
www.youtoocanfindloveifyoulookhardenough.com
, or something like that. Connie insisted that it was the next logical step after responding to Chris’s profile. Daisy pointed out that I had in fact found the date with Chris rather helpful. Luke reasoned that I would be in control if I placed a profile. Simon mumbled that I
didn’t have to answer any of them anyhow. It was Simon’s argument that swung it for me.

Writing the profile was very difficult. Chris had told me that he’d found it tricky to reduce his life to a couple of paragraphs, but my problem was the opposite. I struggled to fill more than a couple of lines. Of course, it turned into a group effort so my dignity wasn’t spared.

‘I think you could pass for thirty-five which is practically early thirties so you should probably tick the 25–30-year-old box,’said Connie, slicing more than a decade of my life away in one untruthful click.