Losing Me (6 page)

She popped into the sweetshop on the corner and bought chocolate bars, crisps and juice boxes. All the things her grandchildren weren’t allowed. But feeling the way she did, she wasn’t about to spend forty minutes driving to her mother’s place with two kids in the back while suffering from low blood sugar. Today she would feed them crap and she would feel not a smidgen of guilt.

Atticus and Cleo didn’t finish at St. Mungo’s for another half hour, and since it was only a couple of miles down the road and the traffic tended to be pretty light, she rarely had a problem getting there on time.

Barbara could never get over how different St. Mungo’s was from Jubilee. Like most inner-city schools, it still had its fair share of impoverished, needy children, but mainly the pupils at St. Mungo’s came from middle-class professional homes. As Barbara cruised the side streets looking for a parking space, she was aware how dilapidated her ancient Saab looked among the shiny SUVs.

In the playground, the mothers in their fur gilets and UGGs exchanged “Happy New Year’s” and air kisses. Somebody was talking in a loud voice about the family’s Christmas trip to Tuvalu—wherever that was.

Another group of women was discussing a child called Casper. “So anyway, apparently he goes round the playground rubbing his penis against other children.”

“He must be gay.”

“Oh, stop it. The kid’s five. And anyway, he does it to both sexes.”

“Well, if he’s not gay, he needs to see a shrink.”

It was all Barbara could do to stop wading in. Of course the poor child didn’t need a shrink. He needed his mother to sit him down and explain calmly and gently that rubbing his penis against other children was unacceptable, but in the privacy of his own room he could fiddle with himself all he liked.

That was another thing that pissed Barbara off about the world—especially the respectable middle-class bit of it. Even now, in a society where you couldn’t get away from sex, parents still didn’t discuss the subject with their children. Barbara had a theory. She had a lot of theories. Being nearly sixty did that to you. She was convinced that parents were the best people to tell their children about sex. She believed that keeping this conversation in the family created intimacy between parents and their offspring. Once kids knew that sex wasn’t a taboo subject and that they could feel relaxed and safe talking about it at home, they wouldn’t feel scared to bring their worries and problems to their parents as they got older.

As it happened, she’d shared her theory with Frank a few nights ago, while they were lying in bed, reading.

“I know I did the right thing being open with the kids about sex and masturbation when they were growing up. Neither of them has got the remotest hang-up about sex.”

“Too true,” Frank said from behind his Kindle. “I mean, didn’t we laugh when our four-year-old daughter announced to the milkman that she had a clitoris?”

“Stop it. That was cute.”

“But not nearly as cute as when Ben told his teacher that masturbation is normal, the whole world does it and that it’s a great way of discovering what you enjoy. That was really cute.”

“Well, at least he didn’t go around rubbing his penis up against all and sundry. So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that being open about sex is all well and good, but you also need to help them set boundaries. Kids need to know when to shut up about that stuff. But clearly Ben took all your advice about masturbation to heart.”

“Meaning?”

“It would appear that at twenty-three he’s still trying to work out what he enjoys, which is why he spends all day jerking off in his room instead of getting a job.”

“He doesn’t jerk off—at least not all day. He’s too busy sleeping.”

•   •   •

Barbara was still eavesdropping on the posh mummies’ conversation about poor Casper and his penis when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Hi, Mrs. S.” It was Martha. Today she had replaced her usual peasant scarf with cold-weather headgear, a knitted Peruvian hat with earflaps. She’d teamed it with an ethnic, Indian cotton baby carrier and an expertly swaddled infant. “I didn’t think it was your day for picking up the kids.”

Barbara explained about Jess being rushed off her feet at the deli. “Oh, poor thing. But she knows I would have had them.”

“She probably thought you had enough on your hands.”

Martha was Jess’s closest mummy friend. Her two eldest, Linus and Juniper, were the same ages as Atticus and Cleo. The baby, a girl, if Barbara remembered rightly, had to be nearing six weeks.

“And look at this little cutie,” Barbara cooed, stroking the baby’s cheek. “The last time I saw you, you hadn’t decided on a name.”

“Minnie.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Barbara said, remembering her smelly aunty Minnie with the white lips that she got from sucking too many indigestion tablets. “And she’s doing OK?”

“Actually, she’s got a bit of a runny nose and a temperature, but I haven’t taken her to the doctor. He’ll only give her antibiotics. I’d rather she got my immunity through breast milk.”

Barbara refrained from sharing another of her theories—namely that antibiotics, overused as they might be, were still capable of fighting childhood diseases and saving lives. To her knowledge, there were no peer-reviewed studies that suggested breast milk did the same. Theories like that didn’t go down well with hummusy mothers like Martha and Jess—the ones who knew all the best placenta recipes, used menstrual cups and loved nothing more than a good chicken pox party.

The hummusy mummies were the other major contingent at St. Mungo’s. As a result of her conversations with Jess and Martha, along with the occasional playground chat with a rich mummy or two, Barbara had managed to establish the following: The hummusy mummies despised the rich mummies for destroying the planet with their gas-guzzlers, for wearing cosmetics that had been tested on animals, clogging landfill sites with disposable nappies and hiring tutors for their four-year-olds. The rich mummies despised the hummusy mummies because they dressed as if they were on their way to Woodstock circa 1969, went around with Kegel balls in their vaginas and refused to feed their children ice cream, favoring breast-milk parfait instead. What was more, they drove these same children—helmetless—on London roads in homemade wooden carts attached to their bikes. On the bike issue, Barbara was absolutely with the rich mummies. She thought that anybody who put their children in one of those go-kart contraptions—particularly without a helmet—should be hauled up in front of a judge.

“So the big ones aren’t jealous of their baby sister?” Barbara asked Martha.

“Oh, we’ve had a few tantrums, but the chicken coop’s arriving later on today. I’m hoping that feeding the chickens and collecting eggs will give them something else to focus on.”

Just then they were joined by Martha’s friend Bryony. Barbara remembered her from one of the children’s birthday parties. Bryony seemed positively elated. “Great news. I managed to score some raw milk at the weekend, so if either of you would like a couple of pints, pop round.”

Barbara had a theory about unpasteurized milk, too.

The children came charging out of school in their scarlet sweatshirts, dragging their coats and scarves along the ground.

The moment Atticus and Cleo caught sight of their grandmother, they sprinted towards her. Barbara held out her arms for hugs and kisses.

“Mum never told us you were coming,” Atticus said, automatically handing her his coat, reading folder and lunch box. Cleo did the same. The identical transaction was happening all over the playground. Folders and lunch boxes, not to mention football kits, class hamsters, giant papier-mâché artworks, violins and trumpets were exchanged for snacks. Mothers left the playground looking like well-groomed Sherpas.

“I thought I’d give you a surprise,” Barbara said. “How do you fancy going to see Nana Rose? I suggested to her that we go for a walk, but maybe you’d prefer to watch a movie. Later on she could show you more of her old photographs.”

“Movie,” they declared in unison.

“OK, and as a special treat we can order pizza.”

“Cool.”

While Martha and Bryony handed out kale chips to their offspring, Barbara held out chocolate bars and crisps. Atticus had no qualms grabbing his. He was eight and well up for some skullduggery. It was little Cleo who held back. “But, Grandma, we’re not allowed.”

“You know what?” Barbara said. “You are today. Because this is a special day.”

“What sort of a special day?” asked Atticus.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . but it has to be special for somebody somewhere.”

Cleo thought for a moment or two, after which she decided to go along with Barbara’s proposition. Grinning, she accepted her treats. Their friends looked on, their never-been-sullied-by-soap faces pictures of envy. Barbara was in no doubt that Martha and Bryony would tell on her. That meant she would have to own up first and spend ten minutes being chastised and lectured to by her holier-than-thou daughter.

“Gran’ma,” Atticus said as the three of them headed towards the car. “Linus and Juniper have got a tortoise. And they’ve called it Usain Bolt. Isn’t that a great name for a tortoise?”

Barbara laughed. “It’s an excellent name.”

“Why is it?” Cleo said.

“Because,” Atticus said, “Usain Bolt is this really fast runner, and tortoises move very, very slowly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Duuhhh . . . stupid . . . it’s funny.”

“OK, I get it.”

But Barbara knew she didn’t.

She helped the children into the back of the car, and in Cleo’s case—because she was only five—onto her booster seat.

“Ha-ha, Cleo is a baby,” Atticus taunted. “She still needs a booster seat.”

“Atticus, don’t be so unkind. May I remind you that you needed a booster seat until recently? Now say sorry.”

Atticus mumbled an apology. Cleo poked her tongue out at him.

“Right, who’s for OJ?” Barbara said, handing them both a carton of juice.

While the children sucked on their straws and finished their crisps, there was silence.

Barbara didn’t attempt to engage them in conversation. She craved a few moments’ peace. She wanted some time to replay the day and feel sorry for herself. She needed to curse—albeit in silence. But she was tired. She couldn’t focus. Her mind flitted from thought to thought. One moment she was back in Sandra’s office, getting the sack, the next she was in Tiffany’s front room. Then she was back in bed with Frank, sharing her thoughts on child sex education. She could see him looking up from his Kindle. “Barbara, have you any idea how much you toot your own horn? You know it’s your worst fault, don’t you? I mean, what makes you such an expert on teaching kids about sex?”

“I don’t think I’m an expert. That said, I’ve raised two kids of my own, and I’ve spent the last forty years teaching some of the most difficult children you could ever hope to meet. Aren’t I entitled to a child-rearing theory or two? And it’s not like I ever toot in public.”

“No, you just confront people in public.”

“Self-empowerment is another thing that comes with age.”

“You can be empowered without being confrontational.”

“I can’t. I’m a battle-ax. What can I say? And anyway, in my opinion, the world would be a much better place if we confronted casual, day-to-day wrongdoing instead of constantly turning our backs.”

“You’ve missed your vocation. You should have gone into politics, not education.”

“You always say that, but you know I’ve never been interested in party politics. And anyway, I’m not smart enough.”

“Now you
are
talking rubbish.”

“Well, it’s how I feel. I know I keep coming up with all these theories about the world, but you know as well as I do that one of the reasons I do it is to prove to myself that I’m not stupid.”

“Excuse me while I fetch my violin.”

“You can be so mean sometimes. Do you know that?”

Barbara went back to her book—unlike Frank, she hadn’t made the transition from paper—but she couldn’t concentrate.

•   •   •

“So, Grandma,” Atticus was saying now. “What apps did you have when you were a kid?”

“Come again?” Barbara said, stirring from her reverie.

He repeated the question.

Barbara burst out laughing and almost missed a right turn. “Oh, darling, we didn’t have apps. They hadn’t been invented when I was little.”

•   •   •

Barbara is nine and her teacher Mrs. Emmet is reading out the end-of-term exam results to the forty-one children in Barbara’s class. Like most years, she’s come in fortieth. She sits at her desk overwhelmed by the familiar feelings of shame and humiliation, trying so hard not to cry that her throat aches.

Later on that day, she and her mother are back at school for parents’ evening. “We realize that Barbara will never be a high achiever,” Rose says to Mrs. Emmet. “At the moment she wants to be a hairdresser, but between you and me, I don’t think her diction is good enough.”

Mrs. Emmet looks at Rose, clearly at a loss for how to respond. Barbara is too young to realize that her mother is talking claptrap. She feels worthless and, quite literally, good for nothing.

For the best part of this year, Barbara has been in pain when she walks. She’s complained regularly to her mother about the throbbing “black thing” on the edge of her foot, an inch or so from her little toe. Tonight when she’s in the bath she checks it out again and discovers it has spawned a cluster of black specks.

“Mummy, please come and look at my foot. It’s got really horrible.”

“I’m cooking. Bring it down here.”

Barbara dries herself off and goes downstairs to present her foot.

“It’s nothing,” Rose announces. “It’s just a mark. Why do you always have to make such a fuss?”

Barbara tells her that the thing has become so painful lately that she’s limping.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Barbara goes away and makes a protective pad with some cotton wool and a Band-Aid. The next day Mrs. Emmet asks Barbara why she’s limping. She explains. Mrs. Emmet sends her to see Mrs. Pierce, the principal’s secretary who doubles as the unofficial school nurse. Mrs. Pierce tells Barbara that she has a very nasty verruca and calls Rose. Of course Rose takes it out on Barbara.