Forget Me Not (31 page)

I ran there, met Dad outside, then we went through the squeaky swing doors into the little hall where Mrs Avis was greeting the parents. We sat halfway to the back as the room filled up, fanning ourselves with the ‘programme’, a folded sheet of A4.

Suddenly Citronella appeared and plonked herself down in the middle of the front row, which the other parents had politely left free. She was accompanied by a sulky-looking girl with spiky blonde hair – the Infant Wonder Sienna, presumably. Sienna looked as though she didn’t want to be there. As we waited for the show to start she was slouched in her seat, listening to her iPod, sending texts, or simply emitting loud, bored sighs.

Suddenly I saw Xan in the doorway and waved. I hoped that Citronella would turn round and see us together.

‘Keep the chair next to you,’ I whispered to him as he sat next to me. ‘Luisa’s going to be late. Dad, this is Xan: Xan, this is my father, Colin.’ The two men smiled affably at each other as they shook hands across me.

‘Good to meet you,’ Dad said. I knew I could rely on him to be friendly, whatever he’d felt about Xan in the past.

‘It’s great to meet you,’ Xan replied. ‘I’m only sorry it hasn’t happened before.’ I guessed that this was his way of apologising for his belated involvement in Milly’s life.

Dad nodded at the stage. ‘I like the set.’ A colourful backdrop of flowers and trees had been created from cardboard and crêpe paper.

A hush descended as Mrs Avis stepped forward. ‘Welcome to Sweet Peas,’ she announced, ‘and to our performance of
The Magic Garden
, which will last approximately half an hour, after which tea will be served outside.’ Then she went to the upright piano at the back of the stage and began to play Mendelssohn’s ‘Spring Song’, over which I could hear the mosquito whine of Sienna’s iPod. Citronella took a large video recorder out of her bag and began filming.

All the children trooped on ‘stage’ and sat on little chairs in a large semicircle, while they waited for their turn to perform. Some were dressed as daffodils or tulips; others as birds. There was a fluffy ‘cloud’, three butterflies, two bumblebees, a toadstool and a rather benign-looking witch. Some of the costumes were so good I thought they must have come from theatrical outfitters. Erasmus, a bee, was dressed in a stripy black-and-orange T-shirt and orange knickerbockers with a pair of gauzy wings and black deely-boppers on his head. Milly looked sweet in her forget-me-not dress: the hat that Cassie had knitted resembled a scoop of Ben and Jerry’s blueberry ice cream.

As Mrs Avis thumped away on the piano, Luisa arrived, slipped into the vacant chair next to Xan and gave me a little wave.

Now all the children stood up and sang:

‘
The Sun has got her hat on
–

Hip hip hip hooray!

The Sun has got her hat on and she’s coming out to play
.’

The daffodils and tulips stepped forward and lay on the floor, tightly curled, in an attitude of sleep.

Then a girl of about four, dressed entirely in yellow, with a huge ‘sunburst’ hat and a yellow-painted face, came to the front of the stage. ‘I am the Sun,’ she announced. ‘And it is spring – time for all the flowers to wake up and play in my warm rays.’ She then windmilled her arms at them to suggest solar radiation. ‘Wake up, flowers!’ she shouted. ‘Please wake up!’ But they lay there motionless. ‘Wake
up
!’ she yelled. ‘Wintertime is over!’ But they remained recumbent, their eyes squeezed shut. Then Mrs Avis played an introduction to the next song, and all the children rose to their feet again.

‘It’s springtime’
they chorused.

‘Time to be in the sun
.

Time to wake up and grow and to have lots of fun!’

But the dormant flowers didn’t move so much as a petal, apart from one of the tulips, which had the hiccups.

The Sun stepped forward. ‘Oh dear,’ she said to the audience. ‘The spring flowers won’t wake up. That’s because the naughty witch has put a spell on them.’

The ‘witch’ stepped forward as the piano sounded again.

‘
I don’t like the spring
’ she sang.

‘
I don’t like the flowers.

So I’ve stopped them from growing, with my magical
powers
.’

‘Please help me, little clouds!’ shouted the Sun. ‘Please help me wake up the flowers, with some lovely showers!’

Two little ‘clouds’ duly came and sprinkled some glittery ‘raindrops’ on them, but still they didn’t stir. Then the ‘birds’ came and pecked at the ground, to the loud tapping of a woodblock, but still the flowers didn’t move. Then the ‘trees’ came and stamped their ‘roots’ very noisily, to the beating of a drum – but to no avail. Then the bees and butterflies flitted round the stage crying and wiping their eyes.

‘All the bees and butterflies are sad,’ explained the Sun, ‘because there are no flowers in the garden. I know,’ she added. ‘I’ll ask the Flower Fairies to help me.’

I got a jab in the ribs from Dad and Xan as Milly and the two other Flower Fairies stood up and shuffled to the front of the stage, hand in hand.

‘I’m the Primrose Flower Fairy,’ said an apricot-coloured one.

‘I’m the Rose Flower Fairy,’ said a pink one.

‘I’m the Forget-Me-Not Flower Fairy,’ Milly mumbled shyly, her head on one side. I glanced at Xan. He was smiling delightedly at her and taking photos with his mobile.

As Mrs Avis played some ethereal, tinkly music, the Flower Fairies skipped round the recumbent daffodils and tulips, waving their magic wands at them. Now, with the music becoming louder, the flowers began to uncurl, then they got to their feet and began to wave their arms, twisting and turning in the ‘sunshine’, yawning and rubbing their eyes.

‘
Hurrah!
’ the children sang.
‘The flowers have woken – at
last!

Thank you, Flower Fairies – that was fast!
’ 

Mrs Avis struck up ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and as the children sang it, the butterflies and bees began to flutter around the flowers. By now the small stage had become crowded and the children were competing for space. Suddenly I saw Erasmus, who was standing next to Milly, barge her. She squawked with indignation but stood her ground. He gave her another hard shove, which nearly toppled her, so she pushed him back. At which point he swiped her hat and flung it on the floor: and now, to my horror, she grabbed his bare forearm with both hands and bent her head to it, as though she were about to tackle a corn on the cob.

‘
No
, Milly!’ I gasped.

Citronella leapt to her feet. ‘Don’t you
dare
!’

‘Mrs Barker-Jones!’ shouted Mrs Avis. ‘Kindly sit down. I will sort this out!’

But Citronella had stepped forward and was wagging her finger at Milly. ‘Don’t you
dare
bite him again, you horrid little girl!’ Milly’s face went crimson, then crumpled.

‘Don’t
you
dare speak to my daughter like that!’ Xan shouted, standing up.

Citronella turned and looked at him with a sudden flicker of recognition. ‘She was going to
bite
my child! I have proof,’ she added, tapping the camera. ‘
And
she’s tried to bite him before – hasn’t she, darling?’

Erasmus nodded, then pointed at Milly. ‘She try bite me.’

‘
Pero él me empujó
!’ Milly shouted. She retrieved her hat from the side of the stage.

‘Sit down, Mrs Barker-Jones,’ Mrs Avis repeated in the tone that one would use on a delinquent dog.

‘She tried to bite my
son
!’ Citronella spat as she returned to her seat. To my surprise, I saw Sienna snigger.

Milly stamped her foot. ‘
Pero él me empujó
!’ she repeated.

‘What?
’ said Citronella.

Luisa stood up. ‘Milly say: “But he push me.”’

‘
Y él a menudo me muerde
,’ Milly added.

‘And he did bited me often,’ Luisa translated.

‘
El muerde a los otros niños, también!
’

‘And he have bited all the other childrens!’

‘That’s true!’ someone shouted from the back. ‘He’s bitten Lucy before now. She told me.’

‘And Milo!’ someone else yelled.

‘He’s bitten Alfie too!’ I heard another voice say. ‘Left teeth marks.’

‘And Rosie,’ said Annabel Goodchild. ‘She was in floods.’

Citronella turned to us all, her face a mask of hostility; then she shouldered her bag, grabbed Erasmus with one hand, a giggling Sienna with the other and stormed out.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Mrs Avis said calmly as we heard the doors continue to swing to and fro on their creaky hinges. ‘That concludes this afternoon’s performance of
The Magic
Garden
. Thank you for coming. I suggest we all go and have tea.’

The incident would have been quickly forgotten, had Citronella not written about it three days later.

Tony Blair’s rather novel idea of identifying the next ASBO
generation, even ‘in utero’, was much derided at the time
she wrote. I myself did not hesitate to speak out against
it in this very column, but now have cause to think he may
have been right. My own son has recently been victimised
by a fellow pupil in his nursery school. The child in question,
Milly – who sadly, if somewhat inevitably, is the
offspring of a single mother – tried to bite Erasmus in full
view of all the other parents at the school concert last
week. Imagine my horror as
…

‘Are you sure we can’t sue?’ I asked Xan, who’d come round in the afternoon to play with Milly.

He looked at the article again. ‘Well, the problem is that Milly did try to bite him – albeit under severe provocation, which this Poisonella of course doesn’t mention – so I very much doubt we’d have grounds. But what a miserable cow to put in Milly’s name,’ he added bitterly.

‘She must be miserable,’ I agreed. I screwed up the article and threw it in the bin. ‘Now I know why Milly began biting – she probably learned it from Erasmus. I wonder why he does it? There’s usually some underlying reason.’ I glanced at the clock. ‘Anyway, it’s ten to eight – come on, Milly. Bedtime. Say ’bye to Dad. You’ll see him tomorrow.’

‘I’ll put her to bed,’ Xan said.

‘Yes. Dad put me to bed,’ Milly said happily.

‘Oh. OK, then.’

‘Read to me, Dad,’ Milly commanded. ‘Read
Fidgety Fish
and
Smiley Shark
and
Peter Rabbit
!’

‘All right, Miss Bliss,’ he said, as he followed her upstairs. ‘And which one would you like first?’

It was strange seeing Xan doing the bedtime routine with Milly, for all the world as though he lived with us. I began picking up Milly’s toys and books, which were strewn across the carpet. And I’d just put them all back in their boxes when there was a ring at the door. As I recognised the familiar shape through the glass panels my heart sank. ‘Patrick!’ I murmured, quietly panicking, as I opened the door. ‘How lovely to see you,’ I lied. ‘But you should have phoned first.’

‘I thought I’d do something spontaneous,’ he replied evenly. He was holding a rented DVD. ‘I’ve brought a film.’ He kissed me. ‘It’s so nice to see you, sweetheart.’ Xan chose that moment to come down the stairs.

‘Xan,’ I said, my entrails in knots. ‘This is Patrick Gilchrist. Patrick this is Xan Marshall, Milly’s dad.’

‘Good to meet you,’ Xan said. The two men shook hands with an air of cordial detestation. Xan turned to me. ‘Milly’s asleep.’

‘Already?’ I said with artificial brightness. ‘She must have been exhausted.’

‘Well, she’s had a busy time with us this afternoon,’ Xan said with casual provocation. By now the atmosphere was so chilly I could see my own breath. ‘Anyway’ – he clapped his hands together with mock joviality – ‘my paternal duty’s done for today.’

‘Then don’t let us keep you,’ Patrick said pleasantly. My insides shrank at his tone. ‘I’ve brought
The Maltese Falcon
,’ he added to me, his voice quavering now as he struggled to control his emotions. ‘I thought we could watch it. I’ll make supper.’

‘We’ve already eaten,’ Xan said as he picked up his bag.

‘But we could still see the film,’ I said quickly. ‘That would be … great. So, Xan …’ I smiled at him. ‘Thanks for coming over.’

‘No need to thank me,’ he said indolently. He kissed me on the cheek, letting his hand linger on my shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow, then. Usual time.’ Bye.’

‘Why was he still here?’ Patrick asked as I shut the front door. ‘I thought you said he just came for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons. It’s eight thirty.’

I sighed. ‘There’s no hard and fast rule. He stayed and chatted for a bit – then it was Milly’s bedtime and she wanted him to read to her.’

‘I don’t like him going upstairs. This isn’t his house.’

‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘But it’s mine. And he’s Milly’s father. And she asked him to put her to bed and I have no objections to that.’

‘It’s not on, Anna – you’re with me.’

‘But I didn’t know that … you were going to drop round,’ I said impotently.

Patrick stared at me. The scar on the bridge of his nose had gone white. ‘So what other liberties might Xan have taken if I hadn’t turned up?’

‘None,’ I replied wearily. ‘He just wants to spend time with Milly,’ I added as I went into the kitchen.

‘Whom he didn’t want to know about and then neglected.’ Patrick slammed shut a cupboard door. ‘“Paternal duty” my foot!’

‘I’m sorry you’re upset,’ I said. ‘But it’s very important for Milly that she sees Xan as often as possible. You, of all people, should understand that, Patrick.’

‘And what’s this?’ Patrick asked, pointing to the fridge, on which was a large photo of Xan in a magnetic frame.

‘He must have put that there for Milly. I hadn’t even noticed it.’

‘I wish he’d just get lost.’

‘I don’t!’ I retorted.