The Mummyfesto (12 page)

The comments started coming in. One from a mother whose daughter cut herself and who was plagued with guilt about it. A few from teachers who had seen the scars on their pupils and didn’t know what to do. The majority from mothers who simply didn’t want their daughters to grow up in a world where the best they could hope for was that their boyfriend didn’t knock them about. And where the hurt inside could only be assuaged by a razor blade.

I replied to as many of them as I could, even if it was only to offer sympathy. I advised the teachers to do what Jodie’s teacher had done – to speak to the girl, give her contact details of youth counselling services and hope like
hell that somewhere beneath the scars she had a tiny shred of self-worth left – enough to prompt her to go and see someone.

And all the while I thought about Esme, fast asleep in her room, and Charlotte, probably still reading with that little purple book light I’d got her as a stocking-filler at Christmas. About the world which awaited them and how much I wanted it to change.

I glanced down at the clock in the corner of the computer screen: 10.20. That was the only trouble about being online; you had absolutely no idea where the time had gone. I logged out and shut down the computer. David was downstairs, an increasingly rare night when there wasn’t some sort of council business to attend to. I hurried downstairs and went into the kitchen to make us both a mug of tea.

‘Sorry,’ I said, as I went through to the lounge and handed it to him, ‘completely lost track of time.’ David looked up from the comment page of the
Independent
.

‘That’s OK. Easily done.’

‘I hope Will’s got a better excuse.’

David looked at his watch. ‘He’s got two minutes to go yet. You know how he likes to scrape in just under the wire.’

‘To be honest,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t mind him being a few minutes late if he was doing something worthwhile.’

‘As opposed to being a public eyesore in the park, you mean?’

‘It’s not funny, David. I don’t like where he is or who he’s with or what he’s doing.’

‘You’re not supposed to – you’re his mother.’

‘Well are you happy about it?’

‘No. But unlike you I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it.’

‘Since when did you subscribe to the laissez-faire method of parenting?’

‘You chose to live in Hebden, Anna. What did you expect? Nine o’clock curfews and a drink and drug-free environment.’

His words stung me. The way he made out this had all been my doing. As if he’d merely been a passenger with no say in where we were going.

‘You’re the one who first suggested moving here.’

‘Yeah. Because you were so keen to get the kids out of London.’

‘So what are you saying, that you didn’t want to come?’

‘No. Just that I came with my eyes wide open. You may have thought this was some kind of utopia but I certainly didn’t.’

I was trying to formulate some kind of reply when I heard Will’s key in the door. I glanced up at the clock: 10.29. Will stuck his head around the living-room door with the cockiness of someone who knows they have not left forensics anything to go on.

‘Thank you and goodnight,’ he said.

‘Hang on,’ I said, hurrying out to the hall. ‘We haven’t even had a chance to ask how the history mock went.’

‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s all in the past.’

‘Unfortunately,’ I replied, pretending to tweak his ear, ‘there aren’t many openings for full-time comedians.’

‘Shame.’

‘So do I take it from your response that Simon Schama has nothing to worry about?’

‘I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him.’

‘If they did mocks in being too clever for your own good—’

‘I know, I’d be an A-star student,’ grinned Will, giving me a peck on the cheek.

‘Love you,’ I called after him as he headed up the stairs.

‘Whatever.’

I shook my head. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry sometimes. I suspected if I’d seen the people he’d been hanging out with tonight, it would be the latter.

I went back into the lounge. I wanted to talk to David about Will, but he was watching
Newsnight
now and appeared to be particularly engrossed in a studio discussion on the Greek economy. I sat down next to him on the sofa. My arm brushed his knee as I reached for my mug of coffee and I found myself apologising, actually apologising, for accidentally touching my own husband. He even acknowledged the apology. We slept in the same bed, for Christ’s sake. I couldn’t help thinking even the Greek economy was easier to understand than our marriage sometimes.

Every morning we played out the scene from
Angelina Ballerina
where the mischievous mouseling knocks things
over by attempting pirouettes in the kitchen and ends up in big trouble. Only in Esme’s case she managed to carry the whole thing off with such aplomb that instead of us getting cross and bothered about it we could only marvel at the ability of one seven-year-old to cause so much chaos.

‘The milk, Esme,’ I said, pointing to her cereal bowl, ‘you’re spilling your milk.’

‘Oops,’ she said with a giggle.

‘It generally happens if you try to do star-jumps while pouring it,’ said Will.

‘What about pike-straddles?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. Give it a try.’

‘Will,’ I groaned.

‘What? Like she needs encouraging.’

‘How about trying yoga?’ I suggested. ‘You could do a nice meditation while eating your cereal.’

‘Boring,’ said Esme. ‘I’d rather do a shoulder-stand.’ She lay down on the kitchen tiles and kicked her legs up into the air, knocking over a chair which in turn knocked over the cat’s water bowl.

‘Mum,’ groaned Will with a grin on his face. ‘Now look what you’ve made her do.’

I pulled a face at him. Occasionally, that is what my family reduced me to. Will helped Esme mop up the mess before I sat her down firmly at the table.

‘One day, young lady, we may actually resort to velcroing you to the chair.’

‘Is that an actual word?’ asked Will.

‘I don’t know. Ask Mr Hudson at school. Could you pass the milk please, Charlotte?’

Charlotte stared blankly at me.

‘The milk, Charlotte, love.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

She passed the jug and went back to staring blankly into space. I looked at Will. He shrugged. A second later her mobile beeped. She picked it up and held it under the table. Her hair was hanging down across her face so it was impossible to see her expression, but a second later she pushed her chair back and went to leave the table.

‘Charlotte, you haven’t finished,’ I said. She glanced down at her plate, ran out of the room and up the stairs. I looked at Will.

‘Can you get Esme ready for school please, love?’

‘Sure,’ he said, instantly swapping to responsible older-brother mode.

‘What’s wrong with Charlotte?’ asked Esme.

‘Big-girl stuff,’ I heard Will say to her as I left the kitchen. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

I knocked on Charlotte’s bedroom door. She didn’t say to come in, but nor did she shout to go away.

I went in. She was sitting on the end of her bed, tears pouring down her face, the mobile still in her hand.

‘Hey.’ I sat down next to her and hugged her to me, feeling her chest shake as she sobbed. I held her for a long time until the sobs subsided a little, enough for her to be able to speak.

‘They’ve started again, haven’t they?’ I said.

Charlotte nodded.

‘Is it the same girls?’

She nodded again.

‘What would you like me to do about it?’

‘I don’t know. They might just stop. If I ignore the texts, I mean.’

‘But you shouldn’t have to ignore stuff like that. What did the text say?’

Charlotte didn’t reply. I picked up the phone from the bed and clicked on the top message in her inbox. ‘
Hey geek. Wanna shag a choirboy? Bet he won’t shag u, titless freak
.’

I bit my lip and looked up at the ceiling. Someone had sent this. Sent it to my daughter. Every primal instinct within me rose to the surface. If I’d had a nuclear bomb at my disposal at that point I would probably have used it.

‘Oh Charlotte.’ I hugged her to me again. As if she were still my little girl. As if I still had control over her world. As if protecting her from harm was as simple as applying sunscreen and putting a shade on the buggy.

‘How many of these have you had?’

‘A few.’ I looked at her face. Wiped a tear away for her with my finger.

‘Come on, honestly?’

‘About a dozen.’

‘Did any of them threaten you?’

‘No. Just stupid stuff like that.’

‘What’s this ridiculous choirboy thing?’ I asked.

‘Just something they made up because I’m in the choir. It fits the whole geeky thing.’

I got up from the bed. Paced around the room, trying to think rationally rather than emotionally.

‘Well, we can’t let them do this to you. I think I should phone the Head.’

‘No. Please don’t. It’ll only make it worse.’

‘It stopped it last time.’

‘Everyone knew, though. That you’d been up the school. That I’d told you who’d done it.’

I hesitated. I couldn’t bear to see Charlotte hurt like this, but I also understood the importance of involving her with how this was dealt with.

‘OK. So what’s the alternative?’

‘I ignore it. They’ll get bored and go and pick on someone else.’

It didn’t seem much of an alternative to me. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘Don’t delete the message. Turn the phone off and leave it in your drawer. If anyone hassles you at school, you tell a teacher straight away and tonight I’ll have a chat with your father about it.’

‘Please don’t tell Dad. He’ll go off on one. He’ll try and call the police or something.’

‘Look, we won’t do anything without consulting you. But I do have to tell him, love. This is really serious.’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘OK.’

‘Now, are you all right to get your face washed and get yourself to school?’

She nodded.

I went over to her, held her shoulders and kissed her
on the top of her head. ‘I love you to bits and you’re utterly gorgeous, you know.’

She nodded again. I wished I could record myself saying it and have it playing in a loop in her head all day long. Anything to drown out the bad words. To make sure the nasty things didn’t seep through.

I hurried back down to the kitchen. Will had miraculously managed to get Esme dressed and ready for school, book bag and lunch bag in hand.

‘Thanks,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘You are a complete and utter star and you can have that in writing if you like.’

‘Can I have a tenner instead?’ he asked.

I smiled at him. ‘No, but it was a good try. Wait for your sister, will you? Even if it means you’re a bit late. And keep an eye on her for me.’

Will nodded. I opened the front door. Esme shot out into the garden.

‘Is this about the bullying?’ Will asked.

‘Did you know it had started up again?’

‘I’m not sure it ever really stopped.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It’s just girls of that age, isn’t it? They can be complete cows to each other.’

‘Well I want you to look out for your sister, but no vigilante stuff, OK?’

‘OK.’

I pulled on my coat, hurried outside, took Esme’s hand and set off down the hill for school.

We arrived in the playground at the same time as Sam, Oscar and Zach.

‘Are we early or are you late?’ asked Sam, as Esme started running rings around Oscar’s wheelchair.

‘We’re late, I’m afraid,’ I replied.

‘Oh well. Right, you two, have you got everything?’ Zach nodded, Oscar pulled a funny face. ‘Have fun,’ said Sam, kissing them both before they hurtled towards the school entrance.

‘You too,’ I said to Esme, bending to give her a kiss. ‘Love you lots.’ I watched her run off after the boys, wishing for a second that I had a pause button. That it would always be as good and as simple as this. I’d never wished that before. I’d always thought it strange how some parents seemed to want to bonsai their children. For me, watching them grow up and become young adults was one of the best bits of the ride, one that I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to miss. Until now, that was.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Sam. I realised I was still staring in the direction of the school door.

‘Sorry. I’m not really with it. It’s been one of those mornings.’

‘What’s up?’

‘This bullying thing with Charlotte has started up again.’

‘Oh, Anna. You poor thing. What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Charlotte doesn’t want me to go and see the Head. But we’ve got to do something to stop it. I can’t bear the thought of her going through all that again.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I think she’s got the best mum possible to help her through it.’

‘It’s different though,’ I said, ‘when it’s your own kids, I mean. All that theory and training goes out of the window and I just want to shout and scream and kick up a huge fuss like any mum would.’

‘Yeah, but you don’t though, do you? That’s the difference.’

‘Maybe. We’ll see.’