The Mummyfesto (7 page)

‘I suppose they are rather on the small side,’ I said, as Jackie squinted to make out the words on the placards I was holding.

‘Small but perfectly formed.’ She grinned. ‘And anyway, we all know that size isn’t important.’ She was saying it to make me feel better, I knew that.

‘I take it you’ve done this sort of thing before then,’ I said nodding towards the banner and the big pile of placards on the grass verge.

‘A long time ago, in my student days. You can’t really do much as a teacher. The Head doesn’t take kindly to his teachers doing anything political.’

‘But surely this isn’t political? All we’re doing is fighting for our children to be safe.’

‘Everything’s political in his eyes.’

‘So might you get into trouble?’

‘Don’t know. Depends if anyone sees me, I guess.’

‘But you know Sam’s invited the papers and Calendar and Look North.’

‘Yep.’

‘And it doesn’t bother you?’

Jackie shrugs. ‘Some things are worth taking a risk for.’

I nodded. It was funny how you could be friends with mums at school for years, but still not really know them. Not know what makes them tick. What they lie in bed at night worrying about.

I spotted Sam struggling up the hill with an armful of placards and went to help her.

‘These are amazing,’ I said, smiling at the brightly coloured designs in vivid shades of greens and blue.

‘The boys have been busy. Rob included.’ She dumped them on the grass verge, brushed her hands together and looked up at Jackie’s SAVE OUR SHIRLEY banner which was tied between two trees. ‘So, it’s a low-key approach, is it?’ She grinned.

‘No one ever got heard by keeping quiet,’ said Jackie.

‘Which is why I got you this.’ Sam handed her a large shopping bag. Jackie opened it and started laughing as she pulled out a loudhailer.

‘But it’s not even my birthday,’ she said.

‘I’ve borrowed it from one of Rob’s mates. I’m afraid you’ll have to give it back later. But I figured it might come in handy.’

Jackie looked like a kid who had just been given a Christmas present she’d put on her list but had never really expected to get. She held it up to her lips.

‘Testing. Testing. What do we want? George Clooney. When do we want him? Now.’

‘Oh God,’ groaned Sam. ‘I can see I’m going to regret this.’

‘I’m just glad you didn’t bring her an AK47 and live ammunition,’ I said.

‘Take no notice of Anna,’ said Jackie. ‘She’s sulking because she went for the minimalist approach with her placards.’

Sam looked at the apology of a placard in my hand and cracked up laughing.

‘Are they that bad?’ I asked.

‘Is that peasticks they’re mounted on?’

‘Er, yes. But what they lack in size they make up for in sentiment.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ she said. ‘Is David coming?’

‘I hope so. It just depends if he can get away from work in time.’

Sam nodded. I didn’t want to admit that David hadn’t sounded very hopeful when I’d reminded him about it that morning. Actually that wasn’t true either. It wasn’t that he hadn’t sounded hopeful, more not that he hadn’t sounded unduly bothered, to be honest.

A steady stream of parents came up the hill to join us, some carrying their own placards, others choosing one from our pile. Mostly Sam’s and Jackie’s though, it had to be said. Mine were clearly going to be the consolation prize for anyone who arrived late. I spotted the Calendar TV van drive past us and park further up the hill.

‘Look,’ I said, grabbing Sam’s arm. ‘Calendar are here.’

Sam jumped up and down next to me. ‘Fantastic. We might just make the evening news.’

A swish-looking woman with ironed-flat hair and a microphone made her way down to us, followed by an older man with the camera.

‘Hi. Thanks for coming,’ said Sam, offering her hand. ‘I’m Sam Farnell. I sent in the press release.’

‘Good to meet you, Sam,’ said the reporter. ‘I’m Georgina
Lupton and this is our cameraman Bob Jukes. Where’s the lollipop lady?’

‘She’s just coming up the hill now,’ Sam said pointing.

‘And what about the children?’

‘They’ll be out in about ten minutes.’

‘Great. I know you said your own boys gave you the idea for the campaign. We’d like to interview them if possible.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Sam. ‘They’re not exactly backwards in coming forwards.’

‘Fantastic. Well, we’ll get set up and start filming as soon as the kids come out.’

Georgina and Bob crossed to the other side of the road. Shirley arrived, slightly breathless.

‘You’re going to be on telly, Shirl,’ said Jackie.

‘I wish you’d have told me, I’d have done me hair.’

‘You look lovely as ever,’ said Sam. ‘They want to interview you for the local news.’

‘I can’t believe all this,’ said Shirley, gesturing around her at what was by now a sea of placards.

‘We don’t do things by halves,’ said Jackie.

‘Well, I’m touched. I really am. You ladies haven’t got any lippy I can borrow, have you?’

Jackie reached in to her capacious handbag and pulled out a bright red lipstick.

‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Shirley along with a mirror compact. ‘Colour will suit you a treat.’

With all the parents now gathered, Jackie picked up the loudhailer and began to go through the plans for the protest.

‘Please take your time crossing the road. Only one family will go across at a time and do make sure you have your placard with you. When you are safely across please gather on the grass verge where you can wave your placards and make as much noise as you like. Are we ready?’

The chorus of whoops and cheers which greeted Jackie suggested she had whipped the crowd into something approaching a frenzy. She was clearly loving it too: marshalling everyone into the correct positions, geeing them all up.

When the children streamed out of school a few minutes later they were already in a heightened state of excitement due to the prospect of being able to shout and wave some placards around. Seeing the television camera there as well sent them into the stratosphere.

‘Mummy,’ squealed Esme, cannoning into me, ‘are we going to be on telly?’

‘We might be, sweetie. They’ve come to film the protest about Shirley’s job for the news.’

‘Are the Prime Minister and the Queen coming?’

‘No, love.’ I smiled. ‘I think they’re a bit too busy.’

‘Is Daddy coming?’

That was probably as ridiculous as the previous question, but I didn’t want to tell her that. I wanted to appear hopeful, even if I didn’t feel it inside.

‘He’s going to do his best to get here, love. He wants to help if he can.’

‘Can’t he stop them getting rid of Shirley. He is a friend of the Mayor.’

Trying to explain to Esme that being a friend of the Mayor of Hebden Royd town council was not the same as having the ear of the Prime Minister seemed too complex and fraught with the danger of further questions, the answers to which could well be relayed back to David along the lines of, ‘Mummy says you’re not very important at all, actually.’ I decided on a diversionary tactic instead.

‘Oooh, look. They’ve started filming, Esme. Would you like to go across the road now?’

‘Yes, please.’ Never had crossing a road appeared quite such an exciting prospect to a child. I handed Esme one of my placards.

She regarded it thoughtfully. ‘I don’t want a children’s one, I want a grown-up one like Jackie’s,’ she said.

Clearly, I didn’t make the grade as protest mum.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s our turn next.’

The traffic was already tailing back quite a way down the street. The drivers didn’t appear too bothered at the moment and we were getting lots of toots of support, but I suspected that might change by the time thirty or forty more families had gone across. I was quite glad we were doing it while the going was good.

‘Right, come along Esme,’ said Shirely. She knew all the children’s names, even ones whom she didn’t often have to see across the road. Sam had told me once that she even remembered her boys’ birthdays. Esme fairly bounced across the road shouting ‘Save Our Shirley’ at the top of her voice and brandishing the placard with rather alarming
vigour. I surprised myself by shouting pretty loudly too. I could see how touched Shirley was by the whole thing. Realised that this was probably about the biggest thing that had ever happened to her. We were fighting for her job. We were all in this together. Much as I disliked the term ‘the big society’, this was it. Or at least what it should have been about.

When we reached the grass verge on the other side of the road we looked back and saw Sam coming over with Zach and Oscar, both of them shouting at the tops of their voices. Georgina, the TV reporter, came up to me. She appeared rather awkward.

‘Er, Sam’s son, the one in the wheelchair, is he going to be OK to be interviewed? Only we wouldn’t want to ask him, if it was going to be difficult, I mean.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ I said, feeling snappish on Sam’s behalf. ‘He’s got spinal muscular atrophy type 2. It’s a muscle-wasting disease. There’s nothing wrong with his brain, if that’s what you mean. He’s an exceptionally bright child.’

‘Great. Thanks. Sorry I had to ask. I didn’t want to embarrass her, you see, by trying, if it wasn’t going to be possible.’

I smiled and nodded. I didn’t think she had meant it nastily. It simply rankled because I knew Sam got this all the time. And that it got to her – even if she pretended otherwise.

I watched as Georgina approached Oscar and Zach and the cameraman began filming.

‘So, Oscar, can you tell me why you wanted to save Shirley’s job?’

Oscar looked up at Shirley, who was standing next to him. ‘Because she looks after us every day and stops us getting splatted by big lorries and cars. And she’s smiley and squidgey when I give her a hug.’

I saw the tears well up in Shirley’s eyes as the microphone was directed to Zach.

‘I wanted to help because it’s wrong. Children are important. More important than saving pennies.’

I swallowed hard, catching Sam’s eye as I did so. And that was when I knew that we couldn’t let this one go.

‘Jackie,’ I called over, when the interview was finished, ‘could you pass me the loudhailer, please? I think it’s my turn.’

‘Daddy,’ called out Esme later that evening when she heard his key in the door, ‘come quickly, we’re going to be on TV.’

David stuck his head around the living-room door as he slipped his shoes off. Saw us all squeezed on to the sofa waiting.

‘Did Calendar come then?’ he asked me.

‘Yeah, they did.’

‘Sorry I didn’t make it,’ he said, hovering in the doorway. ‘I couldn’t get away from work.’

I nodded, deciding not to say anything more in front of the children.

‘The Mayor was there,’ said Esme. ‘And Mum shouted on a big microphone and there was a huge traffic jam and everything.’

David looked at me, a slight frown on his forehead.

‘Ssshh,’ I said, grabbing the remote and putting the sound up. ‘We’re coming on.’

David, Will and Charlotte watched in stunned silence as a cacophony of noise filled the room and a shot of me leading a chant of ‘kids not cutbacks’ flashed on to the screen.

‘Cool,’ said Will afterwards. ‘My mum’s a secret anarchist. Who knew?’

People’s reactions when I told them where I worked tended to be entirely predictable. They would usually say I was brave – which couldn’t have been further from the truth – and also that it must be very depressing. To which I would answer simply, ‘Ah, you’ve never visited a children’s hospice then.’

Most people hadn’t, of course. That was the problem. If they had, they would understand that for the vast majority of the time, children’s hospices were the least depressing places on earth. Nobody moaned you see. Most offices, shops or factories where you turned up on a Monday morning would be full of people moaning about the weather, the roadworks, the train being late, the boss being a bastard or one of their colleagues being a pain in the arse. That, as far as I was concerned, would be depressing.

Whereas turning up at the Sunbeams Children’s Hospice on a Monday morning, you were met with smiles, laughter, tales of enormous courage and wall-to-wall love. Nobody moaned if someone had forgotten the milk for the tea. You couldn’t. Because the child in the next room wasn’t expected to see their third birthday. Perspective. That was what was needed to stop people moaning. And it was the one thing Sunbeams was never short of.

There was nothing depressing about seeing a child smile as they reached out to catch the dancing lights in the sensory room, or hearing a parent describe what it meant to be able to spend some time alone with their other child, knowing that the sick one was being expertly looked after. I was of the view that they ought to write prescriptions for visiting children’s hospices on the NHS. It would be a damned sight more effective than antidepressants.

‘Morning, Sam,’ Marie called over from her office as I passed.

‘Morning,’ I said, backtracking and sticking my head around her door.

‘How’s Bella?’

‘She’s hanging in there. She was comfortable last night, at least. I think her mum and dad managed some sleep.’ I nodded. Bella had leukaemia. She’d been discharged from hospital a couple of days ago to come here. She wouldn’t be leaving, we all knew that. But it was our job to make sure we did everything possible to ensure her last days were very special ones, for her and her family.