The Playgroup Page 2

  If Billy’s mother hadn’t already dumped him and left in indecent haste without even an anorak for break time, she might have felt tempted to call her back.

  ‘Tell you what, Billy,’ said Gemma suddenly. ‘Remember how you promised not to cut anyone’s hair any more?’ Billy’s hammer-banging intensified and was now to the count of four instead of two. ‘Supposing I said you could give Mouse a trim?’

  ‘Wot?’

  For a four-year-old, his tone of voice was more suited to one of those rough police dramas in which her friend Kitty had once been an extra as a singer in a sleazy nightclub. ‘Well, maybe after Music Mania, I could show you how to tidy up Mouse’s whiskers. We might make him a new outfit too.’

  Billy was very keen on dressing dolls, something that his dad, a 6ft 2in. builder, had raised at the last Parents’ Evening.

  ‘All roight then.’

  Fantastic! She hadn’t expected him to cave in quite so fast.

  ‘Would someone please take that child’s batteries out!’ said a voice behind her with a definite fed-up edge. It was Bella, her young assistant, who was, as usual, dressed in clothes more suited to a catwalk than a playgroup, with those high heels and short stretchy black skirt that had attracted the eye of that Scandinavian au pair. ‘By the way,’ sniffed Bella, checking her register, ‘everyone’s here apart from someone called Lily without a surname. She’s one of the new ones, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she is. Maybe she’s not coming. I gather there was a bit of a question mark over her.’ Gemma tried to sound normal, but Beryl the headmistress’s words were still ringing round her head from their meeting last term: There’s something very important I need to tell you. It’s about one of the new children who will be starting in September.

  ‘Well, if there was any doubt, she ought to have given up her place. There are enough people on the waiting list.’ Bella’s voice had an irritated click in it that matched the sound of her smart red heels, which had, she’d informed Gemma earlier, cost her nearly a month’s wages.

  ‘Actually,’ said Gemma in a low voice, ‘there aren’t. Not now. Beryl says that the Ofsted report on the main school has put parents off sending their children to Puddleducks.’

  Bella’s beautifully threaded eyebrows rose in consternation. ‘But that’s outrageous.’

  ‘I know.’ Gemma glanced up to check that Jean had sat all the children round in a circle with their various tambourines and shakers made out of plastic washing-up bottles and beans, ready for Music Mania. ‘So we have to prove that we’re the best playgroup in the area if we want to keep going.’

  ‘It’s that serious?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s something else too.’

  But before she could say anything, there was a ping, indicating that someone was at the door. She’d been waiting for this. ‘I’ll go,’ said Gemma, leaping up, her heart thudding in her throat.

  This was ridiculous. She treated all the children the same, whatever their backgrounds, as she had told Beryl. Even so . . .

  ‘Miss Merryfield?’

  She nodded, transfixed by the husky voice that was coming out from this tall, elegant, wafer-thin vision in sparkly jeans, black satin jacket that looked more like a man’s DJ and beautiful, soft-looking pale pink cashmere scarf that was entwined round the woman’s neck, partly shrouding what little face there was on show, thanks to the huge dark sunglasses which were so shiny that they reflected back Gemma’s startled expression. There was also the overpowering smell of the woman’s trademark perfume that she’d read about in Kitty’s well-thumbed copies of OK! and Hello!

  ‘This is Lily.’

  Only then, to her shame, did Gemma glance down at the child who was standing between them. Her mother’s pale manicured hands were on her shoulders; the two of them looked like flowers in a vase, one tall and the other short. The little girl had a chalky-white, almost translucent complexion. Her dark straight hair, cut in a precise bob, framed startlingly bright blue eyes.

  ‘Be good.’ For a minute, the stranger’s gravelly yet somehow feminine voice was so bewitching that Gemma almost thought she was addressing her. ‘Someone will be here at lunchtime to pick you up.’

  The beautiful woman glanced at her. ‘I won’t be here in person very often. You understand, don’t you?’

  Gemma nodded. My boss has already explained, she tried to say, but too late. The woman had slipped out, and in the distance she could see a huge, black, highly polished car waiting. Gently, she bent down towards Lily. ‘Do you like music like your mummy?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘We’ve got a xylophone over here. Shall I show you?’

  They turned round and almost went smack into Bella, who had come up to see what was happening. ‘Was that who I think it was?’ she breathed, glancing out of the window at the blacked-out limo pulling away.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Gemma fiercely. No one, her grandmother used to say, was more placid than Gemma except when it came to defending others. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Or else we’ll all be out of our jobs. Even more important, we could be putting a child’s safety at risk. And no, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you why.’

  Chapter 2

  MUCH AS GEMMA loved to chat first thing to the parents and reassure them – especially today, the start of a new term – she also loved it when they went, leaving her and Bella and Jean in charge of twenty small people.

  Some, like Billy, charged around with big broad grins, making buzzing sounds more appropriate to the aviary at the local zoo where Molly’s mother worked, while others zoomed into their favourite areas.

  There was something for everyone. The toy garage which Toby loved; the sandpit tray (Alex’s); the computer with the CBeebies site (Sienna’s, who always asked ‘why?’ when told anything); the dressing-up corner (Clemmie’s); the messy corner with bowls of spaghetti and jelly so children could experiment with texture (Billy’s); the Wendy house (Darren’s) and the red, knee-high tables where they cut up playdough with play scissors (everyone’s).

  This was ‘free play time’. Gemma had helped Miriam organise this for the past three years since coming to work at Puddleducks, but now she was on her own! The realisation both excited and daunted her. Ever since she could remember she had wanted to work with small people, partly because her own grandmother had run a nursery, coincidentally not far from here.

  ‘You’re a natural with children,’ her grandmother used to say, which was why Gemma had insisted to her father, a university lecturer, that she didn’t want to follow in his footsteps even though her grades were so good. What she really wanted to do was take an Early Years degree course so she could work at a playgroup or, as so many were called now, a pre-school.

  ‘It’s more structured than you think,’ she had tried to tell her father over the years. And it was. Puddleducks had to follow quite a tight curriculum that helped children learn through play.

  Right now, in fact, it was time for the numbers game. She nodded at Bella, who had rather worryingly confessed last term that she was thinking of going into PR, and also at Jean, whose own children had grown up and moved away. Jean found that working here helped to ease that awful empty-nest feeling. ‘OK, everyone. I want you all to sit down in a nice tidy circle. It’s time for our bed game! Who wants to show our new Puddleducks how it works?’

  Billy’s hand shot up towards the ceiling. ‘Me, me,’ he demanded urgently, as though straining to go to the loo.

  Billy! They all agreed that one day, this one (who was much bigger than the others for his age, with hair that seemed to grow in a zigzag fringe and always needed cutting) would go far. Whether that would be up or down was anyone’s guess.

  ‘All right, Billy. Can you fetch the Puddleducks blanket and lie down.’ She looked around the circle of children. ‘Clemmie, I can see you are listening nicely. Would you like to lie down next to Billy?’

  Not needing another invitation, Clemmie tottered over in high heels, wearing the princess costume that she alwa
ys nabbed from the dressing-up box every morning. Thank goodness for DFTB, otherwise known as Dad From The Beeb, who was constantly topping the box up with costumes like cast-off Teletubby outfits.

  ‘We need three more helpers,’ sniffed Bella, checking her nails as she spoke. ‘Danny, can you lie on the other side of Billy?’

  No problems with that one, thought Gemma as she watched the new boy run over and dive under the blanket, giggling. What lovely long blond eyelashes!

  Two more and they were ready. ‘There were five in the bed,’ they all sang. ‘Then they all turned over and one fell out. That’s right, Danny, you fall out. Not so hard or you’ll hurt yourself. Now everyone, how many are left in the bed? Yes! Four. How many fell out? Yes. One. So what does four and one make? That’s right. Five.’

  By the end, Gemma’s throat felt a bit sore, but the children loved it and it was a good way of helping them to get the hang of mentally adding and subtracting through play.

  ‘Awful news about Brian, isn’t it?’ said Jean quietly as she helped Gemma get the mid-morning elevenses ready while Bella was in charge of the story-reading circle.

  Had she missed something? Brian was the kindly if somewhat absent-minded head of Reception year at Corrybank Primary, round the corner, otherwise known as Big School. Many Puddleduck children went on to the main school, which was why there were so many joint activities such as assemblies, after-school club and, of course, the traditional nativity play just before Christmas. Brian and Miriam had been the lynchpins for this.

  As Jean gave her the news about poor old Brian, who lived in her road (‘that’s how I found out, you see’), Gemma’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Apparently someone called Joanna Balls is taking over,’ continued Jean importantly. ‘You can imagine how difficult it must have been to get someone at short notice. Comes from an inner-city London school, or so I’ve been told. She’ll find Hazelwood a bit different, won’t she?’

  Gemma, still too upset to talk, nodded. How grateful she was to be living in this smallish, pretty market town just an hour from London, with its coffee shops and canal and church halls with so many courses that you could spend every evening doing t’ai chi or yoga or whatever you wanted.

  She was lucky too to have her flat at the top of Joyce’s house just a ten-minute drive away, even though her landlady was constantly asking why a nice girl like her hadn’t found the right man yet. How do you know I haven’t? Gemma wanted to reply, but instead she just made noises about still being young at not-even-thirty-yet.

  But the best thing about being at Puddleducks, far from the family home in Devon, not to mention Cambridge, where she had done her degree and met Kitty, was that no one knew her. Not the real her, anyway.

  ‘Surprised no one’s informed you, given that you’re the acting pre-school leader now,’ added Jean critically. ‘Mind you, it only happened last Tuesday.’

  Gemma tried to get her thoughts straight. ‘I was in Greece until yesterday with my friend Kitty. And when I got back my laptop was playing up again, so I haven’t checked my emails. No, Molly, it’s not time for outdoor play yet so just sit nicely. You need the toilet again?’

  Molly nodded solemnly. ‘My mum says I’m consonated.’

  Thank God for children! They made you smile even when you weren’t feeling like it. By the time she and Molly came back (having needed that spare pair of pants after all), the others were already sitting up at their red tables and chairs for their mid-morning slice of toast and plastic mug of apple or orange juice, depending on tastes and allergies.

  ‘Mrs Merryfield, Mrs Merryfield, can I have a cappuccino instead like Lars does at breakfast?’

  Johnnie’s Scandinavian male au pair was the subject of much nudging amongst the younger mothers. Clearly his tastes had rubbed off.

  ‘No, Johnnie,’ said Gemma kindly but firmly. ‘I keep telling you, sweetheart. It’s not on the menu, I’m afraid. Finished, everyone? OK. Let’s line up by your pegs, everyone, and put on our coats.’

  Danny was really settling in, she noticed, as she watched him head for his peg with the picture of a dog and the word ‘Dog’ written underneath it. That had been one of her ideas: to put the picture of an object that began with the child’s name, and then the word itself.

  Lily, however, was being very quiet, hanging back and clinging to the soft pink woollen comfort blanket which she’d brought in and had shoved up inside her jumper.

  ‘That looks like a kangaroo pouch,’ said Gemma lightly, kneeling down next to her. ‘Do you know what that is? Look, there’s a picture of a kangaroo on the wall. It’s got a pocket in the front of its tummy to carry its babies in.’

  Lily stared at her with those china-blue eyes, almost as though she didn’t understand what she was saying. Mentally Gemma checked her notes. There had been nothing unusual about Lily. Nothing to say she was autistic, like the four-year-old they’d had last year, who could only communicate by pointing to a wallet of pictures which both she and the staff had carried. Yet there was something about Lily’s behaviour that didn’t seem quite right.

  ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you go outside with Clemmie? She can be your buddy. Clemmie! Hold Lily’s hand, can you?’

  Clemmie shook her head fiercely, clinging on to the princess tiara as though Lily might try to nab it. ‘How about you, Danny, then? You’re new like Lily. You can explore together.’

  Danny made a buzzing noise like a bee and flew towards them, arms outspread on either side until he stopped right in front of Lily. ‘Hold hands,’ he demanded in an East Coast twang that Gemma suspected came straight from his mother, and together they walked out into the playground where Jean was helping children on to trikes and Bella was organising a game of hopscotch.

  Gemma watched Lily look trustingly up at Danny and wondered if, one day, she might have one like that. Would she, mused Gemma, slipping into her favourite delicious daydream, have a daughter who looked like her? It wasn’t that she was particularly proud of her own blonde hair or her nose which turned up a bit too much at the end, or even her eyes, which a Certain Person, back in her Cambridge days, had described as one of her best features. No. It was because it would be so nice, one day, to hear someone say, ‘You must be mother and daughter.’ As she’d told Kitty enough times, she simply couldn’t imagine life without children of her own.

  It was nearly picking-up time now for the morning session. Together with Jean and Bella, she helped round up the children, making sure they all had their snack boxes to go home with as well as two lots of gloves and their coats and the right shoes. Amazing how many went home with another’s left shoe by mistake! Last term they’d had two Puddleducks who kept swapping their underpants, which resulted in a few M&S/Primark mix-ups.

  ‘You nip out before the afternoon session,’ urged Jean, seeing her glance at her watch. ‘I know you’ve got things to do in town. I can clear up here.’

  Jean was so sweet! And it would help. It really would. She simply couldn’t put this off any longer. ‘Thanks so much.’ Gemma gave Jean a quick hug that made her colleague flush. ‘I won’t be long. Promise.’

  Nosing her grandmother’s old green Morris Minor out of the playgroup car park with its large blue and white duck sign, Gemma joined the lunchtime queue down the road towards the town centre.

  Now, as she edged towards the roundabout, she saw Alex and his mum in one of her long, flowing cheesecloth skirts walking past, waving excitedly with their matching red hair and freckles. HM, Miriam called her. Not Her Majesty as the rather upmarket Bella had assumed, but Hippy Mum.

  The traffic was stationary so, very quickly, Gemma waved back. Children found it so exciting to meet teachers out of school! It was as though they assumed staff were locked away in the supplies cupboard along with all the materials.

  Spotting a parking space, Gemma made a mental note to grab something from the supermarket so she could get free parking and then . . .

  An ominous crunch sent shudders down her spi
ne. Shaking, Gemma glanced into her mirror but couldn’t see anything. Yet she had definitely hit something. Feeling sick, she opened the side door. Please don’t let it be a child. Or a dog. Or a . . . motorbike? And not just any motorbike. A big red and black steaming piece of metal with souped-up handlebars and a seat that should have been high up off the ground but was now lying on its side.

  ‘What on earth do you think you were doing?’

  A tall well-built man – with a hint of dark stubble on his chin, dressed from head to toe in black leather, glared at her. Under his arm he carried a red helmet with a large black stripe running through it. He would have been good-looking, Gemma thought, if he hadn’t been scowling so ferociously.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Gemma stared down at the bike, still unable to believe what had happened. Thank goodness Morris the Minor wasn’t damaged. ‘I just didn’t see it.’

  ‘How could you have missed it? It was right behind you. Didn’t you look in your mirror?’

  ‘Yes of course I did, but your bike isn’t the same height as a car, is it?’

  ‘That’s because it’s a bike and not a car,’ he growled.

  ‘If it’s broken, I’ll pay for it,’ she ventured.

  He was already on his knees, having a good look and running his fingers over the bodywork and the winged back as though the motorbike was a person. ‘You’re lucky.’ He spoke over his shoulder without looking at her. ‘She seems to be all right.’

  She? OK, so she called Granny’s car ‘Morris’, but it somehow seemed a bit odd for a man who must be, what, in his mid-thirties, to refer to his bike as a ‘she’.

  ‘Sure?’ Gemma glanced nervously at her watch. She had about a nanosecond to go before her appointment. ‘Because if you don’t want me to pay for anything, I need to go.’

  The back of his head nodded curtly. I’ll take that as a yes, thought Gemma as she sprinted along the side of the supermarket and into a dark brown building on the high street.