The Playgroup Page 4

  Meanwhile, she still couldn’t get rid of that niggling fear about the new playgroup fill-in. It had been haunting her ever since the girls had mentioned it.

  If Gemma Merryfield was only ‘acting leader’ for the older, clearly experienced Miriam whom she’d met when first looking round, did that mean she hadn’t had her CRB check? Nancy was an expert on the Criminal Records Bureau, thanks to Google, as well as everything else on playgroups and pre-schools.

  There had been a terrible case recently in the papers where one playgroup hadn’t checked an employee’s record and a child had been abused. The idea made her want to vomit and the more she thought about it, the more it seemed possible that this could happen again. Surely it was only sensible to make a phone call just to check out the situation?

  An answerphone! How irresponsible of them not to have someone at the playgroup, manning it twenty-four seven.

  ‘This is Mrs Carter Wright. My son Danny has just started with you and I have an urgent question about security checks on staff. Please could you ring me. DANNY, DON’T DO THAT!’

  Dropping the handset, Nancy raced towards her son, who had gone puce. Just in time, she managed to hook her index finger down his throat and extract a horseshoe-shaped electric-blue brick. Instantly, his colour returned to normal.

  ‘That’s it!’ Tears of relief shuddered through her as she pulled Danny towards her, rocking him back and forth and breathing in his special smell. ‘That brick is going in the bin. It could have killed you. We’ll write to the manufacturers just like we did with the felt shapes that you nearly swallowed, and tell them their lines simply aren’t suitable for under-fives.’

  Only then did she see the phone lying on the ground. As she went to put it back, she heard with dismay the click that meant that the Puddleducks Playgroup answerphone had recorded everything. Absolutely everything.

  It was an hour later, after Danny had zonked out on her lap – if only he’d had that nap earlier – and she’d gently lowered him on to his bed and draped a pale blue cover over him, when there was the sound of the key in the lock.

  Sam? But he wasn’t usually back for hours! Nancy put down the wooden spoon and groaned. She’d taken advantage of Danny’s exhaustion to get tonight’s big seduction meal prepared well in advance, so she could put it in the oven ready for when he was home. Now Sam would see the surprise and it would all be ruined.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said, wishing too late that her words had come out in a friendly fashion rather than in that accusatory tone.

  Her husband put his head round the kitchen door. ‘It’s because I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.’

  Not again! She was tired of these early breakfast meetings in the City which meant that she felt obliged to get up to see him off, even though she’d only had a few hours’ sleep herself, thanks to Danny’s nocturnal habits. Even so, Nancy couldn’t help feeling slightly sorry for her husband. He looked tired and his tie was slightly dishevelled. Too late, she wished she’d changed out of her sloppy beige sweatshirt that still had egg and soldier stains down the front from Danny’s tea yesterday.

  She made towards him to give him a kiss, but he was already frowning at the pan on the range. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Chilli,’ she said reluctantly, knowing that the surprise was well and truly spoiled now. ‘Thought I’d make something different tonight.’

  His face took on an irritated look. ‘But I told you. I had a lunch today with clients so I didn’t want dinner.’

  ‘No.’ She felt her hand shaking on the frying pan. ‘You never said that.’

  ‘I did.’

  They glowered at each other. ‘It’s half done now, so someone’s got to eat it.’ Nancy was trying not to cry. ‘I’ve got your son to bed early and . . .’

  ‘He’s your son too.’

  ‘Maybe, but he’s got your awkward bits.’

  Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to say that.

  ‘And he’s got yours.’

  Stop, she wanted to say. We’re behaving like a pair of children ourselves.

  ‘Listen.’ He gestured that they should move through to the sitting room and sit on the cream sofa they’d bought from Harrods when she was pregnant, before realising that this might not be the perfect colour for a small body prone to releasing smelly substances from both ends.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’

  His words carved a knife through her chest. This was almost exactly what her own father had said to her all those years ago, when he’d explained why he was going.

  ‘I’ve got another trip coming up.’

  Not another! Sam was always being sent out to Singapore, sometimes for as long as three or four days, which meant she had to cope with Danny all on her own.

  ‘I’ve been asked to sort something out in the Ho Chi Minh office. You know, Vietnam.’

  She cut in. ‘I know where it is. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Did I say you were?’ He got up from the sofa and looked out of the window at the garden swing they’d installed for Danny. ‘It’s until Christmas.’

  ‘That’s nearly four months away!’

  ‘I know it’s a long time to leave you.’ He had turned round now, and was looking at her as though she was someone else other than his wife. ‘But I think it might do us some good. Don’t you?’

  She began to shake. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Nancy.’ He sat down again and took both her hands. His grasp felt cool and calculated. ‘We both know things haven’t been right for a long time. This will give us a chance to think.’

  Part of her wanted to pull away her hands, and the other part to hang on to him to stop him going. ‘Are you having an affair?’

  Even as she said the words, she knew it wasn’t possible. Sam just wasn’t that kind of person.

  ‘No. But I think you are.’

  She stared at him, stunned. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  He was looking at her with that same strange cool look that, together with his blond hair, made him seem more Scandinavian than English. ‘With our son. You love him more than you ever cared for me.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘You spend,’ said Sam, getting up again and walking away from her into the kitchen as though to put space between them, ‘every waking moment talking about him. You worry that he isn’t eating; that his cold might be potential pneumonia; that he isn’t talking as much as he should be; that he might choke in his sleep, which is why you allow him to come into our bed at night; that he might come to harm at this new playgroup, which is why you haven’t sent him until now. In fact, all you ever do is put him first.’

  Nancy was so stunned she could hardly speak as she ran after him. ‘But he’s a child. He needs looking after. You’re a grown man.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Exactly. And you know what? I love Danny as much as you do, but you haven’t been the same since he was born.’

  ‘Nor have you! You expect life to go on as normal, but that doesn’t happen when you have a three-year-old.’

  ‘Nearly four, Nancy. Nearly four. Most couples are on their second by now, but how could we ever manage with two when we can’t cope with one?’

  He didn’t even want another child! Nancy felt hot tears trickling down her cheeks. Sam put out a hand to wipe them away, but she turned from him. As she did so, she moved against the cooker and somehow knocked the saucepan handle flying.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She began dabbing the sauce off her husband’s suit with a piece of kitchen roll but it stuck in white paper bits all over his jacket. At the same time, they could hear the tiny telltale sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’

  Without even looking at Sam, Danny went straight to her, trailing his blue cover and burying his head in her stomach so she could feel his warm sleepiness.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Sam quietly. ‘He ignores me completely.’

  ‘It’s only because he doesn
’t see enough of you,’ hissed Nancy. ‘Four months in Vietnam is going to make it even worse.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’ He rubbed his hand on Danny’s head, but their son clung to her even more fiercely.

  ‘Think I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight,’ said Sam softly. ‘I won’t disturb you then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? My flight is first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Chapter 5

  JOE BALLS DROPPED the last remaining sticky sweet into the bin. Poor old Brian Hughes wouldn’t need those any more, just as he wouldn’t need the half-eaten packets of out-of-date Bourbon biscuits in his middle drawer.

  It had been the end of a long day. Just as well the main school didn’t start until tomorrow, due to ‘staff training’ which the head had cancelled at the last minute. Another sign of disorganisation, although it had given Joe extra time to prepare for tomorrow, not to mention clearing out Brian’s stuff from his desk and locker, which no one else had bothered to do.

  It was then that he heard the voices from the room next door. The first high-pitched one he hadn’t heard before, but the second, the sort of heavy, breathy, ten-a-day type which he couldn’t bear in a woman, definitely belonged to the school secretary. Diana Davies, but do call me Di, had introduced herself when she’d turned up at midday. He himself had been there since 6.15 a.m. On the dot.

  ‘What’s he like then?’ said the high-pitched one.

  ‘Imagine a cross between a northern Colin Firth with a slight paunch and Mr Grumpy and you might get the picture! Really dishy even if he does act a bit stern and, get this, no wedding ring! Some of the mums are going to love him!

  ‘Mind you, goodness knows what time he must have got in. You know how early I usually am? Well today, I was running slightly behind and you could see from his face that he thought I should have been here before. Right now, he’s clearing out Brian’s desk. Probably should have done it myself but to be honest, it didn’t seem right to nose through the poor man’s things.’

  There was a cluck of approval from the other woman. ‘Such a shock. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

  ‘I know.’ The voice dropped but Joe, who’d had plenty of practice at picking up low conversations, still managed to tune in. ‘Makes you wonder if this one is any good, if they managed to get him in at such short notice.’

  If there was anything that his years on the fourteenth floor of the second biggest bank in the world had taught Joe, it was to deal with backbiters immediately.

  Slamming shut Brian’s top desk drawer to make a noise and alert the two gossipers that he was there, he strode across the room, bending his head to avoid the ridiculous pot plant with the knobbly crooked stem.

  Poor old bugger. Brian, he meant, not the plant, which would have to go, along with all the other mess that had been left behind. Streamlining and grade boosting. That’s what the Reception year at Corrybank Primary needed. It was, after all, why he had been given the job in the first place. A touch of overall business acumen wouldn’t be amiss either, even if that hadn’t been in his job remit.

  It would also help, in his opinion, if the whole playgroup concept was tidied up. Some areas seemed to call it a pre-school instead. Frankly, it was confusing.

  ‘Mrs Davies?’

  The plump woman with a low-cut blouse, a crinkly pale bosom which preceded her by several inches and a black polyester skirt that was far too tight for her age (which, Joe reckoned, had to be around seven squared), jumped. ‘Goodness, Mr Balls! I thought you said you were going to examine the supply cupboard.’

  ‘I have.’ He nodded shortly at the owner of the squeaky voice, a skinny woman with the hair-tucked-behind-the-ears style which, he suspected, she might just have been sporting since her teenage years. Ditto her canary-yellow sweatshirt, which looked like school uniform. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Penny. I’m one of the teaching assistants.’

  Joe couldn’t help feeling a flash of scepticism. In his experience, ‘teaching assistants’ could be very varied in terms of abilities, ranging from bright graduate mummies at the top end, down to inadequately educated parents who used commas when they ought to have used full stops. One of his arguments at his interview for this job was that there should be a more uniform entry qualification for TAs.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what your qualifications are?’

  The woman fiddled with the buttons on her yellow sweatshirt. ‘I don’t actually have a teaching qualification but I did an English A level before I had my kids.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded that short sharp nod that had earned him the reputation of ‘Balls by name, balls by nature’ on that fourteenth floor. In fact, as Ed always said, his bark was far worse than his bite, but the problem was that once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Like now. ‘Want to know what my qualifications are?’

  Both women were looking at him, their mouths open. ‘Four A levels. First-class degree from Durham. MBA in Business Studies. Ten years working for the second biggest bank in the world. Three years teaching at one of the toughest primaries in east London which released me to step in as acting Reception head here at Corrybank after Brian Hughes’ heart attack. And that is why I was able to come at such short notice, as you put it just now.’

  Joe stopped abruptly. He had a nasty feeling that he might have been shouting or raising his voice without realising. The two women were now flushing awkwardly. In his experience, women could do this in one of two ways. The attractive kind that made them look vulnerable, or the blotchy kind that made them look as though they had measles, which now applied to both of them. Joe felt ashamed of himself for such thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Balls,’ breathed Di heavily, fiddling nervously with her too-tight polyester skirt band.

  Joe waved her apologies away. That was another thing he’d learned on the fourteenth floor. Disarm your enemy with surprise and painful truths, but then forgive them graciously so they became part of your team. ‘Let’s just forget it, shall we?’ He nodded at Penny to show he included her in his pardon too. ‘After all, our main job is to get Corrybank back on its feet, isn’t it?’

  Joe suddenly realised he was talking as though he was in charge of the whole school. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree,’ he added hastily, ‘that the Reception year is possibly the most important. We need to catch our children quickly and get them into the right learning frame so they continue to make good progress right on through into secondary school.’

  Much turkey-neck nodding, which reminded him of an aunt whom he and Ed used to visit religiously every Christmas. ‘And do you know how we can begin?’

  Two sets of worried eyes were on him. He needed to restore relations, and fast. ‘By getting rid of that yukky plant in my office. It’s a health and sanity hazard.’

  Penny in the yellow sweatshirt twitched nervously. ‘It’s a yucca. And don’t you mean health and safety, sir?’

  He nodded tersely. ‘It was meant to be a joke.’

  Both women let out a simultaneous peal of false laughter. Ed had always said Joe was hopeless at trying to be funny on purpose.

  ‘You can also arrange for someone to empty the bin, which is already overflowing with the contents of Brian’s desk. I had to clear it myself.’ He shot a look at Di to show she wasn’t off the hook yet.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but it didn’t seem right somehow . . .’

  ‘Really?’ Joe couldn’t bear it when people didn’t face the obvious. ‘Mr Hughes isn’t going to be coming back, is he? We can hardly leave his office as a shrine. In fact it’s just as well we’ve all come in before term starts. There’s a staggering amount of random paperwork that still appears to be on his desk.’

  Di looked as though her forehead was about to overflow with tiny specks of sweat. It reminded him of the water cycle that was on his syllabus to teach the Reception year when they arrived. He’d feel better then, he thought. Children were so much more interesting and straightforwa
rd than adults.

  ‘By the way, sir. You were meant to have got this before but I’m afraid it sort of got mislaid in the kerfuffle after Brian was taken ill.’

  Joe glanced down at the untidily stapled paper she’d thrust into his hand.

  Puddleducks Newsletter?

  Di’s voice got deeper and breathier. ‘Puddleducks is the name of the playgroup round the corner, sir. It is linked to Corrybank and . . .’

  ‘I’m well aware of the tie-up between the two, thank you.’ Joe glanced down again at the newsletter, which, he could see, was written in a far too familiar and jaunty style. So unprofessional, with all those exclamation marks. ‘Who wrote this?’

  ‘Gemma Merryfield, sir. She’s the . . .’

  ‘Acting head of the playgroup.’ Joe flashed one of his more charming smiles. ‘I made it my business to know who the main players were before I started.’

  Penny looked upset. Well done, Joe, he told himself. Now you’ve implied she isn’t important. ‘There are some changes I need to make to this,’ he began.

  ‘Changes?’ Di’s eyebrows, which were, he observed, faintly pencilled in as though the originals had disappeared, rose. ‘It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. They’ve already been posted.’

  ‘Snail mail? Why weren’t they emailed? Do you know how much a stamp costs nowadays?’

  The teaching assistant was stammering now in an effort to produce an explanation. This wasn’t the kind of start he had wanted, Joe told himself. Forget the northern Colin Firth. Both women probably saw him now as Mr Grumpy crossed with a three-pronged Halloween figure.

  ‘Gemma Merryfield,’ said Di coolly, ‘thought it would be a personal touch. Besides,’ she added primly, ‘not all families are on the Net.’

  Really? From his experience during the last three years at an inner London school, most of the kids there were glued to Facebook.