A. L. Bird - The Classroom

The headmistress nods. ‘But we have to prioritise our children, don’t we?’

Yes, yes of course they do. Even though Kirsten will have lost, what, about a grand because of today’s antics? That’s just direct costs. And then more in reputational costs – people let down at the last minute, who will spread toxicity about the practice. No more custom, no chance of getting a partner. Maybe all because Ian was trying to make a concession to her, getting Yvette to drive Harriet in, unsettling Harriet.

But sure, whatever the antics, you always have to put your children first. No one seems to understand that if you put them second for a bit, it’s because you’re trying to earn enough to put their food on the table and shoes on their feet, and keep a roof attached to a gargantuan mortgage over their heads. No one apart from Kirsten.

‘You mustn’t let Harriet pick up on whatever … difficulties there are at home,’ the headmistress says.

‘Ian and I love Harriet very much,’ Kirsten says. ‘We don’t let anything get in the way of that.’

Listening to herself, even she is unconvinced. She hugs her thoughts of Harriet to her, holds them tight, kisses them. She feels tears forming, tries to blink them back. It’s not just about Harriet; it’s the thought of having had to run out of the surgery, again. Putting Harriet first always seems to create a conflict.

Perhaps she can send her back to class, rather than take her home? Maybe she doesn’t need to cancel all the afternoon’s appointments, can still rescue the afternoon? She flicks a glance at the clock.

‘What lessons does she have this afternoon? Ones she’ll be happy in?’ she asks.

The head answers, ‘I’m sure Ms Robertson has got some lovely plans for them.’

Yes, Ms Robertson. She seems nice.

‘Great, well, perhaps I don’t need to take her home, perhaps she can still go to those?’ Kirsten says, trying to sound bright.

The headmistress frowns. ‘I’m not sure, in the circumstances …’

‘It’s a little playground tiff; let’s not over-egg it.’

Kirsten regrets her words immediately. She can see the woman drawing herself up.

‘Listen,’ Kirsten says, before the head can speak. ‘How about Harriet goes to Ms Robertson’s lessons this afternoon, and then we see what measures we can put in place?’

While the head’s busy ushering Harriet to her classes, Kirsten can call Jess, tell her they might still have a chance for the 1 p.m. appointments.

The headmistress sighs her assent. Kirsten follows her outside the room, where Harriet is waiting, and she tries for a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. At first, Harriet doesn’t respond, but then she flings her arms round Kirsten, and buries her head into her legs for a long hug. It breaks Kirsten’s heart to tear her away. Maybe she could just take her to the surgery with her now?

But no. That’s no way to run a business. Or to parent. Is it?

‘I’ll see you later, sweetie,’ Kirsten tells her. The headmistress prises Harriet’s hand away. As they go off together, Kirsten notices Harriet’s socks don’t match. They’re both white, but one has a frill, one doesn’t.

Kirsten waits in the headmistress’s office. She doesn’t call Jess immediately. Instead, she gives in to the tears. What is she doing? How has she misconfigured things so much that her little daughter, at what is meant to be such a beautiful age, is turning to violence? If Kirsten can’t even manage to dress her properly in the morning, is it any wonder? Is Kirsten even present when she’s with her? Does she need to phone Clare, get some sessions, some pills? No. No, don’t phone Clare more than needed. Not these days. Keep the distance, keep her sweet. Kirsten will have to prescribe herself something, maybe. But what? Mothering instinct? Magical hugs?

Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe when Harriet’s older, and Ian and Kirsten are hopefully still together, and have cash for everything Harriet wants, maybe Kirsten will still look back and cherish this stage. Because as people keep telling her, your kids are only this young once.

Kirsten blows out her cheeks, still regrouping.

And then, of course, Jess phones her.

‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to answer,’ Jess says. ‘I was going to leave a message. Everything OK?’

‘Yep, fine,’ Kirsten says, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

‘Right,’ Jess says. Jess is remembering, Kirsten is sure, how she ran out of the office in a flap, past the patients in the waiting room, shouting that she had to go to her daughter’s school for an emergency. ‘Anyway, that’s good, because people are complaining up a storm here.’ Jess lowers her voice. ‘One patient is refusing to leave. Says she was guaranteed an appointment. They go on holiday tomorrow, and if she doesn’t have her coil fitted today she says she’ll sue us for the inconvenience.’

‘Christ’s sake, can’t she just use a condom?’ Kirsten mutters.

‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that – what did you want me to tell her?’ Jess asks.

‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Good, because I’ve just seen a comment up on the website – someone complaining you’re unreliable. I mean, we’re unreliable – the practice.’

But of course she means me, Kirsten thinks. I’m unreliable.

The tears threaten to return.

‘Don’t worry, I’m coming back.’

Kirsten gathers up her things. She’ll leave a little note for the headmistress, say she’ll make an appointment – work emergency, very sorry.

The headmistress walks in just as Kirsten is rummaging round the desk for a Post-it.

‘Mrs McGee, I’m going to have to run – everything’s kicking off at work, and …’

She’s met with a stony stare.

You don’t get it! Kirsten wants to scream. I’m just trying to be good!

But instead, Kirsten half sits, half stands, at the chair by Mrs McGee’s desk.

‘Ms Robertson had some suggestions to make,’ the head says. The tone is chilly, different somehow to when they last spoke. ‘And I think they might help you out. How does a breakfast club sound to you? And some casual extra after-school lessons – to help Harriet with these behavioural issues?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Kirsten says. She wants to shout that Harriet doesn’t have behavioural issues. But the clock won’t stop ticking.

‘Ms Robertson also had one slightly more … controversial … suggestion. A child psychologist? She thinks psychologists can have a really powerful effect – work wonders.’

Christ, the irony … Kirsten knows full well what wonders they can work. It’s why her sister still won’t speak to her.

But no. This is going too far.

‘Tell Ms Robertson I appreciate her concern, but I don’t think we’re at that stage yet. My daughter just wanted to play with another girl’s toy. And she’s only just five. She doesn’t need a shrink.’

‘Research suggests—’

But Kirsten cuts her off. ‘No, Mrs McGee. I’m sorry. I have to get back to work.’

You can see the disappointment lines on Mrs McGee’s face – little pinches round the corners of her mouth, a special line amongst the crow’s feet round her eyes.

Kirsten draws herself up and remembers suddenly the power of being a working mum. She knows how to pull rank.

‘I have emergency patients waiting for me. If there are any additional fees for these clubs, over and above what we already pay you, then of course we can pay. Now I really must go.’

And of course, at the mention of emergency patients, of fees, Kirsten sees Mrs McGee remember Kirsten’s place in society outside these walls. That this matters too.

‘Yes, of course,’ the head says. ‘I’ll see you at parents’ evening in a couple of weeks and we can catch up then.’