Fiona Gibson - Mum On The Run

I must be mature about this. Mustn’t seethe as I take the children to school and nursery, or Naomi will spot me and make some spiky remark about me looking wired and suggest, ‘I always find the mornings run more smoothly if I get the children’s lunchboxes and uniforms ready the night before, don’t you?’ I’m seized by an urge to supply them with packets of Monster Munch to consume in public. That would get her neck vein pulsating.

Finn is marching ahead, all unkempt dark hair and long, gangly limbs, giving the impression that I’m some irksome stranger lurking behind him. Spotting James and Calum swaggering ahead, he hurries to catch up. I’ve tried to work out why I’m so embarrassing – so much so, in fact, that he no longer allows me to cut his hair and insists on going to some scabby place under the railway arch where they also do piercing. Surely I can’t be that mortifying. It’s not as if I walk to school in a pink bikini, singing opera songs. In fact I try to tone myself down in my extremely plain black trenchcoat and flat boots. I don’t think I look freakish. Sometimes, though, I worry that I’m not quite normal. A sensible person would take this Celeste business – the showing up at sports day, the jolly craft sessions and picnics – in her stride. Maybe I should be glad my family has a perfectly nice time without me?

Spotting her friend India across the street, Grace waves and whirls round to face me. ‘Can India come for tea?’

‘We’ll see. I’ll need to ask her mum, okay?’ For a seven-year-old Grace has an enviable social life, which I’m pleased about – but this also means our house often has the feel of an impromptu after-school club, with mass-catering expected. By the time we arrive at school, Grace has accumulated a bunch of excitable friends. ‘Bye, Mummy,’ she says sweetly, planting a speedy kiss on my cheek.

‘Bye, darling. Have a lovely day.’ I glance around for Finn, hoping to say goodbye, but he’s already sauntered into the playground with his friends.

‘Come on, love,’ I say, clutching Toby’s hand. ‘Let’s take you to nursery.’ Scamps is just around the corner from school. He charges in, flings his coat in the vague direction of his named hook and throws his backpack onto the floor. I grab him for a quick hug goodbye before he tears off into the main room, and put his coat and bag in their rightful places. ‘Hi, Laura.’ Cara, the manageress, pops her head around the cloakroom door.

‘Hi, Cara. Just tidying up after Toby as usual.’ I force a grin.

‘Hmm. Did he tell you about his little adventure last week?’

‘No,’ I say hesitantly.

She crooks her eyebrow, making me sweat. ‘Took the plug out of the water tray. Flooded the main room. The children had to sit in the library corner until we’d mopped it all up.’

‘Oh, I’d no idea. He didn’t mention that. I’m really sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ She chuckles in a kids, eh? kind of way and flutters her eyelashes at me.

‘Bet that happens all the time,’ I add.

‘No,’ she says levelly. ‘In the fifteen years I’ve worked here, no child has ever done that.’

Good for Toby, I think, gushing further apologies as I make my escape. At least he thought of something new and different to amuse himself. Although he enjoys nursery, he will only tolerate cutting and sticking for so long (unless Celeste is involved, obviously – in which case he could probably be persuaded to fashion an entire spring/summer collection in yellow felt). As I’m not due at work until ten, I decide to have a coffee and mull over whether I should let the plug incident go, or apply the thumb screws and water torture.

Café Roma is virtually empty. It smells good in here, of delicious things baking, which is especially welcome after the breakfasty fug of our kitchen. When we moved here from London, when I was pregnant with Toby, the small North Yorkshire market town had a time-warp feel about it, and you couldn’t get a decent coffee anywhere. Jed had been offered a senior teaching position at Rosebank Primary and I’d welcomed the move. With our third child on the way, I’d looked forward to being a mere half-hour drive from my parents. Now, four years on, there’s a clutch of new cafés offering respectable bursts of caffeine to get the nerves jangling nicely. Dad’s no longer here, though. I hadn’t imagined having to face that.

Selecting one of the trashier newspapers from the rack, I take a seat at the steamed-up window. A supplement falls out; it’s called Your Complete Summer Grooming Guide . We’ve only just staggered through the Easter holidays, yet already I’m supposed to be fretting about the pallidness of my legs. I flip through it. You might adhere to the old ’70s thing of leaving your pubic hair au naturelle , is where my eyes land.

What ’70s thing? What do they mean?

A little light grooming is common courtesy, it thrills on. Are they implying that it’s rude not to? I glance around the café. A group of four women of around my age has drifted in, chatting and laughing and smelling of light, floral perfumes. They are all smartly dressed with their hair freshly blow-dried, and I vaguely recognise them from the few times I ventured into the gym. An awful thought hits me: I’m probably the only woman in here who doesn’t have her bikini line waxed. Heck, even the chef, who I can see bobbing about in the kitchen through the circular window, probably keeps himself nice and tidy down there.

I glower down at it. Not at my own pubic hair – that wouldn’t be fitting in Café Roma – but at the damn magazine. Is this why Jed has un-synchronised our bedtimes? He isn’t really staying up marking jotters, planning lessons or even indulging in lurid fantasies starring Celeste. He’s simply appalled by my lack of personal grooming. I’ve been so wrapped up in looking after the children that I’ve missed a significant cultural shift. Closing the grooming guide, I sip my coffee morosely. That’s it: my ‘ au naturelle ’ do is as outmoded as a poodle perm or culottes. Jed has to fight the urge to retch every time he glimpses it. He’s just been too polite to tell me.

The café door opens, and Naomi flounces in, flushed with rude health. ‘Hi, Laura,’ she says. ‘Day off today?’

‘No, I’m working at ten.’ I check my watch. ‘Thanks for rescuing my sandals, by the way. And well done with the mums’ race.’

‘Oh, it was nothing. No one cares about these things, do they?’

‘Of course not,’ I say with a chuckle.

‘Ankle okay now?’

‘Couldn’t be better, thanks.’ I glance at her. Of course, she’s naturally neat down there – or so it appeared in those paintings of her at the Riverside Arts Centre. It was quite off-putting, trying to eat an apple Danish with all those naked Naomis gawping at me. I’d made a speedy exit, and avoided the place until they took her paintings down and replaced them with landscapes.

Her gaze drops to the table. ‘Cute purse. Very homespun.’

‘Oh, thanks. Toby made it actually.’

‘Really? You’re good, doing that sort of thing. Our au pair does all the artsy-crafty stuff . . . Hi, could I just have a dandelion tea?’ she calls out to the girl at the counter, who nods.

‘It was nothing really,’ I witter.

Naomi smirks. ‘Who was that girl at sports day? The one standing with Jed?’

‘Oh, just a colleague of his from school,’ I say lightly. ‘They’d come over for a meeting.’

‘Pretty, wasn’t she?’ she chirps, almost as if she knows , and is hell-bent on torturing me. ‘All the dads were checking her out, did you see? James Boland’s dad virtually had his tongue out!’