Divas Don't Knit (30 page)

Thank God.

They rejoin the line, and Archie waves his star at me. Then it’s time for one more round of the chorus, in which I think I hear a faint trace of ‘Winkle, Winkle’, but I’m not sure, and everyone claps as they line up and jostle their way back down the stairs. Archie turns for one final wave, and then he gives me the thumbs-up sign, which he always used to do with Nick, which nearly finishes me off completely. We’ve all been enjoying the occasional dab and sniff in the customary aren’t-they-all-so-sweet? kind of way, but I’m now getting perilously close to My Life is a Total Travesty sobbing, so I look for a spare tissue and find an extra-strong mint at the bottom of my bag, which is a bit of a result even if it is covered in glitter. Christ, this is going to be a long afternoon.

I’ve just about pulled myself together, after a spirited rendition of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, with real holly, when Mrs Chambers leads her class in. Jack’s looking pale and nervous, but Marco seems relaxed and grins as he waves to his mum and dad. Connie’s holding Mark’s hand again. Mrs Chambers has outdone herself on the Artistic Effort front, and they’re all holding big sheets of sugar paper with paintings and collages of stockings and little mice, and rooftops and a red silk Father Christmas, with lots of tinsel and gold stars.

Two girls step forward and announce that their poem was
written by a man called Clement Moore in 1823, and it’s very famous. They pause and then we’re off:

Everyone with a picture of a mouse holds it up and jiggles it. They’re doing four lines each, and there’s the occasional moment of hesitation but they’re managing pretty well, and then Jack and Marco step forward, and Jack goes even paler.

Christ, what a relief. He’s been so worried he’ll forget his words, I practically have to sit on my hands to stop myself clapping as the next two start their verse and more paintings are waved. And then suddenly they’re at the end, and they all take a bow and we clap and Mark does a loud whistle, which Jack and Marco love.

We’re treated to a very lively Jingle Bells next, and then While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night, which seems to go on for ever, before the top class sing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. They all look very grown-up, particularly some of the boys, who are obviously far too cool to bother with singing in assemblies, so they stand at the back and practise their slouching. Mr O’Brien thanks us all for coming, and reminds everyone to take their reading books home, and then we all shuffle our way out and try to collect PE bags and congratulate our budding stars.

We’ve just about made it to Nelly and Archie’s classroom when Annabel Morgan looms into view, full of Christmas spirit.

I smile at her.

‘Wasn’t it lovely?’

‘I prefer a proper Nativity play myself, but it was fine, if you like that sort of thing.’

Connie looks annoyed.

‘I thought it was very lovely.’

‘Yes, but being reminded about the true meaning of Christmas is so important, as I’m sure you agree. And a proper Nativity is the best way to do that, in my experience.’

‘Not if you have to be a donkey, I had to be, how do you say, the donkey’s …’

Mark laughs. ‘Bottom.’

‘Yes, the donkey’s bottom. And it didn’t teach me a thing about Christmas.’

We’re attracting a bit of an audience now, and Annabel is starting to look Annoyed. Again.

I try another smile.

‘Maybe they can do a Nativity play next year, but I thought this was lovely, and they all felt equally important, which has got to be the point, surely? And we didn’t have to make any costumes, and that definitely gets top marks from me.’

‘I’m so glad you liked it, Mrs Mackenzie, isn’t it?’

Bugger. It’s Mr O’Brien. ‘Yes.’

‘Mrs Chambers tells me you’ve offered to help us with our textiles project next term, which is very kind of you. I try to make it a rule that we don’t have anything taught in the school that I don’t have a go at myself, so you’d better put me down for the first session, but I think I should warn you that teaching me to knit might be your toughest challenge yet.’

‘It’s very easy. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time.’

‘I doubt it – I’m hopeless at that kind of thing – but we can but try. Now, I wanted a word with your son. There he is. Archie, come here for a minute, would you, young man? I want to tell you how pleased I was to see you being so kind and helpful in our assembly. Let’s shake hands, shall we?’

He holds out his hand and Archie shakes it, looking very pleased with himself.

‘Very well done, Archie. Here, have a toffee.’

He hands him a toffee wrapped in shiny paper from his jacket pocket.

‘But please save it for later, there’s a good boy. Now then, I must find Mrs Finch, I think she’s been looking for me.’ He heads off up the corridor, stopping to chat to children as he goes.

Annabel’s sulking as we go into the classroom to collect paintings and bookbags. Hobnobbing with the Head and a toffee for Archie: I’m not sure I could have been more annoying unless I’d got a special T-shirt printed with ‘I Hate Mrs Morgan’ on the front. Shame, as Ellen would say.

‘I remembered it, Mum.’

I’m helping Archie put his coat on. ‘You did, darling, and you were brilliant.’

I risk a quick hug, even though we are technically still in public and this is a clear breach of the rules. There’s a muffled ‘Get off! Get off!’ and he emerges, slightly red-faced.

‘Can we go and find Jack now? I want to tell him Mr O’Brien shaked my hand, and gave me a sweet, because he only does that if you’ve been very good.’

‘Okay.’

‘I was the best, wasn’t I, Mum?’

‘Yes, love, you were the best in your whole class. And Jack was the best in his.’

He looks at me and smiles.

‘Yes. But only I got a sweet.’

It’s just past midnight and I can’t get to sleep; I think I’ve eaten too much but Connie arrived with two trays of pastries from
Mark for our Stitch and Bitch Christmas party, and they were so delicious we’d eaten half of them before anyone else had arrived. And then Cath brought a quiche and Tina and Linda had made sausage rolls, including some cheese and chive ones for Olivia, who’s decided to be a vegetarian, mainly to annoy Cath, we think, but we’re trying not to take sides, and Maggie and Angela both brought cakes too, so I feel like I’ve been eating for hours and hours.

Angela was proudly showing off her photographs of Penny and Sally holding baby Stanley, who’s got lots of wispy hair. There were a few photographs of Stanley’s dad too, who looked very nice, and Tina said she thought Stanley was a very lucky baby to have three parents who obviously love him so much, which was just about the perfect thing to say really, and Angela looked very pleased. And then we had a competition to see who was having the most hideous Christmas lunch, and Cath won, with seventeen grown-ups and five children. Connie’s going to lend her some chairs because she hasn’t got enough, which I think is probably the least of her problems. I can’t imagine cooking for that many people without requiring professional assistance, but she seemed quite relaxed about it, unlike Maggie, who told us that she might be out of a job in the New Year, because they all got called into a special meeting at the library today, and apparently the council are looking at merging branches, and a property developer has already put in an offer for the building. We’re all going to try to help, and Cath’s starting a petition, which cheered Maggie up a bit.

It’ll be terrible if the library closes, because lots of people won’t be able to travel to wherever the new branch is, and some of the older ones pop in nearly every day for a chat, according to Maggie, to meet their friends and look at the papers. The children’s section is really sweet, with lots of paintings on the wall and bean bags, and I’m going to make an extra effort to take the boys in more regularly, because it’s obviously a case of
Use It or Lose It. The only potentially tricky moment was when Angela said she hoped Peter wasn’t involved, which he’s bound to be, what with him being on the parish council and being the local estate agent. But we all pretended we hadn’t heard her, and Cath started talking about making posters to put up in all the shop windows.

It’s ten past one, and I still can’t get to sleep, so I’m downstairs making tea and wrapping up the knitting-needle case I’ve made for Grace for Christmas; I’m seeing her tomorrow, and I hope she’s going to like it, because trying to work out what to get for someone with impeccable taste and vast amounts of money isn’t easy. I haven’t seen her for a while because she’s been busy with meetings about the new films, and it looks like she’s definitely doing the French one next year, and possibly a remake of
Bedknobs and Broomsticks,
with lots of special effects and more sex. I don’t remember there being any sex at all in the Angela Lansbury version; but I do remember loving the rabbit and the bits when they were all bobbing along under the sea.

Christ, I wish we were staying here for the holidays and we could sit by the fire and watch
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
and eat too much chocolate instead of being satellites revolving round Planet Mum. Dad will disappear as much as he can; he’s like the bloody Invisible Man sometimes, only with carpentry tools. And I really hope he hasn’t Made Something with Wood for the boys like the year he made me a Noah’s Ark. It must have taken him ages, and he was so proud of it, but secretly I hated it because all the animals were different sizes, so the rabbits were nearly twice the size of the sheep, and what I really wanted was one like my friend Alison’s, with plastic animals with faces and a Mr and Mrs Noah who had clothes you could take off. While Dad was making us toys we didn’t appreciate, Mum was always trying to ignite some artistic flare in us; she’d give us boxes of
expensive modelling clay or fabulous paint sets, and then look bewildered and irritated when we weren’t that interested. She liked taking us round museums on Sundays, too, when she’d tell us all about the Surrealists in such a loud voice that people used to look at us, until Vin started refusing to get in the car.

I always end up feeling that I’m being Disappointing when I’m with Mum. I used to feel it with Nick, too, sometimes; like I wasn’t quite up to scratch. But it’s different now. The past year has made me feel that I’m not just someone who spends all her time at home, redecorating everything in sight while her brain slowly melts, not that I ever was that person, but I used to feel like her sometimes. What with a new house and a new business, and new friends, I feel I’ve started to achieve something. So if Mum thinks she’s going to play her usual game of I’m a Very Special and Artistic Person and You’re Not, then I think she might be in for a bit of a surprise.

It’s four o’clock on Christmas Eve and we’re at thirty thousand feet somewhere over France. Archie’s sitting by the window, looking small and wide-eyed with the thrill of it all, and Jack’s busy being the debonair jet-setting older brother, listening to Harry Potter on CD, which we borrowed from Maggie at the library, and occasionally sneaking excited glances through the window when he thinks Archie isn’t looking. I’m completely knackered, but after a large gin and tonic and a packet of crackers I feel a tiny bit less like running down the aisle screaming, Let me off! Let me off!

The food arrives and it’s just as revolting as usual, and scaldingly hot, but the boys enjoy buttering their rolls with their little plastic knives. Stewart, our flight attendant, comes round with the teas and coffees. Archie gives him one of his best smiles, and waves a piece of roll at him.

‘I’m masticating.’

Stewart hesitates for a second, teapot in mid-air but since he’s obviously a seasoned professional he rallies and carries on pouring my tea, with a rather fixed smile on his face.

‘Archie, there really isn’t any need to tell people when you’re chewing your food, I’ve told you before. People don’t really want to know.’

Stewart relaxes slightly and rests his teapot on my tray.
‘Don’t worry, you’d be amazed what people get up to when their trays are down, madam. Honestly, nothing would surprise me in this job. Would he like another roll?’

‘That would be great.’

‘I’ll be back in a sec. I can’t wait to tell the purser, he’s going to love it.’

Archie looks puzzled.

‘Who’s the purser? Does he do the money?’

‘Yes, poppet, that’s exactly what he does. And precious little else, if he can help it. Back in a minute.’

After Stewart’s collected our trays, and the purser has been down for a quick look at the Masticator in 25A, it’s time for trips to the toilet, which are a big hit with Archie, who particularly enjoys pressing the flush mid-wee to see if he can get sucked down the toilet and out into the clouds, just in case Father Christmas is having an early practice run on his sleigh.