May Contain Nuts (19 page)

David persuaded me that Molly had as much right to a scholarship as anyone else. We had less money than Ffion and Philip or Sarah and William, so why shouldn't it be our daughter who got help with her schooling? After all, she was very bright. ‘Well, that's true,' I conceded, ‘she just doesn't do well in exams.'

‘Exactly, so she's precisely the sort of pupil who should be given a chance …'

I had been sitting in the office, going through my dormant in-tray, sorting out that pile of charity letters that had worked their way down to the bottom of my pile of outstanding correspondence. They always seemed to be the last bit of admin to receive my attention, with the possible exception of the postcard I was supposed to send off to activate the guarantee for the yoghurt maker. But tonight I felt the vague need to do something for someone else.

‘Do you think we should send some money off for that Mexican earthquake appeal?'

‘What's suddenly brought this on? The disaster was weeks ago – they must have dug everyone out by now.'

‘They probably still need money … Or there's these … we ought to send something to both, it's just so hard to choose. What do you think: Rainforest or Donkey Sanctuary?'

‘Um, I dunno, send a few quid for the rainforest but ask if they could set a bit aside for the retired donkeys.'

I had an erratic relationship with various charities. I posted them occasional guilty ransom payments and they sent me cheap biros and small change sellotaped to letters. The 5p coins made it much harder to just throw the letter away. You had to fiddle around taking the coins off and then throw the letter away. But it was rare that an appeal went straight into the bin without a decent interval during which I at least intended to send off a cheque.

I went to squash the pile of charity letters down in the wastepaper bin, but then decided that I might not feel quite so guilty if I at least recycled all the paper.

‘Of course, Chelsea College is a registered charity,' David pointed out, ‘and we'll be supporting that by sending our daughter there.'

‘Though not actually giving them any money, as it turns out …'

‘No, well, anyway, it's not a proper charity. That's just a scam that the government go along with to help keep school fees down …'

It was good to have the principled lodestar that was my husband to guide me through these complex ethical issues.

For me, the most uncomfortable moral predicament had involved deceiving Molly. As parents you lie to your children all the time. I had told Alfie he was really, really clever to sit on his potty, when really it's not that clever, it's pretty basic
when you think about it. I had left a pound under Jamie's pillow and told him it was from the tooth fairy (though by the time he grew up the government would probably decide that coins from the tooth fairy were only a loan and had to be paid back out of his taxes). But even though it was in Molly's long-term interest, this little white lie felt different; it just didn't feel that white. Not even a calming pastel off-white like Ice Storm or Jasmine Dawn, not even Apple White or Magnolia; in the soothing colour scheme of all our little white lies, this one clashed terribly.

We had sat her down to do the test the day after I had sailed through it on her behalf. ‘Do they let you just do it at home then?' she asked as she took her seat in the office.

‘Only in exceptional circumstances, darling, like if you've been ill or whatever.'

‘But it would be so easy to cheat. I mean, your parents could help you with some of the answers …'

David and I looked at one another with shock at such a suggestion.

‘I suppose it would be possible, yes. But what sort of parent would do a thing like that?'

‘Ffion,' she had whispered to herself, and then glanced at us as if this had been a slightly naughty thing to say.

‘Yes, well, the school are making a very special exception for you,' explained David, ‘but they don't want people making accusations or having suspicions, so one thing they did ask is that you don't mention this to any of your friends or their mums or dads or whatever.'

‘OK,' she chirped.

‘No, I mean seriously!' I said perhaps too emphatically. ‘You must never tell anyone about this, not your friends or teachers or anything, that's really important.'

‘OK, OK, you said …' she pleaded, as David cast a worried look in my direction.

‘Sorry, darling, but parents can start acting very strangely when it comes to getting their child into a certain school.'

She didn't feel the need to question that statement. This was despite the fact that the pressure on Molly had eased up considerably since I'd ceased to worry about her school tests. While her ashen-faced school friends were becoming irritable or waking in the night, and in one case developing a pronounced nervous twitch, Molly had become almost carefree. I didn't have to tell her to stop biting her toenails any more. It made meal times slightly more civilized.

Now, finally confronted with the challenge itself, Molly did her best to make this examination a big deal, but neither of her parents seemed particularly willing to play along any more.

‘Oh no! My favourite pen isn't working!' she declared dramatically, expecting us to rush to her in total panic.

‘Oh, there's a little disposable biro tied to the downstairs phone – you can use that if you want.'

‘All right then,' she said just sitting there.

‘Well, you'll have to fetch it yourself, dear, I'm sorting the washing out …'

When her three hours were up, we ostentatiously placed her completed sheets in an envelope before her very eyes, which was to be sent straight to the school to be marked along with all the other papers.

‘Well?' she demanded.

‘What?'

‘Aren't you going to ask me how I got on?'

‘Oh yeah … how was it?'

‘It was hard. There were loads of multiplying and dividing fractions. I'm rubbish at those.'

‘Oh, they're quite easy once you get the hang of them,' I informed her casually.

I had noticed that Molly had left quite a few questions unanswered when I'd popped the exam paper into the envelope, which made it all the more impressive now Molly had managed to get a scholarship. She was genuinely delighted when we told her the news, not just by the prospect of going to the school that everyone thought was best, but also the realization that she had done well in a test, that she had excelled at something at last. I found it impossible to disagree with everyone's verdict that my daughter really was a very clever girl.

Telling Ffion about Molly's scholarship never really happened in the way in which I had fantasized. ‘Did Bronwyn get the result of the entrance exam for Chelsea College?' I casually enquired over Sunday lunch at Ffion's house.

‘Oh yes, we got the letter days ago. She passed
with distinction
. We're so delighted for her. I mean, distinction is about as high as you can get …'

Without actually getting a scholarship, I thought, but I didn't say it. Though it would be dishonest of me to keep Molly's result from Ffion when she asked about my own daughter's performance in a few moments' time.

‘Yes, it's very gratifying, though thoroughly merited, of course. Bronwyn worked very hard and I always thought she would get in but you can't help worrying about it, can you?'

‘No, I was very worried about Molly …' William cast me a mischievous smile; he could see exactly what was going on.

‘Yes, but she's such a clever little girl …'

‘Hmmm, I suppose she is,' I admitted modestly.

‘I don't know whether she gets her intelligence from
me or Philip; both of us, I suppose,' continued Ffion, ‘but it's good for Bronwyn to see that if she really works for something, she will actually get it.'

‘Yes, that's what I told
Molly
,' I said, waving a big placard saying,
Conversation, this way … Diversion: please follow signs marked ‘Molly'
…

‘… But then Bronwyn's always been advanced for her age, but that's because Philip and I always felt her education was important. I mean, I remember the book saying that by the time they were two they should know their primary colours, but that seemed so unambitious to us, so we made up flash cards for all of the secondary colours as well, you know, turquoise, olive, indigo, yellow ochre, cerise, teal …'

‘Teal? That's a sort of duck, isn't it?'

‘Well, it's a colour and a species of duck. But we didn't confuse her by teaching her all her ducks till she was five.'

Molly had been awarded a scholarship to the most sought-after school in London and Ffion had made me feel anxious that my daughter was eleven years old and still didn't know her ducks.

Lunch was a culinary triumph. Philip did three courses and then we sat back and relaxed as their Croatian au pair played Swingball with all the kids in the back garden. Four-year-old Gwilym got a ball in the face and angrily repeated the strongest swear word he'd ever heard: ‘INDICATE!'

He ran to his father who was enjoying a relaxing smoke on the patio.

‘Is there no cream for the coffee, Philip?' called his wife.

‘I'll have a look,' he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the bird table. There were so many fag ends on there it looked like the sparrows were on forty a day.

‘No, no, Philip, let me go,' I said, leaping up from the dining
table, ‘you've just cooked.' And then as I went to the kitchen I wondered why Ffion couldn't have got her own cream for the coffee. Somewhere along the way Ffion had hijacked the cause of feminism as a moral justification for simple laziness. Philip staggered through the front door every evening and then proceeded to cook dinner and wash up and tidy away the children's toys, and then brought his wife a cup of tea and was still made to feel guilty that he had chosen to absent himself from the family home all day, selfishly doing things like earning all the money that paid for everything. He was so liberated he was a slave. Perhaps that's why he couldn't give up smoking, because it would mean being inside the same building as Ffion every evening.

As Sarah and I carried a few dirty plates through to the kitchen, I told her that Ffion hadn't even asked whether Molly had got in to Chelsea College or not. ‘Oh, that's because she already knows Molly got a scholarship. I rang her as soon as you told me. I hope you don't mind. I just thought it was such exciting news.'

Incredible, I thought to myself. She had known but she just couldn't bring herself to refer to it. She's totally obsessed with her own children. I hope my kids don't grow up to be like that. I was about to head back through to the kitchen, but then added, ‘Sarah, do you think when they arrive at Chelsea College they'll be expected to know their ducks?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I was just a bit worried that Molly might go on a field trip or something and end up being teased for mixing up a teal with … with a um, you know, another sort of duck.'

‘Is there more than one sort of duck then?' Sarah said brightly.

In the back garden the game of Swingball seemed to have
developed into some sort of knockout championship. I watched Ffion's au pair deliberately missing shots to allow an easy victory for her employer's daughter. So that's why the last one was sent back to Poland. Kirsty had already been knocked out, not helped by Sarah wincing and saying, ‘Ooh, mind out, ooh, careful!' every time the ball came in her daughter's direction.

‘Bronwyn's rather good, isn't she?' said Ffion, catching me watching them through the window. I don't know why but I just didn't reply. I gave her a forced half smile, and we rejoined the others round the dining-room table, where a surreal conversation had developed that I struggled to comprehend.

‘Value of car,' said David.

‘Got that; I just put
car
,' replied Philip through the open French windows.

‘Golf handicap,' continued my husband.

‘Good, golf handicap,' said Philip waving his smoke away, ‘or batting average or whatever.'

‘Value of home
or homes
.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?' I interrupted.

‘It's Philip's big computer idea,' explained Ffion. ‘He's got it at last! You remember that league table I sent round of the children measuring their all-round achievement?'

‘Oh yes, I think I glanced at it …'

‘Well, everyone thought that it was such fun that Philip decided to develop it a little further and now he's got a buyer for it as a commercial piece of software … Isn't that fantastic?'

‘Only not just for kids, for adults too!' added Philip. ‘David and I are just designing some example league tables for adult males to adapt.'

‘You're letting in smoke again, darling …'

‘Adapt?'

‘That's how it works. You judge yourself by what
you
think is important. Say Mike Tyson was chatting with Stephen Hawking – he wouldn't immediately feel a failure because he didn't understand how the universe worked, he'd be content in the knowledge that he'd probably beat Hawking in a fight.'

‘Probably. Over ten rounds …' said William.

‘See, everyone measures his self-worth by the things that he excels in. That way, everyone is near the top of their own personal league table.'

‘Except Prince Edward. Surely he
must
put himself somewhere near the bottom,' William added.

‘Oh yeah, all right, except Prince Edward. But once you have set out the criteria by which you and your colleagues are measured, you can keep a running tally on your position. If you get promoted, or your work rival gets a new car or whatever, you enter the appropriate value on the computer and the table changes automatically.'