May Contain Nuts (23 page)

I let out a sigh as the football commentator became increasingly excited.

‘Did she get it right?' said her proud grandmother.

‘Well, yes, but—'

‘Well done, Ruby! Did you hear that, Lloyd? She got it right!'

‘Well done, Ruby. Square! Square!' exclaimed Ruby's grandfather at the television.

‘No, it's not the square,' said Constance, ‘it's the second one, number b,' she explained with a smug nod to herself.

Then one of the teams on the television scored a goal and Lloyd shrieked so loudly that it made the baby cry and Constance passed it to Ruby to hold while she warmed up some milk in a pan. Ruby stood in the kitchen rocking the baby expertly back and forth and I didn't know quite what to do.

‘So the answer isn't always the first thing that strikes you, see, Ruby?' I said over the din. And she nodded at me but both of us felt unable to ignore the action replay on the huge screen that dominated the room.

The answer certainly wasn't the first thing that struck you. I had thought this would be so easy. That I could just go in there and give Ruby a private tutorial at her little desk, leave her some practice papers and maybe come back to check her score a few days later. But the answer was no longer apparent to me; the puzzle got harder the closer you looked. After just a couple of questions explained against a running commentary from Ruby's grandmother – ‘Clever girl, Ruby!' she said. ‘Yes, that really was excellent!' agreed John Motson – I had left the papers with them and suggested she try and look at them when she had a bit more time. It had been impossible. How could I have been so stupid to think that I could walk in there and duplicate the precious study periods I had set up with my own daughter? I had thought I could dispense spare learning in the same way that I dropped off old clothes at the charity shop, expecting thanks and perhaps the odd compliment on my taste in pashminas. But a simple truth struck me as I walked back to my own comfortable house. The one in need of education was clearly me.

I have no idea of how most people live, of the obstacles that people face, of how little money people have. I thought we were relatively hard up because I was comparing myself to
Ffion and Sarah. But Ffion's idea of poverty is someone who buys their nanny a second-hand car. Her idea of stress is having to sack her eleven-year-old's personal trainer. And I'd thought life was a battle because I couldn't find the right Hoover bags for Carmen, our cleaner. What must it be like for Ruby's mother, leaving her children in the care of her mother while she went out as sole breadwinner for all three generations, juggling several different jobs to make sure that her children had all the things they needed? What must she think when she looks at the clock at their bedtime, and wishes she could be with them instead of out earning a few extra quid to make sure they were as smartly turned out as all the other children? Ruby had been eager to work but just didn't have the space or peace, while a few hundred yards away our house had special children's study zones sitting there empty.

Apart from David's office, which doubled as family work station and Allied command centre for the D-Day Landings, our children each had their own bedroom with their own private desk laid out with sharpened pencils and crisp new stationery. Their work stations were a shrine, places of reverence and respect; glasses of milk would magically appear beside them, grown-ups would whisper on the landing if children were trying to concentrate – all hail the mighty god of
Study
.

That night I could not help but notice the contrast when I tried to sit down with Molly to go through her maths homework. The setting was perfect yet the very suggestion of work prompted weary sighs from the pupil; Molly's body flopped onto the chair like a tangled marionette, her head suddenly so heavy as she stared blurry-eyed at the page that an elbow was needed to prop it up.

‘Some children would relish a chance to have this much time to study …'

‘Where?
In Africa?
' she said contemptuously.

‘No, in Clapham actually.'

‘Oh yeah, right …' Then almost immediately she got up.

‘Where are you going? Sit down!'

‘The toilet – durr! Aren't I even allowed to go to the toilet any more?!'

‘No, do one question and then you can go to the toilet … “Jane's mum buys a new dress at half price. The original cost of the dress was £9.50. How much change does Jane get from a £20 note?” So what are the two sums you have to do here?'

But Molly's body was doubled up in agony; in the space of about ten seconds some sort of bizarre internal flash flood had clearly deposited several pints of urine into her bursting bladder and now only by rocking back and forth and clutching her tummy was she able to hold off wetting herself and David's new office chair.

‘Go on then, quickly!'

Five minutes later I was knocking on the toilet door.

‘Come on, I thought you only needed a wee?'

‘No. Both.'

At least if she ever suffered from constipation in later life she would have an instant cure.
Problems with constipated children? Give them Extra-Math™, the natural laxative that will have them locked in the bog for hours
. I was losing the battle of wills but I was determined that Molly was not going to get out of doing maths just by taking too long to go to the toilet.

‘Molly!' I shouted through the door. ‘What's seven times nine?'

‘What?' came the muffled reply.

‘Come on, we can practise your tables while you're in there. What's seven times nine?'

‘I'm on the toilet.'

‘I know, but you're not getting out of it that easily. Seven nines are … ?'

‘What are you doing?' said David, standing at the top of the stairs.

‘Oh hello. It's extra maths.'

‘Can't it wait till she's out of the toilet?'

‘No, because then she just stays in there. Come on, Molly, you should know this by now. Seven nines are – actually, what are seven nines, David?'

‘Sixty-three.'

‘Seven nines are sixty-three, Molly! So repeat, what are seven nines?'

Silence.

‘Molly?' shouted David, feeling obliged to take my side in this power struggle. ‘Molly!' he repeated banging on the bathroom door. ‘Say “sixty-three” to your mother when she asks you.'

‘Sixty-three,' mumbled a weary voice from the other side of the door.

‘OK …' I said, pretending to myself that I had won a victory of sorts. ‘That's probably enough maths for today.'

In contrast to his sister, Jamie had become a whirlwind of enthusiasm since he had been allowed to finish his project on his own. He spent hours drawing tanks, gluing down pictures and writing captions with such painstaking care that he made one side of his mouth sore by sticking his little tongue out of the side in concentration. But despite all the hours that Jamie put into it, the project clearly wasn't good enough for the sulking, jilted father. A couple of days later David plonked a fat scrapbook on the kitchen table. It was obvious from his manner that my intervention had ruined his precious History of World War Two.

‘Well, I did what you said. I let Jamie do it himself.'

‘Good. Ah, bless him, he's worked so hard …' It was beautifully presented with photos from the internet glued on every page and brightly coloured captions scrawled underneath.

‘But he can't give it in like this …' said David indignantly.

‘Oh, don't be so possessive. I know you might have done it differently, but we have to learn to let the children do things for themselves.'

‘It's
wrong
.'

‘Look, it may not be perfect in your expert eyes, but this is Jamie's history of the Second World War, not yours.'

David raised his eyebrows at me. ‘The Germans win.'

‘What?'

‘In his project on World War Two, the one you said I should let him finish on his own? The Germans win.'

My knowledge of the war was not as encyclopaedic as David's, but one detail I had gleaned was that the German army were definitely on the losing side.

‘How did they win?'

‘I don't know, on penalties? Look at his caption for the last picture: “The German people celebrate their victory in the war.”'

‘Ah, look how neat his writing is, bless him …'

‘That's not really the point, is it? When Admiral Doenitz signed the unconditional surrender in May 1945, his mum wasn't standing over him saying, “All right, so we lost, but look how neat my son's writing is …”'

I skimmed through the lovingly glued maps and pictures and felt a surge of pride.

‘These Germans do look quite happy, though – was Goering lying to them about the result or something?'

‘It's a picture of a Berlin crowd celebrating the fall of France. He's five years out.'

‘OK, so he wrote “celebrating their victory” instead of “celebrating a victory” – it's only one word. It doesn't matter.'

‘What, it doesn't matter that our son's history of World War Two has Germany winning? Well, call me a pedant but I'd say that was quite an important detail myself. I mean, you know, historians disagree about some aspects, but all the primary sources I've read seem to concur on that particular historical detail. Let me think … A.J.P. Taylor, Alan Bullock, Richard Holmes, Simon Schama? Nope, I can't think of a single historian I've studied who has the Third Reich triumphant at the end …'

‘Yes, but Jamie has worked hard and must be really proud of this. How's he going to feel if we now say, “You know that one bit you did on your own, well, that's complete rubbish, start all over again”?'

‘Hang on – so you're saying that for the sake of our nine-year-old's feelings, Hitler wins. All Europe is subjugated by a brutal genocidal dictatorship for evermore, but our little boy doesn't have to endure any criticism from his parents and that's the main thing …'

‘It's only one mistake,' I said. ‘Admittedly, quite a big one.'

‘It's not just one mistake – look at this …' David skimmed back a couple of pages. ‘“Germany occupies Romania”: correct. “Germany invades Bulgaria”: correct. “Germany invades Narnia”: incorrect.'

‘Narnia?'

‘Yes, Jamie's project lists Narnia as one of the countries invaded by the Wehrmacht.'

‘Blimey, I'd have put the Snow Queen on the Nazis' side myself. Does he describe the invasion? I mean, there must
have been a bit of a bottleneck at the wardrobe …'

‘He can't give it in like this.'

‘It'll prove it's his own work …'

‘Oh right, well, let's make it really obvious it's his own work, why don't we? We can have Vietnam win at the end. After Rommel and a load of fawns beat Hermione Grainger to secure the vital bridgehead at Pooh Corner.'

‘It's not that bad.'

‘I'm embarrassed by it.'

‘Well, that's the test for us as parents, isn't it? Can you bear to let your son give in a piece of work knowing that it is wrong, or do you write the correct answer in yourself and pass it off as all his own work?'

David's astonishment could not have been greater if I'd let the kids go to bed without flossing. ‘Er, hello? So helping Jamie with his project is going too far, whereas taking Molly's exam for her is normal parental support, is it?'

‘That was a one-off.'

‘No – when Molly did her project on “Endangered Species in Nature” you wrote the whole thing from start to finish, then bribed her with Kinder Eggs to copy it out in her own writing.'

‘I did not.'

‘Yes, you did. And you got that handyman who was fitting the kitchen units to assemble the free toys. Why are you suddenly so against doing the same for Jamie?'

‘Because we won't always be there to assemble their Kinder Egg toys.'

‘Or to get the handyman to assemble their Kinder Egg toys …'

‘Whatever. Eventually they will have to assemble their own Kinder Egg toys.'

‘Or pay someone to assemble their Kinder Egg toys.'

‘I didn't pay him.'

‘Yes, you did – he was working on an hourly rate … He even put the stickers on. Surely Molly could have done that.'

‘Exactly. That's my point. We can't do everything for them for ever. That's what I realized in the exam hall. And is it any surprise that Molly is so reluctant to do any work on her own when we hold her hand over every obstacle, telling her how clever she is because she managed to write down the correct answer that we just gave her? Is that what we are going to do for Jamie as well?'

David tried to form a sentence in reply but the words didn't come. He knew I was right, and I pressed home my advantage.

‘Which is better for your son? A project with mistakes that
he
wrote, or a perfect project that
you
wrote?'

There was a pause and he looked away, possibly at his complete boxed set of
The
World at War videos. ‘So the Germans win?'

‘The Germans win.'

He shuffled uneasily and finally mumbled, ‘All right. But if he ever does a project on the World Cup, they're not winning the 1966 final as well.'

Jamie's fervent enthusiasm for his project had made me all the more determined to make Molly learn to sit down and study like any other child. I made a deal with her. I said she could have someone round to play on Sunday while the boys were off visiting the Cabinet War Rooms if she and her friend did a little bit of study together for just half an hour. She readily agreed. ‘Can I invite Bronwyn?' she added excitedly.

‘Um, they're probably going to their cottage for the weekend …' I said doubtfully.

‘OK, can I invite Kirsty?'

‘I'm not sure what they're doing … I know, what about that nice girl we gave a lift to on the way back from Chelsea College?'