The Difference a Day Makes (43 page)

Then I flounce out of the door and, as I can’t face the bloody Tube either, hope I can hail a cab quickly to take me home.

 

 

 

‘
I
t did not go well.’ I tell Serena my sorry story when I get back.

My sister puts on the kettle and utters suitably soothing noises as she makes me some chamomile tea. I slip off my shoes and enjoy the pain of the cold tiles on my bare feet.

‘Every company wants their pound of flesh these days,’ she reminds me.

‘I don’t mind giving a pound of flesh, but I do mind having my bottom groped. That’s definitely more than a pound!’ We both laugh at that. ‘It’s not as if he was even attractive.’

This was to be my big chance at getting back into the cutting edge of television, steering a raft of popular arts programmes to the small screen. I didn’t envisage working for a megalomaniac barely out of his teens, nor of producing programmes that wouldn’t tax the brain cells of an amoeba.

‘I’ve got some more bad news for you,’ she says. ‘I think Hamish has eaten some of your pants.’

I sigh. ‘That’s the least of my worries.’

‘I caught him in your underwear drawer,’ she continues. ‘He was looking very sheepish and I’ll swear I saw some white lace disappear down his throat.’

‘Looks like my dog might be getting better.’ I nurse the cup of chamomile tea to me. This stuff had better be strong if it’s going to be able to relax me. ‘Have the kids been good?’

‘Angels,’ she says. Then she looks sadly at me. ‘They deserve better than this.’

‘I know.’ I let out a wobbly, stressed breath. ‘I’m working on it. Really I am.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ my sister slips her arm round my shoulder and squeezes tight, ‘you only have to ask.’

Then the doorbell rings and my stomach plummets, because I just know that at this time of the night it’s not going to be something to cheer me up. ‘What now?’ I say, and then plod out to open the door.

Hamish starts up a crazy bark. ‘Hush, hush,’ I tell him, finger to my lips. He gives a low growl instead and I shove him into the living room and close the door behind him.

A woman is standing there in the stark communal hallway. She’s tiny, Chinese and very polite. ‘I live upstairs,’ she tells me, helpfully pointing upwards.

I haven’t actually met anyone else who lives in the block yet - so typical in London. Could be another five years before I’m on nodding terms with any of them.

‘So sorry to trouble you,’ she says, ‘but I have to tell you this.’

I’m all ears, but I think I know what’s coming.

‘Your dog is howling all day long,’ she continues, looking embarrassed that she’s had to raise the issue. ‘I am a nurse. And I work night-shift. During the day I must sleep.’

I can hardly deny Hamish now, can I, when he’s just done his favourite party piece. ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ I say, and I am.

‘I do not think that you are allowed to keep dogs here. I do not mind. I love animals. But I do not think that other neighbours will be so kind. He is very noisy.’

Yes, that’s Hamish all right. ‘I do apologise. I’ll try to keep him quiet. We’re only here on a short-term let,’ I explain. ‘We’ll be gone before you know it.’

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I know that you will deal with the situation.’

I close the door and lean against it. What can I do? Gag Hamish? Turn the television up so loud that all they can hear is
Bargain Hunt
,
60-Minute Makeover
and
Place in the Sun
rather than my dog? But then I’m upset to hear that Hamish is distressed while we’re all out. He’s got so used to having us all around that it must be lonely for him. He was clearly overjoyed to see Guy last weekend. And he wasn’t the only one.

I worry about Milly Molly Mandy too. She hasn’t been out at all since we got here, as I’m terrified that she’ll be run over on the busy road or that she’ll escape and never come back. She looks lethargic and disinterested in her modest surroundings and, with her penchant for disembowelment, was never intended to be a house cat.

Most of all I worry about the kids. They’re not settling in well at their new school, although I appreciate that it’s early days yet. My children already seem to look paler and less robust, the country colour having fled from their cheeks.

I go back into the kitchen.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Serena says.

‘My neighbour is complaining about Hamish,’ I tell my sister.

‘Haven’t they got anything better to worry about?’

‘It’s fair enough, I suppose,’ I say wearily. ‘We’re not supposed to have pets here.’

Serena comes and puts her arms round me. ‘It will be all right,’ she says. ‘I promise you. Everything will be all right.’

But, you know, I’m not sure that I believe her.

 

 

 

B
ad news - like buses, it seems - comes along in threes. At eight-thirty the very next morning, just when I’m selecting Hamish’s television viewing for the day in the hope of keeping him quiet, my phone rings and it’s the secretary from Queensway, Tom and Jessica’s school. The Headteacher, she says, would like to see me urgently but can offer no further information as to the reason for my summons.

Immediately, I call Lawrence’s PA and explain to her that I’m going to be late this morning. If my boss is already cross with me, then let him stick that in his pipe and smoke it too.

I chivvy up the children and we set out towards the school. The traffic thunders by us on the road. I try to talk to Jessica, but I can’t even hear myself think, let alone hold a sensible conversation about whether or not she’s done her homework.

At the school door, I say goodbye to them, remembering not to kiss Tom, then I tell the receptionist that I’m here to see the Headteacher. There’s paint peeling off the walls in the hall and I don’t recall seeing that when I was here before. Perhaps I’m seeing London through different eyes now than I did then. If I am, it all looks horrible and dirty and downright depressing.

In her worn and slightly grubby office, Mrs Richards offers me a cup of tea. Even though I’d love one, I refuse because I can’t afford to hang around too long. ‘I’ve asked you to come in, Mrs Ashurst,’ she says, ‘because I’m worried about Tom and Jessica.’

You’re not the only one, I think.

‘They don’t seem to be settling in well,’ Mrs Richards continues. ‘Are they unhappy at home?’

‘It’s been a very traumatic year for them,’ I explain. ‘We uprooted to the country, then they lost their father and now we’ve upped sticks again to come back to London to be near my family. I’ve had to become a working mum again. That’s never easy when you’re on your own.’

‘Hmm,’ she says, lips pursed. ‘I can see that it’s rather a lot for them to cope with.’

‘Yes,’ I say meekly, all of my guilt buttons having been pushed.

‘And for you too.’ She smiles softly at me which makes me feel even worse. ‘I’m afraid that Tom and Jessica aren’t having a much better time here,’ Mrs Richards continues. ‘They’re being bullied.’

‘Bullied?’

‘I can assure you now, Mrs Ashurst, we’re doing all that we can to stamp it out in the school, but this issue does raise its ugly head every now and then.’

Don’t remember her mentioning this at the interview when she was keen to extol the virtues of her school.

‘You see, as new pupils arriving halfway through a school year, Tom and Jessica are prime targets.’

‘They never said anything.’

‘They’re lovely children, Mrs Ashurst,’ she tells me.

I know that, and I want to weep because of it. I hate to think of some streetwise little oik pushing my kids around when they’re already feeling vulnerable. I hate the fact that they haven’t felt able to tell me about it.

‘What can I do?’

‘Just be supportive of them. We’re trying to keep on top of the situation here,’ the Headteacher assures me again,‘but I wanted to let you know that they are having a hard time at the moment. We’ll do everything we can to help them.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I appreciate you calling me.’ Why am I being so polite when I really want to scream at her to get her scabby pupils under control and then go and snatch Tom and Jessica from their classes?

‘We’ll keep in touch,’ she says, and stands up to shake my hand. A frown crosses her brow. ‘Are you sure that you’re all right, Mrs Ashurst?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Then as I leave her office, I check my watch. I’ve got to fly like the wind. I’m an hour late for work already and I know that I’m not going to be able to stay late tonight as neither Kati nor Serena are available for babysitting duties and I have to get back for the children. Wonder what Lawrence Wonderboy Holmes will think of that?

Who cares? I want to spend time with my kids. They need me more than some poxy television company. Let Lawrence Holmes swivel on it.

 

 

 

W
ithout heed of the expense, I manage to hail a cab outside the school and jump in it. I lay my head back on the seat, close my eyes and try to absorb what Tom and Jessica’s Headteacher said to me and how I can help them get through this.

Twenty minutes later and I’m swinging through the chrome and glass doors at the BTC. As I try to sneak to my desk unnoticed, I see the dreaded Lawrence Holmes coming out of his office and he heads me off at the pass.

‘Can you spare five minutes to have a word with me?’ he says. His sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

‘Of course, Lawrence.’

He steers me back to his sumptuous office. An office just like the one I used to have.

‘Sit,’ he says, talking to me like I talk to Hamish.

I sit. Lawrence strides up and down in front of me wearing his ‘concerned’ frown. I have never previously come across a man with such a wide range of forehead furrows. Already, I know many of them too well.

‘I’m sorry to say, Amy, that we won’t be extending your trial period.’

Trial period? I didn’t know I was on one.

He folds his arms and stares at me. ‘If you’d like to clear your desk you can leave now.’

I also fold my arms. ‘This is because I object to one of our clients groping my bottom?’

‘I don’t think there’s any point in us discussing this issue.We’re not sure that you’re a team player and here at the British Television Company we need team players.’

Team players! You need bloody mindless slaves with no home-life, I think, but say nothing. There’s no use in arguing with someone like Lawrence and, to be truthful, my return to the fold has not been quite the homecoming I envisaged.

My heart was never in this job from day one, though I don’t think I’ve done badly enough to be given the boot. If Lawrence had one iota of compassion he’d understand my problems. But he doesn’t. The man has a calculator where his soul should be, and all he knows are targets, ratings and sales. This isn’t for me. I want to make programmes with integrity. I want to work with people with integrity. In my time, I was a damn good producer and I deserve more than this.

I have no argument for Lawrence though. I’m too exhausted, too crushed to be able to fight my own corner.

Holding up my hands, I back out of the door. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

Bad news, it seems, comes in more than threes. Before I know it, I’m out on the street and stunned. It’s not yet ten o’clock and I’ve found out that my beautiful children are being bullied and I’ve been sacked.

In a daze, I get onto the Tube, heading back towards home. Hanging onto the overhead bar, I let my body move with the sway of the train and my mind go into freefall. I’ve come back here to try and pick up my old life and, suddenly, it’s all crumbling round my ears.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out on the street and walking towards my old house in Notting Hill. It pulls me up short. I didn’t mean to do that. I just did it on autopilot, before I remembered that I didn’t live here any more. Since we’ve been back I’ve done all that I can to avoid coming here. I’ve even taken a circuitous route to give this place a wide berth.

It’s dry today, for a change, but windy along the street and I pull my coat around me, aware of the swirling dust stinging my eyes. Now, standing outside the place that was my home for many a happy year, I feel even more like an alien. A hick up from the sticks. I stare at the house, hands jammed into my pockets to keep them warm, as if it’s somewhere that I don’t know every nook and cranny of, every creak and groan. I know that the utility-room door is warped, that a breeze blows through the study window, catching you in the back of the neck as you sit at the desk, and I know that the thermostat on the radiator in the family bathroom needs replacing.

They haven’t done much to the house, the new people. There are two smart black pots either side of the front door bearing wind-scorched bay trees, but other than that it looks pretty much the same. But I know that the rooms - which made the house our home - would now be unrecognisable.There’ll be new furniture, new books, new cutlery, new covers on the beds, a different range of foods in the fridge. All the small things that defined us as a family are gone. I wonder, if the house could look back at me, would it think the same thing? Would it think that I looked pretty much the same on the outside? Would it realise that everything inside has changed, that nothing is familiar any more?

Desperately, I want to go back inside to try to reach out to the past. But the door is closed to me, there’s no one at home. More than the new plot in the graveyard that I tended, or the emptiness in my double bed that I feel so keenly, this brings it home hard to me that this treasured part of my life is now gone. It’s the past. It’s over. What I had will never be mine again.