The Best of Friends Read online

  I suppose he’ll come out with a clutch of GCSEs – I mean, schools are held to account for things like that these days, aren’t they? Not like in my day when it was perfectly acceptable to consign pupils to the rubbish heap. Back then, society didn’t need everyone to be uber-educated; in fact, for some it was better not to be. There were jobs specifically for people with no qualifications, the kinds of jobs in factories and workshops and Royal Mail sorting offices that you wouldn’t get if you had so much as a grade 3 CSE to your name. Somehow, despite everything, I managed to scrape some decent results together but it was because of my own efforts, nothing to do with the apology for an educational institution that I attended.

  I’m glad things are different now, that league tables reveal to everyone what schools are achieving for those in their care. But it’s all the other things Jamie – and all kids like him – will miss out on. Now I’ve had so much experience of public school through my own children, I just know that attending somewhere good would really bring out the best in little Jamie, and in sporting terms, with his innate ability, perhaps catapult him to county or even national level. Rugby, football, cricket – any of these could be his big talent, if he got the chance.

  But when I mentioned to Dan that you would more than likely never think about the possibilities and that perhaps I should make some enquiries about bursaries or scholarships on Jamie’s behalf, he told me not to be ridiculous, saying that it’s nothing to do with me and you’d probably be insulted at the implication that you’re not capable of acting in your own children’s best interests. He told me that I can’t single-handedly take care of all of life’s woes, can’t rescue all the lame ducks. So I dropped it.

  I stride onwards towards the first of the big towers that form the corner pieces of the fortress. The boys have raided the dressing-up box – another thing that these days remains untouched unless friends are here – and all four of them are brandishing swords and wearing helmets and imitation chain mail tabards. As I approach, Jamie is performing a daredevil trick that involves throwing himself bodily off a wall, catching a knotted rope and swinging vigorously on it so that he arrives at the next set of battlements. He really is remarkably agile. But I still worry. It would be so easy to slip and fall, even for the most adept, the one with the best balance.

  Toby watches from a distance, clearly in awe of Jamie’s ability to find new ways to use this old toy. Luke, the adoring younger brother, is less circumspect. He’s not foolish enough to attempt what Jamie has just done but he’s observing how he is now tightrope walking across one of the crossbeams that tie in the castle walls. Though I don’t think it’s really meant for this purpose, I’m not worried that it won’t hold his weight, but that he surely cannot have good enough balance to get across. But he does it, and thus emboldened, he makes his way up to a similar beam on an even higher level. I’m starting to get really nervous now. For any mother, her children are the most important thing in the world. For you, since your divorce, they’re all you’ve got.

  Jamie tentatively steps onto the highest cross beam.

  ‘Careful! Jamie, watch out!’

  My warning shout is out before I’ve properly thought it through. Shouting at a child in a dangerous situation is the worst thing to do; it makes them jump, breaks their concentration, causes them to turn around to look at you – all things that can lead to disaster.

  Jamie, steady as a rock, does not falter. But, outside of my field of vision to the left, I hear a sharp, anguished cry. I turn with lightning speed to catch sight of Luke struggling to keep his footing, his arms flailing wildly but futilely in the air, his mouth open in a wide circle of shock and fear, his eyes full of panic. As I look on, unable to help in any way, he slips and plummets to the ground like a stone.

  There’s a pause, that pause that all mothers dread, before the howl of pain emanates forth from the depth of his lungs.

  I rush over to him. He’s lying motionless, one leg twisted beneath him. I kneel down beside him on grass that’s wet from the earlier rain. The wood must have been damp and slippery – enough to cause his fall, nothing to do with my cry of alarm after all.

  Shushing and soothing the boy with my voice, I reach out my hands to feel for broken bones. I touch his leg. He screams.

  ‘Fetch Hana,’ I shout to Toby, ‘quickly!’

  Hana has first aid training. She did a year of nursing in Bulgaria or Rumania or wherever it is she’s from before she came here. She’ll know what to do. This hasn’t gone quite according to plan; I’m not completely in control which always unnerves me.

  Whilst I wait for Hana to arrive, I cradle Luke’s head in my arms and tell him that everything is going to be all right. Even though I have no way of knowing that it will be.

  Chapter 10

  Susannah

  Lying on the sofa with a blanket pulled up to his ears, Luke looks pitifully pale and wan. As I tuck him in even tighter, I bend to kiss him. He manages a little smile, and then a bigger one.

  ‘Can I have hot chocolate, Mum?’ he asks. ‘And watch telly?’

  This indicates the extent to which Luke feels he should be rewarded for surviving his accident as the boys are not usually allowed to eat and drink in the living room. It also indicates that he’s already feeling rather better.

  When the doorbell rang half an hour before, I assumed it was the boys coming back from Charlotte’s house earlier than expected. I opened the door to be confronted by Charlotte’s au pair carrying Luke like a baby in her muscular arms. Charlotte was right behind her, a look of such utter anguish on her face that I was momentarily more concerned about her than about my own son. And then it registered that Luke was injured and the panic that engulfed me rendered me speechless.

  ‘It’s all OK,’ said Charlotte, hastily, ‘he’s fine. Let’s get him inside and then I’ll tell you what happened. Where shall we put him?’

  Helplessly, I gestured Hana into the sitting room and pointed at the sofa.

  ‘No broken,’ pronounced Hana, plonking Luke rather unceremoniously onto the pale blue cushions. ‘No head hurt and no leg broken.’

  I crouched down beside Luke, my precious boy, kissing him, smothering him with love.

  ‘My poor baby,’ I spluttered, as I started to cry. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  Charlotte explained all, telling me that the boys had been taking rather too many risks on the adventure playground. She was about to stop them but didn’t get there in time before Luke slipped. That was it, that was all that had happened. No great drama, nothing too terrible, just a simple childhood fall.

  Now Charlotte and I are sitting in my dilapidated kitchen, sipping tea. Hana has gone home to get Toby and Sam their supper and Jamie’s keeping Luke company in front of the TV. I’ve put frozen pizzas in the oven for them; I’m too stressed to think about proper food, exhausted after so much intense emotion.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, for about the fiftieth time. ‘I can’t thank you enough. Thank goodness you were there to help him, thank goodness you’re so vigilant.’

  Charlotte waves her hand dismissively. ‘No, honestly, I didn’t do anything special. And I’m just so sorry it happened at my house. I mean, of course I have a policy that they don’t play unsupervised and I always make sure my au pairs are first aid trained, but …’

  I rub my hands across my face, conscious that my mascara is probably streaked all over my cheeks from crying. ‘I mean it, Charlotte. You were there for Luke when he was in trouble and I’m honestly so grateful.’

  I generally take a rather laissez faire attitude towards parenting, whereas I get the feeling that Charlotte is quite an anxious mum, always looking for danger. But when it comes to potentially serious accidents, all mothers are the same; nothing is more important than our children’s health and wellbeing.

  The oven timer beeps and I pull the boys’ pizzas out, put them on plates and cut them up. I deliver them to the sitting room – another ban broken, as pizza is normally for Saturd
ay nights only. Both of them beam delightedly and I can see Luke’s mind working overtime.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I say sternly, frowning in a mock-strict way. ‘This will not happen again so don’t even think about feigning future injuries in the hope of the treats you’ve had tonight.’

  Luke smiles cheekily and I leave them to it, relief suffusing my body. He’s had a shock and a nasty fall but it seems that no serious harm has been done.

  When I get back to the kitchen, I open a packet of almond slices and place them on the table. I’m feeling very strange still, detached, as if I’ve had an out-of-body experience, and I’m conscious of being a less than perfect hostess. This wasn’t the coffee morning I had hoped to invite Charlotte to, when I would have had fresh flowers on the table and homemade delicacies to proffer rather than Mr Kipling. I push the plate towards her anyway.

  ‘Please do help yourself.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Charlotte says, suppressing what seems to be a slight shudder. ‘I never eat anything sweet.’

  Bemused, I take one of the cakes for myself. I need some sugar for the shock, plus I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. I’m just about sentient enough for it to cross my mind that it’s a good thing I didn’t spend hours baking seeing as Charlotte wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. But then I look at my almond slice and realise that I can hardly start scoffing it if she’s not having anything.

  ‘Can I get you something else?’ I ask. ‘Fruit?’

  I leap out of my chair again and fumble in the fridge for some blueberries, hastily removing the film with the tell-tale half-price sticker before putting them on the table.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Charlotte unconvincingly. She pops a blueberry somewhat reluctantly into her mouth as I nibble at my cake, attempting to be as parsimonious with my food as she is.

  ‘You are good,’ I say, and then immediately wish I hadn’t. I hate the female thing of congratulating anyone who eats like a bird and flagellating those who have a healthy enjoyment of their food.

  ‘I try,’ sighs Charlotte, ‘but it gets more and more of an effort as one gets older, doesn’t it?’ Without giving me time to reply she continues. ‘I have to be so careful not to put on weight and Dan really doesn’t help. I mean, sometimes …’ she pauses as if to brace herself for the enormity of what she is about to say, ‘he wants potatoes for supper.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘Gosh,’ I say, eventually. ‘So what do you do then?’

  ‘Well,’ she responds, ‘obviously I ask Agnes to do some for him, if that’s what he wants. But I don’t eat them.’ She says this with utter finality.

  I scrutinise my almond slice. I want to greedily consume what’s left of it, all of it, stuffing it into my mouth, the whole sweet, sticky, sickly mass of it, but force myself to slow down. Charlotte takes another blueberry, places it delicately into her mouth, and chews it slowly, two calories to my two hundred.

  She asks Agnes to cook potatoes, I think. I can’t decide if I’m more jealous of having a housekeeper to prepare these fabled spuds or a husband to share them with. There goes my feminism, again, right out the window along with my willpower. I finish the almond slice.

  ‘I’ve got a crate of wine in the boot of the car,’ Charlotte is saying, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I was waiting for Dan to unload it because it’s too heavy for my back. But I could manage the weight of a single bottle.’ She smiles at me, a smile that entreats me to agree but says she’ll do what she wants anyway. ‘I’ll go and get one, shall I? Or two. I think we could both do with a drink.’

  I hardly touch alcohol these days. Apart from not wanting to be a desperate, lonely old soak, I simply can’t afford it. But a drink suddenly seems extremely attractive.

  ‘I’d love one,’ I agree, trying not to sound too keen. ‘For medicinal purposes, obviously. Better than a potato, any day.’

  I don’t know what makes me say it, and as soon as the words are out, I clasp my hand over my mouth, convinced Charlotte will think I’m making fun of her.

  Her head snaps towards me, and I see that she is frowning.

  Oh no, I inwardly groan, I’ve totally blown it. There goes that friendship.

  But then, as I ferret around in my mind for some words with which to apologise and make amends, the frown turns into a grin and then a broad smile and then she is laughing and as soon as she laughs, I laugh and we are both rolling around on our chairs emitting such hearty gales of laughter that Luke shouts through from the sitting room to tell us to be quiet because he can’t hear the TV.

  ‘Potato …’ splutters Charlotte, ‘what on earth am I telling you about potatoes for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I gasp, trying to catch enough breath to speak properly. ‘But it was quite funny … and I didn’t like to tell you that I love potatoes.’

  ‘Roast …’ she responds.

  ‘Baked, chipped, sautéed …’ I continue.

  ‘Boiled, mashed, medallioned …’

  ‘Medallioned … ha ha ha! What about confit?’

  ‘Yes, confit …’

  ‘What even is a confit potato anyway?’

  ‘No idea.’

  This last is so hilarious that we laugh and laugh and laugh and when we finally calm down, Charlotte pronounces herself thirstier than ever and heads off to the car. She returns with an expensive-looking bottle of wine under each arm.

  ‘Corkscrew?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, surprised. I haven’t had wine with anything other than a screw top for a long time. ‘Somewhere.’

  I delve into a drawer and eventually withdraw a battered corkscrew, one of the most basic kind, the sort you get free with a card full of filling station points.

  Despite the substandard tool, Charlotte makes light work of opening a bottle and pours us a generous glass each, once I’ve located the wine glasses at the back of one of the cupboards.

  ‘I know it’s a horrible way for it to have happened,’ Charlotte muses, after she’s taken a lengthy swig of her wine, ‘but it’s so nice to have this opportunity to talk to you, to get to know you better.’

  I nod eagerly. ‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘absolutely.’ I drink a slug of wine and feel it surge down my throat in a warming rush. ‘I don’t know if he told you,’ I continue, ‘but I bumped into Dan outside the tennis club the other day and he invited me for a game.’ I grimace apologetically at Charlotte. I hope she won’t be annoyed that I’m taking up his time, taking him away from her and the children. Although, she seems well able to stand up for herself, to tell him if that is the case; she’s so strong, so independent and confident.

  ‘I said yes. I hope that’s OK,’ I continue, drinking more wine. ‘And I asked him for your number so I could invite you over. I just hadn’t quite got round to it,’ I add hastily, gesturing humbly around me, at the messy kitchen with unpacked boxes piled in the corner, and back towards the living room where removal company crates still litter the floor.

  Charlotte shrugs. ‘Dan loves his tennis and he’s always looking for new partners. Watch him, though, because he’s a seriously bad loser.’ She finishes her glass and then tops it up. There’s a dribble left in the bottle that she pours into mine.

  ‘Oh,’ I giggle, feeling a bit tipsy already with the unaccustomed alcohol, ‘like most men, then. I’ll make sure I let him win.’

  Charlotte raises her eyebrows. ‘No, don’t do that. That’ll make him worse than ever! I was looking at you and those sturdy arms and thinking you’ll be able to give him a thrashing.’

  I laugh, though less heartily than before. Sturdy arms. Right. Of course she doesn’t mean to be insulting – it’s only the truth. It’s my fault for being so insecure about myself that I wish it wasn’t accurate. That I care that I don’t have the svelte and perfect physique that Charlotte has. Jealousy has always been one of my worst traits and I suppress it angrily now; I don’t want anything to get in the way of this friendship.

  ‘But honestly,’ Charlotte continues, ‘joking apart
, I’m really happy for you to be playing with him. He’s the kind of person who needs constant stimulation, newness, excitement. It gets rather exhausting sometimes. So if you can wear him out on the court, I’ll be eternally grateful.’

  I swallow another gulp of wine. ‘We’ll be equal then,’ I smile. ‘You’ve looked after my son and I’ll have taken your demanding husband off your hands for a bit. We can call it quits.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Charlotte reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. ‘God, I’m glad you’ve turned up in the village. People here are so small-minded and provincial. It’s great to have someone fresh from London, with a wider outlook on life.’

  We talk and talk and I end up telling her all about Justin and his disastrous business affairs, the divorce, the whole song and dance of it all. She’s patient and polite enough to listen carefully to every word and I realise how I’ve missed having a female friend I can really confide in. When I’ve finally exhausted the topic, she smiles sympathetically.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘You have been through the wringer, haven’t you? But hopefully the only way is up from here on in.’

  She looks around her, and then at her watch. ‘It’s only nine,’ she says, ‘and it’s Friday. Let’s open that other bottle. I feel like we’ve only just got started.’

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte

  I pull the cork on the second bottle just as you arrive back in the kitchen from a trip to the living room to check up on Luke.

  ‘Sorry,’ you say.

  I’ve already noticed your habit of giving unsolicited apologies for everything and anything. It’s endearing, as if you are always anxious that you are not quite good enough. I know that feeling only too well – it took me years of gut-wrenchingly awful evenings and weekends and holidays with Dan’s posh friends before some of their in-built, genetically programmed superiority complexes started to rub off on me. You are far more to the manor born than me, but you seem to have a similar habit of self-deprecation. Perhaps it’s something to do with having fallen on hard times.