The Not So Perfect Mum: The feel-good novel you have to read this year!. Kerry Fisher

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СКАЧАТЬ to her but instead I felt the drain of energy it takes to ignore someone.

      One thing it was impossible to ignore, however, was her ‘charitable contribution’. All that was missing from her wicker basket was a man with a trumpet. Snuggling in the red tissue paper were pineapples, goji berries, organic lentils, wheat-free muesli, miso soup and a coconut. I imagined some poor sod with arthritic fingers trying to hack into the coconut or getting goji berries stuck in his false teeth when all he wanted was a cup of PG Tips and a ham sandwich. Maybe my baked beans weren’t so bad after all.

      ‘Bowl of adzuki beans, anyone?’

      I swung round. Clover was a sight to behold in turquoise flares that only a six-foot model should attempt, not a stout woman on the wrong side of short. She pressed a couple of pounds into the twins’ hands and told them to ‘bugger off and have a go on a few stalls, but don’t buy any crap’.

      ‘Otherwise you find that all the junk you got rid of for the white elephant stall is replaced with someone else’s shite,’ Clover said, taking my arm. ‘Now, let’s get this tattoo stall up and running.’

      Through the doors leading out into the playground I could see Lawrence setting up the football nets for Five for a Prize. Even though it was drizzling slightly, I wished we were outside. Instead, we fought our way through children clutching coins and grandmas with pushchairs going nowhere fast. Our table was at the side of the hall between the Knock Down the Can and the Wild West shooting stall, where dads were making seven-year-olds cry by hogging the plastic revolvers to prove that they weren’t hotshots only at the office.

      It was sweatier than the Tube in a July rush hour. I stuck my hands in the bowl of water we were going to use for the tattoos. A few mothers hurried their children past. ‘No, no, tattoos are so common. No, I don’t care if they wash off, they look awful.’

      Most parents seemed amused, as though they were somehow walking on the wild side themselves by letting their kids have a seahorse on their wrist. They wouldn’t be thinking it was such a jolly jape if their darling Henrietta, Rory or Oscar came home with a big declaration of love for Chardonnay or Gav tattooed across their backs in ten years’ time. Or a great big spider like Tarants.

      A queue formed and Clover and I pressed on butterflies, hearts and flowers, throwing sticky little fifty pences into a Tupperware container. I’d hardly had time to look up when I heard someone call my name.

      ‘Ms Etxeleku. How do you like your first Stirling Hall fete?’

      Mr Peters still managed to look formal in jeans and a white linen shirt. I felt as though he’d come to tell me off and my mind immediately started running through apologies, excuses and big fat lies. I should have stuck to a non-nutty ‘lovely, thank you’. Instead I said, ‘Would you like a tattoo?’ and then wanted to kill myself. Heads of Upper School probably didn’t go in for a lot of body art.

      He surprised me. He laughed. ‘Very rebel without a cause. What do you suggest?’

      I pulled out a new sheet, managing to knock my wet sponge into my crotch as I did so. ‘What about a devil?’

      ‘I leave being naughty to the kids these days, during the week at least. No, I fancy something a bit exotic,’ he said.

      Clover leaned over. ‘Mr Peters, that’s favouritism, choosing the new girl on the block. What about all us mums who’ve been slaving away every year since our kids were in nursery? I’ve got a lovely big dragon here I could stick somewhere secret.’

      I envied Clover. Being so at ease with it all. But I also wanted her to snout out so I could have Mr Peters to myself, like a child with a protective arm round a bowl of crisps.

      ‘Thanks for the offer, Mrs Wright, but I don’t want to get too subversive now, do I? Maybe next year.’ He turned back to me. ‘What about that Chinese character?’

      ‘Okay, where do you want it?’

      There was the slightest pause. A tiny curve upwards at the side of his mouth gave me a glimpse of the man he might have been before he dedicated his life to setting a good example.

      ‘Left or right arm?’ I said. Without looking, I knew that a slow flush would be turning my neck and chest blotchy. I pretended to pick something up off the floor so I could dab at the sweat on my upper lip. Mr Peters sat down and rolled up his sleeve. A forearm made for arm-wrestling. Smooth olivey skin, quite hairy. Big hands but slim fingers and clean fingernails. Everything about him was tended, clipped and cared for. I bet his skin smelt of something lemony. And I bet he didn’t leave whiskers round the sink.

      ‘Harley seems to be settling down nicely now. In the last couple of weeks since “the incident”, I’ve seen a big change in him,’ Mr Peters said, almost drowned out by the noise and excitement of the Knock Down the Can stall next door.

      ‘Yes, I think he’s doing much better. Thanks for being so kind to him.’

      I wasn’t about to tell Mr Peters that since Harley had given Hugo what for, he’d become a bit of a hero among the boys. His new nickname was ‘Mike’ and the lunchtime footballing gang seemed to have adopted him as a mascot.

      ‘I wasn’t being kind. I was being fair. Between you and me, I think that little event has given him a certain kudos amongst his classmates,’ he said, leaning in so I could hear him.

      Of course. He knew everything. He’d probably worked out that I’d spent ages getting ready that morning, even painting my nails, which was something I rarely did these days. I was glad I had. Didn’t want him thinking that I only did holey tracksuits, Crocs and punch-ups.

      ‘How are you settling in, Ms Etxeleku?’ he asked, clear greeny-grey eyes trapping me in their gaze.

      I mumbled, ‘Fine,’ and became very focused on sponging his tattoo, which, praise the Lord, went on in one piece.

      ‘Perfect,’ Mr Peters said. ‘I could imagine you in a tattoo parlour inking enormous eagles onto bikers’ backs.’

      I think we realised at the same time that might not be as unlikely for me as for most of the mothers at Stirling Hall who were either -ologists of some sort, solicitors, investment bankers or married to one. Mr Peters blushed. ‘No offence, you know what I mean. It was a compliment to your marvellous artistic skills.’

      Big red patches like stunted starfish settled on his face. I was fascinated to see a guy with so much going for him, so smart, so in control, blush like that. If I ever got to a place in my life where I could join in a clever conversation and speak with confidence, even on brainy things – politics, literature, the environment – because I had the knowledge to back me up, I swore to God I was never going to waste a minute blushing again.

      For the moment, however, I blushed along with him, even though he hadn’t offended me at all. My mother used to call it vergüenza ajena, a sort of second-hand embarrassment at other people’s fuck-ups. I think we were both grateful when the next woman in the queue called Mr Peters’ attention. It was the mother of Kuan-Yin, the little Chinese girl who, along with the few other Asian children – sons and daughters of consultants and lawyers – featured heavily in photos around the school as though Stirling Hall was a multicultural hotbed.

      ‘Mr Peters. I see you have the tattoo for love,’ she said, pointing at his arm with her small elegant fingers.

      ‘Love?’

      ‘Yes, СКАЧАТЬ