The Dilemmas of Harriet Carew

I was determined to work in an art gallery and maybe one day organize exhibits of contemporary figurative painters.

Before Alex was born, I’d managed to find a job at a small gallery in South Kensington. But Alex’s arrival swamped me: I found I had no strength and no wish to leave my home. The gallery owner found someone else to help out, and I get a pang of dissatisfaction every time I find myself in a certain corner of South Kensington.

When I heard about HAC from a mother at St Christopher’s two years ago, I was only half interested in the charity that gave disadvantaged children a holiday. The main attraction was the schedule: ‘Three days a week with potential to increase to full time.’

But soon I found myself engaging with the work. There is the challenge of ensuring that the professional ‘facilitators’ and their three supervisors manage a week’s break for a dozen children without them running amok or wreaking devastation on our houses; making sure that the GP or social worker is promoting the right child for the experience, rather than fobbing off on us countless Jesus Jones types who turn a holiday into hell; finding generous sponsors who will keep us going. And there is the reward of receiving postcards and letters, in childish scrawl, from the children. Many of them have never had a holiday in their life, and pack their toothbrush, spare pants and T-shirt in a bin liner because they don’t have a case. Their gratitude repays every effort we make.

Still, in between the holidays themselves, routine work at HAC can be dull, and Mary Jane Thompson’s presence overbearing. All too often, I find her straying into my territory.

‘I think when it comes to the bigger sponsors, Harriet,’ she repeats to me, as she returns from yet another expensive lunch, ‘you should leave it to me: I have a way with rich men who need to be parted from their money.’

Then I find myself looking on this job as purely a way to make ends meet, even though the salary is only £15,000; and I think wistfully of the exhibitions I would have loved to curate, and the art gallery I would have loved to run.

The phone rings.‘’Arriet?’

It’s Ilona, and I immediately expect the worst: Maisie’s hurt, Maisie’s got a roaring temperature, Maisie bit another child at nursery. Then Ilona remembers what I taught her about telephone communication and pre-empting maternal fears: ‘Maisie is OK.’ Ahhhh, I sigh, and then instantly am besieged by another set of images: Ilona wants to leave us for one of her Internet beaux, Ilona is being stalked by one of the same, Pete is offering to make an honest woman of her …

‘Someone wants to speak with her mamma,’ Ilona says, before handing over the telephone to Maisie.

‘Mummy!’ My baby is tearful down the phone, and I feel ready to bolt back home, take her in my arms and snuggle up with our worn copy of We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. ‘I want youuuuuuuu,’ she wails, and I can tell Ilona is having to pull the receiver from her hand.

For the umpteenth time I decide to postpone asking Mary Jane for a full-time position. I’m pretty sure five days a week would bring in £25,000, but does the difference in salary really make up for the time missed with my children? Motherhood – and this is an admission, like fancying my cousin Will when I was fourteen, or being disappointed about not getting into Oxford, that I will make only to myself – has put an end to my modest professional ambition. It hasn’t just poured water on the flames; it has sprayed fire-extinguishing foam on them, then beaten the embers with a spade for good measure.

‘Why do we always have to be the ones to compromise?’ Charlotte sighs every time I mention working at HAC. I ask myself what kind of compromise my best friend thinks she’s been forced into: she has a devoted and wealthy husband who keeps her in a style far grander than anything she and I grew up with; three perfect children and a nanny to keep them in line; and no call on her time between nine thirty and four. That’s the kind of ‘compromise’ I could live with.

‘You were brilliant at that gallery – you always had an eye for good paintings … And here you are, trying to shoehorn feral children into a holiday environment.’ Charlotte snorts.

‘They’re not feral, they’re damaged.’ I always jump to my charges’ defence. ‘They’ve had the worst possible start in life.’

‘And you’ll come to the worst possible end, if you don’t watch out. Those kids give me the heebie-jeebies.’ Charlotte’s brown eyes widen in dramatic fear. ‘I hope Guy appreciates what you’ve taken on so that he can try his hand at travel books!’

In Charlotte’s eyes, Guy staying at home to write somehow doesn’t count as a proper job. ‘Be honest, Harry, how many copies does he sell? I bet it’s not enough to keep the kids in school uniforms, let alone in school.’

‘He has his fans, you know,’ I reply defensively. ‘And one of them is a telly producer who thinks Lonely Hunter would make a fabulous documentary series.’

Strange but true. Last weekend we went to Waterstone’s to look for a book that Maisie could take to Theo Wallace’s birthday party. As usual, Guy was scouring the Travel section for copies of his books. ‘They’ve got only one copy of Lonely Hunter and none of White Nights. And a whole row of Crispin Kerr. Preposterous! I’m going to complain …’ He was about to make off in the direction of the bespectacled boy at the till when the pretty redhead leafing through the volumes on the table turned to him. ‘Lonely Hunter? It’s great, isn’t it!’

‘Er …’ Guy puffed up with obvious pride. ‘I wrote it.’

‘You wrote it? You’re Guy Carew?’ Wide eyes and a wider smile turned on Guy with undisguised admiration.

Guy nodded. ‘Er … yes.’ He studied his fan with something like suspicion: this had not happened in a long, long time.

‘But your books are brilliant! I loved the campfire scene in Desert Flower!’ Guy began to melt in the heat of her admiration. ‘I came to that lecture you gave at Essex University last year: fascinating!’

For the next ten minutes, Maisie, the boys and I were ignored as the stuffy library air of the bookshop resounded with ‘Kalahari!’ ‘Masai!’ ‘Nairobi!’ and peals of laughter.

‘Her name is Zoë Jenning and she’s a producer for Rainbow Productions, some independent TV company.’ Guy could hardly contain his excitement as we pushed the buggy and the boys out of the shop. ‘She thinks Lonely Hunter would make great telly!’

‘Daddy’s gonna be on telly! Daddy’s gonna be on telly!’ Alex and Tom chanted down the pavement.

‘Don’t hold your breath’ Charlotte warns me: ‘Most of these independent television companies are dodgy cowboy outfits. They milk you for information by promising you a series of your own, and then they drop the show but steal your idea.’

‘He’s very excited.’

It’s an understatement: Guy has been waiting for Zoë’s phone call ever since, and will not listen to caution. ‘You’ll see, Harriet; a whole new career beckons!’

I sigh. The ‘old’ career was bad enough. It consisted of long sessions at the computer in his study alternating with even longer sessions daydreaming about the future success of the project at hand. Guy believes wholly, and without reservation, that he will write a great bestseller, a Richard and Judy selection that will also appeal to the intellectual elite; a magnum opus that will secure his place among literary giants. And despite the obvious scepticism of his agent, Simon, who grows ever more distant, and of friends like Charlotte and Jack; despite the countless times I have voiced our financial worries; and despite the prospect of spiralling school fees for three children, Guy won’t be deflected.

He scours the book pages of the Telegraph and the TLS, studying the reviews, latest publications and bestseller lists, and scoffs at ‘the competition’. ‘I don’t believe it, Harriet! Look here – Francis Bolton has managed to get something published. A biography of Diane de Poitiers … I mean, who’s going to buy that? She’s French, for a start; and she didn’t do anything, really, apart from having an affair with a man half her age who happened to be King of France.’ Such acerbic observations will be followed, a few weeks later, with outrage: ‘Can you believe it, Harry – that silly book by Bolton is number two on the bestseller list. I swear to you, that man is incapable of doing proper research – it’ll be just a cut-and-paste job. What is the world coming to?’

Guy’s most vicious attacks are reserved for the authors who dare stray into the rather far-flung area he considers his patch: ‘What?! That idiot Crispin Kerr – the one who looks like a shampoo advert with all that blond hair – he’s got a book out on the Gobi Desert. What does that ignoramus know about the Gobi? Nothing, nada, niente! How could anyone be fooled by that man!’ And, ‘Ha! Did you see what’s happened to Seb Colley? That pathetic TV series of his on the last maharajahs has bombed. That brilliant TV critic, the one on the SundayTribune, L. L. Munro, he’s really put the boot in. Calls it “Curry kitsch” and a “sorry sari saga”.’

I admire my husband’s single-minded pursuit of his objective – but I sometimes yearn to remind him that the ‘idiot’ Crispin Kerr’s books and documentaries and Francis Bolton’s ‘silly’ biography must be nice little earners.

It’s almost lunch time. ‘Does she have a lunch today?’ I ask Anjie hopefully. Most days, Mary Jane takes out, or is taken out by, some bigwig, allowing us a breathing space that I usually fill with running errands and Anjie with catching up on the stars in her secret stash of Grazia and Heat.

‘Yup.’ Anjie gives me a happy wink.

‘Good.’ I have been meaning to check out the hospice shop for a winter coat. My old black one from Hobbs, which has stood by me as long as Guy has, is embarrassingly threadbare.

Mary Jane emerges from her office, visitor in her wake. As usual, her expression is impenetrable, and it’s impossible to gauge whether HAC has just received a donation of a quarter of a million pounds or a ticking off for a poor performance.

‘It was a pleasure, thank you ever so much.’ Mary Jane puts on the gracious hostess act. ‘Would you like Anjie to order a minicab for you?’

But the moment the City man disappears, shocking Mary Jane by preferring tube to taxi, our boss reverts to type:

‘I’ve got a lunch.’ She stands by Anjie’s desk and looks down her nose at her. ‘I’m expecting a couple of important calls. I hope it’s not too much to ask that you put the answering machine on when you go for lunch.’

‘Will do,’ Anjie answers breezily, looking up from her screen for a nanosecond.

Mary Jane turns to me with an appraising look. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s a big potential donor. A property developer who’s ruffled a few feathers, so he’s trying to win brownie points by helping local charities … We’ll check dates when I come back.’ With that, she’s off.

Out comes Grazia: ‘Oh dear, I think Liz is getting too thin,’ Anjie worries over a photo of Liz Hurley looking gaunt.

‘I’m off to the hospice shop. See you in about an hour.’

‘Don’t rush back, girl. I’m meeting my William for a sandwich,’ Anjie answers, immersed in Brangelina’s latest exploits.

* * *

The hospice shop is on the High Street, a few minutes’ walk from HAC. I enter, and find myself surrounded by rows of sagging paperbacks, with Polo next to Crime and Punishment next to Forever Amber; musty fox collars; and chipped, incomplete china sets. A tiny, bent woman, laden with carrier bags, is scouring the shelves. Unkempt grey curls escape her rain hat and mumbled words escape her lips.

I toy with the thought of buying the ancient porcelain doll that sits, staring in blue-eyed surprise, above a dented Lego box and a plastic Christmas tree. Maisie, for Christmas? But then remember my mission and set it down again on its ledge.

I pick my way past the counter that displays gaudy paste jewellery and silver cigarette lighters and christening cups, and make for the rack of second-hand clothes.

Guy calls the hospice shop the ‘bankrupts’ boutique’. Bankrupt is right. Alex came rushing in after school yesterday with the joyous news that he has been chosen for the First XV. Guy and I delighted in his achievement – until he explained he would now need a First XV blazer that costs £79.99, a tie for £12.99, and rugby shirt at £19.99, not to mention new boots and a proper kitbag with school logo.