More Than Just Mum

‘Didn’t you read the instructions at all?’ She is literally incredulous that anyone could be so stupid.

I think we can all agree, Caroline, that it is quite clear that I did not, in fact, read the instructions. Not after the word ‘anus’, anyway.

I nod my head vigorously. ‘Of course I read them. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘Hmmm.’ The new hairdresser looks at me appraisingly. ‘Then you’ll know that absolutely, under no circumstances, are you supposed to wax the same bit of skin more than once. You’ve given yourself a first degree burn.’

‘Will it take long to heal?’ I think about the fact that I am due in the classroom on Monday morning. I will never live it down if I walk in looking like this.

Caroline tilts her head to one side. ‘It’ll probably take a few days if you treat the burn and stop it from getting infected.’

‘How do I do that?’

The new hairdresser grins at me wickedly. ‘You need to get some of those burn pads from the supermarket and cut one down to size,’ he tells me. I sense that he’s enjoying himself. ‘And then stick it to the affected area.’

I look at him in disbelief. ‘You want me to walk around with a massive pad stuck to my top lip? Are you serious?’

‘I don’t care what you do, lady.’ He puts his hands on his hips and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘It’s your call. Do you want a permanently scarred lip or are you prepared to suffer in the short term?’

He struts back to his client who has been watching the whole thing as if she’s never seen a woman with a mutilated lip before. The rest of the salon resumes their business and Caroline gently spins my chair so that I am once again facing her and not my evil nemesis, the mirror.

‘Let’s get rid of these grey hairs, shall we?’ Her voice is shaking as if she’s trying not to laugh, but I don’t care. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’ve just made myself a complete laughing stock.

I care. I really, really care.

I sit in silence while Caroline starts slopping hair dye onto my head. I have three choices that I can see.

One: ignore the entire situation. Act normally and pretend that it never happened. If I don’t mention it then maybe nobody else will and my lip will heal before I have to walk into school on Monday.

Two: take the new hairdresser’s advice. Buy a burn pad and walk around looking like Groucho Marx all weekend. Hope that anyone I encounter, including my loving family, doesn’t mock me too enthusiastically.

Three: Wear a balaclava. It is still February, after all. People wear all manner of headgear during the arctic winter months here in southern England.

Okay, so option two is out straight away. Wearing a burn pad is going to look almost as ridiculous as my current appearance. And I don’t think much of option three. I can’t go into the supermarket wearing a balaclava – they have a very enthusiastic security guard who spends his days ensuring that nobody tries to steal the trollies. I’ll be rugby-tackled to the floor and put in a deadlock before I can say ‘lip trauma’.

Not that I can see the first option working too well for me either. I might be able to pretend that this hasn’t happened but there’s no way that my darling children will ignore it.

Which means that I’m going to have to choose door number four.

‘Is Laura in today?’ I ask Caroline. ‘And can you ask her if she has any spare appointment slots.’

And so it is that two hours later, I am sidling down the frozen food aisle with my beautifully manicured hands held out in front of my face. I have chosen a particularly zesty shade of azure blue and my nails are sparkling like the Mediterranean Sea. They will surely distract even the most observant of viewers from the car crash that is going on in the vicinity of my mouth.

And if that fails, then the very teensy bottle of Prosecco that I am currently purchasing will mean that I really don’t care.

Chapter 5 (#ue0cac415-70d9-531a-b900-8f1192db46ee)

The bottom falls out of my car as I pull into the school car park. I know this because the accompanying noise is enough to attract the attention of the teenagers who loiter by the gates; they won’t draw their gaze away from their phones for anything but the direst of emergencies. And from the look of delight on their faces, my ancient old car is breathing its last, fume-filled breath. I won’t hear the end of it when I’m attempting to teach them the finer points of passive voice on Monday morning.

‘Maybe it’s not that bad,’ I tell myself, closing my eyes briefly and clutching the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps I just went over a pothole or a small cat? Maybe this isn’t actually a complete, unmitigated disaster?’

I inhale deeply, trying desperately to remember the mindfulness training that we had to endure on the last Inset day at work.

Be in the moment. That’s what the infuriatingly calm woman leading the course told us. Make sure that you have times of peace and serenity throughout your day. It was tricky enough finding peace and serenity in the comfort of the school staffroom; I am unconvinced about my ability to bring forth my inner tranquillity right now. However, I refuse to be deterred. Desperate times and all that. I rack my brains for any of the other words of wisdom that fell from her calm and composed lips.

FOFBOC. That’s what she told us we had to do when things felt overwhelming. We are supposed to ground ourselves in the here and now, which ironically is also what my car appears to have done. Clenching the steering wheel harder, I run through mindfulness lady’s instructions.

Feet On Floor? Check.

Bottom On Chair? Also check. If by ‘chair’, she meant slightly fraying and tatty car upholstery that has seen better days.

I am making a concerted effort to step away from my worries and towards my happy place when a rapping sound on the glass distracts me. I open my eyes and see that Elise from Year Nine is frowning at me through the window while simultaneously gesturing at the car and furiously stabbing away at her mobile phone.

I open the door. It’s not like I could have stayed in here indefinitely, no matter how appealing a prospect that might be.

‘Hello, Elise.’ I plaster on a big smile.

‘You do know that your car has just fallen apart, don’t you, miss?’ Elise punctuates the end of her proclamation with a smack of bubble-gum. ‘And also, there’s something wrong with your lips. Looks like stubble rash to me.’

‘I was aware that something was amiss, yes.’ I feel that my reply is sufficient for both observations. Sighing, I step out of the car and then crouch down to peer underneath. Something large and dirty and metallic looking is hanging down onto the road. It looks like it’s a vital component and probably fairly necessary for actually driving. ‘Oh, shit.’

Behind me, Elise gasps dramatically. I do not for one second believe that she is genuinely shocked to hear an adult swear, but still, I suppose I am on school property.

‘I’m sorry, Elise,’ I say, standing up. ‘That was unprofessional of me. But my car appears to have died and I’m feeling slightly upset.’

Elise is saved from having to answer by the appearance of Scarlet who instantly forms the impression that the car has broken down to shame her.

‘Mum!’ she hisses, standing several feet away as if she can’t be seen talking to me. ‘Why is the car in pieces? Why are you standing in the car park? You know the rules if you must insist on collecting us. Stay. In. The. Car.’

‘It’s broken down,’ I hiss back at her. ‘And I’m standing here because I’m going to have to sort this mess out.’

‘God!’ Scarlet’s shoulders droop down and her bag slides onto the floor. ‘This is so embarrassing. I told you we should get a better car.’

I am not in the mood. Not today. My brain is whirring with everything that I’ve got to do and I can’t even begin to figure out how we’re going to pay for the repairs, if it can even be repaired in the first place.

‘What’s going on?’ Dylan lopes up to us. ‘Has the old rust-bucket finally died, then?’

I leap into action. ‘Right, you two need to get over to the primary school and collect Benji,’ I pull out my phone. ‘Then bring him back here to me.’

Scarlet grimaces. ‘Can’t I just get the bus home?’

Both she and Dylan get the bus home on the days that I’m at work. Benji goes to the after-school club at his school. I had fondly imagined, back when Dylan started in Year Seven and later when Scarlet joined two years later, that they would hang around in my classroom at the end of the day and we would swap witty anecdotes about what we’d been up to while I got my marking done. The reality is that neither teenager will even acknowledge my existence when they pass me in the corridor and I suspect that they would far prefer to get the bus home every day. But on Thursdays and Fridays, when I’m not at work, I like to collect them myself. It gives my days off a sense of purpose.

Scarlet reaches out her hand and grabs Elise’s arm. ‘We’ve got loads of homework to do, haven’t we?’

Elise nods her head earnestly. ‘It’s true, Mrs Thompson. So much homework.’

I glance at my phone and see that Benji’s class will be coming out in ten minutes. I do not have time for this.