More Than Just Mum

‘You aren’t even in the same year group as Elise,’ I snap at my daughter. ‘Stop trying to drag her into your web of deceit. Now go! Get your brother and bring him back here. I’ll ring the breakdown people and they’ll fix the car. And run!’

Dylan launches into action, flinging his bag to the ground and setting off at a run. Scarlet hesitates for a brief second but the thrill of the competition is too much for her to resist.

‘Good luck with all that homework,’ she yells at Elise and then she’s off, sprinting after Dylan with a determined look on her face.

I scroll through my phone and find the number for the breakdown helpline.

‘I hope your car gets sorted, miss,’ says Elise, giving me a wave before plodding off in the direction of the buses.

‘Have a good evening!’ I call back, and then a nice lady answers the phone and reassures me that all of my problems are about to be solved because I had the magnificent foresight to join the nation’s most elite breakdown service.

I might ask for advice about how to handle being forty-three years old, permanently strapped for cash and doing a job I hate while trying to deal with three exhausting kids. That’s the kind of breakdown service for which I would happily pay a monthly premium.

*

The nice lady lied. I’m sure that she didn’t mean to – she was probably just trying to bolster me with her calming and encouraging words – but all the same, she told me a massive fib. All my problems have not been solved. The evidence for this is the fact that we are making the three-mile journey from school to home in the crew cab of a breakdown lorry while my poor, geriatric car rides in regal splendour on the back of the truck.

Scarlet is sulking about the time wasted when she could be revising and muttering about the ridiculousness of not just getting the bus home. I really am going to have to speak to her about her attitude. Dylan can tell that I’m worried about the car and the money and is helpfully attempting to distract me by explaining an idea he’s had for an amazing app that will make him thousands of pounds. I’d be more enthusiastic if I hadn’t already heard this speech about fifty times. Benji is bouncing up and down in his seat, excitedly pointing out familiar landmarks even though we make this journey at least twice a day. Clearly, seeing the world from a higher perspective is pretty fabulous when you’re ten years old.

And me? I am frantically doing sums in my head, trying to work out how I can get the car fixed and pay the mortgage and buy food and get the oil tank filled up yet again because our ancient old radiators seem to guzzle fuel like it’s going out of fashion and apparently it’s going to snow next week and we’re all likely to get hypothermia; but it will definitely be all right.

I’m sure it will be all right.

There’s a remote chance that it will be all right.

The mechanic drops us off at home and we wave goodbye as he drives off up the road, taking the car to the local garage where they are primed and on standby, ready to try and revive it. Then we go inside and Scarlet puts the kettle on and Benji unpacks his school lunchbox without me even asking and I start to relax, just a little bit.

‘There’s a school trip to the theatre coming up.’ Scarlet turns to look at me. ‘It costs fifteen quid and I have to pay by tomorrow – can I go?’

I wearily reach for my purse and open it up. Of course she needs money today of all days, when I’m already haemorrhaging cash.

‘I’ve only got a twenty-pound note,’ I tell her. ‘You’re going to have to wait until I can get some change.’

Scarlet reaches her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wodge of five-pound notes. ‘No worries – I’ll swap you for one of these.’

She swipes the twenty out of my hand and hands me one of her notes in return.

‘Where did you get all of that from?’ I ask, easing my shoes off. ‘And can you pass the biscuit tin?’

‘Oh, you know – birthday money and stuff.’ She hands me a cup of tea. ‘Also, Mum, I was just wondering how illegal it is to do other people’s homework and charge them money for doing it?’

I nearly splutter out my drink. ‘What? Why are you asking that?’

Scarlet assumes her most innocent expression. ‘I’m just asking, that’s all,’ she says. ‘For a friend.’

I frown at her. Is it possible that she knows the Year Eleven girl mentioned by Elise? Is my daughter hanging out with the kind of racketeer who would run an illicit homework ring at Westhill Academy? Oh my god, maybe she’s being forced to launder the dirty money and I’m now in possession of a hot five-pound note.

‘Scarlet—’ I begin, but I’m distracted by the sound of the front door opening. As Nick walks into the kitchen, Scarlet takes the opportunity to make her escape. Before I can yell at her to come back, Nick tells me that he popped into the garage on his way home and the car will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon. And then he quotes an eye-watering price and I forget about everything except the spiralling panic in my stomach.

‘We can’t afford that,’ I tell him, shaking my head. ‘That’s a stupid amount of money.’

‘I do keep saying that we need a car fund,’ he says, pouring me a glass of wine. ‘It’d help when we have emergencies like this.’

‘Well, it’s all very easy to be sensible in hindsight, isn’t it?’ I snap. ‘I don’t see you holding back on the spending.’

Nick holds his hands out in self-defence. ‘What spending? I’m at work all week. I don’t get the chance to spend any money! And anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.’

Unfortunately for my argument, he’s right. Every penny we earn (and he earns more than I do now that I’m on a three-day working week) goes straight into our joint account and it’s almost all accounted for with the mortgage and food and electricity and oil and insurance and taxes and petrol – and that’s before we’ve paid for music lessons and vet bills and driving lessons and new school shoes (because Benji’s feet seem to have a dedicated growth mindset all of their own). Nick never has any spare cash and he rarely complains about it, even though he works so hard.

Not that any of this makes me feel any better.

‘You could always sell Betty,’ I suggest, feeling like a bitch the instant that the words are out of my mouth. Nick’s old Land Rover is his pride and joy and after a challenging week at work, tinkering about on it is one of the only things that helps him unwind.

‘You could always go back to work full time,’ he counters and for a second, the air is heavy.

Then he gives me a grin. ‘But I told you, I’ve got some news.’ He pauses, milking the moment. ‘I got that contract that I was after. You are now looking at the new head tree surgeon for Urban Tree Surgeons Limited!’

‘That’s fantastic!’ I leap off the stool and fling my arms around him. ‘I’m so proud of you. You didn’t think you’d get it!’

‘Head Office called me in at the end of the day and told me.’ Nick’s arms tighten around me. ‘It means a bit of a pay rise, Hannah.’

I squeeze his waist and close my eyes. I love this man as much today as I did when we first got together, twenty-two years ago. Probably more, actually, because he was a bit of a knob back then and neither of us had a clue that our first drunken kiss in a tacky nightclub would end up with the life we have now. And the life we have now is manic and constantly changing and filled with adventures but never, ever boring.

His pay rise will probably cover the cost of two driving lessons for Dylan and we both know it. Consultant arborists are never going to be living a champagne lifestyle, even with a new contract like this one. But it would be a criminal shame to waste an opportunity for a celebration, and it isn’t about the money. Not always, anyway.

‘Fish and chip supper?’ I ask him, pulling away and giving him a grin.

‘Only if we’ve got some raspberry ripple ice cream for pudding,’ he says, smiling back at me.

We are the epitome of classiness.

*

Later, lying in bed, I think about what Nick said. He’s been mentioning me going back to work full time more and more recently, although we’ve yet to have a serious conversation about it. Mostly because I can’t decide how I feel. Next to me, Nick snores and rolls over. It doesn’t seem to matter how stressed out he is, he’s always fast asleep the instant that his head hits the pillow.

I get up and tiptoe to the bathroom, hoping that a drink of water might help me settle. But getting out of bed was a mistake; now I’m wide awake, mulling over the pros and cons of trying to apply for a new full-time teaching job.

Pros:

1. We need the money. Urgently.

2. I never intended to be working part time. And I have discovered to my cost that teaching three days a week usually ends up meaning that I have to work twice as hard when I’m in school and I still end up doing all my planning and marking at home. It’s not really half a job.

3. I can reinvent myself. I can present Hannah Thompson in whichever way I choose to my new colleagues and they won’t know any better. Like, I can become a fitness fanatic or an ambitious career woman – basically, as someone who has got their shit together. You can’t do that when everyone knows that you last exercised in 1999 and your only ambition is to make it through the school day without crying and/or swearing.

4. I can escape from Miriam Wallace’s power-mad clutches and go back to teaching Biology. She’s never going to renew my contract for next year anyway so I may as well get ahead of an inevitable situation.

Cons: