More Than Just Mum. Rebecca Smith
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.
‘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