The Misadventures of a Playground Mother Read online

  She pulled herself wearily to her feet and made her way towards the trolley. As she did so, her coat slipped open for a split second, briefly revealing a furry relation of the flea-ridden chinchilla. ‘Jesus,’ Matt remarked, ‘she’s got more bush than the Australian outback!’

  Therefore, Frisky Pensioner was dead, snuffed out like one of the candles on my birthday cake. This time last year, he was my very own pensioner stalker who had tried to kiss me on quite a few occasions. It now appeared that he had breathed his last breath. I knew it was unethical, but I had the urge to peel back the blanket to double check it was actually him underneath. Rumours began circulating amongst the onlookers that Mrs F-P had walked out on him the previous night; she hadn’t gone to look after an ill relative as she had told us. She’d finally had enough of his years of constant womanising and decided it was now or never if she was to venture out into the world on her own, in the hope of finding a few years of companionship with a more devoted partner. To console himself, Frisky Pensioner had rung a low class budget stripper agency to try to cheer himself up. Unfortunately, due to it being New Year’s Eve, there was only BB left on the books – the only stripper that couldn’t secure a booking on the busiest night of the year.

  On their way to the ambulance, the paramedics discreetly revealed that he had suffered a massive heart attack.

  There was nothing more to see as the ambulance manoeuvred its way down the snowy road. The rest of the neighbours began to disperse, excitedly chattering about the prospect of a post-funeral buffet to attend. They clearly all loved a good wake – the local post-office would be buzzing with excitement on Monday, when they all assembled to collect their pensions. We filed back towards the house for some warmth but not before I was entertained by BB’s impression of Bambi as she slipped and slid down the lane on her high heels through the snow.

  2

  So this was the village life that I had craved so much only twelve months ago. To be honest, I’d already had a bellyful and began to mull over my New Year’s Resolutions.

  * * *

  I will drink less alcohol.

  * * *

  I will not be subjected to peer pressure in the playground.

  * * *

  Always remember it’s quality not quantity of people on Facebook.

  * * *

  I will learn to say NO to Penelope.

  * * *

  Those would keep me going for now, even though I was fully aware that the majority of New Year’s Resolutions are broken by the end of January. I had every intention of holding onto these resolutions for a lifetime.

  As we all approached the front door, we wiped our snowy shoes on the mat and were relieved to be going back into the warm, inviting house. ‘Get that kettle on,’ I shouted to Matt who had already started to fill it up with water. Rupert was right behind me so I turned to him and suggested it would probably be a good idea to head back to his own house now. He didn’t look thrilled at the thought of facing Penelope, his furious wife; in fact it was safe to say he turned a sickly green colour very rapidly. He nodded at me obediently, and retrieved his coat. Reluctantly, he set out into the cold, raising his right hand as a gesture of thanks before stuffing both hands into his pockets and heading down the path. He probably spent the whole journey mulling over in his mind how he was going to convince Penelope to let him back in.

  So this was my birthday, uneventful as ever! Frisky Pensioner was dead but at least the evidence suggested he had died a content man in the clutches of BB. I shuddered as I tried to imagine the expression on his face as he started his journey towards the pearly gates. Matt laughed and suggested that perhaps BB had been wearing a pearl necklace a few minutes before which immediately made me gag. Rupert was heading home to the lovely Penelope with his tail between his legs, but the opinion of the party-stragglers – which to be precise, was only Jane, Mark, Matt, and myself – was that perhaps he shouldn’t have wagged his tail in the first place.

  After we had all defrosted and had a brew, Jane and Mark began to gather their belongings ready for the long journey home back up north, trying to prepare themselves mentally for the lines of cars on the motorway. That was something I didn’t miss, queuing in traffic for hours on end, of course I was always sad to see my friends go back home, but I was never tempted to return to the routine of the rat race. Waking up each morning at a reasonable hour to the spectacular views out of our windows always won easily. On her way back in from the car, Jane noticed a small figure trudging through the snow on the path to our front door. She hollered towards the kitchen that we had a visitor. Who now? I needed a shower and I was desperate to tuck into some of the leftover Christmas chocolate to satisfy my hangover sugar cravings.

  I was hoping the birthday fairy would appear and transform my house back into some sort of habitable state. The trodden-in sausage roll was beginning to look like a fur ball the cat had sicked up. I marched towards the front door to meet the mysterious visitor. On the positive side, I knew it couldn’t be Frisky Pensioner, but it would just be my unfortunate luck if he had a twin brother.

  Opening the door, I was confronted by the familiar figure of the Farrier; he was the long- suffering husband, now separated from, Camilla Noland, a fellow mum at the school gates. In the last twelve months, they had both seemed unhappy with their marriage and had clocked up numerous affairs between them. He looked very forlorn peering out from under his oversized hood.

  ‘I’ve missed the ambulance,’ he declared. His voice was shaky.

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Do you know where my father has been taken to?’ he continued. ‘Did the paramedics give any indication?’

  I tilted my head to one side like a puzzled puppy while my hung-over brain continued to process his words. I was definitely a bit slow on the uptake; did he say father?

  ‘F-f-father?’ I finally managed to stutter back in response as the penny began to drop. ‘Did you say Father?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fletcher–Parker is … I mean was … my father.’

  It doesn’t happen very often but I was totally flummoxed. The Frisky Pensioner was the Farrier’s father! My very own pensioner stalker, the same man who would spontaneously pop up behind hedges and wander around my garden at ridiculous hours of the morning was the Farrier’s father which would make him Camilla Noland’s ex father-in-law.

  Although there was, no love lost between Mrs Noland and me (her refusal to sell me a saddle from her saddlery early last year and the continuous gossiping in the local shops, which I have witnessed on many occasions revealed her unpleasant ways), the Farrier had always seemed a pleasant chap and I had no axe to grind with him. It wasn’t his fault that he had been hoodwinked into marrying Camilla to secure her place in the horsey world and he certainly couldn’t help the fact that Mr Fletcher-Parker was his father. I couldn’t leave him freezing on the doorstep another moment so I did the decent thing and invited him inside whilst bellowing again for Matt to put the kettle back on. I peered around the playroom door to check on the children; they were all exhausted from the previous late-night activities and hadn’t moved a muscle, all faces were still glued to the television screen.

  He stepped into the hallway past Jane and Mark, who seized this opportunity to finally say their goodbyes and to escape with Poppy back to the relative sanctuary of their own home. As we waved them off, the Farrier removed his coat and trotted behind me into the kitchen and parked himself down on a chair. Matt handed him a brew. I did wonder whether I should offer him something stronger – his father had just died after all – but in all honesty we had drunk the house almost dry the night before and I’m not sure whether leftover Malibu would have been his tipple. I wasn’t sure it was anyone’s tipple!

  Matt took this opportunity to grab some fresh air; his head was beginning to feel a little heavy. Enticing the children away from the television, he encouraged them to wrap up warmly in their coats, hats and gloves. He clipped the lead to the dog’s collar, and within five minutes they were all heading out through the front door to enjoy a New Year’s Day walk, leaving me alone with the Farrier.

  The next two hours were like story time with the Farrier. I couldn’t believe I was spending my thirty-fifth birthday with the Farrier and hearing his entire life story, but what could I do?

  I sat back and listened.

  The Farrier had lived in the village all his life; he was the only son of Iris and Bert Fletcher-Parker. Overall, his childhood had been a happy one until the day he decided he wouldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps and become a factory worker. He wanted to live his own dream; he wanted a country farmhouse with a beautiful wife and family.

  As a lad, the Farrier had often sneaked into the local farmer’s field where he taught himself to ride the horses that grazed there – which was where his love of horses originated. When he left school, he decided he would take himself off to college and train as a farrier, much to his father’s disappointment. He thought he was the luckiest person alive when he graduated, and then secured a position at the local stables but that was where all his troubles began.

  There were numerous stable girls employed there and as a young man with a good job, he could have his pick of the lasses. He was particularly taken with a girl called Melanie. The Farrier thought she was lovely, very feminine. Her long curly locks flowed beautifully down her back and her striking blue eyes that always sparkled with kindness were just perfection. She was exquisite – kind and funny – the type of girl he wanted to make a life with; the type of girl he wanted to marry. One day he was determined that she would be his.

  Then the day Camilla, his current wife, started to work at the same stables it all went wrong. Overnight, Melanie disappeared without saying a word. There was no trace of her. His heart
was broken, and he had no idea why she’d suddenly vanished.

  It didn’t take a genius to know what was coming next; even with my hangover, I was able to surmise it was none other than the lovely Camilla lurking behind the stable doors waiting to pick up the pieces of the Farrier's broken heart. The Farrier was vulnerable, and unfortunately, fell into the arms of Camilla.

  The story didn’t end there, which was unfortunate for me but I suppose I wasn’t going anywhere; after all, how else was I going to celebrate my birthday? It couldn’t get any better than a dead Frisky Pensioner and a day spent with the Farrier. ‘Sod it,’ I thought to myself as I poured the leftover Malibu into a tumbler and took a swig – hair of the dog and all that, it was my birthday after all.

  ‘I had no idea Bert was your father,’

  He nodded.

  ‘Not many people do, it’s a long story,’ he answered taking a sip of his drink then making a weird sound which sounded like a sob.

  ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere,’ I encouraged. Matt would most definitely be out for a while with the children so I might as well listen to him, he looked like he needed a shoulder to cry on.

  ‘All communication with my father had become strained, he was disappointed in me.’

  I shifted in my chair and tucked my feet under my body, making myself more comfortable. His eyes were sad. He continued.

  ‘I had ambition, I wanted a career, I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps to become a factory worker in a mundane job doing the same thing day in and day out, I love the outside, that is what makes me tick.’

  I didn’t interrupt him, I stayed silent while I sipped my drink.

  ‘He never listened to me, and when he was angry he would thump his hand on the table and order me to do what he said, but when I stood up to him, he didn’t like it. I always had the desire to work with animals so I persevered. It caused numerous arguments between him and my mother, she would often tell my father to calm his temper down and that would make him worse. I would often hear her sobs from the living room late at night while he was out working the night shift.’

  ‘How awful,’ I agreed.

  ‘The bottom line is we tolerated each other, he had no qualms in reminding me who the head of the household was and to be honest when I became close to Camilla this was my escape route.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I enquired tentatively.

  ‘It meant I could set up home with Camilla and move out of my childhood home.’

  ‘Did you see much of your parents after you had moved out?’

  ‘There was the odd Sunday lunch, or special occasion like Christmas. This one Christmas, seven years ago, was when all communications halted. I remember it like it was yesterday.’ The Farrier looked down at his drink and paused.

  ‘I noticed Camilla had been gone for a while after lunch. I was chatting with my mother when I was aware my father wasn’t in the room either and both of them had now disappeared for some time. I went in search of my new wife and entered the study to find them both in what seemed like a rather compromising position. Camilla swore blind that her frisky father-in-law had made numerous passes and that he was very domineering and she told me she felt intimidated by him.’

  From what I had seen of Camilla Noland in the past year, I was very much surprised that that woman would feel intimated by anyone.

  ‘Camilla was very convincing, we were still in our honeymoon stage of marriage and I knew my father could be very persuasive and somewhat scary so I believed her, I stood up for my wife and ultimately this led to the complete breakdown in the relationship between me and my father.’

  Nooo! He was kidding me; I was sitting there believing Camilla had played a blinder.

  ‘What was your mother’s take on all this, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘She blamed Camilla and supported my father. There was no love lost between the pair of them due to an argument that took place on our wedding day. Camilla’s stubborn nature refused to take on the family name of Fletcher-Parker; she wanted to keep her maiden name.’

  I gasped in astonishment and gave a tiny shake of my head. Ah ha, I thought to myself, no wonder it had never crossed my mind that these people were related.

  The Farrier continued for a while longer explaining that his mother had also had to contend with the reputation of her own husband; she wasn’t daft and knew her husband was a serial womaniser, but she lived in fear of his temper and his manipulating ways, and so divorce simply wasn’t an option. Bert would have made life so difficult for her that in order to keep a roof over her head for the next thirty years; she chose to grin and bear her husband’s antics and to take his side in the rift with his son, the Farrier.

  However, Iris had often threatened that she would disappear one day, and years ago, the Farrier had discovered numerous bank statements in his mother’s name with regular deposits of money. He had no doubt she had been planning her escape route for some time and had secretly been scrimping, saving, and siphoning off her house- keeping money without his father’s knowledge. Her best friend Jean had upped and left the village a couple of years ago to begin a new life in Spain and had successfully started up her own café business and he knew his mother had kept in touch with her by email. Jean had often tried to persuade his mother to run off and join her, and start a new life in sunnier climes.

  It was now approaching late afternoon; there didn’t seem much point in my getting dressed today, and the Farrier didn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. By this part of the story we had moved into the living room; the Farrier was beginning to make himself at home, plumping up the cushions around him then sinking into the leather bucket chair while he continued his tale. I heard the front door open and the chatter of the children; Matt’s rosy-cheeked face peered around the living room door ‘Anyone for a cuppa? I’m parched.’

  In sync, the Farrier and I nodded our heads.

  The Farrier’s plan was to move into his father, the Frisky Pensioner’s house. Well, I suppose that made sense now his mother was gone too, the property was standing empty. Since his split with the delightful Camilla, due to her adulterous ways with the gentleman named Elvis from the local eatery last year, the Farrier had moved out of the family home he had shared with her, and resided in a rented property not too far from the village.

  That property was nothing special; it was a flat, a bachelor pad. The décor lacked a homely feel with its dull grey and black colour scheme and brown shag pile carpet which no doubt had seen more than its fair share of action over the years. It required a woman’s touch but it was a temporary stopgap until their family home was sold. It was simply somewhere to lay his head away from the drama of his marriage breakup.

  ‘It will make life easier for me if I move back to the village as I’m looking after my daughter Rosie on my own now; at least this way she can remain at the same school and have a permanent home now her mother has also gone.’ explained the Farrier. I knew Rosie; she was the same age as Samuel, and in his class at school.

  Had I just heard him right? I felt my hangover completely lift as I drained the last remaining traces of Malibu out of the tumbler; did he just say Camilla Noland had left the village?

  Sitting upright, ‘Wait, did you say Camilla has left the village?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, the silly woman has accumulated enormous debts from her saddlery business that was linked to the mortgage. She took care of all the financial arrangements when we were together.’

  Gosh, that was certainly unlucky for the Farrier, who wouldn’t receive any financial benefit from that situation. Things couldn’t get much worse for him at the moment.

  It would seem that the bailiffs lacked festive spirit and had hammered on her door the day after Boxing Day. They had stripped the house of all her belongings and reclaimed the property. The lady of the manor had well and truly fallen on hard times.

  At school, her false, doting mother routine that she liked to put on in front of the teachers and headmistress did not fool anyone. She would ostentatiously smother Rosie in kisses and boast about her private violin tuition and drama lessons. Yet it was a known fact that Camilla hadn’t turned up at any school functions since Rosie started at primary school. It wouldn’t surprise anyone that Camilla had no qualms in abandoning their only daughter on the Farrier’s rented doorstep with a note scribbled, ‘Rosie’s all yours.’ It was suggested Camilla had ridden off on the back of her horse without a second thought about anyone or anything but of course she had driven off in her car with very few possessions to her name.