Monday morning brought a whole slew of new problems for Myra. On edge after a weekend of trying to get used to the presence of the boys, messing up her house, making noise where she was used to quiet, leaving lights on in empty rooms and strange silences in full ones, she’d got up in really good time to make sure that everything was organised for the week ahead. Something told her the boys should not leave the house without a good breakfast. But her greatest anxiety was having to take Piers to his new school. Seeing Oliver to the bus stop was no trouble but Piers was far too young to be crossing the main road by himself so she had to go part of the way with him at least and then she knew, though she did wonder about ducking out, that she should take him right into school, seeing as it was his first morning.
Piers didn’t have to worry about Myra holding his hand and showing him up as they walked along, because he knew she wasn’t a holding hands kind of person, but he did worry about a new school and making new friends and what his teacher would be like.
Mothers and children flooded the pavement the nearer they got to the school, and Myra was surprised how everyone knew everyone else and was amazed how they chatted: arranging other’s children going to their house for tea after school; reminding each other about the new time for their exercise class; had they remembered the New to You Sale in aid of school funds; offering lifts; their reasons for communicating appeared endless.
But she still had to face going into school. They found the headmistress’s room immediately so there was no choice but to knock and introduce themselves.
‘Good morning, Mrs Butler. I’m afraid the headmistress is not here this morning, I’m her deputy. This must be Piers. I’ve been told to expect you.’ She shook hands not only with Myra but with Piers too. From her desk she took a file with Piers James Butler written on the front in bold letters. ‘I have all your details in here, Piers, the ones your dad gave my colleague when he brought you last week. Now come along with me and I shall take you to see your teacher, her name is Mrs Fletcher. You remember her don’t you, Piers, I think you met her when you came to school with your dad.’ She turned to Myra. ‘By the way, have you decided, is Piers having packed lunch or school dinners?’
‘Ah! Didn’t my husband arrange it?’ Myra was so thrown by hearing the teacher refer to Graham as Piers’ dad that she couldn’t think to answer clearly. Did she think that she was Piers’ mother, then? She thought anyone could see a mile off that she couldn’t possibly be mother to this lively young boy. Maybe it wasn’t as clear as she thought. What on earth had Graham told them?
Still flummoxed she turned to Piers. ‘What do you want to do for lunch?’
Thinking about Uncle Graham’s packed lunch sausage sandwiches he chose, ‘School dinners, please.’
‘Wise choice,’ said the deputy headmistress, ‘our school dinners are excellent. Come along then young man, say bye-bye to your mum. See you at three fifteen.’
Piers opened his mouth to say ‘She isn’t my mum’, but changed his mind because he couldn’t remember having a mum and he quite liked the idea, so he decided not to enlighten her.
Myra said, ‘I’ll be here when school finishes, Piers, wait for me won’t you?’
Piers nodded and left her standing in the corridor, feeling like a spare part. As she squeezed her way through the crowd of mothers still cluttering the pavement and exchanging news it dawned on Myra that the teacher wasn’t the only one who would get the wrong idea while they were out and about. The whole wide world would think of her as the boys’ mother. She set off on her journey back, trying to ignore the small glow of pride that lurked deep beneath her horror at the teacher’s misapprehension. Her, a mother? Ridiculous.
By the time she got home, her whole morning thrown out of kilter by having to turn out so early, Myra felt exhausted. She’d have this to do every morning, so her leisurely time pulling herself together after Graham left for work was over and done with for ever. Coffee! She’d have a coffee with sugar in and sit down to read the paper.
As though Viv had a private line to Myra’s kitchen, she was there as soon as Myra got a mug out for herself. ‘It’s me!’
Myra got out another mug.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes. I think so. You having sugar this morning, Viv?’
‘I need it. I think I’ll have to begin going away for weekends.’
‘Why?’
‘The last four weekends I’ve had one lot after another staying. They never think I might like a break myself.’
Myra placed Viv’s mug in front of her, the coffee still swirling around after vigorous stirring. ‘I’ve been to the school with Piers. Seems nice.’
‘It is, all my lot went there and I think the new head is the best one of all. Was Piers OK?’
Myra nodded. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘She assumed I was Piers’ mother.’
‘That’s a laugh!’
‘Perhaps Graham never told them . . . ’
Viv thought it odd he hadn’t but said instead, ‘Maybe they’ve just got confused – did you see the same teacher he spoke to? Still, perhaps it’s for the best, Piers won’t get extra sympathy that might make him feel very different from everyone else.’
‘I’ll ask him tonight what he said.’
Viv nudged Myra’s arm. ‘Nice though isn’t it?’ and grinned.
‘Nice?’
‘Yes, them thinking you’re his mum. Nice for you, you must agree.’
‘Not the truth though is it?’
‘Sometimes the truth is best left unsaid.’
‘When can it ever be better not to tell the truth?’
Viv’s expressive eyebrows shot up her forehead. ‘So as not to hurt someone’s feelings?’
‘Perhaps.’
Myra stared out of the window and remembered that in the rush that morning Little Pete hadn’t been let out. ‘They forgot the rabbit, before they went.’
‘Well, you can let him out. Come on, we’ll do it together.’
Myra unlocked the back door thinking it was one thing after another. Not even half past nine yet.
‘His food’s in a plastic thingummy in the shed. I’ll get it out.’
Viv opened the door of the hutch and out came Little Pete. In the morning sunshine he looked very appealing and Viv cooed over him. ‘Does he bite?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve had nothing to do with him, the boys look after him.’ Myra poured a meagre amount of food out of the plastic container and put it down in the run. ‘I’ll get him some fresh water from the outside tap.’
When she came back with Pete’s water bowl, Viv was cuddling him in her arms.
‘He really is the sweetest little thing. Lovely eyes. He enjoys cuddling, here you hold him.’ Viv knew she wouldn’t want to, Myra didn’t like touching anyone, and certainly not an animal.
‘No, thanks, shall we let him get his breakfast.’
‘You know, Myra, when you’ve got children you’ve got to learn to touch them. Comfort them. Hug them. Maybe even let them hug you back once in a while.’
‘Pete’s a rabbit not a child.’
‘Same thing except he’s got fur. Reach out your hand and touch him while I’m holding him. Go on, just a little touch.’
Myra darted a finger out to touch Pete’s fur for a brief moment. ‘There, I’ve done it. I’m going back in for my coffee, it’ll be going cold else.’
She wouldn’t have admitted it for the world but in fact she found she hadn’t minded touching Pete at all. Not one little bit. When no one was there she might even pick him up, she thought, or perhaps stroke him first and get used to him.
‘So how’re yer doing?’ Viv asked once they’d settled back indoors. She cocked her head to one side and looked quizzically at her, looking rather like a robin with her red sweater and her bright inquiring eyes.
‘I don’t know. I’m not getting this discipline business right, I do know that. I seem to expect all the wrong things.’
‘You’ve got to walk on ice in the circumstances you find yourself in, emotionally they’re in a very delicate state. They don’t really know you from Adam do they? What’s more, you’ve no experience of kids either, it all takes time. You’ll have to let them grieve, you see, and be thoughtful of them.’
‘Graham seems to know better than me how to go about it.’
‘He’s spent a lot more time with them, you never used to go on their expeditions with John and Graham did you? Left it all to him.’
‘Someone had to take care of things and I had my fairs to go to.’
Viv looked a mite sceptical. ‘How many? Four a year? Come on!’
‘It all has to be done.’
‘Ye-e-ess. They’re very nice tea cosies, but . . .’
Myra sat up straighter than usual. ‘But . . .?’
‘I’ve never said this before and I shouldn’t, but I’m going to . . .’
She went silent so Myra, preparing herself for a fight, said fretfully, ‘Well?’
‘I mean, for example, I have that one you gave me two Christmasses ago and it’s beautifully worked, you’re very clever with the sewing machine and the embroidery, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, Myra, it doesn’t grab you.’
‘It isn’t supposed to grab you, it’s a tea cosy. They don’t.’
‘You know what I mean, it’s not exciting. I’d like a tea cosy that’s bright and cheerful and makes me want to get it out of the drawer on a morning, makes me smile when I look at it, you know.’
‘Does it keep your teapot hot?’
‘Oh! Yes, nothing better.’
‘Well, then, what more do you want?’
‘Like I said.’ Viv knew that she was about to be turned out, so she got up to go before Myra got her chance to say it. ‘I’d better be off, anyway. Let you get on with your morning. Be seeing you!’
Myra was bereft. Even her textile design business was a waste of time according to Viv. She’d known it for a long time inside herself, she even acknowledged Graham felt the same as Viv, but Graham had never said it so forthrightly as Viv had just now. Myra drank her coffee almost to the last dregs and put the mug back on the table, but was so distraught that it slipped from her hand before she’d placed it down properly. It fell over; the remains of the coffee slowly flooded out onto the table and began to drip down the tight join between the leaves. Had she felt anything like normal she would have leapt up and wiped it up, because she couldn’t bear mess. Instead she sat perfectly still staring at the coffee leaking onto the floor. Myra had always loved the table, how thrilled she’d been when it first got delivered, at the time it had seemed smart and up-to-the-minute, like she felt – well, almost felt. Now she wouldn’t care if it spontaneously combusted. She pictured it now: she’d ignore the bright red fire extinguisher provided and fixed by Graham, and go happily into the garden to watch from a distance as the once prized possession would slowly disintegrate. She wouldn’t even mind if the chairs went too and the padded cushions she’d so eagerly made to match the curtains. Whatever had possessed her to think they were splendid? As she gazed round her precious kitchen Myra decided that the whole of the kitchen required a refit. Every cupboard, every door, every centimetre of skirting board was boring, boring, boring. Safe, that was it, a safe choice. It had been like that all her life: always safe choices.
She glanced down at the apron she wore, the one she’d made with such care. That was appalling too, so neat, so dreary. She yanked it off and unfortunately for the apron her kitchen scissors were on the table where she’d left them after she’d cut the greaseproof paper for Graham’s sausage sandwiches. Snatching them up, Myra cut the apron to shreds. Snipping, snipping, snipping, relentlessly. She didn’t clear away the pieces, didn’t care that bits of apron were soaking up the cold coffee from her mug, didn’t care the clock was ticking the morning away.
Then with the decision made – and making decisions was not her forte – she marched with deadly intent up the stairs, scissors in hand and went directly to the smallest bedroom.
Myra paused in the doorway and knew without doubt that her cutting frenzy was not due entirely to Viv’s criticism. The worst of it was knowing that Viv had only put into words what she herself had been feeling for months and months, feelings she had doggedly refused to acknowledge.
The tea cosies were lined up neatly in their plastic jackets along the shelves, lying in wait for their buyers. Methodically, without passion, she began their complete destruction. Tearing off their wrappers one by one, each tea cosy was cut into pieces, the padding spilling out on the floor, the very pale green gingham covering fluttering down to the carpet piece by piece. In total thirty-one tea cosies met their Waterloo in the space of an hour. The pieces left were so small they looked almost like fallen leaves. She was ankle-deep in the ruins of her so-called career, in the room which for so long had been her refuge, but somehow she didn’t care.
Down in the kitchen she got out two dustbin bags, shook one of them open and put the bits of her apron in, then marched upstairs and stuffed the remains of the tea cosies in until the bags were full. Out came the upstairs vacuum and she cleaned the floor. All that remained of her former business was the state-of-the-art sewing machine and two linen baskets of wadding and material, plus a leaflet advertising a Christmas Arts and Crafts Fair
She’d cancel the stall she’d reserved this very minute. Her reason?
She couldn’t very well say my stuff didn’t sell because it was dreadful.
I’ve given up trying.
I’m wasting my time.
The fair will be better without my tea cosies, believe me.
Then the excuse hit her. She’d say she and her husband had been lucky enough to take in two boys and she was too busy to sew. That was it. The very, very best of reasons. No need to say she’d cut everything up in a mad frenzy. Just that at the moment she couldn’t find time for sewing, being busy helping the boys to settle in. A perfect cover story.
The sitting room clock chimed the hour. Myra counted and found to her amazement it was already eleven o’clock. Where had the time gone? She marched downstairs, picked up the phone and told the organiser what Myra knew to be a lie. The organiser was delighted for her. Thank you for being so understanding said Myra. No, she couldn’t see her way back to sewing just yet, she was too absorbed in making a good life for the boys. No, no it’s Graham and I who are privileged, they’re such lovely boys. And a Merry Christmas to you too. Having listened to her own lies Myra couldn’t believe how easily they had slipped out, and how readily they’d been believed.
She replaced the receiver and wondered what to do next. The ironing, of course. One moment of madness couldn’t be allowed to let everything go to hell in a handcart, she thought.
Three o’clock came round all too soon and the challenge of managing not to get spoken to as she fought her way through the crowd of mothers would have to be faced again. They all gathered at the school gates: a hoard of them, chattering while hanging on to their pushchairs or their toddlers. One of them was giving out leaflets and she handed one to Myra. ‘You’re new aren’t you? You won’t have heard of the New to You Sale. The details are on here. Stunning stuff, believe me. Some wonderful bargains. You’ll be most welcome. Which class is yours in?’
Myra saved herself from looking a complete chump by remembering the teacher’s name was Mrs Fletcher.
‘Ah! She’s very good, my eldest was in her class last year and he did brilliantly. He’ll like her. See you then!’
The doors opened and the children poured out. Just as Myra was beginning to think Piers would never come out, he did, shivering slightly in his shirtsleeves.
‘I can’t find my coat.’ He was holding back the tears as best he could.
‘I see.’ Myra did not know what to do. Did you go in and ask? Did you go in and look for yourself? Did you go in and speak to Mrs Fletcher? Or did you just go home without it? She was terribly keen to go home without it rather than draw attention to herself. But it was so cold.
She took hold of Piers’ hand to give her some confidence, and though she suspected it made him feel a baby, he let her. They found the cloakroom because it had a smart notice on the door. There, under a bench was Piers’ coat.
‘I can see it!’ he yelled and rushed to get it. He struggled into it, fastened the buttons and the zip and tried to get out of school without holding her hand but she was determined and gripped it tightly. As an excuse he suggested he should put his gloves on as his hands were cold, so she let him, delighted to have navigated this small hurdle without having been seen or needing to speak to anyone else. She wished she’d listened to the other mothers greeting their children so she might have a better idea of what to say to him.
‘Did you have a good time?’ was the best she came up with,
‘Yes, thank you. They’re nice in Mrs Fletcher’s class. Two of the boys let me play with them.’
‘Did you find out their names?’
‘Yes. Aidan and Carl.’
Spontaneously Myra declared she liked his name best. ‘Well they sound like nice names, but Piers is much nicer.’
‘Do you think so? I used to get teased about my name at my other school.’
‘What did they say?’
‘It was posh but it isn’t, is it? My dad said it was my mum’s choice.’
‘It was. I remember.’
‘Did you know my mum?’
‘Of course. She was lovely.’ After that Myra was silent, thinking about Mo and how envious she had always been of her. Mo with two babies and herself with none. How grossly unfair it had all seemed. Now they were both supposed to be hers, yet they weren’t, and things had come round full circle.
‘Tell me something about her. Dad never said much.’
What was there to tell? How pretty she was with her blonde curly hair, her huge blue eyes that Piers had inherited, how kind she was, how she loved life and how John wept for her when she was killed? And how she, Myra Butler, didn’t.
‘You’ve got her eyes and Oliver has her fair hair and her curls.’
‘Did she smile a lot?’
Myra nodded.
‘Was she happy?’
‘Oh yes. And you boys are what made her happiest of all.’ Alarmed by the direction the conversation was taking, Myra steered things back on to safe ground. ‘When we get in will you feed Pete, I’m not sure I gave him enough this morning.’
‘Oh no! We forgot about him.’
‘Never mind, I fed him, well, Viv and I did.’
‘Thank you. I’ll do it as soon as I get in. Oliver’s never home before half past five on Mondays because he has football. He catches the late coach.’
‘I’m glad you told me. There we are, in we go in the warm. See to Pete before you take your coat off, it’s so cold. I’ll start on the supper.’ There, she’d managed the coming home quite nicely, no awkwardness at all. She put her keys down and looked at the leaflet for the New to You Sale. She wasn’t going, not likely. All the crowds and the prattle. How did you chatter like they did? What was there to endlesssly chat about? A lot apparently. She spotted a scrap of fabric on the floor she must have missed earlier. She wouldn’t tell Graham about what she’d done to the tea cosies. So long as she kept the bedroom door closed he’d never know. She’d tell him when she’d sorted it all out in her mind.
But Graham came home that night with a present for the boys. A bumper car game with two cars, two remote controls and loads of batteries to make them go. ‘Flashing lights,’ he said, ‘loads of noise, just what kids like. I’ll surprise the boys with it in the living room. But I’d better get the big scissors from your room to cut the box open.’
Before Myra could offer him her second-class pair of scissors he had raced upstairs with this new enthusiasm he’d garnered and it was all too late. He walked down more slowly, came into the kitchen and stood in front of her. He gave her a long slow stare and when she didn’t provide an explanation he asked, ‘Myra? What’s happened? What have you done with everything? All your work? All the tea cosies?’
She put down the vegetable knife and with downcast eyes muttered, ‘Got rid of them.’
‘Where?’
‘By the bin.’
Piers had sneaked in to see what all the fuss was about, and now he rushed back out to look and saw the two bags lined up against the wall. He prodded them with his fingers, poked a small hole in one and by the light of the outside lamp he took a peep inside to prove she was speaking the truth. Dashing back in he said with his big blue eyes wide with amazement, ‘She has, Uncle Graham, she really has. They’re all cut up. In very little bits.’
Graham’s attention was focussed on Myra in a way it hadn’t been for years.
‘You cut them up? All of them?’
Myra nodded. ‘All of them.’
‘But why? They’re your pride and joy. You love your cosies. What made you do it?’
Her voice trembled. ‘I-I-you’ve known for ages, but never said.’
‘Known what?’
‘They were dull. They were plain. They were . . . safe.’
‘I’ve never said so.’
‘No, but you knew. I knew you knew, but I wouldn’t have listened, even if you’d said.’
‘What about your stall at the Christmas . . .’
‘Cancelled.’
‘Did you tell them why?’
Myra turned away so he couldn’t see her face, she couldn’t say what she’d said. She couldn’t have him thinking she’d suddenly accepted the boys willingly as a blessing, because she hadn’t, had she? ‘I said I was too busy and hadn’t been well.’ What had happened to the truth she thought to herself, lying twice in one day. What were these boys doing to her?
‘But you’re not ill . . . are you?’
Was she? Was that why she’d had that cutting frenzy, maybe she was going mad.
‘No, not really.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. Sorry for your sake, Myra. But maybe it was time to move on – try something new. There’s so much you could do.’ He said this so sympathetically it didn’t feel like criticism at all.
A few days ago she would have lambasted him. Today, she hadn’t the energy to do it and just suggested he took the bumper car game into the hall, it would run better on the parquet floor and she could get the supper ready. He and Piers took her at her word. Within minutes everything was out of the box, the batteries fitted, the aerials in place, and the two of them were playing the game as though nothing else in the world existed. And that was just how it felt to Myra. She was on the outside of this male-dominated world she’d so abruptly found herself in. Now she not only had no work to take refuge in, but no Graham either.
The bleeping and the flashing of the car lights and the whoops of excitement drilled holes in Myra’s brain. How could she concentrate on the plaice and chips and the parsley sauce with all that going on? She glanced into the hall readying herself to silence them, and caught a glimpse of the delight in Piers’ face. And it was not only Piers’ face which was full of pleasure, but Graham’s too. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen him so delighted.
By the time Oliver got home off the late bus, Graham and Piers were completely absorbed in the bumper car game and couldn’t wait for Oliver to have a go.
‘Oliver! Look what Uncle Graham’s bought! Isn’t it great? Come and have a turn.’
Oliver flung down his school bags and took over Graham’s car. Within moments he had mastered the concept of the game and he and Piers were playing as furiously as Graham and Piers had been. The shouting, the cheering, the applause felt deafening to Myra, unaccustomed to such goings on in the normally silent house. Graham was sitting on the bottom step watching the boys and the look on his face baffled Myra. It was a mixture of . . . well, what exactly? Pride, boyish enthusiasm, childish glee, mirth, happiness? Yes, happiness definitely and then something else she couldn’t quite evaluate.
‘Supper’s ready.’ She may as well have said nothing because she got no response.
‘I said supper’s ready. Go wash your hands.’
But they didn’t. Neither Graham nor the two boys moved a muscle.
After all the slaving she’d done to get it ready and that lovely pudding too, all home made.
‘I said, supper’s ready. Go wash your hands.’
‘Sorry.’ Graham stood up. ‘I’m counting to ten and then we stop and have our supper.’ This worked, but even then when they eventually came to the table, they could talk of nothing else but the bumper cars, not a word about the lovely fish, not a word about the fruit crumble and cream, they just wolfed it down as fast as they could, said ‘Thanks’ and asked to leave the table to play with the game.
Myra intended to give them a lecture on manners but Graham beat her to it. ‘I’ll clear your dishes for you tonight, you go play the game.’
She was furious. She closed the kitchen door so the noise level was reduced and she could think what she was saying and burst out with, ‘I won’t have bad manners. Not one word about how nice their meal was, all they can think about is that blasted game.’
‘Myra, have you noticed anything about that game?’
‘It’s noisy and silly and stupid and I wish you’d never bought it for them. How much did it cost?’
‘Too much, Myra, but worth every penny judging by the enjoyment they’re getting out of it.’
‘It’s ridiculous, what a waste of money.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Myra stood up and began shuffling plates. ‘I haven’t time. There’s all this to do.’
‘I’ll answer it for you then. It’s the first time they’ve really enjoyed doing anything at all since they’ve been in these four walls. These bumper cars have really engaged them and being taken out of themselves is what they need. Forgetting their grief, just for a while.’
‘So that’s it is it? That’s why I’m having to tolerate all the din? What about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve given up my business because I’ve too much to do with four of us in the house, what with all the washing and ironing and cleaning and tidying. They were my pride and joy.’
‘I thought you said—’
‘I got rid of them all so they aren’t reminding me of what I’ve lost.’
‘Actually, Myra, you’ve lost nothing. You were quite clear earlier: you cut them up because you realised all by yourself that they were not interesting enough to make people want to buy them. And if you want to know what I really feel, I think a part of you knows that you can do better. You’ve got so much talent if you’d just take a chance or two. That’s the truth and you know it. I’ll advertise for some domestic help for you, there’ll be plenty of people who’d like to clean and iron and put clean sheets on in a tidy house like ours. You don’t have to stop your work. But right now, why don’t you go and sit down and switch the TV on. I’ll clear up in here. You’re doing a brilliant job with the food, Myra. The boys might not say anything, but they do eat it all up, and if that isn’t a recommendation I don’t know what is.’
Myra flopped down on the sofa after tiptoeing across the hall in an attempt to avoid treading on the bumper cars. So he did still care about her, right when she thought she’d lost him to the boys. Thinking about getting help in, clearing up the kitchen for her, he must still care. He was right about the food, too, the boys didn’t need persuading to eat it. So she must be good at something. The memory of Graham’s face when he was playing with Piers flashed across her mind. Why had it been so long since she’d seen him so happy?