TWO WEEKS LATER
ANOTHER MORNING, ANOTHER RACE to get in the car. I don’t know if my house has some secret vortex I don’t know about, but if I have to spend another minute searching for bits of school uniform it will finish me. I think I’ve spent 98 per cent of my income on replacing bits of uniform and yet we never have any.
Eventually, after Febrezeing yesterday’s pinafore to get another wear out of it (don’t judge me), we’re in the car and heading to school. It’s Harvest Festival day, so spirits are extra-high and Lyla treats me to a loud rendition of ‘Autumn Days’ while I try to apply lip gloss at the traffic lights. Nailing it.
Inside, the atmosphere is twice the intensity of that in the car. Children are dashing to and fro with their offerings for the table (we’re required to bring in tins and packets for the local food bank) and mothers are dithering with complimentary cups of tea served by Mr Ravelle, who has a gaggle of women round him, hooked on his every very smooth word.
The children descend down the hall to their classrooms to ‘prepare’, and we let ourselves be herded into the hall past the offering table, which is decked out with vases of dried flowers and stems of wheat and barley. I’ve lost Finola and Gillian, but I can hear the shrill tones of Val behind me chatting with a Reception mum.
‘Oh my GOD, Steph, look!’ Val shrieks with excitement in her voice.
‘Oh, what? What?’ poor Steph asks.
‘On the table. Some mother’s brought in value beans! Ugh!’ She points.
‘Oh. That’s all right, isn’t it? It’s going to the food bank. I suspect they’d be glad of any beans, really, they’re in a bit of a muddle if they’re using a food bank aren’t they?’ Steph replies kindly.
‘But value beans? How revolting,’ Val insists.
‘We’ve had value beans quite a few times, and honestly, Val, you wouldn’t taste the difference,’ Steph says with a calm, kind tone.
‘I would! Who on earth is so cheap as to bring value beans in? I’d be embarrassed!’
Feeling my blood boil over at this conversation, I whip round and without giving it a second thought, I snipe, ‘Get a life, Val, it’s a tin of beans. Most people would simply be grateful. Nobody cares except you.’
I turn back round and keep walking, leaving Steph looking smug and Val standing in her Valentinos with her mouth wide open. I don’t care what she thinks of me at this point. Gone are the days of worrying about her opinion, and if I’ve learnt anything these last few months, it’s to stand up to bullies.
We take our seats, I’ve found Gillian and Finola and Mrs Bell starts playing the piano. One by one tiny children file in, waving once they spot mums and dads and sitting down crossed-legged on the floor. Each child has a paper band round their head with foils and glitter in oranges, golds, browns and reds to give a seasonal theme to the production. Lyla waves and points enthusiastically at her headband and I excessively thumbs-up and wave back.
Gillian leans in and whispers, ‘How’s Lyla feeling about the dance routine? Clara’s been practising for days.’
Errr, what?
I didn’t know there was a routine. I’ve had no memo about this. I’ve heard the ‘Autumn Days’ song eighty times, but no dance routine. A little knot appears in my stomach. Have I dropped the ball? Was I supposed to parent this situation? Fuck.
Mrs Bell plays the piano, the children stand up and begin to sing. I don’t know what it is about little children singing, but the hairs on my arms stand on end and I feel so overcome with emotion I have to bite my lip to stop myself from weeping.
Three gorgeous, slightly tuneless songs in, and Mr Ravelle comes forward. His shirt is awfully tight and he really is rather buff. I can barely look at his face.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you, children, that was some fantastic singing, I think we’d all agree.’ The audience give a murmur of appreciation. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware’, he chortles on, ‘some of the children have a rather special dance piece to perform for you. So, without further ado, I give you The Autumn Leaves!’
With a round of applause from Mr Ravelle as he walks backward off the stage with a flourish, all of Lyla’s class stand up and ‘Autumn Days’ starts playing on the piano. I’m feeling very nervous. I know she knows the song, but choreography is another matter. Please let her be OK …
One by one the children find their spots and raise their arms. The music starts and they lower arms with wiggling fingers, like leaves falling from trees. So far, so good. Everything’s going quite well until the second line. At ‘smell of bacon as I fasten up my laces’, the formation changes and they begin to do something else. Except Lyla doesn’t. Lyla hurtles forward and flails around in what I assume is her idea of free-form dancing. My heart leaps into my mouth … But there’s rhythm there. You’ve got to give her that. We’re on the chorus now, and she’s completely broken free. Some of the other children have stopped their dance to watch her – some are even starting to tentatively join in – and Mrs Barnstorm is kneeling at the side of the stage desperately pointing and hissing at them to get back to their places. Lyla hears nothing, though; she’s fully feeling the spirit of the song and having the time of her life prancing back and forth, waving her arms and, oh my God, is she twerking?
They end ceremoniously on, ‘I mustn’t forget’, and with it, Lyla takes her paper crown off her head and hurls it into the audience like she’s at some kind of rock concert.
The crowd heartily applauds, the children walk off confused and Mrs Barnstorm looks close to a breakdown. I’m mortified. I should have taught her the routine, or at least practised it. Why didn’t I know there was a routine? I sit through the rest of the festival with flushed cheeks, and by the time we’re at post-show teas and coffees, I want to hide.
‘What an enthusiastic performance from Lyla!’ says Mr Ravelle, striding over to me with a cup of tea in hand. Wow, close up he really is quite handsome.
‘Ha, yes, ha ha, she’s very, er, energetic.’ Of course it was my child who went AWOL. I bet everyone thinks it’s because she comes from a broken home where her mother can’t – but then I stop myself before the old negative thoughts take over.
‘Do you know what I think, Ms Wilde?’ Mr Ravelle says gently.
Oh God, I don’t think I really want to know. He carries on anyway.
‘I think it’s marvellous to see a child with such a passion for music. I could see all the other children were completely enthralled by Lyla’s interpretation of the dance, and honestly, so was I. Wouldn’t it be terribly boring if every child were the same?’ He continues to look at me with kind, emerald-green eyes.
OK, was not expecting that. Could he tell I was mortified?
‘Yes … it would. She’s a special little thing. I didn’t actually know there was a dance … I feel a bit silly, really, that I didn’t help her learn it properly.’
‘Ms Wilde,’ he says, much more tenderly than I thought he was going to; it’s actually a bit arousing to liaise with a man so tall and chiselled, yet so sweet and nurturing, ‘Lyla is wonderful. She’s quite a trendsetter here; all the other children think she’s fantastic – I often see them following her lead. It’s very rare to see a child as young as Lyla take such ownership of herself and display such confidence. She must have some excellent role models in her life. It’s fantastic to see, and even more fantastic to see it rubbing off on some of the other, more guided children.’
Embarrassingly, once again I feel tears prickling behind my eyes. Here I was, always thinking we were being laughed at or that I was doing her a disservice, but all this time she’s been the leader of the pack. I could learn a thing or two from her.
Before I have time either to weep over my well-adjusted trendsetting child or ask Mr Ravelle if he wants to father my next child, all the kids come running in from the hall, paper crowns in hand (even Lyla has hers back – clearly liberated from the floor of the hall), and find their parents.
‘Mummy, did you see my dance? I practised it with Auntie Kath! Did you like it?’ Lyla says so enthusiastically I almost can’t understand her jumbled words.
‘Like it? Lyla, I LOVED it!’ I reply, wrapping her into a huge, squishy cuddle. ‘Wait till I tell Auntie Kath!’