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‘Just one more push dear. I can see the head now.’ I pushed with all my might, but he was determined not to leave his watery bed and make an entrance.

Frank Sinatra was blaring on my portable CD player by the bed and Charlie stood there with the video camera aimed in my face as I performed gymnastics with my mouth and cheeks – lower down was already immobilised. The idea of pushing seemed quite ridiculous, given that the epidural had numbed any sense of feeling, all except for the embarrassment of being caught on camera with my knickers down. This was a far cry from the kind of film I had intended to make when I had been chasing my dream of becoming an actress.

horse and carriage.’ Frank reminded me, as I tried to locate my bottom and separate it from the rest of my body, in order to satisfy the midwife’s commands to push. I had had the love, but was still without the marriage and looking up at Charlie, his face obscured by the video cam, it finally hit me that if he couldn’t do it now, he probably never would and the little person inside me tearing me in half, would be here soon and no doubt Charlie would be off again.

Chapter 1

So what happens if you have the love, but not the marriage? Does it make you the horse or the carriage? If I was the horse, was I an old nag? Was that the reason Charlie had left? Had I wanted too much? Being the horse did not seem appealing, so I would be the carriage, but where did that leave me? If I was the carriage then I was just something to be pulled and I sure had been. I had been pulled this way and that by Charlie for five miserable years and in my greatest moment, the moment I gave birth, as the most important man in my life from that moment on made his entrance, Charlie made his final exit.

He stayed long enough to make the video. He even took a copy away with him to remind himself of the moment and to see me looking my worst, whilst performing my best – the result, however, was paradise. From the moment I held my little man in my arms, I was smitten with joy. Stuff Charlie, I had found my opus and I barely noticed that he had gone as I drifted off into a morphine-induced sleep.

I had been pushing for twenty-seven hours until they rushed me off to the operating theatre – it seemed that a certain person was going to have to be lifted out of me, they had decided I had pushed enough.

But had I pushed enough where Charlie was concerned? Or did I push too hard? I would never know, but it no longer mattered. All I wanted now was to sleep off my efforts and wake refreshed to enjoy my son. Five seconds later, or so it seemed, a tyrannical German nurse was prodding me and grabbing hold of my boob. What nightmare was I in?

‘Feed your baby now. He is hungry.’ How did I feed him? I had no idea. But the next moment a firm little set of jaws clamped themselves to my nipple and something resembling a Kenwood juicer began sucking for dear life.

‘Good. You have got him latched on. You must feed him every time he cries.’ Mien Frau commanded, before marching off to inflict pain on some other poor unsuspecting new mother. ‘What about sleep?’ I yelled after her. But she had already gone and so had sleep for a very long time indeed.

Every half hour the baby cried and every half hour I got my boobs out – even Charlie had never been that demanding. I had named him Olivier, (the French for Oliver), not after Laurence, but after the actor Ollie Reed, who had been one of my favourites and just like Ollie he knew how to drink. He was certainly aptly named – More please- seemed to be the constant order of the day and thumbscrew nipples the aftermath of exertions.

If only I had known in all the years of being an insomniac, the lack of sleep that follows childbirth, I am quite sure I would have given up insomnia and got a few years in the bank, but it was too late now. I was the milky bar and I had produced ‘the milky bar kid’ and ‘only the best was good enough’ and it seemed I had Gold Top.

In some ways it was a relief that Charlie had gone. I couldn’t have shared my body with anyone else. There was only room for one at the milk bar. However, if one discounted the lack of sleep, the sore nipples, the lack of any other occupation than filling up one end and wiping up the other, then it was paradise. I might have been a little lost, but it was definitely paradise and I even got better at the boob thing too. In fact, I became an expert. I could have supplied the whole of my region if necessary. When I wasn’t feeding my son, I was attached to a pump and pumping it for England. I seemed to be able to produce bucket loads and with my little milkaholic, I needed to.

Once I had started, I seemed unable to stop and it wasn’t until two years later when I had ceased the said occupation only months before, that I realised I had gone on too long when a little voice announced pointing at my proud protrusions as I got out of the shower, ‘Those aren’t your boobs Mummy, they’re mine.’

I was allowed home after a week. I was a bit nervous to leave the support of the hospital care and would have happily stayed until he was two. However, the NHS, ever needy of the beds, was keen for me to vacate the premises, so it was back home to my little country cottage with the lethal stairs, the too small kitchen and the mentally unsound neighbours. No problem, I would cope.

I coped for twenty-four hours, in which time I had the doctor out at midnight to check if the crying was normal. I was on the phone to the hospital at three O’clock in the morning to see if the crying was still normal and I rang the GP again as soon as surgery opened to see if the crying was still normal. I then rang an agency and got some assistance - Just for two hours a day, but after all I had had a Cesar and I was not supposed to carry, drive, walk or move, for at least six weeks. So Charlie wasn’t here to help, but he had left something behind, something infinitely better than Charlie and a hundred times more flexible - his credit card.

The girl from the agency arrived promptly the following morning. She was plump, pretty, spoke ludicrously ungrammatical English with a Cockney accent and was the answer to my prayers.

‘Soon ‘ave you up and at ‘em and feelin’ more chirpy ‘Enry.’ She smiled through a generous mouth and a cascade of brown curls. It seemed that Sarah from the much loved television series Upstairs Downstairs was alive and well and working as my home help.

‘I’m a Mum meself and I dun it alone no problem – apart from the depression and the overdose, I dun fine.’ She babbled on reassuringly. Seeing my horrified expression, she immediately added, ‘But I’m all over it now. Men can’t do you ‘in unless you let ‘em.’ I wondered what Professor Higgins would have made of my newfound best friend or my old Drama School voice coach for that matter. I suddenly realised I hadn’t even asked her name yet I was so distracted by this slightly odd, but strangely appealing young woman.

‘’What do they call you?’ I asked politely.

‘Everything under the sun, usually. I bin called it all. But I don’t let it get me down no more.’

‘What is your name?’ I tried again not sure whether to laugh or cry at this point.

‘Me name’s Elizabeth, but most people call me Liza.’ How perfect, I thought, all that was missing now were the flowers and the colonel and we could relive Pygmalion in my sitting room.

Ollie made his presence felt once again with a reassuring yell and as I got out the boobs that were now ‘his’ not ‘mine’, Liza announced, ‘I’ll make us both a cuppa and we can ‘ave a little chat, if you like.’ I did like and we did chat, in fact she never stopped chatting. It was quite pleasant really to have her daily dose of two hours of chirpy banter whilst my hungry little sparrow grew rapidly into Orville on my knee.

Liza was a tonic and just what I needed to save me from the loneliness of being without the relevant or significant other to share in my ever increasing bundle of joy. But then Charlie had never been that relevant or that significant, so he was no real loss and once Liza had given me the potted meat version of her life, I didn’t feel so peculiar either. I found myself exhausted, but strangely content and between Ollie and Liza, I was quite happy with my lot. A good friend and a gorgeous baby added up to a very big lot indeed.

-

Liza was indeed aptly named if one equated her with the infamous Eliza Dolittle for she did as little as possible in the cleaning and housework department. This was not entirely her fault as I needed her to talk, more than I needed her to clean. If she talked, I didn’t have to and for once in my life that suited me fine. I listened to her tales of woe and rotten men and my life didn’t seem so bad by comparison.

Liza had now found a good man or at least by comparison with the motley crew that had preceded him. Bert was short, in manner and in size. He was round, bald, sported an earring in both ears and was one huge mass of muscle. He made his living doing this and that or rather doing over this place and that. What you don’t know, can’t hurt you, so on that basis, I decided it was best to listen, but not to know. Bert, I felt sure, could hurt, if one got on the wrong side of him.

‘’Aint ‘Enry a bit of an odd name for a girl?’ Liza asked whilst bouncing Ollie a little too boisterously on her knee. I was watching closely waiting for a projectile stream of milk to come shooting into my eye.

‘A little more gently please Liza. He’s just had his lunch.’ But too late the expected milk jet hit me square in my forehead and giggles erupted from both Liza and Ollie.

‘E’s a bit windy’aint he?’

‘He’s a bit too bounced.’ I replied wiping the offending milk from my face.

‘I’ll make us all a nice cuppa while you top him up again.’ Liza handed Ollie back and my over-sucked top half was called for once again.

‘So why did they call you ‘Enry?’ Liza placed the hot tea carefully on the mantelpiece for me to drink half an hour later when it would no doubt be cold and Ollie would have had his fill.

‘It’s short for Henrietta.’

‘That’s a bit posh innit?’

‘That’s why people call me Henry.’

‘Should’ve christened you that then shouldn’t they? Tho’ they could’ve picked a girl’s name don’t you think.’ I decided that nodding was the best answer. No point in complicating anything further. Liza was an asset, but brainpower was not her thing, neither was cleaning for that matter, but her tea wasn’t bad when I occasionally got to drink it.

‘See you tomorrow then. Must get Bert his meat and potatoes ready for tea.’ With that, she jumped up, brown curls bobbing and shot off wobbling down the drive on her very old, very rusty bike.

Ollie was asleep now. I should do the same, but the problem was that he was asleep on my lap and if I moved he might wake up. I was stuck in this rather awkward position with my boobs exposed to anyone who walked past the living room window. Fortunately all the neighbours were at work, I thought feeling relieved.

‘Morning Miss,’ said the cheerful postman as he waved through the open window and threw in yet more cards from friends and relations offering their hearty congratulations for the birth and their heartfelt felicitations for the departure of the father. Too late, my boobs would now be all round the village, in a manner of speaking – in Sid the postman’s manner of speaking to be precise - and I was quite sure he would be.

I must have been exhausted as when I woke an hour later, Ollie was helping himself to seconds and I realised sadly, just how low my boobs must now have dropped for him to have been able to reach.

Would my body ever be the same again? I somehow doubted it, but then would I really want to show it to anyone again, with the memory of Charlie still fresh in my mind, I realised I didn’t need a man to validate me any longer. I was complete in myself. I was a politically correct single mum with a great future. It was at that point that the pipe burst.

Chapter 2

The water trickled through the ceiling and onto my head. I had just got Ollie out of the way and into the carry - cot, when the ceiling appeared to fall on my head.

‘I NEED A MAN’. I yelled to the open window, just as my neighbour stepped out of her front door.

‘No you don’t dear. You need a plumber.’ My friendly old lady from next door announced. I’ll go and ring for one.

By the time the plumber had arrived we had a small swimming pool in the lounge. I had intended to teach Ollie to swim early, but not this early.

I had managed, by some miracle to locate the water stop tap and had turned it off, but the floor was still dangerously slippery and it was midnight before the bathroom and lounge ceased to be skating rinks.

The plasterer would be coming tomorrow to plaster the ceiling back to health. Two men to the house in less than twenty-four hours perhaps being PC wasn’t so great after all. But would Charlie have been able to fix the pipe or the ceiling? The answer was definitely No. I revised my thoughts – one didn’t need an odd man, just a man to do the odd job.

Two hundred pounds later, I came to the conclusion that what one really needed was an odd job man.

-

‘I can’t work while that man’s plastering.’ Liza announced next morning. ‘I’ll go make us all a nice cuppa. At least we were dry now although not so the plasterer. He appeared to be be a plastered plasterer and was swaying dubiously on the ladder whilst dropping clumps of white stuff on the carpet. Never mind they would blend into the milk spots eventually, I didn’t doubt. For someone with a Monica –from- Friends type cleaning obsession, I was having to get used to living in goo and I was getting quite good at it too.

Here I was wallowing in gunge and other than the majority shareholder in the goo capacity, my beloved son, I had only a cleaner who couldn’t clean and plasterer who couldn’t plaster for company. All in all I was in a mess.

The shrieking in my ear reminded me that nothing but milk mattered at the moment and once again I got it out and he put it in and then spurted it back all over my forehead. My eyes fell on the card on the windowsill. WELCOME TO YOUR LITTLE BUNDLE OF JOY.

‘Tea’s up ‘Enry’. I made one for meself and the bloke on the ladder too. Reckon he needs a cup.’ Liza settled herself on the armchair opposite and curled her feet up. Wobbly plasterer man wobbled down the ladder to get his cuppa and then sat sprawled on the floor with his back against the wall. He appeared to be dangerously close to dropping off – either to sleep or possibly the edge. There was a strong smell of spirit and I didn’t think it had much to do with the repair job.

Welcome to my bundle of joy – welcome to single parenthood. Welcome to goo, goo and more goo.

-

I couldn’t afford to feel sorry for myself. Ollie was not going to let that happen. He had demands and my life was now his, not mine, along with my boobs of course.

My GP was not of the new school variety. He did not believe in sympathy and mostly he did not believe in medicine either. He was generally not a practitioner. He was mainly a bumptious man who believed in the old-fashioned and I mean Dickensian view, of a good kick up the backside – proverbially, of course.

I couldn’t afford to indulge my Caesarean for long. I needed food and plenty of it too, if I was to keep my udders full. There was nothing else for it. I must drive before the statutory six weeks were up and so I rang my crusty old doctor to see if it were safe.

‘Just as safe as when you were driving before you had him.’ He guffawed down the phone. ‘Just try not to break suddenly. It might hurt a bit. My wife was skiing a month after her Cesar.’ He added for emphasis. This did not surprise me. I reckoned his wife was permanently on a slippery slope. Life with him could only be a downhill slide with an extremely painful landing.

‘Good to hear. I’ll bear that in mind.’ And with that I hung up and decided that now was the moment to fit the car seat or rather bucket seat that was to be Ollie’s mode of transport. Unfortunately the said item did not work all that well with my MX 5 sports car – something I had not yet managed to give up or rather I had given it up until Charlie returned it and took back the car he had lent me and which I had only driven in the last weeks of pregnancy and had only just got the hang of.

I had been happy to see the return of my pet vehicle. That was until this moment when I realised that not only were bucket seats extremely difficult to buckle in – they were not designed for the bucket seats that came with my two-seater sports car. One bucket did not fit into another it seemed and the result was a wedging of one bucket containing one Ollie between the dashboard and back of the other bucket.

The roar of the engine awoke my sleeping bundle of joy who immediately roared into action himself. I was determined to get the food in regardless of any further hiccups – and was soon met with the latter from a rather shaken baby whose lunch was fast becoming milkshake and who projected the same onto my beautiful grey leather upholstery seconds later.

I remained stoical – we needed food and food we should have. How difficult could this be? Tescos was only down the road. I must be able to make it that far and so I shoved a finger into Ollie’s mouth for comfort – God baby’s gums can feel like teeth – and stuck old blue eyes into the CD player. We then proceeded carefully and bumpily down the drive to the dulcet tones of ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’

It was then that next door’s black cat decided to run across the road – It was then that I slammed on the brake. It was then that I screamed in agony and by the time we made it to Tescos – Ollie was yowling, I was yowling and Frankie was giving it plenty. But we did make it.

I got a trolley and loaded the bucket into it. Ollie was still howling and opening and closing his mouth in fish like movements rooting for his favourite nipple and getting extremely frustrated that it wasn’t there.

‘Hold on sweetheart. Mummy’ll feed you in a few minutes. I implored. ‘Won’t be long and look at all the exciting things there are to see in this big shop.’ But Ollie did not want to see anything more exciting than me with my top off and wailed forever louder as I ran round Tescos throwing just about anything into the trolley in a kind of supermarket dash that would definitely have put me in the money.

People glared at me murderously as my baby howled and I grabbed item after item, barely glancing to see what they were. Ten minutes later I arrived breathlessly at the check out with five tins of tomatoes, a box of chocolate biscuits, six tins of pilchards and a box of porridge oats. I am a creative cook, but this was going to take a bit more creativity than usual. I made a mental note to send Liza on her bike – to Tescos that was. I was not ready yet to do without my one and only port in this ever-increasing storm. Right on cue, wind finally got the better of Ollie and I arrived home splattered, flustered and desperate for a pee – another wonderful legacy of childbirth.

Here I arrived at a crossroads – did I pee first or feed my wailing baby? Ollie chose for me by grabbing with his surprisingly strong little hands at my top. I sat cross-legged on the settee with my boobs out and thought how much I had always taken peeing for granted. Suddenly little things meant so much and this little thing on my lap meant everything.

-

Liza made me aware of home-shopping after that. She obviously had hidden depths as she spent half an hour showing me how to shop online at Tescos and the art of clicking whilst feeding. This at least solved the problem of how I was going to get food. I then discovered you could get most things on the Internet and I became a serious clicker – so I couldn’t ski, but I could click and my GP’s wife could slalom her way into the Olympics for all I cared. I had discovered a way of not just surviving, but living comfortably. All I needed was my flexible friend, my flexible finger and my flexible boobs and I was set.

Chapter 3

Three O’clock in the morning and exhaustion just wasn’t the word for it. How could one baby need so much milk? I had been determined to ignore Dr Jeckell’s advice to top up with formula. I was also determined that despite the lack of man, I would be the perfect mother whose boobs would be ever-ready and ever full and I would give up sleep forever, or at least a few months to achieve this. Six months and I would reclaim my boobs as my own. In six months time I could look forward to sleep again. Meanwhile I would cope.

Four O’clock in the morning sleep came at last – but not for me, for Ollie who had now drunk his fill. There was just time to express a few more ounces for the freezer. I placed him carefully in his Moses basket and crept downstairs to grab my pump and enjoy a few tins of pilchards. Would Ollie mind pilchard flavoured milk? I didn’t think so. He would develop a taste for seafood, brain food. That could only be good.

Five O’clock and a glorious eight ounces later, I was back in bed just in time for Ollie to wake and want more. No problem, I had only emptied one boob, the other bounced happily full on my lopsided body ready to be drained. "Dolly Parton, eat your heart out." Who needed silicon when you had milk?

Six O’clock – sleep at last. Ollie full, Mummy drained – doorbell rings.

‘You left your door unlocked.’ Friendly old lady from next door announced. ‘The wind blew it open. Shouldn’t do that you might get attacked by a man."

‘I already have been.’ I said with little appreciation, as I stood there in my nightie shivering and desperate for bed. Surely it was obvious by looking at me. I managed a watery smile, promised to knock if I needed anything – SLEEP- was the only thing. I crept back upstairs just as Ollie awoke again and fell asleep with him on my partially refilled left boob and dreamt of large vats of formula and a host of nannies.

It did get easier – a bit. Sometimes I managed to get three hours sleep in succession and I became amazingly adept at doing things whilst feeding. I am not saying there were no accidents. There were a few.

For instance, the time when I rang my friend Bob for a long chat and Ollie was tanking up on my knee and I dropped the phone on his head. He was very good about it though – he called back later when the crying had stopped.

Then there was the time when I treated myself to a curry – against the advice of the book – Ollie then treated me to a marathon of nappy changing.

The book was only moderately helpful. It would have been more helpful if I had a baby that slept for more than two hours at a time and who fed a great deal less. When I was on the verge of hallucinating, I decided an expert’s help was required. This was not a time to ring my GP whose formula was formula, it was time for a woman’s touch – the health visitor.

‘He feeds all the time.’ I wailed down the phone to Lara. ‘I sometimes have to feed him whilst sitting on the loo.’ ‘I am just so, so, so tired. Can you do anything?’

‘You have a hungry baby.’ Well, tell me something I don’t know.

‘He needs more food.’

‘I haven’t got any more.’

‘Not you – he needs something more substantial now. You are going to have to wean him a bit early.’

‘You mean I can stop breastfeeding?’

‘No – but you can give him some baby rice between feeds. That should help to fill him up.

Magic words – baby rice – I sent Liza straight down to the village shop for some and yes, he did seem to like it. Mixed in with a little of mummy’s milk – pilchard flavoured of course. What could be more delicious? But did it make him sleep? It did not. Did it make him less hungry for mummy – It did not. Did it increase the contents of his nappy? Yes, it did.

Not only did I now have goo, goo and more goo. I had poo, poo and more poo. What a wonderful bundle of joy.

-

Lara called round to see me a few days after our telephone consultation, to see how I was managing. This meant I had to find time to get a bath and get dressed – which were things that I had been letting slide a bit lately. What would Monica say? I managed these events by laying Ollie on a towel on the bathroom floor with a selection of soft toys, but he still hollered and despite the feast of cuddly offerings, his eyes stayed firmly fixed on my boobs. He was determined that he was not going to lose sight of his precious objects of digestion.

I felt a great deal better for being dressed and clean and by the time Lara arrived, I was convinced that I looked the picture of radiant motherhood and someone who was coping famously.

‘God you look awful.’ Announced Lara. ‘When did you last sleep?’

‘About three months ago.’ Obviously I was not looking quite as well as I thought.

‘Isn’t he sleeping through yet?’

‘Through what?’ I asked bemused.

‘He should be going for around five or six hours now. What with the baby rice.’

‘Two maximum.’ I said weakly.

‘You are going to have to be tough and ignore him. Let him cry a bit. He’ll soon wear himself out and go to sleep. Also you could try a bit of formula.’

I felt a sense of defeat. Three months - and now formula. Reluctantly I purchased some ready-made cartons and suddenly my boobs felt as inadequate as they were before pregnancy. At least they had been small and perky then. Now they were large and saggy.

Formula turned out to be the wrong formula. It came back at me in a vertical stream and was a lot harder to clean up than breast milk. I decided to ignore the advice of Dr Jeckell and health visitor Hyde and not bother again. I might have felt differently if I had a cleaner who cleaned, but Liza was allergic to detergent it seemed and I had enough to do without mopping up all the time. So it was back to plan A or rather 36 A and to hell with sleep – I would get some when he was four. Meanwhile I would just have to give up other things like getting dressed again and thank God there was no man around to see me.

The one consolation of being a single mum was this very thing – there was no man to see me – no man to help me either – but then Charlie could not have done much about the boob thing anyway? Unless he had recently started taking hormones, I assumed he was still as much of a man as he had ever been – which wasn’t that much.

The other thing about being a single mum that comforted me somewhat was that most of the women I had met at antenatal classes who had boyfriends or husbands to lean on, found them on the whole quite useless. They also still expected their weekly bonk and there is nothing quicker to put one off sex than childbirth. Once your bits have been turned upside down and inside out they are not that keen to be messed about with for quite a long time. Not to mention the energy needed when one is too knackered to even put on make-up.

‘He still expects me to perform every Saturday night.’ Belinda moaned down the phone, as Ollie slurped on my knee. I had put a cushion on his head – just in case.

‘I am just not in the mood. I seem to have gone off it. I even bought him a subscription to Playboy – but he says it only gets him more in the mood.’

I felt strangely smug as I listened to Belinda’s plight. I didn’t have to have sex. I didn’t even have to think about it. I had no idea how I would have fitted it in or found the strength to do it, but it was no longer an issue. My God. What had happened to the passionate little bunny I had once been? I made soothing noises to Belinda who had gone straight to formula in the hope that hubby would help out with night feeds. No such luck. Hubby needed his sleep in order to go to the office and Belinda was still on night duty every night. What was more he quite often helped himself to the odd bottle of formula when he came in from the pub.

Yes, single parenthood was easier in some ways. No man, no sex and another thing – no money. Unfortunately this was something I was starting to find a little difficult. I had lost Charlie. He had also cancelled his credit card and I was self-employed and failing as a Theatrical Agent when I fell pregnant, so I wasn’t able to give myself maternity pay either. It was no good. It was not time to get Charlie back – but it was time to get his money back or at least enough for the basics.

-

‘So how much access does he have?’ The very smartly dressed and extremely overpowering solicitor was staring out the window. I was not a great catch legally. I was a candidate for legal aid and it had bought me Cruella Deville.

‘None. He has made not contact and I haven’t heard from him since the birth, given that I never want to see him again, I am not too upset.’ I said firmly, wishing I didn’t look quite so pale and saggy in front of this paragon of controlled dark elegance who was clearly thinking "no wonder she lost her man."

‘I did look better than this before I had him.’ I suddenly felt the need to justify myself. ‘I wasn’t bad looking. I know it’s hard to imagine, but if you think of me with my roots done, a size eight and with a great deal of make-up, you might get some idea.’

‘Huh?’ Cruella had not even been listening. She glanced at her watch and then thrust some forms at me.

‘Sign these for legal aid. I’ll get a letter out. Better leave the wording to me.’ She added with a pitying look on her face. I nearly mentioned I had a Masters in English to try and restore my wilting self-esteem, but she was already off to her next client and I doubted she would have believed me.

The ever-faithful Liza was waiting outside the room. Ollie was in full throttle by the time I came out of the room. I ended up pulling into a lay-by to feed him. We had borrowed the neighbour’s Mini to get us all in, but it was still pretty cramped. I got some strange looks from other drivers and a few thumbs up from the more desperate of the male species, but I was not Gillian Taylforth and probably wouldn’t make it to the papers.

By the time we reached home for a badly needed brew, I realised I had no idea what I had agreed with my very brief, brief. What was she going to say in her letter? Was I offering access to Charlie? Was I asking for maintenance? I supposed I would find out soon enough – but it was rather worrying. If it meant Charlie would be back, then I would have to live on pilchards and stuff the maintenance.

-

The postman dropped the ominous letter on the mat. It was in a finely woven envelope so I guessed it was from my solicitor, but I was wrong. It was from his.

Charlie had decided he wanted access after all. He had short circuited any reasonable means of communication, like the telephone and gone straight to a solicitor to say I had denied it. In fact he had never asked for it, but it seemed I was going to have to see him again after all.

There is only one for sure. In justice – there is no justice. Charlie had gone, but he was determined not to be forgotten.

Chapter 4

After I recovered from the initial shock that Charlie might actually be about to darken my door again, there was another one. Charlie did not loom dark and horrible on my doorstep, but his mother did.

Charlie’s mother was a force definitely not to be reckoned with. She was diminutive in size, but certainly what she lacked in height she made up for in control-freakishness. They say that behind every successful man, there lies a good woman. This was not a good woman, but she did lie.

Over one of Liza’s best brews we met with bosoms thrust forward or in my case thrust downwards. She was determined to protect her son and I was determined to protect my son from her son. It was not a happy situation.

‘Well Dear. Charlie clearly did not know what he was doing when he got you pregnant.’

‘He’s forty-two. I think he knows more than you think.’ I retorted.

‘But you must have seduced him. Men are weak dear. You have to be the one in charge.’

It was obvious that mother was the one in charge, so that position was clearly filled.

‘Charlie and I were trying for a baby.’

‘Oh no Dear. He has told me that and I believed him.’

‘I believed him too. But I have since learnt otherwise.’

‘Weren’t you on something?’ Asked mother undeterred.

‘Yes. Charlie.’

Mother was not amused at my little quip. She was determined to believe the fictitious account that Charlie had presented her with and I was not up to a row, so I presented her with a second helping of the cream bun that she had bought as a not so peaceful offering and hoped it would clog up her arteries or at least her mouth.

It seemed that mother had been sent as the front man to test the water. Charlie being the wimp he was, had found that curiosity had taken over and he needed to know what his son was like. He did not need to know quite enough to get in his car and drive over and see him, but mother would take a few snaps in the meantime and report back with details. Apparently this would be enough until the court gave him access, which inevitably, although I didn’t know it at the time, it would.

‘He doesn’t want to unsettle you dear by coming over himself.’ Charlie’s mother continued. ‘He feels it would only upset you to see him.’

Too right it would upset me to see him. I would quite possibly turn into Glenn Close in an instant and he would come home to boiled mummy in a pan.

‘You seem distracted dear. What are you thinking about?’

‘Just home cooking.’ I smiled.

‘Are you eating enough?’ She asked with sudden consideration, as she polished off the third and last of the cream buns. ‘You must eat plenty when you’re feeding. Plenty of carbo – whatsits and you must eat good quality food too. No cheap junk.

‘I’m not working. I haven’t any money for good stuff.’ I decided to make my point here and now.

‘Well you must get some money dear.’ And with that she got up and walked through the door with a dollop of cream perched precariously on her chin.

‘We must go out for lunch sometime.’ She threw over her shoulder, as if that might solve the food crisis. Not if I could help it.

Mother was persistent and determined – a lethal combination. She was also keen to see her grandson. She arrived a week later to take Ollie and me out for lunch.

The only consolation was that during the painful rendezvous, I had to get my boobs out in public – not something I make a habit of, I might add and this embarrassed mother more than a little. To add insult to injury and I was desperately trying to provide both – she offered to wind him, and he promptly threw up all over her chenille jumper.

‘You really should consider formula dear.’ Mother advised as she attempted to mop herself up. ‘I didn’t feed any of mine you know and they’ve all turned out alright.’ I begged to differ.

Mother paid the bill, reminded me that I needed some money and then left.

‘You could always ask Charlie to help out financially.’ I yelled after her. She stopped in her tracks, turned round and walked back to my front door.

‘Now then my girl, Charlie works hard for his money. You must do the same and get back to work and not be so lazy.’

‘Who’s going to look after Ollie?’

‘You will find someone.’

‘What do you suggest I do? Go on the streets?’ I said angrily.

‘I always told Charlie you were that kind of a girl.’ Mother said haughtily and headed back to her car.

‘Lunch next week then?’ I shouted, but surprisingly she did not accept the invitation.

Oh well. That had got rid of Mother for a while. Now I could go back to feeding, wiping and pumping in peace.

-

‘You can’t win. Them men always do you in in the end.’ Liza told me helpfully as she sprawled on the settee, an unopened can of polish in one hand and a never-to-be-used yellow duster in the other. ‘It’s like this you see.’ She said pausing to think for a moment. ‘They always do you in in the end. You can’t win. It’s invegetable.’

‘Inevitable.’

‘No it really is invegetable. There’s no gettin’ away from it. They do do you in in the end.’ There was little point I felt in pursuing this highly enlightened conversation. But Liza was right. I was a bit done in and I was soon to be done in a lot.

It seemed that Cruella my friendly solicitor could do nothing to stop it. Charlie still got his access and I didn’t even get his Access card.

-

Visits were to be twice a week to start with and to take place at my cottage.

I was dreading the moment as I had not seen Charlie since he had walked out of the hospital clutching his copy of the birth. His last words had been. ‘I don’t want to be with you – Goodbye.’ Pity he hadn’t thought about that before we tried for a baby, but thinking had never been Charlie’s forte.

The memory however was still as painful as if it had happened yesterday. I had been left bemused, confused and not even a little amused.

I had been thrown into this state of motherhood without any experience of babies and no friendly stork to help me. What was more, the majority of books on babies seemed to be written for young energetic mothers with supportive new men for partners. At 38 I was an old mother and not only was the father an old man, he was not even around and there were no new men around either.

I scanned chapter after chapter for the section on PC strong single mothers or even PC weak ones – but there was nothing. I was faced with the wonderful advice of ‘get plenty of rest when you can and encourage your partner to help with night feeds by expressing your milk for him.’ I felt tempted to send a frozen packet of breast milk to Charlie in the post, but I couldn’t afford to part with any.

Now Charlie was coming back to take some of the credit for all the hard work I had done and it didn’t seem fair. It seemed bloody unfair and what was even worse was I couldn’t, on the advice of Cruella Deville, tell him what I thought of him.

‘Don’t lose your rag.’ She had said coolly down the phone. ‘You must appear to be reasonable at all times.’ REASONABLE – how could I be reasonable? The only thing that seemed reasonable to me would be stringing Charlie up by his testicles and hanging him from the nearest bridge.

‘Of course I’ll be reasonable.’ I replied.

‘Good. Enjoy your contact time then.’ She added, before hanging up.

-

Charlie being the wimp he was, brought mother with him for protection. I sat waiting on the settee staring out of the window with Ollie asleep next to me. We had had a particularly gruelling night with a bad episode of colic and no amount of gripe water had been able to settle my tummy.

Ollie had woken up for feeds, it seemed about every half hour and I was in no mood to receive my very unwelcome guests – but I reminded myself that I had to be reasonable and watched with a mixture of trepidation and homicidal feelings as they approached the front door.

Mother walked in first with Charlie managing to be both towering and cowering at the same time, behind her short Rottweiler-like form.

One thing I will give to Charlie’s family – they have the thickest skins of any family I have ever met. They are probably also the thickest people I have ever met and belong very definitely to those that the articularly sound would refer to as ‘the "we was" brigade.’

‘We woz going to bring you some chocolates.’ Said very fat Rottweiler mother figure. ‘But we thought you’d probably be trying to lose all the fat left over from birth.’

‘Obviously it never goes.’ I said looking determinedly at her bulging stomach.

‘Well I have always found my daily walk helps.’ Mother Rhino replied earnestly. ‘You should get some exercise dear. A short jog round the park each day.’

‘And where would I put Ollie while I do that?’

‘You’ll think of something. You really should try not to be so lazy dear. Nobody likes a lazy bones.’

Charlie sat smirking next to her on the settee with a margarine-wouldn’t-melt kind of look on his face. I say margarine, because butter was too good for him and he was not the kind of man to know the difference. Actually lard would be more appropriate I was thinking as Mother stared at me trying to be intimidating – no wonder I was thinking of lard. Great globs of lard too.

‘You look distracted dear. What’s on your mind?’

‘Home cooking – particularly the problem of how much boiling it takes to melt fat.’

‘Yes I enjoy a good boiling fowl myself. Have you any biscuits?’

I escaped to the kitchen to sacrifice my last four chocolate Hobnobs - the ones I had been saving as a treat for later. Damn, I hadn’t even shopped online today, so there would be none now until tomorrow, given that it was already five O’clock and nearly Ollie’s bath time.

‘Would you like to hold him?’ I asked Charlie. He was just starting to stir – Ollie that is – Charlie would need Electro Convulsive Therapy before he kicked into life.

‘Better not – might drop him.’ He quickly declined.

‘Oh go on. You need to get to know him.’ I handed Ollie over and he immediately erupted into loud protests, broken only by huge gulpings, as he met with his father for the first time since birth.

After a few minutes of squawking and gulping to a horrified Charlie, Ollie then emptied the contents of lunch down his front. "My feelings exactly", I thought.

‘Mum. Can we go home now? I need to change.’ Charlie whimpered to mother.

‘You shouldn’t have let him do that dear.’ Mother said as she led a disgruntled and very smelly Charlie to the door.

‘He’s just being a baby.’ I said surpressing the urge to laugh hysterically.

‘I’m not.’ Said Charlie sulking.

‘I think she meant Olivier.’ Mother patted him on the arm. But I had meant Charlie.

Chapter 5

…Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

I hadn’t really seen much of the outside world recently. I had not had time between feeding and wiping to leave the house.

I was extremely dependent on Sky TV for entertainment and company and grateful that Knot’s Landing and Dallas were being rerun on UK Gold. I don’t quite know how I would have survived without Bobby, JR and Mackay to remind me that the good, the bad and the ugly existed in the States too and that it could have been worse. Not much, I grant you, but I could have had Miss Ellie to contend with and watching Sue Ellen, I was comforted by the thought that if all else failed, there was always drink.

Charlie and mother now appeared regularly for their midweek visit, although he had taken to wearing a long waterproof Mac for added protection. He knew he was supposed to show an interest, but deep down I suppose he was fairly typically male in not being that interested in the baby stage.

Ollie was getting ever more interesting by the day. He could now get around on his own, but instead of crawling, he chose to shuffle on his bottom. This was quite useful as I could pop a bit of furniture polish on his bottom and get him to clean my wood floor on his way round. Pity I couldn’t have done the same with Liza who was still coming in to home help or rather help herself to my home.

‘Got any bickies to go with this brew?’ Liza asked making herself comfortable in front of the telly.

‘No Mother Courage polished them off again yesterday. But you can run down to the shop if you like and get some.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed with Ollie and you went? Get out of the house for a bit.’

‘Okay.’ As I headed to the shop it was suddenly dawned on me that my little Sarah-from-Upstairs-Downstairs was fast becoming Mrs Danvers and not only was she not doing anything to help, she had commandeered the telly too. I decided I had to be assertive here and work towards giving her the push. She had served her purpose, although exactly what her purpose had been I had never found out. I resolved to find a good time to tell her – maybe a few months time.

‘Oprah’s really good this mornin’. Why don’t you sit down for a bit?’ She said charitably as I walked back in. ‘I might even stay longer today if you want.’ She said putting her feet up on the settee. ‘I’ll only charge a couple of quid extra.’

That was it. Enough was enough. Liza – stroke - Sarah stroke - Mrs Danvers had to go. Knot’s Landing was just about to start on UK Gold and I wasn’t giving that up even to watch Oprah publicly shame a selection of Charlie-like fathers. I needed to watch Valleen help Gary turn to the bottle to remind myself that that was still an option and with newfound determination, spurred on by the thought of another gripping episode, I announced, ‘I think I can manage on my own now Liza.’

‘Okay. See you tomorrow then. If you’re sure.’

‘No.’ I said firmly. ‘Not tomorrow. I think I can manage then too.’

‘Monday then?’

‘No not Tuesday either.’ Why was this so difficult? ‘I don’t need a home help any more.’

‘I know you don’t. That’s why I ‘aint been helping too much. You like to do things yourself don’t ya?’

There was no point in taking this further. I gave her a very generous parting wage and she took it quite well considering. Well considering how good things had been that is.

‘I’ll call round to see how you’re getting on sometime. Just in case ‘e does you in again.’

‘Thanks.’ I waved as she wobbled down the drive on her bike.

I decided to clean out one of my cupboards whilst Ollie was napping for an hour and soon found out why Liza had wobbled so much. I couldn’t afford to replace the bottle of brandy at present either and so maybe drinking was not going to be the –if-things-get-too-much option I had been keeping as back-up. Then I noticed a full bottle of rum untouched at the back. Funny I could have sworn that was a half bottle last time I looked. On taking a sniff I realised that Liza had had other uses for her wonderful brews too.

-

I was surprised at how much I missed Liza. I had been used to her happy (or should I say merry?), banter and I felt even more alone now. Don’t’ get me wrong. Ollie was great company in many ways. He even had a few words now – Momma, Hiya, Bye Bye, along with various indecipherable babyish sounds. I have to admit though that our conversations were somewhat limited in subject matter.

Most of what he had learnt so far had come from watching Teletubbies – some strange space-agey creatures that scared the hell out of me, even though he seemed to find them cute as hell. They seemed to spend most of their time eating toast and chasing the hoover round the house. With names like Dipsy and La La, it was hardly surprising that they behaved like crazed alcoholics. However, they served a very welcome purpose in allowing Ollie entertainment whilst I was having a quick a shower – you will be pleased to know I had found the time to wash again – and with the absence of Liza there was room for a few crazed alcoholics in the house.

Two more days and Charlie would be back again to annoy me some more. It had been suggested that he came round on a Saturday morning now, as well as his midweek visit and learn how to feed Ollie his lunch. No matter how lonely I now felt, given the choice between having Tinkywinky or Po in my house or Charlie, I would have chosen a Teletubbie any day.

I tried to take my mind of the forthcoming visit by attempting another shopping trip with Ollie. I had recently used my newfound clicking skill to swap my car over the Internet for a very ancient Mercedes. I had wept as the my sports car had purred down the drive and then again when the old Merc had rattled up it, but it was more practical and for Ollie was not quite so vomit inducing as the bouncy sports car had been. The bucket had since been replaced with a proper kid’s car seat, although that had not gone very smoothly either.

The latest car seat had replaced a not so successful one that the second-hand Merc dealer had persuaded me to buy. It was the one they recommended, (probably because it was very expensive and they could see I was not only a mug, but knew very little about car seats.)

The Super Deluxe Merc-compatible car seat was unique in that it did not come with straps to hold in your child, but a boulder, which you placed on his lap and then secured in with a normal seat belt.

‘Are you sure it won’t squash him? It looks rather large.’ I said rather worriedly when the beaming Salesman dropped it round.

‘It’s from nine months and you say he is almost that, so it should be fine and last until he is six years old.’

‘Well, it still looks rather large to me, but if you’re sure, I’ll take it.’

The salesmen extorted a large sum of money from said mug and then left with an even larger beam on his face. He had kindly fixed the car seat in, whilst fixing me and I decided to give both the car and the seat a trial run.

Ollie was placed in the seat no problem, but when it came to installing the boulder, he immediately disappeared from view and all I could see was his little nose and rather surprised eyes peering over it. This didn’t seem right, but I thought the man must know best and decided to proceed as planned.

By my return from Tescos my poor child was indeed rather squashed and whilst he had done his best to lean over the huge boulder, his little chin was just not big enough to push over the top. I had to assume the salesmen knew about as much as car seats as I did.

I took a well-needed trip to Mothercare for advice.

‘This seat is for age two and older.’ said the rather smug sales assistant with a chuckle. ‘This would squash him.’

‘I realise that. That is why I have come here to get one that won’t squash him.’ I retorted.

‘None of our seats squash children.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ I replied wondering if there was a seat that would squash her.

‘I’ll take that one.’ I said pointing to an attractive and comfortable looking seat.

‘That’s a booster seat. He’s not ready for that yet.’ She smirked.

‘Alright. You show me which one he is ready for and I’ll have that.’ (Why couldn’t they just label them with the ages for those of us who hadn’t done this before? I guess it was because smug assistants wouldn’t get the fun of watching potential buyers squirm.)

‘This one is safe and very user-friendly.’ The assistant pointed to the most expensive one on the shelf. I was too humiliated to argue.

‘I’ll take that one then. If you could you just put it in the car for me and show me how to secure it?’

‘Oh, I can’t do that. Our insurance doesn’t cover us to fit them, but the instruction manual will show you how to do it.’

I left Ollie sitting behind his boulder watching me with a pained expression as I tried to fit the new car seat into the car next to him. This seat was certainly not for a first-time ‘user’ or that ‘friendly.’

It was two hours before we left Mothercare car park and by then Ollie had nodded off and slid down behind his boulder so I was not keen to move him. I was desperate for a cuppa and out in a sweat from the various contortions of fitting the seat. But I couldn’t leave him like that to drive home, no matter how tempting, so I moved my squashed son to his new throne and he promptly woke up and screamed blue murder. He apparently had liked his boulder and had no problem with being squashed. It was not that easy to get his writhing and wriggling form into the new seat either – but determination and desperation got him in and I headed for home in a hurry, where I was faced with another problem. Having got him in, I couldn’t get him out.

The buckle was new and more than just secure, it was impossible to open. It took another half hour and half a can of WD40 before I got him out and carried my wailing, screaming and very cross little bundle of joy into the house.

For once I decided that my need was greater than his and put the kettle on before getting my boobs out. (Oh yes, he was still a breast man and still insisted on at least three guzzles a day.) I then collapsed in a heap onto the settee, shoved a boob into the protesting mouth of my son and reached for the remote control, which in my haste I dropped on his head. He reacted by biting me quite hard – (who could blame him?) and, as I winced, I gulped my tea and wished Charlie could be nipple clamped forever.

-

It was amazing that I ever left the house again. Given the car seat problems, but here I was two days before Charlie’s first Saturday visit, contemplating a trip longer than two miles, a first, to Milton Keynes shopping centre. Having finally lost a couple of pounds, probably in fluid from fitting the car seat, I was at last able to treat myself to the luxury of a pair of jeans that weren’t from Mothercare’s maternity department.

I was determined that Charlie would remain oblivious to how difficult I was finding single parenthood and appear to be cool, collected and coping admirably when he came for his visit.

The idea of at last being able to relinquish the now rather saggy marsupial pouch of the jeans I had lived in for eighteen months, spurred me on and I could now look forward to resembling something other than a rather washed out and far less hairy, kangaroo.

This time I managed to get Ollie into his seat and even more amazingly out of it too. But there was a different problem to face. When I got to the shopping centre I was bursting for the loo, a hang over from pregnancy that had not yet left me. I couldn’t wait and I was parked quite a distance from the shopping centre Mother and Baby facility, so I would just have to go to the nearest store and ask to use their loo.

As if this situation weren’t embarrassing enough, the nearest shop that would allow me to use their facilities was a toyshop and the only loo they had was a rather pokey one at the back of the shop.

‘The toilet’s only for staff use.’ The pimply lad told me with a blank expression. ‘I’ll have to ask the manager if you can use it.’ I was about to tell him not to bother, when he yelled, ‘this woman wants to know if she can she use the bog Mike? She says she’s desperate.’

Mike gave the thumbs up and the assistant led a very beetroot coloured me pushing Ollie to the back of the shop, through a group of tittering children and two tittering parents.

There was not enough room to take Ollie in with me in his stroller, so I parked him outside the door, where he immediately broke into full throttle shouts. There was only one thing for it I would have to take him in with me.

I then found out the true joy of motherhood as I attempted to pee with a wailing baby on my lap, who was grabbing at my jumper in the hope of a comforting nipple. Fearing the manager would soon appear to see what the commotion was all about and embarrassed enough for one day, I shoved my boob into his mouth – Ollie’s not the manager’s – and peed and fed in the pokey loo, whilst marvelling at all the wonderful new skills I was learning.

I fled the shop ten minutes later, Ollie still wailing having been removed from my boob, but determined not to be thwarted and get my jeans at all cost.

I only made it as far as the centre mother and baby facility before the screaming got too much for my nerves and I then spent half an hour sitting in their feeding room, out in a cold sweat with Ollie guzzling on my knee. Fortunately he then dropped off to sleep long enough for me to push him as far as Gap and I was just selecting a few pairs of jeans to try on when he awoke once more and started yelling again and pointing at my top.

He had recently learnt a new word ‘booby’ and he was now yelling it at the top of his little voice ‘BOOBY BOOBY BOOBY.’ Much as I had marvelled when he had first added the above to his ever-expanding vocabulary, I was now about to combust, as sales assistants and shoppers alike began giggling around me.

‘BOOBY…BOOBY…BOOBY …MAMA.’ Ollie wailed ever louder. I dumped the jeans on the nearest table, spun the stroller around and headed back to the mother and baby room at breakneck speed, where I then spent another half hour in an even colder sweat feeding my ever expanding bundle of joy.

Needless to say I got no jeans that day, but I learnt a couple of valuable lessons from this experience – either park near the mother and baby room or go back to ordering online. One thing was for sure I would not be shopping at Gap for a very long time indeed.

-

Charlie arrived late on Saturday, as expected. He was clearly going on somewhere afterwards, as he was reeking of a not very subtle aftershave, either that or he had eaten an enormous bowl of oranges and cinnamon before he came out.

It did not even cross my mind that his efforts might be for my benefit, given my current state of marsupial costume – Teletubbie figure, white face and dark sunken eyes from yet another broken night. The only living creature likely to find me attractive at present would be an extremely myopic panda.

Charlie seemed keen to get the visit over quickly. He sat down next to Ollie without attempting to pick him up and flicked through the Sky channels, no doubt hunting for his favourite episode of Dr Who. He found what he was looking for and slouched back on the settee with his feet up on the coffee table. The appearance of darleks brought a sudden protest from Ollie who screamed so violently that he brought back his most recent drink all over Charlie.

‘Can’t you get him to stop doing that?’ Charlie yelled crossly to me in the kitchen where I was preparing Ollie’s lunch.

‘No I can’t.’ smirking as I handed him the chocolate pudding delight that was Ollie’s favourite.

‘What do I do with this?’ Charlie was busy mopping himself with baby wipes.

‘Well you could eat it or feed it to him.’ I had other ideas, but decided it was perhaps best not to fuel the situation, remembering Cruella’s warnings of ‘reasonableness.’

Reluctantly Charlie picked up the plastic spoon and began waving it in Ollie’s face, nowhere near his mouth. After a few minutes Ollie got bored of the wait and grabbed the spoon from Charlie, hurling chocolate pudding straight in his eye as I marvelled at his accuracy.

‘Good shot.’ I could not help myself.

‘You taught him to do that.’ Charlie said crossly.

‘Don’t be silly. He’s just a good aim.’ I tried to suppress my mirth.

‘I’m going home.’ A milk and chocolate splattered Charlie fumed as he stomped out of the house.

‘See you next Saturday?’ But Charlie had gone.

Needless to say there were no more requests for weekend visits and that was just as well, as my maternity trousers were now so saggy that I wouldn’t be able to leave the house without braces and it would be at least two weeks before the ones I had ordered from Gap in America, by accident I might add, would arrive. Oh well, I could be a hermit in peace now.

Our most recent postman was about ninety-two and had been hired to help with the Christmas rush – in October. He was also half blind and I had yet to receive any post that was actually for me, but the advantage was that it was no longer necessary, to brush my hair or get dressed to get my post, so I could slouch around with my trousers round my knees and it didn’t matter, as the only person other than Ollie to see me, couldn’t see.

I might very well have turned into a female version of Howard Hughes, if it hadn’t been for the arrival of a sudden surprise visitor.

Chapter 6

Brrrrrrrrng……brrrrrrrrng…..brrrrrrrrng! Who the bloody hell was ringing the doorbell at… (reach for the clock), …three a.m?

If that batty old lady from next door was about to tell me that my door was unlocked again, I might well be about to get done for mugging an old person.

I had had exactly three quarters of an hour sleep so far. Ollie had a cold and the paracetamol elixir that the doctor had prescribed – the one that makes children sleep for hours on end – had made my child completely hyper. We had been watching Bob the Builder videos for six hours and even he hadn’t been able to fix it.

My nerves were shot and if I heard Neil Morrissey sing ‘Scoop, Muck and Dizzy join the crew’ one more time I would be joining them as a version of all three.

‘Who the hell is it?’ I yelled as I opened the door.

‘My God gal. Is that any way to greet a pal?’ And there being battered by the wind and looking as great as I looked dreadful, was my old friend from college days Sal, straight off a plane from New York where she now lived.

As I pulled her inside joyfully and hugged her very cold, but very lovely, curvy form to my old saggy dressing gown, I burst into tears.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ When I finally released her.

‘I had a baby.’ I wailed.

‘Just the one?

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all it takes to do this?’ Sal said incredulously.

‘That’s all it takes.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Believe it.’ I said as Ollie began hollering from upstairs.

‘Is that the baby?’

‘That’s the baby.’

‘My God.’

‘This isn’t a very good time is it? If I had known your situation, I might not have come.’

‘Thanks.’ Sal had not changed a bit. She was still as tactful as she had always been.

‘No man?’ She asked as she followed me up the stairs to get Ollie.

‘No man.’ I confirmed. Fortunately she realised that this was not the time for details and didn’t press further.

‘No man either.’ She volunteered her own information as I shoved a boob in Ollie’s mouth.

‘Yikes. You let him do that?’ Said Sal mortified. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on.’

‘Four sugars.’ I yelled after her as she pounded down the stairs. ‘And a packet of Hobnobs.’ Sal had always been partially deaf.

-

‘...And that was when he left me.’ I came to the end of my sad tale of how Charlie had deserted me before, during and after the birth, Ollie having at long last gone to sleep at 7a.m.

‘I left Leroy after the Sue’s canal business.’ Sal countered.

‘What Suez Canal business? Wasn’t that donkey’s years ago.’

‘No it was last month I found Leroy in Sue’s canal.’

Sal was a tonic and hearing all about how she had fled Cambridge, not the university - but a travelling sales job for Boots - the chemist not the shoes – with West Indian boyfriend in tow – her penchant for short black men being very much at the fore back then, as it apparently still was – cheered me up no end. It also reminded me that I was not the only one to have hooked up with wrong man. Sal had always seemed so on top of things and probably always had been. I guess when all six foot of her Amazonian frame towered over the shorter boyfriends she was attracted to, it sometimes intimidated them and they sought solace elsewhere – apparently in Egypt.

In her usual impulsive way, Sal had come back to England with no home, no job and my address on the back of a Christmas card. We hadn’t seen each other for about ten years, but I was suddenly very glad we had kept in touch once a year. Or at least I was to start with.

-

Sal and I had worked together some years earlier for a magazine in Cambridge. I was married at the time – a very short time I might add – well, four months to be precise – until my husband demonstrated that he was allergic to work, marriage and apparently me. He went back home to mum for comfort and chips. I had offered very little of either

Sal had been my life-saver at this time of crisis in my life, although looking back, the first Simon’s departure – (there had been another one since) – had been small fry by comparison. If only I had been able to provide large fries, he would probably still be here.

Back then Sal had provided chocolate and wine. This time I provided board and lodgings and an extremely substantial amount of food. I guess all things balance out in the end.

My cottage only had two bedrooms, Ollie was still sleeping in my room as my attempt to move him to the nursery, had led to so much hopping in and out of bed, that I had given up and brought him back in with me. Sal had the choice of Ollie’s cot, the nursery floor or the lounge for her accommodation and chose my leather settee as the more comfortable option. That was until she found that sleeping in the raw, as was her wont, caused her to stick to it. After that, she camped on the floor in the nursery.

The cottage was certainly not the right place for guests and nor was I used to having anyone else – other than Ollie around. To start with it was nice to have the company and once Ollie got used to her, it meant I could pop down to Tescos and leave him with her, while I got in more supplies to feed my huge friend and my fast growing baby. That was the theory anyway.

The first time I attempted said trip, I took every precaution to cover potential problems. I had never realized just how much organizing one baby needs in order for mum to take one, twenty minute, excursion.

I mused on this thought as I prepared for my first independent excursion for some time. As mammals we do seem to need a great deal of stuff to survive. Birds only need a few feathers, some twigs and a beak full of worms and yet we are supposed to be the more advanced species.

I set Sal up with a bottle of expressed milk, a flask of coffee and the remote control. Teletubbies was on the video and Ollie was doing laps of the sitting room on his bottom. All seemed well, so I kissed him goodbye and left. I was half way down the road when my mobile rang.

‘He’s crying what to do I do?’ Sal said distraught.

‘Pick him up and give him the milk.’

‘Ok.’

I hung up and proceeded quickly to the roundabout at the bottom of the road where the phone rang again.

‘What now?’

‘He doesn’t like the milk.’

‘Yes he does. It’s breast milk.’

‘Well he doesn’t like the bottle then.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He’s got his hand down my jumper and he won’t let go of my boob.’

At this point, I turned the car round and went back to the cottage. I attempted to prize Ollie away from Sal, but he must have decided that her boobs, being somewhat more substantial than mine, were more to his liking. He refused to let go and was now busy trying to break through her jumper by biting with his few, but apparently very sharp little teeth.

By the time I had managed to separate them, Sal was wailing, Ollie was wailing and I was out in my usual cold sweat. I persuaded Ollie that less is more and shoved him on my own boob.

‘I think I better to do the shopping.’ She volunteered.

‘Good thinking.’

Two hours later she returned ever so slightly tipsy from the local pub. ‘I’ve done the shopping.’ She said as she placed two bottles of Chardonnay and six packets of pork scratchings on the table. She then collapsed in a heap on a chair and promptly fell asleep.

Ollie had worn himself out from crying and feeding and was finally having a nap, so I secured him in his bouncy chair and went in search of a cup of tea and some Hobnobs. I had just settled down to watch Dallas when the doorbell rang.

‘Hi, I’m here to see Sal.’ Said a short black man.

-

Leroy had apparently finished his expedition to Egypt and was wishing to return to home territory or at least go back up the Amazon.

By the time Sal had woken from her nap, I had made him two cups of tea and he had eaten all my Hobnobs. Ollie was still asleep in his bouncy chair, but listening to his tale or should I say fable of woe, I was feeling more than a little fraught and had missed Dallas to boot. This was particularly unfair as it was the episode where Sue Ellen gets a toy boy and whilst I had no desire to touch any more, I still liked an occasional look at what I was missing.

‘I’s still loves me woman.’ Leroy said, his eyes filling up. It woz all a miz-take. She get the wrong idea man and she run out on me man – she gone an’ break me heart, if you know what I mean – Man.’ He was starting to annoy me intensely and I wondered if this was perhaps the time to feed Ollie and prove once and for all that I was not a man - Man?

I had no wish to get involved in this crisis, Suez or other wise and I made a mental note not to send any Christmas cards this year. I had no desire for any more people turning up at my now increasingly over- crowded cottage. Given how many people I still kept in touch with, it suddenly dawned on me just how much my life was fraught with potential danger. I had friends who had moved all over the place and who knew where their lives might have led them by now? No - definitely no more Christmas cards.

‘Leroy – darling.’ Sal woke up and threw the huge weight of her body at the object of her affection who most certainly would have landed on the object of my affection if I hadn’t grabbed the bouncy chair and pulled it out of the way. The commotion was enough, to wake Ollie though and the sight of yet another stranger in the house caused him to scream loudly. Leroy, who in his eagerness to gain retribution, had appeared not to notice my baby sleeping, appeared to leap two foot of the ground, knocking yet another un-drunk cup of tea, mine, onto the floor.

‘I’m sorry Gal. I’m gonna have to go with Leroy. He is the only man for me.’

‘I’ll help you pack.’ I said with glee.

Two hours later my home was my own again. Ollie and I were curled up on the bed in my room, ensconced in my duvet. A huge glass of Chardonnay was sitting seductively on my bedside cabinet and pork scratchings were scattered all over the bed. Bob the builder sang, ‘Can we fix it?’ And joyfully I yelled. ‘Yes we can.’

Chapter 7

Whilst I was in the hospital giving birth, I had been conned in my vulnerable state to agree to a set of photos being taken of Ollie. The first was taken just after he was born and then every three months as he developed. Finally at the end of the first year one would be presented with a cheap photo album of photographs that had cost a small fortune.

Given that most women are extremely vulnerable after giving birth and those of us who have had Caesareans are also high on morphine, I would imagine that baby photography is an extremely lucrative profession.

The first three sessions had gone very well and Ollie had been quite happy to be perched on a large, fluffy and not very clean cushion whilst mummy pulled funny faces to get him to smile. However, the final shoot, just after his first birthday had not proceeded quite so well.

We set off in good time for our appointment and duly waited in the small area allocated to us in the back of the very shabby photographic studio, along with other mothers and a bevy of beautified babies in ribbons and velvet.

I had never been all that keen on dressing Ollie like a Victorian porcelain doll, so he was in his usual baby Gap jeans and a brightly coloured rugby shirt. Having given him a French name, I decided that pretension should end there.

Ollie was not his usual self that day. He had a bit of a cold, but nothing serious and he had eaten well at breakfast, along with his usual midmorning snack of boob and biscuits, so I wasn’t worried. However, just before our name was called, he began to wriggle a lot and whimper. He was a bit older now, so I guessed he must have become a bit camera shy and tried to reassure him.

I placed him carefully on the cushion and indicated to the photographer that we were now ready and standing opposite I began pulling the usual faces. Ollie began pulling the most unusual faces back at me.

‘Smile sweetheart.’ I urged. ‘Open your mouth and show us your lovely new teeth.’ Ollie obligingly opened his mouth and just as the camera flashed, he showed us the contents of his breakfast as he sent a stream of projectile vomit straight into the cameraman’s eye.

Needless to say, this was not the shot we used for the album, although the photographer’s face would have been a picture worth having. Once Ollie had got rid of his indigestion and his lunch, he giggled hysterically at his unfortunate target and no-one would have guessed that behind the cheery picture of my one year old son, sat a very cross, very smelly photographer.

-

Life with Ollie was never boring. It was like being on an outward-bound course every day. Whenever we went outward he would bound, often leading us in new exciting directions, along roads ‘far, far less travelled.’ We muddled along the two of us with no road map and every so often we fell into a proverbial ditch.

Charlie and mother still visited us every week and neither Ollie nor I looked forward to this. We were not equipped to deal with pond life and it was ‘never easy being green.’

Mother reckoned she knew everything about raising children. I would have to say she was seriously deluded. Charlie was one of three unbearable sons, but as her first-born he was the most under her spell and I use the word deliberately. Charlie’s mother could only originate from some strange cult, as I had never come across anyone like her before.

‘I didn’t feed my boys.’ She told me. ‘I didn’t get any milk.’ No, she probably produced eye of newt juice. ‘The bottle is best dear. Then you can use whichever formula you like.’ (Eye of newt and cat’s tails maybe?)

‘The health visitor says breast is best.’

‘Age and experience are what matter most. How old is she anyway?’

‘Fifty-five.’

‘Just a slip of a girl then.’ Mother continued clearly not listening. ‘Take no notice. They just can’t be bothered to show you how to mix formula. I, on the other hand, have had plenty of practice.’ I had to agree on this one, stirring had always been her forte.

I was reminded at that moment of a time I stayed with Charlie and was evicted by said mother for not ‘waiting on him.’ In fact, the opposite were true, I had waited on him and for him for several years and I had now given up waiting altogether.

Nappy changing was the other thing to come under scrutiny by the Witch of East – Anglia. ‘You should use proper nappies Dear, not those dreadful paper ones. It would make potty training much easier.’ I wasn’t sure of her logic here and nor did I wish to find out – memories of certain incidents with her son suggested that potty training had not worked that well. Whatever her methods had been, I was certainly sticking to disposal nappies and on some unfortunate occasions, sticking Ollie to them too.

‘This tea’s not got enough sugar.’ Charlie usually complained about something and was apparently incapable of walking six paces to the kitchen to get some. ‘It’s in the kitchen on the side.’ I was feeding Ollie and couldn’t get up.

‘You should get it Dear. You need the exercise. Nobody likes a lazybones.’ Said mother vehemently.

‘I’m feeding, I can’t.’

‘Well if only you would change to formula like I suggested…’ and so it went on. Only one morning a week, but it was like a punishment and all because some silly man in a wig and gown said they could come - So much for British Justice.

Ollie now attended nursery three mornings a week. I had decided at ten months, he was now old enough to be away from me for a few hours and anyway it was a case of needs must.

Whilst the Court had now secured a small amount of maintenance, I was still struggling to keep us both in tea and Hobnobs, so I decided I better resurrect my old career of teaching and set out to investigate the local facilities.

In the end, I settled for a nursery that ran adjacent to a gym. This was largely because Charlie’s mother’s comments about ‘laziness and weight’ had made me more body conscious. In reality I was only a stone heavier than I had been before I had Ollie, but in her eyes – albeit the eyes of a tiger – I was clearly hippopotamus material and as I didn’t possess the skin of the aforementioned animal, I had taken this somewhat to heart.

Three hundred quid later, courtesy of Amex, I was an off-peak member and Ollie was a peak member of the nursery. Until I got some clients or at least I decided what to teach, I would work on getting fit. This was the theory anyway.

The first morning I took Ollie in to nursery equipped with sippy cups, (bottles of course being out of the question), a hundred odd nappies – just in case – and baby food – a case, just in case. Well he was going to be there for two whole hours.

‘You will ring me if he cries. I’ve got my mobile with me and you have my home number. I’ll be in the gym for the first hour anyway, so I can pop back if you like.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll call you.’ The nice, very efficient and capable woman took Ollie from me, who immediately burst into tears. ‘He’ll be alright.’ She reassured.

‘He’s probably still hungry. I’ll just top him up with a bit of boob.’ I said, grabbing him back hurriedly. I didn’t dare tell her I had fed him before I left the house and once out in the car park already.

She nodded sympathetically. She had seen it all before and went to tend to another baby. Ollie stopped crying after his feed, but started again the minute I handed him back to the young woman. Once again she tried to prize him away from me and urged that I should now leave.

‘You will ring if he needs me. I’ll only be in the gym.’

‘Of course,’ she said glaring hard at me. ‘I decided that perhaps I had better trust that she knew what she was doing – I mean she was a qualified nursery nurse after all – and headed for the door.

I could still hear Ollie’s cries as I headed for the gym. I decided I would wait in the coffee bar in case I was needed. Ten minutes later I was back at the nursery door.

‘Just thought I’d check he was okay.’

‘He was until you came back.’ The woman was starting to sound a bit cross now. ‘Well if I could just feed him one more time.’

‘NO. Go to the gym.’ The woman said crossly. ‘Try to stay there for at least an hour. That’s all the time you have left now anyway.’

‘Okay.’ I reluctantly left my wailing baby and headed back to the coffee shop where I managed to down one cup of coffee before creeping down the corridor to the nursery and peering through the window. Ollie was now shuffling around the floor gripping a Tinkywinky doll and clearly happy as a sand boy.

I was about to go back for another coffee when I was spotted, not by Ollie, but by the woman in charge who beckoned me to leave with a rather purple expression on her face. Too late, Ollie had spotted me too and was now wailing again. I rushed into the nursery and got my boob out as fast as I could.

‘I think we better try again next time.’ The woman said with an air of resignation. ‘You are clearly not ready for this.’

It took some time, but I did eventually settle and get used to leaving him there, long enough to take some exercise.

I had placed some ads in the local paper for tutoring and had decided that as Voice Training was the most lucrative of the subjects I had taught before, I would resurrect that for the time being. The fact that it was the one subject I was not qualified to teach did not worry me any. I had bluffed my way through enough careers not to be daunted.

As it turned out when I eventually got some, the clients that came my way varied a great deal in their needs and required a somewhat more holistic approach. My actual specialist subject would have been very hard to pinpoint. Clearly Voice Training meant a great many different things to a great many different people, the emphasis being on different.

On the whole I chose teaching because it was the closest ‘sensible’ profession, to incorporate my two favourite occupations, acting and writing – the subject matter had never really seemed an issue. Most of my lessons ended up the same – a mixture of English, Computer Studies, Drama and French – in other words all the subjects I had ever taught.

I was a great deal happier to leave Ollie, since the arrival of a girl called Doris, to the nursery school. She was a short, chubby, pink-cheeked girl with enormous assets. Ollie had taken one look at her and fallen madly in love. Fortunately she had done the same and whilst her boobs were not milk-filled, like mummy’s they were big and bouncy and good for a cuddle.

The only problem was when Doris took a week’s holiday and Ollie, who was now having his lunch at nursery, refused to let anyone else feed him. Ever inventive, the nursery staff had solved the problem by getting a photo of his beloved and holding it in front of him, whilst he ate. This was fine, until I found I also had to have a copy of Doris’ photo for meals at home.

-

As far as my tutoring went, it was some time before I got my first client, so I spent quite a lot of my time in the gym getting fit. I was still giving Ollie a feed at night, but nursery had helped to wean him off day-time feeds and he only had those now for occasional comfort or when he could persuade me that he needed comfort anyway. He had become very adept at falling over and I sometimes wondered if his apparent little accidents were really genuine, or as fake as my teaching skills. He was certainly his mother’s son and knew how to get boob, by fair means or foul.

I started out quite gently at the gym, but encountered a slightly embarrassing problem when I went on what is ominously known as ‘the peck deck,’ to work on my upper arms. As I pulled the two bars on either side of me into my chest, two jets of milk shot straight out through my leotard into the bare midriff of an unsuspecting weightlifter.

Fortunately my target didn’t feel the milk shot through his bulk of muscle, but I quickly relinquished my position and moved to the sit-up machine where I lay down for half an hour on an upwardly tilted board. This was not because I was a ‘lazy bones,’ but because once having lain down, I found my stomach muscles were so slack that I couldn’t sit up. The blood rush to my head did help to revive me though and I had the best rest I had had in ages.

The following week I attempted the treadmill, afraid to do any arm exercises for fear of milk jets, I decided this was the safest option. The machine had a complicated operating process and various buttons to press to select your chosen program. There was no-one around to ask, so I pressed buttons randomly until the machine began to move. Working on a scale of 1-100, I chose level ten as a sensible place to start. Within seconds, I was running at Olympic speed and unable to stop. I couldn’t even reach the bar at the front of me to press the emergency stop button, as I had, accidentally, altered the panel for a person of about six foot eight.

Finally I was rescued by the same muscle man whose stomach I had given a milk bath. He pressed the emergency button and I came to an abrupt halt and was flung forward onto the floor, breaking both my front teeth. I got up on jelly legs, panting and with blood trickling from both corners of my mouth and through two pointed shards of teeth I held out my hand and panted. ‘Thanks. I’m Henrietta.’

‘Kurt.’ He said and he was.

-

By the time I got back to teaching, I had regained something of my old figure and two shiny new enamel teeth. I couldn’t tell you which bits of my body had altered exactly, but I persuaded myself that my overall shape now resembled something closer to womanhood than hippo-hood.

Sufficiently esteemed by the transformation, I accepted my first pupil for tuition. I had in the past taught a fairly cosmopolitan mix which had left me with a legacy of a Heinz 57 accent and a wonderful selection of international recipes. This time I secured my first English student, in both senses of the word.

Violet May was thirteen and looked about thirty. She had developed early and in more ways than one. Everything that could be pierced was pierced and that was just the bits I could see. She had big red hair, big boobs and a big attitude to match. A mousy brown woman brought her in and I refer here to her hair, not her body.

‘Violet needs some help.’ She squeaked. ‘She’s doing real bad at her lessons and her English ‘aint no good at all.’ (I wonder why.)

‘Is it oral or written English that she struggles with most?’

‘Written mainly. I think her oral’s pretty good.’ Her mother offered enthusiastically whilst Violet sniggered.

‘Yes, I expect it is.’ I glared at this monstrous teenager with the various pieces of shrapnel embedded in her face and wondered if I was going to survive the experience.

‘Don’t take no lip from her.’ Mrs Mouse continued. ‘Give her an inch and she’ll take a metre.’

‘A mile.’

‘No, I don’t think she’d go that far.’ I gave up.

Mrs Mouse scuttled off and I was left with Violet May who I felt most certainly would.

She slumped herself onto a chair and began twisting her hair and twirling the stud in her nose with a bored expression. I wanted to throw a bucket of water over her, but chose instead to ask politely. ‘Do you like to read?’

‘Sure, yeh.’

‘What do you read?’

‘Short things mainly.’

‘You like short stories?’

‘I like short magazines.’

‘Any books?’

‘Sure, yeh.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Can’t remember off hand.’

‘Can you bring one in to show me next time? Anything you like at all.’

‘Sure, yeh.’

‘Meanwhile you can read from one of mine. Have you come across Jane Eyre?

‘Is that the salon on the high street?’

It took us half an hour to get through one paragraph of Jane Eyre. Words of two syllables seemed to confuse her and punctuation was a complete mystery. I tried to keep optimistic that if she brought something of her own taste along for the next session, we might get further. At least I had earned some money and Mrs Mouse duly arrived to collect her monstrosity and left.

I had scheduled the second lesson for the following day, as she had asked for intensive tuition. She was not in need of intensive tuition, she was in need of intensive care – a brain transplant was her only hope, but I determined that I would carry on and get my twenty quid regardless.

‘Have you brought your own book this time?’

‘Sure, yeh.’

‘Would you care to read me a passage?’

‘Sure Yeh.’ She began, ‘In order to pleasure your man most, you must……’

‘STOP. What’s that? The Joy of Sex?’

‘So you’ve read it too. It’s great innit?’

‘I have not read it and neither should you be. This is English not Human Biology.’

‘I know. But this ‘aint Biology either – It’s sex.’

I decided I would have to go back to the original plan of choosing books for her myself. I certainly was not up to hearing the ‘Joy of Sex’ from a teenager particularly now I was not getting any of this particular joy.

‘How about A Passage to India?’

‘Didn’t know India had a passage. Is it the same as the Channel Tunnel?’

‘Have you heard of this book?’

‘My boyfriend’s got a book called India’s Passage. I could borrow that if you like.’

‘I don’t think it will be quite the same style of literature. How about Lord of The Flies? Know what that’s about?’

‘Trousers?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Emma?’

‘No – Violet May.’

‘Jane Austin.’

‘No still Violet May.’

‘The writer Jane Austin.’

‘No – the student Violet May.’

‘For God’s sake girl, have you ever heard of English Literature?’

‘No. Not read that one either.’

As far as studying English, Violet most definitely may not and I decided I wasn’t going to either. It would have to be back to the Chinese and a few more recipes for what to do with a noodle.

-

My next student was not Chinese, but Japanese. I was quite pleased as I currently lacked recipes for raw fish in my portfolio and had worked through my Chinese repertoire.

This time it was an older gentleman – a Mr Kimono – very small, very polite and spoke no English at all. His company, Mitsubishi, had relocated him but I never did find out his exact job description. I had been contacted by the firm and asked to bring his English up to speed. As it was currently at zero, I did not think we were going to make it past two miles an hour.

‘How do you do?’ I held out my hand as he walked through the door. He took it and bowed.

‘Do do.’ He said.

‘I am Henrietta.’

‘Do do.’ He said and bowed.

‘Would you like to sit down?’

‘Do do.’ He said and bowed. I signalled to a chair and he backed slowly towards it bowing as he went. He then missed the chair and landed on the wood floor where he appeared unable to get up again. He pointed to his back saying ‘Yow, yow,’ which I loosely translated as a couple of ows.

I offered my hand to pull him up, but he signalled to a cushion, which I placed, under his head. I think the two fingers he then held up meant two minutes – I hoped so.

Tea seemed a good idea, so I left Mr Kimono on his own and went to the kitchen to brew up. When I returned a few minutes later, he was sitting up, so I placed the tea next to him. He then held up one finger – indicating one minute – or so I hoped – and then bowed forward several times banging his head on my wood floor. He took ten minutes to drink his tea in careful sips, pointed at his back saying, ‘No Yow Yow,’ got up bowed five times and left. It was the easiest twenty quid I had ever made.

The second session with Mr Kimono we made a small amount of progress. I determined to greet him in his customary fashion to make him more comfortable, so when he came in I too bowed and our foreheads met in an extremely painful head on collision.

‘Yow yow.’ He said, pointing to the large red mark.

‘Yow yow too.’ I agreed, as I pointed to the egg that was now forming.

I went to the kitchen for remedies and within minutes we sat opposite each other – me with a bag of frozen peas, and Mr Kimono with sweet corn, placed squarely on our heads.

‘Yow yow gone now?’ I asked after five minutes had passed in silence.

‘No yow yow.’ Agreed Mr Kimono smiling.

I decided we better begin our lesson before time ran out and as he appeared to understand the concept of time, I held up first one finger – ‘one’ I said, and then two fingers, ‘two’ I said. We practised this for a few minutes and then I went off to make the tea.

In the meantime my little old lady from next door decided to surprise me with a visit and as was her wont walked straight through the front door and into the living room. She was clearly not expecting Mr Kimono, but he decided to greet her in what he now assumed was the English way, by putting first one and then two fingers up to her. I was just in time to see her fleeing from the room, as a very baffled Mr Kimono stood bowing furiously at the door saying ‘do do, do do, do do’ over and over again.

Much as I loved Sushi, I decided that Japanese was definitely not my subject and quit whilst I was still ahead and whilst we both still had a head.

-

Student number three was a French girl. I had a smattering of French so felt that there was some chance of struggling through. She was working as an au pair locally and her name was Marie-Antoinette, obviously after the famous queen.

Marie spoke some English, but it was selective. She was also very well built and clearly enjoying British cuisine to the full. Despite the wonderful reputation of French cuisine, Marie appeared happier with our local specialities of Fish and Chips, Pizza and Big Macs.

‘Food in England very good Madame. I like the Big Donalds and the Cheeps. We have in France, but I live in country – no Big Donalds there.’

This was going to be easy. We could spend our first lesson learning about food and I led Marie to the kitchen and showed her what was in my cupboard.

‘Hinz Bins.’ She read aloud.

‘Peel – chards – Hobe Nobes – Frere – Lees – Roosks. You like all these?’

‘The rusks are for my baby.’

‘You have babeee? Where it now?’

‘Baby at nursery.’ I said trying hard not to sound like Inspector Clueso. I had always had a problem with mimicry and even now still say ‘Yow’ when I fall over.

‘I know nursery. He is where they grow flowers.’

‘No, not that sort of nursery. This is a place for children. You know - a crèche.’

‘I no know a crèche. I know Big Donald, but no crèche. Why you no keep baby at home?’

‘He’s just there while I teach.’ I began to feel interrogated and irritated, not to mention frustrated.

‘You bad Mere – you must keep baby in home, not garden centre.’

‘Hey wait a minute. I am not a bad mother. I have to work for money.’

‘You no have man?’

‘No man – no money.’

‘You are loose woman?’

‘I am not loose woman – I just lost my man.’ It was time to lose student three too, so I pushed her out the door.

‘Where nearest Big Donald?’ She yelled.

‘Not telling – eat cake.’ I yelled, slamming the door.

Chapter 8

There is one thing that they never cover in all the books on childcare and that is what to do if you are ill and have no-one to help you. Even worse – what do you do if you are ill and your baby is ill and you have no-one to help you?

I had not given this problem much thought until the situation arose. I awoke one morning with ominous gurglings in my stomach and ran to the bathroom, where I was violently sick.

Feeling nauseous and burning up with a fever, I then went to get Ollie up and had just got him dressed when he was sick all over me. Having cleaned him up, I rang his nursery to say he would not be in and was told that several children had gone down with this bug and to keep him home for at least the week.

Fortunately I was currently without a client, so that was not a problem, but looking after a sick child when you are a sick mummy is not much fun. I decided I needed help and for once I was going to have to ask the last person in the world I wanted to speak to, for the help I needed. Just the thought of ringing Charlie made me feel even sicker, but it was needs must.

‘Ollie is sick and so am I. Can you come and give me a hand?’

‘I don’t want to catch anything,’ said Charlie charitably.

‘Can you get me some shopping then?’

‘I don’t go shopping. Mum gets it for me.’

‘Can she get mine too?’

‘You’ll have to ring her. I’m busy now.’ He hung up.

‘Hello. Sorry to bother you.’ I swallowed my pride, along with my vomit and rang his mother. ‘Ollie is not a bit well and I have the same bug. I was wondering if you could help out.’

‘I don’t want to catch it.’ Charlie’s mother said charitably.

‘Could you manage to get us some shopping?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs is there Dear? Don’t be such a lazybones.’

‘I don’t want to take Ollie out when he and I both have a temperature and whilst we’re being sick.’ I pleaded.

‘If you’re being sick, you can’t eat, so you won’t need any shopping.’ She said and hung up just as I was yelling ‘NAPPIES’, down the phone.

As expected, the sickness passed from one end to the other and nappies became extremely important. It was sod’s law that I had been about to shop when illness struck and as my computer had recently packed up, I couldn’t even shop online. My neighbour was away for her yearly SAGA trip to Brighton and anyway she had not spoken to me since the Kimono incident. I was well and truly stuffed as I became increasingly unstuffed and I was down to my last nappy.

There was nothing else for it. I would have to brave the supermarket and hope we could both stay well and truly stuffed until our return. I wrapped Ollie up and just to be on the safe-side, I stuck a roll of bin-liners in my pocket. I then drove as fast as I could to Tescos.

Ollie threw up on the journey and I had to drive with my head out the window, not to do the same. Once parked, I wiped him up as best I could with baby wipes and grabbed a trolley and sat him in it. Ollie was not one to be sick quietly. He was not one for becoming comatose and sleeping it off. He was one for protesting very loudly and he did, whilst I hurtled up and down the aisles in yet another supermarket dash.

I ended up at the end of a long queue with my legs crossed and my face contorted. I was holding both ends in and hoping Ollie would do the same. The man ahead of me had lost his Club card and was busy doing a long body search to find it.

‘Excuse me, but my little boy and I are ill. Could we go ahead of you please?’

‘No. I’m in a hurry.’ The spirit of chivalry was well and truly dead.

‘We have a sickness bug. It is quite urgent.’ I said.

‘I’m not letting you breathe on my shopping.’ He said. ‘I’m moving to another till. You can have this one.’ He then proceeded to take all of his sixty-five items and load them back into his trolley one by one. This had already taken about ten agonizing minutes more when I spotted an empty lane in the distance and fled towards it – just in time for the check out girl to place the ‘lane closed’ sign on the end of it. I now had a choice of two long queues and on the basis that women are more sympathetic than men as a rule, I chose the one where a pleasant looking well- dressed middle-aged woman was loading her shopping.

‘Excuse me. I am rather urgent. I have a sick boy and I’m not well either. Could we possibly go ahead of you?’

‘I don’t like people who try and queue barge.’ Said the not-so-pleasant well-dressed middle-aged lady.

‘Really, we are ill. I don’t normally queue barge.’

‘You look okay to me. So does he.’ She said, pointing to Ollie who was still yelling.

‘If you look closer you will see he has been sick.’ I insisted squirming and writhing in my attempt to keep from losing any bodily contents.

The well-dressed middle-aged lady stepped closer to my trolley to investigate, bending down just in time for Ollie to aim projectile vomit straight in her eye. She screamed and ran wailing out of the supermarket abandoning her trolley. I took my window and threw all my shopping on the conveyor belts and made it back to the car park just in time to throw up in a trashcan.

Once home, I managed to defumegate the car, myself and Ollie and finally he fell asleep long enough for me to unpack the shopping.

‘I hate, hate, hate you, Charlie,’ I chanted as I placed in the cupboard the stewed prunes, the gravy granules, a bag of onions and much to my surprise, a tube of pile cream. At least I had managed to get the nappies, but regrettably two sizes too large, which under the circumstances might be something of a problem. There was no way I was heading out again.

Half an hour later Ollie was on the settee with a nappy up to his armpits, wrapped round with masking tape and for added protection, he was sitting in a bin-bag.

As I cuddled my little package, I felt rather pleased with myself. I had proven I could cope under pressure, I had proven I could manage alone and most of all I had proven that without question I was not and never would be ‘a lazybones.’

-

Then there was the time when I developed an in-growing toenail. This was largely due to neglect. It is amazing how little time one has for the ordinary things of life when one is a full-time single mum. Teeth, hair, nails, all become secondary issues to more important things like eating, bathing and getting dressed. It was not even that I had Post-Natal depression. I would have liked it, but I didn’t have time to fit it in, amongst breastfeeding, changing, preparing baby food and entertaining my now quite large bundle of joy, there was just no time for anything else.

As a result of my busy round the clock schedule of ensuring Olliehood went as well as possible, certain things got forgotten or became less important. It was a case of prioritising and in the list of priorities, cutting my toenails didn’t come high. Finger nails could always be bitten, but as I was not that flexible, toenails had been left to grow and in the case of my big toe, it had given up waiting and decided to grow back in again.

The first indication of a problem was when it suddenly swelled up and turned purple. This seemed to happen over night. I immediately made an appointment with my very unsympathetic GP – the one who is good at listening – but not very good at medicine.

‘It doesn’t look that sore.’ He told me.

‘It’s agony.’

‘By your standards, maybe.’ He said annoyingly.

‘My standards are the same as most people’s. I don’t like agony any more than the next person.’

‘MMm…I think we’ll leave it for now and see how it goes or grows.’ He chuckled at my plight. I limped out of the office wishing I had kicked him with my other foot, but I needed it for limping on.

A week later I was back again.

‘It is green now.’

‘It may have to come off.’ He said, examining the mass of puss.

‘My toe?’ I screamed, alarmed.

‘Just the nail, it seems to have gone sceptic. Maybe you should have had antibiotics.’

‘Why didn’t you give me some?’

‘I don’t believe in too many.’

‘Not even for infections?’

‘Only when there is no other choice.’

‘There was another choice?’

‘This is it. I am going to remove your nail.’

‘I would rather have had antibiotics.’

‘This is better. More permanent.’

‘You mean it won’t grow back?’

‘Exactly. It won’t happen again, so that’s good isn’t it?’

If only I had changed doctors when I had the chance, but regrettably I had made him my son’s godfather, in the absence of knowing any other men and I sort of felt obliged to keep on his books since he gave Ollie a birthday present.

‘There is a plus side.’ He continued cheerfully.

‘What?’

‘I am very good at removing toe-nails. You won’t even need to go to hospital. I’ll do it for you next week.’

This was the good news?

So the following week whilst Ollie was at nursery, I hobbled in to the surgery.

‘This might hurt a bit.’ He said fully enjoying the moment, as he plunged an extremely long needle into the green offending digit and I heard a loud squelch as it deflated before my eyes. ‘I’ll just check it’s numb now.’ He stuck another needle into the toe as I screamed off the Richter scale. ‘Not that numb yet, we’ll give it a minute.’ He began sharpening his scalpel.

Seconds later he announced, ‘Should be okay now.’ He approached my toe with the very sharp blade and in a completely involuntary reflex action, my foot shot up and kicked him under the chin, knocking him flying backwards, blade in hand, which stabbed the arm of the nurse standing behind him.

Once the nurse had run yelping off to get an ambulance, he got back on his feet and completely unperturbed announced, ‘Well she was just in the way anyway. I always operate better on my own.’ The scalpel was wielded once more and this time I managed to keep my foot on the table, as I wept for the pain and the loss of my toenail. At that moment I wished I had been good at gymnastics, if only I could have bitten it, I might have saved it.

-

The other thing I found difficult on the pain and illness front, was injections. I am talking here of the routine immunization that begins at a few days old and is a regular part of our early lives.

The Health Visitor arrived with a bag at my house a week after Ollie was born to take a blood test. Apparently this is quite a new procedure, but they check for various diseases, most of which I have never heard of, but all of which are extremely serious. In order to take the test they stick a needle in the sole of the baby’s foot. It was extremely distressing and as I held out Ollie’s soft little pink heel for her, I had tears in my eyes. He screamed loudly as she plunged in the needle and again when I dropped him on the floor. He was completely unharmed and soon over the experience, but I was a nervous wreck for weeks.

I had just recovered from this first procedure, when the first immunization was due. This time I was told he would have two injections, one in both of his legs. The brutality of it all seemed cruel and vicious, but my need to protect him was greater than my need to escape to a different country where injections were not part of the culture, so I turned up.

I stripped him down to a nappy and waited with the other quivering jellified mothers for our turn. Those who were new mums were evident by their white faces and nervous twitches. The room resembled a mass of people with Terret’s Syndrome. We sat there jerking, twitching and shrieking as our babies were called to the torture room and we all came out ashen and still twitching after the experience.

‘You need to get some Calpol.’ A more experienced mother of three announced. ‘He may run a temperature and it helps them to settle.’ I thanked her for the information and drove as fast as I could to Boots where I equipped myself with an enormous bottle of Calpol and the most expensive thermometer on the market. I then set off home and waited to see what would happen.

The first few hours nothing happened at all. Ollie ate his lunch, played happily and watched Teletubbies, but by the time we got as far as ‘Teletubbies wave goodbye,’ he was less than happy and turning rather pink. No problem, I was forewarned and immediately got out my super-deluxe thermometer which I placed carefully in his ear and took a reading. The result was sub-normal which freaked me completely until I realised I had not removed the plastic packaging.

I tried again. This time the result was a few degrees up, so I administered the prescribed dosage of Calpol and then checked his temperature at five minutes intervals. It did not alter in the first thirty minutes, so I rang my friendly GP. The receptionist reluctantly put me through.

‘His temperature is really high.’

‘How high?’ (I told him.) ‘That’s not high. Ring me if it gets higher.’

Thirty minutes later it was up a few more points. I rang again. The receptionist sighed loudly down the phone and put me through.

‘That’s not really high.’ He said.

Thirty minutes and a few points later I rang again.

‘That’s a bit high, but nothing to be alarmed about.’

Thirty minutes and a few points later.

‘That’s quite high. Are you sure you are reading the thermometer correctly?’

‘I am. He’s burning up. Please come quickly.’

‘Okay. I’ll pop in, but I doubt if there’s anything to worry about. Give him some boob.’ He said and hung up. I had given him boob and it had not worked. I wondered if giving my GP some boob might get a better response. I was getting desperate and Ollie was whimpering.

Fifteen minutes later we were on our way to the hospital in an ambulance. Ollie had had an extreme reaction to the injection. At this point my GP had at last admitted that maybe, but only maybe, there might be something wrong.

The hospital was very busy and by the time we got seen, Ollie seemed to be much better. He had been attached to my boobs for about two hours, non-stop. I was completely dehydrated, but my magic elixir had cured him and the doctor sent us home with instructions for more Calpol and a gallon of water –for me.

It occurred to me as we were on our way back in a taxi, that if something as routine as a simple injection could cause this much anguish and worry, then I was never going to make it through the next few years without having a nervous breakdown or turning into Sue Ellen. I seemed to be on an obstacle course for which I had no training. I was starting to think I needed a new man to help me, or failing that a new GP.

Charlie called that evening. This was an extremely rare occurrence and had nothing to do with the fact that Ollie had had his first injection or a trip to hospital. I had mentioned the procedure to him during his last visit, but urgency had prevented me alerting him to the more dramatic result.

‘Can I bring someone with me on Saturday?’

‘Ollie had his first injection today.’

‘I know, but can I bring someone on Saturday.’

‘Don’t you want to know how it went?’

‘I assume it was okay or you would have told me. Can I bring someone with me on Saturday?’

‘He ended up in hospital.’

‘Well you’re back now. So he must be okay. Can I bring someone with me or not?’

‘Who?’

‘A friend.’

‘What sort of a friend.’

‘A good friend.’

‘How good?’

‘The kind that sleeps in my bed. Is that good enough?’ My hackles were rising fast. How dare Charlie have a social life when I could not? How dare he bring his social life here?

‘Is it a man or a woman?’ I asked bitterly.

‘Don’t be silly, a woman, of course. What do you think I am?’

‘You don’t want to know. Anyway the answer’s the same. It’s no.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

‘I can lock the door.’

‘Are you being obstructive?’

‘I guess I am.’

‘Check with your brief. You’ll see you can’t stop me. See you Saturday then.’ He hung up.

Seething with fury and extreme jealousy at the thought that Charlie was not only getting a social life, but also sex as well, and the injustice of it all, I rang Cruella for advice.

‘You have to reasonable.’ She said coolly. ‘He can bring someone if he likes.’

‘But it’s my home. Ollie’s my son. He has visiting rights, but surely no-one else does.’

‘If you appear to obstruct him in any way he will take it to Court and you will be seen as unreasonable. I know it’s not fair, but you have no choice and what is more your legal aid’s run out so I have to end this conversation now.’ She hung up. This day was going from bad to horrendous in less than sixty seconds.

As soon as Ollie had had his nightly glug of milk, I poured a large glass of wine and rang Sal in America. Now that she had left, we had resumed our friendship on a much better footing and anyway this called for desperate measures.

‘Hi Sal. How’s Leroy?’

‘He’s a bit down.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s where I like him. Just kidding. What’s up?’

I explained the forthcoming dreaded event and my disappointing call to Cruella.

‘Dress to kill darling, make him see what he’s missed and can never have again, and above all else don’t let her intimidate you. Remember if she’s with Charlie, she’s being used and abused and you’re not.’

Sounded like good advice and although I could probably no longer dress to kill, I could at least wound a bit. Make-up and the gym meant I was in reasonable shape and as I talked to Sal and emptied the contents of a nice bottle of Shiraz, my self-esteem grew. I would make Charlie sorry he had gone, but I would make sure he never got the chance to come back. This was the plan.

-

Saturday arrived and so unfortunately did Charlie and his woman. I had not slept the night before and I had downed a couple of bottles of wine, so the plan to look great was going somewhat awry. A thick layer of badly applied make-up did nothing to enhance the overall picture of sunken eyes, black bags and pallid complexion. I tried to conceal the latter with foundation that was too dark and blusher that was too red – the result was not too dissimilar to streaky bacon.

My body was easier to disguise. I could now wear Size 8 jeans again and I had rather nice boobs as a result of encasing the milky contents – better than surgery – in a wonder bra. If all else failed I could always use my nipples as water pistols.

I was both curious and furious as Charlie and his new girlfriend walked in. He, of course, led the way with her teetering on ridiculously high heels behind him.

First impressions were of a skinny ginger nut with no boobs, stick-like legs and poor co-ordination. She slipped on one of Ollie’s toys, fell into the baby-walker and zoomed across the room smashing into the wall – only in my imagination – but the thought was pleasant.

‘Hi I’m Barbie – like the doll.’

‘Hi I’m Henry like the Eighth.’ I did not accept the hand that was proffered, but did notice with satisfaction that she bit her nails. Looking at how long and lanky she was, I guessed she probably did toes as well.

Charlie slumped back in a chair. ‘Make us a tea will you.’ He drawled to either or both of us.

‘This ‘aint my house Sweetie. I can’t do it.’

‘Really, I don’t mind.’ I gave her a gentle push towards the kitchen.

‘Any biscuits?’

‘Actually yes. There are gingernuts in the kitchen.’

‘I don’t like those.’ Charlie whinged.

‘That’s a surprise. I thought you had recently developed a taste for ginger.’

‘Don’t be catty or I’ll have to speak to my brief.’

‘Speak to your brief if you want. No-one said anything about me having to be nice.’ My plan of keeping cool and seeming indifferent seemed to have gone somewhat awry. I took the tea from Barbie who slopped most of it on my wood floor by wobbling and sat down opposite the horrible pair and glared at them.

Charlie showed little interest in his son, as usual. The main purpose of this visit seemed to be to annoy me and he was succeeding. I was feeling petulant and puerile.

‘Would you like something else to eat or drink Charlie?’ I said through pursed lips. ‘I have ginger beer, ginger bread, ginger cake or just pure ginger, if you like.’

The girlfriend appeared to be thick, as well as wobbly as my not-so-subtle humour made not a dent.

‘Henry’s really sweet aint she Sweetie?’ She attempted to hold his hand, but he pushed hers away. Same old Charlie, no touching, no cuddling, no emotions and definitely no commitment.

I suddenly felt quite sorry for Barbie. She was clearly an airhead with no future either with him or without him. The only thing she had going for her were her long white stick-like legs protruding from an over short miniskirt – no doubt Charlie’s choice. He had always been a leg man, mainly because he was a bottom man and on the basis that if enough of the legs were exposed, then the bottom of the bottom would be too.

‘Charlie bought me my skirt. Do you like it?’ Ginger stick announced, embarrassed by the silence. Ollie had shuffled to the end of the settee and gone to sleep on my lap with one had possessively stuck up my jumper.

‘It looks like a skirt he bought me once.’ I replied without interest. ‘You must be on the third or fourth date. He usually buys skirts around then.’ Barbie looked blank.

‘Hey you might even last long enough to get a gold clock.’ I said bitchily.

‘We didn’t come here to be insulted.’ Charlie said furiously.

‘What did you come for?’

‘To see my son.’

‘Really. Well now you’ve seen him.’

‘You’ve been really horrible to us.’

‘I offered you biscuits, cake, ginger beer – oh and wait, I even have a present for you.’

‘This is in case you decide you do like ginger nuts after all.’ I handed him a voucher from my purse for a free bottle of red hair dye. ‘You might as well match.’

Surprisingly they didn’t stay for another cup of tea.

Chapter 9

Ollie was developing in magical ways before my eyes. He was about to hit his first birthday and somehow amazingly we had made it through the first year.

There were all sorts of firsts that followed this milestone, the first time he got off his bottom and pulled himself up on the settee, the first time he fed himself and the greatest first of all, the first step – although this came a little later.

Ollie seemed reluctant to walk. He had found a very efficient way of getting about and on the basis that ‘if it aint broke don’t fix it,’ he decided that he would shuffle around for as long as he could. He was very active, so I wasn’t really worried, but I did feel a little concerned when we hit fourteen months and there was no sign of getting off his little behind and onto his little feet. I had visions of us shuffling along the pavement to school and I did everything I could to encourage progress.

I had purchased a baby walker – a kind of vehicle on caster wheels that he could use to whiz up and down the sitting room. He loved this and at least he was semi-upright when in it. He did knock me flying a few times in his urgency to get around, but it still didn’t seem to give him the impetus to walk.

He had had a baby bouncer for some time and would happily jump up and down for ages proving that his muscles were strong and flexible, but he still preferred the bottom for his main mode of transport.

The Health Visitor said that there was nothing to worry about, so I stopped worrying and decided that I would just wait until the day he would surprise me with his first step. My contemporaries at the ‘Mum’s and Tot’s’ group we now attended once a week in the local village hall all considered the lack of walking to be an advantage.

‘Once they’re up, they don’t go down again and then they can reach everything.’ A mother of a baby who had started to walk at ten months warned me. ‘Jemima got hold of my husband’s stapler off his desk the other day and stapled his trouser legs together while he was reading the paper. He didn’t realise until he got up to answer the phone and fell flat on his face. ‘Now she has lost interest in her toys and wants the stapler all the time.’

‘My son got hold of the alarm clock and altered the time. My husband overslept by two hours and nearly got fired.’ Another told me.

The more I heard, the more I realised that Ollie’s shuffling was a blessing. I didn’t need any more problems to face.

I had recently had to start cooking proper meals for us too, having existed on microwave specials for a year. Ollie was past the jarred food stage and needed more substantial sustenance. Cooking had never been my forte, although I was extremely creative, but where cooking was concerned sometimes I hit and sometimes I missed. I could not follow a recipe book to save my life and whilst I wasn’t quite Rea from Butterflies, I was no cordon bleu cook either.

The cooking meant spending longer in the kitchen than the thirty seconds I had needed before and with the absence of a partner to watch Ollie whilst I cooked dinner, I had to block the kitchen off so he didn’t shuffle under my feet whilst I did it.

The cottage kitchen was tiny by most people’s standards and there was certainly no room for more than one cook at a time and a small cook at that. I began with simple things like Spaghetti Bolognese and made vat loads of it to freeze – until I found that pasta doesn’t thaw as quickly as the meat. We ended up with the equivalent of Stalactites on toast and my sauce gave a whole new meaning to the words tomato coulis.

Somehow we muddled along and fortunately Ollie was not a faddy eater, in fact he was adventurous beyond his year. I put this down to having to eat my weird concoctions. I hoped he would grow up willing to try pretty well anything and have an iron gut constitution, two things that I felt certain would stand him in good stead whatever he decided to do.

-

I planned to hold Olivier a party for his first birthday. Determined that he would not miss out on anything through the lack of two parents. I rented out a room at the gym and borrowed toys and Doris for the afternoon.

I needed funds and was forced to ask Charlie, who agreed on the basis that he and his mother and the Gingerstick could attend.

‘It’s still on then?’ I asked. This must be serious it was all of three months now and for Charlie that was quite a long time. Ours was one of the few relationships that he had had that had lasted more than a few months and that was mainly because we were ‘off’ far more than we were ‘on’ and I had had holidays from the relationship with a couple of other guys.

‘Barbie is much more supportive to me than you.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘She let’s me be myself.’

‘Don’t you mean by yourself.’

‘Well, yes she is not as demanding as you.’ I guess this meant she didn’t ring, didn’t expect to see him more than once a month and was entirely there for his convenience.

‘I might marry her.’ He said, hoping to provoke me.

‘Sounds a good idea, but just remember you’ll have to see her more than once a month if you get married.’ There was silence at the end of the phone.

‘I might not marry her just yet.’

‘Thought not.’ I hung up.

-

I was determined the party would go without a hitch. I ordered a cake to be made. There was no way I was attempting this particular feat myself. I chose a Teletubbie cake – Tinkywinky to be precise – the one with the handbag – well it showed I was PC if nothing else.

Charlie’s mother wanted to help out. She rang up to see if there was anything she could do, much to my surprise.

‘You could make some jellies.’ I suggested.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean cooking dear. I don’t do cooking. My housekeeper does that. Anyway I am sure you can do those. I wouldn’t want to do much. I know you can be a bit of a lazy bones and I don’t want to encourage you.’

‘Well what would you like to do?’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘I can bring the napkins.’

‘Fine, do that then.’ I put down the phone crossly. ‘I had been up since four 0’clock getting things ready for the party, writing invitations and putting party bags together. If I was a lazybones, then she must be half dead. I was tired and wound up and for once I was not prepared to let it go. I rang her back.

‘I’ve thought of something you can do to help.’

‘What dear? Nothing too strenuous I hope. I am bringing the napkins.’

‘Bring your broomstick as well. You can help to sweep up afterwards.’ I put the receiver down feeling much better and went to get Ollie ready for nursery.

Armed with the invitations for his little friends, I set off singing to my favourite Barry Manilow song. Sadly my taste in music has always been as weird as my taste in men.

My mobile began ringing just as I got out of the driveway. I put the breaks on and grabbed it. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s me. You were horrible to my mother.’

‘Is that all you rang for. I’m taking Ollie to nursery.’

‘She’s very upset. She’s not sure if she’s coming to the party now.’

‘Let me know when she is sure she’s not coming and then I can really celebrate.’

‘I’ll have to call my solicitor.’

‘Your solicitor can’t make me be nicer. There’s no law that says I have to be nice to your mother.’

‘I’m going to ring and find out.’

‘Good. You waste your money if you want to. I’m late now. Goodbye.’

Forty-eight hours later there was a letter. Following the usual preliminaries, it read:-

We consider your actions to be hostile and unreasonable particularly on the implication that our client’s mother is a witch. We understand from our client that his mother is elderly and frail and has been deeply distressed by the phone call with yourself. We also understand from our client that you have asked his mother to do some cleaning for you which we consider to be entirely unreasonable and bears out our client’s mother’s suggestion that you are an extremely lazy person…

Cruella was not that helpful. Apparently the forms for legal aid had not even been sent off yet and she could not comment until more money was in hand. ‘Try to be nicer,’ was her only suggestion. I pondered on this and thought ‘okay’ if I couldn’t be nasty, then I would be nice. I would be so nice I would choke them all with my nice-ness and if that failed I would choke them with the cake.

Mother’s twelve stone frailty turned up anyway, along with her anorexic antithesis – Gingerstick.

Ginger was dressed in a pillar box red mini-dress and knee length boots. ‘Puss in boots’ sprang to mind, but I greeted her with my new niceness and said ‘Hi Barbie. Love your dress – did Santa bring it?’

‘I get it. You mean Charlie don’t you.’ She tittered.

‘I’m sure Charlie is more of a gnome than a Santa.’ I countered, my niceness slipping for a moment.

‘A mischievous little elf.’ Barbie giggled.

‘Not quite how I would describe him, but I guess you could say that.’

‘What am I then?’ Asked Barbie. (An idiot sprang to mind), but I replied diplomatically - ‘I guess you’re Mrs Gnome.’

The toddlers were shortly assembled in the room and Doris soon had them seated for ‘pass the parcel.’ Mother squashed herself into a plastic chair by the table laid up for party tea and began munching her frail lips through a plate of egg sandwiches. I smiled over at her as I thought of how bound up she was going to be for days.

Charlie was circumnavigating the room with a video camera that seemed to be directed mainly at Gingerstick’s bottom.

The majority of the parents who accompanied their offspring to the party knew me as a single parent, so nobody realised that Charlie was Ollie’s Dad and assumed he was a hired cameraman. I did nothing to dispel the myth, as I was enjoying the fantasy of Charlie being a form of hired help.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ Gingerstick was at a loose end. Charlie hadn’t brought her along for conversation and mother was probably planning her eviction at that very moment. This thought led me momentarily into an unfortunate memory of Charlie’s mother attempting to evict me from his house, or more precisely his bedroom.

I was momentarily distracted by the thought. On this one occasion in the distant past myself and my lazy bones were languishing in Charlie’s bed with a particularly nasty dose of tonsillitis- my punishment from the gods for going out with such a cretin – the illness, not the eviction – (once I got to know Charlie better, I had no problem evicting myself on a regular basis during his tantrums which was pretty much at the end of every date.)

‘Well can I help?’ I was jolted back into the moment by the over-enthusiastic puppy-like pleas of Ginger.

‘You can blow up balloons if you like.’ I said generously as I handed her the packet of two hundred.

‘Oooh. Thank you.’ She genuinely seemed pleased to have some other purpose than being a walking bottom for Charlie. Half an hour later she sat passed out amidst sixty or so yellow balloons. Her deficiency in the boob department obviously extended to her lungs. I left her to sleep it off. There seemed little point in waking her – She had given me her last breath – I could hardly ask for more.

Charlie had videoed most of the blowing up session. He was clearly aiming to get both sets of cheeks on camera and once he had caught her passing out on film, he lost interest.

Much to my satisfaction, I overheard one of the Dad’s asking Charlie if he could video his daughter’s birthday party.

‘What do you think I am a bleedin’ photographer?’ Said a disgruntled Charlie.

‘Well, actually yes. Aren’t you?’

‘I’m Olivier’s father.’

‘Gosh. I’d never have guessed. I mean you don’t seem that involved – with his mother.’ He added quickly.

‘I’m not. I’m here for my son.’

‘That’s nice.’ The man was clearly embarrassed, so I intervened.

‘Bill. This is Charlie – Olivier’s father. He pops up now and again.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Bill scurried off to where the parents were assembled and seconds later all eyes were on Charlie who was not at all happy.

‘Why didn’t you tell them I was Ollie’s Dad?’

‘It didn’t seem relevant.’

‘Of course it’s relevant.’

‘Well if you were relevant, I’d have told them. But so far all you’ve done is video the Gingerstick’s bottom and what is more you’re mother’s eaten all the egg sarnies.’ Mother was now snoring in the corner – two down only Charlie to go.

‘Don’t be rude about my girlfriend.’

‘Well you seem to be rude about her. What with videoing her backside for half an hour.’

‘I was not. I was taking choice frames of the party.’

‘Long lanky frames of Gingerstick you mean.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Show me what you have on tape.’

‘I will when I have it all put together.’ With that he shot off and began frantically videoing Olivier and the other kids playing ‘pass the parcel.’

‘Come and join in.’ a friendly and very nosey mother invited as he approached, picking Ollie up and plonking him on Charlie’s knee.

‘Alright.’ Charlie said without enthusiasm. Barry Manilow started up again and the toddlers passed the package around to the lively tones of Copacabana until the music stopped at Ollie and Charlie.

Charlie ripped the newspaper open and grabbed the chocolate bar. ‘Yummy. My favourite.’ He had eaten it in seconds and Ollie was now wailing.

‘Hey. That was for your kid. What kind of a father are you?’ Bill appeared behind him.

Charlie stood up, chocolate dribbling down his chin. ‘I’m a good father. I paid for this party and videoed it. How dare you?’

I was trying to console Ollie with another chocolate bar. I didn’t care about Charlie. He was getting what he deserved.

Bill, who I actually didn’t know at all well, appeared to want to sort Charlie out. I was quite happy to let him. The solicitor had said I had to be nice, but she hadn’t said anything about anyone else.

‘Do you want to go outside and discuss this?’ Bill asked Charlie. (What a nice man, I thought as I envisioned perhaps the loss of a few teeth. That would even the score a bit. I had recently had mine capped and could now smile again with confidence and the thought of a toothless Charlie made me smile with a great deal of confidence.)

‘I don’t want a fight.’ Charlie simpered. He had always been a coward where men were concerned, despite his ability to push women around.

‘Ah. But I do.’ Bill said determinedly. ‘I want a fight very much indeed. I don’t like men who mess women around and I particularly don’t like men who abandon the mother of their child.’ Wow I didn’t even know him and he seemed to have hit the nail right on the head, now I only had to wait for him to do the same to Charlie.

I didn’t have to wait long. Charlie was taken outside and offered two choices – I later learned – go away or get beaten to a pulp. He chose the former.

Mother was roused from her corner and went off to comfort her son and no doubt concoct a few spells to cast on me. Gingerstick was soon revived with a quick dousing of lemonade and wobbled off behind them.

I waved them all off nicely and returned to the party. We then cracked a bottle of champagne and Bill and I sang ‘Could It Be Magic?’ whilst the toddlers danced and fell over each other. Ollie did his own version of the Shuffle.

When I got into bed that night, tired, a little merry still and with a happy little boy cuddled up beside me, I mused on the day. All in all it had been a good one - We had ‘faced the music and danced.’

Chapter 10

Five months after his first birthday, Ollie decided to surprise me by suddenly getting up off his bottom and taking his first few steps across the room. He had clearly decided that it was time I did my own floor polishing.

He was fairly unusual in that he went from 0-60 in one day, as far as steps were concerned. It seemed that one moment he could not walk and then he could go the length of the room. I reckoned he had secretly been building up to it for some time, but had decided that staying on his behind was preferable to going ahead. He probably practised walking whenever I was out of the room.

Once up, he was up for good and raring to go. He now needed a great deal of exercise too to tire him out. The baby bouncer and walker were now too small and we had to move to the ranks of ride-on toys that had even greater power to knock me flying.

I decided not to tell Charlie of the new development and let him find out on his next visit. If he couldn’t be bothered to phone me regularly, which he could not, then I felt no obligation to keep him informed.

Saturday dawned and so did Charlie. He had taken to bringing Gingerstick every time now. I think it was the only trip out that she got. She was still clinging on to Charlie for dear life and I imagined she was still only there by a suspender belt. Charlie had always had a penchant for women’s undergarments, but usually on women rather than stick insects, but so long as she kept herself mini-skirted, stockinged and silent, she would probably be kept in tow.

Ollie toddled to the door when Charlie arrived grinning broadly. Charlie walked right past him and didn’t even notice that he was on his feet.

‘Any tea?’

‘Don’t you notice anything different about Olivier?’

‘He’s had his hair cut?’

‘No.’

‘He’s got new clothes?’

‘No.’

‘Well, in that case, I give up. You’ll have to tell me.’

‘He’s walking.’

‘Hasn’t he been doing that for some time now?’

‘No.’

‘Oh well, if that’s all. Can I have some tea now?’

I wanted to kick him very hard, but decided Cruella would think this unreasonable and being done for assault may not work that well in my favour.

Gingerstick went off to make the tea. I didn’t stop her. It was the only time I got anything done for me and I figured it gave her something to do.

‘You shouldn’t get Barbie to wait on you.’ Charlie grumbled.

‘Why not? She waits on you.’

‘That’s different. She’s my girlfriend. She always makes my tea.’

‘Well she can do mine while she’s at it.’ Charlie couldn’t immediately think of an answer so sat and pouted instead.

Gingerstick came back with the tea a few minutes later and as usual slopped it all over the floor. I was past caring. I was fast changing from Monica to Phoebe, Friendswise, - and had given up my cleaning obsession in favour of a getting-someone-else-to-make-the-tea obsession. As I only got to indulge this once a week, I was not going to waste it.

‘Nice tea Ginger, er I mean Barbie.’

‘What did you call her?’ Charlie snapped.

‘Barbie – I called her Barbie.’

‘No you didn’t. You called her Ginger.’

‘I called her Ginger Barbie – it was a term of affection.’

‘How sweet.’ Barbie simpered. ‘I like that.’

‘No you don’t.’ Charlie said sharply.

‘Don’t I?’ Barbie looked crestfallen.

‘Say sorry to her.’ Charlie ordered.

‘Sorry Ginger.’ I just couldn’t help myself.

Charlie was about to jump in again, but Ollie got there first. He had got hold of the remote control and hit Charlie on the head.

‘Yelp.’ He wailed.

‘Oh dear.’ I was trying, but not that hard, not to laugh.

‘You taught him to do that.’

‘No. He thought it up himself. I told you he was bright.’ Ollie was giggling and Gingerstick was trying to stroke Charlie’s forehead, but accidentally poked him in the eye instead.

‘Get off me you idiot.’ He pushed her away and she began to cry.

‘I was trying to help.’ She wailed.

‘Well don’t. Get in the car. I’m taking you home. I want my mum.’ Ginger wobbled off to the car and Charlie headed for the door.

‘I’m going to sue he said.’

‘You can’t sue a fifteen month old toddler – who happens to be your son at that. Don’t’ be ridiculous.’

‘I’ll sue you then.’

‘What for?’

‘For teaching him to do that.’

‘You can’t sue me either.’

‘I want my mum.’ Wailed Charlie.

‘Go get her then.’ I said without sympathy. ‘I’m sure she’s got some lotion for you or should I say potion?’

Charlie stomped off to the car and drove off with a screeching of tyres. Ollie and I carried on giggling for a while and then I rang Sal to giggle some more.

I had come to the conclusion that Charlie may be remote, but he certainly wasn’t in control.

-

Ollie and I had quite a full life in many ways, what with my teaching, nursery, mums and tots groups and visits from Charlie. However, I still had little in the way of a social life. The gym had done its job of getting me fitter and I had made sure I didn’t get fatter, so theoretically I was now fit to be seen.

The main problem was that I was a single mum and whilst other mums were happy to have me round to their houses for coffee in the day, I was not invited when hubby was around. This meant lonely nights and weekends. Ollie was usually asleep by Seven-thirty and as I still hadn’t managed to get him into his own room, I usually ended up hopping in with him by eight or nine as there was little point in staying up on my own and the duvet was fast becoming my security blanket.

The lack of social engagement meant that I had worked my way through endless episodes of Dallas, Dynasty, Knot’s Landing and Friends. In fact, I had watched series that I had never seen when they were first shown on the telly.

I could now appreciate the joys of Sex and the City, even though I wasn’t getting sex in the country. Ally Macbeal was worth a watch for Robert Downey Junior alone and I realised that in all the years of going out, I had missed a great deal of excellent television. I vicariously lived my life through the box, until I could climb out of it.

It is amazing how quickly one gets used to situations and how soon they become comfortable. I could no longer perceive of a night in the pub or even a dinner out in the evening and the thought of leaving Ollie with a stranger, was inconceivable to me.

It was not that I felt I needed a man. I had actually come to the conclusion that I was better off without one and Ollie was great company during the day. It was just that nights could seem long with no adult company other than my fantastical friends on television and of course my allotted two glasses of Chardonnay. But neither telly nor wine could speak back to me – except when on the rare occasion I had too much.

I wasn’t quite sure where my life was heading either. My whole day was geared around the home. My work, my role as a mother and my vicarious substitute for a social life, all involved staying in. It occurred to me that if this continued, I might end up staying in for good. I knew that change must occur, but it was some time before I came up with an answer that posed a reasonable question.

In the meantime, I enjoyed motherhood. It was hard work sometimes purely and simply because of the constancy of my role. I couldn’t hand the reins to anyone when my old complaint of Tonsillitis hit and I had forgotten what it felt like to have a lie-in. Being ill and having lie-ins were luxuries for those who had managed to get themselves married. I belonged to the ranks of the ‘do-it-yourself’ brigade and do it myself, I did.

Ollie was remarkably happy and well adjusted. He was one of the most secure children one could ever wish to meet and that I put down to my constant presence. I knew that I would have to get a night out sometime, but when I thought of who I might meet if I did, not to mention who I had already met, I wasn’t encouraged to venture forth. What was more I lacked a single girlfriend and my other mother friends had no need to get out. They had hooked their fish and fried it and now they had spawned their roe, they were in Taramasalata heaven forever.

_

‘I want to take Ollie out with Barbie on Saturday.’ Charlie phoned late one Friday night.

‘You can’t and you’ve just woken us both up.’

‘I can and I will and why are you in bed at ten 0’clock? You never used to be.’

‘I have a child now and I am up at five thirty.’

‘You should get up later then.’

I didn’t have the energy to explain. I wanted to go back to sleep.

‘You’ll be hearing from my brief if you don’t comply.’

‘Okay. Look forward to it.’ I put the phone down and found that I couldn’t get back to sleep. I phoned Sal, as it was almost daylight in the States.

‘Can he do that?’

‘I think he might be able to.’

‘But he hasn’t even fed him or changed a nappy and I doubt Gingerstick is any more capable.’

‘You need to speak to your solicitor. Have you got your legal aid sorted out yet?’

‘Not sure. But he’ll be coming tomorrow anyway and I’m not letting him take him out then.’

Sal and I chatted on for some time, but I felt no better. She had never been in my situation and despite being sympathetic, she knew no more about the rights and wrongs of the situation than I did. I hung up before my phone bill meant a re-mortgage.

Sleep was gone for the night. I watched four box sets of Ally Macbeal and then lamented the loss of decent viewing material. By the time I had finished and dozed off, Ollie was awake and wanting his breakfast.

I staggered out of bed weary and disheartened. What if Charlie could take Ollie out? I was not prepared to leave Ollie with a stranger and even less so a strange man and his strange girlfriend. I would have to ‘go to the mattresses.’ (I have never watched The Godfather but I have watched You’ve Got Mail.)

‘We’ve come to collect him.’ Charlie stood on the doorstep clutching a large bin bag.

‘You’re not putting him in that.’

‘Don’t be daft. It’s provisions. I bought a few things for our day out and I thought you might like to see them.’

‘You’re not having a day out.’ I glared at him.

‘Why?’

‘I told you. You don’t know how to look after him properly.’

‘I’ve brought Barbie with me. She can look after him.’

‘Has she ever looked after a baby?’

‘No, but she’s looked after me.’ I was tempted to say he had a point, but my need to protect Olivier was greater than my need to offend him.

‘Not quite the same thing unless you’ve taken to wearing nappies.’ Memories of certain holidays with Charlie made me think this would not be a bad idea, but I jolted myself into the present.

Holiday memories of Charlie were not enjoyable thoughts. A certain tendency to wet the bed was still fresh in my mind and blaming it on my cat too. My beautiful cat who had been re-housed when my beautiful son arrived – regrettably she was no more baby-friendly than she had been Charlie-friendly.

‘Don’t be sarcastic. I’ve packed what we need in this bag. Have a look.’ I remembered Charlie’s holiday packing, the lack of essential items, like underpants and I didn’t hold out much hope for his packing for a day trip.

‘There’s no point. He’s not going.’

‘Just take a look anyway.’ He emptied the contents of the bin bag into the middle of the floor. It included; - a bottle of Coke, six packets of cheese and onion crisps, a packet of Pampers – aged newborn – two packets of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum – (I hadn’t even realised you could still get that) – a frozen meat and potato pie and a pair of Charlie’s smelly socks.

‘What do you think?’ Charlie asked looking pleased with himself.

‘You must be joking.’

‘What’s wrong? I’ve got food and nappies and even extra socks for if he’s cold.’

I shoved the items back in the bag and handed it to him. ‘Go speak to your solicitor. He’s not going with you and while you’re at it show him what’s in this bin bag.’ I pushed him out the door.

He sauntered back to his car – a recent update to a top of the range Porsche – two-seater, of course. ‘I’ll be back and you’ll be hearing from my brief.’ He shouted over his shoulder.

‘You need to get a few more things.’ I yelled back.

‘Like what?’

‘Like a new car.’

As he drove off, I was not that worried. What with the car and the bin bag – what could I possibly have to fear? But I had not considered one possibility - A possibility that could and would make all the difference - The possibility that Charlie’s solicitor might be a woman.

-

Charlie was distinctly deficient in skills in most departments. He had not been well endowed with brains and was not even an exceptional lover – but he had two things going for him – his ability to make money by foul means and his ability to attract women with fair means. He had passably good looks and whilst age was deteriorating them somewhat, he was still acceptable to women of a certain age and with a certain sense of desperation.

With more frogs in the world than princes, there were plenty of women on whom Charlie could prey and it seemed that despite the semi-presence of Gingerstick, he was still very much at large.

Charlie had always used a certain learned and rather basic charm of the FHM variety to woo his victims and I use the word decidedly. I am quite sure Tricia could fill a room with the many destroyed women that fallen his way. Once Charlied - never forgotten – unfortunately.

Charlie used this basic drone like charm to get his way in any tricky situation. As long as there was a woman to pull, he knew he would get the edge. He would use his fatal combination of feigned little boy lost type innocence and even more feigned big boy prowess, to lure and ensnare and once trapped, he would toy with his prey, but never let it out of the pen.

It would have been kinder to eat and be done with it, but Charlie’s appetite had never been that voracious. Women ended up picked at, but never eaten whole.

Charlie had clearly used this basic instinct to convince his solicitor that he was ‘the innocent party’ and either she was desperate and stupid and believed him or she was desperate for his money and prepared to go along with him. It didn’t really matter which – the outcome was the same. Someone who was willing to do and say whatever he wanted – a legal mistress in at least one sense of the words.

I was ignorant to this fact. The first time we had gone to court, a sidekick of the firm had been sent to represent Charlie. The main vulture had been away on holiday and at that point the matters were considered trivial enough to be dealt with by a lesser being.

On that occasion they had sent a boy to do a man’s job. I had naturally assumed that next time they would send a man.

The summons duly arrived and a court date was fixed for two weeks hence. This would decide whether Charlie was fit to take Ollie out or not and whether Gingerstick could go along.

My legal aid had been agreed at last and I spent a wearisome time with Cruella who held less than no hope of us winning the case.

‘Can’t you be more positive?’ I asked feeling frustrated at her apparent disinterest and apathy.

‘No. He will be allowed to take Ollie out. There is not much I can do to stop it.’

‘Why not? You’re a solicitor. Shouldn’t you fight for me?’

‘Maybe. But I don’t see much point.’

‘Why not? Charlie’s solicitor is prepared to fight for him.’

‘Yes. They are clearly working hard for him.’

‘Why don’t you then? Would it make a difference if I was not on legal aid?’

‘Well you do tend to get better service.’ Cruella nodded, staring openly at the clock.

‘That’s not fair.’

‘I know. Time’s up.’ She said and closed my file. I wondered if she had ever really opened it.

-

So far I was not doing great on professional help. I had a doctor who wouldn’t doctor, a solicitor who wouldn’t solicit and I had not that long parted with a cleaner who wouldn’t clean.’

If I had had more time before the Court hearing, I would have changed solicitors at this point, but Court was now only a week away and Cruella would have to do. I was done for. I could only hope that Charlie’s solicitor would perform badly on the day, but that didn’t seem possible and of course, it wasn’t.

-

On the day of the Court hearing, I dressed the part, as advised. Although I had forgotten to ask which part I was dressing for. I turned up in a Gucci pin stripe borrowed from my wealthy cousin Celia and was immediately ticked off by Cruella.

‘You should have worn rags.’ She said. ‘You need to look hard done to.’

‘I’m trying to preserve my self-esteem.’ I excused myself.

‘Well don’t. The Judge will think you’re doing well and your maintenance could be up for review.’

‘But if I were in rags he might think I had gone to seed and couldn’t cope.’

‘Mm. That’s a possibility.’ Cruella nodded.

‘Seems I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t then.’

‘Probably.’ She said looking bored.

We were seated in a large foyer outside the room where the hearing would take place. Rows of plastic chairs were filled with white-faced mothers in rags, sniffing and ringing their hands with worried looks on their faces. On the other side of the room, sat men of different shapes and sizes and from all walks of life –but they appeared to have two things in common and that was smugness and as I glanced around the room, I noticed they were all accompanied by a female brief.

Right on cue, Charlie walked in with his solicitor. She was tall, willowy, powdered in the cracks, with a slash of red lipstick. She was at least sixty, but the glint in her heavily made-up eyes suggested that she still had a few miles on the clock and it might have been Charlie’s clock at that.

‘Oh dear.’ Cruella said without much real distress.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s got Mrs Savage. She’s got a bit of a reputation.’

‘What for?’

‘Winning all her cases.’

‘But you’re good aren’t you?’

‘Not bad, but not in her league. I think you’re probably stuffed.’

I looked over at Mrs Savage – she had probably been stuffed too.

Suddenly our names were called. We set off to our room and I avoided any eye contact with Charlie who appeared completely nonchalant and laid back about the whole thing.

‘Oh Dear.’ Cruella whispered as she spied the judge.

‘Don’t tell me. He hates women?

‘He doesn’t like successful blondes.’ She glanced at my suit once more. I noticeably shrank within my pinstripes, but tried to remain optimistic. We weren’t at the mattresses yet. There may be a few springs to pull after all.

‘Exhibit A.’ said the Judge who disturbingly reminded me of Toad of Toad Hall.

Charlie’s solicitor produced the bin bag. Got ya – I thought. Clearly Charlie was thinking the same, as onto the table the contents – Pampers – the right size – baby lotions and potions of all varieties and some healthy snacks were laid out before us.

‘That’s not what was in the bag.’ I mumbled furiously under my breath to Cruella.

‘You can’t prove it.’ She whispered back.

‘He seems well equipped to look after his son.’ Said the Judge.

It seemed that Charlie, along with this old bag, had found a new bag and now they had it in the bag. I was defeated without a single spring being sprung.

‘It was inevitable.’ Said Cruella without compassion. But I had had enough.

‘You’re fired.’ I said, also without compassion.

‘Okay.’ Said Cruella and walked off in pursuit of clients who could pay.

As I raced towards my car, I was just in time to see the back of a man getting into Cruella’s car. I couldn’t quite be sure, but it looked incredibly like Charlie. But could I ever prove it? I could not. In the case of the old bin bag, it was three to Charlie, none to me. It seemed Cruella’s being fired, had backfired.

-

It was time to take serious action. If I was going to out-manoeuvre this lot, I was going to have to get a new solicitor and a male one at that. It was time to get my mattress resprung.

Chapter 11

The pinstripes were out again. It was the one decent outfit I possessed and I extended my loan with Cousin Celia. Although, since her current man was a jockey and she spent most of her time in the loose boxes, she didn’t really need it any more.

‘Why don’t you keep it darling? I’m sure you’re need is greater than mine.’ She offered magnanimously. Well, that was certainly true. But it was time for the worm to start turning. I was going to go back to the mattresses and I was going to make sure that a few bugs were put in Charlie’s.

-

‘How long were you together?’ Alistair Mackintosh – my new solicitor, asked.

I didn’t reply immediately. I was too busy taking in his tallness, his dark-hair, his ruggedly handsome features and his public school twang. His fringe flopped seductively into his eye as he bent over the piece of paper he was writing on and for the first time in almost two years I was nearly a woman again.

‘Er. On and off for five years.’ I replied, feeling tongue-tied and shy all of a sudden.

‘That’s quite a long time.’

‘Not really. We only saw each other for about two months, if you add up the days we were actually together.’

Alistair gave me a big winning smile and I fluttered in a way that I thought I had forgotten how to do. As I stared into his big brown extremely sexy eyes, all thoughts of Robert Downey Junior were obliterated. Who needed a fantasy brief, when one could have a brief fantasy?

‘You’ll need legal aid, I take it?’ Alistair continued.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Is that a problem?’

‘Not at all. I like pro-bono work.’ I bet you do, I thought, smiling.

I always knew that one day my solicitor would come and looking at this one, there was every possibility that he would.

‘I’m going to appeal.’

‘You already do.’ Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice my responses. ‘Yes.’ I quickly snapped myself out of it.

‘We’ll get this decision reversed. I know Ms Savage and she can be quite vicious in court. But I tend to choke with cream myself.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I mean I bet you’re good at choking…. er, with cream, or anything else…. good at your job, I mean.’

‘Try not to worry in the meantime. The good thing is your son will still be seen at home until we go back to court. Will that do for now?’

‘You’ll do very nicely. I mean that will. I mean time I left.’ I scuttled out of the door, red-faced and flustered. As far as briefs went, I was quite sure I had just found the best a woman could hope for.

I fantasised about Alistair all the way home. In two years I had not needed a man, but I had needed a good solicitor. Now I had a solicitor who on first impressions appeared also to be a good man. I wouldn’t go so far as showing my briefs to my brief, but I would practise a little flirting. If Charlie could ravage Ms Savage, then I could have a little play with my Mackintosh.

I picked Ollie up from nursery with a spring in my step, if not in my mattress. I was up for anything now. We would defeat Charlie and Gingerstick and keep them to damage limitation, but maybe that wasn’t enough. I knew that ultimately my life was going to have to take a new twist, but at the moment all that mattered was the twist I had, Olivier.

-

My teaching was going along fine, but I was suddenly filled with the need to do something more radical. Every so often I would get these bursts in life where it was a case of ‘all change places’ and I would set off in a new direction. It was usually after something major had happened in my life and nothing could have been more major than the birth of my son.

It was Alistair who reawakened my desire, but strangely not the one I thought he would. My crush on him was a momentary infatuation and I soon relocated him to the ranks of Robert Downey Junior and lusted quietly in my head. But I did find myself filled with passion once again and it was the passionate need to write. Alistair had provided me with the two essential ingredients I needed most, amusement and a muse.

‘You need to find a way of getting all the angst out.’ He said on our second meeting. ‘I know Charlie is a toad of the lowest order – off the record – but if you are to stay objective and cool in Court, then you must get all the grievances you have out of your system.’

‘Couldn’t I just talk to you about it?’

‘Legal aid doesn’t quite cover it, but a diary would be good. Why not fill a journal or something with all the rotten stuff? It could be quite therapeutic.’

I had kept journals at different times in my life – I saw no harm in giving it a go. I found an old notebook and began to scribble when Ollie was in bed, but every time I wrote something down, I found it seemed ridiculous and beyond belief. This wasn’t a journal. It was more like a story – a tragic-com and it reminded me of something too.

I rummaged in the attic and there it was - the book I had begun writing on holiday in Italy one year when my life had been in crisis too. I wiped off the dust and read a few of the typed pages. It was the beginning of something. I had the middle in my journal downstairs. Why not? I had always wanted to write my wrongs and now I could. I would do it for fun or I would do it for earnest and if he didn’t like it, I would do it for me.

More searching in cupboards and there was the disk with the pages saved onto it. I quickly loaded it onto my laptop and I didn’t close it until four in the morning. I had something – I wasn’t sure what – but I definitely had something.

The phone woke me at seven and I started to regret my artistic endeavours of the night.

‘I’d like to see Olivier.’ Charlie’s mother announced. ‘I’ll be over at three o’clock.’ She didn’t wait for a response.

I had a pupil coming at three for private tuition and I was about to ring her back, when I decided to let her come anyway. Ollie would be at nursery, but if she hadn’t the courtesy to ask me, I wasn’t going to put her right. Putting her right was not something I was at all equipped to do.

Charlie’s mother arrived at twenty past three. She had got lost on her way to the cottage. She had only been there half a dozen times before and was still a little vague on directions. She did not knock anyway, but I had gone into the kitchen to make a coffee for my client, a forty-year old businessman with a cockney accent, who was keen to speak like Alistair Burnett.

‘Who are you?’ Mother was taken aback at finding him there.

‘I’m Fred.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m ‘avin some oral coaching missus. What about you?’

‘I’m here to see my grandson. Where is he?’

‘Don’t know nothing about that. ‘Enrietta’s in the kitchen.’ Fred came to find me.

‘Some bleedin’ fat woman ‘ere to see you.’

I came out to see an irate Ma Toad.

‘Where’s Olivier and who is the man? Is he your boyfriend?’

‘No. He pays me for oral tuition.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ Mother was busy drawing her own conclusions and I revelled in her disapproval for a few moments.

‘Oral what?’

I put her out of her misery. ‘Voice Coaching, elocution. He’s learning to speak properly. You can join in if you like. I’m sure Fred wouldn’t mind.’

‘Are you trying to suggest that I don’t speak prolifically?’

‘Proficiently. You are prolific enough.’ I corrected.

‘Whatever. Why isn’t Olivier here?’

‘He’s at nursery. I can hardly teach with him here.’

‘Why are you teaching?’

‘For money, of course.’

‘Charlie gives you money.’

‘What Charlie gives me wouldn’t keep a hamster.’

‘Well I think you should be with your son.’

‘I don’t think they take adults.’

‘Don’t be fresh Dear. I am glad you are trying to get over your lazy streak, but having men to the house – is completely un-she struggled for the word – un – ethable.’

‘Excuse me. Can I butt in here? Me time’s runnin’ out.’ Fred had finished his coffee and had come out from where he had been hiding in the kitchen. I had almost forgotten about him.

I propelled mother out of the door. She did not go quietly.

‘You should have told me Olivier wouldn’t be here.’

‘You should have asked me.’ I gave one final push and she was gone.

‘I will have to tell Charlie about this.’ I could here her protesting loudly as she headed to the car.

‘Get lost.’ I yelled after her and at least I could be fairly sure that she would.

-

This time Court went very differently. Alistair was a far cry from Cruella and he soon persuaded the judge that Charlie was not equipped to have Ollie on his own or with the Gingerstick. He had prepared a simple questionnaire to illustrate Charlie’s ignorance in matters of childcare. Charlie was forced to answer it without anyone’s help.

‘What should you do if he runs a temperature?’

‘Call my mother.’ Said Charlie.

‘What if your mother is not available?’

‘Call my girlfriend.’

‘If your girlfriend is not available?’

‘Call my cleaner.’

‘All of that takes time. Have you never heard of Calpol?’

‘What would I want a knife for?’

‘Calpol, not scalpel. I rest my case your honour.’ And this time we had it in the bag.

That was not quite the end of it. Ms Savage was not prepared to give up the fight without a fight. She asked that Charlie be educated in the skills needed to look after Ollie. The judge liked this idea and allocated a short course in childcare to be run by myself at my house. He would come round on a Sunday morning to bath Ollie, give him his breakfast and change at least one nappy.

‘What time do you suggest?’ The judge asked with total disinterest.

Alistair conferred with me and I suggested 6.30 a.m. I wanted Charlie to suffer.

‘6.30 am your honour.’ Alistair announced, trying not to smile.

‘Good. 6.30 it is and in four weeks a Court appointed assessor will come and see how progress has gone. We will reassess the situation after we have seen her report.’

Her, the word her hit me square between the eyes. I looked at Alistair in despair.

‘Don’t panic. Wait and see what happens over the next few weeks. By the way, how is the journal going?’ He did his best to reassure me.

Over a coffee, I told Alistair about my story. It was fast becoming a novel. He was genuinely interested and asked if he could see some of it.

‘Let me do a bit more and then I’ll show you.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ He said and downing the last of the dregs of his coffee, he headed back to his office. As I watched him go, I was still overwhelmed by how handsome he was. He would have been my type, but now with Ollie and my novel – I didn’t need a type – just to type.

-

Charlie didn’t even make it for the first session. He called me at eleven-thirty to say he was running late and I told him we were off out now and Ollie was bathed and dressed.

‘Are you being obstructive?’

‘No. I’m going out to be constructive.’

‘You are supposed to let me come and bath him.’

‘You are supposed to come at 6.30 am.’

‘Why can’t I come now?’

‘Because he doesn’t need bathing twice.’

‘Can I come tomorrow instead?’

‘No.’

‘Sundays are difficult for me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I go out with me mates on Saturday and I need a lie-in to get over it.’

‘Don’t go out with your mates then.’

‘I have to. I need the stress relief at the end of the week.’

‘See you next Sunday. Goodbye.’ I put the phone down and jotted in my notebook – First Sunday – no show! I was one up and had only three to go. Alistair was right. There was nothing to worry about.

-

As part of the Court’s assessment, the appointed official had to come and see me with Ollie at my home and then see Charlie with him. I had no fears. Ollie was happy, loved and well cared for, but it annoyed me that I had to prove that.

‘Keep your cool.’ Advised Alistair. ‘It is unfair, but it can only do your case good. Anyone can see you’re a good mum.’

Okay. So I would be cool. I was a seething inferno inside, but I would be Mount Everest on the outside. Let’s face it; I had the boobs to do it. In the breastfeeding department, I had been in peak form – two peaks to be precise. I felt sure that would go down well.

-

‘I didn’t feed my kids.’ This middle-aged, badly dressed, Norfolk broad – told me when she called the following week. ‘Don’t believe in it. But I won’t hold it against you.’

‘Thanks.’ This was not getting off to the best start.

To make matters worse, Sandra, the woman in question, had a damaged foot. She was limping from a bunion removal operation and naturally it was making her grouchy.

She plonked herself down on the settee and asked if she could take her shoes off. Seconds later a smell, not unlike Cheesy Wotsits, pervaded the room.

‘So how long were you with the father?’

‘Five years, on and off.’

She seemed innocuous enough – despite the lack of milk production – I took in her form – it was diminutive – chubby. She had short red hair and freckles and very pink cheeks. She reminded me somewhat of a garden gnome.

Red seemed to be a prominent colour in my life at this time, what with Gingerstick and Sandra – I couldn’t get away from it. Everywhere I looked I was seeing red.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘I don’t drink caffeine, It’s bad for you. I’ll have bottled water if you have any.’

‘Sorry I don’t. Will tap water do?’

‘No. I don’t drink that either. It’s too full of chemicals.’

I was feeling less confident by the minute. But I reminded myself that Ollie was the person she had come to see and that it was his welfare, not hers that counted here.

Olivier had been sitting quietly on his play mat playing with Lego, but he suddenly lost interest and toddled over and began pulling at the bandage on her foot. She didn’t seem to notice. She had her head bent over a clipboard with some ominous looking forms on it. I could see he had begun to unravel the bandage, but found my mouth paralysed.

‘Look mummy.’ A triumphant Ollie held up the bandage to show me and Sandra yelped as he stuck a Lego brick into the exposed cavity where her bunion had been.

I don’t suppose I helped my case any by bursting into hysterical laughter.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I tittered, trying hard to suppress my mirth, without success. I guess the combination of stress and the absurdity of the situation just became too much for me.

‘It’s okay.’ She said clearly meaning it was not okay. ‘I need a drink though. Have you any decaffeinated coffee?’ Naturally I did not.

Sandra seemed to write copious amounts on her stack of papers and then left with her mouth set in a firm line. It was not the line I had hoped for and I immediately rang Alistair, looking for reassurance.

‘I can’t pretend it was the most desirable outcome. But if she is any kind of a reasonable person, she will leave personal feelings out of it.’

‘I wanted her to like me.’ I wailed down the phone.

‘I wouldn’t bank too much on that.’ Alistair said. ‘But try not to worry. Maybe she won’t like Charlie either and we both know he is unlikely to be competent and that is what is at stake here.’

Charlie made it the following Sunday and turned up at five a.m, just to be awkward. He got Ollie and I out of bed and then bathed him in a vat of bubbles that brought him out in a rash.

‘You don’t need to put the whole bottle of baby bath in.’

‘Are you being tight fisted?’ Charlie asked missing the point as usual.

‘No. I am trying to save him from developing scurvy.’ I rinsed Ollie off and went to get dressed. My mood was not improving by being caught in my oldest nightie with holes in it and my most bobbly dressing gown.

‘I’m going to get dressed. Can you manage to give him his breakfast?’

‘No problem. Does he want a bacon sandwich?’

‘Oatmeal will do.’ I said. ‘Can you manage to make some milky porridge do you think?’

‘What do you think I am? Useless?’

‘Yes. But I’ll give you the benefit this time.’ I was looking forward to my first uninterrupted bath in nearly two years and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I found I couldn’t relax enough to stay in the water more than ten minutes. Who knew what havoc Charlie may be wreaking downstairs and what was more I had just remembered that my diary was on the sideboard – the one where I logged all the nasty things Charlie did for my solicitor. I dressed hurriedly and went to see how breakfast was going.

Ollie was seated at the table with a bowl of what could only be described as solid globs in front of him. Charlie was trying to hack at it with a spoon and Ollie was giggling at his efforts.

‘What the hell is that?’ I asked.

‘It’s a packet of oatmeal.’

‘You used a whole packet?’

‘Are you being stingy again?’

‘You don’t use a whole packet. Haven’t you ever made porridge before?’ But I knew it was a silly question. Charlie did nothing for himself. His mother did everything. She shopped, cooked and presided over his cleaner and gardener and to expect him to make a bowl of porridge, had clearly been too much to ask.

I took over proceedings at that point. It was obvious that Charlie could not cope and I made sure I noted all the incidents down.

At least from the assessment point of view, I could be glad that things had gone badly. But it was depressing that this was the man who had fathered my child. Despite the fact that it meant I was well equipped with ammunition for Alistair, I wished that things could have been different or at least that he could have been different. However a leopard does not change his spots, only give his child spots and on that basis it seemed unlikely that this particular leopard would not get unsupervised access.

I felt a little more optimistic as he left, mainly because he had left. Next week we were going to meet with Sandra at Charlie’s house. He would then show her what he had learned – nothing. He had had his rope and hung himself. I felt confident that things should now swing more in my favour.

-

As I drove up the long winding and extremely bumpy driveway to Charlie’s detached farmhouse, located in the middle of nowhere, it brought back memories of hopeful expectancy and dashed dreams, not to mention dashes from the property. I wished Sandra hadn’t decided to see us there. She had suddenly asked to see his home, which if he was to take Ollie there, was probably reasonable, but I did not wish to return to the home of my nightmares.

As I pushed open the back door and went in, I could hear noises in the living room. There was a voice – Charlie’s and there was responsive laughter – Sandra’s. I wondered how long she had been there. I was soon to find out.

I announced our presence and went in. Ollie was delighted to see the presence of a new police buggy and went to investigate. It seemed Charlie was using his only advantage – money – to impress and it seemed to be working.

The laughter stopped as I entered. Sandra was sitting next to Charlie on the settee and they were very cosy. This was not a good start.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Charlie directed the question at both of us.

‘Have you any mineral water?’ Sandra asked and naturally Charlie did.

‘I’ll have a cup of tea.’ I said dismally.

‘Sorry, I’ve given up drinking anything with caffeine in it. I only drink decaffeinated drinks now.’ This was news to me. He had drunk six cups of tea on Sunday.

Sandra’s face lit up. The man of my nightmares was fast becoming the man of her dreams. It seemed that Charlie had done his homework. There was no way this was a lucky coincidence.

‘Have you been here long?’ I asked Sandra, as Charlie went off to get the drinks. I had a feeling she had not only been there a long time, but more than once.

‘Oh not that long.’ Sandra was evasive. ‘Charlie seems nice and so good with Olivier. He clearly loves his police buggy.’

Ollie was whizzing round the living room having a ball. This was not boding well for us. What was more, Charlie had somehow managed to get the sitting room toddler-proofed with all the latest safety gadgets from Mothercare.’ Someone must have helped him and I felt sure I could see the top of a Mothercare carrier bag poking out of Sandra’s handbag. Could I prove it though? Probably not.

After an agonizing hour with Sandra and Charlie, Olivier and I set out for home. My position was not strengthened by the fact that he did not want to leave his new police buggy and I had to drag him kicking and screaming out the door. I was bereft. At that moment, Charlie had the advantage and the advantage looked to be Sandra.

-

Alistair was trying to sound optimistic, but I could still hear an element of doubt in his voice.

‘Don’t worry she has to give you an objective report. This is not about what kind of groceries you stock or whether Ollie stuck a brick in her foot. It is about whether he is well cared for and no-one could argue that point.’

‘But Charlie’s got her in his pocket and other places too, I don’t doubt.’

‘Even if he has, you can’t prove it and I wouldn’t challenge the Court’s choice either. It may not help your case.’

‘Does anything help my case?’ I said frustrated and angry that Alistair couldn’t batter them all to death.

‘I will help you. Meanwhile how’s the book going?’

‘It’s no good trying to change the subject.’

‘Use your anger to motivate you. Get it all out on paper.’ Alistair was in the wrong job. He was the wrong kind of counsellor.

He was right about one thing though. I wrote like fury when Ollie had gone to sleep that night and by the time the Court date came round, I had written half a book. I hadn’t read it – so I had no idea whether it was good or not, but the more I put down and the more I put Charlie down, the less I felt down and that was a very big something indeed.

If I couldn’t fight then I would write and if I couldn’t win by fair means, then I would win by foolscap.

Chapter 12

Mrs Savage was seated next to Charlie and directly opposite me. Her black beady eyes stood out particularly dark and foreboding against the plaster of Paris that she seemed to have applied to her face. It was probably just as well she didn’t smile much.

Alistair sat next to me looking handsome in pin stripes that matched my own. He did not hold with Cruella’s belief that I should dress in rags. ‘You need to keep your dignity in tact.’ He counselled. ‘Self-belief helps a lot in these situations.’

Despite being suited and booted to kill, I still felt that we were the ones most likely to be slaughtered, but I did as Alistair advised and tried to look confident.

The Judge walked in moments later. My heart sank. It was a different Judge. It was a woman, a woman who could have passed for a man at a distance, I grant you, but from the looks of her large frame, bulging cheeks and horror of horrors – bright red hair – I didn’t think this was going to be a woman who liked smart blondes any more than the next man had. Once again I was seeing red and it was not a pretty colour. I had flashbacks to childhood and ‘a big red rock eater’

Charlie smiled winningly at the Judge and began flirting instantaneously. How he could do it without throwing up, amazed me, I was very nauseous and only just keeping it at bay. I could see from Alistair’s face that he was not pleased to see the ‘rock eater’ either.

Charlie’s brief was brief on this occasion. She made a case for Charlie’s competency based mainly on lies he had told her as he smiled and winked at the Judge and then sat down.

My heart sank. I was well and truly stuffed. But in my grief and lack of self-belief, I had forgotten something. I had a brief who was not filled with grief and nor did he lack self-belief. What was more he was a handsome man. He was more handsome than Charlie and he could speak the lingo – The lingo of the Courtroom. Who needed to spin a line, when you could use words like – presiding over and plea? Plea was a word that seemed to please the ‘big red rock eater.’ To be pleaded to by a handsome man was clearly her dream. I don’t think she listened much to anything other than his use of the word plea.

‘And so your honour, I make my client’s plea that her ex-partner, a man of little experience in matters of childcare, be supervised on his visits until he has grasped the necessary.’

Looking at the self-satisfied look on his face, I guessed Charlie had grasped the necessary the night before. He did not seem unduly perturbed by my solicitor’s pleas. I am not sure he even knew what a plea was. He was too busy trying to get the judge to look at him and winking so much that he appeared to have a nervous tic. But the Judge had been moved by Alistair and appeared to be moving in the right direction. There was only Sandra’s report now to worry about and that was next on the list.

The ‘Big Red Rock Eater’ read it out loud for all to hear.

…The father seems competent and generous with his son. He seems to be health conscious and knowledgeable in aspects of health care. I believe him to be perfectly capable of taking care of his son unaided. He is currently single and I understand that his own mother is an agreeable and helpful woman and lives nearby should assistance be required.

Single…Agreeable …Helpful…. I nearly yelled the words out loud, but a look from Alistair reminded me to keep quiet until we had heard the verdict on me.

…The mother seems erratic and disorganized. She is not particularly health conscious and has little control over her son who she appears to allow to assault visitors. I think she could do with some help with parenting.

It took me all my time not to leap out of the chair and strangle Charlie to death. Alistair was on his feet though and strangely seemed unworried by the report.

‘Your honour we have both come across the Assessor in question here. She has had only one meeting with both parties and cannot possibly form such a harsh judgement on my client in such a short space of time. I would also like to add that my client told me of the incident where her son showed consideration beyond his years by wishing to redress the bandage on the lady in question’s foot. Surely this can only demonstrate how well he is being raised.’

Much to my amazement the Judge nodded and smiled. She was clearly moved and she then moved in my favour. I wondered if Alistair knew something I didn’t. He did.

It seemed that luck was on my side for once. This particular Judge had had a run in with Sandra in the past and did not appreciate her pro-men approach. The Judge was not pro-men, because they had never been pro-her and despite being a pro, she ruled with my pro-bono against Charlie’s money and took little notice of Sandra. Maybe it was just a case of the dog siding with the underdog.

Ms Savage was incensed and asked for extra time to get Charlie trained up to standard. The judge denied it and said he had had time enough. She would reassess the situation in a year’s time, but for now Ollie and I were safe.

I hugged Alistair much to his surprise, but he didn’t object. ‘Keep writing and call me if you need me again.’ He squeezed my arm and our pinstripes parted company.

‘Would you like a quick coffee to celebrate?’ I asked, spurred on my by success.

‘Why not? But let’s make it a longer coffee and go into town for it.’ I was not going to object and as I climbed into Alistair’s Jag – I caught sight of Charlie looking extremely disgruntled and so he should for I was leaving with a very shiny Mack and all he had was his savage Mrs.

-

Ollie was talking and walking to the dozen. He was bright, interested and interesting and had a voracious appetite for life and anything chocolate covered. Consequently he was often chocolate covered himself.

My life was a perpetual laundry and as fast as I could wash, he could mess. But we were happy and settled and the only thorn in my side was Charlie.

Gingerstick was no longer a feature. Not surprisingly he had got bored with her and as far as I knew, he had not yet replaced her. He was at a loose end and needed to get his end tied to a loose woman, but until he did, he lingered behind on visits and bugged me instead.

One day he overstepped my threshold and my hospitality by announcing ‘we could hop in the sack for a quickie if you feel like it. It wouldn’t have to mean anything.’

‘It never did mean anything.’ I countered, irritated by his gall.

‘Well then. It would be just like old times and we could do it for old time’s sake.’ Charlie continued, ‘Just as friends.’

‘We are not friends and I have no desire to hop anywhere with you.’ I was hopping all right, but not to the bedroom and I soon told him to take his sleazy suggestions and hop it out of door.

‘Say that again and I will do you for harassment.’ My recent victory was still fresh in my mind.

‘Are you sleeping with your brief then?’ It was inconceivable to Charlie that I might not need to sleep with anyone and even more inconceivable to him that I could resist him.

In Charlie’s mind, there must be a reason for my abstention. There was – I found him totally abhorrent. This man, who had once been the epitome of my desires, was now everything that was horrid in my eyes. This epitome was not going to get a bit of me.

‘It’s none of your business.’ I was not going to shatter Charlie’s illusions that someone else wanted me. Let him think that our pinstripes had crossed.

‘I don’t like the idea of men coming to your house.’

‘Well don’t come then.’

‘You know I mean your solicitor.’

‘He doesn’t come to the house.’

‘Well where do you go then?’

‘To his office.’

‘What do you do there?’ I was having fun and I wasn’t going to stop now.

‘We have brief discussions about similar interests and sometimes we just exchange briefs.’

‘Are you taking the rise?’

‘Are you rising?’

‘I don’t like it when you’re being smart.’ Charlie was pouting. I had always been able to outwit him with words and now he was completely stumped. ‘I’m going home. I want my mum.’ He whimpered.

‘Send her a Hubble bubble from me.’ I watched him walk off with a far less cocky step, his shoulders slumped – my honey had turned into the honey monster and now he was off to ‘tell mummy about his honey.’ I had never really liked Sugar Puffs

-

The next time Charlie visited Gingerstick was back. He had clearly reinstated her to cover his humiliation. I didn’t care that much and really just felt sorry for her. No one deserved Charlie, but I must admit it was nice to have tea made for me again.

Ollie was getting used to her. He called her ‘the red woman’ largely because of her hair, but it was appropriate and made me giggle, especially when he said it in front of Charlie.

‘You taught him that.’ Charlie was paranoid as usual.

‘I did not. He is referring to Ginger.er I mean Barbie’s hair. I really think he is a bit young to understand the implication of a scarlet woman, don’t you?’

‘I don’t mind being a red woman. I think it’s rather sweet.’ Gingerstick said obligingly her people pleasing skills well in tact. She patted Charlie on the arm.

‘Get off will you.’ He pushed her hand away. Either she was thick skinned or perhaps just thick, but she didn’t seem offended. Perhaps she was just getting used to his bullying ways, but if she wanted affection, she had come to the wrong man. I still remembered him suggesting I purchase a hugging machine, to save him the trouble.

‘Court was fun.’ I said provocatively and because I was bored.

‘We’ll win next time. Mrs Savage told me you haven’t a leg to stand on.’ Neither did Sandra it seemed.

‘I wasn’t aware there was going to be a next time in the foreseeable future.’ But there would be and it would come sooner than I thought. When I had courted Charlie, I had had no idea that he would court me back in a difference sense of the word.

I should have known that this would not be the end of it. Charlie loved the fight and even better if he could find a woman to fight his battles for him. It seemed that we had not yet won the war, but there was a temporary impasse and I would enjoy that whilst it lasted.

-

Ollie really was a joy to be with now. He was a person in his own right and it was right he asserted quite firmly. The word ‘No’ had become a prominent feature of our relationship and it wasn’t me that was saying it either.

He had become fiercely independent which one might argue was a good thing, but in full throttle he was a little dictator and with the words – ‘me did it.’ Me – got to do it all the time, whether he was ready to or not.

Nothing was sacred and everything had to be hidden out of reach. Phone calls were made to America from my mobile, money was posted through the air vents of my car, the front door became an exit to some new adventure and having never locked it in the day I learned my lesson the hard way.

Small people can get into small places fast and do small things that they shouldn’t. Like the day when I was in the kitchen cooking lunch and had left him watching Barney in the living room. He was quiet and he loved the purple dinosaur, so I was confident that he was happily occupied whilst I did my best to make lamb chops come out of the oven looking something like they had gone in.

It took only fifteen minutes for the incident to occur and I was blissfully unaware until the phone rang. I picked up the walkabout in the kitchen – I had taken to keeping it with me – and the Indian gentleman from the shop down the road told me that he had had a robbery and someone had seen the culprit heading to my house.

Mortified, I went into the living room and there sat a very chocolaty Olivier surrounding by sweetie wrappers and with a big grin on his face watching the second half of Barney.

Fortunately the shop manager was understanding when I went to settle up. Needless to say, I did not leave the front door unlocked again. This did not deter my little Houdini though. A week later he escaped through a downstairs window and returned to the scene of the crime. This time he was frog-marched back to the house by the manager before he had filled his hot little hands with little hot sweets. I didn’t shop there for a quite a while afterwards.

Despite Ollie’s determination to be ‘the boss’, I managed to survive and on the odd occasion I managed to take charge.

We were a team he and I and when he fell and bumped himself in various places, he was still able to relinquish his need to rule, long enough to get a cuddle. Our bond was a strong one, given that we were a family of two and it seemed to have made life straightforward and secure for Ollie too. He knew he had a dad, but he had only ever known him as someone who visited the house once a week and didn’t have any conception that he might be missing something.

In my mind, he was missing nothing – except the example of someone who was still a child himself and certainly would never be ready to be a full-time dad.

Charlie was doing all he was capable of, but I couldn’t help wondering how life might be if I was to meet a responsible caring and adult man who would not only make a bed with us, but lie in it too.

Ollie was heading up to two years old and he had his whole life ahead of him, but I was heading up to middle age and I knew that life had fallen into something of a rut. There was only so much Alley Macbeal one could watch and only so many times one could watch it.

-

I had finished my book and after letting my brief scan it briefly, spurred on by his words of encouragement, I began to send chapters off to agents.

Never being one to do anything by halves, I knocked up a database and just to cover all options I hit everyone listed in the UK and some in America too. I figured that my soul was British, but my heart was American – I had probably just watched too much Dallas.

Once I had posted out my sample chapters, it was not long before the first rejections started coming back. I sent out some more. I had listened to enough tapes on NLP, to know that I must not quit.

The crits weren’t that bad, but they were dismissive and often indifferent. I decided to dismiss their indifference and pursue blindly my aim. I had never really known when to give up – hence my long relationship with Charlie.

Once all the agents listed in the UK and States had been approached and the majority had rejected me, I decided to relocate it to the ranks of the attic to gather dust. I had had enough of not being published and being damned for the time being.

Chapter 13

It was then that I had another surprise visitor. It was the middle of the night again when the doorbell rang and this time it was not Sal, but Leroy who stood on my doorstep.

‘I need somewhere to stay gal.’ I noticed he had no luggage.

‘Does Sal know you’re here?’ I asked rubbing my bleary eyes. Would I ever get a night’s sleep again? I had only just got Ollie sleeping through and now this.

‘Of course.’ She suggested I come here. ‘I’m in England on a bit of …business.’ He added, hesitatingly.

‘I hope it’s not funny business.’ He was not looking me in the eye and I decided I was going to have to phone Sal in the morning and get the XP on what was going on here. I figured they had had a domestic, although coming to England it must have been a fairly dramatic one.

I gave Leroy a blanket and offered him the couch. I had little choice with it being so late, but I was not happy that he was here. Apart from disturbing my sleep, I didn’t know him very well and Ollie would get a shock in the morning. I looked at my watch it was morning already.

‘I’m off to bed.’ I staggered back upstairs and was annoyed to find I couldn’t get back to sleep. It was hardly surprising with my strange guest and I guessed that it was stranger than first met the eye too.

I rang Sal at first light, but she was not there. I had her work number at the Ad agency where she was currently employed and got through to her voice mail. It stated that she was away from her desk until the end of the month – two weeks away – I was stuck with a mystery with no history and somehow I felt that Leroy was not going to provide one either.

Ollie was not the only one who got a shock in the morning. I had forgotten it was Charlie’s day for visiting and I was busy trying to persuade Ollie not to call Leroy ‘the brown man’, when Charlie walked in and went visibly green before me.

‘This is Leroy.’ I jumped in before he could speak. I decided this was not the time for pretence, no matter how tempting, so added – ‘Sal’s boyfriend.’ And when Charlie registered nothing, I added, - ‘my friend who went to America to live.’ Still nothing from Charlie - I had forgotten that Sal was part of a previous life, one that had not included Charlie and I had probably never mentioned her. He clearly didn’t believe me. He was looking as if he might be about to throw up with shock.

‘Hey man. How’s it hanging?’ Leroy offered his hand to Charlie, who still in shock shook it involuntarily and sat down opposite.

‘Where’s Ginger today?’ I asked; to break the silence. He was so stunned he didn’t even notice the use of the word ‘Ginger.’

‘She’s not well. She’s got a tummy upset.’ Two possibilities sprang to mind, either he’d ditched her or mother had bribed her to leave.

‘Are you sure it’s not a mummy upset?’

Leroy guffawed, but Charlie didn’t react, he just sat glaring at Leroy. I went off to put the kettle on and left them to glare. Minutes later Charlie was in the kitchen.

‘Is he your boyfriend? He is isn’t he?’

‘No - Keep your hair on.’ I said, before realising he had little to keep on.

‘I told you. He’s my friend’s boyfriend. He turned up last night.’

‘He stayed here?’ Charlie was puce.

‘On the couch of course.’ I wasn’t about to end up back in court again so soon.

‘Get rid of him.’ Charlie insisted.

‘I intend to. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Good. I’ll be round tomorrow to check he’s gone.’

‘You will not. You only have one visit and this is it.’ Charlie said nothing and the rest of the morning was spent in a frozen atmosphere, with only Ollie appearing unaffected by it. He was enjoying the fact that ‘the brown man’ was happy to play with his cars with him in a way that ‘the extremely white man’ had never done.

When Charlie had left, I tried again to find out the real reason for Leroy’s appearance.

‘It’s not really suitable for you to stay here. I have Ollie to think of and Charlie could try and make this a legal issue.’ Leroy looked crestfallen.

‘Could you manage to put me up just for a few days? I just need to get some dough together and then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Where are your things?’

‘I travel light.’ He looked as sheepish as a very brown man was able to look. There was travelling light and there was blowing in the wind and I wasn’t sure the answer was coming from there either.

‘Where are you going to get this money?’

‘Oh this and that. I have some plans. I’ll be out this evening. Is that okay?’ It would have been better if he could have been out and gone, but I remembered my friendship with Sal and the way she had helped me to laugh it off when my marriage to Simon had failed, all those years ago. I owed her one and Leroy was clearly going to be the one I owed her. Like the mug that I had always known I was, I said yes.

True to his word, Leroy went out that evening. He was still out when Ollie and I went to bed, but I was too tired to wait up. I had left the front door open, against my better judgement – and I had Ollie tucked up next to me with an iron grip round his middle. I was not prepared to risk any nighttime criminal activities from my little one. The bigger one could take care of himself.

Leroy was asleep on the couch in the morning and Ollie jumped on him and pushed two fingers up his nostrils.

‘Bloody hell. Who’s got me?’ Leroy jolted from sleep, sat bolt upright and I noticed he was clutching a brown paper bag tightly in his hand. I didn’t ask, but went into the kitchen to get breakfast for Ollie and I and a coffee for Leroy who had declined the offer of food.

Leroy suddenly appeared behind me in the kitchen and grabbed hold of my hand.

‘Hey. What do you think you’re doing?’ I tried to pull away startled.

‘This is for you.’ He said shoving five twenty-pound notes into my hand. ‘I’m going shopping.’ He didn’t wait for my response and was gone in a matter of seconds.

I had no idea if this was dirty money or clean money, but he was not around to ask, so I decided not to think about it and went to Tescos.

As I was driving back up the driveway, my car stocked with all our favourite foods and Ollie munching chocolate in the back, I noticed a suspicious movement in the bushes. I had a weird sense of deja- vu, but couldn’t think why at that moment. I was about to call the cops, when I recognized the shiny top of a head and jumped out of the car.

‘Charlie.’ I prodded the man hard in his bald patch. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I just wanted to see if that man has gone.’

‘It’s none of your business, but come in and you’ll see he’s not here. He wouldn’t be in the bushes anyway.’ I added.

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’ Charlie was clearly now feeling a little foolish. Well, I guess it made a change from feeling a little foolish woman. I suddenly remembered what the deja-vu was about. I had had another ex-boyfriend leap out from a bush before, but on that occasion it had been to try to get me back. This one was just here to get my back up.

Charlie went home, satisfied that Leroy had gone, despite the fact that he hadn’t and I settled down to watch Thomas the Tank Engine and enjoy the smoked salmon I had bought for my lunch. Ollie had prawns, his favourite or so I had just found out. Perhaps we could cope with a few days of Leroy after all.

Leroy returned from shopping at eight O’clock that night. He was dressed in a new outfit of designer jeans and leather jacket. He had also bought a few essentials, which he laid out on the settee for my approval. There were several pairs of Calvin Klein boxers, two pink Ralph Lauren polo shirts and his piece de resistance – a gold medallion – from Samuels.

I was just about to ask where he had got the money from these items, when I decided that the head in the sand, policy was the best one and so I felt the fear and decided not to do it anyway. He would be gone soon and what I didn’t know, couldn’t hurt me – or so I thought.

Leroy was only at the house a few hours a day and gone most of each night. He appeared to be able to exist on two or three hours sleep, but he seemed edgy and was constantly looking out of the window. I was too, for that matter. I was on the look-out for any more rustling in the bushes – but there was none and much to my disappointment I didn’t get a second chance to prod Charlie’s bald patch.

Ollie didn’t seem to mind that Leroy was there. They seemed to speak each other’s lingo, which was rather worrying.

‘Hey man. Want to play with your trains?’

‘Me want trains yeh.’

‘You being Thomas man?’

‘You being James.’ Ollie was glad of the company, but I soon realised that it was not that Leroy was on his wave-length, but that Ollie was getting onto Leroy’s wavelength, when my son suddenly asked me to ‘get us some brew gal.’

That was it. Leroy had to go and I was prepared to boot him out when he returned from his latest shopping spree, when I had yet another unwelcome visitor. This time it was in daylight hours and this time it was the police.

‘Do you know the whereabouts of a man calling himself Leroy Beige?’ The policeman asked and unfortunately I had to admit that if he ever came back from shopping, he was staying at my house.

It seemed Leroy was wanted for drug smuggling – from America – surprisingly. He was on the run from US police and had been spotted dealing in Milton Keynes. I was clearly ignorant, so I wasn’t in any trouble, but when Leroy returned to show me his boxers that night, he got more than the vote of approval he was seeking and as the police car drove off down the drive, I was extremely glad that the familiar pink shiny head was nowhere in sight. This would certainly have been a coup for Charlie and I could do without him cooing at present.

By the time I tracked down Sal, Leroy had been deported and was awaiting trial. She had been to stay with a friend in Florida to get over yet another of their break-ups. Apparently she had turfed him out when she’d found an unfamiliar bulge in his jeans.

‘I knew he was well-endowed, but this was ridiculous.’ Sal groaned. ‘I had no idea he was going to get on a plane to the UK.’ I soothed Sal down the phone. There was no real harm done and I had had some jolly nice smoked salmon out of it, though I was glad I had eaten it before I had known the truth.

I could never watch Thomas the Tank Engine in quite the same way after that and Ollie still on occasion asked what had happened to ‘the brown man.’ The only answer I could think of was to say that the ‘nice black and white men’ had taken him back to Disneyland and that he was probably playing with Goofy at that very moment.

-

Life was fairly uneventful for a while after that. I had no idea whether this tranquillity would last and I wasn’t even sure I wanted it to. I needed to put the spark back in my life. I needed to be forging ahead with a goal in mind and I my itchy feet wanted to travel again.

I decided to take Ollie on holiday to see Sal. I had only been to the States once before and I had loved it, but there was once snag. I absolutely loathed and detested flying and had only managed to travel in the past by drugging myself into a coma. With Ollie to consider, this was not really an option any longer. I decided to try some therapy and made an appointment to see someone. I had forgotten one important factor though.

-

‘You can’t take Ollie out of the country. How do I know you’ll bring him back?’ Charlie moaned on his next visit.

‘I’m talking about a holiday, not emigrating, but something in me sparked as I said the word.’ I chose to ignore it, but I couldn’t ignore Charlie unfortunately.

‘I’m going to tell Mrs Savage.’

‘Well, I’ll talk to Alistair then.’

‘She won’t let you go.’

‘I’m not a prisoner in England.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You’ll see.’ Said Charlie happily. Gingerstick brought the tea in at that point, so the subject changed to more trivial matters.

I rang Alistair as soon as Charlie had left. I was shocked to hear that Charlie might have a case. However, apparently all I had to do was persuade him to let me go on holiday and give his consent in writing. I had about as much chance of that as going up in a rocket – perish the thought.

‘Try and get him to be reasonable.’ Alistair said sounding doubtful.

‘Charlie has never been reasonable. He’s not likely to start now.’ I wanted to go though and this was a challenge, perhaps not the one I had been looking for, but life had a new purpose and a goal again. There must be a way of getting Charlie to concede. It turned out that there was.

-

Charlie agreed to bargain. He was enjoying his newfound power to the full and he too had a goal. Unfortunately, the goal was me. Bored with consuming Ginger, he wanted a bit of Allspice and whilst I was probably parsley at present, he remembered me as coriander.

‘I’ll say yes if you let me come with you. We could have a family holiday. I’ll even pay.’

The last word was the crux one. Money still eluded me somewhat and Charlie’s money eluded me greatly. The thought of having a holiday at his expense was somewhat gratifying and I knew he wouldn’t let us go under any other terms. Sal only had a one bedroom apartment, so we would need a hotel. I decided that travelling in luxury, might be better than travelling economy.

‘Okay.’ I agreed to the deal. ‘Is Ging..er Barbie, coming too?’

‘Oh yes please.’ Gingerstick cooed with delight.

‘We’ll see.’ Said Charlie and I knew all about his ‘we’ll sees’.

Chapter 14

‘How long have you had this fear?’ I was slumped in a shabby armchair with an even shabbier man seated opposite. His name was Wilfred and he was my therapist.

‘Since I was about twenty-five. It started after a bad experience on a plane with an ex-boyfriend.

‘Tell me what happened. Was there an accident of some sort?’

‘No.’

‘A bomb scare?’

‘No.’

‘Well what happened then?’

‘It took off.’

‘All planes take off. That is the point.’

‘But I was on it.’

‘Surely that was also the point.’

‘I didn’t want to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘On holiday with my boyfriend.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was horrible.’

‘So this isn’t about flying, but about your boyfriend?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘When do you intend to fly again?’

‘In two weeks time.’

‘But this time it will be just with your son?’

‘No. His father is coming too and maybe his father’s girlfriend, Gingerstick, I mean Barbie.’

‘Do you have feelings for the father?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of feelings?’

‘I hate him.’

‘Not a good scenario then.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Why don’t you go without them?’

‘I can’t.’ I outlined the legal implications and Wilfred yawned. I always seemed to manage to bore therapists and I decided not let it go this time.

‘Am I boring you?’

‘Are you worried about that?’

‘Why do therapists always answer a question with a question?’

‘Does that worry you too?’

‘Forget it.’ I decided to let him be bored. The cost of this meant I had to cut to the chase and not get caught up in any silly discussions.

‘Can you help me?’

‘Yes I can.’ Where had I heard that before?

Wilfred took a large space-agey gadget out a cupboard. It had about fifteen lights on it.

‘This is a machine for doing EMDR.’

Ordinarily I would have been curious enough to ask what the letters stood for, but with only fifteen minutes left before the end of the session, I couldn’t afford the luxury.

‘Switch it on and let’s get lit.’ I said.

Wilfred began to explain the concept that rapid eye movement – i.e. a dream state –could make one feel safe and then one could safely revisit a traumatic experience and desensitise oneself to it. The lights would induce the state, by causing the eye to follow a succession of flashing lights.

‘Too much information. Let’s get switched on.’ I wailed with only ten minutes left to be rapidly eyed and moved.

Wilfred yawned again and then switched on the machine. My eyes went from side to side with the lights and he began to ask me questions.

‘What do you remember about your first experience of flying?’

‘I was six. It was nice. Can we move along to twenty-five please?’

A loud ping indicated the end of the session. The lights were switched off before I’d even made it to seven

‘I’ve only got two weeks. Can we skip a few years?’

‘Next time.’ Wilfred yawned again.

I was not encouraged to think that his was going to do a lot of good, but I decided to give it one more go. I had to get on that plane and I had to spend Charlie’s money whilst I had the chance. Who knew when I would see his credit card again?

‘Next time.’ I agreed and paid the exorbitant fee before heading off to pick up Ollie up from nursery. It would have to work. I couldn’t afford for it not too. But as I was driving back I wondered – could anyone that shabby, really be that good? Somehow I doubted it.

-

Ollie was very excited at the thought of going on holiday to see ‘the brown man’ at Disneyland. I tried to explain that ‘the brown man’ may be on holiday from Disneyland, but all the other characters would still be there – like Goofy and Donald Duck.

‘I want the brown man.’ Ollie wailed. I reassured him that we would look for another ‘brown man’ and that pacified him for a while. It was no good trying to explain the words ‘Politically Correct’ to a toddler.

Charlie was bouncing Gingerstick back and forth. He was promising her the holiday one day and then removing it the next. It was typical Charlie behaviour and I was glad that now I was not with Charlie, ironically I was no longer being bounced.

I cared little whether she came or not. Although it could be an advantage in keeping Charlie out of our way. I tried to persuade him that bouncing Ginger wasn’t fair and he should let her come on the holiday and be done with it.

‘She has her own life to consider.’

‘She doesn’t have one.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course, she does. What about her job?’

‘She doesn’t have one.’

‘Well her family then?’

‘She doesn’t have one.’

‘Well her home then? Don’t tell me she doesn’t have one?’

‘Of course she does. She lives with her mum and dad.’

‘But you said she didn’t have a family.’

‘She doesn’t have kids. Parents don’t count.’

‘Your mum would love you for saying that.’

‘Mum’s different.’

‘You’re not kidding.’

Another of our inane conversations and I was suddenly struck by the thought that plenty more of these would be on the cards for our holiday. It was fast becoming a less attractive proposition. But I was not going to give Charlie the satisfaction of my backing out now. I went back to my therapist.

This time we actually got to twenty-five and I relived the horrible flight and the horrible ex-boyfriend with the help of the flashing lights, the ones that were going to help me to go on another flight with another horrible ex-boyfriend.

‘How do you feel?’ Wilfred asked yawning and picking fluff off his tweed jacket.

‘I feel scared.’

‘Could take a bit longer.’

‘I haven’t got longer.’

‘Well we’ll just have to hope it has worked more on your subconscious than we think.’

‘How long does it usually take?’ I asked.

‘About three months on average. I’ve never known it to take less.’

‘Why did I bother then?’ I knew that was a silly question though as I handed him his fee.

‘You might have been the exception that proved the rule.’

‘More likely I was the rule that proved the exception.’

‘Nice to see you’ve kept your sense of humour.’ Wilfred pushed the money into his pocket, along with a handful of fluff.

I was just going to have to wing it and fly anyway. I would take a few miniatures in my handbag and hope for the best.

-

The day of departure dawned and I was packed and as unready to go as one might be. I was scared to death and hadn’t slept a wink. I longed for a general anaesthetic and a parachute.

Charlie arrived with Gingerstick, to pick us up. I was surprised to see her, but pleased he was doing the honourable thing for once.

‘I’m glad you’re coming along.’ I smiled at her.

‘Oh Barbie’s not coming.’ Charlie jumped in. ‘She’s here to drive my car back home and pick us up at the end of the holiday. I wanted to punch him, but I couldn’t reach from the back seat.

‘I get to drive Charlie’s car. What do you think of that?’

A booby for Barbie, was what I thought, but I was too distracted by fear as we neared the airport, to comment.

We made it as far as the departure lounge and Ollie was getting more and more excited, ‘the brown man, the brown man’ he chanted as various West Indians walked past. Charlie was not amused, but I was now too petrified to engage in anything other than monosyllabic conversation. This suited him fine as it was the kind of conversation he was best at.

‘What do you want to drink?’ He asked.

‘A double gin and tonic.’

‘It’s only ten am. A bit early isn’t it. If you’ve become an alcoholic, I’ll have to call my brief.’

‘Shut up and get the gin.’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t like flying, if you remember.’

‘Oh yes.’ Charlie smirked. ‘I remember. Never mind, there probably won’t be any bombs on board.’

He went off to get the gin. Ollie was still ‘brown man’ spotting and as there were several morning flights to the Caribbean, he was in his element. It was just as well. I was fast becoming a bucket of cold sweat and was pretty much glued to my chair.

I downed my gin in two swift movements and was about to ask for another, when our flight was called.

We made it to the plane. We made it up the steps and onto the plane. We made it to our seats and we got as far as Charlie bagging a window seat, despite Ollie wanting it, and strapping himself in. I strapped Ollie and myself into a seat and began rummaging in my handbag for the miniatures. They were not there. Ollie had taken them out in the departure lounge probably, whilst I was in my state of petrification.

The engines roared into action, the stewardess went through the motions of safety instructions and the plane began to taxi down the runway. Suddenly I could bare it no longer. I unstrapped the seatbelt, leapt out of my chair, clutching Ollie by the hand and ran towards the exit.

‘Stop the plane.’ I yelled. ‘I have to get off.’

‘You can’t.’ Said a shocked stewardess.

‘I can and I will.’ I said, flattening her with one swift punch. It worked though. The plane screeched to a halt and I was escorted off it by two security guards, dragging a hysterical toddler with me. ‘Want the brown man.’ Yelled Ollie. ‘No want black and white men.’

-

Two hours later, I left the airport. The officials were a lot more understanding than I would have dreamed. Apparently this was not the first time a passenger had had hysterics and between Ollie and I having apoplexy, they were keen to get rid off us. They admitted that there may be a small chance of being sued by the hostess in question. I was past caring. I was back on terra firma and that meant I could give up my terror and get a firmer grip.

The police offered us a ride home and Ollie was pacified by being allowed to see the flashing blue lights. He was starting to warm to the ‘black and white men’ and much to my relief, all thoughts of the brown man were obliterated.

‘Planes no go far mummy.’ He said on reaching home.

‘No not this time.’

‘Daddy come back soon?’

‘Soon.’ I thought dismally. It was then that I realised that our luggage was still on the plane and would be half way to America by now. Never mind – I felt sure that Charlie would make use of the extra underwear.

-

So I had not made it on my planned holiday and what was worse Charlie was now soaking up the sun without his son and I felt sure, enjoying our passes into Disneyland. The only consolation was that he had paid for three of us and was now alone and the loss of money would clearly annoy him. I would be in for some serious battering when he returned and it was rather sad for Gingerstick, as she would have loved to have gone to theme park and been in her element with so many gnomes around.

There was nothing I could do about it, but alert Sal to the fact that we hadn’t made it and hope that the stewardess wouldn’t sue. I contacted Alistair just in case, but he felt sure that there wasn’t too much to worry about.

‘We will prove your insanity, if we have to.’

‘Thanks.’ I said, little comforted. ‘But wouldn’t that work against me as far as Ollie is concerned.’

‘We won’t make you that mad, just a little mad. Phobias aren’t seen as serious. We could always get that therapist to testify.’

I couldn’t see Wilfred being that useful, but I did hold him responsible for giving me the false impression that I might have been able to fly. ‘Okay.’ I told Alistair, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. ‘But you might have to choke him with cream to persuade him.’

The stewardess did sue and we ended up with another case. I was in Court so much, I was beginning to feel like Venus Williams – although not quite so well tanned.

Wilfred agreed to testify after much choking by Alistair and managed to persuade the judge that my phobia was such that I could not be held responsible for my actions. The verdict was that I was let off the assault only on the basis that I had more therapy and conquered my phobia. The beauty of it was that I could now get the therapy on legal aid, so long as I used a court appointed therapist. The court appointed Wilfred. Well, at least he had been choked for something and all in all it was a happy outcome.

Charlie’s return had not been so happy. Alistair was kept busy pouring cream on troubled waters for several weeks, with letters back and forth to Mrs Savage. However, the court’s report on the incident, when it came in, could not be argued with and Charlie had to accept that for once he was the one who got bounced.

My luggage came back with Charlie and was inevitably missing several pairs of knickers. I did not ask for them back knowing where they had been.

Ollie got a life-size model of Mickey Mouse from Charlie and soon transferred his affections from ‘black and white men’ to ‘black and white’ mice. This seemed appropriate given that most of the men in my life had been mice when it came down to it. Charlie also brought round his other presents to show me what I had missed out on.

‘This is for mum.’ He held up an XXL T-shirt with a picture of ‘Dumbo’ on it and a hat with Mickey Mouse ears. ‘This is for Barbie.’ He produced a Snow White costume. ‘Don’t you think she’ll look great in it?’ In his excitement, he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And this is for you.’ He handed me a key ring with the words ‘come fly with us’ on it. ‘We were given them on the plane.’

‘Thanks.’ I said tossing it into the wastepaper basket. ‘Where’s the girlfriend today?’

‘I didn’t want to spoil the surprise of her present. I’m going to get her to wear it tonight. We’re taking Mum out for dinner.’

‘Will she be wearing her presents too?’

‘That’s a good idea.’ Charlie said. ‘Won’t they be pleased?’

All in all this was turning out to be a very good day.

-

Life settled back into routine for a while and I continued my therapy with Wilfred. I was getting used to him now and I no longer minded the yawning or the fluff picking. What was more I really seemed to be making progress with my flying phobia, despite the lack of any imminent flights on the horizon.

At least I could walk past the travel agents now without breaking into a nervous sweat and I even managed to watch a Barney video that had a plane in it.

-

Christmas was fast approaching and we had been invited to spend it with Charlie, him mother and possibly Gingerstick, depending on whether she was bouncing on or off at the time.

I was not keen on the idea, but I knew that it was important for Ollie to see his Dad, so I reluctantly agreed. My cooking had not improved much, although I could make a mean Chicken Tikka, but as that was not really traditional on Christmas day and I wanted Ollie to have his first real Christmas meal, I accepted.

Charlie’s mother wouldn’t be cooking anything – except her usual spells – but she always got decent caterers in and one of his brothers, the dishy one would be there with his unmarried partner and kids – marriage was not a family trait.

-

Christmas day arrived and after Ollie had opened his stocking and I had donned mine, we set off to Charlie’s mother’s house.

I armed myself with a bottle of nice brandy as a present, but was having a hard time not opening it before we got there. It seemed a shame to waste it on Charlie’s mother. It was a particularly good bottle and had been given to me by one of my clients. I felt sure she would not appreciate its vintage.

We were an odd assortment round the table. Gingerstick was there, but her half done make-up suggested she had only bounced back in time. Mother was sporting her Dumbo T-shirt and some mistletoe earrings – not a pretty sight and Charlie’s brother’s partner – who I had only met once before and whom had attacked me viciously at the time – was glaring at me across the table.

I suddenly remembered that the sister-in-law, who was not a sister-in-law, was compulsively obsessed about the town where used to live. She hated everything about it, wouldn’t go there and despised anyone else who had so much as breathed the air. Yes, there were even stranger people than Charlie in the world, despite the seeming improbability of this.

‘Hi Anna. How are you?’ I stuck out my hand to her. She visibly shrunk away and I realised that any contact with me would be a problem – but only if I still lived in the same place.

‘I’ve moved recently to a new area.’ I volunteered and Anna grabbed my hand a shook it warmly. At least it wouldn’t be death looks over the turkey now.

‘I’m Barbie.’ Gingerstick stuck her hand out to Anna and shook it. However, she forgot to mention that she came from the very town that Anna had taken exception to. Charlie took delight in telling her.

‘Get off me you dirty cow.’ Anna yelled as she leapt from the table and ran to the bathroom, much to the surprise of a startled Gingerstick.

Anna spent the next two hours in the shower, whilst I got to make pleasant small talk with her husband – who was not her husband and whilst Ollie had fun playing with her children, who I’m pleased to say, were her children.

Charlie was not best pleased that his brother was chatting me up. He had hoped to enjoy the attentions of Christmas present and Christmas past. He also had intended me to be his Christmas present, if Ginger did not turn out to be his Christmas future. He had always believed in keeping his options open, along with his trousers.

The caterers had done us proud. The meal was delicious and Ma soon appeared with the Christmas pud, which she placed in the centre of the table.

‘Now where’s that brandy?’ She had grabbed it before I could stop her and sacrilege of sacrilege poured half a bottle over the Christmas pud. Within minutes my lovely vintage evaporated in flames, as I sadly thought of how many reruns of Dynasty it could have enhanced.

After our disastrous dessert, which I choked down, it was time to open presents. Ma presided over the present opening and handed them out.

‘For you dear.’ She handed me a parcel that looked as if it could be a video tape. I opened it expectantly. I had run out of Alley Macbeal videos, so it would be nice to get something new, perhaps one of the films I had missed seeing in the last few years of no cinema. I pulled off the wrapping paper quickly to reveal an exercise tape entitled, ‘Get those lazy bones moving.’

Chapter 15

We had survived Christmas with Charlie, but only just. Ollie had been swamped with presents by all and sundry, although his father’s were the most unusual. He had bought him a baby gym – suitable for a baby of six months and a pocket calculator. Somehow I didn’t think he had quite mastered the parent thing just yet.

The next major event was Ollie’s second birthday. I was not keen to repeat the experience of the year before and decided to just have a few mums and tots from the mums and tots group, back to the cottage. Even I was capable of producing a few sandwiches and some jelly. This time Charlie was away for the weekend with Gingerstick. I could only assume this gesture meant she had threatened to end the relationship.

My two closest friends from the group arrived first and brought extra supplies, along with their two adorable girl toddlers. I didn’t have a great deal of room in my cottage, so I had only invited five children in all and that allowed for the parents to sit down in rotation. I had arranged for an entertainer to come half way through the afternoon and had called a chap who had been on my books during my short and unsuccessful stint as a Theatrical Agent.

Everything was going along without a hitch, much to my amazement, until the said entertainer arrived.

‘Mummy – who’s this funny lady?’ Ollie had opened the door to find a very flamboyant drag act standing there. The parents looked at each other in shock and two of the children broke out into hysterics. I hurried the ‘funny lady’ out of the house.

‘Why the hell are you dressed like that?’ I asked my Pierrot the clown who appeared to have lately become Columbine or maybe a concubine was more accurate. ‘Where’s your clown outfit?’

‘I stopped being a clown when I came out. I decided a drag queen was more my forte. I was sure you realised. I’ve been doing it for two years.’

‘I am not interested in how long you have been doing it. I wanted a clown for these children.’

‘Well you never said what kind of party this was only that it was a birthday. I naturally assumed you required my current services, not my previous ones.’

It wasn’t his fault – but the misunderstanding had left me with a problem. The drag act left with a couple of twenty quid notes to pay for his petrol. I had promised Ollie an entertainer and I was going to have to provide one. I quickly explained the situation to one of my friends and shot upstairs to see how quickly I could become a clown. I had the attributes, but did I have anything that would make a viable costume?

I rummaged through my drawers and came up with a pair of striped pyjamas, a woolly scarf a ping pong ball for my nose and bobble hat. I donned a pair of wellies to finish the effect. Not quite Coco, but not a bad job.

A couple of inches of make-up and I was ready to face the children. I felt confident that no-one would know it was me. I cut a hole in the ping pong ball and stuck it on my nose – it hurt like hell and my eyes began to water, streaking my heavy make-up. No matter – I would do this quickly and it was worth it to make the children happy.

Once I felt satisfied that all traces of me were hidden by my costume, I braved the sitting room and tried to ignore the discharge from my nose that was leaking into the ping pong ball.

As I entered the living room, the children who had now stopped crying, burst back into even louder hysterics. Soon the others joined in – all but Ollie, who walked over to me and said, - ‘What’s wrong with your face Mummy?’

‘I’m Coco the clown.’ I said in a deep voice bending down to tickle him.

‘No your not.’ Ollie pulled at the ping pong ball, which was fairly well stuck, scraping a layer of skin from my nose. The action caused me to sneeze and the offending ball, shot off and hit one of the children in his eye. It was an hour before all the screaming stopped.

-

Charlie rang later to see how the party had gone.

‘A really good time was had by all – hysterical in fact.’ But as I downed a large glass of Shiraz, I knew that parties at home were a one-off and my one was certainly off.

-

It was just after Ollie’s second birthday that the most incredible thing happened. I got a letter from one of the agent’s I had sent my book to. I had completely given up on the whole idea and I had assumed that all the agents I had approached had now rejected me, but this was one that was late getting back and that was because it was one of the select few from a America.

Amazingly – Karen Krokowski – loved the sample chapters I had sent her and was now asking to see the complete novel. Thank God, I had not binned the disk – as I very nearly had.

I was ecstatic and quickly loaded it into my laptop ready to print off a complete copy. It was at that moment that Ollie decided that he was interested in learning about computers and in a split second he pressed a couple of buttons and managed delete the whole novel from floppy disk, before I had saved it to hard drive.

Panicking madly, I realised that there would be a copy still in my recycle bin and was about to restore it, when there was a power cut and the whole thing crashed. I had chucked out the only other copy I had when I had recently cleared the attic in one of my good ‘Feng Shui’ phases - The idea that clearing clutter bought new and wonderful things into your life.

There was only one thing for it, collapse in a heap and wail and drink copious quantities of wine. I was about to begin when I realised that this had been dream all my life and there had to be a solution. There was only one and it meant giving up sleep for a few weeks, but I had done that before when Ollie was a baby, I could do it again.

When I put Ollie to bed that night, I began to rewrite the novel, backing up every page as I went and two weeks later, a very exhausted me put it in the post to America. I had a gut feeling that this second draft was better than the first – for this time I had written it to succeed, rather than just to empty out my soul. All I had to do now was get some sleep and wait.

-

I was in the middle of teaching when the phone rang. My student this time was a middle-aged woman with very bad man troubles. I was supposed to be teaching her elocution, but so far I had spent six sessions listening to her tales of woe and trying to persuade her to change the very bad man for a very good one.

‘He doesn’t love me.’ Alicia wailed. ‘He’s seeing another woman.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He had a hair on his jacket and it wasn’t mine.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It was ginger.’ ( She was blonde.)

‘Does he have a cat?’

‘No and there’s another thing. He called me by her name the other night.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Barbie.’

Jolted into another nightmare, I was about to ask her what his name was when the phone rang.

‘This is Karen Krokowski. May I speak to Henrietta Hill please?’

‘Karen who?’ My mind was still on the drama in my living room.

‘I am a literary agent from New York.’ Alicia and Charlie were forgotten in an instant. We discussed the novel for an hour and her plans to get a publisher. There was only one snag. She wanted to meet me. I was going to have to fly to America and she wanted me to come as soon as possible. Dammit, would Charlie let me go or tie me up in court again. Worse still, would I have to bring him with me?

I had forgotten one minor detail in my excitement. But it was an even greater obstacle than Charlie. I couldn’t afford to punch any more stewardesses. The question remained – was I ready to fly? What was more if I managed to fly out there I was going to have to fly back again. It was then that I came up with a solution – a solution that would change my life and Ollie’s forever.

As I glanced over at a weeping Alicia who was downing her third coffee and watching my TV, I realised I had nothing to lose. It was time to ring Alistair and see just how good a solicitor he really was.

-

I sat before my dishy brief, my heart in my mouth as I outlined my plans. Alistair said not a word until I had finished.

‘I can’t pretend it’s going to be easy. But it’s not impossible.’ He told me looking impossibly uneasy. ‘You have to be able to give a good enough reason to satisfy the Court that this is the best thing for Olivier. They will not take kindly to you taking him out of the jurisdiction any more than Charlie will. We will certainly have a fight on our hands.’ But I had fought all my life and mostly for freedom of one sort or another – whether to free myself from a relationship or a career that no longer served – it was still always to gain the freedom to be me.

‘I can fight - Whatever it takes.’ I told Alistair.

‘Charlie will use every kind of dirt to try and stop you going. You do realise that don’t you?’

‘So I get a little grubby? I can get clean again.’ I said with a the confidence of someone whose dream is being dangled tantalisingly before them and could be snatched away at any moment.

I had chased dreams before – dreams that had gone to dust – my dream to be a famous actress had led me through a lot of doors to a lot of corridors that had led nowhere and through many doors that had taken me somewhere I did not want to be.

My different relationships had led me through different lives, identities and in searching for my kindred soul I had done a great deal of soul searching. I had not found my soul mate, but I had now mated with my own soul and in creating my novel, I had at last created a me that was whole.

I was determined to keep it together and I had two people who believed in me spurring me on – one stood before me, my true counsellor for life and one waited for me across the skies in a new land that held promise, if not yet a realised dream.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Alistair had been talking for the last fifteen minutes and I had not heard a word – lost somewhere in the anticipation of my new life. It suddenly dawned on me that in giving birth to Ollie I had re-birthed myself through the birth of my novel and with each page that I had filled I had swept another one clean.

‘Henry – are you still with me?’ Alistair was getting anxious.

‘I’m with you a hundred per cent and more.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s go to the mattresses.’

‘The Godfather.’ I said laughing.

‘No – You’ve got mail.’ He smiled. And I sure had.

Chapter 16

‘I have some good news.’ I decided that the best thing was to get straight to it with Charlie, as soon as possible. He was seated opposite me looking annoyed that anything in the way of good news could come my way. It was not in his scheme of things for me to do anything but suffer. I was a woman and women were like his mother and had potential to control him if allowed – She was allowed, I was not.

‘What was so urgent I had to come round tonight?’ Charlie pouted. ‘Has Ollie started using the calculator I got him for Christmas?’

‘This is not about Maths, it’s about literature.’

‘Is he reading then?’

‘I’ve written a novel.’

‘So what?’

‘Someone might be going to get it published.’

‘So what?’

‘They want to meet me.’

‘So what’s the big deal?’

‘The big deal that I am hoping for is in America.’

Charlie’s mouth dropped open and then he made a couple of weird snorting sounds before speaking.

‘You’re not going.’

‘I am.’

‘How long for? A couple of weeks?’

‘Maybe forever.’

‘You are not.’ Charlie stamped his fist down on the settee and flinched. ‘I won’t let you and anyway you don’t like flying. How will you get there?’

‘Swimming if necessary, but I am going.’

‘I won’t let you.’ Charlie echoed more loudly, lifting his fist in the air again and waving it wildly about.

‘You might not be able to stop me.’

‘I will.’ Charlie got up and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. I breathed a huge sigh of relief the hardest part was already over, I had introduced the subject and now the fight could begin.

The next step was to buy the time I needed to go. I had taken a huge risk here and never one to do anything by halves I had made one of the biggest decisions of my life on a phone call. I had to make sure that Karen could wait for the couple of months it would take to get a resolution one way or the other and I knew that if I couldn’t play the long game, I might have to play the short game and be prepared for a return flight.

-

There was a long pause on the end of the phone and my heart was beating hard as I waited to hear whether or not my words had touched her sufficiently for her to hold fire on the novel just a little longer. The silence on the end of the phone seemed to go on forever. What was she thinking? Had I blown it? Was she happily married and biased against single mothers? She had read my book, so perhaps not.

‘No problem.’ Karen said brightly.

‘I’ve got a few publishers lined up, but I have a good feeling and we can use your background as publicity.’

‘Not Ollie though.’ I said adamantly. Whatever the dream, it was not to be a nightmare for him. Nothing was worth that.

‘We can make it general. Bring in some single mother issues – how there is still life after birth – even when single. I’m not sure of specifics, but strong PC influences in the literary world have been positive for a great many authors. The only way to write a story is to have a story.’

I liked the sound of it and I promised that if the long game started becoming too many rematches, I would surrender and come only for a couple of weeks, enough time to court my prospective publishers.

‘Don’t worry, if I get caught out in Court, I will still come to court.’

‘What?’ Karen’s appreciation of my wit clearly did not extend beyond my writ.

I promised to keep her well in the picture as far as the case went and with my hands trembling, I put down the phone and picked up my pen. It was time to write my statement for Alistair. It was time to prove that ‘the pen’ really is ‘mightier than the sword.’

-

More passion went into every word of my plea, than anything else I had ever written. Even my novel was nothing compared to the angst and desperation that went into every sentence. It was my cause. It was the way to my cause and it was my causeway and it was a Giant one for Ollie and for me.

I had to make a case and a reason that no judge could turn down. I had to jump on those mattresses until they bounced us up to the sky, a sky that was bluer and more vivid than anything we had seen before. I wrote and I rewrote from dusk until dawn and as soon as I had dropped Ollie at nursery, I dashed in to see Alistair with it.

He read it over a few times, before placing it in my file.

‘Will it do?’ I asked anxiously.’

‘I hope so.’ Alistair said non-committal.

‘Only hope?’ I felt my heart sink.

‘Hope is all we have. This is real life, not Dallas.’ Alistair’s expression softened. ‘Don’t worry Hope Floats.’

‘You’ve been watching too many movies.’ I smiled.

‘So have you.’

He was right of course. I wanted a movie ending and I wanted to write it myself. I had forgotten that movies have more than one character and the producer and director also get their say.

‘Can we win?’ I asked imploring him to say yes.

‘We can hope to.’ He replied frustratingly calm. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see what happens in Court.’

I drove home wondering how I was going to wait for the allotted six weeks until the hearing, when I didn’t want to wait six seconds to know the outcome. It was not in my control and that was scary. Our whole future was in the hands of a judge and whether he liked Alistair’s briefs or Mrs Savage’s – I knew whose, I preferred.

-

At last the waiting was over. The time had dragged. I had run out of nails to bite and was down to the skin on my ends of my fingers. I had pulled strands of my already sparse hair out and was in serious danger of becoming completely bald with bare-fleshed knuckles, but I didn’t care so long as I got the result I wanted. I could always buy a wig and wear gloves.

Charlie’s case was put first. He had also written a statement, although he had clearly not written it, given that it was grammatically sound and sounded grammatical.

Mrs Savage presented the ghostly words of the statement she had prepared for him, whilst he sat there looking appropriately ghost-like.

…My client is not prepared to give his consent……loves his son deeply…..supports the mother….wants only what is best….cannot accept…will not accept…does not accept…and so I rest my case….

I only heard snippets. I was not really taking it in. I only know that there were a lot of negatives and I quite a liberal amount of truth distortion. I was much more prepared for it this time and tried not to allow it to discourage me. At the end of the day or at least this day – I would know one way or another whether I could go - would my positives outweigh his negatives – that was really all it boiled down to.

….My client wants …feels…needs…can…will…loves her son more than anything…can provide…will provide.. .wants to provide…will have the means to provide…….stability, security liberty, fraternity and equality …(That may have just been in my head), I heard very little, but I felt ready to break into a rendition of the ‘The Stars and Stripes’ at any moment.

Alistair was emblazoned with my cause and presented it with as much zeal and enthusiasm as he could muster. Now it was down to the judge to consider my future and the future of my son. With a few words he would choose the direction my life would take. In minutes I would know.

During the recess for coffee whilst all things were considered, I sat with Alistair feeling like my head would explode with anticipation and with my heart beating so fast, I felt I might not only fly, but take off like a rocket. But even rockets are eventually brought back to earth.

-

My pillow was soaked with tears. Poor Ollie was damp from me crying into his hair, as he lay sleeping in the crook of my arm oblivious to the drama of the day. The Judges words were echoing over and over in my head, as I replayed the scene.

Cannot agree….conjecture…nothing solid…aspirations may lead nowhere…no certainty of anything…. And the words that shut the door on my dream….father does not consent…will not consent. cannot consent. therefore there can be no consent…

And with that, I had lost the will to go at all. I had closed the book, I had ended it. I knew that I was not really the time to settle for the short game when I really wanted the long one. I saw it as ‘a not meant to be’ result and as I curled up in my bed, I put it to bed – exhausted by the stress of the day, I then ‘slept perchance to dream’, but only had nightmares.

It was two a.m when the doorbell rang. Leroy was in jail and I had spoken to Sal in America earlier that evening. The old lady next door had passed away and I could think of no-one else who would call at this time. I had forgotten that there was one person in my life who only ever called when I least expected them to.

‘Hi.’ Said Charlie, as he thrust an envelope into my hand. ‘I’ll see you.’ He then turned and headed back to his car and was gone in a flash.

I closed the door and turned the envelope over in my hand. Was it hate mail? Was it gloating? But I knew in my heart that hate mail and gloating would not have caused Charlie to leave the bed where he spent many hours both waking and sleeping.

My heart almost stopped as I began to open the envelope and pulled out a badly scrawled, badly written letter, addressed to my solicitor. These were not Savage words – these words were Charlie’s.

He had never consented to marriage. He had never consented to full-time fatherhood, but for some reason, which I will probably never know, he suddenly gave his consent to my freedom. Charlie was letting me go at last. I quickly wiped away the tears before they smudged the letter and I sat up all night waiting for the doorbell or the phone to ring and Charlie to take it all back. But it did not.

Morning came at last and I was in Alistair’s office on the dot of nine.

‘Is it okay? Will it do? Is it enough?’ Alistair put down the phone from talking to Charlie’s solicitor. He had put a letter through her door that night too.

‘Yes.’ Alistair said beaming and it was the best ‘yes’ I had ever heard.

-

I never did find out why Charlie changed his mind. Maybe he felt guilty about all the bad stuff he had brought into my life, but I could not forget either that he had been responsible for the best too. He had brought Olivier into my life and despite all of our struggle – one look at my son was all I needed to know that I had gone to the mattresses the first time with Charlie to create Olivier and I had gone to the mattresses a second time to create me.

Like the butterfly struggling against the cocoon to break free and fly into the sunlight, I had struggled against Charlie and just like the butterfly I had come out of my cocoon stronger and brighter and ready to try my wings.

A month later as Ollie and I took off for far flung parts of the world and our brave new life, I was filled with anticipation and excitement of what might lie ahead.

As I held my precious son’s little hand in mine, I realised that my future was in my hands and for the first time in my life, I was no longer afraid to fly.