Page 51 of Don't Tell Teacher

Olly’s mother has never left the 1970s, fashion-wise. I suppose it was the decade she felt her best. Before everything went wrong with Olly’s father.

It’s Saturday and we’ve agreed to meet in the Hyde Park pavilion – miles from Olly’s flat, and miles from my new house, although Margaret doesn’t know how many miles.

Neutral ground.

Anonymous.

‘Not too far.’

A young waitress in jeans and a black apron clinks another teapot onto the table. ‘Fruit tea?’ the waitress asks.

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And there was a juice too.’

‘Oh. Right.’ The waitress puts a hand to her forehead. ‘For the little boy. Sorry. I forgot.’

Tom sits on Margaret’s lap playing with Duplo bricks, sorting them into colours. Tom’s too old for Duplo now, but these are the only toys the café has and he’s a good boy, not making a fuss.

Tom talks about colours as he sorts: ‘This one isgreen. Anotherblue.’

Margaret gives me a look. She knows what colours mean. ‘Are you feeling a bit out of sorts, Tom?’ she asks, cuddling him extra tight. ‘Must be a bit strange. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and now we’re meeting up in this new place.’

‘I like the café,’ says Tom. ‘I’ve missed you, Granny.’

Margaret gives the waitress a joyous smile. ‘This is my grandson.’

The waitress feigns interest. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Isn’t he lovely?’ says Margaret. ‘I’ve really missed him.’ She turns to me. ‘And I’ve missed you too, Lizzie. I been worrying so much. It’s a lot you’re taking on: new house, new life. I’ve been where you are, love. Making a new start. It’s hard. How have you been?’

‘Really busy,’ I say. ‘With the house move and everything – it’s been hard to keep on top of things.’

‘So, have you moved out of London?’ Margaret asks.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. In case you accidentally mention something. I don’t want Olly knowing where we live.

‘I’d never tell Olly where you are. You know that, love.’

‘I know. Not on purpose. But sometimes things slip out.’

‘You cut your hair. That’s a big change. It looks lovely.’

‘Yes.’ My hand goes to my new short haircut. It’s been neatened by the hairdresser and I’m growing more pleased with it by the day. It suits my face, actually. I have delicate features, like a ballet dancer. I was drowning in the long hair Olly liked.

‘This isn’t such a bad place, is it?’ Margaret gestures to the café, with its huge windows and wrought iron tables. ‘A bit expensive, but you can’t have everything.’

‘We can’t stay long,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Tom has a doctor’s appointment later.’

‘Oh?’ says Margaret.

‘We’re still trying to find out why he had the seizure.’

‘I thought they said it was a one-off.’ Margaret rearranges Tom so she can dig into a huge shopping bag placed by her plimsolls.

‘Yes. But he hasn’t been right since he had it. He’s dazed sometimes. Disorientated. Zonked out. He goes to bed so early and he had a terrible nosebleed.’

‘I’ve got a few bits and pieces in here,’ says Margaret. ‘Transformersmagazine. A few other things. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘Tom,’ I say. ‘Say thank you.’

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