Page 4 of A Good Mother
Tutting, she moved towards the window and watched her family at play. Jimmy had Mimi on his shoulders. She was screeching with delight as they dribbled the ball around Max who’d resorted to cheating, clinging on to his dad’s legs as they ran.
‘Oh, Jimmy, what have you done?’ She said to the crazy man in the garden, the one she’d trusted implicitly, loved unreservedly.
Then she asked herself a question. Was there a chance she’d got it all wrong?
If she had, she vowed never to be in this predicament again. If she hadn’t, there was still a chance she could reverse everything, save her marriage, prevent Max and Mimi from the heartbreak of a broken home.
It was up to her. Her job to protect them and their future and while she had breath in her body, that’s what she would do. And while everyone was terrified of a hidden enemy, Gina knew exactly who hers was. Most people were probably in a state of shock at going into lockdown, dreading being trapped in their homes but secretly, Gina was rejoicing.
CHAPTERTHREE
BABS
Droppingher phone into the bag-for-life that rested by her side, Babs relaxed on her favourite bench to enjoy the early evening sunshine and a spot of bird watching – ducks to be precise. It was lovely and peaceful on the green and from their vantage point she and her feathery friends could watch the residents of Little Buddington go about their business.
She was blessed. Babs always thought that when she took a moment to appreciate her surroundings and today was no exception. Spring was getting itself into gear. The first green shoots were tentatively peeping from the soil in flowerbeds dotted around the grassed area, lining the cobbled path along the edge of the pond.
Soon the whole village would burst into life, spring and summer were packed with sports days, village hall bake-offs, the July fete, and lots of weddings up at the church.
During the warmer months the scent from hanging baskets which adorned the lampposts, abundant with colourful blooms, was heavenly. She’d lost count of how many times they’d won accolades, but their victories were well deserved because ‘Budders’ as it was affectionately known, prided itself on looking pristine.
This was all thanks to the indefatigable spirit of the Budders Resident’s Committee, whose competitive streak never waned, and their determination to get into the ‘Best Blooming Village’ category in the local paper.
Thinking of past glories made Babs wonder about the future, because it was already a lot quieter than normal. Most people were at home, glued to the news channels, keeping up with the evolving lockdown situation. Babs had watched the PM’s speech on her phone and as a consequence, had no intention of hurrying, determined to make the most of her freedom and solitude.
That was why she’d left her little Fiat in the Co-op car park and after passing the cenotaph that stood proud in the centre of the green, wandered across to the duck pond. Her excuse for being late would be the humongous queue she’d had to wait in. Right out onto the street it was! In truth, there’d only been three people up ahead.
After nipping into the mini-market she often stopped by the pond to rest her aching feet and body. Sometimes, she’d even treat herself to a meal deal. Pete would moan if he knew, saying it was an unnecessary extravagance, all £3.50 of it. Well he could sod off because it was nice to eat a sandwich or a fancy poke bowl, the name of which made her chuckle.
It was weird, but due to the fact that someone else had made it, the meal deals always tasted much better than her own packed lunch. Her favourite sandwich was prawn mayonnaise, but Babs studiously alternated to add a bit of variety to life. She always had fruit for her snack, though. Part of her five-a-day. And she stuck to water, staying hydrated and fending of the dreaded middle age spread.
The church clock said 6.45. Babs knew it was a bit too late for a treat and she’d done well to resist buying a cheeky Snickers even though she was starving. She was always bloody starving lately. Her thoughts turned to the three big pizzas she’d bought from the reduced section. Monday’s meal was always a quickie, basically because Babs hated them. Mondays, that was. Not pizzas.
She hated Sundays even more. They were dreary, and still reminded her of school and that horrible feeling that lessons loomed. The day would drag. Nothing on the telly, then bath, hair washed and ready for bed. Now she was an adult, she’d swapped maths and English and instead, was starting to dread the whole week!
Babs cleaned for a living and took great pride in her little business but lately it was wearing thin, that and the daily grind of life in general. She’d worked out that over thirty years of marriage, she must have made around 10,000 evening meals. 10,000! And Pete must have complained about half of them.
That’s why she’d bought pizza, nice and quick. She would have salad with hers, which in her book made it a healthy choice. Pete would definitely moan. According to him it wasn’t a proper meal, so she’d probably end up doing him egg and chips. In fact, she wasn’t even sure the three gannets would even eat spinach and ricotta which meant a fight for the meat feast and the spicy chicken ones. Which then made her wonder why she’d even bothered buying the pizzas in the first bloody place!
Maybe the shop would take them back, or she could stick them in the freezer, and they could all have egg and chips. And a bit of salad on the side for her, to show willing. ‘And this, is my wonderful, scintillating life.’Barbara muttered to the ducks who completely ignored her. She was used to that, being ignored.
Sighing, Babs awarded herself five more minutes, then she’d head off. She wasn’t really avoiding going home it was just that she deserved some me-time before what she referred to as the ‘evening shift,’ began. And anyway, she loved the solitude and fresh air, feeling the breeze on her face as it cooled her cheeks that were often on fire.
Sometimes she’d sit there on her favourite bench even if it was pouring with rain, brolly up, her and the ducks enjoying the downpour. Rumour had it that after the war, one of the villagers had taken their own life, right there in the pond. Babs thought that was sad and couldn’t ever imagine life being so bad she’d do that. Perhaps she needed to stop being a grumpy sod, like Pete said she was. Charming!
But to be fair, all the virus and lockdown business wasn’t helping. It was the only thing everyone talked about, and the news channels were relentless, her lot included. Babs was in no mood to listen to them going on and on about it, face-maskers versus non-face-maskers. Conspiracy theorists boring the crap out of the equally dreary doom-mongers.
The Finch family debating team was split fifty-fifty on the ramifications and regulations regarding the virus and therefore Babs’ ten-pence-worth was eagerly sought after. That was actually a bit of a turn-up because usually nobody gave a rat’s arse what she thought. Babs wouldn’t be drawn and instead, would stick to Boris’s rules, keep her counsel from her place on the fence, and revel in her moment of petty revenge.
She’d found she was doing that a lot lately, thinking wicked thoughts, plotting against people who’d crossed her and hating on random folk who got on her nerves by merely existing. Anything really.
Strangers in the street, neighbours especially, people on the telly, daft endings in books, stupid adverts and jingles, Boris and his goofy girlfriend, the wallpaper in her hallway – Babs’ house, not number 10. Her hit list was endless. Her family were especially irritating even though, knowing them as well as she did, they’d be oblivious of any wrongdoing.
Bald Eagle was the worst. That was her semi-affectionate name for her husband, Pete. Now he really did boil her blood, just by being in the same room. In fact, she couldn’t actually think of one good thing to say about her husband lately, and he’d probably say the same about her.
They weren’t getting on. She could feel they were drifting further and further apart. Lost at sea. That was a good way to describe them, and it seemed like neither had the inclination to pull their very separate boats ashore, tie them back together and find a way to anchor their lives.
Babs sighed. She knew that the fault lay with her because she was perpetually in a bad mood and was turning into a sour-faced old grump which at fifty, wasn’t a great look, but she simply couldn’t help it. Her face seemed to wear a permanent frown, like she was cross with everyone and everything. And now, Lord help her, after being stuck at home she’d look like the moody gargoyles above the vicarage door.
