Page 33 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
‘That was all my sister, she hijacked my phone.’
Helen puts an arm around me. ‘Don’t apologise to me, love. You know someone screen grabbed it and sent it around the school? You’re a bloody hero, you are…’
You forget about the cascading effect of social media in these playground battles. One moment you tell a group that your son has a rash and the next he’s a social pariah with possible leprosy.
‘I mean,’ she carries on, ‘I like giving the woman what for but I love how you went for the sucker punch. It’s also got people signed up for the PTA. Nothing like real-life beef to add some flavour to people’s lives.’
Oh, Jesus. Thanks, Meg. Have I created a turf war situation here? The doors of the classroom fly open and children are suddenly released to parents. Maya does what she does, which is linger and help tidy up things, returning pencils to pots and chairs to standing. I have no idea where she gets that from. I stand by the bush watching her as she shakes her head at boys who still continue to wrestle and use their school sweatshirts as whips to attack each other. Helen’s little one comes over and hands her a piece of paper, which she quickly scans.
‘Seriously? Oh no, what a shame.’
She shows me the note, on official school letterhead paper telling us Miss Loveday will start a new job in another school after Easter. I look up at Carrie Cantello and some of her esteemed cronies, murmurs of nods and satisfaction coming from them.
‘This is all them,’ Helen says. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they forced that poor girl out.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ve got to run but carry on the good work, Grace. I look forward to hearing your next rant.’
I survey the rest of the parents. Some take the letter and stuff it into book bags while others read it in confusion, or concern that their children will lose a teacher for the last term of their first year at school. Through the glass, I spy Miss Loveday, who can hardly bear to look up at anyone. She stares down at tables, filing books away. I head over to the door.
‘Come on, slowcoach,’ I tell Maya.
Her face lights up to see me but there’s also concern in her face. ‘Mummy, Miss Loveday is leaving.’
I bend down to sweep the hair from her face. We experimented with clips this morning but the sheen of her hair sees them displaced at random parts of her head. I unclip them and put them in her book bag, which is filled with leaves, twigs and random pieces of paper with drawings on them.
‘I know. I just heard. Are you OK, Miss Loveday?’ I ask her.
Miss Loveday’s look always devolves over the course of the day. She starts like Miss Honey but ends looking like Miss Hannigan, where strong alcohol served out of a bath tub might be the answer. She looks up at me.
‘I’m so sorry. I feel awful for the children, they deserve better. I wish I could stay out the year.’
‘Don’t apologise. You’ve done an awesome job.’ She seems surprised by my statement and I am sad that I never expressed enough gratitude. I wish I’d bought her a better Christmas present as opposed to a random bottle of wine that I thought could smooth over the cracks, like it regularly does for me. ‘Where are you moving on to?’ I enquire.
‘I found somewhere back home looking for maternity cover for the summer term and they’ve said they’ll pick up my assessments.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘London. I moved here last summer. It was probably the wrong thing to do. I took on too much, too soon. I don’t have support down here.’ Her eyes glaze over and I instinctively move her round so no one can spy too much through the window.
‘Maya. Could you go outside for a moment? Just have a play.’
Maya comes and throws her arms around Miss Loveday’s waist before she does so.
‘Bye, Miss Loveday. I’ll see you tomorrow!’
She scampers off and I watch her throw her book bag to the damp ground and mount a wooden train in the playground, scaling its roof. I turn back to Miss Loveday.
‘We’re not supposed to have favourites but she is so receptive,’ she says.
‘Thank you. She loves you. You can tell. She draws a lot of pictures of you.’
‘I love that.’
A tear catches on her eyelashes and she tries to blink rapidly to stop it from falling.
‘Seriously, are you OK, Miss Loveday?’ I ask.
‘I just didn’t expect it to be like this. Some of those parents are beyond savage.’
‘Mrs Cantello?’
