Just What Kind of Mother Are You? Read Free Page A

wait for the minibus.
    I don’t know if this is a national thing, or if it’s just local to Cumbria, but if you live more than three miles away from the nearest school, or if there’s not a suitable pavement to walk upon, your kids are eligible for free transport. And since no proper buses run up here in Troutbeck, this takes the form of a taxi – well, a minibus. (Not Joe. Joe’s a one-man band. He generally just carts old ladies to hospital appointments, or garden centres, or to bridge club.)
    I could send Sam in a taxi as well if I wanted to, but I have this fear that a rogue driver would steal him away, be on a ferry bound for Zeebrugge before I realized he hadn’t made it into school (I’ve enquired, and the drivers are not CRB-checked). So I drop Sam on my way to the shelter, and it’s useful because it’s one of the only moments during a normal working day that we get some time together.
    We discuss all sorts. Sam’s still of an age when he believes in Father Christmas and he thinks of Jesus as having superhero status. To Sam, Jesus has quite obviously got superhero powers, because ‘How else could he do all that stuff?’
    Sam went through a big Jesus phase last year and kept banging on and on about him. Which I didn’t see the harm in. But then I had Joe at the dinner table, hopping mad, slamming his fork down, saying, ‘That school is corrupting him.’
    I negotiate our way down the lane. It’s a narrow, badly pot-holed stretch of track with no passing places. I have to time my departure just right or else I meet the minibus coming the other way. And it’s always me that has to reverse, because the driver has a bad neck and can only use his mirrors. In fairness, his vehicle is a lot wider than mine.
    Sam has his hat on and his hood pulled up over it because of the car’s frigid interior, so he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Andmy exhaust is blowing. It needed replacing a month ago and is getting worse by the day. I sound like a boy racer every time I press on the gas. I ask Sam about school and if there’s anything he wants to tell me.
    ‘What?’ he says.
    ‘ “Pardon,” ’ I correct.
    ‘Pardon? What?’
    ‘Is there anything going on at school you want to tell me about?’
    He shrugs. Looks out the window. Then he turns and tells me excitedly about a child who brought in a lava lamp for Show and Tell. And one, when can we get a lava lamp?, and two, why can he never bring anything in for Show and Tell?
    Inwardly, I’m cursing this mother, whoever she is, for giving me something else to do. Show and Tell. Brilliant.
    ‘Show and Tell,’ I explain patiently, ‘is an American thing. It’s like Trick or Treat. English people just don’t really do it.’
    ‘Everybody does Trick or Treat except us.’
    ‘No they don’t.’
    ‘Yes they do.’
    ‘Anyway,’ I say quickly, ‘what’s this I hear about you making people pay to play with you?’
    He doesn’t answer. I can’t see his face hidden behind the fur of his hood, and now I’ve got to concentrate because I’m on the main road and it’s not been gritted particularly well. A rush job.
    I have a momentary flash of panic as I imagine the taxi driver in charge of the kids’ minibus, taking a bend too fast and sailing off the edge of the road, down to the valley floor below.
    I picture the vehicle as it rolls and rolls, coming to a stop by a John Deere hay baler. The windows of the bus are blown out, and my kids sit there motionless like limp crash-test dummies.
    I shiver.
    Sam says, in answer to my question about pay for play: ‘Pardon?’
    ‘You heard me.’
    Reluctantly, he explains, ‘I don’t make everyone pay,’ and I can tell he’s more disappointed than sorry. Probably thought he could go through life making money in this way, and he can sense by my tone that his venture has come to a premature end.
    I turn to him. ‘What I don’t get is why these kids are willing to pay you. Why are they giving you money when they