Young Wives' Tales Read Free

bit guilty. I should have made more of an effort with my appearance. Some of the mums always arrive at the school gate with full make-up and the latest high-street must-haves. But, then again, they have men over four feet tall to make an effort for.I can’t imagine Sebastian or Henry noticing whether I’m wearing the latest fashion statement or an old favourite peach M & S T-shirt; one that’s been comfortable in my wardrobe for a decade. I’m more of a slummy mummy than a yummy mummy.
    That said, although it is only a short walk to the school (literally two minutes) and it’s a sunny afternoon, I don’t leave the house without finding a cardigan. The sight of my wobbly, flabby arms is not something I want to share. I’m a size sixteen, or eighteen in the less generous brands. I’ve been this size since I got pregnant and this doesn’t bother me at all. Or at least it doesn’t bother me enough to make me want to do anything about it. I hate diets, and the only exercise I enjoy is walking the dog, which I do regularly. I do this more for the good of my heart than my figure, though. I’ve never been skinny. My wedding dress was a size fourteen and had to be let out a little around the bust. I suppose the difference is in those days my bust made men trip over their tongues, while now my boobs hang so low the only person that’s likely to trip on them is me.
    It’s a very pleasant afternoon; rather more summer than autumn because the seasons no longer know when to change. When I was a girl you were guaranteed golden leaves underfoot almost the moment you pulled your school tie out of the wardrobe but it’s not the same now. Everything is topsy-turvy. I saw crocuses sprouting in Hyde Park this August. I sometimes think the whole world is going mad. I hurry along the pathworrying whether the boys are likely to have lost their blazers if they’ve taken them off.
    As I approach the school gate I see two or three mums already clustering and my pulse quickens. I like this time of day. In the mornings, at drop-off, none of us have time to chat; we’re all a little too harassed. In the afternoons I get my dose of adult company. I notice that all the other mums have younger siblings with them. Some in arms and strollers, others pulling on skirt hems. My arms feel empty and for a moment I don’t know what to do with them.
    We swap pleasantries; catching up on news about where people have been on their hols, comparing which after-school clubs we’ve enrolled our children in this term and suggesting dates for tea visits.
    ‘Did you get away this summer, Rose?’asks Lauren Taylor. A mum of three, her eldest daughter is in the twins’year. Her middle one’s in reception and the youngest is in the stroller.
    ‘Yes. We hired a
gîte
in the South of France with my sister and her husband.’
    ‘Oh, I’m so pleased. I was thinking of you and wondering how you manage over the hols. Six weeks can be a long time on your own.’
    People often assume I am lonely. Even relative strangers feel compelled to say, ‘It must be very hard on your own,’cue sympathetic look. Pity is something I’ve become accustomed to. Accustomed to but not anaesthetized. It’s meant to make me feel better. It doesn’t. The exact words may vary marginally; theremight be a seasonal twist – ‘It must be hard to be on your own during the holidays/Christmas/your birthday’– but the sense that they feel sorry for me is the same. I’m always stunned by comments such as these. How can I be considered to be on my own when I have twin seven-year-old boys, a dog, a rabbit, two goldfish, a full complement of parents, out-laws (the fond name I give my ex in-laws), friends, a younger sister, a brother-in-law, a large rambling garden and a small crumbling house? All of whom/which depend upon me for sustenance, maintenance, guidance, a ready supply of opinions (if only to reject them), walking, weeding, painting, cleaning, etc.
    Although it is worth noting