A Very Accidental Love Story. Claudia Carroll
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I realise that you’re a busy woman but I can assure you, I am too. Now, we close for the day in just under an hour’s time and as this matter is of some significance, I strongly suggest that you come in here immediately. Surely you agree that the welfare of your child is more important than any board meeting?’
No more information forthcoming about what in the name of God could be so pressing anyway, or why the antics of a little girl now had her principal acting like the child had tried to set fire to the place or else gone into her preschool brandishing a shotgun. And if Lily’s okay and not sick or anything, then what in the name of God could it possibly be?
‘Ah, Miss Elliot, please come in; so sorry to have kept you waiting.’
I look up from where I’m impatiently perched in the waiting room and there she is, the famous Miss Pettifer. We’ve never actually met before; a few months ago, when I stuck my head in the door to vet the place and see if I could enrol Lily as a pupil, I was dealing with her assistant and of course, ever since then, Elka brings her to and from preschool. So apart from writing humongously inflated cheques for their services, to my shame I’ve next to nothing to do with the place. Or with Miss Pettifer, who’s now holding out an outstretched hand and beckoning me into her tiny little office, decorated with dozens of kids’ class photos and cute little drawings done in coloured pencil dotted all around the brightly painted walls.
She’s early fifties, I’d say, holding middle age tenuously at bay, with more than a touch of the Aunt Agathas from P.G. Wodehouse about her; grizzly grey hair that looks like it could be used for scouring pans tied back in a no-nonsense bun, clipped speech and dressed like she’s about to referee a hockey match any minute. Stern and stentorian; I instantly get an image of her parading up and down past a line of toddlers inspecting their finger paintings and checking for runny noses. A bit like the Queen doing a meet and greet on a visit to a toilet roll factory.
She invites me to sit down on a coloured plastic chair opposite her desk, which immediately wrongfoots me; normally it’s me on the far side of a desk, the one who’s about to initiate a meeting and take charge.
‘Miss Elliot, may I call you Eloise?’
I nod mutely, thinking, please for the love of God, just cut to the jugular and tell me what this is all about. No time for preambles here. No time for anything.
Mercifully, she’s a woman who seems not to believe in sugar-coating things and comes straight to the point.
‘Eloise, I’m afraid we’ve been having problems with Lily, which I strongly feel you need to be made aware of. And so, it’s my duty as principal here to ask you, let’s just say a few personal questions.’
Okay, now I’m staring dumbly back at her, thinking, ehhh … What exactly can a little girl who’s not even three years old have got up to that merits the bleeding Spanish Inquisition?
‘Fire away,’ I manage to say, calmly as I can, given that the mobile on my knee is switched to silent and hasn’t stopped flashing up missed calls from the office ever since I got here.
Miss Pettifer instantly cuts across my stream of worry.
‘Eloise, I’m afraid I need to be perfectly frank with you here. You’re a single mum, I know, and a very hardworking one at that. You single-handedly carry out an incredibly demanding job. I’m an avid reader of the Post every day, you know, and greatly admire your editorials …’
I nod mechanically, pathetically grateful for the bone she’s just thrown me.
‘But leaving your career aside, being a single parent is probably the toughest job in the whole world. May I ask if you have help of any kind? Apart from your nanny, do you have family support? Your parents, perhaps?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Because you know there are any number of wonderful one-parent support groups locally that I’d be more than happy to recommend to you …’
One-parent support groups? I find myself looking at her numbly. What does this one think I am anyway, on welfare?
‘I feel they might help you to cope with a lot of the demands laid on any busy working single mum. They could help. You see, I have some most unwelcome news to tell you, I’m sorry to say. A problem for us, which sadly could represent an even bigger problem for you.’
Involuntarily, I throw a look of pure panic across the desk at her.
Tell me, just tell me quickly before I pass out with worry …
‘There was a deeply regrettable incident earlier here today, which is why I’ve had to call you in.’
Okay, now I’m on the edge of my seat, palms sweating, breathing jaggedly, bracing myself for what’s coming next. ‘What happened?’
‘Lily, I’m afraid to say, got into a heated row with Tim O’Connor, another little boy here in preschool. There were tears, there was screaming, and worst of all, Lily resorted to smacking him until he cried …’
‘She WHAT? Are you sure?’
‘I wouldn’t have called you in here if I weren’t,’ she says, looking evenly at me.
‘But that’s outrageous! Lily has never behaved like that before!’
I’m on the verge of spluttering indignantly at her that I’d surely know all about it if she did, but then, with a sudden, sharp stab of guilt have to remind myself … How exactly would I know? These days, when do I ever get to see or spend quality time with the poor child anyway, barring our precious Sundays together? The only way I know if there’s trouble at home is if Elka tells me, and lately Elka’s been telling me nothing, just whinging about how late I work and how there are no KitKats in the fridge and how we’re out of Cheerios. And these days I’ve been working so late, even she mostly communicates with me via Post-it notes stuck on the door of the microwave.
So instead of opening my mouth, I sit quiet and listen to the sound of the blood whooshing through my brain while Miss Pettifer relentlessly goes on and on.
‘… Which of course is behaviour we simply can’t put up with. We have a strict policy of zero tolerance, you see, with any kind of unruly behaviour. We expect children to attend having already been taught the rudiments of basic manners and social skills around others.’
‘But … why did Lily smack him? Do you have any idea what the row was about?’
‘Ahh, you see that’s where it becomes delicate and personal. And believe me when I say I hope this doesn’t cause you any offence, but it was over the question of Lily’s father.’
Suddenly, after all my panic and stress and shock … I find myself without a single word to say. And now there’s silence. Horrible, awkward, bum-clenching silence.
‘You’re rearing Lily on your own and believe me, I know how difficult that can be, Eloise,’ Miss Pettifer says to me, sounding almost gentle now, which, in the state I’m in, I’m oddly grateful for, ‘but may I ask you a very personal question?’
I nod mutely.
‘Do you have any contact at all with Lily’s dad?’
Lily’s dad.
Oh shit and double shit. I can’t believe she just asked me that. And worse, is now looking expectantly back at me, waiting on an answer.
‘Well, not exactly …’ is the best I can manage, totally thrown at being caught on the hop like this.
‘It’s just that, in years to come, it’s highly likely that Lily will want to know more about him and to spend time with him too. Which is only right and fair, of course. In an ideal world, children should grow up knowing each of their parents, even if they happen to live in a single parent family. They have a right to know both parents equally well, regardless of circumstances. We have several other children here who all come from wonderful one-parent families and although they