Lies Lies Lies

5

Chapter 5, Daisy

Friday, 17th June 2016

Millie’s recital starts in ten minutes, 5.30 p.m. A time that does, I suppose, acknowledge that the vast majority of the performers are under the age of nine, but does not take into account that the vast majority of the performers’ parents work, and commuting isn’t easy at this hour. Millie and I came straight from school. I’m lucky that my daughter attends the school I teach at. I’ll need to do a heap of marking later tonight, and I had to swap my after-school club duties, but we were able to have a quick tea on the high street and still get here in plenty of time. I’m on the front row. There’s an empty seat next to me that I’ve saved for Simon. I’ve had to guard it quite ferociously. One woman even had the audacity to point out that the dance teacher’s rules (sent out prior to the concert) specifically stated that the saving of seats was prohibited. I pointed out that I wasn’t saving seats, simply a seat and therefore didn’t feel the spirit of the rule had been broken. I felt the tips of my ears burn as I said this, yet I held my ground. I then called Simon, again, to chivvy him along, but it went straight through to voicemail. I hope that means he’s on the tube, on his way.

Before Millie started primary school Simon and I debated whether it was a wise move for her to attend the same school as the one I teach at. We debated the issue for many months. He’d read some report or other about children being either bullied or spoilt if their parents went down this route. He said it might be suffocating for her and tricky for me. True, it can be embarrassing for a child if they bring home a friend for a playdate and that friend is confused to see their teacher out of the classroom and in the home, but I teach Year Six, not reception. By the time she reaches Year Six all her friends will have adjusted to the fact that I’m their teacher and Millie’s mother. I also understand that there could potentially be a problem if some of her teachers found it uncomfortable knowing I am in such close proximity, but I’d never dream of interfering. I know the boundaries. I told Simon that I’d always put school trip money in an envelope, put forms in her book bag like other parents. I didn’t plan on collaring her teacher in the staffroom and asking for a progress report.

For me, the plus factors regarding her attending the same school were overwhelmingly positive and outweighed any potential negatives. Firstly, I love my school. Newfield Primary is friendly, small enough to be manageable but big enough to be inclusive and representative. The staff are dedicated and approachable. It always scores pretty well on the Ofsted report (good rather than outstanding, but that’s more than respectable). Millie and I sharing a schedule makes things easier when it comes to drop off, pick up and school holidays. I immediately get to hear if she’s sick or hurt and I never miss her school assemblies or sports day. Besides, quite simply, I like having her close by. That’s the most important thing. I waited long enough for her. Now I drink up every moment. I promised Simon I’d be vigilant to bullying, alert to any favouritism, and I put Newfield Primary as my first choice on the application form. Then I crossed my fingers. We are in the catchment area. We got lucky.

On days like this I’m so glad I pushed for us to be at the same school. Since Millie has started to dance I’ve come to understand just how serious her performances are, at least to her, her dance teacher, and a fair amount of the attending parents. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not that I’m enjoying myself today, at least not yet. I sit, stiff-backed and self-conscious. I wish Simon would get here soon; my handbag looks bolshie on the spare seat. I wonder where the woman who asked me to give it up is sitting. I daren’t turn around to locate her. I nervously check my phone every ten seconds, hoping for news from Simon. Once the performance starts I’ll have to turn it off, not put it on silent, because if a message flashes up on the screen, the light is incredibly bright and can be distracting to other audience members, possibly even to the dancers on stage. It said so on the rule list. In capitals. The list terrifies me. I read it and memorised it as though it’s been brought down the mountain on two tablets of stone. Generally I really am a rule follower. As a teacher I know rules are set for a reason.

I’ve left Simon’s ticket at the box office for collection. We’ve been informed that the recital is designed to flow seamlessly between performance pieces and so we were firmly instructed not to enter or exit unless it is an emergency. To give some clarity to what constituted an emergency, we were briefed that if there is a ‘fussy child’ in the audience, said child was to be exited as quickly and quietly as possible. The rules list actually used that phrase, ‘fussy child’, like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. We were also advised (warned) that the intermission was the opportunity to chat or eat. Considering all this, I can’t imagine that Simon will be admitted once the curtain rises. There was an instruction that we aren’t to take photos, although there is to be a professional DVD made that can be purchased at a later date. I think he’ll have to make do with that.

Despite the rather draconian list of rules, people around me seem genuinely excited. Many parents are clasping bouquets of flowers or single stems of roses. I have a small bouquet made up of six fat, soft pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. It’s a tradition to present your dancer with flowers to recognise the effort and achievement of having performed in front of a large audience. Besides, everyone loves receiving flowers.

The lights dim, and the music starts up. I feel a surge of excitement that the show is about to begin and a sting of disappointment and irritation that Simon is going to miss it. A chain of little girls dressed as daisies scurry onto the stage. They are all about three years old and what they lack in ability, they more than make up in sheer cuteness factor. The audience ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ volubly, the girls can barely hear the music over the audible swooning. This lot are too little to manage anything more than a bit of twirling, even the planned simultaneous raising of their arms ends up looking like a Mexican wave, but that in no way diminishes the pleasure the audience derive from the performance. When the daisies finish and dip into sweet little curtsys or simply wander off the stage because they’ve had enough, we burst into raucous applause. Some parents even stand up. A few flashes pop, the rapturous delight has emboldened one or two parents to break the rules. I look to the door and will Simon to slip through it. It stays resolutely shut. I wonder whether he’s the other side of it. Trapped. Or somewhere else entirely. A pub. Maybe.

The next group runs onto the stage. Most are dressed as icicles; silver and white, they sparkle and shine. The word ‘Frozen’ shimmies up and down the rows of spectators. Sometimes it’s said with a self-satisfied enthusiasm – a treat delivered – sometimes it’s said with a hint of boredom. I have to admit to having seen hundreds of performances of Frozen, it’s a stalwart favourite in most dance teachers’ repertoires. The cute factor intensifies. These little children (mostly girls but two boys) are still fairly unskilled but they are trying so hard. Their faces are scrunched in concentration as they point their toes or bend their bodies to one side, it’s impossible not to melt. I risk sharing the observation with the woman sat next to me – well, it’s tricky attending these things and not having someone to enthuse with. She nods and comments, ‘Good pun.’

I hadn’t intended a pun and feel a little embarrassed that she thinks of me as the sort of mother who tries that hard.

Millie’s group are next up on stage. The girls are wearing pink tutu dresses with ballet tights and ballet shoes, the one and only boy is wearing shorts and T-shirt and ballet shoes. They are only five to six years old, but they are considerably more in control of their bodies than the last groups; all but one seem to be following the choreographed pattern. They manage to alternate hands on waist, hands above the head, they leap (although not all at once) and they twirl (only one girl looks precariously close to falling off the stage). By this age, most have stopped waving to their parents if they spot them in the audience. About two minutes into the dance Millie has a small solo piece. She has rehearsed this endlessly. I know she’s my daughter and I’m biased, but once she starts to leap, other parents gasp with admiration. She’s simply enchanting. Her arms flutter like streamers in the wind as she executes artful, mesmerising and deliberate moves. Her toes are pointed, she angles her legs, torso and head with precision, and she morphs into something other than a little girl on a stage; she is the butterfly she’s portraying. Everyone stares at her: the other dancers on the stage who are kneeling in a circle around her, the parents, grandparents, the pianist, the ballet teacher. She doesn’t notice us. She doesn’t scan the audience to catch my eye, she doesn’t look to the teacher or the pianist for the lead or the beat, she simply allows the performance to run through her. She’s everything every little girl wants to be: strong and beautiful. She elegantly extends her legs, points her toes and throws her arms wide as she commits to a leap. She sails through the air as though she has wings and then the hall door slams open. The noise ricochets through the room.

Most people can’t help themselves, it’s instinctive, they swivel their heads, attention pulls away from Millie and rests on her father. I hear him say, ‘I have a fucking ticket.’ Swearing is rife in the circles we mix in, holding back is seen as prudish and lower middle class. Still, I’m mortified. I guess I’m prudish and lower middle class. I don’t turn. I keep my eyes trained on Millie and watch her as she lands, not quite as gracefully as I’ve seen her do in rehearsals. I notice her eyes slip to the doorway for a fraction of a second. She’s no longer in a garden, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she’s a little girl with an embarrassing daddy.

The children scamper across the stage, toes pointed, legs stretched in front of them, a light, elegant pitter-patter. All I am aware of are his heavy footsteps slamming on the wooden floor as he threads his way towards the front of the hall. Why hasn’t he slipped into a seat at the back? I can hear him repeatedly say, ‘Sorry, ’scuse me, can I get past?’ He sounds impatient, a little sarcastic. His words are slurred.

At the interval, we stand in a frosty silence. Simon is swaying slightly. We have nothing to say to one another. Only the kindest of the mothers try to talk to us.

‘The costumes are quite something aren’t they?’ says Ellie’s mum.

‘The Year Twos looked like hookers,’ replies Simon.

I blush and sip my tea. Ellie’s mum pretends she’s seen someone else she knows that she needs to have a word with.

Delia’s mum picks up the mantel. ‘I love this troupe.’ It’s just a ballet class, not a troupe, but it seems rude to correct her. ‘It’s so inclusive. Rather lovely that all the children have been given roles, even though they don’t all have rhythm. You are lucky. Millie is so incredibly talented. If Delia had as much ability in her big toe I’d be thrilled, we just come here for the exercise really.’ She smiles at Simon. I think she’s trying to say something outrageous to draw attention away from his behaviour. It’s lovely of her but it won’t work. A modest grumble about your own kid’s mediocrity, whilst said kid is out of earshot, is nothing compared to interrupting the recital.

Delia reminds me of myself as a child. She looks uncomfortable in a leotard on stage. She looks uncomfortable full stop. Her mother thinks she’s helping her confidence by putting her on stage, but I think Delia would be happier at Brownies or in the library.

‘Which one is Delia?’ Simon asks.

‘She is in Millie’s group. She was on the far right hand side, most of the time. She’s very tall.’

Simon snorts, ‘Oh yeah. I know her. I think you’re wasting your money.’ Delia’s mum blushes. Simon is acting as though he doesn’t know the parent script, or at least if he does, he can’t be bothered to follow it. He’s supposed to say her performance was charming, that she was enthusiastic and full of character. I’m only glad he didn’t call her fat. Delia’s mother says she’s going to get another cup of tea.

‘Simon, what is wrong with you?’ I snap.

‘Is there only fucking tea?’

‘Will you please stop swearing. There are children around.’

‘Yeah, the place is full of supportive siblings, isn’t it?’ He stares at me with a cool intensity that manages to slice through his more obvious state, one of inebriation.

‘Have you been drinking already?’ I ask.

‘No biggie. Mick from work has had a baby – well, his girlfriend has. We went for a drink to wet the baby’s head.’

‘But you knew this started at five thirty. You didn’t have time to go to the pub. Did you leave work early?’ He’s clearly had more than one.

‘I was only ten minutes late. I didn’t miss much. Hell, Daisy, if I have to sit through another rendition of “Let It Go” I might literally beat myself over the head with that bunch of roses.’

I’d happily do as much, and my only regret would be that I had the thorns removed at the florist because I’m not careless enough to give my child a bouquet with thorns. The bell, announcing the second half is about to begin, rings.

‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ says Simon.

‘No, you have to come in.’

‘She’s done her bit.’

‘She’ll be on stage again for the encore. That’s when the entire assembly dance together.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Please Simon.’

He shrugs and follows me back into the hall, like a dog following its master; a snarly dog that might turn and bite at any point.

6

Chapter 6, Simon

Simon sat through the rest of the recital as required but was unable to muster any enthusiasm. Watching other people’s small, clumsy kids prance about on stage was only bearable if you got to see your own kid. He was ashamed that he’d missed Millie’s performance and yet also relieved. It pained him to admit, even to himself, but he was finding it difficult to be around her since they’d visited the fertility clinic. He loved her so much. It hurt. The doubt. The uncertainty. It felt like a wound.

He allowed his eyes to slide to the left, he looked at Daisy the way you might look at the sun. Never full on, it was too damaging, only with a side-eye glance. Martell must have got it wrong. He must have. No way. No fucking way would Daisy ever be unfaithful. But Martell had thought that they’d had a donor. They hadn’t. He’d thought Millie was born through IVF. She wasn’t. Blatantly he had only scanned the history which Simon had bothered to provide. The supposed expert had clearly made assumptions, mistakes. He couldn’t be trusted. Most likely the results of Simon’s tests were wrong. That was it. When they’d first had a similar round of tests he’d been told the chances of conceiving were ‘slight’, one doctor once used the word ‘negligible’. No one ever said his chances were non-existent. No one ever used the word ‘sterile’. Surely a mistake. Or maybe there had been a level of deterioration since. That was probable, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that women’s fertility dramatically decreased post-forty, it was surely the same for men. Right? These explanations were far more likely than the one the consultant had insinuated. Daisy would not be unfaithful. The idea was ludicrous. He was Millie’s father.

She didn’t look at all like him. She had blonde hair, fine and wavy, pale blue eyes. He had thick, brown curly hair and brown eyes, but he’d always thought Millie had got her colouring from her mother’s side. She didn’t look like her mother, either though, not really. Not at all. Yes, Daisy had blue eyes, but they were a darker blue and a completely different shape. Daisy had thick red hair. Simon looked about him. There were siblings of the performers sat with their parents in the audience. In many cases the children were mini versions of their parents, recognisably genetically connected, almost facsimiles, but in many other cases the kids didn’t look especially like their parents. Simon shook his head. This was madness. How had he let this thought take hold? He should just tell Daisy what the doctor had said. Admit he’d had the tests, that he was hurrying things along. That was no biggie. Then he could ask her straight out. She’d laugh. Well, that or punch him for thinking so badly of her, but that would be better than where he was now. She’d clear it up. He was sure of it. Almost.

He thought back to when Daisy had told him she was pregnant with Millie. Well, she didn’t tell him exactly. There wasn’t a cutesy moment when she announced it to him by wrapping up a couple of knitted booties, one pink, one blue, the way their friend Connie had done when she told her husband Luke that they were expecting their third. Simon had brought the subject to the table in the end. She was late by six weeks when he did so. He hadn’t even dared hope she was pregnant, in fact he had feared she was ill. He knew her cycle as well as she did, couples trying for a baby tended to. She’d been moody and tearful for a few weeks. Hormonal. Off her food. He’d even caught her throwing up with what he later came to realise was a brief but intense bout of morning sickness, but at the time he hadn’t made the leap. He hadn’t dared to hope. They’d given up, you see. So he hadn’t been looking for it.

One morning at breakfast, he watched her push her muesli around her bowl but not spoon much of it into her mouth. ‘Are you ill? Do you think you need to go to the doctors?’

‘No and yes,’ she replied. Lifting her eyes to meet his. He could see something glisten inside her. Something wonderful, but there were also shades of concern, fear. It was like looking at a stunning view through smudgy sunglasses.

‘What is it, Daisy?’ He’d wanted to take her hand, but she seemed so far away.

‘I’m not ill, I’m pregnant.’

She said the word tentatively, like a whispered secret. He felt it glow in his head, his heart. ‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘Nine weeks pregnant,’ she replied breathily.

He’d started to laugh, it spluttered out of his nose, the emotion was so raw he couldn’t control it at all. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’

‘I didn’t dare.’

He understood. They hadn’t dared to hope. Now he could touch her. He’d pulled his wife into his arms. He’d almost picked her up and spun her round but then he’d panicked, he didn’t want to dislodge anything, he didn’t want to be too rough. She’d laughed reading his mind.

‘I know, it’s terrifying, right?’

He’d covered her face with kisses. ‘We need to crack open the champagne. Oh wow, no. Not for you. But me. Yes, I need a drink.’ It was not terrifying, it was exhilarating, brilliant.

She started to laugh. ‘You’re pleased?’

‘Daisy, are you insane? What a question. Pleased doesn’t cover it.’ He was grinning from ear to ear. People used that expression all the time, but it wasn’t until that moment that he really understood it.

‘One in three pregnancies miscarry. Those are the statistics,’ she whispered, cautiously.

‘Shush, no. Don’t think about that.’

Daisy started to look more relaxed. The tension in her brow easing. They both wanted this so much that they could make it happen, they could keep the little foetus safe. ‘You took a test, right?’ He suddenly, momentarily panicked. Had she made a mistake?

‘I’ve taken three,’ laughed Daisy. ‘I still have one left, if you want me to do it again.’

She did, and there it was: positive. A little plus sign. Positive! Never had a word been so utterly true. They told people straight away. Daisy wanted to wait but Simon just couldn’t manage the prescribed twelve weeks, besides which their family and friends were so closely involved in the matter of their fertility that not telling them would have involved direct lies. People were jubilant. Champagne was popped on a regular basis which Daisy happily refused and Simon happily quaffed. Daisy’s sister, Rose, cried. Her friend Connie jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her hands. Like a child. They’d done it! They’d made a baby.

Hadn’t they?

Simon was brought back to the here and now as Daisy elbowed him in the ribs. He jerked as though he’d been asleep. Daisy scowled at him. Had he dozed off? No, he was just remembering. His mouth felt dry, scratchy. Millie was on the stage again. The entire dance school was, yet she was easy to pick out. She presented roses to the dance teacher. She did so on tip toes. Graceful, itty-bitty movements. Simon stood up to cheer, but somehow he lost his balance. The rows of chairs were too tightly packed. He fell back on top of the woman sat next to him. He landed on her lap. It was very funny. Everyone turned to look at him. And laughed.