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
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
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