Young Wives' Tales by Adele Parks

manners and the sentiment. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that they are seven years old and not as tactful as I’d hope.
    It was a relief that my root vegetable stew and stuffed apples with custard were received with more enthusiasm than the season table. I didn’t mention to the boys that I’d themed the food. I had a feeling it would have been detrimental to their enjoyment.
    After they’d finished their homework, bathed and cleaned their teeth, I read stories and checked that there were clean football strips for the weekend. Then I called Connie for a cheer-up chat. We competitively compared our day’s irritations, which was a help and a giggle. That was Friday. On Sunday she smote me with her tongue. Who’d have thought it was possible?
    I begin to ponder. ‘Cruel’and ‘nasty’are not words I’ve ever had cause to associate with Daisy and Connie. At least, not since Daisy and I gave up fighting over Sindy dolls. What did they say exactly? Wasting my life. I remember that
clearly
even through the fuzz of two sleepless nights. I wish I could forget it but I can’t. The accusation has stung me like a mosquito bite and I can’t help but scratch it. In fairness to Connie, she did point out that I’ve done a great job with the twins. What did she ask me? What am I going to do next?
    The coffee, previously delicious, suddenly tastes bitter. I lunge for the bun and stuff an enormous amount into my mouth, desperate to take away the nasty taste. The bun doesn’t help. My throat is too dry to allow me to swallow. I chew and chew and chew. I must look like a huge cow masticating grass.
    They wanted to talk to me about my future. Their voices shove their way into my consciousness. Last night, when I was in the darkness of despair and self-pity, I was able to filter out the concern and pity in their words. I ignored the assurances that they were only thinking of me and wanted the best for me. Last night it was easy to be angry and indignant and, most importantly, to continue to avoid what they were shunting into view. But in the daylight, with sun streaming through the window, it’s not so easy to feign ignorance.
    I don’t have a future.
    Financially I have made myself reasonably secure, although not flush. Peter paid off the mortgage on our family home when he left. It was a huge pile of a place.I sold it and invested a lump sum in secure saving plans and bought a more modest place for the boys and me. I don’t see myself ending up as a bag lady, holding out a cardboard cup and sleeping in the doorway of Argos. But how do I see myself?
    I hope the boys will go to university, stay clear of drugs and find careers that they enjoy. One day I’d like there to be grandchildren. Connie’s words beat their way through the flowery privet fence that I have carefully built in my mind. It’s a manicured fence, which I prune and nurture; a fence I’ve carefully constructed to keep me protected from harsh realities. But, like a nasty, invasive weed, the words of my friends hack through. ‘You have no friends or interests outside the school gates.’‘We just think it would be nice if you got out and met some new people.’‘Maybe even go on a couple of dates.’
    I am not an imbecile. I have, on occasion, thought some very similar things myself. Maybe I should make an effort to get out and meet people beyond the school gate. But how would I go about that? It’s not easy finding babysitters that the boys are comfortable with. I’ve never left them with strangers. I suppose I could ask Daisy and Simon to sit, occasionally. They do offer, regularly. But where would I go?
    I pause and reflect. I do have hobbies. I love pottering in my garden. My rose bushes were fabulous this year, quite the talk of the street. I’m a good seamstress, I make my own curtains. I’m a very good cook; I’ve made my own love handles.
    It’s other people’s stares, not the phone’s tring, that alert me to the fact that my mobile is