sure he’d survive,’ I say with a grin.
‘Have you taught him to cook yet?’
I shrug. ‘Well, he can just about fry an egg without setting his hair on fire.’
‘God, Aud,’ Amanda remarks with a smirk, ‘you’ve treated that boy far too well. He doesn’t need to figure out stuff for himself. He’s never had to.’
Although I shrug this off, something gnaws at me: because that’s what Vince says too. He reckons I’ve pampered our boy, and that it’s my fault Morgan seems to think it’s fine to undertake nothing more taxing than wobbling about on his unicycle and half-heartedly tossing a couple of beanbags about. Can I add that Vince is the one who started it, by buying our boy a juggling kit last Christmas ‘for a laugh’. He was a bright, sparky kid until the teenage hormones kicked in: excellent at maths, science and history, forever huddled over a book. We’d watch movies and play board games together; it felt as if we were a little gang of two. I can no longer remember the last time he read anything – apart from the Chinese takeaway menu – and these days he seems allergic to my company.
But never mind that because the children are surging in now, the younger years first, jostling into a straggly line at the counter while Delyth and I dish out their meals. It’s an Indian banquet today, to celebrate breaking up for summer. The queue has already disintegrated into an unruly gaggle. There are shrieks and giggles and much pushing in. ‘Calm down, everyone,’ I exclaim, stopping Joseph from grabbing a handful of mini naans.
‘Please, Miss Pepper!’
‘No, Joseph, only one naan each.’
‘Miss, please, they’re only tiny—’
I glance at Delyth, expecting her to lay down the law. But no, she’s smirking while doling out curry and rice from the stainless steel containers. ‘Go on, let him have two,’ she hisses.
‘It’s a special day, Miss Pepper!’ giggles Holly, clutching her tray.
I frown, deciding it must be the fierce July heat that’s making the children so giddy today. Fleetingly, I wonder whether Morgan has managed to draw his bedroom curtains yet, and picture him staggering back, half-blinded by the sudden exposure to sunlight. Delyth and I finish serving the younger ones, and I deal with a small altercation between a bunch of girls at a table – ‘I’m saving a place for Shannon!’
‘You’re not allowed to save places, Lily, you know that …’
‘Please, Miss Pepper …’ And off they go again, dissolving into splutters of laughter.
Delyth and I serve the older years, who are no less hyped up than the little ones, then it’s on to wiping tables as the children begin to congregate at one end of the hall. Normally they’d have surged out to the playground by now. Today though, they’re sort of loitering. I’ve never seen this happen before. ‘Off you go,’ I prompt them. ‘Your lunchtime’s ticking away. Don’t you want to be outside in the sunshine?’
‘Not yet, Miss Pepper!’ someone blurts out. There’s a ripple of sniggered asides. I frown at Delyth, then catch the eye of Moira, the head teacher, who’s glided into the canteen, as regal as the figurehead on a ship with her magnificent bosom and glossy black hair piled high.
‘Everyone!’ she calls out, waving a large white envelope above her head. ‘Boys and girls, gather round and remember what we said at assembly this morning …’ Another burst of laughter. ‘… Now, all quieten down while I make a very important announcement …’
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Delyth.
She shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘Not leaving, is she?’
‘Maybe. I haven’t heard anything …’ She clears her throat and studies her fingernails. I glance around the crowded canteen. It feels as if the children, who are clearly having trouble containing their excitement, know exactly what’s going on. And it dawns on me, slowly, that everyone does – even Delyth, who’s clearly trying to suppress a grin – apart from me.
‘Shhhh!’ Moira hushes everyone as only a head teacher can. As the chatter fades, I realise the entire staff is here – teachers, secretaries and classroom assistants; even Greg, the janitor. Stranger still, everyone is staring at me. I sense my cheeks glowing hot and sweep my hands over my ponytailed hair.
Moira raps a table with a plastic teaspoon. The room has fallen silent. ‘Today,’ she starts, in her authoritative tone, ‘is a very special day. Yes, I know it’s the last day of term and you’re all desperate to get out of here and have fun. But before that, I have in my hand a very special letter …’
‘We know what it is!’ Joseph pipes up.
‘Joseph, you don’t know,’ Delyth reprimands him, waving a finger.
‘We do. We all guessed!’
Moira grins. ‘You might remember, a few months ago, I secretly asked you all to write a couple of sentences about one of our dinner ladies who’s been here for such a long time, and has seen so many of our children grow up through the school …’
Oh, my lord. Delyth only joined us last year, and Amanda’s only been here a couple of terms. She means me.
‘… Ten years, she’s been here,’ Moira goes on. ‘That’s even longer than me, which is saying something …’ Everyone laughs, and I think: yep, I arrived in the era of jam roly poly and now it’s all chopped mango and kiwi. And it hits me: I’m getting some kind of long service award, a carriage clock for the dusty old retainer of the school canteen. Which would be lovely, of course. I do need a properly working clock. But Christ, do I feel old …
‘… Always been so kind and wonderful,’ Moira goes on as my cheeks blaze. She turns to me. ‘I’d like to read out a few of the things the children said about you, Miss Pepper …’
I swallow hard as she pulls a sheet of A4 from the envelope. What the heck have they said? ‘“Miss Pepper is a lovely smiling lady …”’ It feels like something has caught in my throat. ‘“She’s my favourite dinner lady in the whole world,”’ Moira reads on. ‘“She’s always kind and she never gets cross, even when we spill water or drop food on the floor …”’
My vision fuzzes as I remember the bad thoughts I had yesterday, beaming hatred at Morgan’s boxers and kicking Jenna’s thong into the corner of the bathroom to fester with the dusty old bottles of floor cleaner and bleach. When did I become so intolerant? What happened to the fun, perky woman who blithely stepped over the odd dropped item of underwear, and who never seethed over a dressing gown dumped on the stairs, and who was certainly never seized by an urge to set it alight? They see only the good side of me here: the woman who runs off to find a plaster for a cut knee, and takes the time to chat to a little girl who’s crying because there was no room for her to sit with her friends.
Sure, I’m good with other people’s kids. I love their enthusiasm for life. If only they knew what a colossal grump I am at home, fizzling with irritation over scattered trainers and the forever elusive remote control … ‘“Miss Pepper is like a kind friend to me,”’ Moira continues, and there’s more, so much more: about the time I ‘helped’ Ailsa Cartwright (she means when
