‘I had no idea they still did that sort of thing,’ Jimmy said in amazement. ‘It’s just so nineteenth century.’
‘Well, we might as well read books we don’t own,’ Monica observed. ‘After all, we don’t own anything else.’
Gradually life took on a semblance of normality. The month or two of hell that had followed Jodie’s departure had slowly morphed into a new family-based lifestyle. The pressures were still great but they had each other, and the challenges they faced gave them something to think about besides Jimmy’s so far fruitless efforts to get a job as a shelf-stacker.
The greatest relief of all was that Toby had settled in at school. State education had not turned out to be quite the nightmare they had assumed it to be. Certainly it was a bit rougher than Abbey Hall.
‘Although not so much
rougher
,’ Monica observed at the end of Toby’s first fortnight, ‘as more
rough and ready
.’
‘And the kids aren’t so bad either,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘Bit pathetic of us to be surprised really. I mean why wouldn’t they be? Kids are kids, aren’t they?’
It was true that by the end of his first day Toby had finally lost his beautiful accent and started to speak as if he was in a Guy Ritchie movie, but he had not so far been beaten up. In fact it turned out that, contrary to beliefs that Jimmy and Monica had held for most of their adult lives, the kids in state schools were not uniformly hard cases, made angry, aggressive and slothful by bad parenting, sugar and food additives, but were just the same mixed bag of individuals as the kids had been at Abbey Hall. A bully or two certainly, a few victims, and then a wide middle ground of kids just trying to muddle through their schooldays without getting into the shit with either the hard nuts or authority.
‘Much like any school really,’ Jimmy said.
There were problem parents, a few sullen, angry ones at the school gate, but they were the exception, not the rule. Of course there were a few of the dreaded dysfunctional families so often reported in the press, where assorted half-siblings dealt with itinerant stepfathers and then brought the emotional trauma to school. But again that was not so different from Abbey Hall.
‘When you think about it,’ Monica said, ‘a good percentage of the parents there were divorced, weren’t they? Plenty of absentee dads, as I recall, and what’s a nanny if not a step-parent? I know I never used to think that at the time, but now that I know what’s actually involved in bringing up kids I realize that Jodie was more their bloody mum than I was. Certainly in terms of how hard it is.’
One other great and unexpected relief about ending up in the state system and in one of the less desirable schools was that they were finally free of the pressure of trying to get their kids into somewhere better. When they had been rich this had been one of the great woes of family life, particularly for Toby himself. He’d had the endless stress of going for interviews with headmasters in intimidating oak-lined studies and spending weekends with tutors, cramming for some archaic entrance exam that simply had to be passed or his whole future would be blown at the age of seven.
All that was over for Toby now. He was in a bog-standard local primary school and it was his absolute
right
to be there. No more pressure, no more selection. He just had to make of it what he could and when he was finished he would go to a local comprehensive. Again with no interviews, no entrance exams. It was his right.
Some of the teachers were brilliant too. And some weren’t. Just like at Abbey Hall.
Toby found he actually
liked
his school. The fact that he wasn’t the only new boy helped a lot. He and Korfa had stuck together from day one. Both refugees from another culture. Each with something to offer the other. Toby had the best vocabulary and the clearest speaking voice in the class and Korfa had fearlessness and a cheerfulness born of having seen things that made every breath he drew and every bite he ate a cause for celebration.
Not that fearlessness was particularly required in Toby’s class. They were a good enough bunch in general, ruled over by a popular teacher. But Korfa’s cheerful nature was a tonic for Toby from the first moment they met. Korfa laughed often and long in a pitch that was high even for an eight-year-old, particularly such a tall one. And whenever Korfa appreciated anything he made a point of saying so.
‘OH this IS very NICE,’ he would declare when presented with a blank sheet of paper on which to draw a picture, or a free school meal courtesy of the council. ‘I like THIS very MUCH. Thank YOU so MUCH.’
Korfa made enthusiasm cool.
That was a new concept for Toby, who even at eight had begun to take on the attitude beloved of boys in any school, posh or state, that the cool thing to do was not to give a stuff about anything.
Korfa gave a stuff about
everything
and by his example invigorated the whole class.
And it wasn’t just Toby’s attitudes that were changing. Monica and Jimmy also found their eyes being opened and long-held prejudices challenged.
‘You know, sometimes I used to listen to Rupert,’ Monica said, ‘going on and on about how state handouts were actually holding people back and creating a dependency culture and I used to kind of
agree
with him. But the truth is that handouts are the only thing that’s keeping us
up
.’
‘That’s true,’ Jimmy admitted.
‘I mean without them,’ Monica said, her eyes a little teary, ‘we’d be on the streets. Our children would probably be taken away.’
‘I know,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘Rupert always was an arsehole.’
‘I think we all were.’
A major beneficiary of the parliamentary crisis
Rupert Bennett emerged from the glass and marble headquarters of the Royal Lancashire Bank for the last time.
It was quiet. Deathly quiet.
For the first time in months, no cameras popped and no flashes flashed. Nor was he obliged to fight his way to his car, flanked by security men and lawyers, while journalists shouted impertinent questions at him from behind police barriers.
They were all gone. He had the steps to himself as he descended them one final time. Those steps which for so long he had bestrode like a colossus. For once he was not being called upon to explain how a man who had wreaked havoc on two banks and brought the Treasury to its knees could justify feathering his own pension nest with funds intended to shore up the tottering financial edifice that he had virtually destroyed.
Henry had saved him.
His old friend/enemy. How ironic was that? His old sparring partner had rescued Rupert from the storm.
Because Henry was the story now. The chair of the very parliamentary Select Committee that only the day before had been calling upon Rupert to hand back his pension in a spirit of contrition was now himself engulfed in such a tidal wave of moral criticism that Rupert was suddenly yesterday’s news.
Blondel’s Bombshell
had saved him.
The nation had swapped its outrage over the cynical and deliberate asset-stripping of the institutions on which its prosperity depended for an absolutely brilliant story about a politician who’d claimed his wife’s hairdryer on expenses, another who’d had his moat cleaned for free and a third who had a fancy for chocolate teddy bears.
Perhaps, it occurred to Rupert as he bounded down the steps of what was no longer his bank, the run of bad luck which he had recently endured might finally be ending.
But it was not to be.
‘Lord Bennett?’ a voice said.
Rupert turned and realized that he was not actually alone on the steps. A small, insignificant-looking man had clearly been waiting for him.
‘Yes?’ Rupert replied with suspicion.
‘I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time. I’d like to ask you a few questions relating to your business transactions.’
So there was one left.
One little oik for whom the penny hadn’t dropped that the story had moved on.
‘If you wish to discuss business transactions,’ Rupert said pompously, ‘I suggest you go and see Members of Parliament like Henry Baker. A hypocrite who, while calling upon me to pay back an entirely legal pension negotiated in good faith after many years of service, sought at the same time to offload the cost of his and his wife’s personal grooming on to the taxpayer. Put that in your damn paper and leave me alone.’
‘I’m not a journalist, sir, and I’m not interested in your pension plan or in MPs’ expenses. I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector Beaumont.’ The man brought out a card. ‘I deal in financial fraud.’
Rupert had been about to get into his car, but now he stopped and turned.
‘Well?’ he asked warily.
‘I also knew you briefly at university,’ Beaumont said.
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall,’ Rupert replied.
‘No. I didn’t think you would.’
‘Is that why you’ve come to see me?’
‘No.’
‘Then kindly tell me why you have come, Inspector.’
‘I’d like to talk to you about your share trading in Caledonian Granite, Lord Bennett. About transactions you made while working as a financial adviser to the Prime Minister and hence with access to privileged information. It’s called insider trading, Lord Bennett.’
Control-crying
‘Tonight, Jimmy,’ Monica said, her jaw firmly set, ‘we’re going to control-cry Lillie to sleep.’
The threat of bankruptcy had continued to bring Jimmy and Monica closer together. Closer to each other and closer to the children. Many marriages might have buckled under the strain of so many seismic jolts, but Jimmy and Monica’s seemed to gain strength from them. And something in the new-found family solidarity gave Monica the courage she needed to tackle a challenge that they had been putting off ever since Jodie had left.
‘Oh God, really?’ Jimmy said, unable to disguise the fear in his voice. ‘Do we have to? I’ve got an interview with the bakery at Brent Cross Tesco tomorrow and I really don’t need the extra stress.’
‘It’s time. We have to get Lillie to put herself down. Otherwise we’ll be sitting outside her hotel room on her wedding night singing “Morningtown Ride” till she goes to sleep.’
They both knew the theory: babies would never settle down to sleep alone as long as they knew that by crying they could draw their parents back to lull them to sleep with endless hours of soothing stories and songs. Thus ensuring that the parent had no life. The only way to break this crushingly debilitating and time-consuming cycle was to leave the baby to cry.
That was the theory. Wait outside, no matter how long it took, no matter how heartbreaking the screams. Just tough the little bastards out.
Jodie, the nanny without whom one could not do, had done the dreadful deed with Toby, and on the night it was done Monica had had to leave the house.
‘He’s dying, Jodie!’ she had shouted as Toby did his brilliant impression of a baby choking himself to death with tears and snot. ‘We have to go to him.’
‘He’s not dying,’ Jodie had replied in a voice as calm and steady as Toby’s was glass-shatteringly alarming. ‘He’s crying because he thinks we’ll come, and when he finds out we won’t, he’ll stop.’
‘He’ll stop because he’s
dead
!’
‘Then I guess I go to prison for neglect. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Now why don’t you just go and join Jim at the pub with Robbo. Give me two hours and when you come back we’ll have broken the little swine!’
That had been seven years before.
A few years after that, Jodie had done Cressida as well. But now Jimmy and Monica had only each other to look to for help. It was up to them and them alone to gain control of their younger daughter and regain control of their lives.
‘We have to do this,’ Monica said firmly. ‘It says so in
The Big Happy Baby Book
.’
‘The only way that book is ever going to get Lillie to go to sleep on her own is if we whack her over the head with it.’
‘Jim, we can’t just give up! Otherwise we’ll never get to sleep or have sex again.’
‘Yes. You’re right. I know you’re right,’ Jimmy admitted, already numb at the idea of the hours of horror ahead, before adding, ‘
Are
we ever going to have sex again?’
The idea had taken him by surprise. After all, it had been quite a long time. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had
any
since the day he had been chucked out of the Bell End of the Dildo with a squeezed BlackBerry, but it had been rare. A combination of the never-ending demands of a breastfeeding baby, a curious toddler and a life that was imploding into a black hole of catastrophe had somewhat taken the lead out of Jimmy’s pencil and the bite out of his mustard.
‘Well . . . aren’t we?’ Monica asked in a small voice. ‘Or are my stretch marks too hideous?’
‘Mon, please! You know it’s not that. It’s . . . well, blimey, darling, you know what it is. We’ve lost everything.’
‘Poor people have sex too, you know,’ Monica said. ‘In fact from the scrum of kids at Toby’s school gate, I think some of them have rather a lot of sex.’
‘Right,’ Jimmy replied with renewed resolve, ‘controlcrying. Let’s get at it.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Monica said. ‘And we’re going to get her off the final night feed at the same time. The bar’s closed.’
‘But . . .’ Jimmy struggled for an excuse to avoid the all-night misery that awaited them. ‘Have you thought about the expense of weaning her? As long as she’s on the breast she eats for free!’
‘The government won’t let us die. We’ll apply for emergency formula.’
Monica dug into the pocket of her dressing gown and drew out two sets of earplugs.
Jimmy knew that further protest was pointless. He put his arms around her and hugged her long and hard, as if he were a soldier preparing to go to war, which was pretty much how he felt.
First they put Toby to bed in his little room, warning him to expect a lot of crying, then they put Cressida and Lillie down in theirs, read a couple of stories to them, sang a few rounds of ‘Morningtown Ride’ – after which Cressie was asleep – and left them.