She left him to dress. His body was good, tall, lean, muscular, body double for his grandfather, first to wear the beloved Harris jacket. Wasted as a language teacher, but what else was there? Brussels? Strasbourg? Banking? The Foreign Office? After his Masters, Neil lasted barely a year in Strasbourg, never did explain why. Now they were married with children and he couldn’t go back. Said he couldn’t… Neil had turned into Mr Stewart, Head of Languages at a good-enough local school. The flair for drama made him famous, Neil Stewart, coaxing Moliere and Brecht out of untrained teens. Beckett too… En attendant Godot, Neil, who could be ruthless, said why not? Boys loved showing off. Godot sold out… This year, Languages had four Oxbridge hopes, three of them dead certs, or so he said… If he did stick with teaching, the long delayed Ph.D.

must get back on track. Chasing a headship, anywhere decent, his CV looked half naked without one. Weekends, evenings, he seemed to live at the uni…

Heading downstairs, Jane remembered the gerbils. Tom was fairly good about them. On his birthday, she’d let him off. In the bathroom, she filled their water bottle, shook more food into their hopper, checked that both were present, Jekyll and Hide, christened by Tom, who did know how to spell Hyde. Litter mates, their chief object in life was burrowing down the inner tubes of loo paper and cling film. Both female, thank God, cheated of natural instincts, denied a love life. Cheated or not, the sisters were more or less peaceful, Being gerbils, they might not live much longer. Gerbils had caused enough trouble already. Tom, aged six, had been shown his grandfather’s treasures, including the badge from his army cap. A gerbil, Tom said, excited. Ex-Desert Rat, her father was affronted. The dictionary added insult to injury. Her fault, obviously, rearing a precocious brat with a keen sense of justice. Smiling at this memory, she picked up yesterday’s underwear, flipped Tom’s duvet into place and went downstairs. Apart from being Tom’s birthday, it was an ordinary November day. Due on Holy Innocents’ Day, when Herod, allegedly, slaughtered every boy-child left in Bethlehem, Tom arrived almost a month early. The Innocents legend was grotesque, so bloody unfair, only Mary’s boy child allowed to escape…

They set the kitchen table every night, knives, spoons, plates, bowls. No forks. On Sundays, Neil ate bacon and eggs. Every day, for breakfast, Tom and Claire ate anything they liked. Eating at the table even once a day was miracle enough, surely? Jane ate nothing, drank black coffee, loved the ritual of breakfast, the newspaper, the doorstep milk. Today, Tom was allowed to open the new packet of Frosties, though the current plain cornflakes weren’t finished and Frosties were evil junk. Claire ate cold mashed potato, left over from supper. Neil, arriving with the paper, which was torn, opted for croissants and chocolate spread, with coffee. Nobody else liked chocolate spread. Neil complained about the paper, smeared with mud, the front page torn. Packing lunches, Jane would have liked to read it herself. She said, tersely, spreading peanut butter on Tom’s white bread,

‘Complain. Get the kid told off, but don’t come whinging to me.’

‘It’s the third time this week. The letterbox hasn’t changed size.’

Claire had asked for Marmite sandwiches. Claire wouldn’t eat a whole jar. Peanut butter was different. Tom would eat the lot and look for more… Neil would have tuna and tomato. Strong on animal rights, the children were currently vegetarians. By Christmas, or even next week, or maybe tomorrow, they’d be carnivores again. The school’s veggie options were baked beans or stuffed peppers. They loathed peppers. Hence the sandwiches. Neil could enjoy his own school’s five-star menu, claimed he never had time. She said, trying to unravel clingfilm,

‘Buy a newspaper box? Our letter box is way too small. You know it is.’

‘If they’d cut out the junk…’

He poured a second cup of coffee. Jane, who hadn’t started her first, tried to listen to the uplifting bit on Radio 4. As usual, it didn’t make sense. Pushing his luck, Tom switched to a rowdy breakfast show… She thought of the little round head on the pillow beside her, tiny beside her milky breasts. She loved him, loved all of them. Claire had soused cold potato with ketchup. Ketchup trickled down her chin, joined the blood red stain on her school top. Changing could wait till the very last minute. Tom, jealous, would work a tooth loose if it killed him. He had ten pieces of silver and ten milk teeth left. At their age, she’d had a mouthful of fillings. Kate, and she should know, said nutrition was better now, and tooth cleaning, and parents worked harder. Kate meant mothers working harder. Paediatric dentist, she said this with approval. Meeting so rarely, they didn’t talk about children. Better not… It wouldn’t be kind. The impossible question couldn’t be asked. Kate would have loved her children.

Jane, dutiful, nagged her own children to clean their teeth twice a day, a drag, but worth it. Packing Neil ‘s sandwiches into his lunch box, she felt again that surge of love for them all. This was her family, she was the lynch pin, corner stone… The next few weeks would be a test, the key to family happiness, God bless us everyone. In less than a month, it would be Christmas. Everything must be right, not good-enough right, but perfect. It was all down to her. Neil loved Christmas, just like the children. Loving Christmas, he’d never signed a single card, never wrapped a present, never willingly rang his mother. The Christmas feast was called her shopping.

Five to eight, and the weather again. The TV cacophony was vile. Jane longed to switch off, even take a hammer to it, knew she mustn’t, because this was Tom’s day. Ignoring the TV, Neil wanted quiet for the weather on Radio 4, as if he faced anything more arduous than a three mile drive around the by-pass. Early frost would clear, followed by sunny spells, rain later in the North. North of where? Right now, for November, the day was perfect, sparkling frost, brilliant sun, exactly like the day Tom was born. For his firstborn son, Neil rose to the occasion, filled the house with mimosa, stephanotis, jasmine, white orchids, insanely expensive. She’d told him off and he’d never bought flowers again, even when Claire arrived… Which served her right… Today, at five past eight, Claire had just remembered her swimming things. Jane swore, only under her breath, but the expression on her face was enough. Claire said, appalled,

‘You were saying bad words. In your head, but I could tell.’

‘Very bad… Where the hell did you have them last?’

‘Last week. Last time we had swimming.’

Neil, unexpectedly, disappeared under the stairs to the washing machine… He returned with a red sports bag, extricated a sodden swimsuit, a crumpled hat, a damp towel, all reeking of chlorine.

Claire squealed in horror.

‘It’s all froggy wet! You didn’t wash it! Yuck! Now I’ll have to put it on wet.’

‘You should have put it in the laundry basket.’

Claire milked the situation for all it was worth.

‘You said, just put my bag by the machine. You said, you’d put it in the wash later. It smells. Yuck!’

Jane longed to clip the little wretch round the ear. Today, Claire would have to wear her suit wet and smelly. Failed mother, she thought of apologies, fought back instead.

‘Quit moaning. It won’t kill you for once. You must have distracted me.’

Neil picked up his lunch, and the paper, wandered out past Jane towards the car. He paused, abstracted, to kiss her. He used a toothpaste different from the family tube, American, alien, where on earth did he buy it? He was wearing, at last, the potent Calvin Klein cologne Tom and Claire had given him on Father’s Day. If it was Calvin Klein? Market stall rip-off, school fete raffle, Tom and Claire adored their father, would spend every penny they had.

They kissed, all four, as they kissed every day. Briefly, Jane nuzzled Neil’s neck, felt him quiver with pleasure. So that was alright. If only he wouldn’t take the paper. Far too often, he’d leave it in the staffroom and then it vanished. ‘Read it online’, he suggested, but it wasn’t the same, nothing like a quiet ten minutes with the paper, maybe after supper, remembering who everybody was, what they looked like… Politicians, especially… You had to know… If people were losing their marbles, that was one of the tests, who’s the Prime Minister?

A minute later, Neil was back, maelstrom, demanding a stack of books he’d marked last night. Jane said, mechanically,

‘If they aren’t in your briefcase, they must be in the study. On the desk, next to the printer. That’s where they were last night.’

They were. Neil left. It was just after ten past eight. In fifteen minutes, they must leave for the walk to school. For the next ten minutes, Tom could do his piano practice. He would argue, object, play with unexpected grace. He practised after school too, more willingly. Jane began to clear the table, load the dishwasher. She fed the cats. Claire said they couldn’t be hungry. They’d had birds for breakfast,. There were feathers all over the doormat. Jane went to investigate. Ruddy, white and brown, with a tell tale streak of blue, the feathers and pathetic tiny claws had been Robin Redbreast. Claire hated the cats, then loved them to bits. Replete, they crunched on biscuits, licked out the tuna tin. Tom played La ci darem la mano. He liked Don Giovanni. Jane thought, viciously, chance would be a fine thing. Mille tre? How could she have a fling with anyone, never mind thousands? Who’d look after the kids? Men ruled the world and always would until fifty-fifty round the clock childcare. She dreamed now and then of running away with Neil, just for a day, not very far. Would anybody miss them? The school would survive. The museum wouldn’t fall down. Last year, they’d won a major award and a pitifully small grant. At twenty-two, she’d worked at the V & A, foot on the ladder, planning a brilliant career. Now, if she was incredibly lucky, played all her cards right, she might manage to end her days as Curator of a small museum in a smallish country town. Part time anything was women’s work, sealing her fate, other ranks, for ever. Women used to look out for each other, keep an eye on their children. Now there were laws and rules and all those forms to fill.