2nd Prize – Alison Wassell with:

Playground Games

Izzy’s teacher beckons me over. Izzy is swollen-eyed and red-faced. Miss Elton, her teacher, looks embarrassed. She is newly qualified, and looks about sixteen. There has been An Incident. Izzy and her friend Amber have had a disagreement in the playground, and Amber has been sent home with a bump on the head. Izzy lifts her wobbling chin to look at me.

‘It was an accident, Mum,’ she says. This, it turns out, is a matter of opinion. Amber is adamant that she was pushed. Hearing the accusation repeated, Izzy buries her face in the folds of my coat and starts to sob. Miss Elton blushes, clearly no more convinced of Izzy’s guilt than I am. My daughter is loud and boisterous, but never vicious.

‘You can’t take risks with head injuries,’ Miss Elton says. She is sure that Amber will be fine.

‘Thank you,’ I say, steering Izzy towards the school gate with no idea what I am being thankful for.

In the morning, I am relieved to see Amber in the playground as usual. She is at the centre of a little group, proudly holding back her fringe to reveal a minor graze on her forehead. Izzy grips my hand tightly, reluctant to join her friends.

Amber’s mum, Linda, is holding court a few feet away. Although the girls’ friendship has forced us into the same social circle, she has never been my favourite person. Strident and overbearing, she is always the first with a question or a criticism at parents’ meetings. She has found fault with every teacher so far, and wasted no time in making her opinions known. Too strict, too lenient, too old and now, too young and inexperienced. Linda gives me a look that stops me dead before I am close enough to speak. She turns her back on me.

‘She split her head open,’ I hear her say, as I am clearly intended to. There is some disapproving head-shaking from the other mothers. I guide Izzy out of earshot, my cheeks burning.

When the children go inside, I peep through the classroom window. Izzy is standing by the coat pegs, curiously poking the site of Amber’s wound. Both girls are giggling. Relieved that the drama seems to be over, I start to walk home.

As I reach the corner I become aware of giggling behind me. I move aside to let whoever it is pass. Nobody does. The giggling continues, becoming more and more hysterical. I glance over my shoulder. Linda and two other mothers are walking three abreast. Linda has her cheeks puffed out, and is entertaining her cronies with a comical waddle. I am a large woman, and I have no doubt that this is her attempt at an impersonation. Momentarily, she meets my eye, ceases her waddling, and whistles nonchalantly. I turn back, put my head down and hurry on. The giggling resumes.

I phone my mother and, without explaining, persuade her to collect Izzy from school that afternoon. She returns home, tired but cheerful, and too full of crisps and sweets to eat a proper tea.

‘Was everything all right with Amber?’ I ask, as she gets ready for bed. She nods, sleepily.

‘Amber’s mum said she couldn’t play with me any more’ she tells me, as though it doesn’t matter. My heart lurches. But Izzy looks up at me:

‘Miss Elton said Amber’s mum doesn’t make the rules in school.’ In spite of everything I smile, feeling a new respect for baby-faced Miss Elton, who is clearly a braver woman than I am.

Days pass, and I do my best to keep out of Linda’s way, arriving on the playground at the last minute, and lingering there until she has gone. On Friday, every child but Izzy emerges from the classroom clutching an invitation to Lucy’s party. Lucy’s mum Annie has been my friend since secondary school, but now she lurks uneasily on the fringe of Linda’s circle. She flashes me a look that could be some kind of apology. I almost feel sorry for her, but my daughter has been hurt, and I seethe on her behalf. I promise her a special treat, and she bravely tries to smile.

The following week, Linda turns up at Slimming Club. A perfect Size 10, this is something she does every few months, claiming she has a couple of pounds to lose. The rest of us know that she comes to gloat. She sits back and observes with a self-satisfied smirk. I have lost a stone. When I go up to collect my certificate she applauds louder than anyone else. As I pass her, on my way back to my seat, she mutters, just loud enough to be heard,

‘Well done, Susan. Only another ten or so to go.’ She chuckles delightedly at her own sarcasm. At the end of the session I go to collect my coat. Mysteriously, it has been removed from its peg and now lies on the floor, decorated with several footprints.

I do my best to laugh at how ridiculous the situation has become. Linda’s inner schoolgirl has been unleashed and is on the rampage. But things seem suddenly more serious when my husband Nick fails to secure two painting and decorating jobs he has quoted for. I leaf through his diary. The prospective clients are parents of children in Izzy’s class. On the playground I stand close enough to eavesdrop on Linda and her henchwomen.

‘Shoddy workmanship…..’ I hear, as she glances over at me.

The end of the summer term approaches, and I look forward to six weeks of respite. But first there is the dreaded Sports Day. Izzy pleads with me to take part in the Mothers’ Race.

‘Everyone else’s mum is doing it,’ becomes her daily refrain. Everyone else’s mum doesn’t weigh sixteen stones, but eventually she wears me down. I borrow a pair of trainers.

On the day I pray for rain. The sun beats down relentlessly. I take my place in the line-up, looking straight ahead and trying to ignore the fact that Linda, slim and athletic in skimpy red shorts and tight t-shirt, has positioned herself next to me. The Head Teacher blows a whistle and we set off, with me attempting a sort of brisk walk. Linda jogs beside me for a couple of paces, wearing that smirk. Suddenly, I am shoved, hard, from behind. I stumble forwards onto my hands and knees. My dress blows up over my head, leaving little to the imagination. Linda streaks past me, towards the finishing line, waving as she goes.

I remain in an ungainly heap on the ground, desperately tugging down my dress in a pointless attempt to retain what little is left of my dignity. I watch Linda raise her arms in triumph. I examine my grass-stained palms. Then I do what I have felt like doing for weeks now. I burst into tears – not grown up tears, but loud, snotty howling.

Miss Elton and Annie gently haul me to my feet. Linda has casually sauntered back up the field. She makes a comment about fridge pickers and big knickers. Nobody laughs.

Then Izzy, who has seen everything from the side of the track, is standing in front of us, her hands on her hips.

’Mum,’ she says in her loudest, firmest voice, ‘If someone bullies you, you must tell the teacher.’

There is a bit of embarrassed laughter and a sharp intake of breath. Heads turn to stare at Linda, whose face now matches her crimson shorts. Miss Elton busies herself rounding up her class. She is wearing a ‘Please don’t involve me in this’ expression.

But it’s clear that I don’t need to. In the time that it takes to run a hundred metres the mothers have switched their allegiances. Linda stands alone. Someone offers Izzy and me a lift home.

We drive past Linda as she picks her way through the nudging, whispering throng. From the look of things, Amber is giving her the talking to of her life. That’s how I know for sure she won’t be bothering me again.