On School Run – Thurs 25th April

Released from the tyranny of the school bus, by driving to Hornton to collect children at 4.30.

Hornton considers itself rather more posh than Horley, as it has less bungalows, a bistro pub, and a green full of limes and weeping willows. And famous people.

It also has a tennis court, dominated by strident navy-knickered ladies and suave, very tanned men in cream poloshirts. They call ‘love’ to each other with ever deepening inflection.

The tennis court is next to Hornton Pavilion, which is where the children are, practising May Day dances. Last year Jessica came out of the first practice saying she was very disappointed. ‘I’m not even a hand-made, Mummy.’

All of the children are desperate to be the May King or Queen, and be driven up the high street in a taxi.

Hornton is tucked like a tawny jewel in a dowager’s bosom, and I’m always struck by how beautiful it is. Today I’m particularly envious of the aubretia, falling from the golden stone walls in perfect lilac and green ovals. The gardens here are very different from Horley – the topiary glossed-leaf-perfect, the lawns clipped to fuzzy felt.

I park at the end of Bell Lane, too early, as usual, and wander down the very steep lane to the Pavilion. The Sports field has begun its recovery from the football season and looks the cool, dark green of a Rosseau painting. I want to run onto it and turn a few Spring cartwheels, but I don’t, because the school-gate crowd make me nervous and awfully shy. It doesn’t help that I can never match children to parents, and I never know which year groups they all belong to.

I sit on the Pavilion steps in the sunshine, listening to Pop Goes The Weasel and thinking about an article I’m writing about booksellers. I idly run my hands over my bare shins and freeze in horror. Like pig-skin prior to singeing. I should be wearing a smock and reading Germaine Greer. I jump up and eye the knee-long grass to the side. Consider planting myself in it.

An athletic grandfather (presumably) comes striding down the hill. ‘Are they here?’ he demands.

‘Yes,’ I say, to his departing back.

Other parents are filtering down now, the sun-frocked mummies gathering in knots of chatter, ignoring their manic pre-schoolers.  The daddies stand to one side, leant nostalgic glamour by their open-necked shirts, ties poking from trouser pockets.

My Pan legs are making me self-conscious, and I’m grateful when another mother speaks to me. She is the only one of the whole crowd that I can match with children, year group and name.

I really need to make more of an effort.

‘Oh look,’ says A. ‘Here they come.’

The doors to the Pavilion open, and I step sideways, trying to see through the sudden scrum.

‘Mummy!’ Jessica is in front of me, grinning fit to burst. She hurls herself into my arms. ‘Mummy!’

‘Oh,’ I say. Hand made at last?

Ellie emerges and dumps her rucksack at my feet.

‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘So unfair. Jess is only the bloody May Queen.’

‘Are you?’ I say in delight, lifting her up.

‘Yes,’ she says, in tones of huge satisfaction. ‘I’m going to be going in the taxi.’

Up The Clump – Friday 19th April

In the foulest, foulest mood when left house today – total hormone soup.

Poor Dora walked beautifully to heel in the hope I wouldn’t bawl her out. But by the time I’d walked up the Jackie Chan, I’d started to hear the swifts, and I could smell the battalions of daffodils, nodding their heads in sorrow above the last few drying snowdrops.

A fallen twig caught my attention as I drew level with St Ethelreda’s, and I stopped the angry-pants march to have a look. It was Horse Chestnut, the length of my forearm, the width of my finger, and had an exploded bud on the end. Glossy brown, with the palest green leaves beginning to splay forth. I felt a ridiculous tenderness for such waste, and had to be towed onwards by Dora.

We walked down Hornton Lane – still no blossom on Horley Manor’s fruit trees – and turned up the Clump. Green! Elder, reeking and making me think of goats. The leaves are still tiny, surrounding a little floret of buds, like sprouting broccoli.  When I was little, my Mum’s goats used to go mad for elder, and would climb the hedges on their hind legs, grunting their approval from deep in their chests. Every year I swear I’m going to make elderflower cordial, but never do. This year!

I carry on up the Clump, checking on the bluebell clumps (looking healthy, but no flower shoots yet), and I wonder why there’s no wild garlic around Horley. Why? All filched by mad vampire-fearing house wives?

I stop to look at some blackthorn, with its creamy buds like fat pearl-headed pins. Some of the flowers are out, perfect and white, with orange-yellow floating dots of stamen.

Ross has put a crow scarer in his field, and emerge from the hedgerow just as it goes off. I jump about two foot in the air and yelp, then feel very silly, and walk extra fast to hide it. There’s no one around, but you never know in those fields. Handsome ravaged-looking men in flat caps pop up in the most unexpected places.

Dora and I whiz over the brow of the hill and drop down into the spinney. Poor trees have had a horrible winter, and the snow and wind has torn branches from almost every one. A hawthorn is bravely pushing frilled green leaves out, and I think of how my Nanny Dot used to tell me how poor people ate them, and called them ‘bread and cheese’.

Clambering up the Toboggan Hill, a man planting fence poles waves at me, and I wave pathetically back, all my energy drained by the hill. I’m so low to the ground as I toil up that I can admire discs of daisies, close up and personal. I’m not so keen on the fox crap.

With all my note-taking and nature-gazing, I’m late for the bloody bus, and have to fling myself over styles and speed-walk down Little Lane. I don’t bother putting Dor back on her lead, and when I see a removal van at the bottom of the road, I just think, Oh, how nice. New people. With a really nice standard lamp.

I forgot about Dora and her huge crush on men in vans. A builder friend of ours (in a big white van) once gave her half a bacon sandwich, and she’s never forgotten it. She made a total bee-line for the van, ignoring my calls, little legs carrying her at bustling speed.

‘Oo,’ I cried, uselessly.

Two removal men in overalls were carrying something sheeted, and they didn’t smile. Dora decided they weren’t going to be forthcoming with sandwiches, and shot into Jeremy’s garden, and then straight through into the new people’s back door. At the school bus stop, we’d heard they were called Birch, were doctors, and seemed friendly. But no one is really going to be friendly when  stray dog bursts into their new kitchen, demanding bacon.

‘Oo,’ I said again, hovering at the gate. I flapped my arms, and the removal men ignored me and kept removalling.

‘Dora-you-bastard-bag,’ I hissed. No sign. Christ.

I dithered. The school bus due any moment.

The removal men had gone in after Dora, and I hesitantly crossed Jeremy’s gravel – so loud! – growling ‘Dor-Dor-Dor’.

Just as I reached the Birches’ new back door, scarlet in the face, Dora sped out, her mouth open, showing her pink tongue, grinning and ultra pleased with herself.

Unable to face anyone angry, I turned and fled, Dora under my arm like a laughing handbag.