‘We started with 71. Whether we’ll end up with that many is a different matter,’ I say, as two boys collide head-first. Nora and I take a sharp, simultaneous breath, which we hold until it becomes clear that they’re not dead, merely dazed. A moment later, they both leap up and sprint to a group of friends. I look at her as we exhale.
‘Is it me or do the staff here look far too young to be in a position of responsibility?’ she says, gesturing to a guy in a Krazee-Bounce T-shirt, who stifles a yawn before resuming the picking of his acne.
‘Most of them are students,’ I say. ‘They’re probably hungover. That’s why Denise Dandy insisted we had extra parents in charge of “safeguarding”.’
‘Well, I don’t know why you and I ended up in the job,’ she says. ‘This has to be the worst task of the night. My nerves are in tatters. I’m a wreck.’
‘She found out we’d both been DBS checked,’ I tell her.
‘Why have you got one?’ she asks.
‘Oh, I was once involved in a show about kids with an abnormally high IQ.’
‘You really should have kept that quiet.’
‘I know, but someone had to step in after Santa pulled out of the Christmas fair at the last minute.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Twisted testicle.’
‘Lucky bastard,’ she mutters, as Jeff finally appears balancing three takeaway coffees in a cardboard carrier. ‘Here we go! Three delicious cups of grey water that looks like someone’s washed their pants in it. Enjoy!’
‘As long as it’s got caffeine in, I don’t care what it tastes like,’ says Nora, before she takes a sip and freezes. ‘Okay, I’ve changed my mind. WhereisDenise anyway?’
‘She said a better use of her time was to take the opportunity to try to recruit new parents to the PTA,’ Jeff says as he nods over in the direction of a group of unsuspecting mums with whom she’s holding court. ‘Does anyone else have a sudden urge to shout, “Run for your lives”?’
It’s true that, despite her pastel active wear, immaculate blond hair and HD brows, there is something about Denise that reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger in that filmPredator.
Nora gasps as we all turn in time to see a tiny boy performing a somersault with triple pike off the edge of a diving board. Despite it being in clear contravention of at least six rules in theinstructional video everyone had to sit through at the start, the closest Krazee-Bounce team member is currently examining her manicure. Jeff, Nora and I meanwhile fail to breathe until the child emerges, apparently unscathed.
‘I need a stiff gin,’ Jeff says. ‘It’s bad enough being a helicopter parent toonechild. How can we be expected to deal with seventy-odd?’
The closing twenty minutes of the event seem to last for approximately five days. They culminate in one particularly trying moment when a Year 4 girl falls off a rolling log and disappears into the gap between inflatables. We give it a few seconds, but when she doesn’t emerge, Jeff rises heroically to his feet and instructs us to stand aside. At which point, Nora and I tell him to sit down because he isn’t DBS checked.
Instead, she and I spring into action, leaping over the barriers and charging to the scene like Cagney and Lacey in hot pursuit. Unfortunately, even if one of youisa tennis coach, there is simply no dignity involved in two middle-aged women boinging from one inflatable to the next, especially when one of them (me) didn’t have the foresight to wear a sports bra.
When we finally get there, the closest employee is chatting to his mate about whose turn it is to go and get a Subway, apparently oblivious to the helpless cries and flailing arms and legs rising up from the gulley. By the time Nora and I have created a human chain (well, just the two of us really) and yanked her out, we’re both feeling as overheated as we are irritated. Nevertheless, it’s me who has a few stern words with the Krazee-Bounce employee, who has a bum-fluff moustache and looks too young to know what a floppy disk is. He looks stunned, a little terrified and mutters something that might be an apology but could also be a comment about what a battleaxe I am.
At the end of the event, Denise waves a triumphant goodbye to dozens of happy, tired, sweaty and, in some cases, bloodstained children, before jumping in her Range Rover Sport, leaving instructions for me to make sure all the damp socks go on a 90-degree boil wash.
Jacob climbs into the passenger seat.
‘It stinks in here,’ he says.
‘I know. I’ll open the windows. Did you have a nice time, anyway? Apart from the black eye, I mean?’
‘Yes, it was great. I think I’m good at trampolining. I’ve decided I’m going to join a club.’
Chapter 38
I’m about to start the engine when a new school app notification pings on my phone for Leo. Which is always a source of delight at the moment. The last three have amounted to one detention for failing to submit a piece of coursework, another detention for forgetting about the first one, then a third – for two hours on a Saturday morning – for remembering both but not bothering to go anyway.
Leo’s attitude to this is to compare the school to a loan shark. His argument is that, while his initial debt was of little consequence, their now punishing demands are out of all proportion. I take his point but it’s not getting him closer to gaining any qualifications and if he doesn’t break this cycle and serve his time, at this rate he’ll be facing a spell in juvie by the summer break.
I open the notification with weary resignation and discover that it’s his school report. An important one by all accounts, because this contains the results of his first mock exams. Gone are the days when a student would have to come home – proud, shamefaced or otherwise – and hand over a paper version of this. Now, there is no opportunity for cunning pupils to doctor their progress with a contraband bottle of Tippex and pass themselves off as a child prodigy. These days, teachers communicate directly, so there’s no escape. I click on the link. And the results are . . .surprising.
He has top grades in Maths, Geography and Computer Science – subjects he has apparently mastered with his eyesclosed. There are a couple of average ones, such as English Literature, which is a feat given I’m not aware that he’s actually read a book in the last 12 months. Finally, there are some that I can only describe as, well, abysmal. Contrary to what he thinks, you do actually need to draw the odd picture to be awarded a GCSE in Art. I have a pretty clear overview of what’s going on here before I even read the comments by his year tutor.
