Sticks and Stones 20

It’s Monday morning now.
Suzie’s been on the phone. She spoke to the school without going in to see them because Griff’s caught a cold.
They were most apologetic when they heard what had happened, but that meant nothing. Anyone can say sorry because words are cheap.
Besides, accidents don’t just happen at school. They happen because, sometimes, arseholes are looking after the kids and they don’t give a toss what happens to them. Shit happens because, sometimes, shit people are in charge of what’s happening.
The headmistress asked Suzie to get in touch with her insurance company as we insured the children privately and not at school.
They would take charge of the hospital bills, but only after we filled in our forms, which we must give to them as soon as possible.
So, just as I was talking about paperwork, more of it comes into play.
Jules from upstairs just popped by and I told him I had ‘la grippe’ and that it was likely we were going back to England. I mentioned Maddy’s accident and he relayed a story about his girlfriend’s daughter, also called Maddy, who broke a finger in a door at school two months ago. The paperwork from the insurance company had dragged on, only to halt at the point when they were offered no help at all. He said that it was ‘la misere’.
It’s Monday night and Maddy’s been back to hospital to replaster her arm. She noticed that her fingers had changed colour from the set and that one or two were more puffy than before.
Griff went along, leaving Clara and I to play for the first time in days.
They came back at ten-thirty.
‘My hand was all red and puffed up because the plaster had set badly, so they did it again,’ said Maddy at the door, clutching her newly set arm. She really is one brave cookie.
I’m sitting here almost crying thinking of what Maddy has been through at school in France.
In my view, she has been the victim of constant vindicative abuse, general racism and bullying, in schools that do not know how to deal with red-haired foreign children.
Those horrible little girls who wreaked havoc on Maddy’s short time here remain hateful and divisive, while Maddy sits patiently for our return to England, where she knows plenty of fun girls who don’t need to feed their own happiness with the demise of others.
In France, she has learnt the clarinet to a good standard, music theory to a high standard and French to a very high standard. Apart from dance and piano, she has walked into school with her head high only to be surrounded by incapable staff and unstoppable bullies.
I always said to her that this is a character-building exercise, but it has gone well beyond that now, and if Maddy forgives the French as an adult, she will be happier in life than they may ever be.
I only hope that she hasn’t caught any of their anger or downright rudeness, and that she finds no time for eking out revenge on innocents in an attempt to rid herself of those feelings of loneliness she experienced in France.
If a good house rental came on the market for up to £2000 a month in Woking, I’d book it immediately, just to get them back in one piece.
I suddenly wish I was at the house to make sure they’re all OK.
But I’m not there. I’m here in this flat, well and truly over my bout of flu or whatever it was, tapping away at a keyboard with a cup of tea and a joint to ease those cervical muscles into action.
I’m looking around, wondering what I’ll do with all my stuff, and I wish I could just stop somewhere for ten years and concentrate on making money, giving up drink and drugs, and sending the children to the right schools.
It’s Tuesday morning and I’m smoking a joint with a nice cup of tea and the newly made bath warming up the air for when I feel like taking it.
Life’s not so bad so long as I crack on with writing, although I have to get an answer from Suzie on whether we’re going to Marrakech on Friday.
Since I booked it, she’s been reading up on the Foreign Office’s health warnings for Morocco and is uncomfortable with the prevalence of hepatitis B and the general tone describing the cleanliness of food there.
She is also trying to play down the fact that she has a torturous fear of flying.
Alarm bells went off the moment I told her I’d booked it and all she wanted to know was how long the flight would be.
The crashed plane in Nigeria killing fifty-nine people last week didn’t help matters one bit and I expect to have to cancel the trip this morning.
Having just called Suzie, things are at an all-time low for the fifth consecutive month and I told her she would be better off alone with the children if she persists on turning Maddy and Griff against me.
When I told her that I felt victimised for my failings in the family, she told me that she felt I had victimised Maddy for a long time now.
‘The cycle must be broken,’ I thought, and so I broached the subject of going back to Woking and living as one family.
‘How can we live together when you can’t trust my love for Maddy, Suzie?’ I asked.
She was silent for a second. ‘Where were you, in the bar?’ she asked.
‘When?’
‘When Maddy needed to go to hospital?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘You were in Graulhet, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what were you doing there? Buying drugs?’
With the interrogation well under way, I relented with nothing to lose. ‘Yeah.’
‘Jim,’ she went on. ‘Maddy had broken her wrist and needed to go to hospital and you were half an hour late because of a drug deal.’
It was my turn to be silent. It stayed that way.
‘No, Jim,’ she continued. ‘We can’t live together if you carry on drinking and drugging all the time, hanging out in bars wasting away. I just can’t deal with it any more.’
The game was up. ‘So do you want me to de-book the trip, then?’ I asked, for what seemed to be the thousandth time. I felt giddy.
‘Well, I think we should think about the baby first,’ she said, but I’d started laughing by the end of the sentence. It was a cruel thing to do, devoid of feeling or compassion, and she dealt with me venomously. ‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she scowled, about to cry, and hung up the phone.