Cox The Mother Load

Funny and uplifting - Motherland meets The A Word
Main
ISBN: 978-1-83895-319-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten

'Funny and relatable' Heat Mishaps at work, mayhem at home... It'll get easier when he starts school... That's what Lucy was told, and she believed it. But now that her autistic son Stanley has joined Reception, his obsession with Africa and daily screaming fits at the school gates haven't exactly won him or Lucy any popularity contests. So for Stanley's fifth birthday Lucy plans an extravagant party to help him connect with his classmates. But her autistic husband Ed knows how his son's mind works better than anyone, so instead of a big bash, they travel to Wales to eat a Libya-shaped birthday cake with Lucy's family. And suddenly Lucy is faced with the truth about what her loved ones really need, and how they can finally find their tribe... Readers love The Mother Load 'Best thing I've read all year' ***** 'Funny, warm and touching' ***** 'As a mother of two autistic children so much of it speaks to me on a personal level' ***** 'Gavin and Stacey eat your heart out ... this is comedy gold and should be on the screen!' *****

Katy Cox is a classically trained cellist who has performed with some of the music industry's biggest names including Michael Bublé, Elton John, Bryan Ferry and Take That. After having her first child, her touring life was put on hold and she started blogging as an alternative creative outlet. Her illustrated comedy blog Carry on Katy was shortlisted for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging award for two consecutive years. Katy is a mother of two incredible autistic sons and lives in Wales with her family katycoxauthor.com Twitter: @MisforMummy Instagram: @m_is_for_mummy Facebook: www.facebook.com/misformummy

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cox, Katy

Leseproben

3

The Run

‘Come on, Stan, as fast as you can,’ I say as I pull him along the pavement.

‘Mummy, I like Africa.’

‘I know you do. It’s great. Just keep walking. A bit faster, come on.’

‘I want to holiday in Libya because he is my favourite shape. He looks like a wonky heart.’

It’s late October, and although there’s a fierce chill in the air, thick drops of sweat are running down my cleavage. It’s so hot and greasy in there that you could crack an egg in it and it would probably fry.

‘Mummy, I want to go to Lib—’

‘I know, but we are going to Cornwall on Friday, remember?’

He stops in his tracks and writes the word ‘LIBYA’ in the air with his index finger – a silently delivered protest which loses us a precious forty-five seconds.

‘Don’t forget you want your 100 per cent certificate,’ I say calmly out loud, even though I’m screaming it inside my skull.

As we turn the corner onto Oxford Road, I see Marsha Dunn and her gang of mum friends waiting in their favourite spot directly outside the school gates. Marsha is at the centre of the huddle, nothing unusual there, but what sets her apart from the rest is the six-foot-tall, green papier-mâché sculpture that she is holding in her arms. It’s a striking piece – less of a kid’s costume accessory and more like something you’d see on display at the Tate Modern. She waves in my direction when she sees us, and Stanley’s grip instantly tightens.

‘What do you think, Lucy?’ she calls out as we approach. ‘We’ve gone for Jack and the Beanstalk.’ She gently strokes her masterpiece, then leans it in my direction, like she’s presenting her newborn baby for the first time. ‘I managed to whip it up last night … but only just.’

‘Very impressive,’ I say, but those two words are two too many. Stanley yanks my arm and drags me past the group towards the school caretaker’s white van that is parked several feet away. I turn back and smile apologetically but it goes unnoticed. ‘Wow!’ says another woman who has stopped to admire the work of art. ‘You should start a costume business, Marsh,’ says another. ‘I’d pay money for something like that.’

Marsha’s son, Hugo, is swinging on the gate with a couple of other kids. He hasn’t acknowledged Stanley, who is standing quietly beside me squeezing my hand, but I can’t really blame him. He has never responded to Hugo’s countless efforts to talk to him over the years, so it’s not surprising that Hugo has stopped trying altogether. Unless Hugo suddenly develops a passion for Africa or the continental drift, then the two of them are unlikely to ever become friends.

Marsha’s attention eventually returns to us. ‘And what have you come as today, Stanley?’ she calls out. The eyes of all of her friends are on us, far many eyes, and he ducks in behind me and tugs sharply on the back of my coat.

‘He’s a schoolboy,’ I reply. ‘But we have a Pinocchio outfit here in case he feels like wearing it.’

‘Pinocchio?’ An irritating giggle escapes her lips. ‘He isn’t a fairy-tale character, is he?’

I quickly wipe the sweat from my upper lip with my sleeve. ‘He is now,’ I say, smiling as I imagine my hands wrapped around her gullet.

‘Aren’t you going away this week, Lucy?’

‘Stop talking!’ shrieks Stanley, but I persist.

‘Yep, on Friday. We’re heading down to Cornwall for the weekend.’

‘On Friday?’ Marsha’s eyebrows spring up to the middle of her forehead. ‘And when are you back?’

‘Sometime on Monday.’

‘So you’re taking Stanley out of school for two days? Naughty girl!’

There’s no time to defend myself because something more pressing has caught her eye and within seconds, she’s up on her tiptoes, waving. ‘Heidi! Heidi!’

I turn around and see the head of the PTA approaching. She walks briskly, with her pregnant belly protruding through the gap in her raincoat and her three kids scooting closely behind her. Heidi’s twin girls look a year or two older than Stanley, but her son, Patrick, is in his class. Today, the twins are dressed in pink leotards and wear hairbands with glittery pointed ears attached, and Patrick has a brown feathery mask dangling off his handlebars. Three little pigs and a scary wolf, I’m guessing, minus one pig.

‘How ad--able!’ Marsha steps sideways and repositions herself directly in front of the open gate, forcing Heidi to stop.

‘Thanks,’ I hear Heidi say. ‘Look, I can’t stop. I’ve got a meeting—’

‘Let … me … guess,’ says Marsha, painfully slowly. ‘Hmmm. Two little piggies, and …’ She leans down to examine Patrick’s costume, whacking the woman standing next to her in the face with her beanstalk as she goes. ‘Hmmm … maybe a—’

‘He’s the wolf,’ Heidi interrupts. ‘Anyway, can we catch up later? I’ve—’

‘But where is the third little pig then?’ Marsha continues relentlessly. ‘I can only see two.’

‘Penny, show the ladies Percy, quickly!’ says Heidi, and the little girl delves into her pocket and pulls out a small plush pig toy.

‘It’s such a clever idea!’ says Marsha. ‘Simple, yes, but very effective.’

‘It’s not quite my usual standard. I’ve sort of had my hands full with this one lately.’ Heidi rubs her swollen belly. ‘The heartburn is keeping me up all hours.’

‘Oh, you must try my acupuncturist,’ suggests the redhead who Marsha has just assaulted with her sculpture.

‘No! There’s a homeopath on the Broadway,’ Marsha cuts in. ‘I have his card here if you like. Hold this.’ She shoves her beanstalk into the redhead’s arms, then drops to the floor and starts rifling through her handbag.

‘Don’t worry about it, Martha,’ says Heidi, clearly losing patience. ‘I really do have to dash. I’ve got a meeting with Mr Muhley.’ With the entrance gate now clear, she seizes the opportunity to escape, leaving red-faced ‘Martha’ on her knees.

Moments later, Mrs Merryweather appears on the far side of the playground to call the children into class. Hugo and Patrick run straight in without any fuss and Marsha follows, awkwardly dragging her sculpture across the playground like she’s on her way to dispose of a dead body.

I kneel down to speak to Stanley who, whilst my attention was elsewhere, has curled himself up into a ball on the pavement. I discreetly pull the nose out of the carrier bag. ‘I made this for you, little man. Do you want to see it?’ I say, but his head stays buried under his arms. ‘It’s Pinocchio’s nose. It’s really funny and I think that the other boys and girls might like to see it, and so will Mrs Merry—’

He lifts his head just long enough to bark, ‘P for Pangea! Not P for Pinochicko!’

I gently take him by the elbow and encourage him up onto his feet. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take it? Just in case you change your mind?’

But his index finger comes out once again and he hurriedly scribbles ‘PANGEA!’ in the air. So that’s a firm no.

At a loss as to what to do, I wrap my arms around him and whisper reassuring words in his ear. I tell him that he’ll have a lovely time today, and once I’ve picked him up later, we can watch videos together and eat smiley faces and chicken dippers for dinner. But anything I say is met with a deafening ‘NO!’

Parents soon start to spill out of the gates with their heads down, afraid to make eye contact with each other, as they’re in a hurry to get off to work. Before long, the playground is mostly empty, except for Marsha, who is loitering behind to watch the show with whoever else has no place better to be.

I remain glued to the spot, waiting for a miracle. And eventually, she comes.

‘Hello, Stanley.’ Mrs Beard, the classroom assistant, approaches. She smiles at me, her finest ‘I’ve got this’ smile, and my shoulders unclench and fall to their normal position. ‘Do you want to come inside and do the weather chart?’ she asks him sweetly.

He ploughs his face into my belly, winding me instantly.

‘But you are the only one who knows how to do it.’

A muffled, ‘No! NO! Go away!’ follows, but Mrs Beard doesn’t break. She never does.

‘I know!’ she says. ‘How about if we both go inside and draw some more of your map?’

The pressure of his head nuzzled into my guts lessens slightly, so I take the opportunity to break free. Aware of Marsha’s close proximity, I bend down to speak to him in private. ‘Stan, you could even draw Pangea and tell Mrs Beard all about it?’

Thankfully, that does the trick. He shuffles towards her and reaches for her outstretched hand.

‘Say goodbye to...