PTA
Sensible rubber soled shoes padded quietly across the varnished herringbone floor, making measured progress towards the site of the meeting. They walked out of step with a pair of high heels, some casual loafers, and some wedged sandals that looked remarkably good on, considering how bold the leopard-print patterning was. The other shoes were louder and less deliberate in their paces. They merely walked across the square hall, with its poster-laden walls and benches pushed to the sides, rather than stepping with careful discipline and purpose. That was what made their wearers pawns and followers, and what made Lillian Hackett, owner of the sensible shoes, something more special.
“Had enough of this rain now.” Mr Wilson said, for the sake of filling the silence with camaraderie about precipitation.
“Yeah, me too. Why it can’t it just clear up and let us have some nice days?” Mrs Burt lamented by way of reply, apparently forgetting that the vast majority of days over the previous month had been both dry and at least partially sunny.
“It’s good for the garden at least.” Lillian soothed. Her cattle were fulfilling the roles laid out in their unspoken social contract, and she herself needed to keep the look of things alive. All it took was a word of agreement here and a nod there to make them feel like she was a part of their crowd. They probably didn’t even notice that she steered and calmed them with carefully chosen words; Lillian took that equally as a testament to her shadowy manipulations and an indictment of their vacuous manipulability.
“That’s true enough. The grass loves it. Expect I’ll have to mow again in a few days.” Mr Wilson agreed.
Conversation really was in full flow, Lillian thought to herself; plumbing the depths of rainfall and its consequences for the control of common lawn grasses. At the very least their casual and easy topics of discussion meant that they were going to arrive to the meeting docile, ready to bend and sway with whatever influence she exerted upon them. A few weeks ago they’d walked in the midst of a bitter argument over whether ‘a few’ could appropriately be used to describe a group of six objects, and it had left them both so defensive that they communicated by proxy for the whole meeting. Half of the meeting minutes had been the phrase ‘Would you please tell him/her that…”, and the pen nearly ran out of ink. Lilian had learned her lesson well that day.
The usual few short steps carried them across the entire width of the hall and through the thin, bright green double doors towards the site of the meeting. Immediately the lingering afterthoughts of the day’s smells greeted Lillian, and she distracted herself for a moment by mentally reconstructing the presumed events of the day. There was definitely an element of drying paint, watercolour, most likely coming from room three. She could picture the sheets of damp paper drying on their string across the back window.
“Gerry managed to mow over my forget-me-nots last time he mowed.” Mrs Burt grumbled.
Combined with the paint scent was the aroma of plastic building blocks, but not the normal ones; these were cleaner, fresher, less well-used. Educational models then. Probably chemical ball-and-stick model pieces or a bridge construction set.
“Ha! Did he lose control of the vehicle and mount the borders? Mowing under the influence?” Mr Wilson chuckled.
A faint, warm or possibly burned smell of old electronics drifted out of room four. Ageing battery packs, perishing wires and miraculously functional bulbs. Probably some resistors too.
“Very funny Thomas.” Mrs Burt said humourlessly, livid that Mr Wilson could be flippant about a crime as heinous as flower mowing. “They were growing into the lawn, actually, but I liked them and I had specifically mentioned to him that he was to mow around them. I shouted it quite clearly from the window while he was mowing, when he was a full half-a-foot away from hitting them. It was entirely his fault.”
Pencil lead and shavings formed the characteristic background smell, standard fare for all rooms. So it was probably science in the morning, the usual mandated maths and English hours, and art in the afternoon Lillian concluded, as she and her cattle reached the door to room five. Adorned with its ‘PTA meeting tonight’ sign in allegedly amusing cartoonish font, her battleground awaited.
As Lillian pushed the handle down and crossed the threshold her casual but deliberate pace transitioned seamlessly to a prim, courtly bearing, befitting her position in the hierarchy of the parent teacher association. A hundred books could have been balanced on her head and none would have fallen, simultaneously proving her status and solving the library’s over-stocking problem.
“Ah, hello Mrs Beckett. Mr Wilson, Mrs Burt, Ms Gainsborough.” Greeted the soft, undulating form of Mr Smith, the school’s PTA liaison.
“Good afternoon, Mr Smith.” Lillian replied politely, sparing him just enough eye-contact to make him feel acknowledged. Despite his considerable bulk, the man was effectively transparent in her court; an afterthought of a player who presented all the resistance of wet bread to an escalator. He was, however, a useful catspaw in his capacity as a member of staff. “How have you been?”
“Yes, yes, fine thank you. It’s a busy time of year with the summer examinations and the year sixes preparing to leave us.” Mr Smith flapped. Words started at his mouth and travelled outwards in ripples across his cheeks, disappearing around to the back of his head where they presumably formed a new life for themselves within the hairline. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Looking forward to hearing about all the progress with bookings and agreements for the Summer Fete that the school has made.” Lillian answered, beaming out her sickliest smile. There was no doubt in her mind that Mr Smith was oblivious to the daggers behind her pearly teeth, but she caught the almost imperceptible guilty swallow that descended his throat after she’d spoken. “And of course everyone else’s thoughts and ideas on what the day should hold.” She added.
All of the other parents tended to have a lot of thoughts. They weren’t shy about sharing them either, be it during the PTA meetings or in the playground at pickup time. Lillian was always happy to hear them out because, after all, listening to someone was the first step towards preventing them getting their own way.
Lillian and the other parents of the association took their seats around the assembly of small tables that had been pushed together for the occasion. Despite numerous protests that the staff room would serve them better with its adult sized chairs and tables, the headmistress had insisted that the staff room was for staff only, and members of the PTA, although elevated in the hierarchy, were still not staff members. Lillian immediately assumed that this was evidence of bountiful documentation within the staff’s sanctum that mocked both parents and children cruelly. Either that or they never did the vacuuming.
Whatever the reasons, Lillian still had to thread herself delicately into the ten-year-old’s seating, modestly leaning her legs over to one side such that they would fit underneath the miniature desk. Although never a dignified motion to make, Lillian carried the move off easily and allowed it to form just one more piece of her armour of social tact. Mr Wilson was not as well versed in such matters, sitting back from the table and spreading his weight across two chairs. In his position, Lillian would have convinced Mr Smith to trade with him for the luxurious teacher’s chair. It wouldn’t be a hard task; the teacher probably wouldn’t even argue if the chair were to be whipped out from beneath him with nary a word spoken. But Mr Wilson was only a pawn, and it wasn’t the pawn’s lot to claim a chair that fits its body, nor to have a queen swoop in to its defence. Lillian was quite content to let him suffer.
Mr Smith and the other parents jabbered to one another about their banal concerns while Lillian sat quietly with her public-facing smile, listening to what they said but finding no interest in it. It would have been remiss to entirely ignore their conversation, for the cattle did on occasion let themselves murmur something far more informative than they realised, but there were no inadvertent revelations on that day. If there was fresh gossip to be had regarding the lives of the other parents, the currency of the playground, then it would need to be sought elsewhere.
As the specified start time of the meeting approached the remaining members of the PTA filtered in. Mr Hallie and Mrs Jove arrived in a pair, with Miss Strell shortly behind, and they all joined the tedious burble of small-talk without any significant incident, nor any evidence of enduring personality. The next arrival, however, was the one to which Lillian had to pay mind.
A clacking of high heels that somehow still rang against the carpet of the classroom drew attention involuntarily towards the door, and the flourish of a flowing red dress conspired to keep it there. Lillian rolled her eyes internally at the sheer unnecessary decadence of Joan Riddoch, once again attempting to use glamour as a substitute for charisma and interesting conversation. Lillian’s sensible shoes, plain fitted jeans and smart jumper were only minor ways in which she contrasted from Joan’s faux elegance. Far deeper rifts had existed between them for the years they’d known one another.
“Good afternoon, darlings.” Joan said with that little bob of her head she liked. Returned greetings with various amounts of emotional investment made their way back to her, but she was listening out for Lillian’s voice and Lillian’s voice only.
“Afternoon, Joan.” She said dutifully. A whisper of a wink from Joan made its way back to her.
“My arrival seems to have completed our little community. I do hope you weren’t waiting long for me.” She said, taking her empty seat at the opposite end of the table to Lillian. Although there was no set seating arrangement, everyone sat in the same spaces every week according to an unwritten and unspoken rule. Lillian’s position was at the far end of the table, able to watch the door and keep her eyes on Joan without having to turn her head and look deliberate about it, flanked by Mr Wilson and Mrs Jove. Of all the parents in the room they were the most aligned with her motives, and keeping them close helped to form a bastion of common opinion with which it was harder to argue. Mr Wilson’s loyalty had been won two years prior, when Lillian had secured a promise from the school to finally provide floorboards for every classroom, rather than sharing them on a rota. Mrs Jove had been a simpler case; putting up with her inane ‘conversation’ each day in the playground for a year whilst waiting for pickup had won eternal friendship. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t shared such chats with any regularity in the three years since, though. That bond was apparently unbreakable.
Joan, and her lackeys Mrs Burt and Ms Gainsborough, formed the bulk of resistance, sitting like an ugly bulwark at the opposite end of the table. Lillian didn’t mourn the loss of those two to Joan in any meaningful way; anyone who could be taken in and manipulated by someone as crass as Joan were scarcely useful. But it wasn’t always intelligence that mattered. Votes were votes no matter who cast them, and their alignment to Joan was always dangerous.
Sitting between them were the neutral parties, whose allegiance could be won by savvy debate alone. Miss Strell was often troublesome with her withdrawn reliance on evidence, data and logic. Manipulating her was a straightforward enough path to walk in principle, but one that required something tangible. That wasn’t always easy to generate when reality went directly against Lillian’s desires. Mr Hallie, on the other hand, seemed to be guided exclusively by his heart and the weighty morals held therein. Between the two of them, the neutral parents came closest amongst the cattle to acting as worthy opponents in a debate, but they were still nothing compared to the deceitful, untrustworthy Joan.
Mr Smith was merely a cotton sheet, open to being bulldozed into whatever opinion anyone required from him. It was just a shame that he held final decision when any vote was tied.
“Jolly good. Now that we’re all here I declare the meeting to be underway.” Mr Smith said with a weak smile and even weaker authority. “As ever I shall be chairing the meeting and Mr Hallie will be taking the minutes.”
Lillian nodded, as she always did when Mr Smith stated what everyone already knew. Mr Hallie’s position as minute-taker had been a blow to both sides in the war between her and Joan. They had each been pushing for one of their own loyal followers to be in command of the minutes, such that subtle tweaks and paraphrases could be used to secure a more favourable outcome when reviewed. Mr Hallie’s lack of fealty had squandered that opportunity, and his moral fortitude made him incorruptible.
“The first order of business is the contract for catering, which will be renewed in the new school year. We decided last week that changing to ‘Mealy-Mouthed Solutions’ was likely to be beneficial on account of it providing low-fat custard without compromising on blackcurrant juice serving sizes.” Mr Smith recounted from the previous week’s notes. Lillian gave a slow, closed-eyed nod to indicate how eminently sensible that decision would be. Her brother-in-law provided several of the baking ingredients to Mealy-Mouthed Solutions, and the school’s catering contract would serve him well.
“However, it was raised by Mrs Burt that low-fat custard might act as a gateway to fattier foods, and that blackcurrant is…” Mr Smith paused. “Mr Hallie, am I reading this right…” he muttered, leaning over to the minute-taker. Mr Hallie nodded. “… that blackcurrant is the cocaine of fruit juices and will do irreparable harm to our pupils.”
Joan smirked towards Lillian. Mrs Burt was a loose cannon of hysterical zeal, and it didn’t take a genius to work out from where those ideas had been seeded.
“It is! It’s the colour of blood and filled with sugars. They’ll start with one cup and before you know it we’ll find children throwing knives at one another to get their fix.” Mrs Burt interjected, the whites of her eyes showing bright and wide.
Lillian couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at the perilously dark world in which Mrs Burt thought the school existed. But those concerns were a week old, which had been long enough for her to devise a counter-argument and feed it to Mr Jove.
“Erm… did you get that, Mr Hallie?” Mr Smith asked, unsure of how to react.
“Yep. Children throwing knives.” Mr Hallie said, lifting his left hand in a thumbs-up whilst writing furiously with his right.
Lillian gave Mr Jove a sideways glance to imply that his opinion would be valuable in this situation, but he was too slow.
“Did you have any thoughts on the matter, Ms Gainsborough?” Joan asked, as if no dairy-based spread could transition from solid to liquid within her mouth. Lillian narrowed her eyes and stared at the witch.
“Oh. Yes. I’m also worried that fruit juices of any kind are too sweet, and we should be offering water as the only choice.” Ms Gainsborough said, lacking a lot of Mrs Burt’s conviction but putting on a passable enough display for the others. Lillian could practically see Joan’s hands operating the strings.
“Then that’s still two strong opinions against. We said we would postpone the vote to this week, remembering that this is strictly advisory and not a final decision. That still sits with the governors.” Mr Smith summarised. “Are there any other comments on the matter ahead of the vote?”
Mr Jove looked towards Lillian like a deer in headlights. He had been so convinced that his totally original idea of offering alternative fruit juices to blackcurrant, thereby removing the threat of its violent influence, would be taken up. Hearing the new wholly anti-juice position from Ms Gainsborough had thrown him completely. Lillian gave him a forgiving smile and turned back to Mr Smith.
“I was thinking, Mr Smith, that we could perhaps offer a selection of low-sugar fruit squashes instead of fresh juice. They’re practically calorie free, it would allow a range of flavours to be held on site at a fraction of the space requirement, and squashes are far cheaper than fresh juices. As luck would have it, Mealy-Mouthed Solutions are able to provide a range of squashes, and I think that the children would appreciate some variety and flavour with their meals. This is all for them, after all.” She said, mentally running through how she could convince her brother-in-law to start selling squash to Mealy-Mouthed Solutions. There was still time enough before the contract renewal to make her statement true.
“An interesting alternative.” Mr Smith said, not adding anything valuable to the discussion but trying to sound like he was contributing. “Are there any counter-points?”
Joan’s mouth pursed. Lillian had her on cost, variety, and the coward’s card of ‘this is all for the children’. There was no way to argue without making her opposition a transparent attempt to deprive Lillian of her first choice. Unless, of course, she leaned more heavily into Mrs Burt’s gateway-sugars argument, but it definitely wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny.
“No. That all sounds wonderfully convenient, but I still feel that our existing contractor offers a more reliable and complete service.” Joan replied, with nods from her lapdogs.
“There just isn’t enough information available on the new contractor for me. Unless I can see a brochure and a pricing structure we can’t make a sensible decision here.” Miss Strell declared. “Hearsay isn’t contractually binding, unfortunately, and I wouldn’t like to expose the school to risk by making these decisions without the full complement of information.”
“Right, well, noted. We will proceed with the vote all the same, because that was always the agenda.” Mr Smith said. Miss Strell seemed to accept that without argument. “Then a show of hands, please. All those in favour of keeping our existing contractor, ‘Compost-Deprivers’, please raise your hands now.” Mr Smith instructed. Joan, Ms Gainsborough and Mrs Burt raised their hands. Joan’s eyes were locked on the neutral parties, but no-one else joined her cause. “I make that three votes. All in favour of engaging with Mealy-Mouthed Solutions as a new contractor, raise your hands now.” Lillian, her loyal followers, and Mr Hallie all raised their hands. Lillian had known his moral code wouldn’t let him force water, and water alone, on the children. “And I make that four.” Mr Smith counted. Lillian felt the familiar buzz of victory in her diaphragm, and sat up a little straighter to direct a smug smile at Joan.
“For completeness, please record that Miss Strell and I abstained from the vote.” Mr Smith added.
“Yep. I’ve got it.” Mr Hallie confirmed.
“Marvellous.” Mr Smith said. “Motion carried.”
Lillian agreed; it was marvellous. Every victory over Joan was a matter of great satisfaction for her, and it had been ever since the beginning.
Lillian had volunteered for the PTA as soon as her son, Bertimer, had been confirmed as having a place in the school. Joan’s daughter, Oblongata, was two years older than little Bertimer, and therefore Joan had already been lurking in the PTA behind her crocodilian smile when Lillian arrived. Those years of extra influence under her belt spoke volumes to begin with. Being a new parent to the PTA, Lillian had to earn respect, and much of her first year had been spent observing how the other parents interacted; she learned their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, and their allegiances. But what she had noticed most of all was that Joan also sought the raw power that only a commanding voice in the PTA could grant. Motion after motion was passed that seemed to suit Joan’s interests, but in very few of those situations did she see Joan arguing the case for herself. It was always someone else to make the statement or have the debate in the meeting. Outside of the PTA’s closed room, however, Joan would be milling and schmoozing to steer all the other opinions to where she wanted them.
It had come as a surprise to Lillian when she found herself speaking up in a PTA meeting during the second term, in a discussion over whether the bicycle racks should be labelled ‘Bicycles’ or the less formal ‘Bikes’. Her surprise didn’t stem from a lack of confidence in any way - the other parents weren’t in the least bit intimidating - but because she had started to debate determinedly about a point that she’d never really had much interest in. It was only when she saw the half-smirk on Joan’s face that she realised she’d been played. Lillian had abstained from that particular vote as a show of resistance, but the damage had been done and Joan got her ‘Bikes’ label. That was when Lillian started fighting back.
Her first victory had come when Bertimer was in his second year at the school. For reasons best known to the faculty it had been decided that the infants would be putting on a production of either ‘Macbeth’ or ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ for their Christmas assembly, and the PTA would have the final say. Joan had been quick to work the crowd in the playground, slipping into conversation that the infants of their school were far better actors than most, and that they could therefore handle the unique challenges of a Shakespearean tragedy, despite the hours of impenetrable dialogue they’d need to memorise. Something modern, she said, would spoil the traditional values of Christmas.
When it came to the PTA discussion, Joan clearly hadn’t even considered that anyone would want to vote for Sleepless in Seattle. The sheer amazement in her face when Lillian had proposed that Sleepless in Seattle would make a refreshing change from the norm, and that it would allow their infants’ school to stand out from the rest, was delectable. Quick to recover, Joan had made noises to suggest that she acknowledged Lillian’s opinion but couldn’t endorse anything quite that trite at something as important as a Christmas assembly. That was when Mrs Jossit had pointed out how it would teach the children to question societal norms, and that free-thinking was to be encouraged. Mr Jones had agreed that while romantic comedies weren’t his thing, dense seventeenth century tragedies regarding regicide and murder-guilt weren’t either. Joan knew full well that Mrs Jossit had never heard of societal norms, and that Mr Jones loved a spot of regicide. She had already worked out what had changed when a small smirk came her way from Lillian.
Two months later, when Lillian was sitting through the most painful infants’ Christmas assembly in the history of the school, not even the terrible stage direction could dampen her sense of triumph. It had been the start of something wonderful.
“Second order of business then, is the year six’s trip away. I’m sure you all recall that we are limited to coach travel and to one working week away, so with those caveats in mind the floor will now hear your suggestions.” Mr Smith wobbled.
“I propose a trip to the transport museum in Coventry.” Mrs Burt suggested as soon as the teacher had stopped talking. Her outburst seemed to take even Joan by surprise, the flicker of irritation at an order disobeyed passing across her face. “They’ll learn all sorts of interesting information about cars and trains, and they can even take time out to fall in obeisance to our Lady Godiva.”
“Er… interesting. That would only be a day trip, then?” Asked Mr Smith.
“I don’t recall saying anything of the sort!” Mrs Burt snapped. “A full week would be required to fully appreciate every exhibit alongside the daily pledges to our Lady.”
“Noted.” Mr Hallie said evenly.
“What about a nice trip to Paris? Very traditional.” Joan oozed, the words dripping from her mouth like cherry red lipstick melted into syrup. “Exposure to other cultures is hugely important for the development of our future young men and women.”
“I like the sound of that too.” Ms Gainsborough agreed automatically.
“It’s Paris every year. I’m sure something different would be more interesting, like the Lake District or the Pennines.” Mr Wilson argued. Lillian approved, having coincidentally discussed how much the year six trips were getting stuck in their ways with Mr Wilson a few weeks before.
“Honestly I think the transport museum is the best suggestion so far.” Miss Strell weighed in. Lillian wasn’t surprised that the data miner herself was a fan of plaques and facts.
“Glad to hear that someone else can see sense! The glory of automotive transport shouldn’t be taken for granted.”
“I’d say Paris too. As Joan has said, it’s our duty to support unity within the world, and allowing our children to see a foreign capital will help them to contextualise and understand other cultures.” Said Mr Hallie, between bouts of furious writing. His ability to keep up with the notes and still contribute to the discussion was impressive to Lillian. It was just a shame she couldn’t find a way to easily harness it.
“Anything from you, Mrs Jove?” asked the teacher.
“I don’t know really. I think I agree that Paris is a bit overdone, but I would worry about letting all of the children loose near a landscape peppered with either lakes or sheer drops down mountainsides. Perhaps I’m being over-protective but I think that drowning and falling are bad for a child’s development.” She answered, inadvertently laying out her faith in the faculty’s ability to keep control of the class on day trips. Lillian made a mental note of that for the future, and saw with disappointment the same interested look coming from across the table.
“Then surely it is better the devil we know than the devil we don’t?” Joan said, diving on it. “The faculty has experience in safeguarding our children on the traditional Paris holiday, but the lakes and mountains present all manner of other dangers as you have rightly said. Unless you distrust the school so deeply as to think there should be no trip at all?” Joan asked, wearing her waxwork face of disingenuous concern.
“Oh, no! No not all. I mean, I trust that the teachers know what they’re doing. I guess that Paris would be fine, yes.” Mrs Jove conceded. Lillian cursed the woman for being weak enough to fall to Joan’s words, for leaving such an easy opening for counter-argument, and for being taken in by the plainly spurious ruse of thinking that Mr Smith might have got annoyed at the accusation. His rage and righteous fury would be about as effective as filling a pothole with whipped cream.
“Then it sounds like we have a majority for Paris.” Joan beamed. “Unless there was something to come from Lillian? We’ve not heard your thoughts yet, darling.”
“No argument from me.” She said, wearing a smile with less sincerity than a statue’s. There was no way she’d give Joan the satisfaction of acting like she minded. The battle didn’t really matter because Bertimer was only in year four, but any loss to Joan stung. And there had been many of them over the years.
Of all the defeats Lillian had suffered, the worst had been one of the earliest. It was barely a few months after the devastating blow she’d struck with Sleepless in Seattle, as the PTA prepared for the spring fundraiser. All of the playground equipment in the school had suffered the ravages of time, and much of it was also contending with an infestation of voles. Although not a problem in and of itself, there was a fear that the voles might unionise and demand better accommodation, and the school needed money to hire a professional negotiator to make sure that it didn’t commit to too much.
Seeing an obvious opportunity to bolster an old friend’s whack-a-mole arcade machine business, Lillian mentioned to several of the other parents on the PTA that children loved to improve their fine motor skills by striking mole-shaped targets with great rapidity. If her memory served her, she said, there was at least one reputable distributor of arcade machines like that in the area, and purchasing one to replace the decrepit playground equipment would be the perfect ‘50p per play’ money earner for the vole-negotiation fund; an elegant solution to both problems. In the next PTA meeting, Ms Clarke had suggested the whack-a-mole machine of her own accord, citing that she’d heard it was good for a child’s development but couldn’t remember where from.
Lillian had congratulated herself there and then, riding high on the memory of the Christmas production. In her hubris, she recalled, she’d felt that one victory would make her the untouchable monarch, but it was not to be so. It just made the rats more cunning.
“Encouraging animal cruelty scarcely seems like the right thing to do here.” Joan had said, wearing the heartbroken shock of a compassionate activist on her liar’s mouth. “Especially with voles being one of the major demographics in the playground these days, striking other small mammals would be a barbaric example to set.”
Waves of agreement had swept up and down the table, turning into judgemental gazes that saw Ms Clarke not as a parent any longer, but as a monster. It pulled the bottom out of Lillian’s stomach to watch them all slip from her grasp, their minds set against her whack-a-mole interests wholly and irreversibly by merely two sentences from Joan. Fortunately she had been able to push Ms Clarke under the bus by using her as a proxy for the idea, and spoke out in no uncertain terms that it was a preposterous idea to include whack-a-mole in a vole fundraiser.
Ms Clarke hadn’t lasted long on the PTA after that evening, and Joan’s much-more-appropriate hang-your-own-stuffed-sheep gallows had been a rousing success for the vole fund. As she stood at the fund-raiser, watching her own cuddly toy swinging from its crudely stitched neck, it was a lesson learned for Lillian. One battle was not enough to win the war.
“Item three, the big one, is entertainment for the Summer Fete.” Mr Smith announced. Lillian and Joan both tried to look casually interested, as if this hadn’t been the item for which they’d spent their whole week preparing. The school’s summer fete was the largest event of the year, as far as the PTA were concerned, bringing in nearly all of the parents and families of the school’s pupils. Whoever could claim responsibility for the providence of the main entertainment would be lauded as a heroine by all of the parents, proving their worth over all others in and out of the PTA.
Both Joan and Lillian knew the stakes. They were equally scored when it came to summer fete successes in the previous five years, with one surprise victory for Mr Smith two years before when everyone else had forgotten to vote, and now, in Joan’s final year on the PTA, there would be a firm decider. Lillian leaned back in her chair and made a show of thinking, as if this were her first consideration of the matter. Joan gave a theatrical display of mild surprise, like she couldn’t believe how quickly these decisions came around again.
“Last year, you may recall, was the well-received wet sponge throwing competition. Many a teacher soaked, and many a smile caused.” Mr Smith reminded everyone. Lillian remembered fondly the sight of cold, wet sponges slapping into not only his cheeks, but those of the headmistress. She wasn’t even in the stocks at the time, but plucky children always did know how to press their advantage. “But we have been informed that we can’t hold such a contest again this year. Probably for the sake of keeping some variety.” He mis-inferred.
A smirk spread across Joan’s face. The whole sponge fiasco had been an orchestrated retaliatory strike against the headmistress for putting an end to the outdoor education lessons, which had been an invaluable resource in ensuring that Mrs Tulip’s son always came home with muddy trousers. Lillian almost respected her for that one.
“So, everyone. What are this year’s suggestions?”
Like gunslingers at high noon, Lillian and Joan both lashed out with subtle nudges to their pre-prepared patsies. Mrs Jove and Ms Gainsborough both flinched at the sudden contact, but it was Gainsborough whose mouth reacted first.
“I think” she blurted, the words falling out of her mouth as a single syllable “that this year it would be nice for the children to have a bouncy castle. Lots of energetic fun in the sunshine.”
Initiative had gone to Joan, her first pawn having left the line and struck out towards Lillian’s pieces. Often in these matters the first idea stuck best in the mind, acting both as the yardstick against which all subsequent ideas were judged, and the default option if everything else fell through. Surely it was mere coincidence that Joan’s cousin ran an inflatable hire service.
“A bouncy castle! That sounds lovely. You know, I actually know someone who hires out bouncy castles. Yes, really. I could definitely have a word and they might even give us a special, discounted rate.” Joan crooned, touching her fingers to her mouth in innocent contemplation. Generally murmured approval echoed around the table.
“I’m sure I’ve heard somewhere that bouncy castles are frightfully dangerous, especially with large groups of children on them.” Mrs Jove countered, thinking back to a conversation in the playground a few weeks before. “Someone definitely told me about two little girls bumping their heads together on a bouncy castle recently, we don’t want those kinds of tears at our Summer Fete.”
Knight took pawn. Lillian could remember the story well. She’d claimed the girls were called Catherine and Skullerina, having a panicked a bit with the first name, and was grateful that Mrs Jove seemed to have forgotten those details.
“A ball pit would be much safer, and just as much fun.” Mr Wilson proposed in response to the shocked and concerned faces around the table. “Everyone loves a ball pit.”
Mr Hallie nodded.
“We certainly don’t want to endanger anyone’s children. Noggin-bumps are terrible.”
“Exactly. Lillian, did you say a while ago that someone you knew was moving into the ball pit hire game?” Mr Wilson asked, a square peg dropping into a square hole. The wooden clacking sound made him look up, and Mr Smith guilty pushed the toy away from himself again.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Let me think… it was around seventy pounds for the day to hire a ball pit, and it comes with free setup.” She recalled, having read the information just over thirty minutes ago. “I would be more than happy to give them a call and arrange something on the school’s behalf.”
“Sounds like a reasonable price for the day.” Miss Strell assessed. “Nice to know that the logistics are fairly simple too.”
Lillian smiled. Her bishops’ ambush had gone perfectly.
“What would the fine be for any balls that went missing though?” Joan enquired innocently. “We know how the little ones like to throw them around after all. Anyone could be struck by a flying ball, and anyone could miss one that gets thrown too far. We wouldn’t want to expose our guests or our school to those kinds of risks.” Joan’s rook had landed on a ladder and ascended the board. It was unexpected, but Lillian kept her cool.
“Good point.” Mr Hallie conceded. “I suppose that neither one of them is perfectly safe.”
“But the ball pit is probably the safer of the two.” Mrs Jove argued. Lillian’s pawn edged towards a ladder of its own to give chase.
“Only from an un-factored risk perspective. We would need to properly understand how fines for lost balls are applied and the likelihood of an injury from a projectile strike.” Miss Strell clarified. “Although I accept that skull-to-skull impact is both more likely and more severe with the bouncy castle option.”
“Both would just be a case of adequate supervision. Which the bouncy castle hire includes within the price.” Joan reassured. “Or, if I’m mistaken, then I would gladly take on the mantle of castle monitor for the day.” Lillian cursed internally. Her pawn’s ladder turned out to be a disguised knot of snakes that send it sliding down into jail, without even passing ‘Go!’.
“One of the little boys or girls could choke on a ball-pit ball.” Mrs Burt declared. Her own playing pieces were stuck in the starting place, unable to move until she had rolled a six. Unfortunately for her, it seemed that she was using a four-sided die.
“Unless you think children can unhinge their jaws like snakes, that won’t present an issue.” Mr Wilson retorted.
“I’ve seen it happen. At the Christmas fayre one of the infants dislocated their jaw and ate a whole desk.” Mrs Burt persisted, trading the four-sided die for a coin toss. A six still eluded her.
“Are you getting this in the minutes?” Mr Smith asked. “It sounds like important information to record if it’s true.”
Mr Hallie gave the most disappointed nod Lillian had ever seen.
“Leaving aside speculation on skeletal re-configurability, there are complete safety records and insurance available with ball-pit hire. They will alleviate any concerns.” Lillian said, steering conversation back to where she wanted it and setting her knights up for a double-pronged strike that would not only collect ten pounds for winning a beauty contest, but also land on a triple word score.
“That’s good, if we’re happy to put a price on a child’s health.” Said Joan. Bishop accused Miss Scarlet of killing the knight in the library. Weapon unknown, but suspected to be emotional blackmail.
“Honestly, in terms of the insurance risk of having a dangerous form of entertainment, we need to do exactly that.” Miss Strell pointed out.
“But no-one needs to go in ignorant of the risks. The ball pit hire comes with a pre-printed board of terms and conditions. There is no financial risk to the school at all. It also has a selection of other signs to announce the presence of the ball pit and good safety practices.” Lillian said, constructing the ‘Knight Memorial Hotel’ in the library, and raking in the rent from Joan’s bishop.
“Signs? Why, it’s funny you should mention that. I was speaking to Mr Tiller, from the art department, only last week. He said that he would be happy to include sign-making in the art lessons running up to the fete. Surely we would want to showcase the children’s work over some company’s cold, clinical signs? Give it that personal touch.” Joan suggested. Pawn to building inspection regulation five. Hotel condemned.
Of course, Lillian thought. Joan had bought-off the art department thanks to the help of her friend at the art supply wholesaler. ‘Oh I happen to have come into possession of these acrylic paints and new brushes. They’re really rather super, but I’m sure that they would do all of our beautiful children more good if I donated them.’ she’d said, sweeter than syrup and twice as sticky. It was as predictable as it was transparent, but despite crass execution it had worked to bring the art teachers on board. Lillian had overheard everything whilst crouched underneath the window to eavesdrop.
“A ball pit would allow more children to play at the same time. More smiles for more of the time.” Lillian claimed. A rook fell.
“A bouncy castle would make them happier and tire them out. More food and drink sold, and more funds raised for the school.” Queen strangled pawn.
“Which would be wasted on the hire cost anyway.” Another pawn hit a double-letter score.
“Not if we negotiate advertising rights with the hire firm.” The whole board flipped.
“Which the children would make? Selling them into labour now are you?” Lillian accused. Silence hung in the air for a second.
“Ladies, please. Let’s keep it civil.” Mr Smith pleaded.
“Children enjoy painting and the art department is completely on board with it. Sign-making is an important and marketable skill.” Joan spat back.
“Our children aren’t here to be marketable. Their happiness and safety are more important, and the ball pit delivers both.”
Joan and Lillian held each other’s gazes. Pawns lay defeated to either side. Both of their hippos had ceased to be hungry, the iron had been knighted by a kinged draught for services to the rail industry at Marylebone Station, and both snakes were eating all the ladders they could find.
“I think, perhaps, that we should leave this vote for next week.” Mr Smith said nervously. “Everything in here is getting a bit fraught. Mr Hallie, please note that this is the end of the meeting.”
Lillian paced quietly back through the hall and into the school’s car park. Joan had put up more of a fight than she had expected, but the game wasn’t over. Thousands of whispers could travel around the playground in a week, and by the next meeting she would be ready to take the crown. Failure was not an option.
On the other side of the grounds, Mr Wilson walked out of the school gates, bade goodbye to the other parents, and started his short trip home. Once he was out of sight of the others, he allowed himself to rub at his face with both hands in frustration. Every meeting, every bloody meeting, the pair of them did that. What on Earth Lillian and Joan thought they were proving with their pathetic hegemony he didn’t know, and why they thought that they were both shrewd fixers he might never understand. He and the other parents all watched and laughed as the pair of them flitted from person to person, dropping hints as subtle as a sledgehammer on a blancmange and obviously using the school to their own advantage. But to what end, they all asked. Status? Being the most interfering? Having the great prestige of arranging a cake sale? He shook his head and tried to put the meeting out of his mind. At least it would be a week until the next one, and he could try to find entertainment in watching two spiders try to weave a web out of ball pits and bouncy castles.
“Had enough of this rain now.” Mr Wilson said, for the sake of filling the silence with camaraderie about precipitation.
“Yeah, me too. Why it can’t it just clear up and let us have some nice days?” Mrs Burt lamented by way of reply, apparently forgetting that the vast majority of days over the previous month had been both dry and at least partially sunny.
“It’s good for the garden at least.” Lillian soothed. Her cattle were fulfilling the roles laid out in their unspoken social contract, and she herself needed to keep the look of things alive. All it took was a word of agreement here and a nod there to make them feel like she was a part of their crowd. They probably didn’t even notice that she steered and calmed them with carefully chosen words; Lillian took that equally as a testament to her shadowy manipulations and an indictment of their vacuous manipulability.
“That’s true enough. The grass loves it. Expect I’ll have to mow again in a few days.” Mr Wilson agreed.
Conversation really was in full flow, Lillian thought to herself; plumbing the depths of rainfall and its consequences for the control of common lawn grasses. At the very least their casual and easy topics of discussion meant that they were going to arrive to the meeting docile, ready to bend and sway with whatever influence she exerted upon them. A few weeks ago they’d walked in the midst of a bitter argument over whether ‘a few’ could appropriately be used to describe a group of six objects, and it had left them both so defensive that they communicated by proxy for the whole meeting. Half of the meeting minutes had been the phrase ‘Would you please tell him/her that…”, and the pen nearly ran out of ink. Lilian had learned her lesson well that day.
The usual few short steps carried them across the entire width of the hall and through the thin, bright green double doors towards the site of the meeting. Immediately the lingering afterthoughts of the day’s smells greeted Lillian, and she distracted herself for a moment by mentally reconstructing the presumed events of the day. There was definitely an element of drying paint, watercolour, most likely coming from room three. She could picture the sheets of damp paper drying on their string across the back window.
“Gerry managed to mow over my forget-me-nots last time he mowed.” Mrs Burt grumbled.
Combined with the paint scent was the aroma of plastic building blocks, but not the normal ones; these were cleaner, fresher, less well-used. Educational models then. Probably chemical ball-and-stick model pieces or a bridge construction set.
“Ha! Did he lose control of the vehicle and mount the borders? Mowing under the influence?” Mr Wilson chuckled.
A faint, warm or possibly burned smell of old electronics drifted out of room four. Ageing battery packs, perishing wires and miraculously functional bulbs. Probably some resistors too.
“Very funny Thomas.” Mrs Burt said humourlessly, livid that Mr Wilson could be flippant about a crime as heinous as flower mowing. “They were growing into the lawn, actually, but I liked them and I had specifically mentioned to him that he was to mow around them. I shouted it quite clearly from the window while he was mowing, when he was a full half-a-foot away from hitting them. It was entirely his fault.”
Pencil lead and shavings formed the characteristic background smell, standard fare for all rooms. So it was probably science in the morning, the usual mandated maths and English hours, and art in the afternoon Lillian concluded, as she and her cattle reached the door to room five. Adorned with its ‘PTA meeting tonight’ sign in allegedly amusing cartoonish font, her battleground awaited.
As Lillian pushed the handle down and crossed the threshold her casual but deliberate pace transitioned seamlessly to a prim, courtly bearing, befitting her position in the hierarchy of the parent teacher association. A hundred books could have been balanced on her head and none would have fallen, simultaneously proving her status and solving the library’s over-stocking problem.
“Ah, hello Mrs Beckett. Mr Wilson, Mrs Burt, Ms Gainsborough.” Greeted the soft, undulating form of Mr Smith, the school’s PTA liaison.
“Good afternoon, Mr Smith.” Lillian replied politely, sparing him just enough eye-contact to make him feel acknowledged. Despite his considerable bulk, the man was effectively transparent in her court; an afterthought of a player who presented all the resistance of wet bread to an escalator. He was, however, a useful catspaw in his capacity as a member of staff. “How have you been?”
“Yes, yes, fine thank you. It’s a busy time of year with the summer examinations and the year sixes preparing to leave us.” Mr Smith flapped. Words started at his mouth and travelled outwards in ripples across his cheeks, disappearing around to the back of his head where they presumably formed a new life for themselves within the hairline. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Looking forward to hearing about all the progress with bookings and agreements for the Summer Fete that the school has made.” Lillian answered, beaming out her sickliest smile. There was no doubt in her mind that Mr Smith was oblivious to the daggers behind her pearly teeth, but she caught the almost imperceptible guilty swallow that descended his throat after she’d spoken. “And of course everyone else’s thoughts and ideas on what the day should hold.” She added.
All of the other parents tended to have a lot of thoughts. They weren’t shy about sharing them either, be it during the PTA meetings or in the playground at pickup time. Lillian was always happy to hear them out because, after all, listening to someone was the first step towards preventing them getting their own way.
Lillian and the other parents of the association took their seats around the assembly of small tables that had been pushed together for the occasion. Despite numerous protests that the staff room would serve them better with its adult sized chairs and tables, the headmistress had insisted that the staff room was for staff only, and members of the PTA, although elevated in the hierarchy, were still not staff members. Lillian immediately assumed that this was evidence of bountiful documentation within the staff’s sanctum that mocked both parents and children cruelly. Either that or they never did the vacuuming.
Whatever the reasons, Lillian still had to thread herself delicately into the ten-year-old’s seating, modestly leaning her legs over to one side such that they would fit underneath the miniature desk. Although never a dignified motion to make, Lillian carried the move off easily and allowed it to form just one more piece of her armour of social tact. Mr Wilson was not as well versed in such matters, sitting back from the table and spreading his weight across two chairs. In his position, Lillian would have convinced Mr Smith to trade with him for the luxurious teacher’s chair. It wouldn’t be a hard task; the teacher probably wouldn’t even argue if the chair were to be whipped out from beneath him with nary a word spoken. But Mr Wilson was only a pawn, and it wasn’t the pawn’s lot to claim a chair that fits its body, nor to have a queen swoop in to its defence. Lillian was quite content to let him suffer.
Mr Smith and the other parents jabbered to one another about their banal concerns while Lillian sat quietly with her public-facing smile, listening to what they said but finding no interest in it. It would have been remiss to entirely ignore their conversation, for the cattle did on occasion let themselves murmur something far more informative than they realised, but there were no inadvertent revelations on that day. If there was fresh gossip to be had regarding the lives of the other parents, the currency of the playground, then it would need to be sought elsewhere.
As the specified start time of the meeting approached the remaining members of the PTA filtered in. Mr Hallie and Mrs Jove arrived in a pair, with Miss Strell shortly behind, and they all joined the tedious burble of small-talk without any significant incident, nor any evidence of enduring personality. The next arrival, however, was the one to which Lillian had to pay mind.
A clacking of high heels that somehow still rang against the carpet of the classroom drew attention involuntarily towards the door, and the flourish of a flowing red dress conspired to keep it there. Lillian rolled her eyes internally at the sheer unnecessary decadence of Joan Riddoch, once again attempting to use glamour as a substitute for charisma and interesting conversation. Lillian’s sensible shoes, plain fitted jeans and smart jumper were only minor ways in which she contrasted from Joan’s faux elegance. Far deeper rifts had existed between them for the years they’d known one another.
“Good afternoon, darlings.” Joan said with that little bob of her head she liked. Returned greetings with various amounts of emotional investment made their way back to her, but she was listening out for Lillian’s voice and Lillian’s voice only.
“Afternoon, Joan.” She said dutifully. A whisper of a wink from Joan made its way back to her.
“My arrival seems to have completed our little community. I do hope you weren’t waiting long for me.” She said, taking her empty seat at the opposite end of the table to Lillian. Although there was no set seating arrangement, everyone sat in the same spaces every week according to an unwritten and unspoken rule. Lillian’s position was at the far end of the table, able to watch the door and keep her eyes on Joan without having to turn her head and look deliberate about it, flanked by Mr Wilson and Mrs Jove. Of all the parents in the room they were the most aligned with her motives, and keeping them close helped to form a bastion of common opinion with which it was harder to argue. Mr Wilson’s loyalty had been won two years prior, when Lillian had secured a promise from the school to finally provide floorboards for every classroom, rather than sharing them on a rota. Mrs Jove had been a simpler case; putting up with her inane ‘conversation’ each day in the playground for a year whilst waiting for pickup had won eternal friendship. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t shared such chats with any regularity in the three years since, though. That bond was apparently unbreakable.
Joan, and her lackeys Mrs Burt and Ms Gainsborough, formed the bulk of resistance, sitting like an ugly bulwark at the opposite end of the table. Lillian didn’t mourn the loss of those two to Joan in any meaningful way; anyone who could be taken in and manipulated by someone as crass as Joan were scarcely useful. But it wasn’t always intelligence that mattered. Votes were votes no matter who cast them, and their alignment to Joan was always dangerous.
Sitting between them were the neutral parties, whose allegiance could be won by savvy debate alone. Miss Strell was often troublesome with her withdrawn reliance on evidence, data and logic. Manipulating her was a straightforward enough path to walk in principle, but one that required something tangible. That wasn’t always easy to generate when reality went directly against Lillian’s desires. Mr Hallie, on the other hand, seemed to be guided exclusively by his heart and the weighty morals held therein. Between the two of them, the neutral parents came closest amongst the cattle to acting as worthy opponents in a debate, but they were still nothing compared to the deceitful, untrustworthy Joan.
Mr Smith was merely a cotton sheet, open to being bulldozed into whatever opinion anyone required from him. It was just a shame that he held final decision when any vote was tied.
“Jolly good. Now that we’re all here I declare the meeting to be underway.” Mr Smith said with a weak smile and even weaker authority. “As ever I shall be chairing the meeting and Mr Hallie will be taking the minutes.”
Lillian nodded, as she always did when Mr Smith stated what everyone already knew. Mr Hallie’s position as minute-taker had been a blow to both sides in the war between her and Joan. They had each been pushing for one of their own loyal followers to be in command of the minutes, such that subtle tweaks and paraphrases could be used to secure a more favourable outcome when reviewed. Mr Hallie’s lack of fealty had squandered that opportunity, and his moral fortitude made him incorruptible.
“The first order of business is the contract for catering, which will be renewed in the new school year. We decided last week that changing to ‘Mealy-Mouthed Solutions’ was likely to be beneficial on account of it providing low-fat custard without compromising on blackcurrant juice serving sizes.” Mr Smith recounted from the previous week’s notes. Lillian gave a slow, closed-eyed nod to indicate how eminently sensible that decision would be. Her brother-in-law provided several of the baking ingredients to Mealy-Mouthed Solutions, and the school’s catering contract would serve him well.
“However, it was raised by Mrs Burt that low-fat custard might act as a gateway to fattier foods, and that blackcurrant is…” Mr Smith paused. “Mr Hallie, am I reading this right…” he muttered, leaning over to the minute-taker. Mr Hallie nodded. “… that blackcurrant is the cocaine of fruit juices and will do irreparable harm to our pupils.”
Joan smirked towards Lillian. Mrs Burt was a loose cannon of hysterical zeal, and it didn’t take a genius to work out from where those ideas had been seeded.
“It is! It’s the colour of blood and filled with sugars. They’ll start with one cup and before you know it we’ll find children throwing knives at one another to get their fix.” Mrs Burt interjected, the whites of her eyes showing bright and wide.
Lillian couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at the perilously dark world in which Mrs Burt thought the school existed. But those concerns were a week old, which had been long enough for her to devise a counter-argument and feed it to Mr Jove.
“Erm… did you get that, Mr Hallie?” Mr Smith asked, unsure of how to react.
“Yep. Children throwing knives.” Mr Hallie said, lifting his left hand in a thumbs-up whilst writing furiously with his right.
Lillian gave Mr Jove a sideways glance to imply that his opinion would be valuable in this situation, but he was too slow.
“Did you have any thoughts on the matter, Ms Gainsborough?” Joan asked, as if no dairy-based spread could transition from solid to liquid within her mouth. Lillian narrowed her eyes and stared at the witch.
“Oh. Yes. I’m also worried that fruit juices of any kind are too sweet, and we should be offering water as the only choice.” Ms Gainsborough said, lacking a lot of Mrs Burt’s conviction but putting on a passable enough display for the others. Lillian could practically see Joan’s hands operating the strings.
“Then that’s still two strong opinions against. We said we would postpone the vote to this week, remembering that this is strictly advisory and not a final decision. That still sits with the governors.” Mr Smith summarised. “Are there any other comments on the matter ahead of the vote?”
Mr Jove looked towards Lillian like a deer in headlights. He had been so convinced that his totally original idea of offering alternative fruit juices to blackcurrant, thereby removing the threat of its violent influence, would be taken up. Hearing the new wholly anti-juice position from Ms Gainsborough had thrown him completely. Lillian gave him a forgiving smile and turned back to Mr Smith.
“I was thinking, Mr Smith, that we could perhaps offer a selection of low-sugar fruit squashes instead of fresh juice. They’re practically calorie free, it would allow a range of flavours to be held on site at a fraction of the space requirement, and squashes are far cheaper than fresh juices. As luck would have it, Mealy-Mouthed Solutions are able to provide a range of squashes, and I think that the children would appreciate some variety and flavour with their meals. This is all for them, after all.” She said, mentally running through how she could convince her brother-in-law to start selling squash to Mealy-Mouthed Solutions. There was still time enough before the contract renewal to make her statement true.
“An interesting alternative.” Mr Smith said, not adding anything valuable to the discussion but trying to sound like he was contributing. “Are there any counter-points?”
Joan’s mouth pursed. Lillian had her on cost, variety, and the coward’s card of ‘this is all for the children’. There was no way to argue without making her opposition a transparent attempt to deprive Lillian of her first choice. Unless, of course, she leaned more heavily into Mrs Burt’s gateway-sugars argument, but it definitely wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny.
“No. That all sounds wonderfully convenient, but I still feel that our existing contractor offers a more reliable and complete service.” Joan replied, with nods from her lapdogs.
“There just isn’t enough information available on the new contractor for me. Unless I can see a brochure and a pricing structure we can’t make a sensible decision here.” Miss Strell declared. “Hearsay isn’t contractually binding, unfortunately, and I wouldn’t like to expose the school to risk by making these decisions without the full complement of information.”
“Right, well, noted. We will proceed with the vote all the same, because that was always the agenda.” Mr Smith said. Miss Strell seemed to accept that without argument. “Then a show of hands, please. All those in favour of keeping our existing contractor, ‘Compost-Deprivers’, please raise your hands now.” Mr Smith instructed. Joan, Ms Gainsborough and Mrs Burt raised their hands. Joan’s eyes were locked on the neutral parties, but no-one else joined her cause. “I make that three votes. All in favour of engaging with Mealy-Mouthed Solutions as a new contractor, raise your hands now.” Lillian, her loyal followers, and Mr Hallie all raised their hands. Lillian had known his moral code wouldn’t let him force water, and water alone, on the children. “And I make that four.” Mr Smith counted. Lillian felt the familiar buzz of victory in her diaphragm, and sat up a little straighter to direct a smug smile at Joan.
“For completeness, please record that Miss Strell and I abstained from the vote.” Mr Smith added.
“Yep. I’ve got it.” Mr Hallie confirmed.
“Marvellous.” Mr Smith said. “Motion carried.”
Lillian agreed; it was marvellous. Every victory over Joan was a matter of great satisfaction for her, and it had been ever since the beginning.
Lillian had volunteered for the PTA as soon as her son, Bertimer, had been confirmed as having a place in the school. Joan’s daughter, Oblongata, was two years older than little Bertimer, and therefore Joan had already been lurking in the PTA behind her crocodilian smile when Lillian arrived. Those years of extra influence under her belt spoke volumes to begin with. Being a new parent to the PTA, Lillian had to earn respect, and much of her first year had been spent observing how the other parents interacted; she learned their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, and their allegiances. But what she had noticed most of all was that Joan also sought the raw power that only a commanding voice in the PTA could grant. Motion after motion was passed that seemed to suit Joan’s interests, but in very few of those situations did she see Joan arguing the case for herself. It was always someone else to make the statement or have the debate in the meeting. Outside of the PTA’s closed room, however, Joan would be milling and schmoozing to steer all the other opinions to where she wanted them.
It had come as a surprise to Lillian when she found herself speaking up in a PTA meeting during the second term, in a discussion over whether the bicycle racks should be labelled ‘Bicycles’ or the less formal ‘Bikes’. Her surprise didn’t stem from a lack of confidence in any way - the other parents weren’t in the least bit intimidating - but because she had started to debate determinedly about a point that she’d never really had much interest in. It was only when she saw the half-smirk on Joan’s face that she realised she’d been played. Lillian had abstained from that particular vote as a show of resistance, but the damage had been done and Joan got her ‘Bikes’ label. That was when Lillian started fighting back.
Her first victory had come when Bertimer was in his second year at the school. For reasons best known to the faculty it had been decided that the infants would be putting on a production of either ‘Macbeth’ or ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ for their Christmas assembly, and the PTA would have the final say. Joan had been quick to work the crowd in the playground, slipping into conversation that the infants of their school were far better actors than most, and that they could therefore handle the unique challenges of a Shakespearean tragedy, despite the hours of impenetrable dialogue they’d need to memorise. Something modern, she said, would spoil the traditional values of Christmas.
When it came to the PTA discussion, Joan clearly hadn’t even considered that anyone would want to vote for Sleepless in Seattle. The sheer amazement in her face when Lillian had proposed that Sleepless in Seattle would make a refreshing change from the norm, and that it would allow their infants’ school to stand out from the rest, was delectable. Quick to recover, Joan had made noises to suggest that she acknowledged Lillian’s opinion but couldn’t endorse anything quite that trite at something as important as a Christmas assembly. That was when Mrs Jossit had pointed out how it would teach the children to question societal norms, and that free-thinking was to be encouraged. Mr Jones had agreed that while romantic comedies weren’t his thing, dense seventeenth century tragedies regarding regicide and murder-guilt weren’t either. Joan knew full well that Mrs Jossit had never heard of societal norms, and that Mr Jones loved a spot of regicide. She had already worked out what had changed when a small smirk came her way from Lillian.
Two months later, when Lillian was sitting through the most painful infants’ Christmas assembly in the history of the school, not even the terrible stage direction could dampen her sense of triumph. It had been the start of something wonderful.
“Second order of business then, is the year six’s trip away. I’m sure you all recall that we are limited to coach travel and to one working week away, so with those caveats in mind the floor will now hear your suggestions.” Mr Smith wobbled.
“I propose a trip to the transport museum in Coventry.” Mrs Burt suggested as soon as the teacher had stopped talking. Her outburst seemed to take even Joan by surprise, the flicker of irritation at an order disobeyed passing across her face. “They’ll learn all sorts of interesting information about cars and trains, and they can even take time out to fall in obeisance to our Lady Godiva.”
“Er… interesting. That would only be a day trip, then?” Asked Mr Smith.
“I don’t recall saying anything of the sort!” Mrs Burt snapped. “A full week would be required to fully appreciate every exhibit alongside the daily pledges to our Lady.”
“Noted.” Mr Hallie said evenly.
“What about a nice trip to Paris? Very traditional.” Joan oozed, the words dripping from her mouth like cherry red lipstick melted into syrup. “Exposure to other cultures is hugely important for the development of our future young men and women.”
“I like the sound of that too.” Ms Gainsborough agreed automatically.
“It’s Paris every year. I’m sure something different would be more interesting, like the Lake District or the Pennines.” Mr Wilson argued. Lillian approved, having coincidentally discussed how much the year six trips were getting stuck in their ways with Mr Wilson a few weeks before.
“Honestly I think the transport museum is the best suggestion so far.” Miss Strell weighed in. Lillian wasn’t surprised that the data miner herself was a fan of plaques and facts.
“Glad to hear that someone else can see sense! The glory of automotive transport shouldn’t be taken for granted.”
“I’d say Paris too. As Joan has said, it’s our duty to support unity within the world, and allowing our children to see a foreign capital will help them to contextualise and understand other cultures.” Said Mr Hallie, between bouts of furious writing. His ability to keep up with the notes and still contribute to the discussion was impressive to Lillian. It was just a shame she couldn’t find a way to easily harness it.
“Anything from you, Mrs Jove?” asked the teacher.
“I don’t know really. I think I agree that Paris is a bit overdone, but I would worry about letting all of the children loose near a landscape peppered with either lakes or sheer drops down mountainsides. Perhaps I’m being over-protective but I think that drowning and falling are bad for a child’s development.” She answered, inadvertently laying out her faith in the faculty’s ability to keep control of the class on day trips. Lillian made a mental note of that for the future, and saw with disappointment the same interested look coming from across the table.
“Then surely it is better the devil we know than the devil we don’t?” Joan said, diving on it. “The faculty has experience in safeguarding our children on the traditional Paris holiday, but the lakes and mountains present all manner of other dangers as you have rightly said. Unless you distrust the school so deeply as to think there should be no trip at all?” Joan asked, wearing her waxwork face of disingenuous concern.
“Oh, no! No not all. I mean, I trust that the teachers know what they’re doing. I guess that Paris would be fine, yes.” Mrs Jove conceded. Lillian cursed the woman for being weak enough to fall to Joan’s words, for leaving such an easy opening for counter-argument, and for being taken in by the plainly spurious ruse of thinking that Mr Smith might have got annoyed at the accusation. His rage and righteous fury would be about as effective as filling a pothole with whipped cream.
“Then it sounds like we have a majority for Paris.” Joan beamed. “Unless there was something to come from Lillian? We’ve not heard your thoughts yet, darling.”
“No argument from me.” She said, wearing a smile with less sincerity than a statue’s. There was no way she’d give Joan the satisfaction of acting like she minded. The battle didn’t really matter because Bertimer was only in year four, but any loss to Joan stung. And there had been many of them over the years.
Of all the defeats Lillian had suffered, the worst had been one of the earliest. It was barely a few months after the devastating blow she’d struck with Sleepless in Seattle, as the PTA prepared for the spring fundraiser. All of the playground equipment in the school had suffered the ravages of time, and much of it was also contending with an infestation of voles. Although not a problem in and of itself, there was a fear that the voles might unionise and demand better accommodation, and the school needed money to hire a professional negotiator to make sure that it didn’t commit to too much.
Seeing an obvious opportunity to bolster an old friend’s whack-a-mole arcade machine business, Lillian mentioned to several of the other parents on the PTA that children loved to improve their fine motor skills by striking mole-shaped targets with great rapidity. If her memory served her, she said, there was at least one reputable distributor of arcade machines like that in the area, and purchasing one to replace the decrepit playground equipment would be the perfect ‘50p per play’ money earner for the vole-negotiation fund; an elegant solution to both problems. In the next PTA meeting, Ms Clarke had suggested the whack-a-mole machine of her own accord, citing that she’d heard it was good for a child’s development but couldn’t remember where from.
Lillian had congratulated herself there and then, riding high on the memory of the Christmas production. In her hubris, she recalled, she’d felt that one victory would make her the untouchable monarch, but it was not to be so. It just made the rats more cunning.
“Encouraging animal cruelty scarcely seems like the right thing to do here.” Joan had said, wearing the heartbroken shock of a compassionate activist on her liar’s mouth. “Especially with voles being one of the major demographics in the playground these days, striking other small mammals would be a barbaric example to set.”
Waves of agreement had swept up and down the table, turning into judgemental gazes that saw Ms Clarke not as a parent any longer, but as a monster. It pulled the bottom out of Lillian’s stomach to watch them all slip from her grasp, their minds set against her whack-a-mole interests wholly and irreversibly by merely two sentences from Joan. Fortunately she had been able to push Ms Clarke under the bus by using her as a proxy for the idea, and spoke out in no uncertain terms that it was a preposterous idea to include whack-a-mole in a vole fundraiser.
Ms Clarke hadn’t lasted long on the PTA after that evening, and Joan’s much-more-appropriate hang-your-own-stuffed-sheep gallows had been a rousing success for the vole fund. As she stood at the fund-raiser, watching her own cuddly toy swinging from its crudely stitched neck, it was a lesson learned for Lillian. One battle was not enough to win the war.
“Item three, the big one, is entertainment for the Summer Fete.” Mr Smith announced. Lillian and Joan both tried to look casually interested, as if this hadn’t been the item for which they’d spent their whole week preparing. The school’s summer fete was the largest event of the year, as far as the PTA were concerned, bringing in nearly all of the parents and families of the school’s pupils. Whoever could claim responsibility for the providence of the main entertainment would be lauded as a heroine by all of the parents, proving their worth over all others in and out of the PTA.
Both Joan and Lillian knew the stakes. They were equally scored when it came to summer fete successes in the previous five years, with one surprise victory for Mr Smith two years before when everyone else had forgotten to vote, and now, in Joan’s final year on the PTA, there would be a firm decider. Lillian leaned back in her chair and made a show of thinking, as if this were her first consideration of the matter. Joan gave a theatrical display of mild surprise, like she couldn’t believe how quickly these decisions came around again.
“Last year, you may recall, was the well-received wet sponge throwing competition. Many a teacher soaked, and many a smile caused.” Mr Smith reminded everyone. Lillian remembered fondly the sight of cold, wet sponges slapping into not only his cheeks, but those of the headmistress. She wasn’t even in the stocks at the time, but plucky children always did know how to press their advantage. “But we have been informed that we can’t hold such a contest again this year. Probably for the sake of keeping some variety.” He mis-inferred.
A smirk spread across Joan’s face. The whole sponge fiasco had been an orchestrated retaliatory strike against the headmistress for putting an end to the outdoor education lessons, which had been an invaluable resource in ensuring that Mrs Tulip’s son always came home with muddy trousers. Lillian almost respected her for that one.
“So, everyone. What are this year’s suggestions?”
Like gunslingers at high noon, Lillian and Joan both lashed out with subtle nudges to their pre-prepared patsies. Mrs Jove and Ms Gainsborough both flinched at the sudden contact, but it was Gainsborough whose mouth reacted first.
“I think” she blurted, the words falling out of her mouth as a single syllable “that this year it would be nice for the children to have a bouncy castle. Lots of energetic fun in the sunshine.”
Initiative had gone to Joan, her first pawn having left the line and struck out towards Lillian’s pieces. Often in these matters the first idea stuck best in the mind, acting both as the yardstick against which all subsequent ideas were judged, and the default option if everything else fell through. Surely it was mere coincidence that Joan’s cousin ran an inflatable hire service.
“A bouncy castle! That sounds lovely. You know, I actually know someone who hires out bouncy castles. Yes, really. I could definitely have a word and they might even give us a special, discounted rate.” Joan crooned, touching her fingers to her mouth in innocent contemplation. Generally murmured approval echoed around the table.
“I’m sure I’ve heard somewhere that bouncy castles are frightfully dangerous, especially with large groups of children on them.” Mrs Jove countered, thinking back to a conversation in the playground a few weeks before. “Someone definitely told me about two little girls bumping their heads together on a bouncy castle recently, we don’t want those kinds of tears at our Summer Fete.”
Knight took pawn. Lillian could remember the story well. She’d claimed the girls were called Catherine and Skullerina, having a panicked a bit with the first name, and was grateful that Mrs Jove seemed to have forgotten those details.
“A ball pit would be much safer, and just as much fun.” Mr Wilson proposed in response to the shocked and concerned faces around the table. “Everyone loves a ball pit.”
Mr Hallie nodded.
“We certainly don’t want to endanger anyone’s children. Noggin-bumps are terrible.”
“Exactly. Lillian, did you say a while ago that someone you knew was moving into the ball pit hire game?” Mr Wilson asked, a square peg dropping into a square hole. The wooden clacking sound made him look up, and Mr Smith guilty pushed the toy away from himself again.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Let me think… it was around seventy pounds for the day to hire a ball pit, and it comes with free setup.” She recalled, having read the information just over thirty minutes ago. “I would be more than happy to give them a call and arrange something on the school’s behalf.”
“Sounds like a reasonable price for the day.” Miss Strell assessed. “Nice to know that the logistics are fairly simple too.”
Lillian smiled. Her bishops’ ambush had gone perfectly.
“What would the fine be for any balls that went missing though?” Joan enquired innocently. “We know how the little ones like to throw them around after all. Anyone could be struck by a flying ball, and anyone could miss one that gets thrown too far. We wouldn’t want to expose our guests or our school to those kinds of risks.” Joan’s rook had landed on a ladder and ascended the board. It was unexpected, but Lillian kept her cool.
“Good point.” Mr Hallie conceded. “I suppose that neither one of them is perfectly safe.”
“But the ball pit is probably the safer of the two.” Mrs Jove argued. Lillian’s pawn edged towards a ladder of its own to give chase.
“Only from an un-factored risk perspective. We would need to properly understand how fines for lost balls are applied and the likelihood of an injury from a projectile strike.” Miss Strell clarified. “Although I accept that skull-to-skull impact is both more likely and more severe with the bouncy castle option.”
“Both would just be a case of adequate supervision. Which the bouncy castle hire includes within the price.” Joan reassured. “Or, if I’m mistaken, then I would gladly take on the mantle of castle monitor for the day.” Lillian cursed internally. Her pawn’s ladder turned out to be a disguised knot of snakes that send it sliding down into jail, without even passing ‘Go!’.
“One of the little boys or girls could choke on a ball-pit ball.” Mrs Burt declared. Her own playing pieces were stuck in the starting place, unable to move until she had rolled a six. Unfortunately for her, it seemed that she was using a four-sided die.
“Unless you think children can unhinge their jaws like snakes, that won’t present an issue.” Mr Wilson retorted.
“I’ve seen it happen. At the Christmas fayre one of the infants dislocated their jaw and ate a whole desk.” Mrs Burt persisted, trading the four-sided die for a coin toss. A six still eluded her.
“Are you getting this in the minutes?” Mr Smith asked. “It sounds like important information to record if it’s true.”
Mr Hallie gave the most disappointed nod Lillian had ever seen.
“Leaving aside speculation on skeletal re-configurability, there are complete safety records and insurance available with ball-pit hire. They will alleviate any concerns.” Lillian said, steering conversation back to where she wanted it and setting her knights up for a double-pronged strike that would not only collect ten pounds for winning a beauty contest, but also land on a triple word score.
“That’s good, if we’re happy to put a price on a child’s health.” Said Joan. Bishop accused Miss Scarlet of killing the knight in the library. Weapon unknown, but suspected to be emotional blackmail.
“Honestly, in terms of the insurance risk of having a dangerous form of entertainment, we need to do exactly that.” Miss Strell pointed out.
“But no-one needs to go in ignorant of the risks. The ball pit hire comes with a pre-printed board of terms and conditions. There is no financial risk to the school at all. It also has a selection of other signs to announce the presence of the ball pit and good safety practices.” Lillian said, constructing the ‘Knight Memorial Hotel’ in the library, and raking in the rent from Joan’s bishop.
“Signs? Why, it’s funny you should mention that. I was speaking to Mr Tiller, from the art department, only last week. He said that he would be happy to include sign-making in the art lessons running up to the fete. Surely we would want to showcase the children’s work over some company’s cold, clinical signs? Give it that personal touch.” Joan suggested. Pawn to building inspection regulation five. Hotel condemned.
Of course, Lillian thought. Joan had bought-off the art department thanks to the help of her friend at the art supply wholesaler. ‘Oh I happen to have come into possession of these acrylic paints and new brushes. They’re really rather super, but I’m sure that they would do all of our beautiful children more good if I donated them.’ she’d said, sweeter than syrup and twice as sticky. It was as predictable as it was transparent, but despite crass execution it had worked to bring the art teachers on board. Lillian had overheard everything whilst crouched underneath the window to eavesdrop.
“A ball pit would allow more children to play at the same time. More smiles for more of the time.” Lillian claimed. A rook fell.
“A bouncy castle would make them happier and tire them out. More food and drink sold, and more funds raised for the school.” Queen strangled pawn.
“Which would be wasted on the hire cost anyway.” Another pawn hit a double-letter score.
“Not if we negotiate advertising rights with the hire firm.” The whole board flipped.
“Which the children would make? Selling them into labour now are you?” Lillian accused. Silence hung in the air for a second.
“Ladies, please. Let’s keep it civil.” Mr Smith pleaded.
“Children enjoy painting and the art department is completely on board with it. Sign-making is an important and marketable skill.” Joan spat back.
“Our children aren’t here to be marketable. Their happiness and safety are more important, and the ball pit delivers both.”
Joan and Lillian held each other’s gazes. Pawns lay defeated to either side. Both of their hippos had ceased to be hungry, the iron had been knighted by a kinged draught for services to the rail industry at Marylebone Station, and both snakes were eating all the ladders they could find.
“I think, perhaps, that we should leave this vote for next week.” Mr Smith said nervously. “Everything in here is getting a bit fraught. Mr Hallie, please note that this is the end of the meeting.”
Lillian paced quietly back through the hall and into the school’s car park. Joan had put up more of a fight than she had expected, but the game wasn’t over. Thousands of whispers could travel around the playground in a week, and by the next meeting she would be ready to take the crown. Failure was not an option.
On the other side of the grounds, Mr Wilson walked out of the school gates, bade goodbye to the other parents, and started his short trip home. Once he was out of sight of the others, he allowed himself to rub at his face with both hands in frustration. Every meeting, every bloody meeting, the pair of them did that. What on Earth Lillian and Joan thought they were proving with their pathetic hegemony he didn’t know, and why they thought that they were both shrewd fixers he might never understand. He and the other parents all watched and laughed as the pair of them flitted from person to person, dropping hints as subtle as a sledgehammer on a blancmange and obviously using the school to their own advantage. But to what end, they all asked. Status? Being the most interfering? Having the great prestige of arranging a cake sale? He shook his head and tried to put the meeting out of his mind. At least it would be a week until the next one, and he could try to find entertainment in watching two spiders try to weave a web out of ball pits and bouncy castles.