The Happiest Day Of My Life

Sandra’s the first adult I’ve spoken to in weeks. Her cardigan’s buttoned up wrong and she’s wearing half her lunch down her top and the other half stuck between her teeth. She’s trying to cover a ladder in her tights by keeping her legs crossed. She’s sitting on my sofa deciding whether I’m a fit parent. I feel like saying something, but she’d probably scribble down ‘confrontational’ in her notebook.

Mrs Eccleston tells everyone to find a partner and my heart starts thumping because I haven’t been expecting it. Usually I can tell when she’s leading up to something like that, but not this time. I don’t bother looking round for someone to join up with. I pretend to be busy fixing my shoe while I wait to be the odd one out. Mrs Eccleston tells me to make a three with Libby and Mia. I know she’s picked them because they’re good girls and they won’t say anything, but Libby shuffles her bottom a bit away from me. Robbie whispers something to Mia about me being her boyfriend and she looks like she might cry. I get busy with my shoe again.

Sandra’s acting all friendly. I decide to play along and offer her a cup of tea. She follows me into the kitchen. I can feel her eyes darting everywhere. When I go to get the milk I position my body in front of the fridge, hoping she won’t see there’s nothing else in there except out-of-date yoghurt. She takes the mug from me and brings it almost to her lips, then sets it down on the counter. I want to tell her misery’s not catching, but I’m not sure that’s the truth.

Mrs Eccleston makes us do this stupid talking thing. We have to tell our partners about the happiest day of our life. Libby goes on and on about the time she went to Disneyland. Her Mum and Dad must be loaded. When it’s Mia’s turn she just giggles and says she can’t think of anything. Mrs Eccleston comes over and sits near us, listening. She looks at me, smiling and nodding in what she must think is an encouraging way. I can’t talk about my real happiest day. For one thing, Libby and Mia’ll think I’m even more of a sad case than they do already and for another it would set Mrs Eccleston off writing stuff down, so I make up some rubbish about playing football with my mates and scoring the winning goal. Even as I’m saying it, I know they all know I’m lying. . I haven’t got any mates.

Sandra pulls her cardigan round her. She shivers in this really fake way, like someone who’s been asked to mime being cold. She asks if I’m getting all the benefits I’m entitled to, which is her way of asking if the heating’s off because I can’t afford it. She says she could help with any form filling if I find it difficult. I tell her a first class degree in English Literature should qualify me to fill in a few forms. For a moment, I enjoy her expression, which is a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. That’ll teach her not to read her case files properly. But then I realise she’s probably thinking I’m clever enough to know better, and my pleasure evaporates as quickly as it came.

I suppose you’ve wondering about my real happiest day. It was the day I came home from school and Mum was back to normal. She’d even been out and done some shopping and the fridge actually had some food in it. We had pizza and watched a DVD. Sometimes I wonder if this was a dream, because the next morning she didn’t get up when I called her, and when I got home from school she was all huddled up on the sofa in her pyjamas staring at kids’ TV.

She asks to see Ben’s bedroom. Funnily enough, it’s the one room I don’t mind her seeing. Batman duvet cover smoothed out, books lined up on the windowsill. He’s got an old table, that he calls his desk. All his pencils are newly sharpened and carefully arranged in an old peanut butter jar. Nothing’s out of place. But even this doesn’t impress Sandra. She lets it slip that the school has ‘expressed concern’. Hence the surprise visit. Apparently, he’s anxious and withdrawn, unwilling to join in with the rest of the class. And somehow she manages to use his room as evidence to back up what she’s saying. It’s not natural for a ten year old to have such a tidy room. She witters on about him trying to keep control of a small area of his life. She says children often do this when everything else is spiralling out of control. She pauses and looks at me, waiting for some kind of confession. I stare right back at her, but my palms have started to sweat and that cold, tight feeling is back in my chest.

At playtime I go and sit in my usual corner. I keep checking in my coat pocket to make sure I’ve still got the money for the shopping on the way home. Mrs Eccleston’s on duty. She comes over and asks if I’m all right. I stick a grin on and say something stupid about getting my breath back. I sound like a pensioner. She’s about to ask me something else when this little kid trips over her skipping rope and starts screaming. Mrs Eccleston has to go and sort her out and I’m on my own again, which is how I like it.

Sandra says she’ll be monitoring the situation closely. I must feel free to come to her with any problems. I’d rather chew my own foot off. She says she’ll see herself out. This is just as well, because I don’t think I could face seeing outside twice in once day. I put the TV on and sit on the sofa, with my arms hugging my knees. The TV’s how I keep track of how long it is until Ben gets back. A woman’s being told her priceless antique’s a fake. Another couple of hours to go, then.

Last lesson before hometime is PE. I hate PE, for loads of reasons. First, my PE kit smells even worse than the rest of my clothes. Since the washing machine broke I’ve had to drag all our stuff to the laundrette when I can, but the PE kit always gets forgotten. Second, it’s the partner thing again or, even worse, when they pick teams and I’m always the leftover one. Third, I don’t want Mrs Eccleston to see the burns I got from the grill when I was making toast. I tell her I’ve forgotten my kit. She doesn’t even tell me to check on my peg. She squeezes my shoulder and tells me to choose a book to read. It scares me when people are kind.

I drift off into one of those weird sleeps when you keep trying to wake up, but can’t. I have a dream where Ben’s tiny again. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor emptying pots and pans from a cupboard like it’s the best game ever. He sees me and holds up his arms. I try to lift him but he’s a lead weight, and my arms are almost pulled from their sockets. I half wake up, then stumble helplessly into the next dream. This time Ben’s the right age, but in the wrong place. He’s in the sea. He hates water, and you can tell from his face he’s not in there from choice. I’m standing on the beach, just watching as he drifts away. All I can think of is that poem, ‘Not Waving But Drowning’. The person I’ve become in my dream just watches, knowing it’s already too late. Then suddenly I’m wide awake, on my feet, hoping there’s still time.

I’m first out of the door when the bell goes, the shopping money held tight in my hand. At first I don’t see her, and she has to call out to me. I think my eyes and my ears must be playing a cruel joke on me, but it’s definitely her. She’s holding on to the railings like she’s scared to let go and, as I get closer I can see she’s still wearing her pyjama top. But she’s smiling. Nobody in the world smiles like my Mum. She holds out her hand, which is shaking, and asks what I fancy for tea. I wonder if the happiest day of my life is just about to happen.