Rosemary Johnston’s debut novella, Source, won the New Fictions Prize and was published by Story Machines. Her story, Summer is ending in Barrow-in-furness will be published in Howl in the autumn. Her story, The Others, was published by MIROnline. Her story, Ariadne on Naxos, was published by The Honest Ulsterman. Her poem, Nature Morte, was published by A New Ulster. Her non-fiction piece, The Rocky Road, was longlisted for the Fish Memoir Prize. She is the editor of The Vixen, a magazine of art and lit. She is from Belfast, but is based in Harrogate, North Yorkshire.

---

The Playground of the Rich

By Rosemary Johnston

---

Today was the first day back at school after the summer. Olive couldn’t wait to see the kids off. Mikey was still in nursery, but Nia had now moved up to Reception class in the main school. The girls stood in lines in their autumn uniform, green tartan pinafores and forest-green blazers with matching felt hats, upturned rim, ribbons dangling at the back. Their hair hung in neat pigtails tied with more ribbons. Beside them, a line of boys shuffled and nudged the boys in front. Olive stood beside Nia, holding her hand.

“Hi!” said Olive in a friendly fashion to Liudmila who was standing beside her son, Leonid. Olive wasn’t strictly the new girl now, as they’d been at the school since the middle of the summer term. She thought that through the long autumn term she’d have a chance for everyone to get to know her and for her to know them.

But it was Leonid who replied, “Dobre dyen.” His legs hung like puppets’ legs from his grey shorts.

“Have we been invaded?” Olive asked, laughing. She was in a good mood. It had been a long summer.

Liudmila glared at her. So Olive changed tack to a more neutral tone, and asked, “How’s it going?”

Leonid’s pallid waif’s face stared at the ground as he mumbled “Normalye.”

“What’s that boy saying?” Mikey asked, staring at Leonid.

The brief interaction was all it took to draw reproachful looks from the huddle of mothers beside them, as if Olive had somehow provoked a scene.

“He’s been immersed in Russian all summer,” Liudmila said. “He has temporarily forgotten English.”

“Did you have a good time?” asked Nadine, standing beside her son, in her running gear.

“I didn’t go. I was too busy. In America, with my work.” She lifted her glasses which hung below her neck on a chain. “Speaking at vascular conference.” She set the glasses on the end of her nose. “That is – veins.”

Nadine’s son took hold of Leonid’s school bag and read “This bag belongs to Leonid Starostina.”

“Very good, Lennon,” said Nadine. She turned to Liudmila. “Thanks for recommending that book. We’ve been using it all summer.”

“I told you it would help,” said Liudmila.

“I thought learning to read was the purpose of reception class?” Olive asked.

The other mothers started to laugh.

“Did you get him started on Biff and Chip?” Olive continued, looking down at Nia. Why had she wasted time trying to teach her to play tennis? She should have taught her to read instead.

“No, not a first reader. It’s this one.” Nadine took a book from her bag and showed it to Olive.

‘How to Raise an Einstein’

Olive turned the book over and looked inside.

“God! Who writes that stuff?” she asked, incredulous.

“Actually, it’s written by one of the school mums. She uses the pen name Williams & Wyse, but her real name’s Fi. That’s her over there, with the twin boys.”

Nadine pointed to a woman across the playground. Olive recognised her from the summer.

“I think I met her,” said Olive. “At the tennis courts.”

Nia looked across the playground to the author of the book, then looked up at her mother, remembering.

“She wrote another book, ‘How to Raise a Champion’.”

Yes, that was it, that was the book she’d shown Olive that day in the summer. Now, Olive realised when she had dismissed the book, she had also dismissed the author.

“Oh I hadn’t realised she wrote that!”

“If you ask her, she sells copies at a discount.”

“You must be fucking joking,” came a voice behind Olive. It was Clover, a packet of cigarettes in one hand, a lighter in the other, as if she couldn’t wait.

“They’re on their way to Wimbledon,” explained Nadine.

“Seriously?”

“The Yorkshire Venus and Serena.”

“Only they’re white and male and not that good,” said Clover, putting an unlit cigarette between her lips.

The bell rang and the teacher instructed the children to line up.

As the children disappeared, two by two, into the school buildings, some mothers began to weep which set the children off weeping and so they clung on to their mothers as if they were being marched off to war.

“Look at them all!” said Clover. “Putting their sunglasses on! You’d think they were at the funeral of a mafioso. Instead of it being the most glorious day of the entire year!”

And the huddle did indeed shuffle along behind the filing children as if forming a funeral cortège, calling after them, “See you later, darlings, see you later” as if the word later no longer meant half past three but some bleaker time in the great beyond.

“I can’t wait to get rid of Tara,” said Clover. “We’ll meet again,” she began to sing.

And Olive, demob happy, thought it funny and she began to stamp her feet and sing “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile smile smile.” But the other mothers didn’t find it funny and began to tut and glare at her.

As she entered the school building, Nia turned and waved at Olive. A lock of blonde hair had escaped the half-made ponytail Olive had put in that morning. It made Olive smile, her heart full of love. She watched as the last of the children was swallowed up by that great leviathan, education.

The huddle soon regained its composure, taking solace in the compliments on their Lululemons and memories of summer in Dubai. Olive listened as they compared notes. She hadn’t been to Dubai or anywhere, for that matter. It should have been perfectly acceptable to say that they couldn’t afford to go away. But she didn’t feel able. She silently rebuked herself. In any case, no one was interested in where she had been or had not been.

Thursday morning was Nia’s turn for swimming lessons at the school pool. The mothers were encouraged to attend for the first term to help the children change and find the lockers and so on. Olive accompanied Nia to the entrance to the pool and helped her into her mermaid bathing costume. Then she walked up the steps to the viewing gallery. She didn’t really want to sit beside the huddle, but she didn’t think it would give a good signal to sit away from them. So she sat in the same row, leaving a gap of two spaces. In the pool, the children, all of whom, except Nia, were in their Arena swimwear, were being assessed and assigned groups. All the children could swim, some of them even an easy length of the pool. Except Nia. She’d never had lessons.

The Yorkshire Venus and Serena positively streaked up the pool, while Lennon and Leonid smashed their bony fists into their foamy wake. At the top of the pool, Fi stood, cheering her boys on, first one, then the other.

Alone in her group of non-swimmers, Olive felt humiliated for her daughter. It hadn’t occurred to Olive that Nia should be able to swim at four and a half. There must be a rule book somewhere, for being a prep school child, of the things you needed to learn to do by the time you started school. Before they moved here, they’d existed in a languid bubble of toddler groups and toasted teacakes.

Olive listened to the huddle’s conversation. She tried to join in by laughing at something funny and so on but no one engaged with her. Olive kept thinking, if you got to know me you would like me. But it was a strange conundrum because she didn’t think she’d like them any better no matter how well she got to know them. Was that the thing? That you always wanted people to like you, no matter what you thought of them?

They were whispering about Clover. She hadn’t come with them into the pool. Maybe that was the right approach. But Olive wanted to watch Nia learn to swim and Nia wanted Olive to see her. She wouldn’t let them deny her that.

“She’s got a meeting with her sponsor,” Nadine whispered. “Couldn’t come soon enough!”

“You should have seen her at the Hispi Spa last week… I’m no teetotaller, but it was …messy! I mean messy!”

“At the Spa?”

“It was only supposed to be one small glass of fizz.”

Listening to them reminded her of that time in Primary school when Olive had eavesdropped two mothers gossiping in the cloakrooms. She found it so interesting that she’d prolonged the tying of her shoelaces, the putting of books into her school bag. A few days later the teacher had asked them to write some piece of creative writing. She’d written about those mothers, written their words verbatim, she said, the other one said, she said. When she thought about it now, it was like she’d created paper cut outs of the mummies and placed them on a white paper landscape. And it was a bit like that, listening to the mothers gossiping now. They were separate from Olive, the way the paper cut out mummies from her childhood were separate. Only now she was supposed to be one of them.

After several weeks of trying, Olive thought she’d look less needy if she sat at the other side of the viewing gallery, like she’d made the choice to sit alone. No one seemed to notice, or care, except Nia, who, on the walk home, asked her why she’d sat on her own.

“I’ve been informed no one wants to sit beside me.”

“What does it mean, inform?”

“Told.”

“Who told you?”

“The mummies.”

“What did they say?”

“They didn’t say it. They showed it. Like show and tell only no tell.”

“How?”

“Like this.” Olive turned her shoulder away from Nia. “The same way kids show a child in the playground they don’t want to play with her.” It depressed Olive to have to explain this to her daughter.

Nia stared at Olive and something passed across her face. Was Nia becoming disappointed in her mother? Did she blame her? She needed Olive to arrange playdates, and if Olive was failing to fit in, there’d be no playdates.

Towards the end of September, the parents were invited to watch the Reception children perform “Pudding Lane.” Olive went along. She sat alone in the school hall, trying not to mind, telling herself she was there to watch Nia. So she was then surprised when Fi came and sat beside her, and introduced her husband, Ted. They both looked spruced, as if they had an appointment with their Bank Manager.

Olive happily exchanged pleasantries with them.

“Who’s your daughter?” Fi asked.

“Nia.”

“Ah yes. But I meant her role.”

“The baker,” Olive replied.

“Like mother like daughter.”

“I suppose so,” Olive laughed. “You’ve heard about my cake business idea then?”

“Yes, though I don’t know how you’re going to make a success of it. We’re all too health conscious. You’ve got to be more strategic! Think who your customers are!”

“Have you got a business plan?” asked Ted.

“Everyone likes cake,” Olive said, dejected.

“Weee…….ll” Fi squealed the word out of elongated lips. “Not everyone! And in these parts, those that do, eat teeny tiny amounts in order to maintain their teeny tiny waistlines.”

Olive breathed in through her nose, but the breath would not exit her mouth and she sat, holding her breath, staring straight ahead.

“Novak has the leading role,” said Fi. “Pepys.”

“What about the other twin?” Olive asked, trying not to sigh. “I can’t remember his name.”

“Rafael,” Fi replied. “He’s one of the bucket handlers.”

“Oh! Is he ok about that, what with his brother being Pepys?”

“No, he isn’t. He’s very upset about it. But I told him, this is what failure feels like. Use that feeling if you don’t want to always end up in the chorus line.”

“Are they interested in theatre, then?”

“No. Tennis is their thing.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’d heard they’re doing well,” said Olive.

“Yes, it’s my method that’s propelling them up the rankings.” Fi reached down and took a copy of “How to Raise a Champion” from her bag. “I’ve written about it in my book. I’ve got a copy here, 5% discount.”

“It’s ok thanks,” said Olive. “Nia isn’t really into sport.”

“The book isn’t just about sport, it’s about achieving her maximum whatever she chooses to do. Start now! What are her dreams and ambitions?”

“She often says how she’d like to be a fairy.”

Fi rolled her eyes.

“You’ve got a son as well, haven’t you? What about his plans?”

“The only plan he ever has is how to steal the last roast potato from his sister,” Olive laughed.

Fi turned to her, her eyes wide open.

“Do you actually let your children eat carbs?”

Olive laughed again, assuming Fi was joking. But Fi continued. “Very bad for the metabolism. Unless you have birthed a rugby player.” She shuddered in horror.

Olive thought for a moment.

“As a matter of fact, Mikey wants to be a train driver. You may have seen him in his Thomas the Tank Engine outfit. It’s got this cute little cap and a ticket machine that goes with it.”

There was some shuffling from the stage and the children filed on to it. Pepys took up position at his desk, holding a large quill. Nia stood in the middle wearing a pink baker’s hat and pink apron, holding a mixing bowl in her oven-gloved hands. At one end of a line of children stood Rafael holding a bucket, ready to pass it up the line to extinguish the fire, set by Nia, that would engulf the great city of London.

Then Pepys stood up and shouted towards a beaming Fi, “2nd September 1666, Pudding Lane, London.”

When the play came to an end, everyone stood to leave. Fi turned to Olive, thrusting a copy of her book towards her.

“Read my book,” she said.

“I haven’t got any money on me,” said Olive.

“Pay me later.” Then she turned to Ted, straightened his tie and whispered, loud enough to hear, “Remember what we talked about.”

“Lovely to see you,” Ted said to Olive then put his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks.

Later on, when Alex returned from work, he picked up Fi’s book that Olive had tossed onto the kitchen table.

“What is this? How to Raise a Champion.” Alex looked down at Mikey who was taking the papers out of his ticket box and tearing them to little pieces.

“Fi’s book.”

“Who’s Fi?”

“The Williams wannabes mother.”

“You’re not going to read it, surely.”

“No. Can you believe she uses her twins as case studies?”

“Case studies in what?”

“In success.”

“You’re joking! What have they succeeded in?”

“I don’t know. Being in a book?”

“I saw you with Rafael and Novak’s mummy,” said Nia, still wearing the baker’s hat. “See! They do like you!”

“Yes, I know!” said Olive. “I was quite surprised. That’s the first time any of them have sat beside me. Maybe it’s just a question of them getting used to seeing me around.”

“Maybe it was so she could sell you a copy of her book.”

“Oh, you’re such a cynic,” said Olive. “Her husband was there, too. Ted, he’s called. He seemed nice.”

“Ted! Him?”

“He even kissed me on both cheeks when he left.”

“Ooooh mummy!” said Nia. “Yuck!”

“Funnily enough, I had a phone call about him at work this afternoon,” said Alex.

“About Ted? Why would anyone phone you about Ted? Is that where he works?”

“It’s where he wants to work. He’d applied for a job. He told HR that we are friends…”

Olive’s eyes narrowed.

“…and they rang to ask me about him.”

Something was beginning to make sense.

“I told HR, I barely know him,” Alex continued. “And the woman from HR said he’d had an interview. She said Ted said I was in his team…”

“You were in his team?”

“Not that I was aware of! It was just fund raising for the cricket whites. And my role in that was to donate a fiver through the GoFundMe page…”

Something about the joy of watching Nia that morning was being stolen from Olive as Alex spoke. Something sharp was being twisted in her very soul.

“… The HR woman said Ted said that he and his wife had very recently attended a play with my wife.”

“A play! It was Pudding Lane.”

Is this where they lived? Olive thought. Was it thus that her landscape was peopled?
With despicable paper cut outs, who all the while they used her, they tricked her into feeling good about it.

She turned to Alex.

“Did he get the job?” she asked. “Oh don’t tell me! He didn’t he get the job, did he?”