In The Holidays

WHAT I DID IN THE HOLIDAYS
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

Fran was six essays into her marking when her husband, Bob, clumped into the kitchen, still wearing his wellingtons. He’d been raking leaves up in the garden.
‘Boots!’ she said.
‘Sorry, love,’ he said, sitting down beside her to ease them off. ‘Do you fancy watching that murder mystery tonight?’
‘I’d like to,’ sighed Fran. ‘But I really have to make a dent in this lot.’ She nodded her head towards the stack of thirty-plus exercise books and a smaller pile of paperwork on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got to get my lesson plans in by tomorrow, too.’
‘I’ll record it for another time then,’ said Bob, picking a couple of coppery leaves and one deep red one off his jumper, and dropping them into the bin. ‘But you’ve got to make time to eat dinner.’ He washed his hands and then headed towards the slow-cooker, sniffing appreciatively. ‘This stew smells about done now. I’ll serve up and pour us a glass of wine each, too, shall I?’
‘Oh, yes please!’ said Fran, shoving the books and papers to one side, and setting out place mats and cutlery. ‘I need fortification before I find out what a couple of dozen more eight-year-olds did in their holidays. It’s been a mixed bag so far, I can tell you.’
‘Isn’t it always?’ Bob laughed as he handed her a glass of Ripe Touriga Nacional. ‘It’s just as well you don’t have to write an essay about what we did during ours. What would you call it, “Fifty Shades of Fun”?’
Fran snorted. ‘More like fifty types of pointless paperwork I had to get done before I could even think about having a holiday with fifty shades of anything!’ She sipped at the full-bodied red they had discovered a liking for whilst on holiday and felt herself relax as the memories flowed.
Their fortnight in the sun during the long summer holiday had been wonderful from the moment they’d got off the plane. Fran sighed as she remembered disembarking into the wall of dry heat, so different from the humid stickiness of summer days at home.
‘It smelled so wonderful in Portugal, didn’t it?’ she said. She could almost still smell the delicious aroma that had greeted them - ripe almonds mixed with the warm chocolate scent of the fallen carob pods they’d crushed underfoot with almost every step.
‘Yes,’ said Bob, putting a plateful of stew down in front of her. ‘And everything seemed to taste better, too.’
They had eaten oranges fresh from the trees and fish fresh from the sea. It had been a perfect holiday in every way.
‘Well, we’re back to reality now,’ said Fran. ‘You back in your workshop and, me, in my classroom.’
‘You will read out the funny bits as you mark, won’t you?’ said Bob, tucking into a forkful of beef and carrot. ‘I’m still laughing over that kid who got a new pair of ‘cod’ trousers for Christmas – they must get pretty smelly! The one with the Dad who meets his friend, Ned, in the woods every day was memorable, too. Lord knows what they get up to!’
Fran laughed as she mopped the last traces of the rich beef sauce up with a piece of bread.
‘It was Matt’s little sister who said he’d had a new pair of ‘cods’. As for Ben’s dad, he meets Ned and his wife and their 3 dogs in the woods along with his own wife and their two dogs. Nothing untoward is going on, despite how it sounded.’
‘Yes, but out of the mouths of babes come many truths,’ said Bob. ‘I don’t know how you keep a straight face on parents’ evenings with some of the things the kids reveal about them.’
‘I cope,’ said Fran, handing him a dish-mop. ‘Now you wash and I’ll dry.’
Two hours later, Fran was nearing the end of pile of marking and Bob was pondering over the final clue in his cryptic crossword.
‘Synthetic fabric found in many London streets. Five letters,’ he said, sucking the end of his pencil. ‘Hmm…’
‘Nylon,’ said Fran, without even looking up. ‘You should know that one by now; it comes up often enough.’ She opened another exercise book and frowned, ‘Oh, how sad!’
‘What’s that, love?’ said Bob, filling in the final word and folding up the newspaper in triumph.
‘Jack Jerrett’s dog died.’
‘Poor lad,’ said Bob, getting up out of his chair. ‘It’s horrible when you lose a pet. Speaking of which, it’s time I took Scamp for his evening amble.’
Their elderly spaniel opened his eyes at the mention of his name and began to haul himself out of his comfortable bed in the corner of the room.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Fran, looking up from the book. ‘He says they buried it in his granddad’s garden to keep his grandmother company.’
‘His grandmother’s buried in the garden?’ said Bob, pausing in the middle of zipping up his jacket.
‘Her ashes, I suppose,’ said Fran. ‘You can’t just bury people anywhere willy-nilly. You’d have jump through more hoops than I do with OFSTED to get permission, I imagine.’
‘I guess so, unless you live in Midsomer,’ said Bob, clipping Scamp’s lead to his collar. ‘Come on, boy. Time for walkies.’
Twenty minutes later, Fran was mixing cocoa when Bob and Scamp returned. Scamp went straight back to his bed and Bob came to stand next to Fran with a puzzled look on his face.
‘I’ve been thinking while we were out,’ he said. ‘I knew the name Jerrett rang a bell. Is Jack Arthur Jerrett’s grandson?’
‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Fran. ‘Nice old chap, but going a bit gag-ga now. He often comes with Jack’s Mum to pick him up from school. He’s a widower, I believe, very long-term. His wife died years ago, before Jack’s parents even met.’
‘What exactly did Jack’s essay say?’ said Bob.
‘I told you,’ said Fran. ‘His dog died and they buried it in his granddad’s garden by his grandma’s ashes.’
‘No,’ said Bob. ‘Show me the book. I want to know exactly what it says.’
Fran laughed and pulled the exercise book out from just below the top of the pile. ‘What on earth’s up with you, Bob? I know you like to take an interest but not normally to this degree.’
Bob leafed frantically through the book until he got to the essay titled “What I did In the Holidays”.
He began to read aloud, his face getting whiter as he did so.
‘Rover got sick and the vet cudn’t help him. He gave him a jection that made him go dead. I was very sad until Grandad sed we cud bury him in his garden. Grandad sed I can visit him wen I want. Grandad sed he wuld be cumpani for him and Granmar. He sed Granmar’s bin on her own out there in the soyul for firty years. Grandad cried a bit wen he sed that. I never new Granmar. She’s bin dead all my life. She was Mummy’s mummy. Mummy duzn’t member much about her becos she was only little wen she died. On the last day of the holiday we went to the ….’
‘Bob. What is it?’ said Fran. ‘You’re worrying me now.’
‘I was at school with Julie Jerrett, Jack’s mum,’ said Bob. ‘Her mother isn’t dead. She ran off with the insurance man. At least that’s what Arthur told everyone.’
‘Oh, my!’ said Fran, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘So if what Jack’s written is true…’
‘We could have our very own murder mystery on our hands,’ finished Bob. ‘Out of the mouths of babes, eh? Now, what are we to do?’
END