Mrs Efficient

Efficient at school and at home, Vicky decided she had to employ some discipline on her family!

Mum, where are my shoes?” Kevin yelled from the hallway. Vicky looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror. Her reflection looked back, exasperated. “Have you looked under your bed?” she called.

“Yes.”

“What about in the cupboard?”

Silence.

“Which cupboard?”

Vicky took a deep breath – designed to be calming – but inhaled so deeply that her head started to spin. “The cupboard,” she called back, “where we keep the shoes.”

“Oh, right.” There was a series of thumps – the sound, no doubt, of shoes being flung asunder and left in a pile for her to clear up. Then Kevin called up. “Got them! Thanks, Mum!”

“Make sure you put the others back!” The front door slammed.

“Bye, Mum,” she said to her reflection. “Good luck on your first day!”

Yesterday evening had been spent reassuring 14-year-old Jessica that her highlights weren’t “too stripy”, and helping Kevin race through the homework he’d had six weeks to complete but had left until the last minute. She’d even helped Ian with his presentation. “What would we do without you?” her husband had said with a grin. “Don’t know about ‘Mrs Elliot’ – reckon they should call you Mrs Efficient!”

Only she hadn’t felt efficient. Rushing around after them all evening had meant she’d had no time to lay out her own suit or pack her own bag ready for her first day as Headteacher at Browntree Secondary.

Then, to add insult to injury, Ian and the kids had disappeared this morning without so much as a “have a good day”.

She felt the stress ebb away as she climbed into her Audi and settled back for the short commute to school. Ten years of hard work and she’d finally landed her dream job. She had so many plans for the school and was looking forward to it.

“Morning!” the secretary trilled as she walked in.

“Morning Kate.”

Every person she passed acknowledged her on route to her office – there were smiles, brief exchanges about work or where people had been over the summer. People wished her good luck and made her feel seen and welcome.

It was hard not to wonder, sometimes, why at home the people who were supposed to love her the most didn’t seem to notice her at all.

After presenting to colleagues at the morning meeting, she toured the classrooms during registration making her presence felt. Whenever she walked into the room, she was pleased to see the children sitting up a little straighter, one or two tucking in trailing shirttails without being asked. “Morning!” she said to pupils and teachers. And, “have a good day.”

She was still smiling as she pulled into the drive that evening, despite the fact the after-school meeting had overrun by half an hour, mainly due to a presentation on the options for the new school tie. Blue, blue and red or blue and black. It had been quite the debate.

She opened the front door. “I’m back!” she yelled into the hallway. The coat pegs just inside the door were empty, but the three coats bundled on the floor were evidence that everyone else was home.

“Hello?” she said, slipping out of her coat and hanging it up, before picking up everyone else’s and hanging them up too.

She stepped into the living room, where Kevin and Jessica were sitting on separate chairs, staring into their mobile phones. Ian was sitting facing the TV, watching the sports news. “Hello?” she said. Nobody sat up straight, or even glanced in her direction. The closest she got to an acknowledgement was a grunt, which could have come from any of the three.

“What’s for tea, Mum?” Jessica said suddenly, looking at her for the first time. “Aren’t you going to ask how I got on?” “But I’m starrrving,” Jessica replied. “Ian?”

“Yes?” he said, looking up, his face innocent. “White with one, please.” “What?”

“For my cuppa. Sorry, did you not offer me a…” Sensibly, he stopped talking.

“Ian, I’ve just got in. You’ve been here, what… two hours?”

“Yeah, back at four today,” he said. Then, “Oh, come on!” he yelled at the TV, distracted by a bad tackle.

“Did you not think to get something on for the tea?”

“Oh.” He coloured slightly. “I didn’t want to mess up… you know, if you have plans. You’re so efficient usually, so…”

Surely people should be rewarded for being efficient? Her husband seemed to think it was an excuse to leave everything to her. He was self-employed and often finished by four. Surely it was time for one of the others to up their game? The kids would be adults soon, probably living off takeaways as they seemed unable to boil an egg. And Ian? Well, allegedly he was an adult already.

She almost cried when she opened the kitchen door and found the mess of cereal bowls, empty cups, unstacked dishwasher, homework books and spilled snacks. Some of it from this morning, some from this afternoon. All left for her to clean up.

“Kids? Ian?” she called, trying to keep her voice even. “Could you come here for a second?”

They’d been suitably chastised when she’d spoken to them last night, and she’d felt quite pleased by the time she’d slipped into bed. She’d explained her position and pointed out their capabilities without being accusing or mean. And they’d nodded and seemed to listen.

“Sorry love,” Ian had whispered as he’d slipped into bed next to her. “What would we do without you, eh?”

So when she arrived home the following day and found yet again a kitchen that looked like a bombsite, just now with the added insult of a husband triumphantly

She realised crying wasn’t the answer, so she’d employ all her skills to tackle this head on

brandishing a takeaway pizza box and wanting to claim kudos for providing dinner, she wondered whether it was actually possible for human beings to explode with rage.

“It’s cheese and ham,” he said, proudly. “Ian, I asked you to do a salad.”

“But I got them to put peppers on too. Because you know… vegetables…” he trailed off under her gaze.

“Right.” She felt her stomach knot. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he called as he walked to the living room – clearly assuming his shift was over. “I’m parched.”

She felt the prick of tears. Then she realised crying wasn’t the answer. She’d employ all her skills to tackle this head on. She opened a drawer and pulled out a black marker pen.

Mum?” called a voice the next morning. “Where’s my jumper?” “Sorry, I can’t help.” She called back, merrily. “Read the signs.”

There was a thundering of footsteps on the stairs before Jessica appeared in the doorway, holding one of Vicky’s cardboard squares. “I don’t get it,” she said, her voice a mixture of incredulity and confusion. “Is this something for school?”

“No, it’s for you lot,” Vicky said, smiling. “I’ve made my terms perfectly clear.”

“Mum’s on Strike – Get Your Own Breakfast?” Jessica read.

“I’m making a stand,” Vicky replied, applying a slick of lipstick and inspecting the result in the bedroom mirror.

Vicky read another sign dubiously. “Chip in, or no chips!”

“All I’m asking is a bit of respect, and a reasonable workload. Otherwise,” Vicky continued, “I’m not doing it.”

“Not doing what?”

“Being ‘Mrs Efficient’ – the person who ends up picking up all the pieces.”

If she felt any sort of guilt, as she drove, she felt it slipping from her shoulders. It wasn’t as if she’d stopped being anyone’s mum. She’d just shed the unnecessary work that came with the role. A role she’d created for herself. When they were little, she hadn’t minded tidying up. But the kids were getting older, and it was about time someone else picked up the slack. Or at least appreciated what she was doing. Ian, over the years, had become as reliant on her as the kids. She looked after a school of 800 children all day. She ought to be able to get them into line.

By the time she arrived at school, she already had four text messages from Ian. The first read: HaveyouseenKevin’s shoes? Then AreyouOK?I’veseenthe kitchen! Then, Whenyougethome,can wetalk? Followed by, Sorry.

She felt strangely nervous when she arrived home that evening. It was early – just 6.30pm. There’d been no after-school meeting today, although she had a stack of paperwork to do after dinner. As she put her key in the lock, she wondered suddenly whether anything would have changed. And what she would do if it hadn’t.

This time, there was just one coat on the floor – Kevin’s. The other two were hung up. As she walked into the kitchen, she gasped. It wasn’t pristine, but the sides were clear, there was a definite scent of lemon in the air. And someone had even wiped down the wall near the kettle – usually peppered with flecks of tea from wrung out teabags. Ian was sitting at the table, hands together like a newsreader.

He jumped up when she entered the room. “Cup of tea?”

“Yes please.”

“Coming right up.” He put on the kettle and grabbed her favourite cup.

“So, who did the kitchen?” she asked. “We all did.”

“What, even Kevin?”

“Under duress,” he said, with a grin. She grinned too. “Even so, that’s pretty impressive.”

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry that you had to go to such… drastic measures to get our attention.”

“It’s OK.”

“I mean, when you said the other night… I did understand. But then I kind of, slipped back into my usual habits. I suppose, I let myself think you enjoyed it…”

“Ian! Nobody likes washing up.”

“And you did everything automatically, I suppose I stopped noticing.”

She looked at him.

“But it’s my fault. You’re so efficient, but I took advantage of that.” He added, reaching out a consolatory hand. He really did seem sorry.

“Automatic and efficient? Like the dishwasher?” she said, with a wryly raised eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t put yourself down. You’re at least a fancy coffee maker,” he said, walking towards her, arms outstretched.

“Compliments indeed,” she smiled, letting him wrap his arms around her. “I am sorry though,” he said.

“I know.”

“So we can negotiate a new deal? End the industrial action?”

She pulled back, caught his gaze. “Maybe in a bit.”

“In a bit?”

“Yes,” she grinned. “Even the most efficient machines need a bit of time to switch off.”

If you want the perfect staycation read then you’ll love being thrown into Claire Bailey’s life. Perfect career, enviable family life but chaos on the inside as she’s feeling middle aged and invisible to the world. A relatable, hilarious and cosy read. We couldn’t be more proud – she’s one of our super talented My Weekly short story writers.

Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey, Orion, PBO, £8.99. Out now.