Read Online The Little Things by Jane Costello - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Costello
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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out together, you know. It’s been weeks. I know you’re broke, so I’m paying.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, I agree about the night out. We haven’t been to Camp and Furnace for ages.’
‘Done. Right, I better go. M’Lord’s on his way back from the gym. I’d better make sure I’ve polished his doorknobs properly.’
After I’ve finished the call, I’m about to leave for the school run when the phone rings again. It’s one of those litigation firms specialising in accident claims – who
phone everyone in the world and say, ‘There’s compensation waiting for you following your recent car crash,’ even if you’ve never been in a car in your life. It takes me ten
minutes to get rid of them, before I strap Ollie in and drive to pick up the twins. Then it’s off to Max’s school in time for his art competition tonight.
Max emerges from his classroom and launches himself at me. ‘Auntie Hannah,’ he says excitedly. ‘
Everyone’s
saying my picture’s the best.
I think I might win.’
I have to work quite hard to keep a lid on the fact that I’d quite like to jump up and down on the spot and pump my fist triumphantly. ‘Well, it’s a very good picture, Max, but
don’t get your hopes up.’
There is an exhibition that precedes the big announcement, which takes place in the big, draughty school hall to the side of the entrance. It is packed full of pupils and their parents –
and not just from the junior school, either. The occasion is so momentous that the infants are there too, along with teachers and governors.
It is obvious as we tour the hall that one hell of a lot of work has gone into some of these entries: there are stop-motion animations on mounted iPads; life-size models of suits of armour; and
even a crumbly papier-mâché head of Prince William that it’s probably a good thing our future monarch will ever set eyes on. I walk round smiling modestly and making suitably
humble noises, even if inside I’m shouting, OURS KICKS ASS!
When I reach our masterpiece, I pause to earwig as a group of kids huddle around discussing it. ‘My mum says it’s a disgrace when a parent has so obviously done ALL the work,’
says one girl, who’s about ten.
‘It shouldn’t be allowed to enter,’ agrees an older boy. ‘There’s absolutely NO WAY a Year Five kid would be able to do it.’
‘If that wins, my mum said she’s going to complain.’
I slink away sheepishly, panic shuttling through me as I glance around at some of the other entries. I realise then that, although lots of them have clearly been helped along by parents, none of
them looks more obvious that it’s been
made
by a grown-up than Max’s.
I feel a slump of despair as I clutch his hand and look across at him as hope shimmers in his eyes. I have let him down, I know I have.
‘Don’t be disappointed if you don’t win, Max,’ I tell him and he squeezes my hand and nods. ‘I won’t, Auntie Hannah. Well, maybe just a little bit.’
The announcements could not be more long and drawn out if I were at the Oscars, awaiting news of who’s scooped Best Sound Mixing for a Vietnamese Short Film with Subtitles.
They start with the Year One’s entries, listing five highly commended students, then another who’s come third, then second, then first. It strikes me that it’s actually quite a
challenge to
not
win something.
By the time the Year Five entries are announced, I realise I may have been holding my breath for nearly nine minutes.
‘The entry we chose stood out, not just because of his artwork, but because of the superb, original idea at the heart of it. And the winner is . . . Max Tunstall with
Off with Her
Head
.’
‘YEEEEEESSSSSSS!’ I shriek spontaneously, before realising that my jubilation is on the overenthusiastic side and slumping back into the crowd. But by now the whole room has turned
to look at us and there is not a great deal of goodwill heading in our direction.
Someone starts
‘Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, I agree about the night out. We haven’t been to Camp and Furnace for ages.’
‘Done. Right, I better go. M’Lord’s on his way back from the gym. I’d better make sure I’ve polished his doorknobs properly.’
After I’ve finished the call, I’m about to leave for the school run when the phone rings again. It’s one of those litigation firms specialising in accident claims – who
phone everyone in the world and say, ‘There’s compensation waiting for you following your recent car crash,’ even if you’ve never been in a car in your life. It takes me ten
minutes to get rid of them, before I strap Ollie in and drive to pick up the twins. Then it’s off to Max’s school in time for his art competition tonight.
Max emerges from his classroom and launches himself at me. ‘Auntie Hannah,’ he says excitedly. ‘
Everyone’s
saying my picture’s the best.
I think I might win.’
I have to work quite hard to keep a lid on the fact that I’d quite like to jump up and down on the spot and pump my fist triumphantly. ‘Well, it’s a very good picture, Max, but
don’t get your hopes up.’
There is an exhibition that precedes the big announcement, which takes place in the big, draughty school hall to the side of the entrance. It is packed full of pupils and their parents –
and not just from the junior school, either. The occasion is so momentous that the infants are there too, along with teachers and governors.
It is obvious as we tour the hall that one hell of a lot of work has gone into some of these entries: there are stop-motion animations on mounted iPads; life-size models of suits of armour; and
even a crumbly papier-mâché head of Prince William that it’s probably a good thing our future monarch will ever set eyes on. I walk round smiling modestly and making suitably
humble noises, even if inside I’m shouting, OURS KICKS ASS!
When I reach our masterpiece, I pause to earwig as a group of kids huddle around discussing it. ‘My mum says it’s a disgrace when a parent has so obviously done ALL the work,’
says one girl, who’s about ten.
‘It shouldn’t be allowed to enter,’ agrees an older boy. ‘There’s absolutely NO WAY a Year Five kid would be able to do it.’
‘If that wins, my mum said she’s going to complain.’
I slink away sheepishly, panic shuttling through me as I glance around at some of the other entries. I realise then that, although lots of them have clearly been helped along by parents, none of
them looks more obvious that it’s been
made
by a grown-up than Max’s.
I feel a slump of despair as I clutch his hand and look across at him as hope shimmers in his eyes. I have let him down, I know I have.
‘Don’t be disappointed if you don’t win, Max,’ I tell him and he squeezes my hand and nods. ‘I won’t, Auntie Hannah. Well, maybe just a little bit.’
The announcements could not be more long and drawn out if I were at the Oscars, awaiting news of who’s scooped Best Sound Mixing for a Vietnamese Short Film with Subtitles.
They start with the Year One’s entries, listing five highly commended students, then another who’s come third, then second, then first. It strikes me that it’s actually quite a
challenge to
not
win something.
By the time the Year Five entries are announced, I realise I may have been holding my breath for nearly nine minutes.
‘The entry we chose stood out, not just because of his artwork, but because of the superb, original idea at the heart of it. And the winner is . . . Max Tunstall with
Off with Her
Head
.’
‘YEEEEEESSSSSSS!’ I shriek spontaneously, before realising that my jubilation is on the overenthusiastic side and slumping back into the crowd. But by now the whole room has turned
to look at us and there is not a great deal of goodwill heading in our direction.
Someone starts
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