Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson

big pink mark on that little girl’s head. I want you to go over and say sorry.’

      ‘No!’ he yells, haring off to play with the doll’s house at the far end of the hall. He doesn’t play gentle games with it. The miniature people don’t sit around having quaint tea parties. If Toby’s involved, there has to be a fire, a burglary or some dreadful natural disaster. ‘It’s my xylophone,’ I hear him muttering.

      Beth hands me another polystyrene cup of insipid coffee. ‘I can’t control him,’ I murmur, trying to steady my breathing. ‘God knows what he’ll be like when he starts school.’

      ‘Jack’s just the same. He drives Kira crazy, always trying to barge in and trash her room. And this morning he pulled down one of the living room curtains to wear as a cape . . .’

      I smile, feeling marginally reassured. Toby’s behaviour probably is normal, at least for our family; Finn and Grace were a handful too, forever clambering all over the kitchen worktops and balancing perilously on the garden wall. However, I seemed to cope better when they were little, and fear that my reserves of tolerance have reached critically low levels.

      Beth and I perch on the windowsill and sip our coffees. I was relieved to meet her, when we’d just moved to Yorkshire. Not only did she have big-age-gap children around Toby and Finn’s ages; she also didn’t assume I was some poncey, over-precious mother just because I’d come from London, as a few women seemed to. ‘Are you still running these days?’ I ask her.

      She shakes her head. ‘No, I’ve let it slide really. All that getting up at the crack of dawn, and going out before Pete went to work . . .’

      ‘That takes dedication,’ I murmur.

      ‘Plus,’ she adds, prodding a hip, ‘I was starting to feel creaky. Age, I guess,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s not great for the joints.’

      ‘Who cares about joints?’ I snigger.

      ‘You would, if you were an old crock like me . . .’

      ‘You know what?’ I say, filled with sudden enthusiasm. ‘I think I might give it a try. Maybe that’s what I need. Exercise I can just do, whenever Jed’s home and I get the chance to go out. It’d be a lot simpler than going to the gym, and it might shift this . . .’ I poke my belly.

      ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘It’s brilliant actually. Great for stress levels too. I’d come with you, keep you company, but I don’t think the old knees could take it.’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’d have to go in the middle of the night anyway. Couldn’t risk being seen, could I?’

      She shakes her head despairingly as I take my ringing mobile from my pocket. It’s Jed, which is unusual. He rarely phones during the day. ‘School boiler’s broken,’ he explains, ‘so I’m coming home early. Just wondered where you were.’

      ‘At playgroup,’ I tell him, adding, as a joke, ‘Why don’t you come along?’

      ‘I, um . . . where is it?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

      ‘St Mary’s Hall. Didn’t you know that, Jed?’ I tease him.

      ‘Well, er . . .’

      ‘It’s on until three,’ I add. ‘Come on, you’ll love it and you’ll give all the mums here a treat.’

      ‘Well, er, I was just, um . . .’

      ‘Great. See you soon, love. Bye!’ I finish the call and grin at Beth.