Gone

She has gone.

It was a glorious sunny morning, warm and still with gentle blue skies. We were woken up surprisingly early by Harry jangling the doorbell in order to play with Oliver, and we were still at the coffee-in-our-dressing-gowns stage of morning when they dashed off to the park together, armed to the teeth with Nerf guns, presumably in case of an early morning enemy invasion.

We had coffee, and emptied the dogs in the Library Gardens, and then Mark and Lucy and I filled the boot of the car with her assortment of bags and boxes and trunks, and the exhaust was still clear of the ground, so that was all right.

It was time to go then. We had lunch with her grandparents, which was brilliant, they are such entertaining company, although unfortunately in consequence I had to try and breathe down my sleeve when we got to school on account of the red wine fumes: and we lugged all of Lucy’s things up to her new dorm, which is nice and airy with big windows, and hugged each other and were very British about not crying, and then I left her behind.

It is such a sad thing to do.

It is very difficult to know that the very best thing in the world you can do for your children is to leave them somewhere else. Of course it makes me feel sad when I have to say goodbye to them, but it is still the best thing.

At school she has got friends around all the time, and cooked breakfasts and a choice of salads and a bedtime that everybody remembers, and an ace education and lots of things that she loves to do.

At home we feed them mostly on things that are easy to cook, like pizza or pasta, and only then when we remember and are not too tired. In the winter when it is dark there is nothing for children to do in the evenings except hang around the house getting under your feet, or hang around the Library Gardens getting into trouble. She has learned to speak lots of languages and does ballet and plays lacrosse, and might go to Oxford, and she is happy at school in a joyful, playful, enthusiastic way that I love to see. It is brilliant, and I feel very proud to see her growing up confident and charming and brave.

Of course as well as all those lovely thoughts there are always less lovely thoughts, but I keep them secret and never tell anybody except you.

The thing is that having children at a gloriously superior establishment where everybody is called Annabelle and Imogen and brings their ponies with them is secretly a very smug thing to do.

Especially if you are a taxi driver and by nature scruffy and unsophisticated. Ours is the social group that has covert aspirations to be considered working class.

In consequence of this you may not be astonished to discover that I am insufferably self-satisfied about our children’s amazing education, impeccable accents and gleaming self-confidence.

I have a secret self assurance in any gathering of any nature, because I know in my innermost soul that no matter how badly I might look like an inelegant peasant, I am a Successful Parent, Perfect Human Being and Paid Up Member of the Middle Classes: because my children are at boarding school, and hence when they grow up they will both be Prime Minister, and Head of the Secret Services and probably marry Prince Harry as well.

I know that this is completely deplorable. The thing is that no matter how determinedly I tell myself that it is not at all important to be middle class, and that it would be quite all right if Lucy wanted to leave at fifteen, wear eyeliner and get a job in the Co-op I think I might possibly consider drowning her in the lake first.

I have got to face the unpalatable reality of being a complete snob. I am the Lynda Snell of Windermere.

For foreign readers, she is in a long running radio soap opera called The Archers which is about farmers and has the merit of being completely without incident and therefore easy to follow even if you miss it for weeks. She is middle class.

I am a taxi driver hanging on to the pretence of a place amongst the middle classes by the very tips of my fingernails Any rigorous examination of my credentials would see me hoofed out without ceremony.

But I am so very pleased with myself that my children will be allowed in.