The School Gate Survival Guide (7 page)

‘I’m sorry you feel like that. By the way, I popped your vibrator back in the bathroom cupboard in case you’re looking for it.’

I saw the beautician’s hands slow, then stop. I tossed a ‘nice working for you’ over my shoulder and took a second to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing Cecilia’s arched eyebrows disappear into her hairline before the reality of being even worse off depressed the shit out of me.

I decided not to tell Colin about getting the sack. He’d grumped enough when a corpse had made me redundant. I knew he’d somehow bring this latest trouble back to the fact that the kids were at Stirling Hall.

That evening, as soon as he disappeared off down the Working Men’s Club for a game of pool – I never dared point out the irony of his choice of venue – I grabbed my bottle of Malibu and headed to Sandy’s. I’d lived next door to her for eleven years since the council gave me a house when I was expecting Harley. Colin had disappeared for a few months as soon as the words ‘I’m pregnant’ left my mouth but he reappeared, broke and full of soppy promises when Harley was about four months old. In the meantime, Sandy helped me through the new baby fog, taking Harley next door to give me a break from the crying, and passing on clothes that her son, Denim, had grown out of.

Sandy and I knew details about each other that adults weren’t supposed to share. We’d laughed till bubbles came out our noses about the noises men made during sex. Once, after too much Malibu, I’d told her that Colin shouted, ‘Goal’ when he came, so now she always called him the striker. Sometimes she’d ask him, ‘Played much football lately?’ when she knew I could hear. Guilt took the edge off my laughter.

Sandy, on the other hand, took information oversharing to uncomfortable extremes. Instead of saying, ‘You remember so-and-so, you know, blonde hair, heart tattoo,’ she’d say, ‘You remember Dave, the one who liked to watch in the mirror.’ ‘You know, Jim, the one who went at it like a hog in heat?’ She showed no mercy when it came to describing men’s ability in bed, parading across the kitchen doing a reverse fisherman – ‘It was this big’ – and peering at a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.

Friday nights had become my only little moment of ‘me’ time as the women I worked for called it. They got their feet massaged; I parked myself in Sandy’s kitchen and made the miserable events of the week into something we could laugh about. It was like snuggling under a duvet when it’s snowing outside.

When Sandy opened the door that evening, she had a line of bleach on her top lip. The mouldy hay smell indicated that henna was working its red magic under the Morrisons carrier bag covering her hair. Bronte and Harley pushed past her as they always did, grunting a hello. They were far more interested in bagging a cushion next to her sons, Gypsy and Denim Blue, and settling down to
Doctor Who
with a jumbo bag of Quavers.

‘Hello, Harley, hello, Bronte,’ Sandy shouted through to the front room. ‘I thought they’d be coming in shaking me hand and doing little bows. You wanna ask for your money back.’

I shrugged and followed her into the kitchen, where I helped myself to a couple of glasses. My sense of humour about Stirling Hall had packed up its troubles in an old kit bag and disappeared completely.

‘So, who’s the lucky man?’ I said, pouring out the Malibu and watching the Coke bubble up into a coconutty froth.

‘Who says there’s a new man?’ she said, a big grin making her little elfin face even pointier.

‘Come off it. You only put that rabbit poo on your hair when there’s a new bloke about.’

Sandy was a single mum who worked shifts packing dog biscuits at the factory down the road. Unlike me, being poor didn’t seem to bother her. She didn’t care that she relied on the charity foundation in town for her kids’ clothes, or that she spent her life switching between credit cards, which even at 0% interest, she had no hope of paying off.

‘He’s a new guy at the factory,’ Sandy said.

‘Called?’

‘Shane.’

‘When did he start?’

‘A few weeks ago.’ Sandy lit a Marlboro Light. I wondered if the bleach was flammable but I knew she’d start chanting Sensible Susan at me if I said anything.

‘Go on, then. Spill the beans. It’s not like you to get all secretive,’ I said.

‘I haven’t been secretive. You’ve been too caught up in blazers and book lists to be interested in my shenanigans,’ she said, in a tone that didn’t sound like a simple observation.

‘Sorry.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been really busy.’ I waited for her to grin, then jump in with marks out of ten, size of willy, number of ex-wives and kids like she normally would. Instead, she sat there blowing smoke rings until I felt I had to explain.

‘I haven’t had a lot of time for anything. It’s a full-time job remembering to buy plain biscuits so that you don’t get called in because you’ve sent in a bloody chocolate HobNob. I spend half my life making sure Bronte’s hair is tied back with green ribbons, not pink elastic bands, and working out how the hell I am going to afford ballet, guitar and flute lessons while losing every decent paying job I’ve ever had. So I probably have had my head up my arse.’ I took a big glug of Malibu to disguise the wobble in my lip.

‘What? You’ve lost another job? Jesus, you’re gonna beat my record soon.’ Sandy sounded reasonably sympathetic considering her own working life was one long verbal warning. While I launched into my account of Cecilia, she pulled off her jogging bottoms with a mutter of ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ and fetched a little pot of wax off the hob. She splayed her legs and started on her bikini line, her voice fading out like a badly tuned radio when the wax didn’t come off in a clean rip.

Harley came bursting in. He stared at Sandy whose red lace thong appeared to be quite fascinating to a ten-year-old. She made no attempt to shut her legs. ‘You know what they say, Harley, you can’t beat an older woman. You come back in a few years’ time and I’ll show you what I mean.’

Harley shrugged but I could tell from the way he backed towards me that he wasn’t quite sure if she was joking.

‘Mum, Denim says he’s got the latest iPhone. But his is only an iPhone 4, isn’t it? That’s not the latest one, is it? Marlon’s got an iPhone 5. He got it early, cos his birthday’s next week and his mum bought it when she was filming in America. But Denim keeps hitting me when I say that. Can you tell him that his is an old one? He keeps calling me a liar.’

Even though people skills had been the focus of Harley’s Personal, Social and Health Education ‘prep’, he could still fit what he’d learnt into an eggcup. I’d taken such a battering that week that my alcohol-dulled reactions were a bit pterodactyl. Sandy, on the other hand, was quick off the mark.

‘You spoilt little shit. Do you know how many bloody night shifts it took me to get the money together for that? He’s only had it a few months and now he’s going to be at me for the new one. Denim and Gypsy not good enough for you now you’ve got all them poncey little Lord Fauntleroys to play with? Sorry if their stuff isn’t quite up to your majesty’s high standards.’

The colour had risen in Harley’s cheeks. His grey eyes were wide, wide open. He glanced sideways at me. I could feel the puzzlement in him. And in me. Sandy had always been such a soft touch, always telling me to ‘leave off of them, they’re just kids’.

I pulled Harley to me. Sandy had called my son a shit. I never swore at kids. Especially not other people’s. Sandy was bristling away on the other side of the table. We usually ganged up against the woman a few doors down whose kids nicked bikes on the estate, Sandy’s bully-boy boss who smelt of Brut, the bastards in the council’s housing repairs department. Not each other. I looked straight into Harley’s eyes, willing him to go with me on this one.

‘Why don’t you go and say sorry to Denim and say that you think you made a mistake?’

‘I didn’t make a mistake. Marlon has got an iPhone 5.’

I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to shake him. ‘Harley. How would you like it if Denim told you that something you’d got new was a load of old rubbish? You wouldn’t. Go. And. Say. You. Are. Sorry. Then I think it’s time to go. Tell Bronte.’

I screwed the cap back on the Malibu. ‘Sorry about that.’

Sandy carried on attacking some stubborn hairs with her tweezers, head bent over her crotch.

‘I s’pose it’s to be expected if you fill their heads with fancy ideas. But you’re not going to be able to afford all that stuff, neither.’

I hated the satisfaction I could hear in her voice.

End of day dismissal was a formal affair at Stirling Hall. A teacher stood by the door and shook the children’s hands before delivering them directly to the collecting parent, unlike Morlands where they spilled out into the playground and were allowed to wander off with anyone who wasn’t carrying a shotgun.

Bronte came out, hat on straight, duffle coat buttoned up to the top. Her voice sounded really clear when she said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Peters.’ Not quite top end of town posh but not council estate rough either. My proud mother moment was snuffed out as I realised that Mr Peters, the Head of Upper School, was beckoning to me. As I squeezed forward through the gaggle of parents, Jen1 was coming the other way. I caught her eye and smiled but she looked straight through me. Maybe she could only recognise people dressed in Jasper rather than George.

‘Would you have a moment to pop into my office, Ms Etxeleku? Take a seat in reception, I’ll be right with you,’ Mr Peters said.

I nodded, running through the checklist in my head of all my crimes for that week – only ironing cuffs and collars on the school shirts, not ironing Harley’s rugby shirt at all, chocolate digestives for snack two days running, forgetting to check Bronte’s English homework for capital letters and full stops. I was about to disappear through the door, when Clover pulled on my arm.

‘Hi. If you’re going to be a few minutes at the school, why don’t I relieve you of Bronte? She can play with the twins. You can pick her up when you’ve finished. We live right at the end of the lane that runs adjacent to the Royal Oak pub. You can’t miss us, it’s the only house down there.’

Bronte was tugging at my T-shirt and hopping from foot to foot. ‘Can I go with Clover, Mum? I want to see their guinea pigs and rabbits. Please?’

‘That would be great. I just need to find Harley and tell him to wait here for me,’ I said.

Clover fiddled with the toggle on her anorak. ‘I think Harley is waiting for you in Mr Peters’ office. Why don’t you bring him over too and stay for supper when you’ve finished?’

Usually Clover talked loud enough for the whole class to share her thoughts. Her low voice and the way she kept shaking her head at Orion were making me twitchy.

I mumbled a thank you and dived into the entrance corridor lined with posters about five fruit and veg a day, anti-bullying slogans and the benefits of cycling. The squeak of my Crocs on the grey tiles was getting faster and faster. At a corridor crossroads, I saw signs for the physics lab, dance studio, music room but no bloody reception in the business of receiving mothers who were only used to classrooms numbered one to six. Mr Peters caught up with me in a waft of spicy aftershave. ‘Ms Etxeleku, thank you so much for coming in. I won’t keep you a moment, I just wanted a word about Harley.’

‘Is he okay?’ I said, almost having to trot to keep up with his long strides.

‘He’s fine, absolutely fine.’ He steered me left into a room with three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of a huge mahogany desk. Harley was in the middle one, with his head bent forwards, slumped on the padded velour armrest. He didn’t bother to look round.

‘Take a seat, Ms Etxeleku.’

‘Hello, love,’ I said, reaching for Harley’s hand. He squeezed my fingers tightly, needily, staring straight ahead without blinking. His breath was whistling in and out of his nose.

Mr Peters sat on the edge of his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. His black shoes were smooth and shiny, teacher-like, but I could see an inch of purple and lime spotty socks peeping out under his trousers. He ran his hand over his short hair. ‘This is a bit of a delicate matter, Ms Etxeleku, but there’s been a little problem today between Harley and one of his classmates. From what I understand, there was a bit of teasing that got out of hand, and then the matter seemed to take rather a violent turn.’

‘What do you mean, violent turn?’

‘Harley punched the boy in question in the face.’

I didn’t speak. I pinched the bridge of my nose and stared down at the hole in the knee of my tracksuit bottoms. All the bad decisions I’d not so much made as allowed to happen – letting Harley mix with the older boys on the estate, shrugging off the odd punch-up in the back alley, not being there when he came home from school – crushed in on me. I’d done my best, which was crap and the crap was about to hit the fan.

Harley tugged at my hand. ‘Mum. Mum. I’m sorry. He was calling me a pikey. He said that you dressed from jumble sales and Oxfam, that Dad stole car wheels for a living and that we lived in a caravan under the bridge by the station. Dad said if anyone laughed at me, I should punch them hard enough to make their brains rattle.’

The desk creaked as Mr Peters stood up. He loosened his tie slightly. ‘Ms Etxeleku. This wasn’t all Harley’s fault. Hugo was being very unkind. At Stirling Hall we have a zero-tolerance bullying policy and we do take it very seriously.’

Oh God. Hugo. No, please God. ‘Jennifer’s son?’

‘Yes, I have already seen Mrs Seaford this afternoon. Hugo did sustain a cut eye and some bruising to his cheek, so as a precaution, she is going to take him to A&E to get him checked out.’

I could feel sweat running down my back. ‘Will the police be involved?’

‘As I am sure you will appreciate, Ms Etxeleku, we cannot allow boys to take matters into their own hands, whatever the provocation. Mrs Seaford wanted to involve the police but I think I have managed to dissuade her from that course of action on the grounds that her son’s appalling behaviour would also come under scrutiny.’ His dark eyes were serious but kind.

I kept swallowing but I couldn’t seem to get any moisture in my mouth. I looked at Harley. He wasn’t making any noise but huge gloopy tears were pouring down his face and making dark circles on his white shirt. I patted his hand gently and he got up and poured himself into my arms, burrowing into my shoulder until I could feel the damp heat of his face.