The Not So Perfect Mum: The feel-good novel you have to read this year!. Kerry Fisher
at Stirling Hall, the kids could become engineers, architects, doctors, anything. I don’t think it’s fair to stand in their way.’
‘Yeah, but what about when they want to bring their mates home? No one is going to come round here in their Beamer in case it ends up on bricks. You ain’t thinking it through. Let’s say they do go there. We can pay for the school, but what about all the things that go with it? The parents ain’t going to want their toffee-nosed little darlings hanging about with Bronts and Harley, are they? Case they catch something awful off of them. They’re all going to be living in great big houses – I don’t want some kid called Verity or Jasper coming round here to get a look at how poor people live, how Harley pisses against the back fence when I’m on the khazi or how we have to stand on a chair with a match to get the boiler to light every time we want a bloody shower.’
I’d worked in houses where guitar lessons, French club and netball matches were the norm, as run-of-the-mill as living in a home where the children had a playroom and the adults had a study. Of course, there’d been some arrogant little shits along the way like the boy who said, ‘You can’t be a mummy. You’re a cleaner.’ But there’d also been some sweet kids, who’d brought out their old dolls, tea sets and jigsaws so I could give them to Bronte.
The one thing they all had in common was this idea, a confidence that when they spoke, they had a right to be listened to. I was thirty-six and still had to work up the courage to say what I thought when they held meetings at school to improve discipline. I’d think, right, I’m going to put my hand up next. No, next. Then someone would drop in a ‘statistically speaking’ or an ‘economically viable’ and I’d decide that my point was probably a bit obvious anyway and some bloke with a clipboard would thank everyone for their useful input and Colin would be moaning about getting down the pub before closing time and that would be that. If money could buy confidence, I had a chance to do one clever thing in my stupid life.
‘Talk about glass half bleeding empty,’ I said. ‘Yeah, we might get some kids come here who think we’re common as pig shit. On the other hand, Harley and Bronte might even make some nice friends, normal kids who don’t think that a good Saturday night out is kicking in the car wing mirrors on the estate.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? They’re going to be the council house kids among a bunch of nobs. They ain’t ever going to fit in.’
‘We’ve got to give them a chance. They might see that there’s more to life than a quick shag against the fence in the back alley or getting pissed in the bus shelter on Special Brew.’ I started combing through all the possible tactics I could use to get Colin to agree. I’d only got as far as two – begging or a blow job – when Colin shrugged.
‘I don’t fucking know. I think you’re wrong. How we going to pay for all the kit and crap that they’re gonna need? You’re just sticking your head into a bag of trouble,’ he said.
Colin was voicing my worries. Somehow that made me angrier. ‘That’s typical you. Just sit there and be defeatist. You were just the same when I wanted to go to appeal to get them into a better primary school. Give up before we start instead of using a bit of brain power to see how we could make it work. I’ll have to take on more shifts. Maybe things’ll pick up and you’ll be able to get some work. It’s a real opportunity.’
‘Don’t think you can rely on me getting work anytime soon. It’s not looking good out there.’
I tried to remember that to win this one I needed him on my side. I bit back my ‘change the record’.
He picked at his ear, examined it and wiped it on his tracksuit. ‘The kids won’t thank you for it. Mind you, I might be able to up me rates and find a cushy job with them parents. Some of them must have a nice mansion that could do with a lick of paint,’ he said.
Once Colin started down the ‘What’s in it for me?’ route, I knew that I just had to sneak up and bolt the door behind him. ‘Can we try it for a term? Morlands is never full. People are petitioning not to go there, so I’m sure we’ll get them back in if we need to.’
Colin started scrabbling about on the floor for the batteries to the remote. He flicked on the West Ham vs. Arsenal match he’d recorded the night before. I needed to finish the conversation before he started singing the theme tune, ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’. God, he was starting to hum. I had about five seconds left.
‘Colin, listen to me.’
‘That ref needs bloody glasses. Oy, four eyes! Christ, he wouldn’t see a foul if they kicked him on the nose. Did you see that, Maia?’ he said, hurling an empty Coke can at the telly and sending an arc of brown drops shooting up the front room wall. He made no move to get a cloth.
I stood in front of the telly.
‘Mai! Out the way!’
‘Shall I send them for a term?’
‘Do what you want but don’t come crying to me when it comes back to bite you on the arse,’ he said, trying to peer round me.
I went straight to my handbag and dug out the solicitor’s silver embossed card.
The freezing January mornings didn’t agree with my van. It chose the kids’ first day at Stirling Hall to start making a chugging sound from the engine. I was terrified that it would grind to a halt with the effort of climbing over the speed bumps along the horseshoe-shaped drive at Stirling Hall. Christ, the school had its own one-way system, a slow-moving line of super-shiny, top of the range cars coming in one entrance and spilling out the other like a Motor Show parade. I had visions of breaking down right in the middle of it all, forcing everyone to squeeze past me. Harley was oblivious, hanging out of the window with his cap sitting at a jaunty angle on his blond curls, shouting about cars.
‘Wicked, Mum, look, look, there’s a Bentley. A Bentley Continental. Wow. Do you think it actually belongs to one of the parents? Cor, I saw one of them on Top Gear. Do you think they might let me have a ride, Mum? Will you ask them for me? Who do you think it belongs to? Do you think they got it new? Jeremy Clarkson says they cost £130,000. Do you think they paid that for it? Cool!’
‘Let’s see how it goes, Harley. Maybe the boy will be in your class and he might invite you round,’ I said. I peered at the woman behind the wheel. She didn’t have a hairstyle, she had an official hair ‘do’. A big puffy creation that would surely involve rollers. Definitely not a chop with the kitchen scissors in a shaving mirror and a head-upside-down blast from the hair dryer. I’d rather spend the entire day pulling matted hair out of plugholes than have her pass judgement on Harley over a cheese spread sandwich – or a bloody lobster tail or whatever Stirling Hall kids had for tea.
Bronte was clutching her rucksack on her knee, staring straight ahead, looking just like Colin when his horses fell at the last hurdle. That morning I’d gone in to wake her up all jolly and sing-song but she told me to get lost, she wasn’t bloody going and held on to the duvet for grim death. She actually swore at me. Little madam. I lost sight of my skipping through the daisies voice in favour of a ‘you’ll do as I say’ bellow. I practically dragged her out of bed by her ankles. She got dressed with a slowness that was right on the edge of defiance. She hated the red and green plaid skirt, said it was frumpy and minging and wanted to wear black trousers like she had at Morlands. I helped her into the blazer I’d spent a week’s wages on when I could have bought one for £20 second-hand. I had to walk away when I saw her twisting the buttons, complaining that they didn’t do up properly. Harley had been twirling his cap round his finger for fifteen minutes by the time Bronte slouched out the door. Just as I started to tell her she looked wonderful, she stared at me, her dark eyes narrowing and said, ‘You look horrible. Everyone will know you clean up other people’s shit.’
I decided not to speak to her. My hand tingled with the desire to give her a good slap but attitude adjustments would have to