The School Gate Survival Guide (9 page)

‘Bowl of adzuki beans, anyone?’

I swung round. Clover was a sight to behold in turquoise flares that only a six-foot model should attempt, not a stout woman on the wrong side of short. She pressed a couple of pounds into the twins’ hands and told them to ‘bugger off and have a go on a few stalls, but don’t buy any crap’.

‘Otherwise you find that all the junk you got rid of for the white elephant stall is replaced with someone else’s shite,’ Clover said, taking my arm. ‘Now, let’s get this tattoo stall up and running.’

Through the doors leading out into the playground I could see Lawrence setting up the football nets for Five for a Prize. Even though it was drizzling slightly, I wished we were outside. Instead, we fought our way through children clutching coins and grandmas with pushchairs going nowhere fast. Our table was at the side of the hall between the Knock Down the Can and the Wild West shooting stall, where dads were making seven-year-olds cry by hogging the plastic revolvers to prove that they weren’t hotshots only at the office.

It was sweatier than the Tube in a July rush hour. I stuck my hands in the bowl of water we were going to use for the tattoos. A few mothers hurried their children past. ‘No, no, tattoos are so common. No, I don’t care if they wash off, they look awful.’

Most parents seemed amused, as though they were somehow walking on the wild side themselves by letting their kids have a seahorse on their wrist. They wouldn’t be thinking it was such a jolly jape if their darling Henrietta, Rory or Oscar came home with a big declaration of love for Chardonnay or Gav tattooed across their backs in ten years’ time. Or a great big spider like Tarants.

A queue formed and Clover and I pressed on butterflies, hearts and flowers, throwing sticky little fifty pences into a Tupperware container. I’d hardly had time to look up when I heard someone call my name.

‘Ms Etxeleku. How do you like your first Stirling Hall fete?’

Mr Peters still managed to look formal in jeans and a white linen shirt. I felt as though he’d come to tell me off and my mind immediately started running through apologies, excuses and big fat lies. I should have stuck to a non-nutty ‘lovely, thank you’. Instead I said, ‘Would you like a tattoo?’ and then wanted to kill myself. Heads of Upper School probably didn’t go in for a lot of body art.

He surprised me. He laughed. ‘Very rebel without a cause. What do you suggest?’

I pulled out a new sheet, managing to knock my wet sponge into my crotch as I did so. ‘What about a devil?’

‘I leave being naughty to the kids these days, during the week at least. No, I fancy something a bit exotic,’ he said.

Clover leaned over. ‘Mr Peters, that’s favouritism, choosing the new girl on the block. What about all us mums who’ve been slaving away every year since our kids were in nursery? I’ve got a lovely big dragon here I could stick somewhere secret.’

I envied Clover. Being so at ease with it all. But I also wanted her to snout out so I could have Mr Peters to myself, like a child with a protective arm round a bowl of crisps.

‘Thanks for the offer, Mrs Wright, but I don’t want to get too subversive now, do I? Maybe next year.’ He turned back to me. ‘What about that Chinese character?’

‘Okay, where do you want it?’

There was the slightest pause. A tiny curve upwards at the side of his mouth gave me a glimpse of the man he might have been before he dedicated his life to setting a good example.

‘Left or right arm?’ I said. Without looking, I knew that a slow flush would be turning my neck and chest blotchy. I pretended to pick something up off the floor so I could dab at the sweat on my upper lip. Mr Peters sat down and rolled up his sleeve. A forearm made for arm-wrestling. Smooth olivey skin, quite hairy. Big hands but slim fingers and clean fingernails. Everything about him was tended, clipped and cared for. I bet his skin smelt of something lemony. And I bet he didn’t leave whiskers round the sink.

‘Harley seems to be settling down nicely now. In the last couple of weeks since “the incident”, I’ve seen a big change in him,’ Mr Peters said, almost drowned out by the noise and excitement of the Knock Down the Can stall next door.

‘Yes, I think he’s doing much better. Thanks for being so kind to him.’

I wasn’t about to tell Mr Peters that since Harley had given Hugo what for, he’d become a bit of a hero among the boys. His new nickname was ‘Mike’ and the lunchtime footballing gang seemed to have adopted him as a mascot.

‘I wasn’t being kind. I was being fair. Between you and me, I think that little event has given him a certain kudos amongst his classmates,’ he said, leaning in so I could hear him.

Of course. He knew everything. He’d probably worked out that I’d spent ages getting ready that morning, even painting my nails, which was something I rarely did these days. I was glad I had. Didn’t want him thinking that I only did holey tracksuits, Crocs and punch-ups.

‘How are
you
settling in, Ms Etxeleku?’ he asked, clear greeny-grey eyes trapping me in their gaze.

I mumbled, ‘Fine,’ and became very focused on sponging his tattoo, which, praise the Lord, went on in one piece.

‘Perfect,’ Mr Peters said. ‘I could imagine you in a tattoo parlour inking enormous eagles onto bikers’ backs.’

I think we realised at the same time that might not be as unlikely for me as for most of the mothers at Stirling Hall who were either -ologists of some sort, solicitors, investment bankers or married to one. Mr Peters blushed. ‘No offence, you know what I mean. It was a compliment to your marvellous artistic skills.’

Big red patches like stunted starfish settled on his face. I was fascinated to see a guy with so much going for him, so smart, so in control, blush like that. If I ever got to a place in my life where I could join in a clever conversation and speak with confidence, even on brainy things – politics, literature, the environment – because I had the knowledge to back me up, I swore to God I was never going to waste a minute blushing again.

For the moment, however, I blushed along with him, even though he hadn’t offended me at all. My mother used to call it
vergüenza ajena
, a sort of second-hand embarrassment at other people’s fuck-ups. I think we were both grateful when the next woman in the queue called Mr Peters’ attention. It was the mother of Kuan-Yin, the little Chinese girl who, along with the few other Asian children – sons and daughters of consultants and lawyers – featured heavily in photos around the school as though Stirling Hall was a multicultural hotbed.

‘Mr Peters. I see you have the tattoo for love,’ she said, pointing at his arm with her small elegant fingers.

‘Love?’

‘Yes, this is the Chinese symbol for love. Does this mean there’s someone special in your life?’ She smiled so widely that both rows of her neat little teeth were on display.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Mrs Shen,’ he said, leaning over to put his 50p in my box. He did smell of lemon. ‘Nice tattoo, thanks,’ he said, vacating his chair for Kuan-Yin.

As soon as he’d gone, Clover tapped me on the shoulder. ‘All the mums are dying to get off with him, he’s so gorgeous. Must be something to do with all that calm authority that makes him so sexy. Every time he gets seen out on the town with a woman, the Stirling Hall jungle drums go into overdrive. Always seems to go for brunettes, so you’re in there.’

‘I can’t resist the beer-bellied, unemployed and in deep debt, myself. I wouldn’t know what to do with someone who had a proper job.’

Clover laughed and went back to her swords and flowers. I started sticking on a rainbow for Kuan-Yin, quietly looking round the room to see where Mr Peters had gone. He was over by the Bash-a-Rat stand, chatting to bloody Jen1. He looked up and caught my eye. Probably checking that I wasn’t making off with the fifty pences.

Frederica came bounding over, looking lovely in a white floaty dress as though she was just off to a shoot for
Hello!
magazine. ‘Hi. I’ve been meaning to ring you. Marlon’s been on at me to invite Harley over, says he’s a footballing wizard.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure. Can I pick him up from school on Wednesday?’

Maia Etxeleku. Friend of the stars. My son. Going to play at a celebrity’s house. I’d have to try and have a little nose about when I went to pick him up. Sandy would want to know all the details. I’d invited her to the fete as a peace offering but she’d told me that not everyone was a woman of means and she was working weekends to cover her credit card bill. Actually I was glad she wasn’t there with her shouty old laugh and tendency to take the piss out of people when they were standing next to her. Being glad made me like myself a bit less. However, self-hate wasn’t really necessary in the Etxeleku/Caudwell household, as Bronte usually took care of that. She came rushing over with the twins who, for some reason, liked her snotty manner.

‘Mum, did you know there’s a school disco next Friday? It finishes at ten. Can I go?’ Bronte asked.

‘I’ve no problem with you going, but how much are the tickets?’ I said.

‘Twenty-two pounds. Everyone else is going and you get a proper hot meal. And a cocktail. Not alcoholic.’

‘Twenty-two pounds? My God. Let me have a think about it.’

‘That means you’re going to say no, cos you always do.’

‘Let’s talk about it when we get home,’ I said, seeing the whole tattoo queue grow perky with interest.

‘Forget it. You’ll only say money doesn’t grow on trees. You never let me do anything.’ Bronte stomped off with Sorrel and Saffy. I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

A couple of hours later, when most of the other stalls had ground to a halt, Clover and I were still like a pair of blinking Pied Pipers. Every time I finished sticking on another skull or bow and arrow, I’d have a surreptitious little look to see where Mr Peters was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jen1 take his arm, all swishing hair and breathy smiles. She led him over to the raffle ticket basket. I’d bought one ticket so I didn’t look mean or really poor, but other people were splashing out twenty quid a pop. They could have bought five cuddly rabbits or a whole box of old lady’s bubble bath for that.

I was just encouraging a little boy to stop flicking my sponge water everywhere when Clover said, ‘Maia, it’s you,’ and started nodding towards the other side of the hall.

‘What?’

‘They’re doing the raffle. They’ve called your name. You’ve won a prize.’ Clover was pointing over to Mr Peters and Jen1.

I could see Mr Peters smiling like he’d done something really good. Jen1 looked like she’d just sat on a drawing pin. I wanted to crawl under my tattoo table but Clover was hissing at me. Then shouting, ‘She’s here, over here.’

I had no choice and scraped my chair back to cries of annoyance from the restless queue of kids. It seemed a long way across the hall. I’d forgotten how I normally walked. I shook Mr Peters’ hand, feeling eyes drilling into my back. His hand held safety and protection in its grasp.

‘You’ve won two tickets to the Stirling Hall ball at the end of term.’

‘Lovely, thank you. Where is it?’ I said, even though I had no intention of going.

Jen1 pulled a face as though I’d gobbed in her breakfast. ‘In my garden.’

I really wanted to give in to Bronte over the school disco, just to stop her making unhappy shapes and looming up resentfully under her fringe, sucking any tiny drop of happiness out of my bones every time I walked into the room. On the morning of the disco, she stood outside the shower, shouting through the curtain while I let the water run over my head trying to drown her out.

‘Have you changed your mind yet? Why can’t I go? Everyone’s going. Saffy and Sorrel are going and Clover’s buying them new leggings and a sequinned top from Next and you won’t even buy me a ticket. You’re always saying we can’t afford things, but you’re just tight.’ On and on it went, followed by a variation on how much she hated me, how I was put on this earth to make her as unhappy as possible and how I should never have had children if we were so poor.

I couldn’t give in. I had £3.35 in my purse and the milk was off. We were behind on our rent by several weeks. I’d started leaving the van a few streets away at night in case the council tax people decided to send the bailiffs. Our gas supplier kept making debt repayment plan phone calls. I dreaded picking up the phone but I was paranoid about missing a call from the school in case Harley got into a fight again. I pretended to be a mad Spanish aunt every time a voice I didn’t know came on the line but there was only so much ‘No speak English. Amaia
no està
here. Bysee bye,’ I could get away with.

Bronte tried to wheedle round Colin. He stroked her hair and promised he’d see what he could do. Unfortunately, seeing what he could do never seemed to involve him getting off his great lard to earn some money. Instead he had a go at me. ‘You wanted her to go to that bleeding school. You wouldn’t listen. So now what are you going to do?’

I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the chip in my mug. I knew, of course, that I’d caused the problem – I always did – and it would be up to me to solve it. I tried to work out when I’d become so alone. I had loved Colin so much once. Maybe the relationship had worn out, like the hall carpet. Did I love him six years ago? Five? Two? There must have been a time when I’d had sex with him, when I still just about loved him. Then there must have been a next time, when a border had been crossed, where some tiny extra bit of dislike had crept in, a blob more affection had seeped away and suddenly I was sleeping with someone I didn’t love any more. I couldn’t work out where love went.

All the way to school, Harley kept telling Bronte it was just a stupid disco, it would be rubbish and all the girls would be running away from the boys and swapping hair bobbles in the toilets, so big deal. Then he said, ‘Anyway, Mum’s trying as hard as she can, it’s not her fault we haven’t got any money.’

I squeezed his hand. A couple of days before, I’d found a bunch of letters about ski holidays, French exchanges and trips to the theatre in London screwed up in the bottom of his school bag. I think his resignation hurt more than Bronte’s angry whining.