The Not So Perfect Mum: The feel-good novel you have to read this year!. Kerry FisherЧитать онлайн книгу.
that your kids would be at a school where their days were about education and not survival. Assume that twenty-four thousand pounds a year was fantastic news, not some Australia-sized crow bar to wrench the lid off Pandora’s box.
I remembered my armpits and folded my hands in my lap. ‘I need to think about it, I mean, I’m grateful, of course, the professor has been very generous, but I need to discuss it with the children’s father, like,’ I said, immediately hearing the professor’s voice in my head. ‘Amaia, “like” is for people we are friends with.’
‘May I be so bold as to enquire what the obstacles are?’ said Mr Harrison.
I ignored the ‘being so bold’. He could, of course, just ask, though he was trying to be kind. ‘God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry to be so stupid, but how much are the fees at Stirling Hall? You said she was leaving me twenty-four thousand pounds a year. That can’t just be school fees.’
‘I’m afraid it is. Four thousand pounds a term for each child.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, then squirmed. ‘Sorry, I mean, that’s a heck of a lot of money. Sorry to sound ungrateful. So all that money would just go on the school fees. Wow. That’s the only option?’
‘I’m afraid the professor has been quite clear. She’s tied the money up so that it can only be spent on Stirling Hall. It will be transferred directly to the school at the start of every term. If you don’t take up her offer, she has left instructions for the money to go to the cancer hospice in town.’
The hair stood up on my arms. Mum had died there three years earlier. I forced away the memory of her little room with the flowery border and the horrible hours I’d spent there, watching her poor, knackered body rise and fall. I needed to think about the next generation, not the last.
‘I don’t want to sound graspy, but has she left any money for uniforms and that sort of stuff?’ I’d seen the piles of hockey sticks, rugby gear and coats for every occasion in the children’s bedrooms where I cleaned. I wouldn’t be able to get away with any old anorak and a West Ham football kit.
‘No, but I believe most of these private schools have good second-hand sales.’
My mind was scrambling to see how I could possibly afford it, even second-hand. Harley wouldn’t give a stuff about worn elbows or knees. But Bronte would make a right ling-along-a-dance. Even at Morlands, she could make me late for work fussing about matching hair bands and the tiniest ant-sized hole in her tights. It would be like pushing a lamb up the slope to slaughter if I tried to fob her off with something that wasn’t brand new.
Unlike Morlands, where a school trip meant walking down to the local museum with its two Roman coins and a few manky old fossils, Stirling Hall was the kingpin of school trips. I’d seen pictures of Stirling Hall’s cricket team on tour in Barbados in the Surrey Mirror. The bloody Caribbean as a school trip. Just off to the West Indies to whack a few balls. That wasn’t going to be a pound in your pocket, a jam sandwich and a packet of Wotsits kind of deal. I’d never be able to afford that for Harley. Still, he’d never played cricket in his life, so hopefully he wouldn’t make the team.
I picked at my raggedy nails. An image of Bronte begging me not to come to any school plays, sports days or carol concerts floated into my mind. She hated people knowing I was a cleaner. She kept trying to get me to apply for the X Factor so I could become a pop star instead, even though I sounded like a Hoover that had sucked up a sock.
Maybe I was going to need Mr Harrison’s handkerchief after all.
‘Well then?’ Colin said, through a fistful of crisps. ‘Did the old girl come good?’
‘Depends what you mean,’ I said. I opened the window to let out the smell of Colin’s first, though probably not last, joint of the day. I picked up the pages of the Racing Post strewn all round the settee.
‘Don’t play games,’ Colin said, licking his finger to dab up the crumbs on his T-shirt. ‘How much did we get? Don’t tell me she left you one of her crappy old tea services.’
‘No, she left us enough money to send the kids to Stirling Hall School.’
‘You what? I ain’t sending my kids to no nobby school. How much did she leave us?’
‘Twenty-four thousand pounds a year until they finish their A-levels, but—’
‘Twenty-four grand a year? Way to bloody go!’ Colin leapt up off the settee and started limbo dancing. ‘Whe-hey! Fan-bloody-tastic. Let’s go on holiday somewhere. D’you fancy Benidorm? Or Corfu?’
‘She didn’t leave me the money so we could go off sunning ourselves. She left it so we could send the kids to a decent school, get them a good education.’
‘It’s our money. We can spend it on what we like.’
‘No, we can’t. That’s the point. You’re not listening – unless we send the kids to Stirling Hall, we can’t even get the cash in the first place. It’ll all go to the cancer hospice.’
A great cloud of a scowl rolled across Colin’s face. ‘Let me get this right. That old biddy has left us twenty-four grand a year and we’ve got to spend it on some fancy pants school or we get absolutely zilcho?’
I moved in front of my favourite red vase. I didn’t say anything, just stood absolutely still. The remote control went zinging past my ear, clattering into the front window, taking a bite out of the frame but missing the glass. The batteries pinged out and rolled under the chair.
‘Christ Almighty.’ Colin kicked at the settee. ‘Snotty-nosed bitch. I bet you put her up to this. Didn’t you? Bloody banging on about education, filling the kids’ heads with crap about going to university. Sitting there with your nose in a book, bloody Withering Heights and David Crapperfield. You and your big ideas. Can you imagine Harley in a little green cap and tie? He’d be a laughing stock round here. Get his head kicked in before he got to the end of the road.’
‘It wasn’t anything to do with me. I didn’t even know she’d left me anything. For God’s sake, it’s better than nothing. I think it would be great for Bronte. She’s quite bright. She could really go places with the right education.’ My throat was tight with the effort of not shouting.
‘What places is she going to go? She’ll probably be up the duff by the time she’s sixteen. She needs to start, I dunno, learning to type or something, not having her head filled with a load of old bollocks she’ll never use.’
‘Bronte won’t be stupid enough to get pregnant with some no-hoper sponger from round here,’ I said, looking at Colin’s belly hanging out of his T-shirt. Blue fluff nestled in his belly button. I couldn’t let Bronte end up with a bloke who thought showers made you shrink.
Colin snatched the paper from me, then blubbered down onto the settee, rattling the sports pages into a position that meant I couldn’t see his face. I knew I’d got to him from the way his foot was twitching.
‘Don’t you want the kids to live better than us? Is your greatest ambition for Harley that he learns the difference between off-white and magnolia? Do you want Bronte to end up scrubbing skid marks out of the toilets of the women whose dads didn’t think spelling tests were a waste of time? Or are you just pinning your hopes on Bronte marrying a striker from flaming West Ham?’
He didn’t answer. Usually I knew better than to ‘keep going on’ but people like us didn’t get a lot of chances. I sat on the end of the settee and put his foot on my lap. ‘Can you put the paper down, just for a sec?’
He looked sullenly over the top. His eyes were still beautiful.
I persevered. ‘I think this is a really big chance for them. I never got any qualifications