The Not So Perfect Mum: The feel-good novel you have to read this year!

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.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_6d52af2b-a42c-5d80-a635-3178d4a9fe36)

‘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 and neither did you, so we’re stuck here. Morlands is such a rubbish school that if they stay there, they’ll end up like us. We’re never going to have enough money to move into a different catchment area. But with a good education 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.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_2f2d291a-e375-58e9-93b6-7a2ea108ae0a)

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.