Read Online The School Gate Survival Guide by Kerry Fisher - Free Book Online

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