The School Gates

About the author

Nicola May lives in Ascot in Berkshire. Her hobbies include watching films that involve a lot of swooning, crabbing in South Devon, eating flapjacks and enjoying a flutter on the horses.

First published in Great Britain
by Nowell Publishing 2012

Copyright © Nicola May 2012

Nicola May has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Acts 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

For Fiona, Mark & Sara

‘No woman can call herself free until she can choose consciously whether she will or will not be a mother.’

Margaret Sangar

– Autumn Term –

‘The decision to have a child is to accept that your heart will

forever walk outside of your body.’

Katherine Hadley

– Prologue –
– Eliska’s Mum –

‘Joshua P said if I give him a pound, we can kiss at playtime,’ the red-headed six year old announced at the breakfast table.

‘Did he indeed?’ Alana Murray sighed, wishing that after several years of abstinence, it could only be that easy for her too.

‘So?’ Eliska continued, bashing her spoon annoyingly against the cereal bowl.

Alana Murray straightened down the skirt of her smart black suit.

‘Come on, Eliska, please be a good girl. Mummy has got a really important meeting today.’

‘You always have important meetings.’ The little girl stuck out her bottom lip.

‘And where’s bloody Inga? She should have been here an hour ago,’ Alana barked.

‘So, can I have a bloody pound?’ Eliska suddenly screeched at the top of her little voice, pushing her chair back violently.

‘No!’ Alana shouted back, pushing her hands through her sleek blonde bob as the doorbell rang and her daughter tore past her and ran up the stairs.

Then: ‘Thank God, Inga,’ she said weakly. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

Inga Gowenska, current au pair to the Murray famille-a-deux, was a stunning, waiflike Polish girl of eighteen.

‘I am so, so sorry, Alana. My bus it didn’t come so soon. Did Eliska have her breakfast already?’ She looked at the mess in front of her.

‘Yes, yes. Look – I have to go. I’ll be home seven-ish.’

‘No, you will be home at seven exactly,’ Inga stated sternly. ‘It is my night off.’

Alana went upstairs to find her red-haired, red-eyed daughter lying on her bed sucking her thumb.

‘Darling, I’m sorry I shouted.’ She kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘You know Mummy can’t be late for work. I’ll bring back a new computer game for you.’

‘Promise it will be Make-up Studio.’ Eliska jumped up in excitement.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Now come on down and let Inga sort your ponytail before she takes you to school.’ Eliska ran towards the stairs. ‘And young lady,’ Alana added, ‘don’t ever let me hear you swear again.’

Alana pulled into the Chiswick courtyard and turned off the ignition. As she stepped out of her sporty Mercedes, the wind suddenly gusted, sending colourful autumn leaves swishing around her legs.

Stephen McNair, the proprietor of SM Public Relations, greeted her in the plant-laden reception with a kiss on both cheeks.

‘Look at you, Ms Murray, arriving all windswept and sexy. It’s been far too long.’

‘That’s not really appropriate talk for one of your key clients, now is it?’ Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she followed him to his office.

Facing him across his green-leather-topped desk, she sat back comfortably whilst crossing her legs to reveal a little too much thigh.

Her motive – distraction. It was getting so much harder now to keep him off the scent. If he started questioning her about her daughter again, what on earth would she say?

– The Brown Brood’s Mum –

Joan Brown jumped as her husband of ten years lightly patted her on the bottom.

‘Stop that, you silly old sod,’ she laughed, balancing her eleven-month-old daughter on her fleshy hip, whilst stirring a big saucepan of beaten eggs.

‘Mum just swore,’ seven-year-old Clark said without changing expression, knife and fork held high in anticipation of his breakfast.

‘What does sod mean anyway?’ Kent, his nine-year-old brother questioned.

‘It means a piece of earth,’ Colin intervened quickly.

‘So, that means Daddy is a silly old piece of earth then?’ Skye, their six-year-old daughter, added quizzically.

‘Something like that,’ Joan replied, spooning fluffy scrambled eggs on to hot buttered toast. ‘Now eat your breakfast, or we’ll be late for school as usual.’

She put Cissy in her high chair and wiped her hands down her apron, assessing her brood and feeling a deep sense of love as she did so.

‘You’ll need to check their barnets before school. I saw

Clark scratching like mad upstairs earlier,’ Colin told her.

‘Did we really sign up for all this?’ She smiled and took off her apron.

‘What – recruitment for Michael Bentine’s flea circus?’ Colin joked as he headed to the loo, newspaper in hand.

The three older Brown children stood dutifully, heads down in front of their mother as Cissy, now free from her high chair, crawled over to Squidge the dog’s food bowl, and unbeknown to all, started munching on a bone-shaped chew.

All of the children had been blessed with mad mops of curly blond hair, just like their mother. Unfortunately, they had also been blessed with attracting the nit population of Denbury; twice already this year.

‘Right, Skye, looks like you’ve just got eggs. Clark, they’re having a right old party in your hair. Kent, lucky you. You’re fine this time.’

‘Ha. Ha. No smelly shampoo for me.’ Kent mocked his younger siblings.

‘Cissy, you little tinker.’ Joan placed the baby back in her high chair, prised open her chubby hands and deftly replaced the dog chew with a digestive biscuit. Appearing from under the table, covered in toast crumbs and tomato ketchup, Squidge, the old black and now slightly greying Labrador flopped down with a grunt into his basket.

Balancing a piece of cold toast in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Colin leaned down and kissed his four children one by one, totally oblivious to the affray around him. Then it was his pretty wife’s turn for a kiss.

‘Another day, another dollar, my sweet,’ he sang and headed for the front door. ‘Oh, how I wish I had the easy life of being a fulltime mum,’ he added, deftly ducking to avoid a wet dishcloth hitting him on the head.

‘Don’t forget to see if you can find any fortieth birthday invites in your lunch-hour,’ she shouted after him as he walked past their caravan parked on the drive.

‘OK, see you later, you lovely lot. Be good for your mum,’ he grinned and waved wildly.

However, on rounding the corner his smile faded. He had never lied to his wife once in all of the twenty-three years they had known each other, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the pretence.

– Rosie’s Mum –

‘You’re a fat, lazy bitch, that’s what you are. All I want is four cans of lager – not much to ask, is it?’ Ron Collins lit another roll-up, flopped his beer-bellied carcass on to an armchair and switched on to breakfast television.

‘I literally haven’t got the money until I collect the Child Benefit later.’ Mo Collins knew she should keep quiet, but her anger overrode her inner voice of caution. ‘If you got your hairy arse off that chair and went to look for a bloody job, you could buy your own beer.’ Her voice dropped another octave. ‘And for the love of God, will you please stop smoking in the house!’

She yelped in pain as the remote control hit the top of her left shoulder.

Her husband began to bellow, ‘Nag, nag nag. Job! Fucking job! It wasn’t my fault I was made redundant and you know that. Blame the bloody government for taking the bottom out of the car industry if you’re going to blame anyone.’ He started coughing uncontrollably.

Mo noticed her daughter cowering at the bottom of the stairs. She put her finger to her lips to make sure the six year old remained silent and gestured for her to go back up to her room. She then went to the kitchen, got a glass of orange juice and loaded up a tray with some toast and Marmite to take upstairs.

Her baby girl was now sitting on her bright pink duvet shaking. Pressing her to her large bosom, Mo rocked her gently.

‘It’s OK, angel. Daddy’s just angry that he hasn’t got a job. He’s not cross with us.’

‘Tell him not to hurt you again, Mummy.’

‘Oh darling.’ Mo kissed her only daughter on the cheek. ‘Come on, eat your breakfast up here, and we’ll get you ready for school.’

Mo heaved her body up off the bed. Her husband was right about her being overweight. Their lives had become unbearable since he had lost his job five years ago.

Ron Collins had turned to drink for solace. Mo had found comfort in food.

‘Good girl,’ Mo said as Rosie handed her mum the empty plate and glass. ‘Now, let’s get your shoes on, shall we?’

‘Do you think I could have a new pair, from Father Christmas maybe?’ the little girl asked.

Tears pricked Mo’s eyes. She pushed on her daughter’s scuffed school shoes and felt her toes press against the end.

‘Let’s see, darling.’ Mo wasn’t sure where on earth she’d find the money. Even the benefits her good-for-nothing husband used to get had stopped, as he was either too drunk or too lazy to go and sign on.

Mo and Rosie started their walk to school, bumping into the now nit-free Brown clan as they did so. Clark and Kent were in the front of the group, pedalling their little legs furiously on their bikes, school bags flung clumsily over shoulders and wearing matching blue cycle helmets. Skye sat in a seat on the back of her mum’s bike, and ten-month-old Cissy lay regally in a customised cat basket on the front handlebars.