Love Lessons by Nick Sharratt Page A

anyone asks.’
    â€˜Yes, Mum,’ we said meekly.
    â€˜You’ve to be at school at quarter to nine tomorrow, to see the headteacher. I expect she’s going to give you a little pep talk. There’s no need to be nervous. Don’t worry, I’ll come too.’
    We blinked at her.
    Mum smoothed down her skirt and then looked at it properly. It wasn’t really a proper skirt at all; it was a length of chintz curtain material Mum had hastily stitched together in a depressing dirndl shape. She’d put on even more weight meanwhile. She stared at the big red roses stretched to the limit around her vast thighs.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I wonder if my good suit still fits.’
    â€˜You don’t have to come to Wentworth with us, Mum,’ I said quickly.
    â€˜Of course I do,’ said Mum. ‘Your dad can’t go, obviously, so it’s down to me.’
    â€˜ No , Mum. We’ll look stupid, going with you,’ I said.
    Mum looked at me, her face flushing as red as her roses.
    â€˜Look, I didn’t mean because you’re you ,’ I said hurriedly. ‘We just don’t want to walk in with our mum . The other kids will laugh at us.’
    â€˜Then they’ll have to laugh,’ said Mum, her chin up. ‘I’m coming, Prudence. I need to be there. I’ve got to make sure you go there for a start.’ She looked me straight in the eye. It was my turn to blush.
    â€˜Oh Mum, we don’t want to go,’ Grace wailed, and started howling.
    Mum sat down on the sofa and pulled Grace onto her lap. ‘There now, baby,’ she said, rocking her.
    â€˜Everything’s so horrible and scary and different,’ Grace wept.
    â€˜I know, I know,’ said Mum, rubbing her cheek across the top of Grace’s mousy hair. ‘I don’t want you to go to school, poppet. Heaven knows, I hated it myself. But now your dad’s not able to teach you we’ll just have to give it a go. And maybe . . . maybe it’s time you two learned to fit in more. I just want you both to be happy.’
    We looked the picture of misery the next morning, walking to Wentworth in our ridiculous home-made clothes. Mum’s suit wouldn’t fit her so she was squeezed back into the red rose number, with a red knitted jumper rammed down over her big bosom. Grace was wearing her pink pandas. I told her it maybe did look babyish, which hurt her feelings, but she insisted on wearing it because it was her favourite frock.
    I cordially hated all my frocks, but chose the red and white check as the least offensive. I wore my new black and pink lace underwear underneath, for courage. I hoped it might make me feel like one of the Wentworth girls, confident and sexy and streetwise.
    As soon as we set foot inside the great gates everyone stared at us. We trekked across the playground. It seemed as large as the Sahara Desert. I realized that two little strips of hidden lace weren’t going to make the slightest difference. Some of the kids had big grins on their faces. It was as if a circus had stopped at their school. We were the clowns.
    The girls stood in little groups, giggling. The boys started jostling each other and shouting. Mum looked at Grace and me anxiously and then reached out to hold our hands. She was trying to reassure us but this was a big mistake. I snatched my hand away immediately but Grace clung to Mum. That made their jeers increase.
    â€˜Let go!’ I hissed.
    They took no notice, clutching each other. I sighed and marched ahead. I kept my head up and didn’t look round, no matter what they shouted. Now I’d jettisoned Mum and Grace I imagined Jane on one side of me, Tobias the other. We didn’t care what they called. We were a threesome, cool, aloof, artistic . . .
    â€˜God, what do they look like? Mum’s a walking sofa, the little blobby one’s a duvet and the skinny stuck-up cow’s a