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was sucking up his tea through a straw. He made no attempt to help as I double-checked the football socks with named garter, the ‘laces, no Velcro’ rugby boots, the navy ‘no logo’ PE shorts, and every other bloody bit of sports equipment an Olympian in the making could need. I had refused to let myself mourn the days of any T-shirt and a tracksuit, out loud anyway.
    I tried to reverse into the one tiny slither of space I could find that wasn’t blocked by a monster 4x4. The Mitsubishi woman, ‘Jen1’, leant on the horn as I had a second go. She was obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. Her plastic surgeon probably, judging by her ugly mush. I wished her a flat tyre as I finally managed to park up.
    We got out of the van. I adjusted Bronte’s hat and looked away from the hands I could see waving behind the Mitsubishi’s shiny windscreen. I was never going to beat a Stirling Hall mother in a spelling bee but I’d fancy my chances in a slanging match. I’d get Jen1 back another day.
    ‘Why was that lady waving at you, Mum?’ said Harley.
    ‘I’ve no idea.’ I shuffled him forward.
    ‘She was trying to talk to you. Won’t she think you’re rude? You told us to be polite to everyone we met today.’
    Just when the toothpick holding my patience together looked about to snap, Bronte threw her new rucksack down and ground to a halt like a fat old Labrador that’s decided it’s not walking one step further.
    ‘Mum, I’m not going. I want to go back to Morlands. We should’ve started in September. January’s too late. Everyone will have made friends and I won’t have anyone to play with.’
    I dug deep. Ferreted about for a kind word. Beamed myself into my other world as Julie Andrews, dancing about in
The Sound of Music
singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’, like I did at work when people who were too lazy to pick their pants off the floor started having a go at me. The voice in my head was screaming, ‘You ungrateful cow. Here I am making sure you get a fantastic education and all you can do is whine your arse off.’
    I managed a reasonably calm, ‘It’s too late for that. Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine. I spoke to your teacher and she seemed really nice.’ In fact, all I could remember was how I’d nodded blankly at Bronte’s teacher as she talked about ‘prep’ for a good fifteen minutes until I realised she was on about homework.
    I stood on the edge of the sea of green blazers belonging to the prep school kids. A steady stream of older children, dressed in grey, dodged around the little ones and headed over to the senior school building on the far side of the cricket pitch. It had towers. Towers! I would be so proud if Harley and Bronte ended up there. However, the odds weren’t looking too hot if I couldn’t even get Bronte through the doors of the prep school today.
    Harley stood beside me, relaxed, as though we were queuing for the cinema, happily gawping round at the cars. The other kids were swarming through the stone arch into the playground beyond. In my hurry to get away from Colin and his repetitions of ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain’ in stupid voices, I’d forgotten to re-read the letter and find out where I needed to take them. I glanced around for a mum I liked the look of. Which was more difficult than it first appeared. Not the woman with a long, grey plait down her back. Bloody lentil-eater, for sure. She looked like she knitted her own knickers. Maybe the one next to her. No, she had a briefcase. And stilettos. Obviously rushing off to some mega job in the City. No time for her to be a traffic warden for me when there was a bonus to be had. God, this was hopeless. I felt homesick for the mothers at Morlands with their flip-flops, dark roots and Marlboros, shoving packets of crisps at chubby children and talking about
EastEnders
as though it was real life.
    Bronte looked up at me. ‘I’m not bloody going,’ she said, her eyes darting around for an escape