Free The Following Girls by Louise Levene Page B

on the bus and the pair of them had been given a lift home by a very bad-tempered Mrs McQueen. There wasn’t much chat, each woman mentally concluding that the other’s child had been the ringleader. Mrs McQueen was driving very fast in order to get back to her afternoon card party.
    ‘Do you play at all?’
    Spam’s face, reflected in the rear-view mirror, was being kept unnaturally straight.
    ‘Poker? Used to, once upon a time.’
    ‘Canasta. We get together most Mondays.’
    Baker could see Queenie’s mother sneaking glances at Spam, at the documents spilling from her bag, at the butch bunch of home and office keys in her hand as they pulled into the drive, saw her mentally crossing Mrs Baker off the list.
    ‘ All four of you ?’ Dad hadn’t seemed sure whether that made Baker’s first ever detention better or worse. ‘What are their names, these new mates of yours?’
    ‘Amanda.’ He thought she was joking until Spam explained.
    ‘I wanted Jane.’  The strangest look on his face. ‘Jane Margaret. My mother’s names,’ and retreated to his study without another word.
     
    ‘Do you reckon she knows she’s the Snog Monster?’ Queenie was thoughtfully detaching slabs of chocolate from around a breaktime Mars Bar with her front teeth.
    ‘Probbly,’ said Bunty. ‘Somebody must have spilled that bean by now; it’s been going on for years. Probbly flattered. There are worse nicknames. Fuckface is worse.’ (Fuckface taught Physics.) ‘Sheepshagger’s much worse.’ (The Australian domestic science teacher.)
    ‘Hardly any point having a name,’ concluded Baker. ‘Only gets changed. My baby cousin was christened Kate: no Katherine, no middle name, no nonsense. Made no difference. Likes to be called Twinkle. Twinkle .’
    ‘If I have a boy, I’m going to call him Bill,’ said Bunty.
    ‘Billy Bunter-Byng?’ spat Queenie. ‘Don’t be bloody daft.’
    ‘Yes but it won’t be Bunter-Byng will it? I’ll be Mrs Wotsit.’
    ‘Mrs Charlton?’ Baker hadn’t meant to join in but she couldn’t help herself. Nick Charlton. The man with the obliging flatmate.
    Baker stuck her head round the corner of their playground hiding place to check for passing goons. A mistress and two prefects patrolled the perimeter fence all breaktime and every second or third circuit they were supposed to hike over to the bike shed (not all the way, just close enough to make them all stub their fags out).
    The corrugated iron structure was hidden away at the far end of the yard, not exactly convenient for the (three) cyclists but then it had been something of an afterthought. Back when the school was first established the sainted Mildred had dreamed vaingloriously of a brave new world in which all of her girls motored to school or flew in personal gyrocopters (the founder was a big H.G. Wells fan). Even constructing something as prosaic as a bicycle shed had seemed a betrayal of the bright future promised.
    Julia Smith was one of the prefects on duty (the bloody girl got everywhere). She was heading towards the Mandies’ hideout but doubled back when she saw Baker’s head poke round. Her orange ponytail swinging cheerily as she skipped back down the slope. A self-consciously sporty walk.
    ‘Xerxes,’ said Queenie. ‘If I have a boy I’m definitely calling him Xerxes.’
    ‘Boys have all the fun,’ agreed Bunty.
    ‘Or Atahualpa. And if it’s a girl, I’m calling it Dido.’
    ‘Dildo?’
    ‘I want four girls,’ decided Bunty.
    ‘And wotcher gonna call them?’
    ‘ Amanda .’
    Even Baker smiled.
    ‘Yeah, but what if you get boys?’
    ‘Four boys? No thanks. I shall leave them on a hillside like the Spartacuses. And I’m definitely not having a bloody Dominic. Did I tell you he’s got a girlfriend? Mummy’s furious – jealous probbly. Her darling boy.’
    Darling Dominic. Daddy had wanted Dominic to go to boarding school but Mummy couldn’t bear to part with him, instead agreeing to drive the fifteen-mile