The School Gates

Fiona Snyckers

Description

"We know what's best for our children." Burnt out after years as a professional dancer, Ella Burchell moves to a small town on the KwaZulu Natal north coast hoping to rebuild her life. Things look up when she gets a job teaching dance to children at a for-profit private school. But Ella hasn't reckoned with the cabal of private-school mums who run the Pines Academy as their own personal fiefdom. Circling into cliques at the school gates every morning, the mums are a force to be reckoned with. Soon Ella is too busy fielding their demands to concentrate on her own troubles. Distraction arrives in the form of an attractive cricket coach, but Ella hardly has time to pay attention. Fun, fast-paced and hilarious, this novel by an award-winning author skewers the world of private-school privilege.

Sujets

• Littérature Africaine
• Littérature Africaine
• Romance
• Romance LGBT

Informations

• Publié par: Modjaji Books
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781928433200
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Publication © Modjaji Books 2021 Text © Fiona Snyckers 2021 First published in 2021 by Modjaji Books Pty Ltd www.modjajibooks.co.za
ISBN 978-1-928433-19-4 (Print) ISBN 978-1-928433-20-0 (ePub)
Edited by Margot Bertelsmann Cover design by Carla Kreuser Typesetting by Monique Cleghorn
Set in Minion
To my mother, who was looking forward to reading this book.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Prologue
Ella watched the sweat fan out around her as she spun into a pirouette. The angle of the spotlight seemed to catch and hold the droplets suspended in the air, like stars.
She hoped the audience in the front row didn’t notice. Nobody wanted to see the dancers’ gleaming skin and heaving chests. It destroyed the spectacle, and ballet was all about spectacle.
Especially Giselle — the role of a lifetime.
She chanted the steps in her head, as she had since early girlhood. Chassé developpé à la seconde, petite battements frappe pas ballonné with temps de fleche en avant to switch leading leg. Chassé en pointe, chasse en pointe, five more ballonnés ending in arabesque. Then jeté, jeté, grand jeté and arabesque.
As she held the arabesque, the music began to sound hollow in her ears. The chiaroscuro of spotlight and darkness was turning yellow. Music and light retreated into the distance and all she could hear was the wash of blood in her ears.
It was happening again.
Ella quickened her breathing and tensed her leg muscles as Peter had taught her, trying to force the blood back to her head. She couldn’t pass out now. You didn’t faint on stage in Vienna. You died elegantly five nights a week, but you never fainted.
The music of the orchestra seemed to rush closer and the world lurched back into focus. Ella released her breath. The crisis was over — for now.
The relief that flooded into her carried her through the sissone and a series of coupés. Then developpé en pointe and jeté entrelecais to carry her towards Antoine for the assisted jetés leading into a gruelling series of chaînés and finishing in front of Antoine in a kneeling croisé.
•
During the interval, Ella’s teeth chattered, and her muscles trembled. Her heart hammered in her chest.
“Low blood sugar,” said the producer, watching the makeup artist trying to repair her maquillage as long shudders shook her frame. “Here. Get some Gatorade into you.”
“Are you kidding me?” Peter intercepted the Gatorade and flung it out of reach. “That’s like thirty calories a swallow. Have some water, Ella.”
“I’ve had enough water.”
It wasn’t dehydration that ailed her. The producer, Miles, was right. It was low blood sugar. Ella glanced at the bottle of Gatorade lying on its side and tried to imagine herself swallowing its syrupy contents. She felt her throat slam shut at the thought.
“Up!” said the makeup artist.
She lifted her chin so he could powder her neck and décolleté.
Peter stood at her side, scowling. “At least you didn’t have one of your fainting spells this time.”
“I did. During the second arabesque. Didn’t you notice?”
“I didn’t. You’re getting better at hiding them.”
“Yes.” She concentrated on slowing her breathing so her heart rate could level out. “Three cheers for me.”
CHAPTER 1
Dear Mom and Dad,
Are we really doing weekly emails like it’s 2005? How about Zoom? Skype? WhatsApp? How about phone calls?
I’ll try to keep this up, if you insist. But in return I expect you to make an effort to master one new form of technology a month. What’s new on my side?
I saw Dr Ngcobo today. She’s pleased with my progress. I’ve put on weight, and my blood markers are better. I celebrated by having coffee and a muffin at Bean ’n Gone.
The cottage is cosy. That leak in the bathroom turned out to be no big deal — just a pipe that hadn’t been connected to the geyser properly. The plumber Dr Ngcobo recommended sorted it out.
I’ve registered at a temp agency. They tested my typing speed and computer skills, and said they’d be in touch. I know I can’t live off the money I inherited from Gran forever.
Pineapple Beach is beautiful. I love being woken by the screeching of seagulls. I love how the sun drops like a stone at seven o’clock each night on the KwaZulu-Natal coast. I’m even learning to love the wind that starts kicking up the waves by lunchtime.
I met some of the local kids. They reminded me of Ben and Sharma. They are the only things I miss about living in Joburg. Give them big kisses from their Auntie Ella and tell them we’ll Skype soon.
Love, Ella

Dr Sindiswe Ngcobo loosened the blood pressure cuff and slid it from Ella’s arm. “You’re still far too thin.”
“But I’ve put on weight, right? You said I had.”
“A hundred grams, Ella. That’s nothing. That would be a decent weight gain for a hamster. For a human being, it probably means you need to pee.”
“But it’s a step in the right direction?”
Dr Ngcobo waved the sphygmomanometer under her nose. “This is a child’s sphyg, Ella. This is the cuff I use for measuring the blood pressure of children under the age of twelve. You are a twenty-eight-year-old woman.”
“I bought the stuff you recommended. I made the smoothies and the energy drinks. I even cooked dinner one night.”
“None of that helps if it didn’t end up inside your body. A smoothie that gets poured down the drain won’t help you put on weight. Nor will a dinner that gets scraped into the bin. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
Ella pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. “Okay, yes, I had to get rid of most of it. Every time I try to eat something new, my throat closes up. I can’t swallow, so I end up choking. I know how silly it sounds, but it’s true.”
Dr Ngcobo took a breath. She needed to see Ella as a patient, and not as the child of her oldest friend.
“I’m sorry. I’m being unprofessional. I keep expecting your mom to drop by with a knobkierie, demanding to know why I haven’t fixed her daughter yet. The truth is, you have an eating disorder. You’re not just too thin — you have a full-blown pathology. You should be treated as an in-patient at an eating-disorders clinic with a full range of professionals monitoring you. I’m just a GP, and I don’t have the experience to deal with this.”
“It’s not that bad …”
“You’re still not menstruating, are you?”
Ella sighed. “No.”
“Then it is that bad.”
“I don’t want to go to a clinic. I love Pineapple Beach. This is the happiest I’ve been in ages. And it’s not as though I’m unhealthy, apart from being thin.”
“I wish you would at least consider medication and therapy.”
“I’m not saying never. I’m just saying I’m not ready to take those steps yet. I don’t mind coming to you because I’ve known you since I was born.”
Dr Ngcobo closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened Ella’s file and started to make notes.
“Your resting pulse is fifty beats a minute. Your blood pressure is ninety over sixty. You’re either incredibly fit or recently dead. Considering your history as a professional dancer, I’m going to go with incredibly fit.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“We need to get your body-fat percentage up to a level at which you start producing oestrogen. This early menopause you’ve got going is basically a written invitation to a whole slew of gynaecological diseases. It is also endangering your long-term fertility. Do you think you might want children one day?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to keep that option open.”
“Then here’s a plan. Go straight from here to Bean ’n Gone and order a latte macchiato with a chocolate muffin. Grab yourself a glossy magazine from the rack and read it while you take tiny bites very, very slowly. Let them dissolve in your mouth. If you feel your throat starting to close up, just breathe through your nose and wait for it to pass. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. You can stay there all afternoon if you like.”
Ella wondered if her smile resembled a rictus grin. “I’ll try.”
She wouldn’t think about how many calories there were in the latte, or how the muffin would be bulging with chocolate chips. She would do as she was told. She had always been good at that.
•
As she stepped out of the surgery, the wind slapped her cheeks and lifted her hair. It smelled of salt and ozone. The sun stung her eyes, forcing her to grope for her sunglasses. She reached for her car keys before remembering that she had walk