One Foot Onto the Ice
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Authors: Kiki Archer
One
Foot Onto The Ice
Kiki
Archer
Editor:
Jayne Fereday
Copyright
2013 Kiki Archer
This
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“She did a quiff!”
“What do you mean,
she did a quiff
?”
“In gym class. She did a quiff. Susan
Quiffy
Quinn. She did
one, in gym.”
Amber puzzled at her animated work colleague. “How old were you?”
Jenna closed one eye and thought for a moment. “Thirteen, maybe? I
remember she didn’t have any boobs because her top fell down and she wasn’t
wearing a bra.”
“When?”
“In gym class!” Jenna James continued to part her mass of wavy
brown hair, lifting the side sections into two high bunches. “Battle-Axe Brown
asked her to demonstrate a handstand. She was teaching us how to support each
another.” Jenna smiled. “I remember Susan Quinn throwing her hands onto the mat
and flinging her legs up into position. Battle-Axe Brown grabbed Susan’s ankles
to stop her from wobbling.” Jenna paused to fasten a second band into her hair,
quickly securing her bouncing style. “That’s when Susan’s top fell down and we
all laughed at her pancakes.”
“Poor girl,” said Amber, genuinely mortified by the scene.
“Battle-Axe Brown roared for us to be silent, so we immediately stopped
laughing, but Susan was still upside down, bright red from embarrassment.”
“Maybe she was red because she was upside down?”
Jenna lifted her sunglasses from the table and moved them on to
the top of her head, slotting them behind her bunches. “Yes, maybe. But she was
red, the silence was deafening, and then it happened.”
“What happened?”
“The quiff!”
“No?”
Jenna nodded seriously. “Yes. Susan Quinn, tits out, quiffed right
in the face of Battle-Axe Brown.”
Amber tried to disguise her giggle. “That’s awful.”
“No one spoke. It was silent. But I remember seeing Battle-Axe’s fingers
getting tighter around Susan’s ankles and her knuckles going whiter and whiter.
She held her in that position for a good two minutes.”
“Didn’t the teacher say anything?”
“No, Battle-Axe just tilted her head to the side and lifted her
nose in the air, flaring her nostrils in disgust.”
Amber shrugged her shoulders. “So it could have been a regular
toot?”
“
Toot
?”
“Trump? You know what I mean, Jenna.”
Jenna shook her head with authority. “No. It was definitely a quiff.”
“And how do you know?”
Jenna raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice. “Everyone knows
what a quiff sounds like.”
“Remind me.”
Jenna spotted the cheeky tone in her friend’s voice and laughed.
“Behave.”
“Come on, Jenna, we’re already halfway through the ski season. Do
we really have to wait until April, like last year?”
Jenna ignored the question. “Remember silly putty?”
“That goop stuff?”
“Yes. That’s what a quiff sounds like. When you push your fingers
into a tub of goop.”
Amber leaned further forwards. “Does it ever happen if you push
your fingers somewhere else?”
“Stop it, you pink-haired sex pest!”
Amber folded her arms. “Me? You’re the ski instructor who manages
to bed more females on the slopes than the rest of us put together.”
Jenna shrugged. “It’s never intentional. It just kind of happens.”
Amber looked at her friend. “It’s your exotic eyes. They’re
mesmerising.”
“Oh please! I never wear a scrap of make-up. My hair’s either in
bunches or bulging out from under a beanie hat, and I have a wonky smile.”
“You have dark brown, almond shaped eyes, and really cute dimples.
That’s all you seem to need to get the ladies swooning.” Amber tilted her head
and squinted. “Smile then.”
Jenna lifted her lips at the corners, displaying a set of perfect white
teeth that were glowing out in contrast to the deep tan on her face.
“Nope. Your smile’s not wonky.”
“It is, look.” Jenna smiled even wider. “The right corner of my
mouth rides up higher than the left and my right eyebrow goes higher when I’m
talking.”
Amber gently sucked on her lips. “Trust me. The women aren’t
looking at your eyebrows.”
Jenna James checked her brightly coloured watch, wondering what
time her coach load of skiers would arrive. She lifted her head and sensed
Amber’s eyes looking her up and down. “What do you keep staring at?” she asked,
turning her body to the side and studying her friend. “I think it’s your new
pink hair. It’s made you naughtier this season.”
“It’s not worked on you yet,” pouted Amber.
Jenna shook her bunches. “Listen, it was the last day on the
slopes last season. We were drunk. It was fun, but…”
Amber pushed her chair backwards and jumped up. “Saved by the
school,” she said, peering out of the French service station window at the
group of students who were barging out of the coach and racing across the
tarmac, all desperate to use anything other than the undersized, overflowing
on-board toilet.
Amber moaned. “Why do I always get the roughest comprehensive
schools?”
“They don’t look rough.”
Amber pointed out of the huge window. “They do! Look.”
Jenna looked at the dishevelled mixed-sex group of British students
making their way into the service station. “All schools look like that after a
day’s travel.”
“It’s a comprehensive school. They’re from Manchester. Inner city
Manchester. Trust me, they’re rough.” Amber shook her head. “You make sure you
have a jolly good time with your all-girls school and Madam Susan Quinn.”
Jenna tapped her teeth together, unable to hide her huge grin. “I
used to go there.”
“What?!” Amber spun back around. “To the school you’re looking
after?”
Jenna’s dimples were on full show. “Yes. St Wilfred’s All-Girls
School. I used to go there.”
Amber was open mouthed. “I don’t believe you. You went to a
private school? Well, well, well. You never cease to amaze me. Jenna James is a
posh girl.” Amber suddenly laughed and leaned over Jenna’s shoulder, pointing
down at the briefing sheet that was open on the table. “What if your lead
teacher’s the same Susan Quinn? She was in your class. She went to St
Wilfred’s. What if she works there now?”
Jenna shook her head. “No. It’s just a coincidence. Quiffy Quinn
was a girl destined for greater things. She’s probably a top surgeon or the
head of some great big international charity. There’s no way she’d be teaching
back at St Wilf’s.”
Amber pursed her lips together and ran her fingers up her tall
pink Jedward hair. “Stranger things have happened. The coolest, hippest, most
carefree ski instructor on the slopes went to one of the country’s top fee-paying
private schools.” Amber giggled. “Wait until the gang find out about this.”
“It’s no big deal. There’s a lot you guys don’t know about me.”
Amber turned to leave so she could go and greet her designated
teacher. “Yeah right. You’re an open book, Jenna.” She hollered over her
shoulder. “Sun, skiing, sex. That just about sums you up.”
Jenna nodded, “Yeah, just about.” She sighed to herself and checked
her watch, wondering what was keeping Susan Quinn and the party of girls from
St Wilfred’s.
****
Susan Quinn pulled on her seatbelt and leaned forwards, aiming her
hushed voice at the thoroughly exhausted coach driver. “So sorry.” She
performed a polite cough. “I notice we’re going above sixty again.”
The coach driver was indeed exhausted. Not from the day’s travel
from the UK, (his partner, who was now sleeping in the cabin, had handled the
bulk of the journey), but exhausted by Madam Quinn’s constant reminders about
speed. He looked at the dial, 61mph. “Sorry, Miss.”
It was now Marcus Ramsbottom’s turn to lean forwards in his seat.
“It’s Madam Quinn, please. Here at St Wilfred’s we like to address each other
correctly when in the presence of students.”
“Noted, boss,” said the driver.
Marcus leaned forwards. “It’s Professor Ramsbottom, if you please?”
The driver chuckled. “I don’t think I do, but thanks for the
offer.”
“Don’t rise to it, Marcus,” whispered Susan.
Marcus pulled at the corners of his ginger moustache and turned to
his colleague with a deep breath and a self-enforced sense of calm. “I never
do, Susan, I never do.” He adjusted himself in his seat and placed a hand on
her knee. “The care you show these students is exemplary. I’ve seen you
watching the dial. You hear such horror stories about coach crashes on these lawless
French motorways.”
Susan looked down at the podgy hand that was resting where it
shouldn’t and noticed the ginger hairs sprouting from the knuckles. She lowered
her voice. “Marcus, I’d rather you didn’t.”
Marcus lifted the offending hand and tapped it with his other.
“Naughty boy,” he said, turning his head and peeping over the high-backed
luxury coach seat. Most of the girls from St Wilfred’s were still asleep.
“You’re right, as always, Susan. We can’t have the ladies getting wind of our
attraction. Heaven forbid they find out we’re dating.”
Susan blushed. “Marcus, we’re not dating.”
“We had drinks.”
“Yes, after the school Christmas concert, in the staffroom, with
the governors.”
Marcus fingered his thinning hair. “We have a week in the French
Alps.” He smiled a yellow smile. “Look at us! We’re blossoming already.”
Susan was about to reply when a timid hand tapped her on the
shoulder. She turned around and dramatically grabbed the young girl, pulling
her forwards and holding her tightly. “Daisy Button, what are you doing in the
aisle? You have to wear your seatbelt at all times. Professor Ramsbottom’s just
been talking about how dangerous these French motorways are.”
Daisy Button started to cry. “When are we stopping?”
Susan kept hold of the girl but bent forwards slightly to look out
of the front window. The road was wide and empty. She decided to go for it and
unclipped her seatbelt, ushering little Daisy Button back to her single seat in
the middle of the coach. She sat her down and quickly fastened the girl’s
seatbelt. Susan crouched at the knees and gripped the backs of the two adjoining
chairs with far more force than was needed. “Daisy, I need to get back to my
seat. What’s the problem?”
Daisy sniffed back some tears. “I want to call my mum.”
“That’s fine, Daisy. Use your mobile. We’re not in school now. They’re
no longer contraband.”
Daisy Button was only eleven years old and the youngest on the
school ski trip, but she knew what contraband meant and she knew that Madam
Quinn was trying her best to be friendly. “I don’t have one.”
Susan turned back to the little girl. “You don’t?” All of the
students from the fee-paying school were constantly out-doing each other with
the latest electronic gadget, or designer piece of clothing. “At all?”
Daisy Button shook her head.
Susan studied the little girl. “Would you like to use mine?”
Daisy nodded quickly, trying not to look too shocked at the offer.
Marcus Ramsbottom’s voice sounded up the coach, “Madam Quinn. We’re
about to pull in. Ladies, ladies, ladies. Rise and shine, please. It’s our
final service station stop. You’ve got twenty minutes to do what it is that you
girls do that makes you look so flourishing.” He raised his eyebrows at the students
who were paying him no attention whatsoever. “Then get yourselves back on this
coach, sharpish! And remember,
on ne parle pas aux étrangers, surtout aux
hommes. A part, moi, bien sûr.
”
Champagne Willington, the eldest girl on the trip at eighteen
years old, shouted back down the coach. “
Même dans vos rêves les plus fous,
Professeur Ramsbottom
.”
Susan stood up from her crouched position. “That’s quite enough,
Champagne.”
“
On ne peut jamais avoir assez de Champagne
,” laughed
Marcus.
“Professor Ramsbottom, if we’re talking to the ladies in French
can we please always explain ourselves to the younger members on the trip.
Someone like Daisy Button here won’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Daisy looked up. “Professor Ramsbottom told us not to talk to any
strange men, him not included. Champagne said, in your dreams, Professor. You
told her off, then Professor Ramsbottom flirted that you can’t ever get enough
Champagne.”
“Daisy!”
Daisy Button shrugged. “It’s true. I’m only saying what they said,
Madam.”
Priggy Bunton-Chatsworth stood from her seat and joined in the
conversation. “
Ouais, détendez-vous, Madame Quinn. On n'est pas en classe.
”
Daisy looked back up at her teacher. “Priggy just told you to relax
because we’re not at school now.”