Family Fan Club

Family Fan Club Jean Ure Karen Donnelly A humorous, poignant and heartwarming story of four girls and their exasperating parents, from the Queen of Tween, Jean Ure.“People always fall out after they’re married. I’m going to stay single.”Jasmine, Laurel, Rose and Daisy. Four very different sisters, four very different attitudes! As if living with each other wasn’t bad enough, living with their parents is worse – particularly parents who are both actors. Please!But after the Great Row, the girls find themselves living with Mum, while Dad has gone to America to find work. How are the sisters going to achieve their own personal ambitions: become an actress, model, writer, vet… when they can’t even achieve their joint ambition – to reunite parents who are on different continents? for Linda (#ulink_ce4e6473-5aaa-5df8-8d17-1e77e0b3618e) Contents Cover (#u20e43724-ae33-5122-ad78-f62be49b7be0) Title Page (#u20930e7f-b188-52b1-8e10-90143e8b09ec) Dedication (#u7dcaffc2-9bdd-5033-8bb9-ec10ba1b1928) one (#u9c20e12f-a36d-5fbf-b9ef-08c7e654b8ae) two (#udb2bf5c2-9c72-5456-8fd5-ae28f33a687e) three (#uec6136af-6b78-5ceb-936f-458e65a0c269) four (#litres_trial_promo) five (#litres_trial_promo) six (#litres_trial_promo) seven (#litres_trial_promo) eight (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Jean Ure (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) (#ulink_8d06f197-2a29-54cd-91a1-cb8cf19a4954) “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” sighed Jasmine, stretched out on the rug. “What?” Laurel’s head shot up from the magazine she was looking at. “What are you talking about?” “Christmas,” said Jazz. “Without any presents.” She sighed again, rather more dramatically this time. “N-no presents?” Daisy’s lip quivered. “No presents at all?” Solemnly, Jazz shook her head. “Who said?” demanded Laurel. “Nobody said.” That was Rose, just a tiny bit scornful. How easily people allowed themselves to be taken in! “She’s winding you up.” “You mean we will have presents?” said Daisy, hopefully. “’Course we will!” Jazz rocked herself into a sitting position. “Got you going, didn’t I?” Daisy was still looking bewildered. “Oh!” Laurel’s face cleared. “It’s from Mum’s play!” “Opening line! Little Women … ‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents’. I thought everybody knew that,” said Jazz. But she and Rose were the only two who really read books, and Rose’s were usually big fat learned volumes all about history. Rose was what Jazz privately thought of as “eleven-going-on-a-hundred". Took life just so-o-o-o seriously. Thought novels were a frivolous waste of time. Laurel was the opposite. She only read film and fashion mags. As for Daisy – well! A smile curved Jazz’s lips. It would be kindest to say that Daisy struggled. Tries hard was what the teachers always wrote on Daisy’s school reports. “You are all so ignorant,” said Jazz. “I knew it was the opening line,” said Laurel. “I remembered it from the film.” “You ought to read the book. The book is far better.” Laurel pulled a face. “The book’s old-fashioned.” “So?” “So I like things that are new!” “No soul,” grumbled Jazz. “I suppose you’ll say Mum’s play isn’t as good as the film.” “No, I won’t, ’cos Mum’s in it and it wouldn’t be kind.” Mum was playing the part of Marmee. She had been rehearsing all through December, ready for opening on Boxing Day. Of course they were all going to see it, even though it was “way out in the sticks", as Jazz called anywhere that wasn’t London. “If it had been in the West End,” mourned Laurel, “she’d be making a fortune.” “Not a fortune,” said Jazz. “You never get a fortune, working in theatre. You have to do films and telly for that.” Their mum had been on telly, once. She had been in a soap called Icing on the Cake, all about a woman who ran a business making wedding cakes. Mum hadn’t been the actual woman, but she’d been the woman’s best friend. It had run for four years and Mum had been famous. Well, quite famous. Famous enough to be recognised in the street and for people to come clamouring for her autograph. For the first time that any of them could remember there had been money in the Jones household. No more scraping and pinching and worrying about how to pay the bills. No more searching for clothes in the local Oxfam shops. No more hand-me-downs or cast-offs. Instead, it had been meals out and shopping in Marks & Spencer and FUN. They had even moved from their dark dingy flat in Dartford (out in the sticks) to a real house in London. It was admittedly only just in London. South London. But it was on the tube, said Jazz, and so it counted. Icing on the Cake had been axed at Easter and now the money was starting to run out. “We’re going to be poor again,” wailed Laurel, who was the eldest and could remember very clearly what it had been like before Mum was on the telly. Laurel really hated being poor. Jazz declared bravely that there were other things in life besides money, and Daisy was an undemanding little creature. So long as she had her cats, she was happy. Rose just muttered about the evils of isms – sexism, racism, classism – and made everybody groan. They always groaned when Rose started on what Jazz called her spouting. “I hate it when you can’t have the things you want,” said Laurel. She meant clothes. Laurel loved to look smart and wear the latest gear. “If only Mum could get on telly again!” Little Women was the first real job that Mum had had since Icing. They had held a conference, the five of them, to discuss whether she should accept it. “It’ll mean me being out in the evenings,” warned Mum. “But we do need the money and Marmee is a good part.” “When I was little,” said Jazz, “I used to wonder what Marmee meant!” She giggled. “What does it mean?” said Daisy. Laurel said kindly, “It’s the American way of saying Mummy.” “They say mommy” explained Jazz. “Only it comes out” – she adopted an exaggerated American drawl – “as marmee.” Daisy nodded and went back to grooming Tinkerbell, their white cat. Tink was big and fluffy and Daisy spent many contented hours combing out the knots with his special cat comb. None of the others had the patience. “I need a whole new wardrobe,” said Laurel. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in half the stuff I’ve got!” “Yes, and I want acting classes and Daisy wants another kitten and Rose – well, I don’t know what Rose wants.” “Nothing.” Rose said it grandly. “I don’t want anything.” “Just as well, since you probably won’t get anything.” “You mean we’re really not having any presents?” Daisy’s face crumpled. “Not even stocking fillers?” “Oh! Well. Yes. I expect we can run to those. But nothing big.” “A kitten isn’t big.” “Kittens cost money.” “No! I know someone whose cat’s just had a litter! They’re giving them away free.” “Honestly!” Laurel shook her head. “You’ve already got Tink and Muffy! What do you want another one for?” “I just love them so,” said Daisy. Rose said, “She needs something to cuddle.” “Cats are very cuddly,” agreed Jazz. “Especially that great fat lump of a Tinkerbell.” “I’d sooner have Dad!” The words seemed to come bursting out of Daisy before she could stop them. There was a silence. “I thought we’d agreed,” said Jazz, “that we wouldn’t talk about Dad.” “I can’t help it!” sobbed Daisy. “I miss him! I want him!” “We all miss him,” said Laurel. But it was true that Daisy had been Dad’s girl. He had always had a specially soft spot for his little Daisy. “Maybe he’ll come home for Christmas,” suggested Rose. “Well, he won’t,” said Jazz, “’cos I asked Mum and she said it was all over between them and we’d got to get used to the idea.” “That needn’t stop him coming back for Christmas.” Rose could be stubborn. She also enjoyed arguing. “He doesn’t have to stay with us.” “No, but I don’t expect he could afford the air fare.” Laurel said it sombrely. “It costs a bomb.” Dad had been in the States for almost six months, now, looking for acting work. So far he’d only found what Jazz called bit parts. Bread-and-butter parts. Spits-and-coughs. Last time he’d rung he’d told them proudly that he was going to be in a Mel Gibson movie – “But it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-me kind of thing. Know what I mean?” “It’s so unfair!” cried Jazz. “Dad’s a really brilliant actor!” “There probably aren’t that many parts for English actors in the States,” said Laurel, sadly. “Specially not black English actors.” said Rose. Who else? “Oh, don’t start on politics!” Jazz turned on her, crossly. “It’s not politics,” said Rose. “It’s a fact of life. It’s why he couldn’t get work over here. ’cos they don’t use black actors.” Jazz opened her mouth to argue — and then closed it again. If she said, “They do,” then it would be like saying Dad just wasn’t good enough. But he was good! Even Mum said so, and Mum wasn’t on speaking terms with him at the moment. On the other hand, if she agreed with Rose … Jazz bit her lip. That would mean there wasn’t going to be much of a chance for her when she grew up. Jazz couldn’t accept that. She was going to be an actress, she was going to be a success, she was going to be a STAR. “They do use some,” she muttered. “Oh! Some. Just a few. Just as tokens.” “Not always!” “So when did Dad ever get a real part? I mean a real part? You tell me!” said Rose. “Look, you two, just give it a rest!” begged Laurel. “It’s incredibly boring when you go at it like that. I get sick to death of all this political correctness stuff.” “It’s not p—” “Oh, stop it! Just stop it!” Laurel clapped her hands to her ears. “If you don’t stop I shall scream!” There was a pause. “Know what I think?” said Rose. Jazz rolled her eyes. “No, but go on! Tell us.” She would have done, anyway. There was no stopping Rose when she got on her soap box. “I think Mum and Dad should never have got married. I think it was doomed to failure from the word go. That’s what I think.” Jazz stared at her, aghast. “Now you’re being racist!” “I’m not being racist! All I—” “You are! You sound just like Nan! She’s always going on about mixed marriages.” “’Tisn’t what I meant,” said Rose. “So what did you mean?” “If you’d just let me talk, instead of jumping down my throat all the time, you wouldn’t have to ask. What I meant,” said Rose, “was that Mum being an actress and Dad being an actor was just a fatal combination. They almost never stay together, actors and actresses.” Jazz fell silent. She couldn’t think of any argument against that. “I suppose it wouldn’t have been quite so bad,” said Laurel, “if Dad had been the one to get into a soap.” Jazz whipped round. “Why not?” “Well—” Laurel hunched a shoulder. “Women don’t seem to mind so much. Men don’t like it when their wives get famous and make a lot of money. Something to do with male pride,” she said. “Especially when Nan kept going on,” agreed Rose. “But Mum never did!” “I don’t see why they had to fall out about it,” muttered Jazz. “People always fall out when they’re married. I’m going to stay single,” said Rose. Jazz resisted the temptation to inform her sister that she probably wouldn’t have much choice in the matter, because what man would ever want to marry her with that mouth? Daisy was rocking to and fro with Tink cradled in her arms, and her face was puckered in distress. Mum and Dad breaking up had been harder for Daisy than for anyone. Part of the reason they had agreed not to talk about Dad was that it always ended in tears. “This will be the first Christmas we’ve ever had without him.” Daisy whispered the words into Tinkerbell’s fur. Rose frowned and turned away. Jazz and Laurel exchanged glances. They had promised Mum that if she accepted the part of Marmee, they would take care of Daisy. Mum was worried about Daisy. When Dad had left, she had wept almost non-stop for a week. Even now, if she got too wound up she was capable of crying herself into a state of exhaustion. Daisy wasn’t as robust as the others. They all missed Dad, of course they did! But life had to go on. “Just remember,” said Jazz, bracingly, “it’ll be far worse for Dad than it is for us … we’re at home and we’ve got each other. He’s all by himself in a foreign country.” “Jazz!” Laurel kicked hard at her sister’s ankle. Trust Jazz! Trying to be helpful and simply being tactless. As usual. If anyone could put their foot in it, Jasmine could. Jazz seemed suddenly to realise what she had done. Hastily, putting her other foot in it, she said, “Well, no, actually, come to think of it, Dad will probably have a ball! I bet he’ll be going to all the Hollywood gigs and meeting all the big stars … Mel. Al. Leonardo.” “Leonardo!” Laurel went into a mock swoon. Leonardo DiCaprio was the current love of her life. “Imagine Dad getting to meet all those famous people!” enthused Jazz. “He probably won’t miss us at all!” Rose threw up her hands. Laurel said, “Of course he’ll miss us! And he’ll miss Daisy more than anyone. But he’ll try not to be sad, because people shouldn’t be sad at Christmas, and he won’t want us to be sad, either. And he’ll call us Christmas Day, like he promised, and Daisy can have first talk.” “And last one, too,” said Rose. “And last one, too. So you’d just better start thinking of things to say to him!” “Make notes, I would,” said Rose. “In case you forget.” Daisy liked that idea. She scrubbed at her eyes. “I will!” she said. She scrambled to her feet, still hugging Tinkerbell. “I’ll start thinking straight away!” As Daisy left the room, Laurel looked at Jazz and tapped a finger to her forehead. “Dumbo!” She meant Jazz, not Daisy, but Jazz’s thoughts were already elsewhere. They never stayed still for very long. “Hey! Know what?” “What?” “I just thought of something!” Jazz sprang up, excitedly. “Something we could do … we could copy some of the pages from Mum’s script and act out a scene for her on Christmas Day!” There was a silence. “What for?” said Rose. “For fun!” “I wouldn’t think it was fun,” said Rose. “Yes, you would, you’d enjoy it! Once you got started.” “Don’t want to get started.” “Oh, don’t be such a gloom!” Jazz took a flying leap on to the sofa and sat there, hugging her knees to her chin and rocking to and fro. “Think of Mum! She’d love it! You know she’s always saying the things she likes best are the ones we’ve really worked at, like when we make our own cards.” “So we’ll make our own cards,” said Rose. “We’ll make our own cards and act out a scene. It will be like a present from us all.” Rose pulled a face. Laurel shook her head. There wasn’t any arguing with Jazz once an idea had taken hold of her. She bounced up off the sofa. “I’ll go and start copying right now!” “Can’t,” said Rose. “Mum’s got the script with her.” “Then I shall make up my own one, from the book!” “How are you going to copy it?” yelled Laurel, as Jazz scudded through the door. “Nobody can read your rotten writing!” Jazz stuck her head back in again. “Not going to write! Going to use the typewriter.” “That old thing!” said Rose. They had discovered the typewriter up in the attic, when they had moved in. It was very ancient. It had strange old-fashioned metal keys that rattled, and which you had to bash really hard, and an inky ribbon made of cotton that kept winding itself back every time it reached the end of the spool. To make copies you had to use carbon paper, which was messy, especially if you had to correct mistakes. Even messier if you put the carbon paper in the wrong way round. “It’s ridiculous,” said Rose. “Why can’t we have a computer?” Jazz’s head, which had disappeared, popped back in again. “’cos we can’t afford one!” “It’s like living in a cave,” grumbled Rose. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even got a television!” Of all of them, Rose was the only one who was technologically minded. It was Rose who discovered how to use the video and Rose who learnt all the programmes on the washing machine. Mum was useless, and Dad hadn’t been much better. Imagine having a dad who didn’t know how to work the video! Imagine having a dad. Jazz blinked, rapidly, as the tears came to her eyes. Sometimes even now, when she thought about Dad, great waves of misery would wash over her. They had all tried so hard to be brave about it, when the Great Row had happened and Dad had gone storming out. They had heard it from the upstairs landing. One by one, first Jazz, then Laurel, then Rose and Daisy, clutching Tink in her arms for comfort, had come creeping from their rooms and crouched, tense and shivering, at the head of the stairs. It wasn’t the first time Mum and Dad had shouted at each other. Jazz had always tried explaining it to herself by saying, “Well, they’re actors. Actors are like that. They enjoy making a noise.” But this time she had known, they had all known, that this was the big one. The Great Row. It was about money, as usual. Before Mum had got into Icing they had rowed about the fact that they hadn’t got any. They had rowed about whether they should both continue to pay their Equity fees and their fees to Spotlight, the actors’ casting directory, or whether only one of them should. They had rowed about whether one of them should give up acting and do something else. Get a proper job. They had rowed because Mum had got her hair done for an audition and Dad had said it was a waste of money, and because Dad had a new publicity photograph taken and Mum had said it wasn’t necessary. They had rowed because they were worried. Because they couldn’t afford to pay the bills or find a decent place for the family to live. And then Mum had got into Icing and the money had come rolling in and they still had rows. Still about money. Mum had wanted to do one thing with it, Dad had wanted to do another. And instead of talking it out calmly and sensibly, they had ended up yelling. One time Mum had yelled, “Who’s earning this money, I’d like to know?” Jazz had thought that was very unfair. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he couldn’t find work; it certainly wasn’t for want of trying. But then another time Dad had accused Mum of behaving like a prima donna, “Just because you’re in some second-rate soap!” And that wasn’t fair, either. Fame had never gone to Mum’s head; she’d still been the same old Mum. But perhaps, looking back on it, thought Jazz, Mum hadn’t been as kind to Dad as she might have been. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seeing Mum become a household name while he was still just an out of work actor. On the other hand, Dad could have tried a little bit harder to be happy for Mum and not to show that he was feeling hard done by. Maybe Rose was right, thought Jazz, sadly, as she toiled up the attic stairs, clutching Mum’s old childhood copy of Little Women. Maybe actors and actresses oughtn’t to get married to each other. When I am an actress, she thought, I shall marry someone boring and sensible who works in an office and earns money and won’t be jealous when I am rich and famous. We won’t yell and shout and upset our children by storming out and saying good riddance. (Which was what Mum had screamed when Dad had gone.) We shall stay together always and be a proper family. By the time she reached the attic, Jazz had difficulty seeing through her tears. She brushed them away, angrily. Jazz didn’t like crying, not even when she was on her own. She certainly wouldn’t do it in front of people. She was the strong one of the family. But never mind Christmas not being Christmas without any presents, she thought. How could Christmas be Christmas without any dad? (#ulink_f6f3d185-a07e-575e-97e2-a7b626a16a75) “It’s so dreadful to be poor,” sighed Laurel, “looking down at her old dr—” “Stop!” Jazz waved her script, in anguish. “You don’t have to say that bit!” “What bit?” “Looking down at her old dress. That’s a stage direction! It’s something you’re supposed to do.” “Oh. Well, how was I to know?” said Laurel, aggrieved. “The bits in brackets are what you do. The other bits are what you say. You’d think,” grumbled Jazz, “that you’d know that by now. You’ve seen enough scripts!” “The scripts I’ve seen never looked like this,” said Laurel. LivinG Rooom, MARch household Jazz is lying on; the rug Jazz Chritsmas wonT be Chritsmas witout any presnets. MEG (sisghs) Its so daredful to be poor (looking dwon at her old dresss) “I can’t help it if the typewriter isn’t any good,” said Jazz. “Just get on with it! Rose, say your line.” “I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things and other girls having nothing at all. Well, it isn’t,” said Rose. “But that’s what happens when you live in a capitalist society.” “Do you mind?” Jazz glared at her sister. “Just say the lines! Don’t add bits.” “Well, but this Amy person does my head in,” said Rose. “Why do I have to play her?” “Because I’m the director and that’s who I cast you as!” “But I’m nothing like her,” said Rose. “You’re the youngest!” “So what? It doesn’t make me like her.” “Look, just shut up!” said Jazz. “You’re supposed to be acting. Injured sniff. Give an injured sniff!” Rose did so. “That was good,” said Jazz. “Daisy! Your line.” “We’ve g–got f–father and m–mother and e–each other,” read Daisy, haltingly, from her script. “Vomit,” said Rose. “This is really yucky!” “It’s not, it’s lovely!” said Jazz. “Don’t be so horrid! It was Mum’s favourite book when she was young.” “I cried buckets when I saw the film,” said Laurel. “You would.” Rose looked at her eldest sister, pityingly. “The only films you ever like are weepies. And sickies.” “I don’t like sickies!” “Yes, you do! You just love it if it’s about someone getting ill and dying. You wallow.” “Oh. I thought you meant sick like people going round murdering people. I don’t like it when they go round murdering people. I l—” “Look!” Jazz, impatient, stamped a foot. Daisy jumped. “Are we rehearsing Little Women or are we having a mothers’ meeting?” “Rehearsing Little Women,” said Daisy. “Thank you! That is what I thought we were doing. Can we please get on with it? We’ve only got four days!” They staggered on, through the script that Jazz had so laboriously typed out on the old machine in the attic. Rose kept saying Vomit and Yuck and “I’m going to be sick!” Laurel didn’t pay proper attention and kept reading stage directions and typing errors. “Really, girls, you are both to be balmed – balmed? Oh! You mean blamed. You are both to be blamed, beginning to lecture in her – oops! Sorry! Stage direction. You are old enough to leave off such boysih – BOYISH tricks and tobe have better. What’s tobe have b – oh! To behave better. Why do you keep splitting words up all funny?” “I couldn’t help it,” said Jazz. “It’s the typewriter. It keeps sticking. If you would just concentrate—” “It’s all yuck,” said Rose. Daisy was the only one who really tried, but Daisy wasn’t the most brilliant reader at the best of times. It was as much as she could do to read what Jazz had actually typed. “If J–Jo is a r–romboy—” “A romboy!” Rose threw up her hands in delight. “Jo is a romboy!” Jazz screamed, “Tomboy, you idiot!” She wasn’t screaming at Daisy; you didn’t scream at Daisy. It was that stupid Rose, always trying to be so clever. “What’s the matter with romboy?” said Rose. “I like it!” “It’s w–what it says,” stammered Daisy. “Look, look! What’s this word here? Clotehs.” Rose wrapped her tongue round it, lovingly. “Meg wants some new clotehs!” “So do I,” said Laurel. “I want a whole wardrobe of new clotehs.” “We could invent a language,” said Rose. “Typing Error language. Like sock would be cosk and milk would be klim and b—” “All right! If you don’t want to give Mum a present” – Jazz hurled her script across the floor – “then don’t give her one!” And she raced from the room, slamming the door very loudly behind her. There was a silence. “We could call it Terrol,” said Rose, brightly. “Call what?” said Laurel. “The language. Typing Error language … Terrol! Book would be boko. Foot would be foto. Hair w—” “Stop it,” said Laurel. “We’ve upset her.” “W–was it my fault?” whispered Daisy. “No! Of course it wasn’t.” Rose rushed fiercely to her sister’s defence. “You only read what she’d typed. You weren’t to know!” “We shouldn’t have fooled around,” said Laurel. Laurel was, after all, the eldest. She was fourteen. Old enough to know better. “Well, she’s only got herself to blame,” said Rose. “Takes everything so seriously.” Rose was a fine one to talk. Get her started on one of her isms and she had about as much sense of humour as a shark with a sore tooth. “Anyway,” said Rose, “she’s not really doing it for Mum. She’s just doing it to show off!” “It’s not showing off.” You had to be fair to Jazz. It was true her enthusiasms sometimes ran away with her and made her a bit domineering, but she wasn’t a show-off. “It’s very important to her,” said Laurel, “being an actress.” “Yes, ’cos she really really wants to go to drama school,” said Daisy. “She wants to show Mum what she can do.” “Don’t see how she thinks we can afford drama school if we can’t even afford proper Christmas presents!” retorted Rose. “She doesn’t mean fulltime,” said Laurel. “Just that little one up the road … Glenda Glade, or whatever it’s called. There’s a girl in her class goes there. Pinky Simons? The one with all the hair? She goes there twice a week. She’s done a commercial. It’s very frustrating,” said Laurel. “It’s what Jazz wants to do more than anything in the world!” “What, a commercial?” muttered Rose, but she was starting to look a bit shamefaced. “If she got a commercial,” said Laurel, “she’d probably earn enough money to pay for herself.” “Huh!” Rose didn’t mean to sound cynical, but how often had she heard Mum and Dad say the very same thing? If I could just get a commercial … “Well, I know,” said Laurel, reading Rose’s thoughts. “But she can dream!” Rose sighed. “I s’pose we’ll have to do it for her. Even though,” she added, with a flash of spirit, “we’d never be cast as Little Women. This was America! We’d probably have been slaves!” “Oh, don’t start!” begged Laurel. “Daisy, go and tell Jazz we’re sorry.” “Why me?” said Daisy. “’cos you’re the only one she won’t get mad at!” Jazz was upstairs in her bedroom. She lay face down on the bed. Great sobs were shaking her, choking her, making it difficult for her to breathe. Partly they were sobs of sheer rage. It was all so unprofessional! Messing up a rehearsal like that. How could they do such a thing? Rose and Laurel were the worst offenders. Poor little Daisy, she’d done her best. Daisy always tried to please. But those two— Jazz banged her clenched fist into the pillow. They just didn’t care! Fresh tears came spurting. Tears of self-pity, as well as rage. They knew how much it meant to her, being an actress! They were deliberately ruining her chances. If Mum could just see what she could do, what she could really do, not just pottering round in the chorus of the school nativity play, she would surely let Jazz go to drama school? Only two days a week! It wasn’t much to ask. A timid knock came at the door. Jazz sprang into a sitting position, snatching up her sleeve for a handkerchief. She blotted angrily at her eyes. What had got into her, just lately? She never cried! She was the strong one. Now, it seemed, the least little thing set her off. She wouldn’t normally let Rose and Laurel get to her. It must be something to do with Christmas, and Dad not being there. She couldn’t imagine Christmas without Dad! “J–Jazz?” It was Daisy’s voice, piping uncertainly. Jazz scrubbed at her eyes, blew her nose, stuffed her handkerchief back up her sleeve. She marched across to the door. “What do you want?” Daisy’s lip quivered. “They told me to c–come and s–say sorry.” “Why you?” said Jazz. “You didn’t do anything!” “They r–really are s–sorry,” whispered Daisy. “Just too cowardly to come and tell me themselves!” “They’re scared you’ll be cross with them.” “Well, I am,” said Jazz. But Jazz never stayed cross for long. She rushed up to the boil, and then just as quickly simmered down. (Unlike Rose, who could nurse a grievance for days.) “They want you to c–come and s–start rehearsing again.” “Only if they’re going to behave themselves,” said Jazz. Rose and Laurel promised humbly that they would. Well, Laurel promised humbly. She said, “It was mean of us and we were stupid and I’m sorry. Let’s start over! This time I’ll concentrate.” Rose couldn’t quite manage to be humble. She said, “I’ll try. But I’m no good at acting and I can’t get it together with this Amy person … not with any of them. They’re all so twee and geeky!” “They are a bit goody-goody,” said Laurel. She said it apologetically, not wanting to upset Jazz. “Did you think they were goody-goody in the film?” demanded Jazz. “Well – y–yes. Sort of. But it was all right in the film!” “Why was it all right in the film and not all right now?” “Dunno,” said Laurel. She shrugged. “Just was.” “I’ll tell you why it was,” said Jazz. “It was because of the costumes. They were all dressed up in old-fashioned clothes, so you didn’t mind. You expect people in old-fashioned clothes to be a bit goody-goody. Like … you know! Going to church and saying grace and not swearing, and stuff like that.” “And girls behaving like girls,” said Rose. She screwed up her face. “All prim and proper.” “It’s how they were in those days. But it doesn’t mean they weren’t real people! What you have to do,” said Jazz, “you have to pretend that you were living then, not now.” “Maybe it would help if we had costumes,” said Laurel. “Yes!” Daisy clapped her hands. “Let’s have costumes!” “Well …” Jazz sounded doubtful. She hadn’t planned on being quite so ambitious. If you’ll be responsible for them—” “I’ll help, I’ll help!” cried Daisy. “What did they wear?” said Laurel. “Was it crinolines? We could make hoops out of bits of wire and put them under our skirts and drape bedspreads over them and wear our school blouses with some of Mum’s big scarves and—” “Now see what you’ve done!” said Rose. “You’ve gone and turned it into a full-scale production!” “That’s all right,” said Jazz. “It’s not all right! I haven’t got time for all this. Costume fittings. Dress rehearsals. Read-throughs. Photo calls. I have work to do,” said Rose, all self-important. “What work?” said Laurel. “I’m writing a book, if you must know.” “A book? About what?” “Please!” Jazz waved her arms. “If we’re going to do it, let’s get started.” “I just wanted to know what she could possibly be writing a book about.” “She can tell us later. Let’s take it from the top! Christmas won’t be Christmas. We’re all sitting round the fire—” “It’s about a colony of ants, actually,” said Rose. “A colony of ants?” “Look, please!” said Jazz. “Sorry, sorry!” Laurel sank down, cross-legged, on the floor. Rose bumped down beside her. “Different-coloured ants,” she hissed. “Black ants, red ants, white ants, b—” “Christmas,” said Jazz, very loudly, looking hard at Rose, “won’t be Christmas without any presents.” “Sorry,” said Rose. This time, they managed to get through all six pages of the script. It was Laurel who had the final speech. “No, it’s the toasting frok, sorry, fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the beard. Beard??? Oh, bread! Silly me!” Laurel giggled. “With Mother’s shoe on it instead of the bread. Phew!” She fanned herself with her script. “Is that the end?” “Yes, because that’s where Marmee comes in.” “Thank goodness for that! I don’t know how I’m supposed to find time to learn all these lines,” said Rose. “Learn them?” Daisy sounded startled. “Have we got to learn them?” “Only if you can,” said Jazz, kindly. “But don’t worry if you can’t.” “I won’t,” said Rose. “I didn’t mean you!” Jazz swung round. “I meant Daisy.” Rose heaved an exaggerated sigh, but she didn’t try to argue. It was accepted in the family that Daisy was treated more gently than the others. “Know what?” said Jazz. “We actually are quite like the girls in Little Women. We are!” she said, as Rose opened her mouth. “In spite of what you say.” “How?” said Laurel. “How are we like them?” “Well, if you think about it … their dad’s away from home—” “Their dad’s fighting in a war,” said Rose. “Yes, well, so’s ours, in a way. Except he’s fighting it against Mum. Trying to prove to her that he can make it as an actor. The point is,” said Jazz, a touch testily, “he’s away from home.” She really couldn’t stand it when people would insist on interrupting with their little niggles and nitpicks when she was off on one of her flights of fancy. “Their dad’s not there. Right?” Daisy nodded, rather tremulously. “And they’re all dead worried in case he doesn’t come back.” Daisy’s eyes grew big. Her lower lip began to tremble. Really! thought Laurel. Jazz could be so dumb at times. “It’s all right,” she said, squeezing Daisy’s arm. “He does come back, in the end.” “Oh. Right! Yes,” said Jazz. “Soon as the war’s over … he comes back to them. Wars don’t last for ever! So. As I was saying. There’s four of them, yes? Just like us. They live with their mum. They don’t have much money—” “Tell us about it!” said Laurel. “I’m trying to, if you’d only listen! We’re just the same as they are, only in another age. Meg’s the oldest, right? And she really cares about the way she looks.” “She’s mumsy,” said Laurel. Meg was her part. She didn’t think she wanted to be compared to Meg. “She’s not!” said Jazz. “She’s pretty – like you. And she enjoys being pretty.” Jazz warmed to her theme. This was what being a director was all about! Giving your cast something to work on. “She only gets mumsy when she gets married. Like you probably will.” “I will not!” Laurel was indignant. She was going to be a top fashion model. She wasn’t going to get mumsy! “Well, anyway, you’re both pretty,” said Jazz. Everyone acknowledged that if Rose was the brains of the family, Laurel was the beauty. “And you both like to wear nice clothes. You can’t deny it! You’re always going on about clothes.” “Clothes are important,” said Laurel. “Yes, but they’re specially important to you. The rest of us don’t care so much. Wouldn’t bother me,” said Jazz, “if I didn’t ever wear anything but dungarees.” “Now you’re making me sound like a fribble!” “You’re not a fribble. It just happens to be something you’re interested in. We’d probably be interested, as well,” said Jazz, “if we looked like you.” “Hm!” Laurel tried not to sound self-satisfied, but she did like it when people told her she was pretty. “What about you?” she said. “Me. Yes. Well,” said Jazz, “I suppose I am a bit like Jo. I mean, I am quite ambitious—” “Quite?” said Rose. “I thought you told us you were going to end up in Hollywood and be a megastar?” Jazz grinned. “All right. I’m ambitious! And I know I can be impatient sometimes, just like Jo.” “Yes, and, you’re definitely boyish,” said Laurel, getting her own back for the mumsy bit. She wasn’t ever going to get mumsy! She looked pointedly at Jazz’s hair, cropped so close to her head it might almost have been a cap. “I’m not a bimbo,” agreed Jazz. “Maybe you’ll turn out to be a lesbian,” said Rose. Jazz picked up a cushion and threw it at her. Laurel shrieked, “Rose! Don’t be so disgusting!” “There isn’t anything disgusting about it,” said Rose. “What’s disgusting about it? Honestly, you’re so prejudiced! Anyway, if she’s really like Jo she’ll end up marrying some old man who could be her father. That’s what I call disgusting.” “Ageist!” taunted Jazz; and for once Rose actually had the grace to look abashed. “Just get on with it,” she said. In spite of herself, she was curious to hear what Jazz would say when she got to her. “OK. Well – Beth.” “Am I like her?” said Daisy. “Yes, you are!” Jazz leaned across and gave her a hug. “’cos you’re good and sweet and everybody loves you!” Nobody argued with that. Daisy might be a whole year older than Rose, who had just started in Year 7 that term, but she was still everyone’s pet and treated very much as the baby. She went to a special school, for children with learning difficulties. It wasn’t that she was stupid; just that she couldn’t learn as fast as other people. At Daisy’s school there were only fourteen children in a class. At the comprehensive, there were thirty. Daisy couldn’t cope with that. She had come home weeping every day because “big girls” had bullied her, so Mum had used some of her Icing money to pay for her to go to Linden Hyrst. That was one of the few times when Mum and Dad had been in agreement. They weren’t having their little Daisy being bullied. “So what about Amy?” said Laurel, putting the question that Rose had been dying to put for herself. Oh! Amy and Rose are definitely alike. Self-opinionated, for a start – you are, Rose, so don’t deny it!” Rose wouldn’t. She rather prided herself on having opinions and voicing them. “Vain—” “Vain?” Vain was something else! Rose’s head jerked up in genuine outrage. How could Jazz accuse her of being vain? “I’m not pretty enough to be vain!” It was true. Of the four of them, Rose was the only one who could be called homely. (Meaning plain, only it wasn’t kind to say so.) She was bright, vivid, intelligent – almost a genius, her sisters thought, but not pretty. It didn’t bother her. She left all the girly stuff to the others. “You’re still vain,” said Jazz. “You are vain of your brain.” Laurel laughed and punched the air. “Yessssss!” “You are,” said Jazz. “But that’s OK. We’re all vain about something. Except Daisy!” she added, giving her another hug. “She isn’t.” “I am a bit,” said Daisy. “You?” Jazz laughed. “What are you vain about?” “My nose,” said Daisy, pressing a finger against it. Daisy had inherited Mum’s nose. Small and neat and just the tiniest bit tip-tilted. “Well, I never knew that!” said Jazz. (#ulink_6aebc29d-aea7-5549-9d44-126316a55071) “Oh. No!” cried Laurel. She banged down her fork and stared accusingly at Mum across the kitchen table. “Not her again!” Her was an actress friend of Mum’s, known to the girls as Queen of the Soaps, or Lady Jayne. Her real name was Jayne Crichton, pronounced Cryton. She could be quite snooty if anyone called her Critchton. She could be quite snooty about a lot of things. Modern manners. Modern speech. Modern diction. “Speak up! Don’t mumble! Everyone today has sloppy diction. No one projects any more. How do you think you’re going to be heard in the back row of the stalls?” Mum said she was an actress of the old school and they had to be patient with her. “But why does she always have to come at Christmas?” wailed Laurel. “Because she has nowhere else to go.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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