Cindy Jones (7 page)

 

“Didn't do it indeed! Who else would put Epsom salts into the fruit cup?” Mrs. Barry's disbelief rang loudly around the pool.

“It was not me,” Cindy protested.

“Give me a hand with the boys, Gretta,” the professor ordered.

“You don't believe her, do you?” Cindy yelled at her father.

“We'll discuss it later.”

He and Gretta bundled the boys over to the laundry, where they could be heard groaning as they threw up. Constance and Frazzle's faces were bright with suppressed mirth.

“I bet you rats did it,” Cindy accused.

“What a ridiculous accusation.” Constance examined her red fingernails.

“Ridiculous!” agreed Frazzle, grinning openly.

Cindy clenched her fists. Her eyes prickled, and her face felt hot. Constance nudged Frazzle.

“Look how red she is! Must have a touch of the sun!”

“Or too much fruit cup,” Frazzle giggled.

“Try some yourself.” Cindy picked up the plastic bowl of fruit punch and threw it over Constance, who stood in front of her mother. Apricots, cherries, and passion fruit cascaded over Constance's hair, and dripped off Mrs. Barry's broad-brimmed hat.

“Oh!” Constance gasped.

“Oh!” shrieked Mrs. Barry.

“And take that,” Cindy sobbed, as she picked up the plastic bowl of trifle and threw it into Frazzle's face.

Frazzle spluttered and wiped her eyes. Behind the sticky trifle the amused smirk was completely gone. A hand fell heavily on Cindy's shoulder.

“Go to your room,” ordered the cold voice of her father.

“I won't, and I hate you.”

The professor tightened his grip on Cindy's shoulder, propelled her into the house, and pushed her upstairs into her new bedroom.

“Come out when you feel like apologizing,” he advised and shut the door gently.

“I won't, I won't,” Cindy yelled.

She threw herself on her bed, and the tears dripped on to her pillow. If she stayed in her bedroom until she starved to death, she would never apologize. Never!

Out in the driveway a car started up, and then later on, another one. The guests were leaving. The long afternoon wore on and the light faded. Cindy lay on her bed, her hot face buried in her pillow.

Her father hadn't even bothered to defend her. The ache in her throat hurt, and her tears started again. Her father acted as if he actually liked Mrs. Barry. Mrs. Barry was slowly pushing Cindy out from first place in her father's affections and her own home!

What if Jim and the other boys really believed she was the one who had put Epsom salts in the fruit cup? They would never speak to her again. Cindy tried to suppress a sob.

Horace jumped on the bed. He licked the tearstains from her face with his rasping tongue and brushed against her. Cindy hugged him and realized she was still wearing her bathers. She changed into her pajamas and snuggled under the bedclothes, the comforting warmth of Horace against her.

She started to feel less upset. The hurt of her father's disbelief, Mrs. Barry's ill-disguised triumph, and the malicious glee of the two girls shrank to more manageable proportions with mad Horace purring away against her.

The professor didn't have a chance to take her side of the argument after she had behaved so stupidly. He was upset by her throwing food at her guests, even if they did deserve it. It was silly to play into Mrs. Barry's hands by being rude and childish. The wedding date was getting closer and closer. There was too much at stake to indulge in temper tantrums.

“I will apologize,” she told Horace, and the big cat purred agreement. “To everybody I can think of.”

The next morning, the house was very quiet. Cindy ran into the kitchen. It was after nine thirty! Her father had gone without waking her.

“I'm late!” she lamented to Horace.

She dressed, fed the animals, grabbed her schoolbooks, and rode fast towards the school. She sneaked into her first class halfway through the lesson. Miss Hopkins flashed round glasses in her direction but ignored her. At morning recess, Frazzle pounced, grabbing her arm.

“I want to talk to you, Cindy Jones.”

“I want to talk to you, too,” Cindy replied, feeling her good resolutions about apologizing evaporate at the rough way Frazzle was dragging her across the schoolyard.

“If Constance said it was my idea about the Epsom salts she's a liar,” Frazzle said.

“It's about throwing the trifle at you,” Cindy gulped. “I'm sorry I was so rude after inviting you to the pool party.”

“That's all right, Cindy.” Frazzle loosened her grip and looked relieved. “I would've done the same thing in your place. I'm sorry you got into trouble though.”

Cindy rubbed her arm. “I'm sorry I spoiled everyone's day.”

“I won't let that idiot Constance talk me into anything silly again,” Frazzle promised.

“I should think not,” said someone behind them.

It was Jim, with Rork and Jeremy beside him. They looked stern and pale faced.

“Are you all right?” Cindy asked.

“We recovered,” Rork sighed. “But it was a terrible waste of barbecue.”

Constance and Prunella drifted over and Constance gave the boys a flashing smile. “You feeling better?”

“Okay,” Jim assured her.

Cindy took a deep breath. Constance was next on her list. “I'm sorry I threw the bowl of fruit punch over you, Constance. I lost my temper.”

“You're always losing your temper,” Constance retorted.

“Well, she's said she's sorry, so forget about it,” Jim said tersely.

“Of course, I understand about Cindy and her temper,” Constance said trying to smile. “Mother won't.”

“I'll drop by after school to apologize,” Cindy promised.

It was a depressing thought, but if she could apologize to Frazzle and Constance, she could face Mrs. Barry. After school, however, as she leaned her bike against the elegant steps by Mrs. Barry's townhouse, she felt less confident.

Facing Mrs. Barry made the pit of her stomach tighten. She even wished Constance and Prunella were closer, but they were in their usual spot in the street, giggling and squealing with a group of boys. Cindy took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Well,” Mrs. Barry drawled as she opened it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Barry.” Cindy realized that her voice sounded quite steady. “I came to apologize for my behavior yesterday and hope you weren't too upset.”

“I suppose your father sent you?”

“No, he didn't,” Cindy snapped, almost forgetting her resolution to be polite. “I just came to say I was sorry I was rude to you and the girls.”

“I didn't really expect anything better of you.”

Cindy was tempted to tell Mrs. Barry that the Epsom salts in the fruit punch was Constance's idea, but decided against it. Telling tales would be lowering herself to their level. She picked up her bike.

“Well, thank you for calling, Jacinda, and we shall forget all about it, shall we?” Mrs. Barry's voice was completely different, sugary and friendly.

Cindy looked around. Her father was walking up the path towards them, his face relaxed into a happy relieved smile. “Are you coming in for a while, Cindy?”

“No, thanks, Dad. I've got things to do.”

Cindy wondered how much her father had heard of Mrs. Barry's conversation and whether he overheard her sudden change of tone. The weeks sped past in a whirl of exams, aerobic classes, cooking, and cleaning the surgery. Her father refused to discuss the incident again and changed the subject if Cindy tried to bring it up. He was just pleased that she had made her apology and obviously considered the matter closed.

Every Wednesday, Cindy rushed up to the florist and sent off a single red rose to Jennifer with another line of the Robbie Burns poem.

Everyone teased Jennifer about her secret admirer, and Cindy hugged the secret of Jennifer's starry eyes to herself. Surely the professor would propose to Jennifer soon? Cindy felt sure he was changing his mind about the wedding. He was looking more and more thoughtful after his evenings with Mrs. Barry.

Jennifer and Gretta were in the habit of coming to dinner on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but the professor was usually absent, attending end-of-year dinners and other functions.

Gretta was losing weight on Jenny's salads. Even Hooper was a lot fitter. He now returned from his evening runs with Jim without any of the wheezing and puffing of his earlier days. Miss Hopkins still dropped in to return Horace, but less frequently.

Prunella was friendly enough, and Cindy helped her with her homework most nights, but Constance remained sarcastic and unpleasant.

When Prunella stayed for dinner with Cindy, Jennifer, and Gretta, the conversation always turned to the end of the year parents and pupils dinner-dance.

It was all everyone at school talked about these days. They gathered into groups to discuss their new shoes, their new clothes, how they were going to wear their hair — and even worse, with which boys they were going to dance.

“I've invested in a new dress,” Gretta confided. “It's still smaller than I am, but I intend to fit into it for the great night. Have you got yourself a dress yet, Cindy?”

“Haven't seen anything I like.”

Cindy had gone window-shopping, but all the dresses she liked were a lot more money than she had saved from working for Gretta. She had timidly asked her father if she could have a new dress for the dinner dance. He had looked surprised.

“I'm not into female clothes, Cindy,” he apologized. “Mrs. Barry can take you shopping with Constance and Prunella.”

Cindy opened her mouth to remind him that Mrs. Barry had only offered her Prunella's clothes to wear, but shut it again. She was determined not to criticize Mrs. Barry to her father, or even complain about her.

She went glumly into her nice, clean, spacious bedroom and opened the doors to her spacious built-in wardrobe. Her two checked flannelette shirts, two faded blue cotton shirts, her one good shirt, her duffel coat, and her faded yellow cardigan hung in lonely splendor. Three pairs of jeans were folded in her drawer with two pairs of shorts. She owned two pairs of sneakers and one pair of lace-up school shoes.

Even if she wanted to go to the dance — and she was quite sure she didn't — the only thing she could wear was Prunella's tacky clothes or her jeans.

It was very depressing. For the first time in years, Cindy wished hard and bitterly that she had a mother of her own like everyone else.

There were times when fathers were no use at all.

 

Cindy felt depressed and worried as she sat beside Gretta, who was driving them down to Seaview for the day. It was a lovely, warm, sunny morning with a promise of heat in the air, and a perfect day for a trip to the beach. In the back seat, Prunella was unusually quiet.

It was Sunday. In exactly six days her father was going to get married. The painters and decorators had left, taking their scaffolding and ladders with them. The house glowed with fresh paint and wallpaper, and the new carpet showed off the freshly repaired and varnished furniture. Even Cindy had to admit their house looked wonderful.

The roses with their Robbie Burns quotations had kept Jennifer blushing and starry-eyed, but the professor still hadn't noticed. Cindy tried one last time as they waited for the Barrys to arrive.

“You do like Jennifer, don't you?”

“Charming girl.”

“She likes you,” Cindy persisted. “She likes you an awful lot.”

“That's nice, Cindy, and I like her an awful lot, too.”

“Enough to marry her?”

Her father's thoughtful expression returned. “I'm marrying Mrs. Barry, Cindy.”

Mrs. Barry and Prunella had arrived early. Prunella huddled beside her mother, red-eyed with a tear-swollen face.

“I know you will enjoy your day with Gretta,” Mrs. Barry had said with one of her flashing smiles that never reached her eyes. “The professor and I have lots to do today.”

They drove off. Cindy felt desolate. After next week, her father would always be driving off without her, with Mrs. Barry by his side.

Gretta had arrived in her station wagon. She looked cheerful and trim in a neat, buttoned dress that showed off her new figure.

“Where's Constance?”

“She had a raging row with Mother and cleared out.” Prunella sniffled. “I don't know or care where she is.”

Gretta concentrated on the drive and no one spoke for the trip. When they reached Seaview, Gretta turned off down the steep track to the bathing beach. A slight swell broke and frothed on to the clean white sand.

“I thought we would have a swim and some lunch, and afterwards you girls can potter around while I make my call.” Gretta handed out rugs, umbrellas, and picnic hampers.

The water was clear and sparkling. Cindy cheered up. Swimming was a perfect way to spend a warm morning! Even Prunella recovered from her oddly silent mood. Their lunch was chicken and salad, cheese and dry biscuits, and low-calorie lemonade, and they ate every scrap and drank all the lemonade.

“There wouldn't have been enough for Constance, anyway,” Cindy remarked as they packed up the picnic hamper.

“She says Seaview is a dead, moldy hole,” Prunella volunteered, shaking sand from the rug. “I think she's mad! Seaview must be the absolutely most perfect place in the world.”

“Do you want to come with me around the farm?” Gretta asked as she drove back to the township.

“I'd rather stay here,” Prunella said.

Cindy sighed. She liked to see Gretta at work, but Prunella was too squeamish to watch animals having anything interesting done to them.

“I'll meet you back at the post office in an hour,” Gretta told them as she stopped for them to get out.

She drove away. The two girls walked down the narrow street that led to the pier. The red canaries were whistling loudly. The cage still hung from the front porch of the small cottage. The glum expression cleared from Prunella's face.

“You'll be able to get yourself a couple of birds when you shift in,” Cindy said. “Only you'll need a cat-proof cage.”

Prunella promptly burst into loud and noisy sobs. “But, I won't!” she wailed.

“Do dry up,” Cindy ordered as she handed over one of the professor's checked handkerchiefs.

Prunella sobbed even harder. A few people passing by stared at her. Cindy hustled her down the street, along to the end of the pier, and down the steps to the small landing. The water rippled past the piles with a gentle sucking noise and the occasional splash.

“What's the matter?”

Cindy thought that Prunella carried on like a baby the way she howled, and she was Cindy's age! Apart from having Mrs. Barry as a mother, there was no reason for her to blubber so loudly.

Prunella balled up the professor's sodden handkerchief and tried to stop crying.

“I'm not going to be allowed to have birds,” she blurted out.

“We can keep them in the guinea pig shed. Your mother can't object to that!”

“Mother's booked us all in at St. Anne's as boarders,” Prunella wailed, her eyes filling with tears again. “None of us will be home to look after any pets.”

“That second-rate snob school,” Cindy said with a sniff. “You won't learn anything useful there.”

The meaning of Prunella's words suddenly hit. She stared without seeing the water ripple and curl around the piles, and the plaintive cries of the seagulls faded into nothingness.

“You mean she's had the cheek to book me in, too?”

“Mother said we had to keep it to ourselves. Constance says she's trying to get rid of us all.”

“My father wouldn't agree to a second-rate school like St. Anne's.”

“Mother told the professor you would be happier at boarding school, and it would help us to adjust to their marriage, too.” Prunella's tears dropped into the water. “I don't want to go to boarding school.”

“Don't be such a baby, and stop howling,” Cindy snapped. “Of course she can't bundle us all off to boarding school. We just won't go.”

“It's all right for you, Cindy.” Prunella tried to blink back her tears. “You're so brave, but I'm too scared to stand up to her.”

Cindy was silenced. She was scared of Mrs. Barry, too. Even unpleasant, bullying Constance came off second-best with her mother. A cold pit of apprehension spread in ripples across her stomach.

What if the professor wouldn't back her up? He had already threatened her with boarding school if she didn't behave!

“And that's why she won't let me have a bird of my very own, even if there's plenty of room,” Prunella sobbed. “She said she wasn't going to waste her time looking after a menagerie when we moved in.”

Cindy stared down. Their two reflections wavered as the wind ruffled the water. The tide was turning, and the swell became more pronounced as it slapped and curled around the piles. The small dinghies dotting the bay were pulling into shore.

“Why does my father have to marry her?” Cindy thought out loud.

“I'd really like you for a sister, Cindy.” Prunella reached out a clammy hand to clutch at Cindy. “Even if you are a kook, you're nice.”

Cindy didn't want Constance or Prunella as sisters, but she couldn't hurt Prunella's feelings by saying so. At the moment, Prunella, with her wet tear-stained face, looked for all the world like a dumped ill-treated puppy, pathetically eager for a kind word and a good home.

Prunella's tears dropped into the water, causing neat little circles on the surface until the breeze ruffled them away.

“Now, missy, I thought the tide was coming in too fast,” a voice grumbled.

An old fisherman had rowed his dinghy through under the pier. Cindy leaned over to watch him. He was pulling fish traps up from their moorings under the pier and emptying the fish into the bottom of his boat.

“She's howling because we're going to boarding school next year,” Cindy explained. “Why are you throwing half your fish back?”

“Too small, or no good to eat,” the fisherman said. “What boarding school?”

He was stooped over as he sorted out the fish. All Cindy saw was his battered old hat pulled low down over his face, and the gray whiskers sprouting from beneath it. She thought he might have been the old fisherman who owned the red canaries, but she wasn't sure.

“A second rate school, St. Anne's,” Cindy said with a sigh. “Prunella's mother is marrying my father in six days, and she wants to get rid of us.”

The fisherman dropped his traps back into the water and looked up. He had sharp gray eyes.

“Is this true, missy?”

“Yes,” Prunella sniffled. “And I'm not going to be allowed to keep a canary, even if there is plenty of room.”

Another dinghy bumped against the side of the pier. A short, stout person was rowing it, loose shirt flapping over rolled up trousers, and dirty feet pushed into runners. It was Miss Hopkins. She glanced at the fisherman stooped over the wriggling fish in the bottom of his boat.

“See what you've caused now,” she scolded. The old fisherman ignored her. “Afternoon, Cindy and Prunella. Would you like to ride to shore with me?”

Cindy agreed and helped Prunella into the dinghy and sat beside her. The dinghy dipped and swayed its way from the pier. The old fisherman followed in his dinghy.

Prunella looked a picture of misery with her red eyes and tear-stained face. Cindy rinsed the professor's check handkerchief in the water, wiped Prunella's face clean, and gently dabbed under her puffy red eyes. The water felt cool and refreshing. Cindy trailed her hand back in it.

“Must be beaut to stay here and forget all your troubles,” she said.

“Seaview is a good place for forgetting,” Miss Hopkins agreed. She raised her voice. “Isn't it, Tom?”

The old fisherman in the boat behind them didn't answer. Miss Hopkins stared through blank round glasses at the two girls sitting together.

“Forgetting troubles doesn't solve them, though.” She raised her voice again, and it had an undertone of mockery. “Does it, Tom?”

The old man reached the shore ahead of them, dragged his dinghy up on the sand and trudged away in silence.

Cindy and Prunella helped drag the other dinghy past the high-tide mark, thanked Miss Hopkins, and walked back towards the post office.

“We're a bit late,” Cindy said as she looked at the post office clock. “Hope Gretta hasn't been waiting long.”

“Wasn't that old fisherman rude?” Prunella said. “Do you think he was deaf?”

Cindy shrugged. He didn't seem hard of hearing when he was talking to them. She thought Miss Hopkins was odd to keep talking to an old man who didn't listen.

“Wipe your face again so Gretta won't know you've been bawling,” she advised.