I Think I'll Just Curl Up and Die (4 page)

At that moment, Ruth Turnbull appeared at the top of the stairs. Her face was the colour of cement and judging from the way she was clutching the banister, her sense of balance was not up to much either.

‘Mum, you look awful!' said Laura.

‘Oh thanks,' said Ruth dryly. ‘I don't exactly feel like a million dollars. I suppose it's just something I ate. Nothing to worry about – I'll be fine.'

‘Oh good. Well, I'm off. See ya,' and with that she crashed through the front door with all the delicacy of a stampeding water buffalo.

So much, thought Ruth, for tender loving care.

‘It's arrived!' said Barry excitedly, waving an envelope in Ginny's face. ‘Hey, why are you here? Shouldn't you be at work?'

‘No, not till tomorrow,' said Ginny dismissively. ‘Anyway, what's come?'

‘My acceptance for
Superchef!
It says,
Please attend Television Centre at 9.00 a.m. on November 1st for recording
. I did it, Ginny - I'm in the first round!'

‘That's nice,' said Ginny, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. ‘Do they pay you?'

‘Well no, not unless I win it - then there's a £10,000 prize and all sorts of kitchen gadgetry and the chance to have your recipes published and …'

‘So I suppose we can forget the possibility of your looking for a proper job, you know, the sort that pays money at the end of each month,' she said sarcastically.

‘Oh for Pete's sake, Ginny, can't you show a bit of enthusiasm? I always back you when you're on those phone-ins; I read every damned word you write. Can't you at least pretend to care?'

‘Sorry,' said Ginny.

‘And as it happens, I think within a few days I could be set up with a nice little earner,' he added.

Ginny brightened visibly.

‘That's great – what is it? Where?'

‘Well …' began Barry.

‘And is there a pension?' Ginny interrupted. ‘How much will you be getting? Will there be a company car?'

Ah, thought Barry. He knew his idea was a good one; now all he had to do was convince the bank manager, make a few basic purchases and he was in business. Then Ginny would be thrilled. She wouldn't mind about pensions and stuff, would she?

‘Go on,' encouraged Ginny. ‘Tell me – what is the job?'

‘Wait and see,' he said, reasoning that there was no point having a row before you had to.

Jon sat on the school bus wishing this year would fly past. It wasn't that he hated Bellborough Court; simply that he couldn't wait for his GCSEs to be over and to start his A- level art and design course at Lee Hill. He wished he was there now; Rob had said that the school was doing a production of
Oliver!
at Christmas – designing the set for that would be amazing. The workhouse, the riverside taverns, the rooftop chase at the end – already his mind was sketching out stage layouts and imagining how he would light it. The thing was, all his mental pictures had Sumitha standing centre stage. Every time he sketched, it was her face that stared back out at him. He wondered how he could get to see her again – perhaps she would be at The Stomping Ground on Saturday? But then again, maybe not – he remembered her saying that her father was anti-clubbing and the only way she got there last time was by pretending she was going somewhere else. Still, it might be worth giving it a go.

As the bus turned into the school gates there was a commotion. Horns honked, and Jim, the bus driver who was normally as laid back as a comatose tortoise, swore violently and slammed on the brakes.

‘Bloody rich kids,' he muttered under his breath. Jon peered through the misted up window.

‘What's going on?' he asked the guy in front.

‘Only Bilu Chakrabarti showing off again,' said his mate, grinning. ‘Looks like he's got a flash new car. I guess the whole school will get to hear about it by lunch time.'

Jon grimaced. Bilu was not known for his modesty. Captain of the cricket team, vice-captain of the debating team and the school high diving champion, he was one of those guys for whom everything seemed to turn to gold. Half the girls in the school professed to be madly in love with him – and yet most of the boys weren't that keen on him. Somehow Jon got the idea that fast cars and designer clothes meant more to Bilu than people.

But Jon had more important things on his mind than Bilu. He'd just had a brilliant idea for a cartoon and had to get it down on paper before assembly.

Meanwhile, Jon's mother was heading into the main hall of Leehampton College of Further Education with somewhat less enthusiasm than her son. What was she doing here? she asked herself, gazing around the crowded room. Anona was conscious that she was old enough to be
mother to most of the students here, and despite having taken an hour to dress that morning, felt absurdly out of place in her smart skirt and lacy knit top. Perhaps Henry was right after all; maybe she was just acting on some stupid, mid-life whim. Maybe she should have stuck with flower arranging.

‘Hi there, you new here too?' She turned to find a tall fair-haired guy grinning at her and waving a piece of paper. ‘I'm looking for Interior Design Stage One registration – don't know where that would be, do you?'

Anona felt a surge of relief. ‘That's what I'm doing, too,' she said. ‘I think it's over that way.' She pointed across the room to where a large black sign hung askew on a pillar, the letters
‘Des–'
just visible.

‘Great – let's saunter over then,' he said. ‘I'm Vernon, by the way.' He held out a hand.

‘I'm Anona – Anona Joseph,' Anona replied. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before?' He may not be as old as me, thought Anona, but at least he's over twenty-five.

‘No way,' said Vernon, laughing, as they joined the queue for registration. ‘I was made redundant back in the summer and rather than sit around waiting for some job to drop into my lap I reckoned this was the time to do something I've always wanted to have a go at. So here I am. I reckon it's going to be fun. It'll be a challenge, that's for sure.'

Yes, thought Anona, and that's what I need. For once, I can do something just for me.

At the same time, Mrs Farrant was sitting at the kitchen table, weeping on to an Oatmeal HobNob. The twins had started nursery full time today and there was no one left at home. The house was so quiet she could hear all the clocks ticking. She had waxed the kitchen floor, changed the sheets on Jemma's bed and made a cheese and onion flan – and it was still only eleven o'clock. What was she going to do until three p.m. when she could fetch the twins and Sam? And what was she going to do tomorrow?

As if by telepathy, the phone rang. It was Mrs Banerji. She sounded harassed.

‘Claire, I am in need of help. Can you come down to the Centre now? Please? Just for a couple of hours. Ellie, who runs our crèche, has been sent home sick and I'm stuck here with eight under-threes and a class full of women trying to learn English. You know I'm useless with little kids. Please, Claire.'

‘I'm on my way,' said Claire.

The thought of a morning spent with a clutch of toddlers put a spring in her step as she hurried out.

‘Leehampton 870 … Oh, hi Ginny.' Ruth closed her eyes. Much as she liked her zany friend, right now she didn't want to talk to anybody.

‘Hi, Roo, are you feeling better?' gabbled Ginny.

‘Well, not really, I …' began Ruth wearily.

‘Oh good. Well, the thing is, all hell's been let loose here and I really need to talk before I go off my trolley. Can I come round for a coffee? I phoned the office and told them I'm sick.'

You're
sick? thought Ruth. I think I might die any minute.

‘Ruth?' Ginny's voice was insistent. ‘You still there?

' ‘Yes,' sighed Ruth, willing her undisciplined stomach to stay still for five seconds. ‘Yes, I'm still here.'

‘Oh fine,' said Ginny. ‘So, I'll come round in about ten minutes – I really do need some advice.'

Ruth dragged herself into the kitchen and flopped down at the table. Perhaps she'd feel better if she ate something. She half-heartedly made some toast, spread it with Marmite and nibbled the edge. Her stomach disapproved. Forcibly. Ruth rushed to the bathroom.

While Laura's mum was parting company with her breakfast, her daughter, along with rest of Year Ten, was listening to Mr Todd's start-of-year pep talk in assembly. Listening is perhaps an overstatement; since Toddy said the same thing, more or less, every year you only needed to home in on the essentials. So it wasn't until the word
Oliver!
hit her consciousness that she began to pay attention.

‘I shall be pinning up audition lists at break time,' intoned Mr Todd, beaming at the assembled throng. ‘And do all take part – if you don't want to perform, then think about lighting, props, programme design – remember, boys and girls …'

‘It's the taking part that matters,' mouthed two hundred and fifty pupils silently. It was one of Toddy's pet phrases.

Those wishing to form the chorus i.e. orphan boys, Fagin's crew, tavern girls, street sellers, etc. should sign below
.

Laura had been doing a lot of thinking on the topic of
Oliver!
If she could get a starring role, and if she could somehow wangle things so that Jon came along to watch, she could wow him with her charisma and he would fall blindly in love with her. The trouble was, Laura couldn't sing and hated dancing. But the plan was too good to discard without some further deep thought on the matter.

And so it was that Laura had her brilliant idea.

‘Hey, look, Chelsea,' called Jemma at break time. ‘Rob's auditioning for the part of Bill Sykes. You didn't say.'

Because he didn't tell me, thought Chelsea ruefully, peering at the list of names.

‘I wonder who'll be Nancy?' said Laura wickedly. ‘ Think, all that canoodling and fluttering of eyelashes. Maybe,' she added, ‘I should try for the part.'

‘You can't sing,' snapped Chelsea who couldn't either.

‘That is true,' agreed Laura. ‘Well, I wonder who will get the part? I bet Mandy Fincham will have a go – she's got a voice to die for. And she'd be a perfect Nancy – all that tossing of hair and showing of thigh.'

Chelsea felt close to tears. Mandy Fincham oozed confidence from every pore and when she perched on a desktop, crossed her legs, flicked back that gorgeous blond hair and smiled her dazzling toothpaste-ad smile, rugby lads went weak at the knees. There was nothing for it; much as Chelsea loathed amateur dramatics, she would have to audition. It was that, or dying of a broken heart. Reluctantly, she signed her name.

Ruth Turnbull opened the door to find Ginny dressed in a scarlet and cinnamon suit which was a little loud at the
best of times and definitely a threat to Ruth in her weakened state of health.

‘Hi, Ruth, lovely to see you,' she said, breezing into the hallway. ‘My God, you look like death! Have you got this bug that's going around?'

‘Mmm,' said Ruth non-commitally. ‘Anyway, what's up with you – you said you needed advice. Oh, by the way, could you put the kettle on – kitchens and me are not getting on awfully well right now.'

Ginny went through to the kitchen, her gold stiletto sandals clicking on the quarry tiles, and filled the kettle, Ruth followed her and leaned on the doorpost.

‘It's money' said Ginny shortly. ‘The plain fact of the matter is, we don't have enough of it.'

Gosh, I do feel ill, thought Ruth.

‘Oh dear,' she muttered, in what she hoped were interested tones. Frankly, she wasn't in the mood for anyone's problems but her own right now.

‘Barry says it's my fault for spending too much and I must cut back,' continued Ginny. ‘Which is a bit much, since I'm the one doing all the earning. Anyway, since you were always hard up when Peter left, I thought you'd know how I could make some savings. You always have life well under control, despite everything.'

Ruth burst into tears.

‘Oh, Ruth, I didn't mean – I mean, when I said you are always hard up, what I meant was …'

‘No, no, it's all right,' sniffed Ruth, fumbling for a tissue
in her dressing gown pocket. ‘It's not that. Oh, I might as well tell you. But don't breathe a word to a living soul. Promise?'

‘Cross my heart and hope to die, as we used to say as kids,' said Ginny. ‘But what is it? What's wrong?' Surely Melvyn hasn't upped and left her? she thought.