Little Darlings (24 page)

‘And that's why you're going to go to this evening's concert with your head held high. You're going to sing your little heart out. I don't give a stuff if they vote you first or last. You'll still have sung your special song. I want you to sing it for me, Destiny. It means so much. Please.' Mum's looking at me with her big staring eyes and squeezing my hands tight and I can't possibly wriggle away from her.

‘
Please
,' she says again. ‘I don't ask you for much, darling. We both know I mostly let you do what you like. But just this once I'm begging you.'

‘Oh, Mum. Stop it. All
right
.'

‘There!' says Mum triumphantly, wiping my face, dabbing at my nose as if I'm a toddler again.

‘
Mum!
'

‘Now, let's sit down and have a cup of tea and you eat your gâteau. Don't you dare say you're not hungry, it cost a blooming fortune.'

‘Only if you have half.'

‘I'll have a bit. Then I've got to go and have a quick bath and get changed. Do you think my best blue top will be all right or it is a bit too low cut for school?'

‘Mum, it's no big deal. It's a crappy school concert and
I'm
going to be crap and it'll be torture for both of us. I wouldn't bother with your blue top. I'd go for a bin bag. Wear it over your head so no one realizes you're related to the girl who's a rubbish singer.'

Mum wears her blue top – but it
is
too low cut. She used to wear it with a special push-up bra and it looked really sexy, but now she doesn't seem to have much chest left to push up. Her collarbones stick out and you can see the start of her ribs. She's wearing a belt on her best jeans, but they're still much too baggy, practically hanging off her.

‘Mum, just how much weight
have
you lost?'

‘A few pounds.'

‘Don't give me that. It looks like a few
stone
.'

‘Of course it's not. Stop staring at me like that, you make me feel a freak. I've always been thin – it's natural for me,' says Mum.

‘Not this thin. Mum, I think you should go to a doctor.'

‘Why, for heaven's sake? I'm fighting fit, full of energy, holding down all three jobs. There's
absolutely nothing wrong with me.' Mum's saying it too quickly, her words jerky. She's frightened too.

‘Mum, this is the deal,' I say, taking hold of her by her poor bony shoulders. ‘I'll make another total fool of myself and sing in this poxy contest if you'll go to the doctor.'

‘But I told you, there's nothing wrong. And even if there is, what can he do about it?'

‘He can give you pills – or special treatment – or take you into hospital and give you an operation,' I say. My own voice is wobbling now.

‘Yes, well, I'm not going into any hospital, thanks very much. How would we cope?' says Mum.

I suddenly get it. I realize why she's suddenly so keen for me to meet Danny, why she's palled up with Louella. She's been worrying what will happen to me if she's really ill. If . . . if . . .

‘You're going to the doctor tomorrow, promise? And whatever it is, we'll manage, we'll get you better – do you hear me, Mum?' I say. ‘It's a bargain, right? Or I won't do the concert. You've got by far the best deal, because I've got to hang around backstage for two whole hours while the others perform, and then I've got the total public humiliation of all the judges rubbishing me. You've just got to nip down the medical centre and see
someone for ten minutes. So, shall we shake on it?'

I hold out my hand and Mum shakes it. Then we hug each other hard because we're both so scared. I don't even care about the concert now. All I care about is Mum. It's like I've sensed there's something wrong for months. I've woken up and worried at night. I used to have bad dreams as a little kid, scared there was a man hiding in the wardrobe. Sometimes I'd lie there and fancy I could hear him breathing – but in the morning I'd forget all about him and go into the wardrobe for my coat and shoes without a second thought. This illness of Mum's is just like that man in the wardrobe. I've been keeping him at bay for weeks – but now I've opened the door and there he is, grinning horribly, with a big knife in his hand, aiming it at Mum.

I hang onto her arm as we walk to school. She takes the quickest way through the estate and I don't know what to do. She doesn't realize what the Flatboys and the Speedos can be like. If I tell her she'll only worry about me even more. At least we're together – and if any boy dares do anything to mum I'll kill him, I swear I will.

Speedo boys are lurking in a stairwell, Flatboys are spitting off a top balcony, but none of them take any notice of us. The flats are too busy, mums
and a few dads and lots of grannies with gaggles of little brothers and sisters, are all making their way purposefully towards the school.

Mum nudges me. ‘Your audience, babe!'

‘Don't!'

I see Angel strutting along with a whole posse of family and friends – aunties, cousins, all sorts – she must have traded for extra tickets.

‘That big girl waved at you. Is she your friend?' Mum asks.

‘No, more like my deadly enemy. That's Angel.'

‘Oh. Her,' says Mum, sniffing loyally.

I spot Jack Myers coming out of his flat with a couple of the Jack the Lads. They hurry on ahead of their mums – but Jack stops when he sees me.

‘Hi, Destiny,' he said.

I mumble ‘Hi' back.

‘You nervous?'

‘Nope.'

‘Me neither.'

We stay silent. Mum's glancing from me to Jack and back again, her eyes big.

Jack clears his throat. ‘It wasn't fair this afternoon,' he says. ‘You were robbed.'

‘Angel was good.'

‘Yeah, but you were heaps better,' says Jack.
‘Anyway, good luck tonight.' He nods and then hurries on to join his mates.

‘Wish him luck too!' Mum hisses.

‘Good luck, Jack!' I shout.

He turns back, grinning, and gives me a wave.

‘Who was that?' Mum asks. ‘Another total deadly enemy?'

‘Well, I thought he was. But he was quite nice, wasn't he? He's in a street-dance act. Maybe he'll win tonight – he's ever so popular.'

‘Just you wait and see,' says Mum.

It's so weird going into school with her. There's a big banner over the main door:
Bilefield's Got Talent – Tonight's the Night, the Grand Final!!!

Mrs Avery is in the hall, giving out programmes and showing people where to sit. I stare at her, astonished. I'm used to seeing her in T-shirts and tracky bottoms and trainers – but tonight she's wearing a tight sparkly red dress with really high heels. She looks amazing, not
at all
like a teacher.

‘Hello, Destiny,' she says.

‘You look so
different
, Mrs Avery!'

‘I'm on the judging panel tonight. Mr Roberts insisted we all dress up a bit,' she says, pulling a face.

‘Oh no, is he wearing that jacket again?' I ask.

‘Destiny, don't be so cheeky!' says Mum.

Mrs Avery giggles. ‘You got it, it's the brocade jacket jobby again. Anyway, you'd better nip backstage. Good luck!'

I suddenly don't want to leave Mum. She squeezes my hand and mouths
I love you
at me. I mouth it back to her, and then go out of the hall again and in through the backstage door. It's crammed full, of course, but no one's doing back-flips or practising dance routines. Mr Roberts has them all sitting down cross-legged. He's sitting cross-legged himself, looking like the Buddha.

‘Come and join us, Destiny. We are eliminating our nerves by doing yoga – well, an approximation. You'll twist your legs back to front if you try to get into the lotus position without proper training. Sit with a nice straight back, hands loose, and breathe i-i-i-n, and then very gently and slowly ou-u-u-ut. Close your eyes and visualize a quiet happy place – maybe the seaside or a country field, or maybe just your own bed, and—'

‘Can we breathe again, Mr Roberts?' Hannah gasps.

‘Yes, Hannah, the trick is to keep on breathing, even when I don't remind you. There now, my little class of calm children, I want you to
enjoy
the contest tonight. Things went a little haywire this afternoon. I rather think it was all my fault. I
didn't pick a particularly balanced panel and they clearly let their tribal loyalties overcome their artistic appreciation—'

‘What are you on about, Mr Roberts?' asks one of the Superspeedos.

‘Very well, I'll put it another way. You was robbed. This afternoon's panel weren't voting fairly. I'm sure we were all surprised by some of the scores.'

‘Are you saying I shouldn't have won?' says Angel, sticking her chin in the air.

‘No, Angel Cake, I'm absolutely thrilled that you won, and you fully deserve your prize.'

She got a little silver pin-badge with WINNER!

engraved on it in tiny letters. She's wearing it on her top now. She keeps pointing to it and smirking.

‘Have you got another one of them pin-badges for tonight's winner?' Jack asks.

‘I might just have one hidden about my person,' says Mr Roberts. ‘I wish I had one for all of you, because I think you're
all
winners. You've all tried very hard and performed to the best of your ability in very difficult circumstances, so give yourselves a pat on the back. Not too vigorously in this confined space – I was speaking metaphorically. I want you to go onstage tonight and do yourselves
justice. Let's hope tonight's panel will vote fearlessly and with common sense.'

‘Who are the panel, Mr Roberts?'

‘Is it our parents?'

‘Yes, pick my mum, then I'll get all the votes!'

‘It's not parents, for obvious reasons. The panel are utterly impartial, specially selected teachers.'

‘That's not fair! All the teachers hate me, so no one will vote for me!'

‘The voting will
strictly
reflect ability, hard work and talent this time, or I shall have one of my famous hissy fits,' says Mr Roberts. ‘Now calm down again, all of you. Breathe i-i-i-n and ou-u-u-ut . . .'

I can't. I'm all tensed up. Will the new panel really vote fairly? If so, Raymond should win, or the Superspeedos – or
me
.

Mrs Avery's on the voting panel, and she's funny and fair and she was quite nice to me just now.

‘I know it's Mrs Avery on the panel – but who are the other teachers, Mr Roberts?' I ask.

‘Mr Juniper.'

Oh no, oh no, oh no. He'll take one look at me and give me nought out of ten. I've somehow accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to report to him for my detention. I'd hoped it had gone out of his mind – and yet here I'll be, singing straight at him.

‘Then there's Miss Evans.'

Some of the boys wolf-whistle. Miss Evans is very young and very pretty and very girly. She'll vote for Girls Very Soft or the Dancing Queens. I'm not her style at all.

‘And the last member of our excellent panel is Mrs Riley.'

Everyone goes ‘Ahhh!' Mrs Riley is the most popular teacher in the whole school. She teaches the little kids in Year Three. She's plump and cosy with a very gentle voice. Everyone adores her – even Louella's terrible twins think she's lovely. She's especially good at coping with bad boys, so she'll like the Jack the Lads or the Superspeedos. She didn't ever teach me so I won't mean anything to her.

I'm going to lose all over again. Maybe I'll come bottom this time. I don't think I can do it. I might as well walk out now, take myself off and save my breath. The others would jeer at me and say I'd lost my bottle. No, I'll say I just can't be bothered. I'll yawn and act like I'm bored and have got better things to do – I'll be the girl who's too cool to compete.

I stand up and start strolling out casually.

‘Where are you going, Destiny?' asks Mr Roberts.

‘I'm just going to . . . to nip to the toilet, Mr Roberts,' I say. ‘Back in a minute.'

He lets me go – and I'm
off
, it's as easy as that. I walk out of the door and down the corridor. I can carry on walking right out of the school. I needn't ever come back. We break up in a few days. I'm free as a bird. Yes, I can sprout beautiful leathery wings from the back of my jacket and fly away . . .

There are parents still crowding into the hall, talking to each other, laughing and waving and gossiping. I look through the door – I can't stop myself – and see my mum right at the front, all by herself, staring up at the stage as if I'm already on it. She's got her hands clasped, almost as if she's praying.

Who am I kidding? I've got to sing for my mum. It doesn't matter if they don't give me a good score. They can throw rocks and rotten tomatoes at me, and do their best to boo me right off the stage, but I'll stand there and sing my socks off for my mum.

I go to the toilet and then hurry back. Mr Roberts gives me a little nod. I sit down obediently and cross my legs and do his daft breathing exercises, i-i-i-n and ou-u-u-ut – and then it's
time
.

‘Good luck, everyone,' says Mr Roberts, and I see the beads of sweat on his forehead and realize he's really nervous too.

Then he dashes onstage and there's a burst of applause. We're meant to stay sitting still as mice waiting for our turns, but we all crowd into the wings, wanting to see what's going on.

‘Hello, hello, hello. Good evening, ladies and gentleman. Welcome to
Bilefield's Got Talent
,' Mr Roberts shouts into the microphone, bouncing about the stage. ‘I am Mr Roberts, I teach Year Six, and my goodness me, they are all
tremendously
talented. You are in for a night to remember and no mistake. Our preposterously gifted pupils will perform, and our tremendous panel of hand-picked teachers will comment and give marks accordingly. Let me introduce Mrs Avery, Mr Juniper, Miss Evans and Mrs Riley. Thank you very much. Now, let our show begin. I'd like you to put your hands together and give a warm welcome to . . . the Jack the Lads.'