Star Crazy Me (5 page)

I went back down to the ground floor and wandered aimlessly until I came to Bean Bags, which is one of the few really quality shops in the Bosworth Centre. I couldn't resist going in there, even though most of their stuff is way beyond my reach. It's where
we'd got all my cool, rock-chick stuff for the talent contest. The designer-label T-shirt, the silver chain, the stars to put in my hair.
Stars for a star, cos that's what
you're going to be
!

Memories came flooding back… me and Josh and Indy, all bubbly and excited. Now I was on my own, full of misery and self-pity. My beautiful T-shirt, that I wasn't going to wear! Suddenly I had this desperate urge to weep and scream and had to go out, very quickly, and start furiously walking again until I had calmed down.

At the entrance to the pedestrian underpass a girl was singing, accompanying herself on a guitar. I stopped for a bit, to listen. She was one of those tall, willowy types that make me mad with envy. She had this gorgeous, foamy red hair and was wearing long thin jeans and a skimpy top that I wouldn't even dare to think about. On the other hand she couldn't play the guitar any better than I could, or even as well. It was all just plinking and plonking. Plus, for heaven's sake, she
was
ruining
one of my favourite songs. She was trying to do a track from the latest album,
Love Heart
, by Topaze. God, it was an insult!

I felt like wrenching the guitar away from her and banging her on the head with it. But then she caught my eye and smiled at me, and I forced myself to smile back. She wasn't to know that Topaze happens to be one of the singers I most worship and adore in the whole wide world. What is more,
she actually went to my
school
. How cool is that?

In spite of forcing myself to smile, I felt that I might scream or go mad if I stayed listening any longer while this girl-without-any-voice massacred a perfectly good song. At the same time, I couldn't help feeling a bit glad that she didn't have a voice as it saved me being totally eaten up with hideous jealousy. She had the hair, she had the face, she had the figure – but she still couldn't sing!

It was almost half past three by now, so I reckoned it would be safe to catch a bus and go home. When I
got there Old Gasbag was in the lobby, waiting for the lift. She said, “You're back early.” I ignored her, and headed for the stairs.

When Mum came in, I had not only done the washing-up but had dinner all ready and waiting. I didn't know what she'd planned for us, so I just took stuff out of the freezer and dumped it in the oven. I thought,
If
she dares say anything, I'll throw it at her
. But she seemed surprised, and pleased, and said that it made a nice change being able to get back and put her feet up for once. And then she had to go and ruin everything, which is what she does
all the time
, by saying rather sharply, “I hope you were in school today?”

I said, “What do you think?”

Mum said, “Sometimes, with you, I don't know what to think. You know I could end up in prison, don't you? It's the parents that are held responsible. I'd be the one to be shut away, not you.”

I told her that was just a myth, but she insisted it was true. “They could lock me up!”

I said, “They haven't got room to lock people up any more. They're already full to overflowing.”

“That's beside the point!” snapped Mum. “I could still get a criminal record.”

What with Mum fretting over criminal records, and me sunk into deepest gloom, we passed another happy evening together. Mum wanted to know why I wasn't doing my homework – like she'd ever bothered about homework before – so I had to pretend I'd already done it.

She said, “Huh! That must be a first.”

Shows how much she knows. I have always been
very good
about doing my homework. Mum has never shown the least bit of interest in what goes on at school, or what I might be achieving. It was the reason I had never bothered to tell her about the Top Spot contest; she'd only have made one of her remarks.

I fell asleep almost the minute I got into bed, exhausted from all my endless walking round the shopping centre. Also from boredom. Boredom, I have
discovered, wears you out. So does being miserable and feeling sorry for yourself. It is very unlike me to feel sorry for myself. Nan once said that I was a feisty sort of person, meaning that I wouldn't ever just give up, or go down without a fight.

I thought of this when I woke up at four o'clock in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep again. I was doing exactly what Nan always said I wouldn't do: I was giving up without a fight. It made me feel ashamed of myself. How could I let Nan down like that? She'd always had such faith in me. She used to say there'd come a day when Mum would be so proud she'd tell everyone she met: “Carmen Bell is my daughter!” Mum never believed her, of course. She didn't actually say “Don't make me laugh” but you could tell that's what she was thinking. You can always tell what Mum is thinking; she never makes any attempt to cover it up. Nan just used to shake her head. “You mark my words, that girl's got what it takes.”

I hadn't had what it takes when I was wandering
round the shopping centre. If I wasn't going to go back to school – which I
wasn't
– then I had to do something positive. Something that would make Nan applaud and say, “That's my girl!”

I knew what I would do: I would take my guitar and I would go out there and sing. If the girl with red hair could do it, why not me? I may not be thin as a twig, but I do have a good voice. Far better than hers! I am aware that this sounds like showing off, but it just happens to be true. I
know
that I can sing! It is the only thing I am ever tempted to boast about.

“And why not? Make the most of what you've got, that's my motto!”

Nan's voice in my ear. Even after all this time, just now and again, she still spoke to me. I immediately felt buoyed up and – well,
feisty
. I didn't even try to go back to sleep but lay awake eagerly planning what I was going to sing and where I was going to do it. Not in the shopping centre; that would be asking for trouble. Sooner or later someone would come along who
recognised me. If not Mum or Mrs Gasbag, then other people that lived in the flats.

The best place would be down Sheepscombe, the other end of town, near the bus garage. There's a big Tesco there, and a church, with a church hall that's used for Bingo, and a Marks & Spencer and a Boots, plus a load of sheltered housing for old people and a big block of flats for posh people. But nobody who lives up our end would be likely to go there.

I thought probably it would be best if I didn't sing my usual sort of stuff as rock is quite loud and I wouldn't want the police coming and arresting me for making a public nuisance of myself. I decided that I would sing some of Nan's show songs that she loved so much.
Over the Rainbow
, and stuff like that. Nan was really into her musicals – she used to play them over and over.
Oklahoma, West Side Story, My Fair Lady
… thanks to Nan, I knew them all! Old people enjoy that sort of thing, whereas they don't really approve of rock. Nan did, but Nan was different from most old
people. I reckoned the ones that lived in the sheltered housing would prefer something a bit quieter, and probably the posh people would, too. If they liked what I did, they might even shower money on me!

But even if they didn't, and I came home empty-handed, it would still be a valuable experience. Probably far more valuable, if you think about it – for a future rock star, that is – than being at school. I felt that Nan would approve!

Mum seemed to think it odd, next morning, that I was taking my guitar with me. She said, “What's that for?”

I said, “I'm playing it.”

Fortunately she didn't ask me why, or where, which meant I didn't have to make anything up. So far I hadn't
told her
one single untruth
. I felt virtuous about that, because at least she couldn't accuse me of lying.

She was in quite a good mood that morning and asked me if I'd like a lift in to school. “I'm not on till ten, but I can leave a bit earlier.”

I got in a panic at that and quickly said it was OK, I was quite happy going by bus.

“It's no problem,” said Mum. “I might take the opportunity to do a bit of shopping.”

The best laid plans of mice and men
, as Nan used to chortle when things went wrong. They
go agley
. In other words, they fall to pieces, which is what mine did that morning. Mum
insisted
on giving me a lift almost to the very gates of the school. I reckon now she wanted to make sure I got there; at the time I was naïve enough to believe she was just trying to say thank you for all my hard work the night before. All the washing-up, and dinner on the table.

Well, ha ha, all
her
best laid plans went agley, as well. Ravenspark Road is part of the one-way system
and she had to let me out at the top, so as soon as she'd driven off I simply turned round and headed back to the bus stop, praying I wouldn't bump into anyone from school, and especially not Indy or Josh. I didn't, as it happened, but it was quite nerve-racking at one point when I had to dive down a side road and lurk behind a lamp post to avoid three of the kids from my class. One of them was this girl called Abi Walters who's a bosom buddy of Marigold. She was shrieking and showing off, and the other two were encouraging her. I didn't know what she was showing off about, but once in the past she'd had everyone in stitches pretending to be me, doing what she called her “wobble walk”. Seeing her that morning just made me all the more determined never, ever to go back.

It was quarter to ten when I got off the bus at Sheepscombe. There were quite a lot of people about, but no kids cos they were all in school. I was glad about that. I didn't want kids; they weren't the ones I was singing for. They weren't the ones I was
dressed
for. I
had gone through my wardrobe (what there is of it) and carefully picked out clothes which I thought old people – and posh people – would approve of. No shorty tops showing my midriff. No miniskirts. Instead, I chose an ordinary baggy T-shirt (no rude logos) and a long floaty skirt, dark red, in tiers. I carried them with me in my schoolbag and changed in the loo in Tesco. They even had a long mirror in there so I could inspect myself. Marigold would have sneered, but you have to dress for the occasion. Nan always loved my long floaty skirt, and she was the one I was singing for.

Down by the street market, opposite Marks & Spencer, there's a paved area, with flowering shrubs and wooden benches, where old people sit and chat. I thought that would be a good place to position myself, so I took up a stand just by the entrance and put down my little tin bowl that I had brought with me. The bowl had belonged to Nan's dog, Fluffy, that she had had when she first came to live with us. Mum had hated poor Fluffy cos she was old and starting to get a bit
smelly, but Nan had loved her, so I had, too. For Nan's sake, really. I reckoned her drinking bowl might bring me luck.

I was so nervous before I began that my throat closed up and I had visions of standing there, totally dumb, just blowing out bubbles of air. But then, lo and behold! A miracle occurred. The minute I played the first few chords I felt my voice come surging up inside me like a great tidal wave, and I knew that all I had to do was just open my mouth and
sing
. I think it took some of the old people by surprise! I saw heads jerk up and turn in my direction. But once they realised what was going on they seemed to enjoy it, cos I soon had quite a crowd, all smiling and nodding, and sometimes even trying to sing along (which I did my best not to mind).

I gave it everything I'd got, in case Nan was up there somewhere, listening. I did so want her to be proud of me! I sang all her old favourites, in my best Judy Garland voice. Full-throated, flat out. The old people
just loved it! After a couple of hours my tin doggy bowl was full almost to overflowing, and I decided I could afford to take a bit of a break and even buy myself a sandwich. After all, I had earned it! I had come by it honestly, and felt that I deserved every penny of it. Far more satisfying than nicking stuff out of Superdrug.

At one o'clock I wandered back and took up my position again. I figured by now there would be a whole new bunch of people out there. Earlier on, before I'd had my lunch break, I'd noticed an old lady standing listening. I mean, there were lots of old ladies, but the reason I noticed this one in particular is that she stood out from the rest. She had this
look
, like she was someone to be reckoned with. She was dressed to kill, in some sort of silk outfit, which you could just tell had cost a fortune. And her face was all made up, to go with it. Blusher and mascara and bright red lipstick. Even her nails were red. She'd stayed for a few songs, then gone off across the square towards the shops. She
didn't put anything in the doggie bowl, so I thought perhaps she wasn't impressed. Either that, or she was just plain mean.

But round about two thirty she appeared again, and this time she came up and spoke to me. “You're still at it.”

Yup! I was still at it. Don't say she was going to have a go at me…
You're too young to be doing this, why aren't
you at school, you're breaking the law
, etc. etc. You can just bet there'll always be
some
law you're breaking.

“How long have you been here?”

Guardedly I said, “Since about ten o'clock.”

“Ten o'clock? Singing all this time?”

I muttered that I had had a break for lunch.

“All the same… it's far too long. You need to rest your voice.”

I told her that I couldn't afford to. Coins were still pattering into my bowl. I didn't want to give up before I had to!

“
There
.” The old lady opened her purse and took
out – gulp! – a five-pound note. She placed it in the bowl, beneath a pile of coins to keep it from flying off. “Now you can afford to. Let me invite you for a cup of tea.”

I nearly said that I don't drink tea, but it would have seemed ungracious after what she'd just done; and in any case, I must admit, I was a bit curious. Why should this posh old woman with her silk dress and her designer bag want to have tea with a nobody like me?

“Come!” She made this imperious gesture, wafting her hand like the Queen. “I'm just over there, in the flats.”

I wouldn't have gone with her if she'd been a man; I'm not stupid. I probably wouldn't have gone if she'd been younger. But she was really ancient and I couldn't honestly imagine she was going to poison me or anything, so I picked up my bowl and the money, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and followed her across the road to her block. Oakwood Court. Classy!

She had a flat on the ground floor. It was a bit
different from the one me and Mum lived in. For a start it was colour-coordinated.
All green
. Lime green paper on the walls, dark green carpet on the floor; pale green sofa, pale green chairs. As well as being green, it was what I would call
fussy
. Bits and pieces everywhere. Ornaments and bowls of flowers; lamps in strange shapes, with weird dangling lampshades, and lots of little tables dotted all about. The main room was huge. There was a grand piano in one corner (white, not green) and every single bit of wall space was covered in big glossy photographs and posters.

I wondered who this woman was. She had to be
someone
; ordinary people don't live like that.

She told me to take a seat while she made us a cup of tea. “Do you drink tea? I have Earl Grey or herbal.”

I asked her if she had a Coke, but she said no; Coke was bad for you.

“I'll do you a peppermint tea. I think you'll find it very refreshing.”

While she was out of the room I took the
opportunity to examine some of the photographs and posters. The photographs mostly seemed to be of the same person, starting off young and gradually getting older. In some she was dressed up like for a performance on stage; others were studio portraits. (I think that is what they are known as.) All very dead glamorous, though she wasn't ever pretty; and in lots of them she was wearing
fur
. I hate when people wear fur!

The posters were theatrical ones, advertising operas.
La
Bohème
and
La
Traviata
and stuff. Then there were the names of singers, and one name which appeared in all of them: Liliana Pruszynski. So I guessed that this weird old woman must once have been famous, which accounted for the way she dressed, and the way she spoke – terribly grand and sure of herself.

I went back and peered more closely at the photographs, and in some of the later ones I could just about see the resemblance – she hadn't yet become prunelike and withered. But definitely it was the same old woman.

I heard her returning with the tea and hastily perched myself on the edge of one of the pale green chairs.

“There you are… peppermint tea. Made with fresh-picked mint.”

It had
leaves
floating in it. I wondered what I was supposed to do with them.

“Give them a few minutes, then just take them out and put them in the bowl. Have you not had mint tea before? It's a good habit. You can grow the mint yourself – indoors, in a pot, if you have no garden. You should ask your mother to get some.”

Yeah, I could just picture Mum's face if I suggested we started drinking peppermint tea! Come under the heading of “cranky”, that would. Mum's into her tea in a big way. She likes it deep dark brown and bitter. Horrible, if you ask me, but it's what she's used to.

“So, my dear…” The old woman settled herself in the chair opposite. The chair was so big, and she was
so small, she practically disappeared. “Why are you not in school?”

I thought,
Here we go
. Carelessly, I said, “It's half term.”

“Already?”

“Yup.” I nodded. “We have two weeks.”

Terrible how the lies can just pour out of you. But come Monday it
would
be half term, so it wasn't such a big lie as all that. In any case, what business was it of hers?

“Which school do you go to? It can't be Holy Cross, I know they're not on half term yet. It must be Ravenspark.”

I toyed for a moment with the idea of making up a name, but I wasn't quick enough. By the time I'd got my brain into gear, she was off again. “I understand you're going to be putting on some kind of talent contest later in the term. For aspiring pop stars?”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. I muttered, “Yeah.” How did she know about it?

She smiled, as if reading my thoughts. “Believe it or not, I was asked to be one of the judges, but oh, my dear, what do I know of pop music? It's for the young. Like you! I take it you'll be entering?”

“Mm-mm.” I shook my head.

“No? Why ever not? I would have thought it was right up your street.”

I didn't say anything to that; I didn't want to talk about the talent contest. I busied myself fishing leaves out of my cup and flobbing them into a dinky little green bowl. Everything was green. The cups were green. The
tea
was green.

“You do have a very good voice, you know.” She leaned forward and ever so delicately picked up her tea cup. She had a lot of style, in spite of being so ancient. “Well, you obviously do know, don't you? How could you avoid knowing? No one has a voice of that quality without realising they've been given a very special gift.”

That melted me, I have to admit. But then she had to go and blow it.

“What you may not realise, however…” She wagged an old, gnarled finger at me. On the finger was a massive ring with a gleaming green stone. Emerald, I guess. “What you may not realise is that an instrument such as yours needs nurturing. You should treat it with respect. A voice is like a delicate bloom – like the finest crystal. You misuse it at your peril!”

She seemed to expect me to say something, but I didn't know what to say cos I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. Just that she seemed to be having a go at me.

“You cannot simply blast out at full volume for hours on end as if you're some market trader selling cabbages!”

I resented that. What's wrong with market traders? I didn't see she had any call to get all snobby.

“Surely, my dear, you can understand my concern?” She peered at me out of strangely bright, birdlike eyes. “You're putting your voice under tremendous pressure!”