She brought it over to me and dropped it into my lap. It was wrapped beautifully – in matte gold paper, tied with rustic-looking string. It seemed a shame to spoil it.
‘It’s from all of us,’ Bert said. ‘But I chose it.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, picking at the knot of the string. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Oh just rip it!’ Bert said. ‘Don’t take all day about it!’
She reached forward to take the parcel from me but Genevieve held her back. ‘Bertie!’ she said, laughing. ‘Give the girl a minute. Let her do it her way!’
‘Sorry,’ Bert said, leaning back in her chair and sitting on her hands. ‘I just can’t wait to see her face!’
I finally got the string undone and peeled the paper back. I knew what it was straight away, as soon as I saw the blue wool. I didn’t say so though, I just played along, making ‘Ooh, what’s this then?’ kinds of noises as I unfolded it and held it up in front of me. This was it. This was the jumper. The real deal this time.
‘The jumper,’ I smiled. ‘You got me the jumper!’
‘Yep!’ Bert said, bouncing back onto her feet again now. ‘We got it for you! Do you like it still? You still like it, don’t you?’
‘I love it,’ I said, standing up and holding it up against me. ‘I absolutely adore it.’
‘Put it on!’ Bert demanded.
I did as I was told. It was perfect.
‘Oh, it fits a treat, doesn’t it?’ Genevieve said. ‘Good choice, Bertie, darling.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling around at them. ‘I really, really love it.’
Then I remembered my own gifts, lying in my bag.
‘I got you things too,’ I said, reaching in and passing one square package to Bert and the other to Genevieve. ‘That one’s for both of you,’ I said. ‘You and Charlie.’
‘Oh, darling!’ Genevieve said, sitting up and setting her wine glass down on the coffee table to give the unwrapping of my present her full attention. ‘You didn’t have to get us anything, you mad girl!’
I shrugged modestly, and looked down. ‘It’s OK.’
Bert opened hers first.
‘A blackbird!’ she said, holding the picture up in front of her. ‘Did you do this?’ she said to me.
I nodded.
‘Look, Mum,’ Bert said. ‘Birdy’s drawn me this – isn’t it brill?’
Genevieve took the picture from her and squinted at it. ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ she said. ‘Look at the detail on the feathers! You clever old thing,’ she said, turning to me. I felt my cheeks get hot.
‘Thanks, Birdy,’ Bert said. ‘I’m going to put it on the wall, in the den.’
‘My turn now,’ Genevieve said and we all turned to watch as she tipped her own picture out. She frowned at it for a minute, as if she was trying to make sense of it. Charlie and Bert looked on expectantly.
‘What it is, Mum?’ Bert said.
‘It’s a Mark Rothko,’ I explained.
‘Oh,’ Genevieve said slowly. ‘Of course it is!’ She looked up and smiled. ‘Did you do this one too, darling?’
I hadn’t been expecting that question. I’d just assumed they’d accept it as a real one. Not an original, obviously. But a print. Like the ones you get on postcards in the library gift shop.
‘N-no,’ I said. ‘It’s a real one … a copy, I mean.’
There was a tiny twitch at Genevieve’s eyebrow, but then her smile was back. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A reproduction.’
I realised straight away that I hadn’t fooled them. I felt ridiculous. Why had I said that? Why didn’t I just tell them I’d drawn it myself? They probably would have liked that even. I mean sure, it all looked the same to me, but these people knew about art and all that rubbish. They could probably spot a forgery a mile off. But what could I do? I couldn’t change my story now. It’d look totally insane. I just had to sit there, grinning at them like a fool, and just wait for the whole excruciating episode to be over.
She passed it to Charlie and I saw a similar twitch at his eyebrows and a little amused look pass between the two of them.
But then he smiled too. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Wonderful – we love Rothko. We’ll put it up, of course.’
He placed it on the mantelpiece. Face down.
Once the presents were out of the way, Charlie got out the Scrabble set and we sat on the floor in front of the fire to play. Charlie gave me and Bert mugs of hot milk spiced with cinnamon to drink. The radio was on in the background, playing old-fashioned Christmas songs. The lights on the tree blinked happily and the glow from the fire flickered on our faces.
How fantastic, I thought, for this to be your Christmas Day, to have this every year to look forward to. No wonder Bert had been so chirpy in the run-up – this was something worth getting excited about. And how I wished it was my Christmas Day. My real one. That I could stay for the whole evening, not just a couple of hours. That I could stay forever.
Being rather a slow game – especially with Charlie, who liked to think very long and very hard before placing his letters – Scrabble left a lot of time for chatting. I just listened mostly, enjoying the banter between Bert and her parents, hearing about their Christmas so far and their plans for New Year.
Genevieve seemed very interested in how I spent my Christmases with Nan and Granddad so I described our routine, keeping it deliberately vague. I left out details like how I get the same present every year and how we eat in silence, struggling to chew our cheap cuts of meat and over-boiled vegetables.
‘It must’ve been ever so hard for them,’ Genevieve said. ‘After what happened to your poor, dear mother. Suddenly finding themselves with a toddler on their hands, just when they were in the midst of all that grief … terrible. I can hardly imagine.’ She shook her head and gazed into the flames of the fire.
I suppose I should’ve been used to it by now, but I was still slightly taken aback by Genevieve’s candid way of speaking about things. I couldn’t imagine Nan suddenly passing comment on someone else’s family situation like this. Not to their face, anyway. And definitely not with any tone of sympathy. I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded.
‘Do you miss your mum?’ Genevieve asked, looking me straight in the eyes, trying to read my face.
I thought this was a funny question. Why would I miss someone I couldn’t even remember?
Genevieve spoke again before I had time to reply. ‘Of course, I suppose you didn’t know her that well, but do you … I don’t know … feel the lack of something? Feel that … that maternal figure is missing in your life?’
I know I’d hammed up the whole Little Orphan Annie bit when Bert and I were alone, but it felt silly to do that now, with all of them there. To be honest, I wasn’t all that comfortable with the line of questioning. In the end, I opted to just tell them the truth.
‘Not really,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I’m just used to it.’
Genevieve nodded thoughtfully, running her finger around the top of her wine glass. ‘And I’m sure your grandparents are terrific, aren’t they. I expect they dote on you …’
I didn’t get the feeling Genevieve was really talking to me at all at this point. She was gazing off into space, a faraway look in her eyes. I felt like she’d created her own mental image of my family – the weary, grieving grandparents cherishing what they had left of their daughter. I wasn’t sure how interested she was in the truth of the situation.
‘They do their best,’ I said, which I knew was true. ‘They try.’
It was time to go home all too soon. I said my goodbyes and trudged home through the streets. Even the icy wind and the light drizzle that had started to fall couldn’t spur me into rushing and I let the journey take twice as long as normal. Just before I got to my road, I stopped and took the blue jumper off. I shoved it into the bottom of my bag. I really didn’t want Nan to find out I’d been given an upgrade just a couple of hours after I’d opened her present.
But I nee
dn’t have bothered. When I got in, I found Nan dozing in her chair. She looked up as I went in but nodded straight back off again within seconds. I realised I could’ve been wearing a gorilla suit and she wouldn’t have noticed.
The TV was on quietly, showing coverage of some carol concert in a huge old cathedral. I sat on the sofa beside Granddad and listened to him hum along, trying to sing the odd word but getting the timing all wrong.
Suddenly he reached across and held my hand. His skin felt rough and cold. ‘Happy Christmas, Bridget love,’ he said.
I smiled sadly and squeezed his hand. ‘Happy Christmas, Granddad.’
20
I didn’t see Bert much over the rest of the holidays as her parents took her away to her aunt’s house somewhere in the countryside for New Year so I was pleased to be reunited with her when school began again in January. The days were cold and dreary as they always are in the middle of winter but January plodded by peacefully enough, Bert and I passing the time snacking and chatting at the back of lessons, huddling together for warmth as we trekked across the field on the way home. Then in registration one morning a few weeks later, we found Pippa Brookman parading around the classroom, handing out some sort of flyer.
‘An Outing to Oz!’ she was calling breezily. ‘A unique twist on the classic tale! Join in! Take part! It’s all for charity!’
I swiped one of the flyers that’d been left on a desk.
An Outing to Oz: A Musical
A modern retelling of the much-loved story,
written to raise awareness of the treatment of the elderly in our society.
All profits to charity.
Put your name down for auditions!!
I made a snorting noise. ‘Another one of Pippa’s noble charity efforts. Great. What would the old folks do without her?’
I passed the flyer to Bert.
‘I love The Wizard of Oz!’ she said, looking down at it. ‘Don’t you? It’s just magical, I think. Gosh, I’d love to have the chance to be in it.’
‘It’s not The Wizard of Oz, Alberta,’ Pippa called across the classroom. ‘It’s An Outing to Oz. Similar, but with some important differences. Come along to the meeting if you want to know more!’
‘I wouldn’t touch any of Pippa’s projects with a barge pole,’ I sniffed. ‘It’ll just be another excuse for her to show off and polish her massive ego.’
Bert shrugged and sat down on the edge of a desk, her legs swinging underneath her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘This is different I think. Sounds like it’s an official school idea this time, not just one of Pippa’s plans.’
I raised my eyebrows but we couldn’t say any more about it because Mr Hurst had come in to take the register and was calling for everyone to sit down.
As I made my way to my chair, Pippa snatched the leaflet I was holding out of my hand. ‘No need for you to get too interested, Frances,’ she hissed. ‘We wouldn’t want to put the punters off.’
I glared at her and looked around to see if Bert had heard what she’d said, but she was busy looking for something in her bag.
Bert disappeared after third period so I queued in the canteen and sat at a table in the corner on my own, picking at the crust of my pizza and wondering where she could’ve got to. She was gone for most of lunchtime but eventually, ten minutes from the bell, she turned up, rosy-cheeked and smiling.
‘Where have you been?’ I said, trying not to sound too grumpy.
‘Oh, I’ll tell you,’ she beamed. ‘Just let me get some grub first. I’m ravenous.’
Bert collected a plate of chips, four sausages and a chocolate brownie, and slid her tray down next to me.
‘Oh, Birdy,’ she said, piling chips into her mouth. ‘I’ve been in the hall, with Pippa and the others.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, frowning. Just hearing Pippa’s name was enough to put me in a bad mood.
Bert slipped two sausages onto my plate and I chewed at them grumpily. I don’t know why she always had to buy so much food if she didn’t even want to eat it.
‘It was a meeting, about the play!’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘About An Outing to Oz. It sounds like it’s going to be really wonderful. It’s such a clever concept, you know. They’ve taken the whole idea of The Wizard of Oz, but changed it to show how elderly people struggle if people don’t help them. So rather than the lion, the tin man and the scarecrow, there are these three old people – one’s ever so lonely, one’s losing his memory, one’s … oh, I can’t remember … but the other one’s the equivalent of the lion so I suppose she must be fearful about something or other. Anyway, they all hear about this mythical land – Oz, of course – where they can be young again, if they can just get there. So the whole play is all about their journey on the long road to Oz, and all the people who help them on the way. But then, when they get there, they discover it’s all been a myth and there’s no magic potion or whatever. There is no being young again.’
‘Great,’ I said, fiddling with my straw moodily. ‘Sounds really depressing.’
‘No, not at all!’ Bert said, spraying chips everywhere. ‘Because the thing is, as they’ve been making this long journey, so many people have looked out for them, helped them on their way and whatnot, that they realise they don’t really mind being old at all, that it’s not so bad if only the people around them would be a bit more helpful and understanding!’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh wonderful,’ I said dryly. ‘I love a story that hammers home a moral.’
Bert either missed my sarcasm or deliberately ignored it. ‘Oh, I do too,’ she said, nodding. ‘It’s such a powerful one too, don’t you think? And it should be such a good show, because the thing is, it’s not just for the school. It’s all being organised by this national charity – Age Awareness UK or something – and they want a certain number of schools across the country to take on the performance of the show and then sort of tour around the local area, showing it to other schools and in youth centres and social clubs, you know, to sort of … spread the message. So that means there’s a bit of a budget for costumes and music and things, so it should be really quite professional.’
Bert paused to take a gulp of lemonade, then she said, ‘So anyway, that’s why I’ve put my name down.’
My head jerked up then. ‘What do you mean, put your name down? To be in the play?’
Bert nodded, her mouth stuffed full again. She forced herself to chew and then swallowed hard so she could go on talking. ‘Yes. Well, for the auditions. Of course, it’s ever so popular, so there’s no guarantee but … oh, I do hope I get a part!’
‘You could’ve told me you were going to the meeting,’ I said sulkily. ‘I might’ve wanted to come along.’
‘Oh really?’ she said, stopping chewing for a second and looking up at me. ‘Would you, Birdy? Sorry, I didn’t realise. You didn’t seem keen earlier? It’s not too late though. You can still put your name down to audition.’
I did a hard laugh. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get involved in anything Pippa’s in charge of.’ I knew I could’ve told Bert about Pippa’s snide remark to me that morning, but I just couldn’t bring myself to for some reason. I was embarrassed really, that people spoke to me like that. And I didn’t want Bert to pity me. I decided I’d rather she thought I was bad-tempered than pathetic.
Bert shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh honestly, Birdy, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Pippa’s not in charge, she was just organising the meeting. I think it’s going to be brilliant.’
She polished off the last of her sausages and started on the brownie.
‘It just sounds such fun, I think,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘Learning lines, going to rehearsals together, the singing, the dancing …’
I had to admit, it did sound sort of fun, if we’d be doing all those things together. And rehearsals for a school play would be the perfect excuse for me not to have to go home straight from school. It would definitely be more
fun to stay and hang around with Bert after school. I wouldn’t even have to lie to Nan. She couldn’t complain about a school production, especially one that was all for charity.
I suddenly had an image – Bert and me, on stage together. We were looking out across a sea of smiling faces, all clapping and whistling. Imagine that, I thought, people cheering for little loner Frances.
I sighed. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll put my name down. I doubt I’ll get through the auditions though.’
I took my tray back to the front of the canteen and headed off to the hall to find the audition list.
21
The auditions were two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day. I’d been so preoccupied by the thought of them that I’d forgotten that first we’d have to get through the awful annual Valentine’s card ritual.
Every year at school, for the first two weeks of February, there’d be a makeshift postbox stationed in reception – an old cardboard box covered in pink tissue paper and printouts of heart shapes. The idea was that people label their cards with the name and tutor group of the object of their affection and leave it for the ‘postman’ to deliver on the day, in order to ensure absolute anonymity.
The postman was actually Mr Parker, head of Year Eight, and every year he’d get all dolled up in a ridiculous cupid costume, complete with fluffy wings, golden bow and a white smock-like dress which I was pretty sure must be his wife’s nighty. Mr Parker would come around in morning registration with his sack of cards and there’d be loads of silly shrieking and giggling as he delivered them.
At some point, I reckon one of the parents must’ve complained that the system wasn’t fair on ugly, unpopular ducklings like me who never got a single card, because for the last couple of years there’d been some cards that were clearly faked, sympathy-vote ones. I’d get one myself sometimes. They were always thin, cheap-looking things, the type you get from the bargain bin in Smith’s. There would always be some cheeky, chirpy message inside – the type of thing that looked like it’d been copied from a packet of Love Hearts – ‘be mine’, ‘cutie pie’, ‘groovy chick’. You’d only need to take a look at the cards received by some of the other class sad sacks to spot that the handwriting was the same in all of them. They probably got Mrs Warboise, the school secretary, to write them in bulk the day before.
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