All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart

by Caroline Hulse

  These are the facts of our school so, once you get your head round them, you can’t mind.

  I was desperate to tell Lewis about the secret, but he’s not in my registration class.

  Dr Sharma, who is my form tutor as well as my science teacher, watched me hurry into the room just as the bell was ringing. She sat at her high lab bench with the locked fridge behind her, the fridge that kids say holds bleeding animal hearts.

  Dr Sharma marked me off in her book. ‘Fiona. I was just asking who needs the day off for the farm show tomorrow, but I don’t need to ask you, do I?’

  I tried to hold Dr Sharma’s gaze. I ended up looking at the bleeding-heart fridge.

  ‘The day off for the farm show rule only applies to farming families, as you well know,’ Dr Sharma said. ‘Are you saying you’re from a farming family now?’

  I gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Fiona, your mum’s car is always outside school and it says Gail Larson, Driving Instructor right there on the side.’

  That got a laugh from the other kids. And a round of ‘(cough)-Gail!’s.

  Mum’s job causes me loads of problems. If you wanted to design a job to make your kid look stupid, it would be one where you wait outside the school gates in a car with your kid’s surname on it. Mum doesn’t understand why ‘(cough)-Gail!’ is a problem. But she also doesn’t understand Lewis’s parents shouldn’t have taken him to France at Easter – that no one had thought how easy to chant ‘Lewis Harris went to Paris’ would be.

  Dr Sharma was still talking.

  ‘And I know your dad’s a postman, Fiona, because he delivers to my house. We talk about the seasonal visitors at my bird table.’

  I shuffled to an empty lab bench and pulled out a stool.

  Dr Sharma gave me a long look. ‘So I don’t appreciate being treated like I was born yesterday.’

  I sat down. ‘I’m not asking for a day off for the farm show.’

  Dr Sharma moved on to taking the register while I unpacked my pencil case.

  The bell rang and I stayed where I was for science. Some kids left the room and others came in. The high lab tables were all made for two stools, and every table except mine had two people on it, but that was fine. It meant I had a spare stool for my bag and I could get my books out without leaning down. On experiment days, I even got the Bunsen burner to myself, and didn’t have to take turns with another kid.

  It was better this way. I would have chosen it this way.

  Today was a day to work on our summer projects. There was clattering and unzipping all around, and I watched the other kids get their project books out. Most of their projects had pictures of leaves and trees on the front – probably because we’d just been taught photosynthesis. And because kids could fill lots of pages by gluing in leaves.

  I pulled my own project book from my bag. Blood, by Fiona Larson, 7E. I’d written the title in postbox-red bubble letters and drawn the letters dripping down the cover, into a pool of blood at the bottom.

  I’ve always liked blood. I’ve even said to Lewis we should swap blood, prick our fingers and mash them together to show we’re proper friends. But he didn’t like that idea.

  I smoothed down the next blank page and started copying sentences from the textbook.

  Blood is a bodily fluid. It has four main parts. They are plasma, red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets.

  I kept copying for a bit longer until I remembered the secret bag, and then the excitement and daydreaming took over.

  When the bell rang for break, I thought I’d finally get to tell Lewis about my secret, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. And he wasn’t in my English class, either. So there was nothing to do but listen to Mr Kellett bang on, while I imagined Lewis’s face when I told him what I’d found.

  This would blow his mind.

  Sean was in my English class, but when I turned around to look at him, he didn’t say hi, so I just turned back. It’s fine, Sean’s still my friend – it’s not his fault he can’t talk to me with other kids there. He’s not the one who made the rules of school.

  Mr Kellett was late, of course. He hurried in, his tie skew-whiff. As well as teaching English, he teaches PE. And when he moves from one type of class to the other, he has to get changed.

  He turned to write paradox on the board. ‘A paradox is a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement that, on reflection, may prove to make sense after all.’

  Mr Kellett talked some more and I sort-of listened.

  He didn’t used to get changed between lessons. He used to do our English classes in his PE kit, his whistle round his neck, the hair on his legs just there, like a coat of fur. But that changed when our school got the New Head. These days, instead of a whistle round Mr Kellett’s neck, there’s a tie.

  ‘So how can something,’ he asked, ‘mean two things at once?’

  Things I Know About the New Head

  1)She’s called Mrs Shackleton

  2)She makes Mr Kellett change out of his PE kit to teach English

  3)She always wears an animal badge on her blouse

  4)She likes things Just So – Dr Sharma*

  5)She makes it so you can’t do anything right – Miss Jarvis, RE*

  6)She’s an iron fist in a velvet glove – Mr Carter, IT*

  7)She’s got gumption, I’ll say that about her – Mr Kellett*

  8)She just doesn’t understand about the relevance of RE, that it’s about so much more than just organised religion, it’s about society – Miss Jarvis, again*

  9)She’s as bad as bloody Thatcher – still Miss Jarvis*

  10)She wants to get rid of us all and bring in her own teachers, and then where will we all be? – Miss Jarvis talks a lot*

  *I use spying techniques from The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™ to listen in on people. Grandma got me the handbook as a Christmas present. Mum wishes she hadn’t.**

  ** Grandma also taught me about asterisks

  Mr Kellett went on a bit longer. He talked about what’s true and what’s not, and different perceptions, and two things being true at once, and it was all a bit complicated for someone whose mind was on important bag-related things.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Now write a paradox of your own.’

  After finding those magazines, I didn’t even have to think. I picked up my pen straight away.

  The best secrets can be hidden in plain sight.

  Mr Kellett leaned over my pad. ‘Perfect. And also intriguing, Miss Larson!’

  I held my breath because he was so close, though his smell wasn’t as bad as some teachers’. Mr Kellett did loads of sport, but his smell was wet towel mixed with broken twigs, whereas Mr Matheson in Music did no sport and smelled of actual BO. He was always lifting up his arms to conduct us on our triangles and recorders, shaking the smell up and wafting it over.

  Mr Kellett smiled at me. ‘And what are the best secrets, I wonder?’

  I gave my head a tiny shake and took a gulpy breath. Wet towel broken twigs.

  From the back of the room, Liam leaned back in his chair. ‘Sir, how about people saying Leeds United are a quality football team – is that one?’ Which I don’t think counted, and Liam only said it because Mr Kellett supports Leeds. But everyone burst into laughter and Mr Kellett smiled. And Sean caught my eye while he was laughing and then looked quickly away.

  I found Lewis in the computer room that lunchtime.

  ‘You should have walked in with me.’ I threw my rucksack down onto the floor and dropped into the chair next to him. The chair rolled backwards on its wheels. ‘You’ll wish you had.’

  Lewis kept tapping the keyboard, like I wasn’t there. His rhino on the screen leapt up platforms.

  I got my sandwich box from my rucksack. ‘I found a bag. Of secrets.’

  Lewis paused his tapping.
A baddie walked into his rhino and the screen flashed red, black and white. Game Over.

  He wanted to ask, I know he did. But he was being stubborn.

  I opened my sandwich box. ‘Why didn’t you meet me at the lamppost? And where were you at break?’

  He inched his chair round, finally looking at me. ‘You wouldn’t let me show you my magic trick at the weekend.’

  ‘But we were outside the newsagent’s. There were people around.’

  Yes, I’d stopped Lewis doing a magic trick. But he knew the rules.

  How to be Normal

  1)Don’t eat any weird food for packed lunches. And no eggs.

  2)Don’t talk to yourself when you’re on your own

  3)Push your socks down

  4)Have a school jumper exactly the right shade of green. Don’t let your mum buy one from the market.

  5)If you’re wearing sports clothes, make sure they always have exactly three stripes

  6)Don’t get angry if you’re being picked on, just pretend you don’t notice

  7)Don’t do any old-Fiona stuff, like the thing with the monkey bars

  8)Definitely no magic tricks where anyone can see you (LEWIS)

  9)Be allowed to go to the fair

  This list is not exhaustive. That’s what it said at the bottom of the new school rules Mrs Shackleton brought in.

  Anyway, number eight, right there, in ballpoint pen. No magic tricks.

  Even though Lewis is the only person allowed to look in my book of lists, he doesn’t always seem pleased.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lewis couldn’t wait any longer, ‘tell me about this bag of secrets.’

  After lunch, we had drama. It was the only class I had with Lewis and we sat together in the circle of kids in the school hall.

  He’d forgiven me, of course. How could he not? I had a secret bag.

  ‘All right, everyone.’ Mrs Vernal clapped her hands and the circle of kids went quiet. ‘What does drama mean to you? Really?’

  Mrs Vernal was new. The old drama teacher left to have a baby and this one took up just as much space as the pregnant teacher in the corridors. Mrs Vernal was made up of lots of layers, and always had a bit of scarf flapping about her.

  ‘Drama’s about acting,’ Katie Russell said.

  ‘Not just acting,’ Mrs Vernal said. ‘It’s bigger than that.’

  Mrs Vernal made eye contact wth me, but there was no way I was answering. Nothing good ever comes from answering questions at school.

  ‘Drama’ – Mrs Vernal made sure we all felt her looking into our eyes, one by one – ‘is about self-development. It’s about life.’ Pause. ‘It’s about getting to the emotional truth within.’

  We all nodded.

  ‘Do you all understand what I mean by emotional truth?’

  We all nodded again. Nodded just hard enough for her not to say it again. Not so hard that she asked us to explain.

  No, I don’t answer questions in class. There was a kid once, about ten years ago, who said ‘orgasm’ in science when he meant to say ‘organism’. Simon Rutherson, that was his name. He’s a scaffolder now. Whenever kids in Monkford see scaffolding, we stand underneath and shout up ‘Orgasm!’ – just in case he’s there.

  Mrs Vernal clapped. ‘Everyone get up!’

  We dotted ourselves around the school hall. I stood in front of a long curtain, looking at the layer of dust across it like a lace sheet. Hundreds of dust speckles. Millions.

  Numbers too big make me feel weird and dizzy, so I made myself stop thinking.

  Mrs Vernal weaved between us, her heels like tap shoes on the polished floor, the noise echoing up to the hall’s high ceiling.

  ‘I don’t want you to act. I want you to feel.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘I want you to think about a time you were really excited.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘How does it feel in your toes? In your fingertips?’ Mrs Vernal tapped over to the other side of the hall. ‘I want you to hear what you heard and smell what you smelled. Go!’

  I heard thumping sounds behind. Flashes of movement reflected in the windows as kids fist-thrusted the air and jumped up and down.

  I closed my eyes and remembered how it felt to wait for the special sundae in the American diner on my last birthday. But it was hard to get that worked up, ten months later.

  Mrs Vernal circled the room. Making little comments, adjusting people. Tap, tap, tap.

  I noticed a lot of kids were showing excitement by scoring goals. England had drawn with Switzerland the week before in their first game of Euro ’96, which meant there was even more football talk at school than usual.

  It also meant Nino – the shy Year Eight Swiss kid whose dad came over here to work at the medical plant – wasn’t having a brilliant time of it.

  ‘Now,’ Mrs Vernal said, ‘let that feeling go. Shake yourselves.’

  I stared at the dust on the curtain, listening to the rustling and jangling of bracelets against watches. The sound of thirty kids flapping limp arms round their bodies.

  I’ve always tried to like football. It’s a boy thing, so a good thing, and liking it would be really useful. I mean to keep trying it till I like it. You have to put the effort in with a lot of the best things – cigarettes too, I hear. You can’t stop trying just because they’re awful at first, or you’ll never learn to smoke.

  ‘Let’s do a different emotion.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Think about a time you were sad.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t do the sad exercise, Fiona. Join in for the next one.’ Mrs Vernal patted me twice and was gone.

  Twenty minutes later, we were doing thoughtful (lots of frowning and fingers on lips) when the bell rang.

  ‘That’s it.’ Mrs Vernal clapped her hands. ‘Enjoy your evenings.’

  I turned to get my rucksack.

  ‘Fiona.’ She caught my arm. ‘Stay with me.’

  I waved Lewis to go on ahead.

  Mrs Vernal waited until the last kid had left. ‘I just wanted you to know, I’ll look out for you in this class, Fiona. Drama can be a purpose, a saviour – but also a risk.’

  I felt my forehead bunch.

  ‘It might get hard for you, the more we zero in on the emotional truth within.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Fiona?’ Mrs Vernal made her voice a special soft. ‘I heard that your sister died.’

  I felt my forehead unbunch. Ah.

  ‘You will have more powerful feelings than most kids your age. You’re in control of those feelings and it’s up to you whether you use them. This class should be a safe place for you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘If things ever get too much, I’m always here.’

  ‘Right.’

  Mrs Vernal seemed to be waiting for something. ‘Always here. For you to talk to.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks. Bye.’

  I hurried out of the school hall. Lewis was waiting with our coats.

  He handed mine over. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I took the coat and put it on. ‘She wanted to talk about Danielle.’

  Lewis shook his head. People.

  2

  The best secrets can be hidden in plain sight.

  (paradox)

  Thirty-nine days to the fair

  Lewis and I headed straight for the park after school, down pavements damp and black from the recent rain shower. Water droplets glistened on bushes as we passed, and that smoky just-rained smell filled the air.

  Despite the rain, when we got to our bush, the den-space inside was dry.

  The two of us sat cross-legged inside, pulling magazines out of the plastic bag and sliding them back in.

  ‘It is. I didn’t believe it could happen, but it is.’ Lewis looked up from leafing. ‘It’s hidden treasure.’ />
  ‘I don’t know how Finders Keepers works in a park situation.’ I picked up a magazine. ‘Are these ours now?’

  I held the magazine up to look at the cover.

  This girl stood in a bra and tiny shorts. She pulled her shorts down at one side so you could see how flat her tummy was. Her body was wet but her face was thick with make-up, like she’d had a shower but kept her face out of the water. She looked sleepy.

  ‘Do you like her?’ I asked.

  Lewis kept looking at the girl. ‘She’s fit.’

  He glanced at me.

  ‘Fit,’ he said again. He looked away.

  I nodded and pretended it didn’t sound wrong coming from Lewis. We’ve all got to practise this stuff, and it’s better to do it in front of friends.

  He turned the page. My Favourite Things, by Kelly, 18, 36–24–36, from Winchester.

  ‘I know she’s scowling in the picture,’ I said. ‘But she’s friendly in the article. See, she’s given out her phone number.’

  ‘She can’t want loads of calls though – she’s only given the short number.’ Lewis tapped 36–24–36. ‘You’d have to look up the area code if you weren’t local.’

  He closed the magazine and handed it back.

  I slid it back into the plastic bag. ‘I don’t like leaving these here. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Who do you think they belong to?’ Lewis had to ruin it.

  We both went quiet.

  I pictured a huge, scary man, shaking with anger – a massive snarling face on a wall of man-rock. Arm muscles veiny and bulging like Popeye’s.

  ‘Let’s leave them here for now, and make a decision tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s not tell anyone. Or they’ll all want a look.’

  ‘Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?’

  ‘Almost,’ Lewis said.