‘At least you’re not the one about to cut your fingers off.’ Lewis sawed wobbily at two pushed-together pencils with his penknife. His job was making a short pencil for each of our spy boxes.
He stopped sawing and looked up, sunlight in his eyes. ‘Did you see the section in the spy manual on teamwork? We can learn secret codes and write each other letters that only we would understand? In case they get intercepted.’
That was hope in his eyes, not sunlight. ‘No way. That sounds more like mnemonics than spying to me.’ I picked up a tiny piece of paper and wound it round a matchstick. ‘So, are you going to help me sell the magazines at the car boot?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Lewis’s penknife skittered off the pencils. He glanced up. ‘Is . . . is your mum going to be there?’
I sniffed with laughter. But then I thought of my mum, on the floor, drunk and listening to that song, reaching up to me like a baby. I stopped sniffing.
I watched Lewis saw at the pencils. I picked up a piece of paper to wind round my matchstick. It seemed to make the paper take up more space, not less – but I supposed the people at The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™ knew what they were doing. ‘I know they say matchboxes are great because they’re a common household item.’ I wound the paper some more. ‘But I still think there are going to be questions asked if people see kids carrying round matchboxes.’
‘We’ll keep them in our secret pockets though,’ Lewis said. ‘So it’ll be OK.’
‘And the problem with the secret pockets,’ I said, ‘is it’s only been a day, and already five people have said, “Aren’t you hot in that coat, Fiona?”’
Lewis didn’t answer.
I looked up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s the football tonight.’ Lewis sawed at the pencils. ‘I just can’t wait for this stupid championship to be over.’
I made sad fish mouth at Lewis. Lewis’s dad would be getting him to watch the football, trying to make him like it. And Lewis would keep having to jump up and celebrate and say stuff like Did you see McAllister’s face when he missed that penalty? Aaah, or his dad would give him little punches on the arm and say Buck up, son, don’t be such a girl.
Lewis concentrated. ‘I think . . . nearly there . . .’
There was a crunching as the pencils broke. We whooped. Lewis’s penknife skidded into his leg, but it was fine, it stopped at his trousers.
Lewis helped me with winding paper onto matchsticks, and I thought some more about Lewis’s dad.
There are some days I’d prefer other kids’ parents. Like Sean’s mum, who lets him stay up to watch Crimewatch. Or Candy’s parents, who let her have a telly in her bedroom and have pancakes when it wasn’t pancake day. Or even Greeney’s parents, who – I hear – let you eat sweets right before your tea and have a ride-on lawn mower.
And Lewis’s mum is OK, though she only buys brown bread and won’t buy biscuits with chocolate on. But I definitely wouldn’t want Lewis’s dad. My parents might have flashing doorbell lights, drive a car with our name down the side and keep our house’s second-biggest bedroom for a dead girl – but they never made me watch the football or punched me on the arm all day and called it a joke and said I acted like a little girl.
I picked up The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™. ‘We need to find hollow twigs next. For putting secret messages in.’
Lewis waved at someone. I looked up.
Sean wandered towards us, his hands in his pockets, kicking every stone he could see as he walked.
He stood over us and looked at our equipment, all laid out. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making spy kits,’ I said. ‘To keep in our secret pockets.’
Sean bumped down onto the grass and stuck his legs out. ‘Secret pockets?’
I flapped open my coat to show him.
Sean looked at Lewis. ‘Show me yours.’
‘I haven’t made mine yet,’ Lewis said.
‘It’s a great idea, though.’ Sean lay down and folded one foot over the other. ‘Hey, Fi, you can keep all your money from the car boot sale in that pocket, can’t you? You’re going to be loaded.’
I watched Sean jiggle his body on the grass, making himself comfortable, and smiled. Never mind Mum. Life was good.
Sean blew his fringe out of his eyes and closed them. ‘So this is where you two go when I’m not around, hey? It’s a good spot.’
I glanced at Lewis nervously. We hadn’t told anyone where we’d found the magazines. We thought it was safer that way. In case the owner with his angry face and veiny Popeye arms came back.
‘Now.’ I stood up and dusted my skirt off. ‘There have to be hollow twigs round here somewhere.’
I came back from school to find Mum at the kettle.
I threw my rucksack down. ‘Hi.’
Mum gave me a big smile. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
I shook my head. I never want a cup of tea, and she knows that.
‘Your father’s back from seeing Uncle Jim.’ She turned back to the kettle. Her movements were jerky as she stirred the teabag. ‘They had a good time drinking and whatnot. Dad has a sore head today. He’s out at the shops now.’
I didn’t say anything.
She put the spoon on the counter with a ching. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t myself.’ She made her voice lighter. ‘But don’t tell your father, hey? We don’t want to ruin the nice night he had with Uncle Jim. Or ruin the match. He’s really looking forward to watching England on telly tonight.’
I still didn’t say anything.
She kept her back to me, still facing the kettle. ‘I’m really sorry, Fiona.’ So quiet, I could hardly hear. ‘It won’t happen again.’
She put her hands flat on the countertop and waited.
‘OK.’ I slid off the stool. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
I walked into the lounge, trying to work out if this was a good kind of secret to have or the bad kind. Either way, if Dad was out and Mum was in the kitchen, it was a good time to steal another stamp and envelope from the Cupboard of Office Things.
So I peeled off the last stamp in the book and carried it upstairs carefully on my finger. I sat on my bed and wrote a letter to the police asking about Danielle, making sure I used my best grown-up writing.
And hoping – really hoping – that if it was the man with the glasses who opened the post at the police station, he wouldn’t be able to tell that the letter was from me.
11
While you’re shadowing your quarry, remember – enemy spies might be shadowing you too! A good spy stays vigilant, and has tricks up their sleeve to shake off a tail.
The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™
Twenty-seven days to the fair
Summer was starting to feel like proper summer now. It was shiny-pavement hot. Ice-lollies-not-just-as-a-pudding hot. No one was wearing their jumpers to school anymore, and some kids even wore short-sleeved shirts. Not the good kids though, I don’t know why – but I noticed, so I made sure I didn’t wear short sleeves either.
England beat the Netherlands 4–1, so there was no decent school news because that was all anyone talked about. England had made the quarter finals and the next game was on Saturday, against Spain.
Another game.
I really hoped England started losing soon.
Speaking of losing – Richard Plant came back in, three days after the England–Scotland game. I saw him walking round the playing fields at lunchtime on his own, so things weren’t back to normal for him yet.
And not for me, either. I walked through the corridors, my head held higher than it had ever been, and older kids spoke to me.
‘All right, Fiona.’
‘Great to see you, Fi.’
‘Nice coat. Good toggles.’
And I’d answer with a smile.
&n
bsp; ‘Hi!’
‘Thank you.’
‘Looking good yourself.’
It wasn’t quite so good for Lewis, as no one knew his name. But, still, he got to walk next to me, so no one tried to trip him up in the corridors all week.
It was official. The magazines had changed my life – for ever.
Finally, the day was here.
Dad parked up on Festival Field, the place alive with cars and boxes, and the buzz of conversations and laughter. Camping tables were piled high with cooking dishes and ashtrays, alarm clocks and electric whisks. There were people everywhere.
I must have been really distracted because when Dad reached for two folding camping tables in the boot, he said. ‘You’re thoughtful today.’
I unfolded the legs of the other table.
‘Aren’t you hot in that coat?’
‘I’m fine.’
Neither me nor Mum had told him about Mum playing records in Danielle’s room when he was at Uncle Jim’s. But then, Dad had asked me to phone a premium rate number to apply for a quiz show earlier that week. And neither of us told Mum.
I think that’s just how families work.
I placed my cardboard box on the camping table and opened it. Under the toys, I could just make out a bit of blonde hair and the e of Razzle.
My heart beat loud in my ears. I was really going to do this.
I started pulling out the ponies and bears from my box, sitting the bears upright. I made their bodies lean forward and their feet stick out, like fat babies.
Dad opened his box to reveal plates and napkins from my other dead grandma’s old house. I spotted our old kitchen lampshade. Mum’s sewing patterns.
‘You can have that other table for your stuff,’ Dad said.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Let me know if you need any help with pricing. Or closing a deal.’
I nodded and laid my things out. The ponies. The bears. I felt my face going red that I’d ever played with this kids’ stuff. I reached for Sprinkles and held her for a second, before making myself put her on the table with the others.
I pulled out the leaflets I’d made, listing all the magazines. I tucked the lists under a bear and left the magazines in the box. I folded the box’s flaps in and slid it under my table.
‘I’m gonna teach you to sell, Fiona. Watch and learn.’ Dad puffed himself up as he looked out over the field. ‘We don’t put the price on the items in writing, so we can start high and adjust with the market.’ He waved his hand over his table. ‘We don’t want to let the good stuff go too soon, too cheap. We listen to offers, and we set a good price.’
A woman came over. ‘How much for the knitting patterns?’
Dad looked at her for a moment. ‘Fifty pence each, or three for one pound twenty.’
The woman looked through the patterns and bought three.
Dad put the coins into his bumbag and zipped it up. He winked at me. ‘How good’s your dad at selling?’
‘You are.’
‘A proper barrow boy!’
I didn’t know what that meant, except that Dad was proud of himself.
I thought I saw Dr Sharma walking down between the cars on the next aisle.
‘Dr Sharma!’ I did a big wave, windmilling both my arms. ‘Dr Sharma!’
But it couldn’t have been Dr Sharma because the woman turned straight round and walked in the other direction.
Dad started chatting to the man at the table next to him. The man was dusting off a beige electric fan that was so old, it must have been from the war or something.
A woman pointed at my bears. She had a young kid trailing off her arm. ‘How much for these?’
I leaned on my homemade leaflets, covering them with my hand. ‘Fifty pence each,’ I said. ‘Or three for a pound.’
I looked up to share a secret smile, but Dad was still chatting to the beige fan man, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets like he was Del Boy, his thumbs fluttering against the denim.
The woman scooped up two bears – and Sprinkles.
I didn’t have time to think about kids’ stuff now, not with magazines to sell. So I let her drop the pound coin into my hand and put it carefully into my secret pocket. I watched the woman walked away. Trying not to feel anything.
It was fine. It was all fine.
Dad took a few steps away from our camping table, still talking to the fan man. ‘What kind of auction?’
‘General household goods auctions, they’re called.’ The man folded his arms. ‘Dead people’s stuff. I guarantee, you get the best gardening tools at dead house auctions.’
‘Really?’ Dad picked up a pair of secateurs and started squeezing them, testing the spring.
Now.
I grabbed my magazines from the box. I put them at the end of my table, furthest from Dad’s. I arranged bears and ponies and jigsaws over them hurriedly.
Dad put the secateurs down. ‘Well, I’ve learned something today.’ He turned away from the fan man, smiling.
I looked around. Some boys from school were starting to gather at nearby stalls, looking carefully at plates and coat hangers.
A Year Ten kid came up to my table, his centre-parted hair sticking in two directions like a washing-up brush. ‘Hi, Fi.’
I checked Dad was looking in the other direction. I snuck him a leaflet.
Dean Prince, who plays for Port Vale under sixteens, trailed his finger across my camping table. ‘All right, Fi-oh.’
He swiped a leaflet and was gone.
One kid with baggy skater clothes picked up a pony and turned it over, like he was studying the quality. ‘How are you doing, Fi?’
Dad looked over at that point. I waited until he was looking the other way, before nodding to the boy to take a leaflet.
‘You need to share those leaflets,’ I said, so all the boys could hear. ‘I’m selling each pony or jigsaw at 1 p.m. Though I will listen to offers before then.’
The boys at the table melted back into groups, huddled and muttering. The boy with the washing-up hair had his arms round some other boys, talking and focused, like they were a sports team before a big match.
‘I didn’t think you knew so many people!’ Dad turned to me. ‘But Fi, don’t get your hopes up. I know I said we should aim high, and listen to offers, but I don’t think you should expect to get too much for your ponies.’
I nodded. I kept my gaze on the buzzing crowd.
Dad tapped me on the back. ‘Mind the stall while I check out the competition.’
He walked up the aisle, looking at other people’s tables as he went.
Dean Prince rushed up to the table. ‘Fifteen quid for Mayfair.’
‘Twenty-five and it’s yours right now.’
Dean nodded. In seconds, we’d swapped the magazine for the money.
I rearranged my bears and ponies over the remaining mags and slipped the money into my secret pocket.
The skater kid came up. ‘A tenner for Fiesta.’
I shook my head.
The kid looked like he was going to say something else, but I jerked my head. Dad was coming.
‘Some advice.’ Dad joined me at the table. ‘Don’t be buying anything from the last two stalls on the left.’ He spoke to both me and the skater kid, who was now closely studying sewing patterns. ‘A lot of things there off the back of a lorry.’
The kid picked a package of shiny fabric off Dad’s table. He looked at it closely. ‘Right you are.’
‘That’s an ironing board cover,’ Dad said.
‘OK.’
Another baggily dressed kid came up. He took the ironing board cover off Skater Kid thoughtfully, like they were a team, considering buying it together. ‘There’s more where that came from,’ Dad said. ‘My wife makes them. Fit all standard sizes.’
/>
I saw a familiar bobbing walk in the distance. ‘LEWIS!’
He waved. His mum waved, too.
I shouted, ‘Aren’t you coming over?’
He jiggled up and down like he needed a wee. ‘Is your mum there?’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘No.’
Lewis came scurrying up, his mum following.
‘Hi, Mrs Harris,’ I said.
‘Hi, Fiona. Aren’t you hot in that coat?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I hear you’re coming to visit after tea tonight.’ She gave me a big smile. ‘What lovely ponies. I—’
‘Don’t touch them!’ I barked.
Mrs Harris stopped reaching for a pony.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’ve laid them out carefully. In the best selling positions. Sorry.’
Dad leaned towards Mrs Harris. ‘Fiona is taking her selling very seriously today.’
Mrs Harris nodded. ‘Right you are.’ Dad and Mrs Harris chatted to each other, something about the bomb – ‘so awful’, ‘so pointless’ – but I stopped listening.
A lad with bright chin rash stepped up. He stood so close, I could smell Skittle breath. ‘Twenty-five quid for Razzle.’
Lewis’s eyes went wide. He glanced at his mum, but she was still talking to Dad.
‘Sold. But’ – I glanced at Dad and back – ‘You can pick it up when the coast is clear.’
Chin Rash Skittle Breath nodded and handed me two notes.
Dad looked at the money. He looked at the boy.
Chin Rash Skittle Breath picked up a bear and walked on. Dad watched after him, looking dazed.
I dropped the money into my secret pocket. I moved my fingers around in there so I could touch all the notes and coins at once. Fifty-one pounds already. And I still had seven magazines to go.
I could feel the fair now. It was getting closer. I could practically smell the candyfloss.
I was going to be so popular at school after this.
To Go to the Fair I Need:
1)Money for the rides √
2)Girl friends, so the boy from the Waltzers will push my car
3)Mum and Dad to let me go
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 8
