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

by Caroline Hulse

  I gave a little shiver. ‘We have to find something to practise spying on eventually. We could either investigate this strange man, or Danielle’s death. Your choice.’ I was planning to do both, obviously, but it’s always best to ease Lewis into things.

  He still wouldn’t look at me, so I deliberately crossed his path and stood in front of him.

  ‘We talked about this before.’ He looked up. ‘And you promised me you wouldn’t investigate Danielle.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘It’s OK for you. You get to go to the fair.’

  Lewis just looked at me.

  ‘What?’

  He started hurrying towards school, arms still folded, making sure I knew he was still angry with me. In that position, his body leaned forward and he couldn’t pump his arms, making rushing away harder.

  I watched him for a moment, hitching my rucksack further onto my shoulder. With a sigh, I ran to catch him up, but he must have heard me. He unfolded his arms and hurried quicker now.

  I slowed, deciding not to chase him anymore.

  With Lewis, it’s often best to give him a chance to calm down before I come at him with my good ideas for another round of trying.

  School news!

  Liam’s sister heard the New Head telling off Mr Carter, the IT teacher, when they thought no one was around.

  Turns out Mr Carter’s getting the computer room rewired and he signed the form with some builders without checking the cost or dates with the New Head, who says the wiring’s non-essential and an extravagance and she’d only agreed to it in principle, she hadn’t signed off the details.

  And now the rewiring is taking longer than expected and the computer room’s going to be closed for building work before the end of this term, not just over summer, as Mr Carter had said.

  Which isn’t great for me and Lewis, obviously, but that’s not important right now.

  The rumour is the New Head said Mr Carter forgot himself. That she’d been clear she needed to be asked about every money decision in the school, down to the last paperclip.

  Then the rumour is that the New Head punched him to the floor, and kept kicking Mr Carter as he was curled up in a ball – and that’s the one bit everyone talked most about as the day went on, but that’s the one bit of the story I don’t believe.

  Apart from that, in school, there was a lot of talk of sausages. People smelling them everywhere, talking about them a lot. Something to do with England playing Germany soon in the semi-final. I pretended to understand, and laughed when other people did.

  And, in rubbish school news, all the girls are into fortune tellers – those folded bits of paper where someone picks a number and the paper tells them what to do, or gives them a prediction.

  You have to . . . run round the tennis courts.

  The number of kids you’ll have is . . . two. Twins. One nice, one evil.

  The man you marry will have . . . black hair and a wooden leg.

  Being at school comes with all kinds of homework. Now, on top of learning who scored what in the football, if I was ever going to make any new friends, I needed to find out how to fold a stupid fortune teller.

  And I definitely needed new friends. It wasn’t just about getting girl friends for the Waltzers. Lewis had walked off from me that morning, and Sean hadn’t been at the lamppost this week. He wouldn’t look at me in English, even when we thought the building was on fire. And when I’d tried to talk to him in the playground, he’d walked right past me, like I was invisible.

  I tried with Lewis, though. I really did.

  I saw him in the corridor between lessons and grabbed his coat as kids pushed past us. ‘Why are you cross, Lewis?’

  ‘I can’t believe you said you want to investigate Danielle’s death again. After I asked you not to.’

  ‘Think about it. We need to investigate because what if she’s haunting the fair?’ I got bumped to the side by a massive rucksack. ‘Do you want to go to a haunted fair?’

  Lewis hitched his own bag higher onto his shoulder. ‘Please never say anything to Gail and Jonathan about Danielle haunting the fair.’

  Gail and Jonathan. Who did he think he was? A mum? ‘You’re being selfish. You get to go to the fair, so you don’t care about me!’

  A group of Year Eight boys charged down the corridor, chanting. ‘Eng-er-land!’

  Lewis moved out of their way. ‘I’m not taking any part in this.’

  ‘Eng-er-land! Eng-er-land!’

  ‘You won’t help me?’ I said. ‘When you know how much I want to go?’

  ‘I think it will get you into trouble. And investigating the strange man isn’t safe either. Let’s find another secret. A better one. A safer secret.’

  I made a pah sound.

  ‘Or we could do something fun.’ Lewis stepped to the side for Miss Gold and her pile of textbooks. ‘I could teach you how I do my card tricks and we could practise mnemonics? We could get a tray out and put household objects on them and take turns to—’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Or we could make some badges to pin on our school bags? We could give them to people and make it a style thing? Like you’re one of a good crowd if you have one of the badges?’

  I couldn’t believe this. ‘LEWIS! Card tricks is bad enough, but you’re twelve! You don’t go around making badges like a little kid at twelve!’

  His mouth twitched.

  ‘You’re so scared about investigating things,’ I said. ‘Your dad’s right, you’re not red-blooded. I’ve never met anyone less red-blooded in – my – life.’

  The bell rang.

  ‘If I was a boy, I’d be so much better at it than you,’ I added. ‘Better at making friends, better at football, better at fighting – everything.’

  And Lewis walked off.

  I couldn’t find Lewis all lunchtime. I hurried around school looking for him, jumping over the feet of the bigger kids who lined the benches at the side of the main corridor. But he wasn’t sitting in a corridor.

  He wasn’t in the computer room, either. And Mr Carter, who’s normally so nice, looked annoyed when I went there and told me to please leave, Fiona, the room’s off-limits today, I’ve got stuff to do.

  I sat in the playground, leaning against the science block wall, and ate my lunch. When I finished, I flattened my empty crisp packet. I folded the rectangle, again and again. I tucked in the final edge until the packet was a tiny triangle, no bigger than a 50p.

  Forty-five minutes is too long for a school lunchtime. Especially if everywhere you can think of to go is just a whole list of places you don’t want to be.

  The Worst Things Lewis Harris Has Ever Done

  1)Put his name down to do magic tricks in the Monkford High ‘Year Seven Search for A Star!’ assembly

  2)Learned about mnemonics and bought a special tea tray to use for memory games

  3)Asked for a clarinet for his birthday

  4)Let his parents take him to France on holiday (Lewis Harris went to Paris)

  5)Kept showing how he could make his nostrils flare

  6)Brought in sandwiches made with dinosaur cutters

  7)Couldn’t sleep for a week after dreaming swans lived under his bed

  If that kid doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore, that’s sweet by me.

  16

  Friends can be the worst people to tell secrets to.

  (paradox)

  Twenty-three days to the fair

  It had been nearly a whole day since I shouted at Lewis and told him he wasn’t red-blooded, and he still wasn’t waiting for me at the lamppost.

  I waited there anyway, looking at the newspaper I’d picked up from the bus shelter bench. The whole of the front page was taken up with a picture of two England players roaring in army helmets. ACHTUNG! SURRENDER! For you, Fr
itz, ze Euro ’96 Championship is over.

  I folded up the paper and tucked it under my arm. I looked towards 56 George Street.

  The red Astra in the driveway had a dent in the back bumper and a Baby on Board sticker.

  The house had a new For Sale sign in the flowerbed. The sign called the house a desirable three-bedroom property, with early viewing recommended. I waited a bit longer before heading into school.

  In registration, Kirsty and her friends huddled round their fortune tellers, moving their fingers and thumbs, taking turns to pick a number.

  ‘Number eight,’ Olive said.

  Kirsty peeled back the paper. ‘You will get tonsillitis.’

  I watched the girls pick numbers and pull back the paper. It was all about the folds, I decided.

  Olive saw me looking and whispered something to the other girls. I heard the words magazines and dirty.

  I shuffled in my seat.

  ‘She’s disgusting.’

  I shuffled some more.

  The girls went back to playing fortune tellers, Kirsty holding out the paper to Olive to choose.

  ‘Number seven.’

  Kirsty peeled back the paper again. ‘You will go to the fair.’

  I sat up straighter.

  I zoomed in on Kirsty’s piece of paper, my gaze an invisible laser.

  When the bell rang, Kirsty hurried out with her friends, leaving the crumpled fortune teller on the desk behind her.

  I picked up the fortune teller and put it carefully in my secret pocket.

  I took it to maths. I spent the lesson pretending to listen to Mr Adams, but kept my hands under the desk, making the paper move.

  I picked number seven, again and again. I opened the paper. I traced Kirsty’s words with my thumb. Again and again.

  You will go to the fair.

  At break, I rushed towards the canteen because I knew Lewis would be wanting a snack. A rice crispy cake, to be exact.

  I spotted him on the main corridor, right on time. ‘Lewis!’

  He pretended he hadn’t heard.

  I chased him.

  He ran away.

  I puffed after him. He had one part of his shirt spilling out of his trousers, one shoelace undone. He ran lopsidedly because of his schoolbag on one shoulder.

  I heard giggling from some of the girls sitting on the benches. ‘Look at the state.’

  And I still didn’t stop chasing him. ‘Lewis!’

  Still, undone shoelace and everything, he got away.

  School news. And not good, this time.

  My time of being magazine queen was definitely over.

  I was on my own in the main corridor at lunchtime when Sean came up with a bunch of lads from the blue estate, and Liam and Greeney too.

  I didn’t even care how Sean had managed to get back in with them. I didn’t want to know.

  ‘Got any magazines, Fiona?’ Liam said. People were still saying it, but in a different way now. Like . . . like it wasn’t a good thing anymore.

  I shook my head.

  ‘You like porn?’

  ‘I like boys’ things.’

  Liam narrowed his eyes. ‘Like football?

  ‘Love it.’

  There was a sudden hush. I turned to see the New Head walking down the corridor, a silver lizard badge on her pale blue cardigan today. In her path, kids picked up rucksacks and scurried out of the way.

  The crowd kept parting in front of her, quiet spreading all around. Even the three sea witches grabbed their bags and scattered.

  After a few seconds delay, when the New Head was out of sight, the chattering in the corridor started up again.

  ‘You love football.’ Liam turned to me again. ‘Did you watch the Spain game, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ I swallowed. ‘Did you see McAllister’s face when he missed that penalty? Aaah.’

  Liam and everyone straightened. Eyes flicked into focus. Lions all spotting the same old limping wildebeest.

  ‘That was the Scotland game, of course,’ I stammered. ‘I meant, how good was Seaman in the Spain game? Those saves.’

  The others crowded in. Sean stood at the back of the group, hands in pockets. He stared at the floor.

  ‘Aren’t you hot in that coat?’ Liam flicked a flap. ‘Why’s the front all bumpy?’

  I took a step back. No.

  Liam threw the flap of my coat open, showing the secret pocket.

  He took the spybox out of my coat. ‘Matches?’ He opened it up. ‘Not matches.’

  Liam threw the box to Sean. ‘What’s this?’

  Sean licked his lips. ‘It’s a spying kit. They keep them in their secret pockets. Her and Harris.’

  I stared at Sean. Eight days ago, I’d told him that. When we were lying on the grass in the park, being friends. Eight days.

  Sean must have remembered too because he looked at the floor again.

  ‘Girls can spy too,’ I muttered. ‘There’s no rule against it.’

  ‘There’s the other one!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Hey!’ Lewis’s voice.

  Across the corridor, kids jostled Lewis, opening his coat to get his spy kit out.

  I looked away. Watching it happen to Lewis felt so much worse than it happening to me.

  Greeney threw my spy box on the floor. ‘Spying kits? This is high school. Grow up.’

  And he kicked my spybox to Liam. Who kicked it back.

  And the boys started laughing as they all joined in, trampling over my spybox.

  Sean didn’t join in. But he didn’t move away either.

  The bell rang for the next lesson and Greeney gave my box one last kick. Everyone scattered.

  In the empty corridor, still ringing with the sound of kids’ footsteps, I picked up my broken pieces of spybox from the floor. Carefully, I collected the torn code flaps. I picked up the hollow twigs, now snapped and scattered at the edges of the corridor. I reached for my matchstick-wound pieces of paper, stamped flat.

  I looked up to see Lewis, but he looked away. And he didn’t get down on the floor to put his spybox back together.

  He just turned and walked away, leaving his spybox destroyed and on the floor, in pieces.

  17

  People often say ‘in the blood’ when they mean ‘in the family’. Blood itself does not hold all the information people think it does.

  Fiona Larson, 7E’s Blood Project

  Twenty-one days to the fair

  The next couple of days at school could have been worse.

  England lost to Germany that night, which meant I wouldn’t have to do football homework for a very long time. It meant everyone at school was miserable too, which was good for me. Being sad is tougher when everyone else is happy.

  It was still sunny. And I still had Kirsty’s fortune teller. I kept moving the paper flaps and picking number seven. Letting it tell me again and again you will go to the fair, like my papery fairy godmother.

  And I still had my hundred and twelve pounds. And Lewis would forgive me soon – he always did. I could make a new spybox. You could get paper and matches anywhere.

  It wasn’t over.

  And the school news on Friday was particularly good.

  A Year Seven kid phoned Childline!

  His dad wouldn’t let him have a Magnum before tea and Stu Meaker, this kid, had had enough. He actually called! He’d threatened and threatened, and this time – well. His dad had pushed him too far.

  No one knew what was going to happen. No one had ever phoned before. There was so much excitement down the corridors.

  ‘Do they have dogs, and vans? How does it work?’

  ‘He’ll go to prison. For life.’

  ‘I just came back from his house and there were police there.’


  And Stu Meaker just shrugged. ‘Look, I love him, but he deserved it.’ And he tried not to look too scared. But he definitely rushed off somewhere, hurrying out of school at the end of the day.

  Best of all, when I got home on Friday afternoon, there was an envelope addressed to me on the hallway table.

  I took the letter out to the back garden and sat on my old swing to read it.

  Dear Ms Larson,

  Thank you for your letter, and for your interest in our newspaper.

  I’m afraid we can’t send old copies of the newspaper to individuals, or disclose the personal details of our staff. However, all copies of the newspaper are archived and can be accessed using the microfiche in the library.

  But we thank you for your continued interest in the activities of our newspaper. We are always looking for new supporters and you can join our team of enthusiastic fundraisers by . . .

  I read it again. The important bit, not the fundraising bit.

  . . . all copies of the newspaper are archived and can be accessed using the microfiche at the library.

  I didn’t have a clue what that meant.

  But I’d find out.

  The day got worse, of course. With Fiona Larson luck, things always do.

  I helped myself to some macaroni at the peninsula. ‘What shall we do tonight? Can we rent a film?’

  I splatted the spoonful of macaroni onto my plate. Mum and Dad looked at each other.

  Mum adjusted her hairclip. ‘Didn’t we tell you?’

  ‘We’ve got our group coming round tonight.’ Dad leaned forward. ‘It’s our turn to host. Sorry, Fi.’

  Our group.

  The Dead Kids Group.

  ‘Can I come?’ I really don’t know why I said that. Sometimes I just say things I don’t mean.

  ‘You can stay in your room or go to Mrs Carpenter’s?’ Mum said. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  ‘You want me out of the way, so I don’t remind them,’ I said. ‘A live kid like me, making people with dead kids jealous.’

  ‘That’s not it.’ Mum frowned. ‘Not at all. Don’t say things like that, Fi.’ She paused. ‘And it’s not just a group about people losing children, some people got widowed young.’

  ‘It’s not that we don’t want you there; it’s just adult time.’ Dad leaned forward so I had to look into his eyes. ‘Like Date Night. So do you want to stay in your room or go to Mrs Carpenter’s? Or I could call Lewis’s mum?’