The Butterfly Club

by Jacqueline Wilson

  There was just one butterfly cake left that had got a bit bashed. Selma and I shared it. It still tasted good.

  Miss Lovejoy let us count up our fifty pences during our maths lesson. We’d made £32.50!

  ‘Wow, that’s a fortune!’ I said. ‘That’s enough for at least two bags of compost.’

  ‘Yeah, but haven’t we got to pay your mum for all the flour and sugar and butter and stuff we used to make the cakes?’ asked Selma. ‘My mum said they must have cost a bomb. She said your mum must have more money than sense. She thinks she’s stupid.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback.

  ‘But I think your mum’s nice. And I love your grandad. You’re so lucky. I haven’t got a grandad.’

  ‘Well, maybe you can have a share of mine, because he likes you too,’ I said.

  I was still worrying about Mum. I didn’t like her being insulted. And I hadn’t even thought about how much the ingredients must have cost.

  ‘Perhaps we ought to give my mum . . . half our profits from the cake sale?’ I said.

  ‘It’s up to you. You’re the one in charge of the money,’ said Selma.

  I’d offered to share it out but Selma shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be mad. I’m not taking any of that money home. Someone would nick it straight away. My stepdad would be down the pub or the betting shop with it.’

  ‘Even if you explained that it was our money and we’re saving it for compost and plants?’

  ‘Yep. Wouldn’t make any difference. They’d say I was soft in the head anyway, spending it on muck and weeds.’

  ‘But it’s for a butterfly garden!’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but my mum and them don’t reckon butterflies the way you do. They just think they’re silly bugs and try to swat them.’

  ‘You reckon butterflies though, don’t you, Selma?’

  ‘Not quite as much as you – but yeah, they’re OK. And I want to make this garden. Imagine if I’ve done all this digging for nothing!’

  ‘You’ve been a champion digger, Selma,’ I said, and I clapped her on the back.

  I did offer Mum half the cake money as I proudly carried the heavy Quality Street tin home.

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet of you, Tina,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it was actually Selma’s idea, not mine,’ I admitted.

  ‘My goodness. Selma’s quite a thoughtful girl when she wants to be,’ said Mum. ‘But anyway, you two keep the money for your garden. Dad got a discount on all the cake ingredients because he bought them from his supermarket. And we were happy to let you have a little party. It was good fun – wasn’t it, Phil and Maddie?’

  ‘Yes, it was quite good fun,’ said Phil. ‘But I think it would only be fair for me to have a cake-making party with Neera so we can buy stuff for our club.’

  ‘And I want a cake-making party with Harry so we can buy cool new football stuff,’ said Maddie.

  ‘You girls!’ said Mum. ‘I want a cake-making party with all my friends so I can buy some new clothes! Now quit nagging me. At least Tina’s cake sale was a big success and she can buy stuff for her butterfly garden.’

  Phil gave a big yawn. ‘I’m actually getting a bit fed up with hearing about this boring old butterfly garden.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Maddie. ‘And I’m especially fed up with everyone praising yucky old Selma all the time. She mightn’t be quite so mean now, but she’s still pretty horrible. I don’t get you, Tina. There you are, being all best friendies with her now, when she was the girl who flushed your Baby down the toilet!’

  ‘I keep saying, she’s not my best friend. You shut up!’ I said.

  ‘No, you shut up,’ said Maddie.

  ‘Don’t say shut up, say be quiet,’ said Mum. ‘And all three of you, be quiet!’

  We squabbled most of the evening. It was awful, because we don’t usually fight. Phil and Maddie didn’t even say goodnight to me properly when we went to bed.

  I pretended I didn’t care, but I did. I couldn’t get to sleep. I lay on my tummy with my head under my pillow, thinking about Baby and missing her badly.

  Then Phil pattered across the carpet and climbed into my bed. ‘Sorry, Tina! I don’t really think butterfly gardens are boring,’ she whispered.

  Maddie came and climbed into my bed on the other side. ‘Sorry, Tina! I won’t go on about Selma any more, even though I still can’t stand her,’ she said.

  It was a bit of a squash, but I didn’t mind a bit. We cuddled up close and went to sleep together, Phil and Maddie and me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WE STARTED TO collect things for our white elephant stall at the Christmas fete.

  ‘What sort of things?’ asked Selma.

  ‘We’ll make stuff. And we’ll collect up old stuff and sell that too,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t make stuff. And I haven’t got any old stuff,’ she said.

  Miss Lovejoy overheard. ‘It will be my pleasure to teach you to make something, girls,’ she said.

  The next day she came into our classroom carrying some thick cream material, little skeins of different coloured wool, and two big thick needles.

  ‘Cross-stitch purses!’ she said.

  Oh, those purses! At first they made us very cross as we stitched.

  But we slowly got better at it. We couldn’t always dig because it was too cold or too wet, so we sat and stitched instead.

  Selma made a rainbow purse. It was a little bit wobbly, but she did the colours in the right order and it looked very pretty.

  ‘What’s that yellow blobby thing on the ground?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the crock of gold. You get that at the end of the rainbow,’ she told me.

  I made a butterfly purse. Two butterfly purses. I made a blue morpho butterfly purse and an emerald swallowtail purse. I knew two girls who might want to buy them!

  Miss Lovejoy lined the purses and stitched up the sides for us, but we sewed on the big press studs.

  I drew butterfly pictures too – little ones on good white paper – colouring them in very carefully. Miss Lovejoy let us have some pink and blue card from the store cupboard. Selma cut it into rectangles, measuring very carefully so the sides didn’t go wonky. She stuck my butterfly pictures on them and little calendar booklets underneath. Miss Lovejoy provided the calendar booklets too.

  Phil and Neera made necklaces and bracelets for our stall.

  Maddie and Harry tried to make plasticine footballers, but they went all lumpy so they squashed them up again.

  They donated some old things instead. Maddie gave a few books and a pretend make-up set and her rabbit with the silly face. Harry gave a ball and an old football strip. Kayleigh donated some dance DVDs. She didn’t want to donate anything at all, but Selma said she must, because she was on our table and had to support us.

  Peter donated a small box of Lego. He admitted it probably had a few pieces missing.

  Mick donated a Jolly Octopus game. Selma and I played it with him before we put it in the store cupboard for our stall.

  Alistair donated a dark brown cake.

  ‘Oh, Alistair, not another date loaf,’ Selma groaned. ‘There are only two people in the whole world who like your date loaf. You and weirdo Miss Simpson.’

  ‘That’s not one hundred per cent accurate,’ he said. ‘My mum likes my date loaf – well, she likes the version with nuts in. And so does my dad. And anyway, this isn’t a date loaf. It’s an organic healthy version of a Christmas cake.’

  ‘Where’s the icing and that yellow stuff?’ asked Selma.

  ‘Marzipan . . . I said this is a healthy version that won’t rot your teeth. And it’s got excellent keeping qualities, especially if you put it in a tin.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Alistair, but the thing is, we weren’t really going to have another cake stall,’ I said, trying to be more tactful. ‘We’re not having anything you can eat. We’re going to sell all sorts of things, old and new. It’s a white elephant stall. That means—’
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br />   ‘I know what it means!’ said Alistair. ‘All right, I’ll take my cake back. I can always give it to my auntie for Christmas. I’ll bring you something highly appropriate for your white elephant stall tomorrow.’

  Selma and I had a private laugh, imagining all the things Alistair might bring from home.

  But Alistair brought us a wonderful gift for our stall.

  ‘Oh, Alistair, it’s magnificent!’ I said.

  ‘What are you giving this away for?’ asked Selma. ‘Most people give old junky stuff. This elephant looks brand-new and expensive.’

  ‘I’ve had it ever since I was little, but I’m always very careful with my possessions,’ said Alistair. ‘He’s called Ganesh after the Indian god.’

  ‘Well, we’ll re-christen him Alistair, after you, and we’ll put him in pride of place on our stall. Thank you very much!’ I said.

  Mum donated some real make-up and a perfume-and-hand-lotion set, still in its box, and some artificial flowers.

  Dad donated his new cardigan. Mum got cross because she’d only just bought it for him, replacing the old stripy jumper he’s had for years and years. Dad said he hated wearing his new cardigan because it made him feel like an old man and there was nothing wrong with his stripy jumper.

  I phoned Gran and Grandad, and they sent a big parcel full of things for the butterfly garden stall.

  Gran donated some scarves and shoes and handbags.

  Grandad donated some books and DVDs.

  Selma’s family donated some things too. She came into class with all sorts stuffed into her school bag. ‘Look what I got,’ she said, showing me proudly.

  ‘Oh, Selma, how kind of your family to donate these,’ I said.

  ‘Well, they didn’t exactly realize they were donating,’ she said, grinning.

  I looked at her anxiously. ‘Won’t you get into trouble when they find they’re missing?’

  ‘Oh, stuff always goes missing in our house. And I’m always in trouble anyway,’ said Selma, shrugging.

  So one way or another we had HEAPS to sell on our butterfly stall. I spent ages trying to price them appropriately.

  On the Saturday of the sale we got to school very early to set up our stall. Phil and Maddie were with me, so they helped. They had to do it the way Selma and I wanted, because it was our stall after all. It was great fun bossing them about!

  Miss Lovejoy was at school early too. She brought some little boxes with her. ‘Here you are, girls. I thought you might like to sell these on your white elephant stall,’ she said.

  She’d made the most beautiful little butterfly brooches, with painted wings and embroidered markings and bodies, and a pin at the back.

  ‘Oh, Miss Lovejoy, they’re simply wonderful!’ I said.

  I was so thrilled, I forgot that she was scary Miss Lovejoy, my teacher. I rushed up and gave her a big hug.

  ‘Now now, no need to be quite so enthusiastic, Tina!’ she said, backing away, but she looked pleased all the same.

  ‘I want one of the butterfly brooches,’ I said, examining them all.

  ‘So do I,’ said Selma. ‘Tell you what, price them very, very cheaply and then we’ll both be able to afford one.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re so lovely we should really ask a lot for them so that we make masses of money,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps we could price just two of them very cheaply . . .’ said Selma. ‘One for me and one for you.’

  ‘That would be cheating,’ I told her firmly.

  ‘Oh, you’re such a goody-goody, Little Bug. You make me sick at times,’ said Selma.

  ‘You make me sick too, Big Bug,’ I said, and I mimed being sick all over her.

  Then she pretended to be sick on me, and I pretended to be sick on her and—

  ‘Stop it! You’re being disgusting!’ said Phil.

  ‘Utterly gross!’ agreed Maddie, but she was giggling.

  We decided to charge five pounds each for the butterfly brooches because they were so very special.

  We sold three of them even before the Christmas fete was officially opened by some local lady writer.

  The lady writer bought one of the butterfly brooches too. She wanted the blue morpho butterfly purse as well, but I had to tell her that it was reserved for my sister.

  Phil did want it, and Maddie wanted the emerald swallowtail purse, just as I’d hoped.

  We were very, very busy selling things on our stall. The other butterfly brooches sold in the first half-hour.

  ‘I did want one,’ said Selma. ‘We’re daft not to have kept two for ourselves.’

  ‘But look at all the money we’ve made!’ I shook the Quality Street tin.

  Mum came and bought Dad’s cardigan back! ‘It’s a lovely colour and very thick wool. If your dad won’t wear it, I’ll give it to Grandad,’ she said.

  Selma’s mum came too, with her little brothers. ‘Are you behaving yourself then, our Selma?’ she asked.

  ‘Course I am,’ said Selma. ‘Are you going to buy something from our stall, Mum?’

  ‘It’s just a load of old tat,’ said Mrs Johnson rudely. But then she saw the packet of tights. She picked them up and peered at them. ‘I love this make – and they’re my size!’ she said. ‘I’ll have them.’

  Selma took the money happily. I didn’t dare look at her in case we both burst out laughing.

  We were making lots of money. We even sold Alistair’s white elephant, though at ten pounds, it was the most expensive item on our stall (Miss Simpson bought it!).

  When we only had a few items left to sell, Selma and I left Phil and Maddie in charge of the stall so we could wander around and see what else was happening at the fete.

  There were sweet stalls and toy stalls and hand-knitted jumper stalls and book stalls and pottery stalls and a roll-a-penny stall and a tombola, and Father Christmas sat up on the stage with a big sack full of wrapped presents. Not the real Father Christmas, of course. It was someone dressed up.

  ‘It isn’t!’ said Selma.

  ‘It is!’ I said. ‘It’s fifty p a go. Come on – Mum’s given me a pound to spend. Let’s go and see him!’

  We paid the pound to Father Christmas’s little elf. He was also terribly familiar, bossing people about in his great booming voice so that they made an orderly queue.

  We waited, nudging each other and giggling.

  ‘Hello, Father Christmas!’ said Selma when we got to the front. ‘My, what a big tummy you’ve got! You must have been eating loads of mince pies.’

  ‘I would mind your manners, little girl,’ said Father Christmas in a very familiar voice. He frowned at Selma, his beady eyes very bright. ‘If you don’t behave yourself, you won’t get a present!’

  ‘But I’ve paid my fifty p, Father Christmas. At least, my friend Tina here has paid for me,’ she said.

  ‘Then you and your friend will go without unless you’re very humble and polite and well-mannered.’

  ‘We’ll be extra specially humble and polite and well-mannered, Father Christmas,’ I said quickly, adding, ‘We’ve got a very strict teacher who always tries to get us to mind our manners.’

  ‘Ho ho ho!’ said Father Christmas. ‘Come along then, little girls. Have a quick delve in my sack for a present.’

  Selma dived in first and brought out the biggest parcel she could find. I copied her, going for the next biggest parcel.

  ‘Mmm. If I were you, I’d go for something quite little. And squarish. And as my costume is bright tomato red, perhaps that’s a hint about my favourite colour. I’ve probably wrapped the very best presents in a similar shade. Why don’t you pop those presents back and try again.’

  So that’s exactly what we did. I’m better at delving than Selma. I went right to the bottom of the sack and felt around until I found two small parcels. I brought them out into daylight and found that they were both wrapped in bright red paper.

  ‘Please may we have these ones, Father Christmas?’ I asked excitedly.

  �
�Ho ho ho. Excellent choices!’ said Father Christmas.

  We tore the wrappings off straight away. Can you guess what they were?

  Chapter Eighteen

  ON THE LAST day of term I gave Miss Lovejoy a special Christmas present. I’d agonized for a long time over what to get her. She’d been very kind to me, and she’d given me my special colouring pencils and the butterfly book. She’d made sure that Selma and I got a butterfly brooch too. I wanted to give her something splendid – but I also wanted to save every penny of my pocket money for the butterfly garden.

  ‘Why don’t you draw Miss Lovejoy a picture?’ Phil suggested.

  ‘I’ve already given her a butterfly picture,’ I said.

  ‘Draw something else then,’ said Maddie. ‘Fuss fuss fuss over boring old Miss Lovejoy! You’re such a teacher’s pet now, Tina!’

  ‘Well, she’s nice to me. I want to show her I’m grateful,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll buy a bottle of wine or a big box of chocolates,’ said Mum. ‘It can be a present from all three of you.’

  ‘Yes, but I want to give her my own present too,’ I said.

  I thought and thought and thought. What would Miss Lovejoy really, really like? She’d said herself that she didn’t like to spend money on clothes or fancy meals. She liked to save up for her holidays. I remembered she was hoping to go to Japan next summer. Aha!

  On the way home from school Mum often took us to the library. This time I didn’t choose story books. I found a book about Japan instead. Then I spent the entire evening drawing Miss Lovejoy a picture of Japan. I bolted my tea down in ten minutes and didn’t watch any television at all. I just drew and coloured as carefully as I could.

  I copied great tall skyscraper buildings and ancient old temples and pagodas and strange little teahouses with hardly any furniture and a Japanese garden with hardly any flowers. I drew Japanese people in business suits and teenagers in crazy clothes and several ladies in beautiful traditional kimonos. And right in the middle of them, looking very happy and interested, I drew Miss Lovejoy in her beige suit and flat shoes.