The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones

by Susie Day

  She gives her purple wig a fierce tug, like a tip of a hat, then whirls and stomps back to her booth, jingling.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, as Red gives me a round of applause.

  “Oh my god, that was brilliant!” says Fozzie, sliding out from behind the counter. “How did you do that? I swear, I didn’t tell her your names. Guys, this is – Bluebell, right?”

  “Blue,” I say. “Just Blue.”

  It’s cute. Like a nickname.

  “Let me shake you by the hand, you bloody gorgeous thing, you!” says Dan, grabbing my hand in both of his. “Loving your work. About time Soso got a kick up her clairvoyant backside. I’m Dan, but you apparently know that, you freak.”

  “Yep. And you work at the Doughnut Hut, by the pirate ship.”

  “Nah, I just happen to like dressing up like a pirate: it’s total coincidence,” Dan says, “unlike the size of my gut, which comes from eating the merchandise. That’s because our doughnuts are irresistible – and special offer for today only, my lovely, it’s three for a pound, made fresh for you by my own fair hands, tossed in golden sugar before your very eyes. Best food in the fair, bar none.”

  “Oi!” yells Fozzie, marching over to take back what’s left of his plate of chips. “Second best, you meant?”

  “Course,” he says, looking pleading till she slides the plate back. “Sorry. It’s hard to turn the patter off – and I’ve not had much chance to use it today. The doughnuts are tasty, though. Serious.”

  Mags pokes him in the squishy bit of his tummy, Dan wraps his arm around her throat in a fake strangle while she fake-pummels him, and I realize, earlier, Fozzie never meant to send me off to the kiddie table. Her little sister is part of the gang, a mate like the others.

  “Nice to meet you, Mags,” I say, smiling extra hard. Mags shrinks her shoulders, smiling shyly.

  Top Hat Boy slides out of the booth. “Merlin the Magician,” he drawls, his accent a little softer than Dan’s, hazel eyes circled with smudgy eyeliner. He flips his hat off to reveal dyed-black hair, falling into his eyes; the hat tumbles down one arm, to land perfectly in his hand. “Always enchanting to meet a fellow illusionist.”

  He delicately bows, takes my hand, and presses his lips lightly against my fingers.

  I yelp and snatch my hand away. “Sorry!” I squeak, regretting it instantly. “I – didn’t mind! Only I was a bit surprised. People where I come from don’t do things like that.”

  “People round here don’t do things like that either,” says Mags wearily.

  Dan claps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Merlin here is what we call a special child. That’s why we gave him the hat: so you can see him coming and run away.”

  Merlin rolls his eyes at me, as if to apologize for the company he keeps, and flips the top hat expertly back on to his head with a flick of his wrist.

  My hand begins to twist behind my back, unbidden, trying to copy the movement. I want to know how to do that.

  Maybe he’ll teach me. Red’ll know.

  I look round, and spot her perched on the counter, legs swinging in their boots, an odd proud smile on her face.

  Thank you, I want to say. Red nods her head minutely, like she hears it anyway.

  Fozzie pushes me on the shoulder to sit in the booth, squeezing in beside me. “So come on then, you little star: spill,” she says, bright red lips curving. “How did you do that? With the names?”

  I can feel Merlin’s scrutiny, those hazel eyes trying to see through mine. The others think it’s funny. He really, truly wants to know.

  I look over at Red, swinging her feet.

  I flash them a grin, and tap the side of my nose three times: tap-tap-tap.

  5. The Fairground Crawl

  Mum covers Peanut’s ears whenever Dad swears, her hands pressed on either side of her bump, and when he rolls his eyes she says, “Don’t mess with Team Peanut: we’re buddies, we’re an ‘us’. Where I go, it goes.”

  He apologizes to her tummy and calls her “we”. Would we like a cup of tea? Will we be taking up all of the sofa, or is there room for one more?

  I’m half of Team Red, now. She’s not my baby (obviously: urgh). She’s better. My constant companion. We giggle together on the trip to the chocolate factory, as she moans enviously at the free samples. When my handwritten itinerary has scheduled Penkerry Attraction Number 6: Cliff-top Crazy Golf, she puts new words in my mouth – I’m going to the fair instead, OK? – and I play pinball with Mags, drink coffee (black, sugary) with Fozzie while she smokes and Dan eats chips. At night, Red reads my book over my shoulder, and tells me not to sleep yet because there’s a good bit coming up.

  She sits on the sink and watches the family eat dinner, like we’re her TV.

  It makes me feel special.

  On Friday, as predicted by my remarkable clairvoyant self, the Red Dragon reopens.

  I’m in The Shed, showing Fozzie my camera. She thinks the chunky buttons are “tidy”, and wants one for herself.

  “Go on, take her picture,” prompts Red, watching us with her feet up on a table – so I do: unicorn Fozzie, an empty ice-cream cone held to her head.

  “More horns!” Red shouts, pointing fingers like a bull on her head, and I shout, “More horns!” too, till Fozzie makes like a Viking. Then she tucks them inside her shirt, giant pointy norks thrust proudly forward – at the exact moment an older couple walk into The Shed to buy takeaway teas. I hide behind the camera, embarrassed, as Fozzie laughs her seagull laugh, and serves them anyway, shirt stretched tight, and Red nearly falls off her chair laughing.

  Red’s so funny. I didn’t know I was funny.

  I love us three, hanging out together.

  We’re interrupted by an amplified roar, the stink of petrol, and as I peer through the Shed doors, the huge fanged head swings into life, eyes blazing.

  The POLICE INCIDENT signs are gone, along with the stripy tape. The Red Dragon, empty of riders, rattles effortlessly around the tracks. A huge plume of flame shoots into the sky.

  “Oh my god,” breathes Fozzie, throwing the cones away and hurrying to the door. “They did it! Mum said they were going to beg the insurers to sign it all off by this weekend, but I never thought. . .”

  “The beast is alive!” yells Dan, throwing off his pirate hat as he sprints towards me, Mags and Merlin following behind. “Let’s crawl!”

  A fairground crawl. Fozzie explains it, as she gleefully flips the “closed” sign on The Shed and pushes me outside. Every single ride, in a row: no stops, no get-outs.

  “No throwing up,” says Dan with a wink at me.

  No chance. I’m not getting on any of those things. I catch Red’s eye as she watches me anxiously, then turns away, fiddling with something.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Pretend I’m calling you so we can talk?

  I blink, then mime surprise, and vaguely jab at the screen.

  “Um. Hello?” I say awkwardly, holding the phone to my ear. “This is Blue. Which, um, you would know, because you called me, so. Um. Who is this?”

  “Wow, I am never letting you improvise again,” says Red. “Now shut up and listen. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t do fairground rides, they’re scary and they go fast and sometimes they get stuck upside-down and people nearly fall out of them, waah waah waah.”

  “I don’t sound like that.”

  “You do inside your head, when you know you’re being a whiny little crybaby.”

  I glare at her – then tone it down when I realize Fozzie is behind Red, and thinks my glare is for her. I plaster on a quick smile.

  “Look,” I hiss, spinning away from the group. “I can’t do it. You know I can’t.”

  “What if I know you can?”

  I blink.

  “Trust me, Blue.
This is on your road. You never know: you might even enjoy it.”

  I look at her: smiley-faced T-shirt, chunky boots, flaming red hair dangling over one eye. She’s a pushy pain in the arse, but she’s still who I want to be.

  If she can do this, that means one day I’ll be able to. So I might as well start now.

  We buy baby-blue wristbands from the kiosk, the ones that let you ride all day.

  We start small: Dodgems, and Teacups; the slow gilded horses of the old-fashioned Carousel.

  Merlin gets his long spider legs stuck inside the red London bus on the Funtown Merry-Go-Round. We go off to do the Whirler Twirler. When we come back he’s still there, knees tucked up around his ears, mournfully going round and round. We’re all laughing so hard I can barely take his picture.

  Haunted House. Pirate Ship. A nasty one called the Domino Dancer, which leaves Dan green and sweaty because he “doesn’t do sideways”.

  We hesitate outside Madame Soso’s, but she glowers at me from under today’s wig (red, with silver streaks), and slams the booth shut.

  Wacky Gold Mine, Rock’n’Roller. We ride them all.

  Last up, the Red Dragon.

  Madame Soso’s gloom about the fairground’s future was rubbish. There’s a crowd around the number one ride again already, a queue at the gate oohing every time the plume of flame leaps into the air, licking at the tail of the dragon but never catching it. Whenever it makes its stop in the centre of the biggest loop, the whole fairground seems to hold its breath – I can see the girl, her hair hanging down, her shoulders slipping out, that breathless moment before she was caught – but the flames spurt up, the cars glide through the rest of the loop, again and again. Safe. Not dangerous. Perfectly, legally approved, police-checked, safe.

  I can do this, I think, all the way to the front of the line. I did the others, I can do this one.

  But the dragon’s yellow eyes blaze at me, and suddenly I can’t move. There’s an empty seat next to Mags, in the last carriage, by the tail. They’re all beckoning me on board, but I shake my head, backpedalling through the line. I don’t care what Red says about road maps. Nothing is going to get me to ride that thing.

  They clang the gate shut. Smoke begins to billow from the dragon’s mouth, and they’re off, without me. With Red instead. I see her hair blowing in the seat beside Mags: hear her yells of delight as they rattle round the curves, through the corkscrew and up to the big loop.

  I can’t look and can’t look away, both at once.

  They hang upside-down. Red lets her arms hang too, waving.

  The plume of flames shoots into the air, snapping at their dangling fingers – but the cars are already moving again, bringing them safely back to earth.

  I’m trembling, shaky, wondering what they’ll say. What she’ll say. Stupid Blue, scaredy-cat, whiny little crybaby.

  But everyone else is trembling and shaky too, and no one says a word about me; not the gang, not Red. We tumble together laughing at the snapshot they show at the end: the four of them at the exact moment the flames go up, mouths open, eyes like eggs, Merlin with both hands clamped over his top hat and a look of sweet possessive panic on his face.

  Red gazes at it too beside me, windswept and glowing, her eyes bright.

  She’s not in the picture, but it doesn’t matter. I know she was there.

  That night, Joanie and the Whales play the Pavilion again.

  I wish them luck from backstage, again, then skid along the boards of the pier and back to the dark dance floor, pushing through the crowd. I’m not going to dance tonight, like last week – but this time I don’t mind. I’m Blue. I’m here to take pictures. Dancing’s a few more miles down my road.

  I weave through the people until I find Fozzie, all dressed up: bright red prom dress, lippy to match, and she’s wearing her purple boots again, though they stink of disinfectant. Beside her Dan’s got tissues stuffed in his nose, like crumply white moustaches. Mags is at home – no gigs for her, too young, and I’m guiltily pleased that’s not me. No Merlin, either. (“Who knows where Mr Mystical goes off to,” Dan said, when I asked, sharing an eye roll with Fozzie.) I feel a pang of disappointment, though I don’t know why. It’s not as if he says much.

  Tiger’s sitting on the bar with the elf girl and a crowd of friends, drinking the free tap water.

  I mess around with the camera buttons, the chunky clip-on flash, wishing I knew what I was doing, squinting through the viewfinder. I still miss the digital screen. Till I print this first film, I won’t have a clue whether any of these pictures will come out at all. It’s photography Red-style, I guess. No fun without surprises. I’m safe with this subject, anyway: Tiger can make a blurry, badly lit smartphone snap look like art. Her eyes always seem bigger and bluer in pictures, her neck long, swanlike. Not quite human. Sometimes I wonder how she can really be my sister; if Mum and Dad found her on the doorstep, hatching out of an egg.

  I snap one shot off, at the precise moment the lights drop, the precise moment her smile widens.

  There’s a hush.

  Dad steps out into his spotlight as Mum settles herself behind the drum kit, and I realize the Pavilion is packed. Maybe it’s because it’s later in the summer. Maybe it’s Tiger and her magnetic tendencies, drawing them in like the tide – but it’s as if people aren’t passing by or there by mistake, like most of the Whales gigs I’ve been to over the years. Dad’s going to get a big head. I can see him glancing back at Mum, and they both look white and wowed.

  I spot Red at last, perched on a speaker stack at the edge of the stage, hair blazing crimson at the edges where the spotlights hit, gazing down on the band.

  Dad straps his show-time face on. “It’s good to see you here, Penkerry,” he drawls in his best Vegas voice. “Now show me what you got.”

  They rip into “Johnny B Goode”, and the glitter ball drips light across the surge of bodies.

  The bass thrums up through the floor, loud enough to pound in my chest. My chair shakes. I hold Diana out, up, and snap the bob of the crowd, the band onstage. Too far and too fast for focus, so they’ll be blur and light.

  Tiger dances with the elf girl, as if there’s no one else on the dance floor.

  Dad stuffs up the lyrics of “Hey Baby”, and nearly falls off the stage laughing.

  They play “Summertime Blues”, and Fozzie launches into gleeful, uncoordinated arm-flailing, too adorable to critique. Dan plays air guitar and tries, briefly, to scoop Fozzie into a proper rock’n’roll dance hold, which goes sideways when she tries to dip him. He’s so surprised he ends up doing a slide between her legs, and they both fall over, lying flat and floppy with laughter.

  It’s their best gig ever. They play three encores, and the last one even has people listening to it.

  I meet them backstage like always, to help them get the gear up to the car.

  “Top night!” yells Fozzie, as Dad locks up the backstage door. “See you around, Blue!”

  I wave back as she dances wonkily along the pier.

  “Blue, now, is it?” says Dad, smirking. “I see. I think we need to reassess our naming strategy for Peanut, honey. Stuff flowers, let’s go with colours. Vermilion? Or Aquamarine? Orange?”

  “Heliotrope!” shouts Tiger.

  “Beige,” says Mum. “My granny always said you can’t go wrong with beige.”

  “Beige Jones: future rock god,” says Dad thoughtfully. “If you say so, sweetness.”

  We get to the car, parked up on the prom, and Mum and Dad have a snog while we pile things in the boot. They’re always like that when the gig goes well.

  Tiger wolf-whistles. I give them a slow clap.

  “Thank you, thank you, we’re here all summer,” Mum says.

  “Well, I think you can say we’re officially settled in,” says Dad, as we pile in and drive off. “So, my gorgeous girls:
what do we think of Penkerry?”

  Tiger’s smile is electric. “Love it,” she breathes.

  Dad quirks an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror.

  “It’s good, yeah. It’s, um. . .” I look at the lights from the pier, reflections flickering on the black water as we head up Penkerry Hill, hunting for the right word. “It’s . . . tidy.”

  “Ha!” yelps Dad.

  “Oh my god,” says Mum. “You’ve made my children Welsh.”

  “It’s in the genes, sweetheart!”

  “I know this dents your patriotic pride, love, but you were born in Kent.”

  “Ah, but I grew up here, that’s what counts. Welsh parents. Welsh grandaddy. It all counts.”

  We pick out Welsh names for Peanut all the way up the hill, to add to the list on the fridge. I hope we call Peanut “Myfanwy”. That way, if we’re going to buy her Myfanwy-themed birthday presents, we’ll have to come back.

  “Hey, can we come to Penkerry next year? For my fourteenth birthday?” I ask as we climb out of the car. I’m so happy. There’s nowhere else I’d want to be blowing out my birthday candles – but Red had to wish herself back here from my next birthday. Maybe I can fix things so we come back for real. Like an advance present, from my old self to the new one.

  “Sure, baby,” says Mum, waddling up the caravan steps. “Why wouldn’t we want to come back?”

  Red’s waiting inside, and I beam, proud of myself.

  Red looks at the carpet.

  She doesn’t say a word.

  6. The Boy Who Doesn’t Like to Be Tricked

  “What do you mean, you’ve got plans?”

  Dad steals the Marmite out from under Tiger’s hand and holds it hostage.

  Tiger fights him for the Marmite with a teaspoon.

  “I’m going out. With Catrin. She does t’ai chi up in this place in town, and I said I’d go and check it out with her. You know I’ve always wanted to learn t’ai chi.”