The Jacqueline Wilson Christmas Cracker

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘No, no, I’ve got to get my mum another present. I need a jewellery shop now.’

  ‘But you’ve already got your mum the lipstick and the hand lotion.’ Cam sneeked a peek in my purse. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got to buy Christmas presents for everyone.’

  I wasn’t interested in buying presents for everyone. I didn’t want to buy a present for anyone but my mum.

  I dragged Cam into a lovely sparkly jewellery shop, but when I saw the prices of even the weeniest rings I had to back away, sighing.

  ‘That’s real jewellery, Tracy. A little bit ostentatious, all that gold and diamonds. I think costume jewellery is much more tasteful,’ Cam said quickly.

  ‘OK. Where do you buy this costume jewellery then?’

  She took me to the ground floor of this big department store and I walked round and round great glass cabinets of jewellery. I saw a pink heart on a crimson ribbon. It was utterly beautiful. I could just imagine it round my mum’s neck. It was very expensive, even for costume jewellery, but I counted out every last penny in my purse and found I could just about manage it, keeping a fiver back for my last-of-all purchase.

  ‘Are you sure, Tracy? I think maybe your mum would be happy with just the lipstick. Or the hand lotion.’

  ‘My mum likes lots of presents,’ I said. ‘I know what I’m doing, Cam.’

  I didn’t really know what I was going to do about everyone else’s presents. Still, I wasn’t speaking to Louise any more on account of the fact she’d ganged up with Justine Ugly-Unscrupulous-Friend-Snatcher Littlewood so I didn’t have to buy her anything.

  There was Jenny and Mike, but they quite liked all that pathetic home-made calendar and dried-pasta-picture rubbish. Maybe Miss Simpkins at school would go for that sort of stuff too. Ditto Cam. She believed that it was the thought that counted, didn’t she? She’d as good as indicated that I wasn’t getting anything to speak of from her. It would only embarrass her if I gave her too lavish a gift.

  That just left Weedy Peter. I was sure I could fob him off with something of mine I didn’t want any more, like my leather wallet with the broken clasp or my leaky snowglobe or my wrinkly copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that got a little damp when I was reading it in the bath.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. Christmas-present problem sorted. Now there was just one present left.

  ‘Come on, Cam, I’ve got to go to a bookshop,’ I said, tugging her.

  She was peering at some very boring pearls in the jewellery cabinet.

  ‘Bookshop! Now we’re talking. But hang on. Look, what do you think of that little pearl necklace there – the one with the diamanté clasp? All the sparkly stuff’s half price, special offer.’

  ‘Cam, you are so not a pearl necklace person.’

  ‘They’re not for me, silly.’

  I blinked at her. ‘Look, Cam, it’s very kind of you, but actually I’m not a pearl necklace person either.’

  Cam snorted. ‘You can say that again, Tracy. No no no, I’m thinking about my mum.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. She’s quite posh, isn’t she, your mum?’

  ‘Insufferably so. Very very much a pearl sort of person. But real pearls. These are fake so I expect she’d turn her nose up at them.’

  ‘Well, get her real ones then.’

  ‘Don’t be a banana, Tracy. I couldn’t possibly afford them. I can’t actually afford the fake ones, even half price. You know, I’m like a fake daughter to my mum. She’s so disappointed that I’m not all smart and glossy with a posh partner and a brilliant career.’

  ‘Well, you could still try to get them,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t want to. I want to be me. It’s so hard not to get wound up by my mum. I’m absolutely dreading going home for Christmas.’

  ‘You’re dreading going home for Christmas?’ I said slowly.

  Cam stopped gazing at the fake pearls and looked at me.

  ‘Oh Tracy, I’m sorry. That was such a stupid tactless thing to say to you. I know just how much you want to see your mum this Christmas.’

  ‘And I’m going to,’ I said, very firmly and fiercely.

  ‘Well, that would be truly great, but remember, your mum might just be busy or tied up or . . . or . . . abroad,’ Cam said.

  ‘No, she’s going to be here. She’s going to come and see me in my starring role in A Christmas Carol. And then she’ll stay over. I dare say she’ll take us to this top hotel and we’ll have Christmas there. Yeah, it will be so great. We’ll sleep in this big big queen-size bed and then we’ll splash in our power shower and then we’ll have the most immense breakfast. I’ll be allowed to eat whatever I want. I can put six spoonfuls of sugar on my cereal and eat twenty sausages in one go and I’ll have those puffy things with maple syrup—’

  ‘Waffles?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll scoffle a waffle,’ I said as we walked out of the department store towards the bookshop. ‘I’ll scoffle six waffles and I’ll have hot chocolate with whipped cream, and then I’ll open my presents and my mum will give me heaps and heaps and heaps of stuff – a whole wardrobe of designer clothes, enough new shoes and trainers and boots to shod a giant centipede—’

  ‘And a motorized go-cart? Sorry, a whole fleet of them.’

  ‘Yep, and bikes and scooters and my own trampoline, and I’ll be able to bounce soooo high I’ll swoop straight up to the sky and everyone will look up at me and go, Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it Superman? Is it Santa? Noooo, it’s the Truly Tremendous Tracy Beaker!’

  I bounced up and down to demonstrate. I accidentally landed on Cam’s foot and she gave a little scream, but she was very nice about it.

  We carried on playing the Christmas game until we got to the bookshop. Well, it wasn’t exactly a game. I knew it was all going to come true, though perhaps I was embellishing things a little. I am occasionally prone to exaggeration. That means I can get carried away and tell socking great lies. They start to seem so real that I believe them too.

  Cam was very happy to be in the bookshop. She ran her finger lovingly along the long lines of paperbacks.

  ‘I’ll have a little browse,’ she said. ‘The children’s section is over in that corner, Tracy.’

  ‘I don’t want the children’s books. I want the classics section,’ I said loftily.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Cam. ‘You fancy a quick flick through War and Peace?’

  ‘That’s quite a good title. If I write my true life story about my Dumping Ground experiences I’ll call my book War and More War and Yet More War. No, I’m going to peruse the collected works of Mr Charles Dickens.’

  That showed her. I wasn’t kidding either. I wanted to find a copy of A Christmas Carol. I found a very nice paperback for £4.99. I had just one penny left. I didn’t put it back in my purse. I decided to throw it in the dinky wishing well by the shopping centre Christmas tree. I could do with a good wishing session.

  Cam was still browsing in the fiction, her nose in a book, her whole expression one of yearning.

  I knew she couldn’t afford all the books she wanted. She said she often spent ten or twenty minutes in the shop reading a book before putting it back reluctantly. Once she’d even marked her place with a bus ticket so she could sidle back the next day – and the next and the next and the next – until she’d finished the whole story.

  I suddenly wished I’d saved just a little bit of my Christmas money to buy Cam a paperback. I fidgeted uncomfortably with my wishing penny. I threw it up and caught it again and again, practising my wishing. Then I dropped it and it rolled off, right round the shelves. I ran after it and practically bumped my nose on the MIND BODY SPIRIT sign.

  I picked up my penny, my eyes glazing over at all these dippy books about star signs and spiritual auras – and then I saw a title in sparkly silver lettering: Make Your Wishes Come True.

  I reached for the book, my hand shaking. It was a slim little book, written by someone called Grizelda Moonbeam, White Witch. I considered calling myself Tracy
Moonbeam, Very Black Witch. I’d learn magic spells and make frogs and toads spew out of Justine Get-Everyone-On-Her-Side Littlewood.

  I opened the book and started flipping through the pages. It really was full of spells! I couldn’t find a frog-and-toad curse for your worst enemy, but there were plenty of love potions and magic charms. I turned another page and then my heart started thumping.

  ‘CHARM TO BE WITH YOUR LOVED ONE ON A FESTIVE OCCASION’.

  My mum was my Very Much Loved One and you couldn’t get a more Festive Occasion than Christmas. I so badly wanted her to come this Christmas and watch me act Scrooge on stage I was about ready to pop.

  I read the charm carefully. Grizelda advised mixing one part mead to two parts dandelion wine, adding cinnamon for spice and ginger for warmth and sugar for sweetness. She suggested stirring the mixture well while chanting the Loved One’s name, then drinking from the wrong side of the glass without drawing breath.

  I blinked. Easy-peasy! I gabbled the ingredients over and over again. I’d got so used to learning my Scrooge lines that the recipe tucked itself neatly inside my head without too much fussing. Then I reverently replaced Grizelda Moonbeam, danced seven times around the bookshelf because it seemed a magic thing to do, and then staggered giddily off to find Cam.

  ‘Are you feeling OK, Tracy?’ she asked, as I bumped right into her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, carefully sorting out my carrier bags and my penny. ‘Come on, Cam, let’s get cracking. I’ve got all my Christmas presents now.’

  ‘And I haven’t got a sausage,’ said Cam, sighing. ‘Oh well, maybe I can make some of my presents this year.’

  I shook my head at her. ‘Look, Cam, making presents is for little kids. I can barely get away with it. You’re way too old, believe me. And forget all about it on my behalf. I want a proper present!’

  ‘You don’t really work hard to get people to like you, Tracy,’ said Cam, shutting her book with a snap.

  ‘I don’t have to. I’m bubbling over with natural charm,’ I said.

  However, I pondered her point as we left the bookshop. What was all this gubbins about getting people to like you? I didn’t fancy sucking up to people all the time and saying they looked lovely when they looked rubbish and all that sick-making nonsense. Louise was a past master at that – and a present mistress too. She could flutter her long eyelashes, fix you with a soulful glance with her big blue eyes and say softly that you were the funniest girl in all the world and she wanted to be your best friend for ever and you actually believed it, until she ganged up with Someone Else.

  Still, I wouldn’t want to be Louise’s best friend any more. I don’t want her to like me again. I definitely don’t want Justine Dog-Breath-Snake-Tongue-Baboon-Bottom Littlewood to like me.

  I don’t need to work at getting people to like me. Heaps and heaps of people do. I go out of my way to stop Weedy Peter liking me. Elaine and Jenny and Mike like me too. They do heaps of things for me, don’t they? Although they’re paid to hang out with me. Maybe they simply can’t stick me but don’t tell me because it would be unprofessional.

  It was silly thinking like this. I was starting to panic. It wasn’t good for me to get so worked up, though of course all great actors were hypersensitive and temperamental. Miss Simpkins liked me or she wouldn’t have offered me the starring part in her play. Unless . . . she was simply sorry for me because I was little Tracy No-Friends, the most unpopular girl in the whole school.

  Maybe Cam didn’t like me either. She just came to take me out every week as a duty. She was making a fuss of the Sad Ugly Kid with Mega Attitude Problems because it made her feel good. Maybe I was her Unpleasant Weekly Project, on a par with taking out the rubbish and cleaning the toilet.

  ‘Tracy? Why are you breathing all funny?’ said Cam, as we walked through the shopping centre.

  ‘I’m hyperventilating on account of your hostile remarks,’ I said, going extra gaspy to give her a fright.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said no one likes me,’ I said.

  I suddenly couldn’t help gasping I felt so horrible.

  ‘I didn’t!’ Cam said.

  ‘You did, you did, you did, and it’s outrageous to say that to a looked-after child. You’ve probably traumatized me for life,’ I said, giving her a shove. I used my elbows and they’re particularly sharp.

  ‘Ouch! You’ve probably punctured me for life with your stiletto elbows.’

  ‘Well, I’m fading away with hunger. It’s no wonder I’m so skinny. You’d better whip me to McDonald’s quick, what with my general anorexic state and my tragic realization that everyone totally hates me.’

  ‘Oh Tracy, will you just stop it. I didn’t say anyone hated you. I didn’t say anyone didn’t like you. I simply said you didn’t try hard to make people like you.’ Cam paused. She took hold of me by the shoulders, staring straight into my eyes. ‘But even when you treat me like dirt I still like you.’

  I relaxed.

  ‘Mind you, I’d like you even more if you’d try being gentle and considerate and polite,’ said Cam.

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘Dream on! Come on, I want my Big Mac and fries. Please. Dear kind pretty ever-so-nice-to-me Camilla.’

  ‘Yuck! It was working till you said my name. That’s what my mum calls me. Oh God, I wish it wasn’t nearly Christmas.’

  I had my own wish to make. A real magic spell, much more powerful than throwing a penny in a polystyrene wishing well. I went over it in my head as I munched my burger and gobbled my chips and slurped my shake.

  ‘Can we go back to your house for tea, Cam?’ I asked. ‘Hey, I’ve thought what I want for tea too.’

  ‘You’re only just having your lunch, girl.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but I want something special for tea. Something Christmassy.’

  ‘You know I’m pretty skint at the moment. I expect I can manage a sausage on a stick and a mince pie but that’s about my limit.’

  ‘Never mind that stuff. Well, yes to sausages and yes to mince pies too, and a chocolate log would be a good idea, come to think of it, but what I was really hoping for was Christmas punch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. A special festive drink. There’s this amazing punch I’ve heard about. You mix one part mead to two parts dandelion wine, and then you add cinnamon and ginger and sugar, stir it all around, and Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, yummy yummy in your tummy.’ I mimed being a cocktail barman for her and ended up with a flourish.

  ‘Cheers!’ I said, raising my imaginary glass.

  Cam blinked at me. ‘Well, personally I prefer a simple glass of wine as a festive drink, but each to their own. We can try and fix you something similar—’

  ‘No, no, you can’t muck about with the ingredients, it’ll lose all its potency,’ I said urgently.

  Cam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tracy, have you taken up witchcraft?’

  She is so spooky at times. It’s as if she can open a little flap in my head and peer straight into my mind.

  ‘Watch out if I am a trainee witch, Cam. Think of the havoc I could wreak,’ I said, contorting my face into a witchy grimace and making manic old-hag cackles.

  ‘Help help help,’ said Cam, raising her eyebrows. ‘OK, I’ll see what we can do. Come on, let’s have a trek round Sainsbury’s and see what we can come up with.’

  We couldn’t find any mead at all or dandelion wine. I started to fuss considerably.

  ‘It’s OK, Tracy. Mead is a honey drink,’ Cam told me. ‘I’ve got a jar of honey at home so we’ll put a spoonful of honey in a glass of wine, and pick a dandelion on the way home and chop it up and add it too, OK? I’ve got sugar and we’ll buy a little pot of cinnamon and – what was the other thing? Oh, ginger. Well, I think I’ve got a packet of ginger biscuits somewhere. They might be a bit stale but I don’t suppose that matters.’

  I was still a bit doubtful. I wanted to do it all properly but it couldn’t be helped. When we got back to Ca
m’s I carefully washed the dandelion leaf. It had been very hard to find. Cam eventually reached through the slats of someone’s gate and picked a plant from their front garden.

  ‘Um!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that stealing?’

  ‘It’s weeding,’ said Cam firmly. ‘Dandelions are weeds.’

  ‘If that is a dandelion.’

  ‘Of course it is, Tracy.’

  ‘What do you know about plants, Cam?’

  ‘Look, I might not be Alan Titchmarsh, but I know my dandelions from my dock leaves. That is a dandelion, OK? So get chopping.’

  I chopped the dandelion into little green specks, I crumbled the biscuits and spooned out the honey and sugar. Cam poured some wine into her prettiest pink wine glass. She lifted it absentmindedly to her lips.

  ‘Hey, hey, it’s my potion!’ I said.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Cam, sighing. ‘Go on then, shove the rest of the stuff in – though it seems a shame to muck up a perfectly good glass of wine.’

  ‘This isn’t a drink, Cam. It’s a potion. My potion,’ I said. ‘Now, let me sprinkle and stir. You keep quiet. I have to concentrate.’

  I concentrated like crazy, sprinkling in every little green dandelion speck and the ginger and the sugar and the honey, and then I stirred it vigorously with a spoon.

  ‘Hey, gently with that glass!’ said Cam.

  ‘Shh! And don’t listen to me, this is private,’ I hissed. I took a deep breath. ‘Please work, charm,’ I muttered. ‘Let me be with my Loved One on a Festive Occasion – i.e. this Christmas! I need her there to see me in A Christmas Carol and then I want her to stay so we have the best Christmas ever together.’

  Then I raised the glass, stuck my chin in to reach the wrong side and took a gulp of wine without drawing breath. It tasted disgusting, but I swallowed it down determinedly, wishing and wishing to make it come true.