‘Hi,’ said Clancy. ‘Is that some of your new wardrobe?’
‘The jacket? Yeah. Why did you turn the geyser on again?’
‘Because there’s more to do. We have to make sure the second bowl’s watertight, clean the crud off the pipes and understand the controls, before we take this to the next level. If you’re still interested?’
‘Why not?’ said Heidi, picking up the lumpy fertiliser sack. ‘I’ll put the tools away. See you tomorrow or sometime.’
‘Are you okay, Heidi?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just it was weird, seeing my stuff again. Just: a lot to think about.’
That Feeling
Go away, I don’t want you.
You’re no use to me.
You don’t mean anything to me
Like fireworks inside . . .
17: Tangerine Dream
Bonfire night at the end of April came and went. A few coloured rockets were set off in the village. Heidi watched them from her window with the Bad Dream Cat for company. Nobody got sacrificed, as far as she could tell. She washed her mother’s dresses by hand, except the antique one with all the sequins: ironed them carefully and put them away in the suitcase. She filled the rickety bookcase with her books, and screwed cup-hooks from the Utility room into the back of her door, so she could hang up some of her clothes. The rest of her stuff had to stay in old carrier bags; also scrounged from the Utility room.
Ironing the dresses gave her an idea. She ironed the crumpled lead strips between sheets of newspaper: stuck them to the lost panes with DIY cement and mended her window at last. This huge milestone somehow gave her the courage to text Mum’s doctor, including a message for Mum: because Clancy was right.
Mum didn’t reply, but she got an email from the doctor telling her she was doing the right thing. She should send loving messages; that could be shown to her mum on Mum’s good days. And things were coming along.
Cross-legged on her bed after midnight, studying Academic Coursework on her phone screen, she’d stop to listen, looking up from her work, and hear only peaceful quiet, except for the snores of the Bad Dream Cat curled up on her pillow; or maybe the wavering cry of an owl out in the Gardens. Never any creepy noises, down in the depths of the house. Had she stopped imagining things, or had the Garden House changed?
The rings were back where she’d found them: in the front pocket of the purple suitcase, under her bed. There was nobody she could tell. She had to face it, she’d been silenced. And the Inspector had never got back in touch with her, anyway. He’d lost interest. Maybe he’d been told to lose interest in the Carron-Knowells trading empire. Powerful people can fix anything. In her bad moments (and there were plenty) she felt sick with fear for her mum, and utterly despairing. In good moments she managed to put the whole thing out of her mind. But there were no fireworks going off for George anymore. Whatever he knew or didn’t know; whatever he’d done, or hadn’t done, all the dials had somehow been set back to zero.
Challon came to the first Exempt Teens session in May with her two guest passes for the People’s Young Artist final, and gave one to Heidi. Heidi was astonished; and even more astonished when everybody in the room seemed to think this was right. Brook got the other pass. Sorrel didn’t need one. She and George would be with their parents, in the VIP area with the other backers. Challon’s mum got a family pass: but it was still an incredible gesture.
‘You don’t have to come,’ said Chall, grinning. ‘I thought you might like to slum it with the ignorant, for a bit of fun. Even though you nearly come from Brixton.’
‘Shut up. You bet I’ll come. If you’re sure—’
‘I’m sure. I’m singing one of your poems, aren’t I?’
The Exempt Teens, led by Tanya, then spent the whole session talking of nothing else but Challon’s chances. How proud they all were: having someone from Mehilhoc performing at the Insanitude. In the actual final of People’s Young Artist, in front of a top celebrity crowd! How much Challon, and all of them, owed to the wonderful Carron-Knowells family!
After her evening chores Heidi took out Mum’s dresses and looked at them, one by one. There was no contest. The winning act by far was the A line orange shift, with the tiny pleats floating from a yoke neckline, and the orange and gold shorts to wear under it.
A few months ago, before the terrible thing, Heidi had been a kid, a teen with adult dependents. She was still fifteen, but she was a grown up now. Literally, she had grown. Her mother’s outfit was almost a perfect fit, and her heart was crushed in a vice.
‘I don’t want to go, Bad Dream Cat. I’m really, really touched and flattered, but I can’t go, it’s not for me. I’m Indentured. I’m a slave, and Tallis won’t let me, and the entire Carron-Knowells family will be there; which creeps me out. I’m going to say I can’t.’
The Bad Dream Cat, recently declared completely well by Doctor Brook, looked at her in disgust, turned his back and curled up with his paw over his ears.
‘Okay, you’re right, stupid cat. I’m lying, I’d love to go. I’m just scared.’
She called Brook and Challon on the WiMax.
‘Hey, can you help? I have something to wear, for the Final, but I need to know what I look like. I only have a freckly washbasin mirror here. Can you give me a second opinion?’
‘Go on then,’ said Brook, ‘stand where we can see.’
Heidi set her phone upright against the spokes of the wheelback chair, and looked for the Rock Mouse to prop it in place, but he must have rolled under the bed.
‘Here I go. I’m stepping back, I’ll twirl. Be kind, but not too kind?’
She stepped back until the screen had caught her full length, a slim woman in a bright dress with wild black hair: almost too familiar for Heidi to bear.
The WiMax returned only a scary silence, then Brook said quietly. ‘You look great.’
‘You look wonderful,’ said Chall. ‘Is that your mum’s?’
‘Yeah. But it’s my size, near enough. The shorts are a bit of a sloppy fit—’
‘My mum could fix that. Easy-peasy. She’d love to help.’
‘No thanks,’ said Heidi, more sharply than she meant, tears suddenly stinging. ‘I don’t want them altered, I’ll safety-pin them. Got to go now, if you don’t mind. G’night.’
‘Good night, Heidi.’
The official final run-through was held at Knowells, at a swanky private party. The real one happened without a backing band, a stage show, fancy lighting, visuals or hired dancers, in Pulak Fabrics Weavers’ Loft. The Exempt Teens were the audience; except George and Sorrel didn’t turn up, and Clancy never accepted invitations.
Heidi had worked with Challon on Changing The World Flamenco over the WiMax: and been embarrassed and impressed. Embarrassed to think she’d assumed, without knowing anything, that Chall couldn’t be much good. Impressed because Chall was the business: a genuine stunning musician. Her solo set was dynamite. You would never, ever know from talking to her, from hanging out with her, that this fantastic performer lived inside Challon’s small body; or inhabited her quiet personality. When she walked off at the end there was the silence of true respect. When she walked in again, looking solemn, everyone burst out whooping, cheering and stamping until the floor nearly caved in.
Andy Mao was beside himself, whirling around and shouting: In the BAG! In the BAG!
Cyril shook Challon’s hand up and down, saying congratulations, about fifty times.
‘I just wish it was over,’ said Challon wearily. ‘And pray that I don’t crash and burn.’
When the star took off to shower and change, Brook allowed herself to look worried. ‘In ways,’ she murmured to Heidi, ‘It’d be better if she wasn’t getting back with George.’
‘Is she getting back with him?’
‘I don’t know, she hasn’t told me: I just have a feeling. Something’s upsetting her.’
Tallis gave permission, without a single sarcastic comment. Heidi travelled up to London
by train and taxi, with Brook, Challon and Challon’s mum: Heidi in her mum’s tangerine outfit, Brook in silver and blue; with a silver close-fitting cap like a helmet, and gauzy layered sleeves to hide the thinness of her arms. Challon wore normal clothes. They all went down together to the communal dressing room in the basement, one of the most iconic spaces in the most iconic venue in the country.
Sorrel was in the VIP lounge with her family. Heidi and Brook had schemed to keep her away from this dangerous time: knowing the tattooed girl’s talent for undermining remarks.
There was a lot of shameless Degenerate Blingism going on. Some finalists (the pre-picked winners, Sorrel would have pointed out) had their own make-up artists, their own hairdressers, photographers, hairdressers; special people to put on their shoes. The also-rans like Challon were served by the Insanitude’s own crews, and perhaps they weren’t too badly off.
Chall seemed relaxed, now there was nowhere left to hide.
‘I put you clear of the pack,’ said Missy Pulak, studying the list of finalists again, as if she hadn’t studied it a hundred times. ‘ Maybe, could be, in the first three. It’s in God’s hands.’
She went off to work the pre-show crowd, where it was believed the judges would be mingling, incognito. Heidi and Brook stayed. They’d promised Chall they’d be with her until she vanished onto the conveyor belt of nerves that led to the stage. But Chall’s nerves were on the attack already. She returned from the make-up chair looking perfect, except for the way her fluttering hands wanted to hide her face.
‘I’m going to throw up,’ she whispered.
‘You always do,’ said Brook. ‘I’ll come with you. Wow, the Ladies at the Insanitude, what a fantastic place to be sick. C’mon, you just have to get through this part—’
Then Challon looked across the big bustling room, and Brook and Heidi instantly knew that George had arrived. Brook had begged him to stay away, but here he was.
Challon sighed, resignedly: and they thought maybe it would be okay—
‘I couldn’t help it,’ said George, with tears in his eyes. ‘Brook tried to keep me away, but I have to tell you. You look so incredibly beautiful. Why are you doing this to me, Chall?’
‘I’m not doing anything to you.’
‘You are. You make me go weak at the knees. But Chall, you have to know—’
‘For God’s sake, George!’ groaned Brook.
George drew Challon to him, and whispered in her ear.
Miss Pulak? Miss Pulak!
‘That’s my call,’ said Challon, faintly. ‘Got to go. See you all later.’
She was led away, by a People’s Young Artist minder with a clipboard and a tiny headset.
Brook was furious. ‘You told her, didn’t you. How could you do that? ’
George, perfectly cheerful now, mugged his goofy apology grin. ‘Hey, she’ll be fine. I couldn’t let her go on, not knowing. I had to tell her, that’s all.’
‘What do you think he said?’ asked Heidi, as they hurried up to the venue.
‘Nothing much,’ snapped Brook. ‘Only that her Elder died this morning. Challon loved that old lady, we’ve all been keeping it from her. I’ve no words for what I think of him.’
‘My God. But she’s strong, Brook. She’ll be okay.’
The judges re-assembled, in their masks. It was one of the traditions of People’s Young Artist that the judges appeared wearing virtual avatar masks: disguised as megastar legends past and present. Nobody was supposed to know who was really up there; not until afterwards. Heidi and Brook slipped into their seats beside Missy in time for the start of Challon’s group. She was the third of four. The two acts before her could have been dancing rubber chickens, for all the attention Heidi and Brook paid to them. Then it was Challon. She looked great, she moved well, her voice was wonderful, but she radiated un-confidence as she took the stage. In the ballad she was shaky, and made a couple of tiny, noticeable slips. Heidi and Brook gripped hands, digging their nails into each other’s palms, praying Chall would at least do well. It was not to be. In her dance number, Madonna’s Music, she broke down. The judges let her restart: she broke down again. The chair of the judges asked would she like to continue, with her own composition?
‘Yes,’ said Challon.
She walked off for the costume change, returned with her Spanish guitar, and did Changing The World Flamenco, fiercely, passionately; absolutely amazingly. She was fantastic, the applause was wild, and it wasn’t going to change a thing.
‘Next time,’ said Missy, sounding gutted. ‘She wasn’t quite ready. If we can keep on paying her fees, next time she’ll get something.’
Down in the depths, Challon changed into her normal clothes. The communal dressing room was very quiet. She wondered where everybody was, and where Mum and Brook and Heidi had got to. She’d have to go and look for them.
There were no buzzing minders around. The basement was echoing empty: the way backstage anywhere can be suddenly, strangely empty, after the rushing about. She had messed up the chance of her life, but she didn’t feel too bad; not yet.
As she waited for the lift that would take her back to the Ballroom floor someone came and stood beside her: a man of about forty, in a sheeny dark red suit. He had sleek dark hair to his jaw, with a few strands of silver, and a Celtic tattoo round his left eye. It was one of the judges, still wearing his avatar-mask.
‘You took a fall just now,’ he said.
Challon nodded.
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘Not really. Well, okay, I found out my Elder died this morning. She was a really nice old lady, and I wasn’t there. It threw me, but it’s no excuse.’
The man grinned sympathetically. ‘I know that one. They get under your skin, those old ladies, don’t they? What if that had been a real gig?’
‘It would have been nothing,’ said Challon, sadly. ‘I’d have bounced off the floor, and s-said Damn, that went okay in rehearsal! And begged the mosh to help me out with the lyrics if I’d dried. But you have to be pin-perfect for the Young Artist, that’s the rules.’
‘Challon, wake up. You’re in the real world now. Keep your own rules.’
The lift doors opened. He stepped in. ‘Excuse me, I’m taking this alone. You’d better wait for your friends. I shouldn’t do this,’ he remarked, as the doors closed. ‘But I’m going to, because you are good. And I wasn’t here, you never saw me, did you?’
‘No, Sir,’ whispered Challon, stunned, to the closed door of the lift. ‘I never saw you.’
Heidi and Brook came charging up. ‘Chall!’ shouted Brook. ‘Where have you been? Why have you changed out of your stage clothes? What about the ceremony!’
‘Who was that you were talking to?’ demanded Heidi suspiciously.
‘Mr Ax Preston,’ said Challon, with a dazed look. ‘You know. The legendary guitar-man king of England, from when we were kids. He was advising me what to do when you crash and burn on stage. He seems like a nice guy.’
‘Oh, right, it was one of the judges. But who was it really, do you know?’
‘ Forget it, Heidi! Chall has to be on stage for the awards. She can’t run away!’
‘I wasn’t running away. I’m fine. I just lost track for a few minutes.’
Challon was calm about going on stage again. Eleven finalists in their finery, and one dressed-down Challon, endured the fiendish delays, the cruel close-ups, the MC’s tantalising banter, and the moments of truth. Third place was predictable. Second place was slightly unexpected, and there were shrieks of joy from the boy’s friends in the audience. The runners-up collected their crystal guitars, and waved them at the crowd. First place went to one of the hot favourites, the pre-picked winners. He took his gold guitar, made his too-long speech and wept. And then, unexpectedly, there was a fourth prize, the Wild Card. It didn’t get awarded every year. No ceremonial cheque, no trophy: the Wild Card went to Challon Pulak.
Cameras swarmed and flashed, the winners grinned
and wept, the losers tried hard to keep their smiles pinned in place. Challon’s visit to the podium was almost lost in the excitement.
The top people: the public figures, socialites and successful backers vanished at once, going on to more exclusive events with the winners. The after-party at the Insanitude was mainly for the also-rans, their families and friends and patrons: but it was still very cool. Heidi, her mother’s tangerine dream dress whirling, danced for hours in the Ballroom, under the flying DJs’ box, with people she’d never meet again. She drank Buck’s Fizz made with real champagne (illegally, but nobody was stopping her), and wandered around in the Bow Room on the ground floor, eating canapés from silver trays: some delicious, some disgusting. She’d lost sight of Brook and Chall and Missy, but she didn’t mind.
Mum, Dad, look at me now. At the Insanitude, where diamonds fall like rain. Isn’t this wild? But I’d give everything, everything, to be with you guys again, watching this show for a laugh, in front of our old tv screen—
She saw George in the crowd: he seemed to be looking for someone. Taking no chances, Heidi ducked behind the blue velvet curtains at the long windows beside her. Not because she couldn’t handle George, of course she could; but because she was crying. She’d been happy and having an amazing time, without Mum and Dad, and she couldn’t bear it. George Carron-Knowells was the last person she wanted to see. One of the long windows was open: she stepped out onto a terrace. The night wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold, and the Insanitude Gardens were magical: lit with fairy up-lights, like showers of stars in the grass.
Unfortunately, George had followed her.
‘Hey, Cinderella Laureate! She shall go to the ball! Dig the kooky boots!’
The boots were crackle-gold High Tops, knock-offs that had seemed very dandy when she was fourteen and a half. They were too small, and hurting her feet after all that dancing.
‘Oh, hi George.’
‘Did you hear what Challon’s decided?’
‘No, what did she decide? Are we going on somewhere?’
The Grasshopper's Child Page 14
