The Summer of Telling Tales

by Laura Summers

  Grace turns around, her blue eyes blazing. ‘We’re not living in one of your make-believe worlds, Ellie. We need that money.’

  ‘I know! And I told you, I didn’t lose it on purpose. Anyway, if you’re so worried, why didn’t you look after it in the first place? It was yours!’

  I know full well why she didn’t want it – so she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone if we bought something.

  ‘You won’t even talk to Mum!’ I say. ‘How do you think she feels? She never says anything, but you really upset her.’

  This is below the belt and I know it, but my big mouth just won’t shut up. Her face crumples.

  ‘I don’t mean to,’ she whispers.

  ‘It’s not like she’s done anything.’

  Grace doesn’t reply but turns away from me.

  ‘I don’t understand you. You’re so weird!’ I tell her as I stomp out of the bedroom.

  A few seconds later she comes out holding her canvas bag. She avoids my eye as she heads for the door.

  ‘So what am I going to say to Mum about the money?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll think of some fairy story,’ she mutters as she steps out of the caravan.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  With that she slams the door behind her. I know she’s angry too but I don’t care. It’s all right for her; everyone thinks she’s amazing even when she doesn’t say a word. Dad used to tell me off all the time, just for talking. Do shut up, Ellie. You’re such a drama queen. Why can’t you be quiet like your sister? he’d say in a disappointed voice.

  Sitting down at the little table, I take out the packet of hair dye and unfold the instructions. There are a few diagrams but the words are in a foreign language that I don’t recognise. I look at the girl on the packet again, beaming at me. ‘How hard can it be?’ I ask Bruno, heading for the little bathroom with my towel.

  Chapter 14

  Grace

  I calm down a bit as I walk back to town. I want to explain things to Ellie but everything’s so complicated – all tangled up. I don’t know how or where to begin. I’m so different to her – she always sees life as black or white and if she doesn’t like something she’ll just make up some fantasy instead.

  When she was seven, she decided she’d been abandoned by fairies and adopted by Mum and Dad. She called herself Araminta and wrote long sagas of her previous life, involving an evil wizard and a toad with a wooden leg called Neville (toad not leg), filling up notebook after notebook. Imaginative was the word her teachers used. Mum loved the spell ingredients (green custard and whelks mainly) and I had a soft spot for Neville, whose only mission in life was to hop out from under his stone and using his stump, trip up the wizard, causing him to fall head first into his cauldron, saving Araminta from his latest deadly concoction.

  Unfortunately Dad wasn’t impressed with any of it. He took the mickey out of Ellie’s tales mercilessly until finally she stopped writing them. She told me she’d run out of ideas, but for Ellie to run out of ideas is like the sky running out of stars. A few weeks later she killed off Araminta for good by chucking every single notebook into the dustbin. The only stories she wrote after that were school essays, but for at least a year she carried on telling people she was adopted.

  It’s mid-morning now and the market is more packed than earlier. My hands are already shaking as I carefully choose my spot and run through the list in my head.

  Stay calm.

  Open bag.

  Open violin case.

  Pick up violin.

  Deep deep breath.

  Play.

  Keep playing.

  Somehow I do all this. A few people turn and stare, surprised at the sound of music, but I manage to carry on. Playing solo in last year’s Christmas concert was a breeze compared to this.

  I finish the tune and bow my head slightly. No one claps and from the corner of my eye, I see people just turn away or carry on walking. Embarrassed and disappointed, I’m wondering what to do next when a small child drops a fifty pence coin into my case. I look up as she runs back to her mum who’s smiling at me and I give them both a grateful wave and start to play again – pop songs, folk ballads, anything I can think of that people might like to hear.

  As I get into my stride, several people stop and listen and more coins are tossed into my case. An hour later, I can hardly see its red silk lining.

  The music works its magic on me too. I hate people staring at me, but I manage to relax, because my violin is a kind of buffer between us. I’m safe in my own world while I play, because no one can try and make me talk to them.

  Gradually I’m aware of a tall boy about my age, tanned with scruffy blond hair, standing nearby. Although it’s cold he’s wearing board shorts and an oversized bright blue T-shirt. As I glance at him, he tosses a pound coin into my violin case and grins. I nod and smile back, just as I’ve smiled at everyone else who’s given me money, but there’s something about him that throws me off my stride.

  I play for another half hour and people come and go, but the boy doesn’t budge. I’m tired and my fingers are getting sore, so I wind up the tune I’m playing. People clap, then realise I’ve stopped for good and everyone starts to disperse . . . except this boy. Unnerved, I bend down to collect up the money, but out of the corner of my eye I see him approaching.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he says. ‘Ever thought of playing in a band?’

  I keep my head down hoping he’ll go away. He doesn’t. I’m panicking now. List. What? Anything . . .

  Cross stitch.

  Blanket stitch.

  Chain stitch.

  ‘I’m Ryan,’ he tells me.

  Running stitch.

  Zig-zag.

  Tack.

  ‘Maybe I could buy you a coffee or something?’ He looks down at my violin case full of coins and grins. ‘Or maybe you can buy me a coffee?’

  I’ve run out of stitches. My silence doesn’t stop him. He just decides I don’t understand English.

  He gestures drinking from a cup – he even crooks his little finger.

  ‘Caf-e? Per fav-or-ay?’ he says in a daft foreign accent.

  I shake my head and bite my lip trying not to smile but it’s too late – he’s noticed.

  ‘A nice cup of teeeee?’ he says in a comic voice. ‘Liquidised wombat juice?’

  I glance up in surprise. He grins triumphantly, knowing I understand him.

  ‘Look, I’m totally harmless, honestly. My name’s Ryan Baxter. I live just round the corner. Everyone knows me . . . Look, I’ll prove it.’

  He looks round then waves and calls to a middle-aged woman browsing at a nearby stall. ‘Hi there, Mrs Woollacott, how you doing? Mrs Woollacott?’

  She stops in her tracks and slowly turns around to face him.

  ‘You’re looking . . . um . . . radiant today,’ he tells her with a grin.

  But the only thing she’s radiating is a disapproving scowl. She heads straight towards us through the crowd, like a battleship under full steam. She sucks in her breath and clenches her teeth. ‘If you and your friends make that God-awful racket in your garage again tonight, I’ll send my Steven round,’ she threatens ominously, before turning and marching off.

  Ryan grins sheepishly at me then shrugs. ‘My next door neighbour. Mrs Woollacott. Nice lady . . . Not a music lover.’

  I stifle a smile.

  ‘And Steven . . . her son . . . he lifts weights and likes wrestling.’ He eyes my reaction but I put my head down and quickly pack away my violin.

  ‘No . . . I’ll be fine. Really. Don’t worry about me. Got to suffer for our music, haven’t we? Or at least she has. My band – The Damage, great name, eh? – is obviously not her cup of tea. We play minimalist R and B with emo-screamo overtones.’ He pauses for a moment, then adds, ‘So, going back to tea – there’s a great café down on the beach.’

  Alarmed, I shake my head, snap shut my violin case and quickly get to my feet. He looks di
sappointed.

  ‘Well, you can’t just go like this,’ he says. ‘Steven may tie me in a half nelson when I get home so we might never meet again. Think how you’d feel then.’

  I pick up my case and hurry away.

  ‘At least tell me your name!’ he calls after me.

  Chapter 15

  Ellie

  ‘Just don’t say a word!’ I order Grace, as she steps through the caravan doorway.

  I don’t have to worry. As I slowly unwrap the towel from around my head, she just stares at me with her mouth wide open.

  ‘So it went wrong, OK?’

  She nods slowly but still can’t take her eyes off me. Neither can Bruno. I’ve hypnotised them both.

  ‘It went totally and completely wrong and I don’t know what to do! Will you both stop staring at me like that!’ I snap angrily, tears splashing down my cheeks.

  Grace looks down at her violin case. Bruno slopes off and lies on his blanket.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you, and I’m really sorry for everything I said earlier. Oh Grace, I hate my big mouth! I wish I could just zip it up and throw it away!’

  She gives me a reluctant smile. ‘You’d look pretty weird without it.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I wail.

  It’s a full five seconds before she speaks.

  ‘Um . . . Don’t suppose it’ll wash out?’

  ‘Nooooo! I’ve tried. I’ve washed it and washed it. It just gets more and more matted.’

  Grace picks up the box and inspects the glamorous blond-haired girl on the front.

  ‘I look just like her, don’t I?!’ I joke, burying my head in my hands as clumps of matted fluorescent-orange fuzz hang limply around my face. Bruno pads over to me, and gives my hands a lick, but my head’s gone too weird for his liking – he gives my hair a couple of suspicious sniffs then retreats to his blanket.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Grace says hesitantly. ‘And bright hair’s really trendy.’

  ‘It’s disgusting! I can’t even comb it through; it’s like felt. I can’t go out with orange brillo pads dangling from my head. I’ll have to stay here in this caravan for months, years . . . forever!’

  I throw myself onto Gran’s quilt spread over the bench and sob noisily. How long will it be before being forced to hide from the world in this tiny caravan sends me stark raving bonkers, just like Stan’s wife?

  Grace ignores me and disappears off into our little bedroom. She comes back holding her sewing scissors.

  ‘What if I trim all the matted bits away? Maybe it won’t look quite so bad then. Want me to try?’

  ‘I don’t care any more!’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Just do it! Make me bald – I couldn’t look any worse!’

  Grace takes a deep breath, makes me sit upright then gently starts to cut my hair. She takes her time, looking at my head thoughtfully as she snips away at the tangles, bit by bit. I stare down at the fluorescent fuzzball growing on the floor. Bruno looks curiously at us both but doesn’t leave the safety of his blanket.

  ‘I only wanted to be noticed, like you!’ I tell her. ‘Everyone notices you, Grace.’

  ‘I so wish they didn’t,’ she replies softly.

  Something in the tone of her voice reminds me that while I’ve been busy transforming my hair into radioactive candyfloss, she’s been out for the last couple of hours.

  ‘So where have you been?’ I ask, curiously.

  She pulls a face. ‘You won’t tell Mum?’

  ‘Um . . . OK . . .’ I’m worried now. Grace never does anything dodgy.

  ‘I was busking.’

  ‘Busking? Really?’

  She nods shyly.

  ‘Made about fifty pounds.’

  ‘Grace. You’re a genius!’

  ‘Not quite . . . but nice to know all those music lessons haven’t been a complete waste of money.’

  ‘Dad would go ape if he knew!’ I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

  Grace tenses. A dark cloud suddenly hovers over us. I smooth Gran’s quilt under my fingers, flicking a couple of clumps of hair onto the floor.

  ‘But . . . hey, I bet our grandad wouldn’t mind,’ I start to babble. ‘Yeah, he’d have said something like, “Go girl – you rock, big time!” Or whatever they used to say in the good old days. So did anyone dance?’

  ‘Ellie, shut up,’ she says with a faint smile.

  But the suffocating black cloud has gone. We’ve blown it away.

  ‘Weren’t you nervous?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘Totally, at first, but then it was like the people watching just melted away and I didn’t really notice them any more. Except . . .’ She stops for a moment, thinking about something. Or someone.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing else to tell. It was great. I played just what I wanted. How I wanted. I felt . . . it sounds really stupid, but I felt free.’

  When she’s finished cutting my hair, I open the door to the little bathroom and peer cautiously in the mirror above the sink.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she asks.

  ‘I think . . . I don’t look like me any more,’ I say surprised.

  It’s true. I don’t. I run my fingers through my short tousled hair so it spikes out in places. With all the matted bits cut off, what’s left is a bright but soft apricot instead of a horrible day-glow orange. Somehow the colour brings life to my skin and my eyes seem bigger – brighter even.

  ‘I actually like it,’ Grace tells me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Looks funky. Suits you.’

  I look again. I even find myself smiling. I’ve got rid of the old mousy Ellie that I’ve always hated and I’m looking at a completely different girl.

  ‘Well say hello to the new me!’ I tell her.

  Grace shrugs, and says in a posh, silly voice, ‘Oh hello, Elle.’

  ‘Elle! Oh I really love that! Hey, will you call me Elle now? It sounds soooo much nicer than boring old Ellie.’ I turn back to the mirror and pretend I’m meeting someone for the first time. ‘Oh hey, yeah, my name’s Elle.’

  Reflected in the mirror, I see Grace behind me, rolling her eyes.

  ‘I was joking,’ she says.

  ‘But I love it. Oh go on, Grace, call me Elle, please.’

  ‘I’ll forget.’

  ‘Well, from now on, that’s who I’m going to be. New hair. New name. New life.’ I eye her mischievously. ‘Want me to cut yours now?’

  Chapter 16

  Grace

  We clip on Bruno’s lead, then head back to town to get the rest of the shopping. I steer Ellie away from the market and towards the main street. She’s positively bouncing as she walks along and keeps checking her reflection in shop windows. A group of boys about our age hanging around the bus shelter wolf whistle and laugh as we pass. One – really good-looking with dark hair and a lopsided cheeky smile – thumps his chest like Tarzan and calls after us, ‘Hey girls, which one of you wants to go out with PJ?’

  His mates laugh as we ignore them, but even though Ellie tuts at me disapprovingly, she can’t quite hide the huge grin spreading across her face.

  ‘Let’s have a feast,’ she announces impulsively, as we dive into the little supermarket wedged between the newsagents and a gift shop. ‘A big, fat, totally calorific feast!’

  ‘We need to save money, Ellie,’ I insist, as she tosses expensive pizzas, a giant carton of luxury ice cream and a huge box of chocolates into our basket before I can stop her. ‘Look, I’ve made a list of everything we need.’

  ‘Pah! Life’s too short for lists!’ she retorts. ‘Don’t know why you’re so obsessed with them.’

  ‘I am not obsessed!’

  ‘That’s got to be the understatement of the century – I bet you’ve even got lists of all your lists!’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘And a list of your lists of lists
. And a—’

  ‘Shut up, Ellie.’

  ‘Well, I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘No. You’re just very irritating. Making a list keeps things under control, OK?’

  ‘You sound just like Dad now.’

  ‘No I don’t!’ I snap.

  ‘Well, I want to be totally out of control for a change,’ she retorts. ‘Oh come on, Grace,’ she pleads. ‘Let it go. The chocolates are a treat for Mum . . . except the caramels, which she never eats.’

  ‘Just half the box then.’

  ‘Well . . . she won’t mind if we have some too.’

  ‘Suppose not.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ellie asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You keep looking around . . . Is it those boys?’

  ‘Course not!’

  ‘That PJ was funny, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Let’s just get the rest of the food and go.’

  I can feel myself blushing and turn away so Ellie can’t see my face, because I have been thinking about a boy – but not PJ. Ryan. And I’m annoyed, because for some stupid reason I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t know what’s got into me all of a sudden. I don’t do boyfriends. Danny Kensell, next door, used to ask me out on a weekly basis. Other boys at school tried sometimes but always gave up pretty quickly because I never said a word.

  This boy, Ryan . . . OK, he was funny and I even quite liked him, but I could never talk to him. Everyone who meets Dad thinks he’s funny and likes him too.

  You can’t trust anyone – no one’s really who they pretend to be. And some people are clever: they can flip from nice to nasty in the blink of an eye or the swipe of a fist, before you’ve even had the chance to say sorry or dive out of their way.

  We get the rest of the shopping then untie Bruno who’s been waiting patiently for us outside the little supermarket. As we head back to the caravan site, we don’t see PJ and his mates or Ryan, but we pass other groups of teenagers hanging out together, laughing and joking, and I notice Ellie steal envious glances at them. I know she’d love to be with them, just larking about, because she still doesn’t realise that it’s better not to get involved, just in case.