The Summer of Telling Tales

by Laura Summers

  Chapter 26

  Grace

  I watch Ellie disappear off with Cait and her friend and let out a sigh. Out of all the hundreds of girls at our new school that Ellie could possibly have made friends with, she had to pick the two that would most like to vaporise me. I’m wondering exactly what Ellie’s told them about us as Ryan glances at me.

  ‘Think I’ve hurt my arm,’ he says, wincing in pain. We use my cardi as a makeshift sling before heading down to the beach where his mates promise to take his surfboard.

  He lives down near the market in a little terraced house. The small front garden is full of bikes and the wreckage of bikes, homemade go-carts and old battered body boards, propped against the garden wall like tombstones.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ he announces as he pushes open the tatty front door.

  ‘Hi, Dad!’

  ‘What time d’you call this?’ a voice calls from the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry. Had a bit of an accident.’

  A man in an electric wheelchair appears in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘You OK, son?’ he asks anxiously.

  ‘Fine. Just fell down a cliff,’ Ryan jokes. ‘This is Grace, by the way. And Bruno.’

  Ryan’s dad looks flustered. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He takes off the makeshift sling and carefully checks Ryan’s arm.

  ‘It’s OK, Dad, it’s loads better now – probably just a pulled muscle,’ Ryan reassures him.

  ‘Promised me he’d be back this afternoon to take Harry and Tom to the park for a kick about, not fall down cliffs,’ his dad grumbles to me.

  ‘Well, I’m here now. And I’m all right,’ Ryan says as two boys of about five, identical as peas in a pod, clatter downstairs and launch themselves onto him.

  ‘I’m hungry!’ says one of the boys, clinging onto Ryan’s shoulders like a human limpet while the other sets about petting Bruno, who takes the smothering calmly in his stride.

  ‘OK. Let’s just fast-forward to tea. So what’s it to be?’ Ryan’s Dad asks, going over to the fridge and flinging it open.

  ‘Sausages!’ the twins chorus.

  ‘Well . . . all right then, if you’re sure,’ Ryan’s Dad says. ‘Sausages it is. . .’

  I sneak a secret peek in the fridge and spot five or six packets of sausages piled on the shelf and not a great deal else.

  ‘Get that pan down for me, will you, Grace?’ he asks as if I’m just one of the family. Twenty minutes later, with us all helping or getting in the way, five plates of sausage, egg and tomatoes with a towering stack of bread and butter on a wooden board, are placed on the little table in the middle of the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Well, sit down, Grace,’ Ryan’s Dad tells me. ‘Sit down and tuck in or the gannets’ll have every last mouthful.’ He smiles at his boys then suddenly looks concerned. ‘Ryan,’ he says sternly. ‘Cloth!’

  Ryan looks at him bemused. ‘Cloth?’ he mouths.

  ‘Tablecloth. From the drawer.’

  Ryan throws me a look but does as his dad asks. He rummages about in the painted dresser in the corner, finally taking out an old faded tablecloth with a Christmas tree pattern printed round the edge. There’s a bit of commotion as all the plates and cutlery are pulled off, the cloth is spread carefully on the table and everything is put back.

  ‘That’s better,’ says his dad with a nod, wheeling himself up to the table and lifting one of the twins onto his lap so there’s a chair spare for me. ‘Don’t want your friend thinking we’re complete Neanderthals.’

  I smile at him.

  ‘Well tuck in. We do a pretty mean fry-up in this establishment.’

  There’s talking and eating and running around the table and ketchup spilling and being wiped up, and furious debates about which team’s better – Manchester United or Chelsea – and whether there are dinosaurs living under the twins’ beds and how many are plant-eaters and how many are meat-eaters and in all the chaos, it doesn’t seem to matter one bit that I’m totally quiet, because with the four of them there’s already more than enough racket going on. And I remember all the meals at home where Ellie, Mum and I sat up straight on tenterhooks, while Dad complained about the food and lectured Mum on how she should have cooked it, and think how different Ryan’s dad is compared to mine.

  Within fifteen minutes almost everything has been wolfed down. Ryan’s dad catches me looking curiously at the twins and Ryan as they polish off the last of the loaf of bread.

  ‘Growing lads, you see,’ he explains. ‘Hollow legs. Can’t fill ’em fast enough.’

  After tea, Ryan and I take Harry and Tom outside into the tiny backyard where they play excitedly with Bruno.

  ‘They’d love a dog,’ Ryan tells me. ‘I just heard them planning to kidnap Bruno and hide him in their bedroom later.’

  The back gate opens and the two lads from the beach come into the garden. The taller, spottier one’s carrying a bass guitar, the other has Ryan’s surfboard which he props against the fence.

  ‘Jacko can’t play tonight,’ he announces. ‘His mum’s grounded him.’

  The other lad sniggers but Ryan looks aghast.

  ‘You’re joking!’ he says. ‘What we going to do?’

  ‘Play the same old stuff . . . even more rubbish than usual?’ says the first boy with a shrug.

  ‘It’s not funny, Darren – we’re going to look like right numpties!’

  ‘What’s new?’ asks Darren with a whiff of hopelessness.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, all this screaming Emo-Screamo stuff . . . it’s . . . it’s doing my head in.’

  ‘But it was your idea!’ Ryan tells him.

  ‘Yeah, but only cos it’s easy. I only know three chords. And when Kev gets going no one clocks he’s tone deaf.’

  ‘I am not!’ Kev protests. ‘Year Six Christmas concert,’ he adds, tapping his chest indignantly. ‘The Snowman. Not a dry eye.’

  ‘We’re trumping in the air . . .’ trills Darren launching into a constipated snowman routine.

  Kev dives at Darren, wrapping his arm around his neck, half strangling him so he gurgles down to earth with a bump.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s very hard to maintain a melody when you’ve been told by this moron to scream,’ says Kev through gritted teeth.

  ‘OK, sorry! Keep your frillies on,’ protests Darren, as Kev slowly releases his grip and recovers his dignity.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ asks Ryan.

  ‘What about your dad?’ Kev suggests.

  ‘Oh no . . . No. I am not having my dad play in the band!’ says Ryan. ‘You’ll want my auntie Joan in next.’

  ‘Can she play something?’

  ‘Darren! We are supposed to be playing in front of fifty people at Ben Dalton’s party in less than two hours’ time. We are going to be laughed off that stage.’

  ‘Might not be that bad.’

  ‘What part of “laughed off the stage” is good?’ asks Ryan.

  ‘OK. Why don’t we just tell him we can’t play because . . . because we’re all ill?’ asks Kev.

  ‘What with – terminal rickets?’ Ryan retorts. ‘Let’s face it we’re dead already.’ He turns and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Unless . . .’ he says tentatively.

  I know exactly what he’s going to ask and slowly shake my head. No way am I getting roped into playing in their band. Ryan gives a resigned sigh.

  ‘At least come and watch us rehearse then.’

  We go down to the little garage at the end of the garden. Inside there’s a drum kit with The Damage painted on the biggest drum in peeling black paint, a couple of microphones on stands and some amplifiers and other kit all set up. The twins, Bruno and I make ourselves comfortable on some musty cushions at the back as Ryan, Darren and Kev get ready for their first number.

  ‘One! Two! Three! Four!’

  I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what happens next.

  The noise is horrible. Truly awful. I think of poor Mrs Woollac
ott next door and wonder how she hasn’t sent her Steven round long ago.

  Harry and Tom cover their ears and within half a minute run out yelling. Bruno starts howling in sympathy but I sit tight, listening politely but longing for the moment when it’s all going to stop. To be fair, Ryan on the drums isn’t bad and if Kev didn’t scream instead of sing it might be bearable.

  Finally it does stop. The silence is deafening. Ryan looks at me.

  ‘Dad’s got an old violin upstairs. Used to play in a folk band before Mum . . . How about I just . . . well, just go and get it?’

  And he looks at me with such desperation my resolve crumbles. I think how he saved Bruno today and how much I want him not to look like a numpty in front of fifty of his school mates, and before I know it I’m nodding my head.

  Chapter 27

  Ellie

  When I get back to the caravan, Grace and Bruno aren’t home yet so I decide to write a bit more of my story, but the words won’t flow and just as I’m getting to the bit where the evil fairy steals the human baby from its cot then substitutes her own child, the door opens and Bruno bounds in followed by Grace. I give him a quick pat on the head and carry on writing.

  ‘You OK?’ Grace asks me, opening a tin of dog food for Bruno, who watches her hungrily.

  ‘Course.’

  But Grace being Grace knows that I’m not.

  ‘Mum wouldn’t mind if you bring your friends back here. It’s not like Dad’s around.’

  ‘Don’t want them here,’ I say as casually as I can.

  ‘Because of me?’ Grace asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have you fallen out with them?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  I avoid her eye, ashamed of how I pretended today that she wasn’t my sister.

  ‘Look, Ellie, I know they don’t like me, but you don’t have to stick up for me or anything.’

  I can feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyes.

  ‘What have they said to you?’ she asks.

  I wipe my face with my palms and glance out of the window to see Ryan waiting.

  ‘Nothing. Go off with your boyfriend.’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she insists. ‘He’s just . . . a friend.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I retort gruffly, bending my head over the exercise book in front of me.

  She heads for the door.

  ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Will you be OK on your own till then?’

  ‘I’m thirteen. I’m not a little kid!’

  ‘I know.’

  I look up. ‘Grace?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ she tells me. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’

  But I had and I was.

  I watch them disappear down the field, with Ryan happily chatting to Grace who nods and smiles every now and then. Half an hour later, I brush my hair and pull on my jacket. Bruno looks up hopefully, thinking I’m going to be taking him for another walk.

  ‘Be good,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  I find the scrap of paper where Cait has scribbled down the address of the party, telling myself I’ll only stay for half an hour so I’ll be back long before Grace or Mum return. They won’t even know that I’ve gone.

  I never got invited to parties at home. I used to feel so jealous when I overheard the other girls at school talking about going to so and so’s and what an amazing time they all had. I did have my own party once, when I was eight. I’d been excited for weeks and finally the day arrived, I put on my brand new dress and felt like a princess.

  Everything was perfect: the sitting room was decorated with fairy lights and balloons, and Dad did a magic show. I was so proud of him and happy and everyone said it was the best party ever.

  Then at teatime, disaster struck. I dropped a huge piece of gooey birthday cake, splat onto my new dress. I tried to scrape it all off before Dad saw, but in my panic I made things worse as the thick chocolate icing stuck like brown sludge.

  I could hear Dad about to come in so I whispered to Grace not to tell and covered my dress as best as I could with a paper serviette, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  But of course he did. He whipped the serviette off my lap and told everyone I was the most revolting and messiest child in the world and that I should wear a bib all the time. He kept going on and on. Then he tied a huge towel around my neck and said, ‘That’s better!’ as everyone roared with laughter.

  I ran to the bathroom, pulled off the towel and sat on the floor, listening while the party carried on without me. When I was sure everyone had gone home, I crept downstairs but all the fairy lights and balloons had vanished and there was no trace that it had ever been my birthday. From then on I never wanted another party and never got invitations to other people’s.

  But tonight is going to be different, I tell myself. Tonight I’m going to have a wonderful time.

  I find my way to the community hall in the square, and see Cait being dropped off by her dad.

  ‘Hey,’ I call. ‘Wait for me!’

  ‘You made it!’ she says happily, running over and hugging me delicately.

  ‘You look amazing!’ I tell her. And she does. Her dress looks really glamorous and expensive and she’s wearing high-heeled shoes and carrying a little matching bag and her hair is beautifully curled and piled up on top.

  ‘Dressed to impress!’ she tells me, craning her head around the door looking for someone.

  ‘Can you see Abs?’ I ask.

  ‘She can’t come, has to go to her auntie’s. She was really mad,’ she says, hooking her arm through mine. ‘Never mind. You’re much more fun. Come on.’

  Cait pulls me inside and we weave our way down to the front of the hall. We mess about giggling as we dance silly dances to the music, although from time to time I notice that she’s still looking around for someone. I spot PJ talking and laughing with his bunch of mates, and after a while he comes over.

  ‘You could have made a bit of an effort,’ he tells Cait.

  ‘Get lost PJ,’ she replies.

  ‘So what’s your little friend’s name then?’ he asks, looking me up and down. He does that cute lopsided grin thing and suddenly I feel butterflies fluttering around my stomach.

  ‘Elle, Elle Smith,’ I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and beaming back at him.

  ‘So, Elle-Elle Smith,’ he says with a straight face, ‘dipped your head in a vat of Tango, did you?’

  It takes a second to register what he’s just said as the butterflies explode inside my stomach.

  I’m about to say something not very polite when to my astonishment, Grace walks onto the stage with Ryan and two other boys. My mouth drops open as the audience cheers, claps and whistles.

  As Grace tucks her violin under her chin she suddenly spots me, registers her surprise then gives a tiny wave.

  ‘Let’s face it, Elle, you’re not as hot as your sister, are you?’ PJ says, nodding at Grace.

  ‘Sister?’ asks Cait, looking from Grace to me.

  ‘Yeah – old Frosty Pants on the fiddle,’ he says. ‘The Girl Without A Voice.’

  Cait turns to me. ‘She’s your sister?’

  For a split second I hesitate but then I take a deep breath and say clearly and loudly, ‘Yeah, that’s my sister – Grace.’ I turn to PJ. ‘And don’t ever call her names again.’

  PJ sniggers. ‘Whoooaaa! You’re scaring me, Titch.’

  How could I ever have thought for one tiny moment that I liked this boy?

  ‘Hang on,’ says Cait, ‘you told me you didn’t know her!’

  ‘Only because you fancy Ryan,’ I blurt out.

  PJ explodes into sniggers and Cait’s face turns red with anger.

  ‘I do not!’ she protests furiously.

  ‘You do – you’re always going on about him. I can’t help it if he likes Grace b
etter.’

  ‘Well, you can forget hanging around with me and my friends from now on!’ Cait retorts angrily.

  ‘Fine!’ I snap back. ‘I don’t care.’ But even as I glare angrily at her, a little voice inside me is telling me that I do care. I really do.

  ‘Yeah and I don’t give a monkey’s if your dad’s some fancy actor, and your mum’s a la-di-da author. You’re finished, Elle.’

  ‘That’s what you think. You don’t know me one little bit.’

  ‘Fiiiiiight!’ calls PJ, relishing the drama.

  But Cait isn’t listening. She swivels round on her high heels and swishes off.

  ‘Go on, Titch, thump her one!’

  ‘Drop dead!’ I tell him.

  I’m filled with anger and about to run off too, but everyone crowds up towards the stage to listen to the band, so I’m hemmed in and can’t move. The band starts to play, and I’m forced to slowly calm down. As I listen, I realise that with Grace on violin, they’re amazing. I watch as Ryan grins at her happily the whole time and the other two lads look like they’ve died and gone to heaven – until the bass guitarist gets a bit excited and accidentally topples off the stage. But the audience don’t care. They think it’s just part of the act and cheer him as he climbs back on, so he does it again and again, just for effect.

  They play non-stop for three-quarters of an hour, by which time all my anger has drained away and everyone’s dancing; even the bald caretaker is head-banging away, flicking his imaginary tresses to and fro.

  Finally they stop, Ryan yells, ‘Thank you and goodnight!’ and they run off stage like pop stars. Everyone calls for an encore and I can hear people asking who ‘that girl’ was. And at the back of the hall I spot Cait leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a scowl on her face. PJ sidles up next to her and slides his arm around her waist but she doesn’t push him away.

  And although I know I’ve done the right thing and I’m glad that I said what I said, and I’m not even angry any more, I still feel sad and flat, like all the fairy lights have vanished and the balloons have popped and all I want to do is to go back to the caravan, right now.