Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
TEN FACTS ABOUT JESS BEAKER
TEN FACTS ABOUT TRACY BEAKER
WHICH BEAKER GIRL ARE YOU?
CHECK OUT JACQUELINE WILSON’S BRILLIANT WEBSITE!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JACQUELINE WILSON wrote her first novel when she was nine years old, and she has been writing ever since. She is now one of Britain’s bestselling and most beloved children’s authors. She has written over 100 books and is the creator of characters such as Tracy Beaker and Hetty Feather. More than forty million copies of her books have been sold.
As well as winning many awards for her books, including the Children’s Book of the Year, Jacqueline is a former Children’s Laureate, and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame.
Jacqueline is also a great reader, and has amassed over twenty thousand books, along with her famous collection of silver rings.
Find out more about Jacqueline and her books at www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
NICK SHARRATT has written and illustrated many books for children and won numerous awards for his picture books, including the Children’s Book Award and the Educational Writers’ Award. He has also enjoyed great success illustrating Jacqueline Wilson’s books. Nick lives in Hove.
Praise for My Mum Tracy Beaker
‘This warm-hearted story about the importance of family and friends is classic Jacqueline Wilson’ The Week Junior
‘Wilson makes their story of hard times, whirlwind romance, heartache and hope just as involving as the original books’ Guardian Book of the Month
‘Wilson can still step effortlessly into the mind of a nine-year-old, and her chatty prose will sweep you along. Her 100-odd books are not known for their happy endings, but the suspense of this story comes from our suspicion that, for Tracy, there might finally be one’ The Daily Telegraph
‘Rehoming strays remains a strong moral theme in this cosy woolly jumper of a book about wish-fulfilment and its alternatives’ Observer
‘Wilson, as always, tells a story of absolute clarity, in which we know where our allegiances lie and there are no ambiguities. She makes us care what happens, portrays adults who reassuringly provide what children need, as well as adults who fail children, and reminds us that families can take all forms’ Sunday Times
‘Can you ever break the cycle of bad parenting? This is the theme of Jacqueline Wilson’s rather moving new novel … Wilson makes it look so easy as she reintroduces old characters, nods to literary classics and ensures we stay gripped. It’s not. That’s why the copycats never get close and why she remains the mother of mid-range fiction’ The Times Book of the Week
To Kenny, Olivia, Farrah Leigh,
Shannon, Samantha, Carlos,
Ashley and Sandi
‘When we moved here to Cooksea I decided I wasn’t going to be that pathetic girl any more. I was going to be strong and feisty and bold, just like Mum when she was little.’
Jess and Tracy Beaker now live in The Dumping Ground. Not that Dumping Ground – the children’s home that Tracy grew up in – but a seaside antiques shop full of treasures, along with Flo, the owner, and Alfie, their dog.
Jess is looking for a fantastic new boyfriend for her mum (mostly because Tracy’s awful ex Sean is back on the scene). But Jess has bigger problems of her own. She’s being picked on by a local kid who’s got it in for her. But when Jess uncovers the truth about her new enemy, it means big changes for the Beaker Girls …
Jacqueline Wilson’s funniest, fiercest and most beloved new heroine Jess returns for another amazing adventure.
‘THREE CONES PLEASE, all with chocolate flakes. One with chocolate sauce too, one with strawberry and one with sprinkles.’
The ice-cream man smiled at me. ‘All for you, Jess?’
‘Yes, yum yum yum.’
It was our little joke. Of course I wasn’t going to eat them all. There was one for my mum, one for Flo and one for me. We treat ourselves whenever we make a big sale in our shop. Well, it’s really Flo’s shop, but we moved in a month ago and my mum has been in charge of the stock, and we’ve had ice cream seven times! And today we’d made an absolutely HUGE sale.
It had been a quiet morning. Flo was sitting on her old chintz sofa, balancing a bowl of water on her lap and gently cleaning a china crinoline lady with an old toothbrush. Mum was on her knees at the back sticking scraps onto a wooden stool to make it look pretty. I was curled up on a faded velvet chair with my dog, Alfie, snoozing on a cushion at my feet.
I was meant to be doing some horrible sums in my notebook. Mary is worried that I’ve missed so much school. She was my teacher when we lived on the Duke Estate in London. I still sometimes forget and call her Miss Oliver. I like her, but I wish she wouldn’t keep sending me homework. I especially wish she wouldn’t set me problems. My problem is, I can’t do the problems. I was doodling instead, drawing lots of little cartoon Alfies.
I drew him fast asleep, wide awake, running crazily, jumping for a ball, lying on his back to be tickled. I even drew him having a wee. I love Alfie soooo much. Almost as much as my mum. Do you know my mum Tracy Beaker? Everyone knew her when we lived in Marlborough Tower. Heaps of people already know her here in Cooksea. She’s that kind of person.
Early on Sunday mornings when we go to car boot sales, the folk there have a laugh with her, and Bill, who runs the bacon-roll van, chats her up. He doesn’t call her Tracy, he calls her Curly because she’s got these mad black curls that frizz all round her head. He calls me Baby Curly because I’ve got the mad black curls too, worst luck. We usually hate being called Curly, but we just laugh at Bill.
Bill’s always laughing and joking, and cheers everyone up when it’s raining. He’s got a dog called Gladys – a big white Staffie with a pink diamanté collar and a pink lead which he tethers to his van. She looks a bit fierce but she’s the sweetest dog ever. Alfie adores her. He adores Bill too, because he gives him scraps of bacon.
Bill asked Mum if she had a boyfriend. Mum just laughed. She says she’s given up on men. I’m very, very, very glad she’s given up on her old boyfriend, Sean Godfrey, because I never really liked him. But I like Bill. And Gladys. And bacon rolls. Maybe she’ll change her mind about men.
Anyway, it was very quiet in the antiques shop this morning – just two old ladies passing the time, poking around the stock, oohing and aahing in the corner Mum calls Memory Lane. She’s arranged four Teletubbies on top of an old television set, and some long-eared bunnies listening to a Roberts radio. There’s an old Dansette record player and a pile of vinyl LPs with a Barbie and a Ken doll jiving beside it. She’s stuffed an old cradle with Tiny Tears and Cabbage Patch babies, and several baby piggy banks.
One of the old ladies bought a jigsaw of a country cottage for a pound, but that was it, all morning. And then at lunchtime this rather arty-looking lady came wandering into the shop, bangles jingling as she sorted through all the vintage dresses on the rail. Then she stopped and stared.
She was looking at this little desk Mum had found at the boot fair one Sunday. It had been very bashed, with half the drawer handles missing and the leather top stained. It had looked like total junk to me, but Mum whispered that it was early Victorian. The man selling it wanted £125 and said he couldn’t do it for less, but Mum eventually talked him into le
tting her have it for ninety. I still thought it was way too much, but Flo had given a nod when she saw it.
‘Well done, Tracy,’ she’d said, grinning. ‘My goodness, girl, you’ve only been in the trade five minutes but you’ve got an eye for a bargain already.’
‘Two eyes,’ said Mum, winking each in turn.
They’d spent hours treating it with wood stain and polishing it up and fitting it with handles. Mum added a tatty quill pen and some manuscript paper she’d brushed with tea so that it looked like parchment. She’d written on several of the pages, copying out the first paragraphs of Victorian novels she’d found on the shelves in our Book Nook.
Mum had made a special big label for the desk – it dangled from a piece of string. She’s getting famous for her messages on all our stock.
‘Six hundred pounds!’ Flo had gasped, squinting at the label. ‘That’s a bit steep, Tracy! The punters will never pay that.’
‘Wait and see,’ Mum had said.
So we waited – and saw this jingly lady stare at the desk, read the label, stroke the wood, pick up the pen and paper, wander around the shop biting her lip, return to the desk, and then take a deep breath.
‘What’s the best discount you can do for the desk?’ she asked.
‘Our lovely little early Victorian desk?’ said Flo. ‘Ooooh! We’ll be sad to see it go. It’s a bargain, dear. Do you know what these lovely pieces of furniture go for in London antique shops? I’ve seen some advertised for over a thousand. I really don’t think we can reduce ours any more.’
‘Oh dear, I don’t think I dare pay so much,’ said the arty lady, but she started opening the little drawers one by one. Mum had put a tiny trinket in each – an old stamp, a marble, a coin, a little glass bottle. They weren’t worth anything, but the arty lady gave small squeaks of excitement at every discovery. ‘It’s so lovely!’ She sighed, but turned and looked as if she was about to walk out of the shop.
‘Maybe we could knock off fifty quid, Flo, just to make sure the desk goes to the right home …’ said Mum.
Flo sucked in her breath and shook her head.
‘But see how much the lady likes it.’
‘I’ve always wanted a desk like this,’ the lady admitted.
‘I think you’re a writer, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I’d like to be. I just can’t seem to get started.’
‘Think how inspirational this desk could be,’ said Mum. ‘Tell you what – you can have the quill pen and the parchment for nothing, just to put you in the right mood to start writing.’
‘It’s still an awful lot of money,’ the lady said, sighing – but unable to take her eyes off the desk.
‘All right. Five hundred and fifty – though it means we’re practically giving it away,’ said Flo.
‘I’ll have it!’ said the lady, fumbling in her bag for her credit card. ‘You’re right, it is a bargain.’
‘Do you live in Cooksea? Just outside? Then I’ll deliver it for free in the van,’ said Mum.
It was Flo’s van but she hadn’t driven it for so long that it had needed all sorts of repairs. She didn’t have enough cash to fix it and neither did we – so Mum sold her pink Cadillac to pay for it. She’d loved that pink Cadillac, and so had I, but it couldn’t be helped. Besides, the ex-boyfriend, Sean Godfrey, had bought it for her and we didn’t want anything to do with him any more.
The lady went away happy and will hopefully write her own masterpiece one day. And Mum and Flo and I were even happier because we’d made so much money – a total profit of £460! I’m hopeless at problems but my mental arithmetic is getting much better!
So Mum let me go to buy ice cream to celebrate, telling me to be very careful crossing the road to the esplanade. The van is a little further down on the seafront, near the beach huts. It’s only five minutes from The Dumping Ground. That’s the name of our shop. It’s also Mum’s old nickname for the children’s home where she lived when she was my age. But then Cam became her foster mum. Cam’s like my foster gran. I’ve got a real gran, Carly, but I don’t like her anywhere near as much. Mary – who was my teacher, Miss Oliver – is a sort of gran too, as she’s Cam’s partner. And Flo is a kind of gran as well because we live with her and run the shop. Which means I’ve got four grans! But only one mum of course – my mum Tracy Beaker.
So I paid for our treat and took the three cones, the ones with sauce in one hand and the one covered in rainbow sprinkles in the other. The ice-cream man knows that one’s for me. He always gives me extra sprinkles, with a cherry on the top!
‘Careful now, poppet,’ he said.
‘I’m always careful,’ I said, and set off up the esplanade.
I was tempted to have just one lick of my rainbow sprinkles but decided not to risk it. I walked quickly but carefully, arms held out in front of me. The sun was out and I knew I had to hurry or the ice creams would start to melt. I breathed in deeply, still unable to believe I lived in such a lovely place. The sea sparkled in the sunlight, the beach huts shone bright red and blue and yellow, and the seagulls wheeled above me, screeching away.
I looked up warily, not wanting one to poop on me or my precious ice creams. And then suddenly someone snatched my ice cream and ran off with it!
‘Hey!’ I yelled indignantly. ‘My ice cream! Bring it back!’
Of course the someone did nothing of the sort. It was a big bulky boy in a baseball cap, grubby T-shirt and faded jeans. The white soles of his trainers were a grimy grey, but that didn’t stop them flashing as he made off down the esplanade, the ice cream like a trophy in his hand. He dodged between two of the beach huts, and by the time I’d thudded after him he’d vanished.
I could have wept. It wasn’t just the fact that he’d stolen my ice cream, with its generous topping of rainbow sprinkles and a cherry on the top. He probably wasn’t even going to eat it. He’d just taken it for a laugh. That was what was so humiliating. People talked about snatching an ice cream from a baby. I wasn’t a baby. I was ten and a half. I hated to be seen as small and weak and helpless.
I had been bullied a bit at my old school. There was this big boy called Tyrone, who pushed and shoved me and once knocked me over so my knees bled. My mum found out, and that was ever so embarrassing because she yelled at Tyrone and his mates and then went storming into my school and yelled at my teacher, Miss Oliver! I didn’t know where to put myself, Mum yelling her head off while Miss Oliver stayed so calm and controlled.
It all came right in the end, because Mum and Miss Oliver – Mary – made up, and now she’s almost like Mum’s foster aunty (weird!). And, even weirder, one day quite by accident I knocked Tyrone over and we both ended up in the sick room at school and we made friends too. I actually miss him now, though Mum says he can come and stay soon. And my friends Ava and Alice. Though probably not all together, because Ava and Alice are very polite and well mannered, and Tyrone is the exact opposite.
I get why Tyrone and his mates bullied me. My hair looks a bit mad and I wear glasses and I’m very small for my age. I was also generally near the top of my class – well, top actually, though that sounds like boasting. So they called me Curlynob and Four Eyes and Geeky Beaky, and followed me about making fun of me.
I hated it, obviously. I hated being the sort of girl who gets bullied. I hated Mum knowing. I especially hated it when she charged about defending me – it was so humiliating. When we moved to Cooksea I decided I wasn’t going to be that pathetic girl any more. I was going to be strong and feisty and bold, just like Mum when she was little. No one would ever have dared bully Tracy Beaker.
I couldn’t make myself bigger. I tried to tame my hair with gel, but that just made it look greasy – and it was a total disaster when the hairdresser straightened it. I tried taking my glasses off, but I couldn’t see where I was going and had to hold my book right up to my nose to follow the story. Still, I wasn’t going to school until term started again in September so no one knew I was a geek, which was a relief.
I tried to act different, even if I couldn’t look it. I practised walking with a bit of a swagger, head up, striding out. I practised wisecracks in my head in case anyone said anything rude to me. But no one in Cooksea was really rude. It was a lovely warm summer and everyone seemed happy to be here and went around with smiles on their faces.
I got extra smiles when I took Alfie for a walk along the esplanade. All the old people sitting on the benches wanted to chat to us, and the little kids playing on the beach wanted to pat him. There were several small gangs riding their bikes or skateboards, but they were friendly too, and didn’t mind when Alfie barked at them.
I was so happy to be here, in my new home, where everyone seemed to like me. And now this big lout in a baseball cap had spoiled it all. There were heaps of kids much smaller than me holding ice creams. So why had he picked on me?
The two remaining ice creams were starting to drip a little. I couldn’t hang about feeling sorry for myself. I had to get back to The Dumping Ground sharpish. I held one ice cream in each hand and then set off at a brisk pace. I was clutching the cones so tightly they were at cracking point.
I got home in double-quick time. The shop used to smell really musty, but Mum had spent a whole weekend dusting and scrubbing, and airing the old clothes on a rail in the sunshine. Now it simply smelled fresh – of paint and beeswax polish and the flowers in the old vases that were too cracked to sell, along with Flo’s scent and Mum’s coconut shampoo and Alfie’s warm smell of happy dog.
Flo started ding-a-linging like an ice-cream van when she saw me, and then shook her head. ‘Watcha, darling! Gordon Bennett, can’t you count?’ she said, putting on her funny cockney accent. Long ago she’d played a comical cleaning lady in a television sitcom. ‘Better get back to them maths lessons! Two ice creams into three don’t go!’
We Are the Beaker Girls Page 1
