We Are the Beaker Girls

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Yes you have. With me! You’re the best mum in the whole world!’ I said.

  She smiled when I said that, and gave me a hug, but there were tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘YOU AND ME are going to find a library today, Jess,’ Mum said at breakfast.

  We didn’t open the shop until ten thirty – people got up late in Cooksea. We left Alfie with Flo. She was reading half the paper, and Alfie was happily tearing the rest of it into strips.

  We knew where all the cafés and restaurants were, and the supermarket and the bank and the post office, and the promenade and Seacliff Fields, and the little old cinema and the two other junk shops and all the charity ones – but we’d never noticed a library.

  ‘Perhaps Cooksea doesn’t have one any more,’ I said, but Mum had looked it up on the internet.

  It was in Park Road, which led to a park we hadn’t discovered before, with an old wall round it and lots of grass – a perfect park for Alfie to play in. There was a lovely big building overlooking it, pale grey stone with turrets at the top like a castle. It had gilt lettering above the door:

  ‘Yay!’ I said.

  I love libraries. Cam used to take me to one when I was little, and helped me select a handful of picture books each week. There wasn’t a library near the Duke Estate but in the Juniors I borrowed books from school. The library was quite small, but the books were kept in very good order and nicely displayed. I was the library monitor, actually.

  There were thousands and thousands of books in Cooksea library. While Mum spoke to the lady at the desk, I peered around at all the shelves in awe. She filled in forms and showed her driving licence and was then given two library cards, one for me and one for her.

  ‘For you, Mum?’ I said, surprised. She didn’t read much. She was generally too fidgety to curl up with a book.

  ‘I can read, you know!’ she said. ‘Right, that’s the children’s section over there. You choose your books while I choose mine, OK?’

  The children’s library had big boxes of picture books for the little ones, with large squashy cushions and several teddies to cuddle. I couldn’t help wishing I was young enough to sprawl on a cushion with a teddy and listen to a story with the toddlers. There were proper chairs and tables here and there for older children, and a cluster of revolving display stands, and shelves of books almost up to the ceiling.

  I felt a deep calm happiness as I started browsing. I could choose up to six books – and of course I wanted the full six. I spent half an hour selecting them, reading several pages. Eventually I took my armful to the lady librarian.

  ‘My, you’re a keen reader!’ she said. ‘Oh, good choices!’

  I’d chosen The Hundred and One Dalmatians, Little House on the Prairie, The Butterfly Lion, Rooftoppers, The Tulip Touch and When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit.

  ‘They should keep you going all summer,’ she said, smiling.

  I went to find Mum, hugging the books to my chest. She was checking out ten books – but they weren’t storybooks like mine. They were reference works about antiquarian and second-hand books, and dolls and china and old toys and paintings and furniture.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ I said.

  ‘I’m going to show that Mary,’ she said. ‘I’m going to mug up on everything and become an antiques expert.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You wait. Before long they’ll be asking my opinion on Antiques Roadshow,’ said Mum.

  Our combined books were so heavy and unwieldy that Mum had to fork out for two canvas bags emblazoned with the legend NOTHING BEATS A GOOD BOOK!

  ‘I think I’m going to start my own alternative range: NOTHING BEATS A GOOD BEAKER!’ said Mum, shouldering a bulging bag. She’s strong but she’s small and skinny, and it was rather heavy for her. We were having a bit of an argy-bargy on the way out, me trying to take one bag and Mum batting my hands away, so we weren’t looking where we were going. We bumped right into a man coming in, who had a handful of books of his own. It ended up with everyone’s books all over the doorstep.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ said the guy, head bent, scurrying round to gather them together.

  Then he looked up and we recognized each other. It was Peter Ingham again. Weedy Peter. Though he wasn’t really at all weedy now. His arms didn’t bulge with muscles like Sean Godfrey’s, but they were lean and brown and strong.

  ‘Oh, Peter, you haven’t changed a bit!’ said Mum nevertheless. ‘Apologizing away when it’s all our fault! You’re a scream.’

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit either, Tracy Beaker,’ he said, separating the last of the books. ‘No, wait a minute. The Collector’s Guide to Antiquarian Books? Oh, of course, your shop!’

  ‘It’s not actually my shop, it’s Flo’s, but I run it for her,’ said Mum. ‘And it’s not a hobby job. I’m taking it very seriously.’

  ‘Mum’s going to be a world expert on antiques,’ I said proudly.

  ‘Well, good for her,’ said Peter. He was looking at my books. ‘Lovely mixed bunch! I can tell you’re a keen reader. What about your brother? Is he a bookworm too?’

  ‘My brother?’ I said, baffled.

  ‘She hasn’t got a brother,’ said Mum, straightening up and repacking her bag.

  ‘Is he your partner’s son then?’ Peter asked.

  ‘I haven’t got a partner either,’ said Mum. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘You were with this great big hunk of a man the other day, when I saw you at your shop. And he had a boy in football strip with him,’ said Peter.

  ‘You thought Tyrone was my son?’ Mum said incredulously. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘And the big hunk – Sean Godfrey – is absolutely, definitely not Mum’s partner – well, not any more,’ I said.

  ‘Is he famous or something? I saw several kids staring at him,’ said Peter. He wasn’t winding Mum up. He was serious.

  ‘You’re priceless,’ she said, laughing. ‘I know you’re unlikely to be into sports, but he’s a footballing legend.’

  ‘Not any more though,’ I chimed in.

  ‘Oh well. I’m the first to admit I know nothing about football. But I am quite sporty nowadays, actually. I swim in the sea every day. And I play badminton,’ said Peter. ‘I’m the team captain.’

  ‘Oh, Peter! You crack me up,’ said Mum. ‘Badminton, eh? You devil!’

  Peter went faintly pink and Mum looked sorry.

  ‘Oh, don’t look like that, Pete. You know what I’m like. Can’t resist teasing. I bet your foster mum and dad are proud of you,’ she said.

  ‘Well. They were, bless them. But sadly Pa had a stroke and died soon after and Ma went to pieces. She couldn’t cope,’ he said, looking down at the ground.

  ‘Oh, Pete, I’m so sorry,’ said Mum, and she threw her arms round him, nearly sending the books flying again. ‘Here, let’s go for a coffee and catch up properly.’

  Peter looked a bit taken aback. ‘Well, I haven’t changed my library books yet.’

  ‘Do it after. We won’t hold you up for long.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to hold you up. Shouldn’t you be going back to your shop?’

  ‘Flo can hold the fort for a while. Did you see what it’s called?’

  ‘Obviously you’ve renamed it,’ said Peter.

  ‘No, it was called The Dumping Ground all along, truly. It was like fate was staring me in the face. It’s as if I’m continually reminded of the past. You’ll never, ever guess who I bumped into a little while ago! Justine Littlewood, as sneaky and mean as ever,’ said Mum.

  ‘She was after Sean Godfrey!’ I said.

  ‘And she’s welcome to him,’ Mum added quickly. ‘I soon saw her off though. Watch! Though you’d better stand back a bit!’ She put her huge bag of books on the ground, assumed an exaggerated stance, and then suddenly lunged forward, one leg up in the air. Peter jumped back out of harm’s way, looking horrified.

  ‘It’s OK! I’d never kick you. But I toppled old Justine, didn’t I, Jess?’
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  ‘Yep. Good and proper. No one messes with my mum, Peter,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ he said.

  We walked back towards the town and came to a funny little café called The Fat Tummy.

  ‘I love it!’ said Mum.

  Peter looked a bit doubtful.

  ‘Isn’t it posh enough for you, Mr Head Teacher Ingham? OK, it’s a bit of a greasy spoon, but they generally have the best grub,’ said Mum.

  ‘It’s just the name is a bit un-PC,’ he muttered. ‘We’re not supposed to call people fat nowadays.’

  ‘Tell that to Flo!’ said Mum. ‘She’s got a huge fat tummy and she’s very proud of it – though I hope she doesn’t put on any more weight because it’s a bit of a struggle heaving her in and out of bed!’

  ‘You look after her then?’ said Peter, surprised.

  ‘Well, she’s not really up to doing it herself any more. It’s part of our deal. I don’t mind – Flo’s a laugh, isn’t she, Jess?’

  We went into the café and sat down at a red Formica table. Mum and Peter ordered coffee and I had a banana milkshake. I couldn’t help staring longingly at the home-made cakes on the counter, even though I’d only recently had breakfast.

  ‘OK, just one,’ said Mum.

  ‘Could I have the cupcake with the pink cream?’ I begged.

  ‘Of course you can,’ she said. Peter didn’t say a word but Mum sighed. ‘It’s just one little treat. Jess usually has a very healthy diet. Lots of fruit, veggies, salad, salmon, all the stuff that’s good for her. Look at her lovely white teeth and clear skin!’

  ‘I think she’s inherited them from you, Tracy – though your diet used to be burgers and chips and ice cream and sweets all day, every day,’ said Peter. ‘I bet you didn’t even go through a spotty stage when you were a teenager. I ate properly, but I had awful spots that made me desperately self-conscious. That’s probably why I just stayed in night after night and studied.’

  ‘Still, look where you are now,’ said Mum, suddenly serious. ‘You’re a great example for all care leavers. You ought to go and give talks in children’s homes and show them what they can achieve.’

  ‘I do, actually,’ said Peter. ‘I mean, I don’t go on about myself – who on earth would want to be a boring old teacher like me? – but I try to show that even though you’ve been in care you’re just as good as anyone else – better, in fact, because you’ve had so much life experience and developed a bit of resilience. I’ve tried to show that working hard and passing exams might seem totally uncool – but it’s the way to get on and achieve something.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Mum. ‘Sounds as if you’re on a mission. I can’t imagine you standing up and lecturing. Don’t all the little Tracy Beakers take the mick and give you hell?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Peter replied. ‘But I’m learning to deal with them. I’m not so concerned about the feisty ones: they’ll get by one way or another. It’s the sad little kids who don’t join in – the little Peter Inghams – that I want to reach.’

  ‘Have you got any kids of your own, Pete?’ Mum asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘You should have. You’d make a lovely dad.’

  ‘Well, you obviously make a lovely mum,’ Peter told Mum.

  ‘Do you really think I am?’ she asked. ‘Thanks for saying that, Pete. It means a lot. You’re kind of like a little brother to me. Let’s keep in touch.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ he said.

  He insisted on paying the bill, and then he started walking back to the library and we headed for home.

  ‘Dear old Pete,’ Mum said. ‘Did he seem a bit lonely to you, Jess? I wonder if he’s got a partner? I should have asked him.’

  ‘Mum! You can’t go round asking that,’ I said. ‘You kept embarrassing him enough as it was.’

  ‘I just teased him a bit, that’s all. It’s the way we always related to each other. He likes it,’ said Mum. ‘Hey, tell you what we should have asked him. Stuff about the primary schools in the area. Perhaps we should go back and winkle him out of the library and see if he can help us get you in somewhere really good.’

  So we turned round and hurried after him. He was way ahead by this time, almost at the library entrance. There was someone else following him too, a good-looking young guy in tight white jeans. He was calling out him. Peter turned and saw him, and then they had a big hug.

  ‘Oh!’ said Mum. ‘Oh, I see. Maybe Peter’s not so lonely after all! Oh well. We’d better not go interrupting him now. Come on.’ She sounded funny. Sort of disappointed.

  ‘Are you OK, Mum?’ I asked as we sloped back down the street.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘You didn’t hope that you and Peter …?’

  ‘No! I said, he’s like my little brother. Well, more like a big brother now, I suppose, as he’s grown so much taller than me.’ Mum sighed.

  ‘Why are you sighing? Do you feel lonely now?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I’ve got you, haven’t I?’

  ‘I think you might find you’ve got someone else quite soon,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just have a feeling that there’s someone who secretly fancies you who might make a move any day.’

  ‘What are you on about? You sound like a silly old fortune teller. Shall I set you up with a kiosk at the end of the pier? Roll up, roll up, come and have your fortune told by little gypsy Jess.’

  ‘You can mock, Mum. But you just mark my words,’ I said.

  I very much hoped that Bill wouldn’t let me down. It still seemed a long time till Sunday’s boot fair. I wished I knew where Bill lived. Then I could pop round and give him a few handy tips on how to make a good impression on Mum.

  I tried to imagine what life would be like if Bill became part of our family. Lots of excellent bacon rolls, obviously. And funny jokes. And …? I didn’t really know him well enough. I thought he’d be quite fatherly. It was an odd word. It meant a man who looked after you and cared about you. Yet my real father didn’t look after me. He must have cared about me a bit because he came to see me once or twice when we lived on the Duke Estate, but we didn’t really know what to say to each other.

  Mum had messaged him to say we’d moved so that he’d know where I was – he was welcome to come and see me any time. He sent back a brief reply:

  Cheers!

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said.

  It was pretty obvious what it meant. He didn’t really care about me any more. He hadn’t come.

  I’d actually gone and had a little private cry upstairs with Alfie, though I didn’t know why I was so upset – I didn’t really want him to come. Then Mum came up to find me and gave me a cuddle and said she understood.

  ‘My own dad never, ever came to see me,’ she’d said.

  So maybe she’d like a fatherly man for a boyfriend. Though none of her previous boyfriends had been remotely fatherly. Especially not Sean Godfrey. Yet he was sort of fatherly towards Tyrone. It was so annoying. People in books were mostly good or bad, but in real life even the worst baddies had a good side, and sometimes the good people could be a little bad.

  When Mum and I got back from the library, I discovered that Alfie had been a little bad. He’d sneaked off with an old teddy that had fallen on the floor and played wrestling games with it. One of the teddy’s ears and both its legs had fallen off in the process.

  ‘Bad boy, Alfie!’ Mum said.

  ‘He didn’t mean to be bad, Mum. He was just playing,’ I told her. ‘He simply got a bit bored.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m a bit bored too, trying to read this dull old book,’ she said, turning the page of one of her big library books. ‘But I’m not biting the spine and ripping out all the pages, am I?’

  I didn’t think her resolve to study antiques would last very long. I decided to take Alfie for a run on the beach so he’d calm down a bit. Dogs weren’t allowed on the main beach now that it was t
he summer holidays, but we could go on the rocky part right at the end. I let Alfie off the lead and he ran happily up and down, sometimes dashing right into the waves and then rushing back, woofing joyfully.

  There were lots of families with dogs. Lots of fathers throwing sticks and playing ball and taking their little kids paddling. I stared at them, trying to work out which one I’d like for my dad, rating them out of ten. There was one big guy built a bit like Sean Godfrey, playing French cricket with two little boys. They obviously just wanted to mess around but he kept yelling at them to watch the ball and hit it properly. He only got two out of ten.

  There was only one other person without a family: a boy sitting on the pebbles, staring out to sea. He was wearing a baseball cap. That boy. The one who’d snatched my ice cream. He was eating an ice cream now. It was covered with rainbow sprinkles, my favourite. Perhaps he’d snatched it from someone else. I kept seeing him everywhere!

  A seagull circled over his head. It would serve him right if the bird pooped all over his ice cream. I wished I could turn myself into Gull Girl and teach him a lesson. I wasn’t the old timid Jess Beaker from the Duke Estate who let Tyrone and his gang walk all over her. I was the new bold Beaker girl who went out for walks by herself and sorted out her own problems.

  I suddenly dashed forward, snatched the ice cream right out of the boy’s hand and then charged off with it!

  ‘HEY!’ the boy yelled. He leaped to his feet to chase after me.

  I didn’t have time to take a single lick. I ran like mad, Alfie at my heels, barking joyously because he thought it was a game. The boy followed, pebbles crunching. It sounded as if he was getting nearer. He looked much older than me. He could flatten me with one blow! I whipped my head round. He was almost upon me! And he wasn’t alone. The big French cricket guy was running after me too, red in the face with fury.