‘I have!’ I scoff, but I’m not sure who I’m fooling. ‘I’ve done it loads of times.’
Except that I haven’t, and I am pretty sure it was obvious. As for riding double with a boy, I have never done that, never even dreamt of it. I want to be angry, want to lash out and yell at Lawrie for treating me like a child, but I don’t feel like a child right now. I am flushed and breathless and I like the feeling of a boy’s arms wrapped round me, holding me close.
‘She coped great,’ Lawrie is saying. ‘A flighty horse would have put her ears back and tried to throw us off, but Caramel took it all in her stride.’
‘We weren’t too heavy for her?’ I ask.
‘Doubt it. Neither of us weighs much – you’re just a titch, and Exmoors were used as pit ponies once, y’know. She wouldn’t have galloped like that if she’d been unhappy.’
Back at the cottage gate, we dismount awkwardly, suddenly shy. I lead Caramel forward and Lawrie calls Spirit over; she comes to him quietly, curious yet calm, as if she’s known him forever. I watch him take her halter and realize that whatever his connection with animals, it goes way beyond being gentle and patient. He has something special, something magical.
Back inside the walled garden we unsaddle Caramel and set her loose, then sit for a moment in the crisp afternoon sunshine sharing apples and chocolate bars; as far as my theories on training go, this is kind of like offering grain to the ponies. Lawrie eats and smiles and pushes a tangle of hair out of his eyes, but I cannot tell any more who is taming who.
Everything is the same as it was before, the garden cold and sunny and still, the scent of late jasmine drifting on the air, the cry of a buzzard circling overhead; but somehow, for me, everything is different.
20
I am baffled; I don’t know what to make of Lawrie Marshall at all. One minute he is sour and moody, a scowling boy with an attitude problem the size of Exmoor; the next he is a hero, standing up for a bullied kid, taming two nervous, ill-treated horses, vaulting up into the saddle behind me to hold me tight as we gallop across the moors.
Sarah, Jayde and Amy would have a field day if they knew that last bit, but I am not about to tell them. I would never hear the last of it.
I pitch up at Sarah’s house at six with a birthday card and prezzie, a fluffy tiger toy which is very cute and also very cool because when you buy it £2 gets donated to a tiger charity. The others are already there, eating pizza slices as they get ready for the firework display. Sarah seems to like my prezzie, but I can’t help noticing that once she’s thanked me she leaves it in a corner and goes back to experimenting with the glittery nail polishes and shimmery eye colours Jayde and Amy have given her.
It is very strange; Sarah never used to be a glittery kind of girl. She used to say that make-up was silly and pointless, but now she is giggling and posing in front of a mirror and trying on different combinations of clothes to wear to the firework display. I do not like the way growing up seems to be brainwashing my friends, wiping away their interests and turning them all into giggling boy-mad fashionistas.
‘So, are we going to make some placards to take to the firework display?’ I ask, trying to drag my friends away from the make-up. ‘I thought we could campaign to end the sale of fireworks except for use in big displays … kids like that awful Darren are fiddling about with rockets and screamers for weeks in the run-up to November the fifth. Most pets get really freaked out by it all!’
Sarah, Amy and Jayde exchange glances.
‘Is there any point?’ Amy asks. ‘It’s a public firework display anyway. It’s the shops that sell fireworks to the public you should be talking to, Coco. Or you could just leave it, try enjoying yourself instead. Why does everything have to be some kind of campaign?’
‘It’s Sarah’s birthday,’ Jayde reminds me. ‘Let’s just have fun!’
I sigh. There is only so long you can go on trying to change the world when nobody else is interested. It is a big task for just one person, and my friends seem to have switched allegiance lately. They still care about animals, I know – they just find other things much more pressing.
I bite into a slice of pizza and try not to wish I’d stayed up at the ruined cottage with Lawrie.
‘Aren’t you going to change, Coco?’ Amy wants to know. ‘I brought a couple of different skirts along if you want to borrow something, and Sarah’s got a sparkly top that would really suit you.’
‘I’m not wearing a skirt to a firework display,’ I grumble. ‘It’s freezing! I’ve wrapped up warm specially, and besides, these are my best jeans!’
‘You are such a tomboy,’ Jayde says disapprovingly. ‘Will you let me do your make-up? You could look so much more grown-up if you just used the teeniest bit of eyeliner and shadow …’
‘I don’t want to look grown-up,’ I huff. ‘I like looking like me!’
After an hour of fussing about in Sarah’s bedroom, we escape out into the darkness, making our way down to the seafront where the firework display will be held. I have managed to escape unscathed apart from a slick of lipgloss and a little glitter across my cheekbones, but even so I am glad it is dark; I feel awkward, over-decorated, like one of those OTT houses all decked out in cheesy Christmas decorations that fascinate and appal at the same time.
The fireworks begin as we make our way across the beach, feet sinking into the gritty sand. We buy hot soup and huddle together as plume after plume of rainbow colour unfurls across the dark sky, squealing and laughing as the fireworks shoot and soar and shatter into tiny sparks and shards.
Fireworks are exciting, exhilarating; they wake you up, make your heart thump, shock and scare you with their drama, their chaos, their spectacle. There is a point where you have to give in, stop wishing you had a placard to wave and start letting yourself feel the celebration.
‘Fun?’ Sarah asks, linking my arm with hers as the explosive finale dies away. ‘I know you don’t really approve, but …’
‘I loved it,’ I tell her. ‘Sorry if I was a bit grumpy earlier – I get a bit obsessed sometimes. It’s just that I have a lot on my mind right now.’
‘The horses?’ she checks. ‘I am so proud of you for rescuing them, Coco, I hope you know that. It’s like you are actually doing things, changing things, when the rest of us just think about it – you’re so brave!’
‘I don’t know about that …’
Any chance of a heart-to-heart evaporates as Jayde and Amy appear, herding us off towards the funfair. Open all season for tourists and holidaymakers, the fair traditionally closes down for the winter after the bonfire night display, so it’s a last chance to celebrate, a perfect way to make the bonfire night fun stretch a little further.
We follow the crowds along the seafront towards the bright flashing lights and the smell of hot doughnuts and toffee apples, the loud music of the fair. It’s ages since I’ve been, but I’m still a sucker for the thrill of it, the squash of people, the sense that something special is happening. I remember coming here when I was little with Mum and Dad, throwing ping-pong balls into glass bowls to win a teddy bear, getting candyfloss stuck to my face, flying round and round on the carousel horses and wishing they were real. More recently I’ve been with Mum and Paddy, or with Sarah’s parents, but I have never been without a watchful adult hovering in the background.
An extra prickle of excitement slides down my spine.
‘Let’s go on the waltzers,’ Amy is saying, tugging us forward. ‘You should see the boys that work on it – they are so fit!’
‘I think I just saw Aaron Jones from the high school,’ Jayde chips in. ‘Didn’t he go out with Summer for a while? Maybe we should say h
ello?’
‘Don’t bother,’ I say. ‘He was a loser. A creep.’
‘Good-looking, though,’ Amy comments. ‘Just wait till you see this lad at the waltzers! If he still works there … there are two of them, and the one I like is just soooo cool. Wait till you see!’
I roll my eyes and allow myself to be led through the knots of people to the waltzers, just in time to join the end of the queue as the ride comes to an end. One of the fairground workers is taking the money, another working on the ride itself, swinging back the safety bars and helping people out.
‘That’s him!’ she whispers, breathless and pink-cheeked. ‘Isn’t he A-mazing?’
The legendary fairground boy is skinny and tanned with laughing eyes and darkly inked tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his leather jacket. He’s much older than us, and there’s a rough edge to him that has my friends swooning.
He spots us waiting and waves us over to an empty waltzer, settles us in and pulls down the safety bar. ‘Ready for the time of your life, girls?’ he asks, confident and flirty. ‘I’ll make sure you have a good time!’
‘He is SO good-looking!’ Jayde whispers as soon as he moves on to the next waltzer. ‘Like someone from a movie …’
‘Way too old for us,’ I point out. ‘He must be at least seventeen or eighteen.’
‘So what?’ Amy shrugs. ‘I’m not going to marry him, am I?’
‘Did you see his tattoos?’ Sarah giggles.
‘I saw him without his leather jacket, in the summer,’ Amy says. ‘The tattoos go right up his arms. Just imagine those arms round you!’
‘Fairground boys are bad boys,’ Jayde chips in. ‘They smoke, they drink, they swear …’
‘Who cares?’ Amy giggles. ‘They flirt as well!’
The music begins to build up again and the floor sways beneath us, the brightly painted waltzer car swaying with it. Squashed in between my friends, I hang on to the safety bar as we whirl round, slowly at first, then faster, faster. I am deafened by the music, the crash of the waltzers as they plunge and thunder round and round, clattering across the undulating floor, screams of laughter from all around us.
‘All right, girls?’ Tattoo Boy asks, stepping on to the back of our waltzer. ‘Fast enough for you? Or would you like to see some real action?’
Laughing, he spins the waltzer round and all four of us yell like crazy, loving it, hating it, high as the moon. And then before we know it the ride is slowing, the music fading, the waltzers lurching to a halt.
‘There you go, sweethearts,’ Tattoo Boy says, releasing the safety bar and setting us free. ‘Come back again if you’re after more thrills, OK?’
‘We will!’ Amy promises.
‘Everything’s spinning,’ I complain, getting to my feet and flopping right back down again. ‘Whoa!’
‘I’m all dizzy,’ Jayde yelps. ‘I don’t know if it was the ride or the flirting …’
‘Fairground boys are mad, bad and dangerous to know,’ Sarah proclaims as we cling together, making our way slowly across the undulating wooden floor. ‘This has been the best birthday ever!’
We’re staggering down the steps, still a little seasick from the ride, when Jayde tugs my sleeve. ‘Hey, Coco,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that your sister?’
I follow her gaze to where Tattoo Boy is leaning on the painted railings that edge the ride, talking to a pretty girl with jaw-length blonde waves, a green crochet hat, a wool jacket and the shortest skirt I have seen in quite some time.
My heart thumps.
‘Honey?’ I frown, shaking off my friends and running forward. ‘Honey? What are you doing here?’
She looks at me, her gaze registering annoyance, then resignation, while Tattoo Boy watches, amused.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she snaps.
‘It’s Sarah’s birthday, remember?’ I say. ‘We went to the firework display, then on here. Mum knows all about it.’
‘Good for her,’ Honey says, without missing a beat. ‘Well, I’m at history club, remember? I am with the girls …’
She gestures towards a couple of hard-faced teenage girls in tight jeans and spike-heeled boots, leaning against the railing sharing a cigarette. They don’t look like schoolgirls, or history geeks for that matter.
Tattoo Boy gives me an appraising look, then turns back to Honey. ‘See you later,’ he says, and goes back to the waltzers.
‘What does he mean, “see you later”?’ I demand. ‘Don’t tell me he’s in your history club too? I may only be twelve years old, Honey, but I am not stupid!’
Honey rolls her eyes. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come clean,’ she says. ‘But you have to stay quiet about it, Coco, yeah? Because I am supposed to be grounded, as you know, and Mum and Paddy would go nuts if they knew I was here. But it’s not what you think. I am working on a project for school …’
I blink. ‘What project?’
Honey pulls a little camera from her pocket, pressing the buttons to display past photographs.
‘It’s for my art portfolio,’ she explains. ‘I’ve been studying the fairground. I didn’t think Mum would understand, but art is actually the only subject I really care about and I want my portfolio to be as good as I can make it.’
She flicks through some of the images; there are grainy shots of Tattoo Boy leaning up against the painted fairground backboards, of the hard-faced girls, the man taking the money, of little kids laughing as they queue at the hot dog stand. They are good, as far as I can tell, and relief floods through me.
‘You see?’ Honey says. ‘It’s an art project – I’m researching for a painting. Nothing to worry about, and no need to say anything to Mum and Paddy, right? They might not understand, but you will, Coco, I know. I may be grounded, but I don’t want my art project to suffer.’
‘I guess not …’
Honey hugs me, tousling my hair beneath the panda hat, and I run off to rejoin Sarah and the others.
I believe Honey – we all know how much she loves art – but I can’t help feeling uneasy, all the same.
21
I take a leaf out of Lawrie’s book and start bringing my school work up to the cottage; now we curl up with our homework most afternoons. Lawrie turns out to be smarter than he thinks; he helps me with maths and CDT and I help him with English and French. It works both ways and it makes the homework fun.
I wonder if that’s why Honey likes studying with Anthony? If she actually does study, that is. She can pick his brain and pull her grades up, and he can hang out with the girl he’s had a crush on since forever. There is no crushing going on between Lawrie and me, obviously, although sometimes I catch him watching me in a way that makes my cheeks burn. It’s probably just my own stupid imagination; as far as I can tell, Lawrie finds me every bit as exasperating as he always did. He is just getting better at hiding it.
Sometimes, anyway.
‘This is just about the only time I get for homework lately,’ I say, writing out maths problems by lantern light. ‘I’m always up here, and things are kind of crazy at home just now because of the big chocolate order. How do you manage, with this and your job at the stables?’
‘I don’t,’ Lawrie says, glancing up from an English essay. ‘Not usually. I haven’t handed in a piece of homework on time for ages – Mr Wolfe almost fainted yesterday when I handed in that history assignment.’
‘How come you got the stables job, anyway?’ I press. ‘I wanted to try out for it and they said I was too young, but you’re twelve too, right?’
‘I told them I was fourteen,’ he shrugs. ‘I needed the money.’
‘How come?’
‘Never mind,’ he says.
‘So … how come you don’t study at home?’ I ask.
‘I just don’t,’ he says. ‘You don’t know what it’s like at home for me. I’m too busy to study. Other things to do.’
Lawrie is sending me back-off messages, loud and clear, but right now I don’t want to take the hint.
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘Like looking out for my mum and my sister, helping around the place, that sort of stuff,’ he growls. ‘You’re very nosy, aren’t you?’
‘You’re very secretive,’ I counter. ‘What are you, some kind of pre-teen spy? You don’t make it easy for anyone to get to know you.’
‘Good,’ Lawrie says. ‘I’m not looking for friends. I had them once and I had to leave them all behind, so what’s the point in making more? I hate it here. Move to the country, start over, Mum said – it’s been a disaster from start to finish.’
I watch him in the half-light, leaning back against the broken-down armchair, his face unreadable. It’s like he has forgotten I’m here.
‘The only good thing about the countryside is the animals,’ he goes on, gruffly. ‘The people are rotten. They pretend to care, but they just gossip and gawp and never actually do anything at all, and the bullies get to call all the shots. How come some people think they can do whatever they want, treat everyone around them like dirt? There’s no way out, and you can’t even help the people you care about. I hate it!’
I blink. I have no idea what Lawrie is talking about, but it seems like more than just Darren Holmes nicking crispy cakes outside the school.
‘Lawrie?’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but if you ever want to talk –’
‘I don’t,’ he snaps, jumping up, moving away into the shadows. ‘I don’t want to talk, not to you, not to anyone. Back off, Coco, OK? I am not one of your charity projects. Like I said, you can’t fix everything that’s broken – let go of it and leave me alone!’
Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel Page 11
