For my music teacher, Eileen Silcocks
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
About the Author
One
Bryony Bell braced herself against her dressing table. Under her breath she whispered, ‘Geronimo!’ Then she pushed off and, with one leg stretched out behind her, glided across her bedroom, her Viper 3000 rollerskates cutting a perfectly straight swathe through the pink shagpile carpet.
From her open window the sounds of The Singing Bells’ daily practice wafted up from the Music Studio, but Bryony deafened her ears to the air-rending round of scales and arpeggios. She had more important things to think about.
‘Left foot take-off,’ she muttered, leaning sideways to balance on her two outside wheels. ‘Bend the knee … arms out … and … UP!’
She launched herself into the air and, just as she felt her head bounce off the light fitting, snapped her arms round her waist and went into what – with any luck – would be a triple spin. The alarm clock on her bedside table bounced into the air as she landed and, checking her final position in the wardrobe mirror, she caught it neatly, replaced it, then curtsied in its direction.
‘Two-and-a-half turns in the air,’ she smiled. ‘Almost there!’
Bryony skated back over to the dressing table and prepared to try again, when a particularly ear-splitting series of chords rang out. She sighed and closed the window.
There was never a moment’s silence in the house any more. Ever since Mum’s brainchild, The Singing Bells, had won a recording contract and £50,000, there was no stopping the little ’uns. All the younger children – Angelina, the twins Melody and Melissa, and little Emmy-Lou, practised every single day. Even Little Bob Bell, who was hardly potty-trained, kept time with his rattle and was showing a remarkable sense of rhythm.
It was hard, Bryony reflected – and not for the first time – being the only non-singing Bell apart from Big Bob. And since fame had hit his household, her dad had had no time to worry about his lack of musical talent. He had been too busy putting his carpentry skills to good use building an extension.
Not that Bryony begrudged The Singing Bells their success. She always practised her rollerskating routines to their CD, The Singing Bells Sing the Blues. Her bedroom walls were festooned with publicity posters featuring Clarissa with her blondest, most luxurious hairstyles and wearing her slinkiest, sparkliest evening dresses, and the little ’uns, in matching colours but rather trendier styles, behind her.
She kept all their press cuttings too – photographs of Angelina being interviewed on the children’s TV programme Meet The Starlets; Melissa’s Hair Tips column in Girlie magazine; Melody and Emmy-Lou modelling in Kute Kids clothes catalogue; even Little Bob sitting on his potty advertising the latest brand of plastic knickers…
But Bryony had to admit guiltily that she sometimes wished The Singing Bells had not become so famous. Or that they would find a way to let her be famous with them. For if anyone was destined for stardom; if anyone had talent and charisma, not to mention the coolest, sleekest pair of skating boots in the entire Universe, it was Bryony Bell. OK, so she couldn’t sing – but she had razzmatazz in bucketloads!
Bryony took a deep breath. You had to look on the bright side, she told herself sternly. After all, The Singing Bells’ fame had its advantages. The Music Studio, which was part of Big Bob’s extension, was pretty cool. At least she didn’t have to worry that her window was going to shatter when Clarissa hit her famous top ‘C’, and her walls didn’t vibrate when the latest Bell Family Song was sung. And occasionally she was even allowed to skate on its polished pine floor.
Big Bob peeked in. At the sight of her dad, Bryony perked up. ‘Did you hear my landing?’ she asked.
Big Bob nodded. ‘Just as well I reinforced your floorboards, Bryony lass,’ he winked. ‘So – did you make the triple?’
‘Cat’s whisker away from it,’ Bryony told him cheerfully. ‘But it’s keeping the concentration going…’ She glanced towards the window and Big Bob put his arm round her shoulders.
‘I know, lass,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Tell you what, though – it’s worse in the potting shed. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what’s doing for my geranium cuttings.’
Right on cue, the air was split by a rousing rendition of the Bell Family Song. Since their rise to fame, Clarissa had rewritten it. It was now sung with American accents and a great deal of whooping; and it always gave Bryony a strange, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
We’re the Singing Bells, the song rang out,
And we made it to the top
But the Singing Bells
Sure ain’t never gonna stop
For the Singing Bells’re
Gonna grow ’n’ grow in fame…
Till THE BROADWAY BELLS
What? The BROADWAY Bells?
Yes, the B-R-O-A-D-W-A-Y BELLS
IS
OUR
NAME!’
‘And that’s that,’ said Big Bob. ‘It’s Broadway or bust, I’m afraid.’
Bryony swallowed hard. The pit of her stomach felt hollower than usual.
‘Why Broadway, Dad?’ she asked at last. ‘Why the Broadway Bells?’
Big Bob sighed and sat down on Bryony’s bed. She perched on his little lap. ‘What’s wrong with here?’ she asked, wobbling slightly.
‘It’s the glamour of it, Bryony,’ Big Bob answered. ‘Every performer dreams of going to New York and starring on Broadway. All the biggest theatres are there. Your mum’s always had what you call a ‘burning ambition’, and nothing’s going to quench the flames.’
‘It’s just…’ Bryony stopped. She couldn’t say it. It was too selfish for words.
Big Bob finished her sentence. ‘It’s just that, when they fly off to America, the house is going to be kind of empty with just the two of us?’ he said. ‘Is that what’s worrying you?’
Bryony bit her lip. ‘It’s one of the things, Dad.’
‘Come on, spit it out.’ Big Bob bobbed his knees, as if to bounce the words out of her.
‘Well,’ Bryony began slowly, ‘before The Singing Bells got famous, they said I could be in the act too, skating while they sang, but…’ She stuck out her feet and they both surveyed the magnificent, glistening-white Viper 3000s in silence.
Neither needed to say it. Every time Bryony asked if she could be part of a new routine, it seemed one of The Singing Bells came up with all sorts of reasons why she shouldn’t. When they had done the Winter Wonderland Christmas Spectacular and Bryony had longed to be an ice-skater in the background, Angelina had put a spoke in her Ice-Lite wheel.
‘I don’t think Bryony should skate behind us,’ she had said, shaking her head so that the beads on her braids ricocheted off one another like gunfire. ‘I think it’ll take the audience’s attention away from the music…’
The same had happened when they had sung a medley of Easter songs and Bryony had begged to be allowed to put on an Easter Bunny costume and skate around the audience, distributing Easter eggs.
‘I think having an Easter Bunny is childish,’ Angelina had piped up. ‘specially an Easter Bunny on skates. Bunnies,’ she had added, warming to her theme, ‘don’t glide. Bunnies hop. I know that ‘cause I used to keep rabbits when I was young,’ she had concluded.
Bryony sighed. Angelina was always putting obstacles in her way.
‘Tell you what, Bryony,’ Big Bob said suddenly. ‘Why don’t you get out your Swan costume – give it a bit of a burl?
’
With a bound, Bryony sprang off Big Bob’s lap, opened the wardrobe door and, very carefully, brought out the shimmering, silverywhite costume. She held its feathery skirt up to her cheek and buried her nose in it, breathing in the sweet smell of success.
‘Remember the Swan Dance, Dad?’ she said, smiling broadly at the memory of her music teacher, Mrs Quigg’s, wonderful play, The Ugly Duckling in which she had starred – not only in the title role, but also as the Swan in all its glory.
‘Could I ever forget it, princess? You were magic!’
Bryony held the Swan costume to her chest and looked at herself in the mirror. The silver-sequined swan on the bodice sparkled back at her, and her pert bunches with their lily-of-the-valley hair ties stood triumphantly upright like victory flags. Hope flooded back, and she beamed at Big Bob.
‘I’ve got star quality, Dad,’ she told him decisively. ‘They’re bound to find an opening for me soon. Then I’ll go to Broadway too.’
Big Bob ran the toe of his boot along the shagpile. ‘Actually, Bryony,’ he said quietly, ‘your mum’s had a bit of news. I’m not supposed to say, though.’
Bryony frowned. ‘Oh go on, Dad,’ she said. ‘I promise I won’t let on.’
But Big Bob shook his head. ‘More than my life’s worth,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say there’s a project in the pipeline and…’
‘A project that needs a Class ‘A’ skater?’
From below, a crescendo of sound rose to fill the room as the massed voices of The Singing Bells resonated round the garden in a lusty chorus of ‘It’s time for tea!’ in the key of ‘G’.
Big Bob detached Bryony from his knee and stood up. ‘Neglecting my post,’ he said. ‘Should’ve had the kettle on by now.’
‘Does it?’ Bryony insisted, but Big Bob was clumping downstairs, hell for leather.
‘Come and butter the muffins, princess,’ he called back up at her. ‘Then all will be revealed!’
Two
Bryony took off her Vipers and hurried downstairs. Her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. Maybe this was her big opening!
Each of the little ’uns had stuck a star to their bedroom door and, as always, Bryony counted them longingly on her way past. One for Melody, one for Melissa, a slightly smaller one for Emmy-Lou, and – predictably – a huge, mega-sparkly one for Angelina. Even Little Bob had a rather-badly coloured-in red one.
Five stars. How long would it be before there were six?
In the living room, the little ’uns were sitting stiffly on the settee with Clarissa, clad from head to toe in a leopard-skin catsuit, standing in front of them. She had a piece of paper in her hand and as Bryony came in she gave her a little frown.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ Bryony muttered. ‘I’ll just get the—’
‘Later, Bryony,’ Clarissa said crisply. ‘This is no time for muffins. I have an important announcement to make.’
Bryony perched on the arm of the settee beside Angelina. She tried to catch her sister’s eye but Angelina stared straight ahead, the strands of her braids forming a bead curtain between them.
‘I have a contract,’ Clarissa announced. There was a ripple of expectation, which Clarissa quickly quelled. ‘Before you get too excited,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you – it’s not Broadway. It is the Empress Theatre.’
‘The Empress Theatre?’ Angelina repeated, giving her braids a disdainful toss. ‘We’re not doing Summer Panto, are we?’
‘What happened to “Broadway or bust”?’ Melissa chipped in, her voice whinier than usual and her new Afro curls bristling with indignation.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Summer Panto,’ Clarissa said. ‘Think of it as a chance to get noticed for our acting as well as our singing.’
‘Do people get noticed at the Empress Theatre?’ Melody asked doubtfully.
‘Of course they do,’ Clarissa replied. ‘That’s where all the big American talent scouts hang out! There’s every chance we’ll be headhunted, and then…’
She slapped her knees three times, and waited till the little ’uns had done the same. Then she raised her hands and, in time to more knee-slapping, began to chant:
It’s Broadway or bust!
It’s Broadway or bust!
Whatever we do,
Wherever we go,
It’s Broadway or bust!
All the little Bells clapped and sang jubilantly, and Little Bob’s face turned crimson as he bounced up and down and joined in. For some time now, Melissa had been trying to explain to him that it was ‘Broadway’, and not ‘Bobway’, but he still preferred his own version and sang it loud and clear at every opportunity.
Soon everyone was talking excitedly about the Summer Panto, which ran in the Empress Theatre during the summer months alongside a variety show. This year it was to be Cinderella and Clarissa was explaining, with much slapping of her thigh, that she would be playing Prince Charming.
‘And you will be my chorus,’ she said, as Big Bob tiptoed in with a plate heaped high with butter-shiny muffins. For a while the Bells chewed in silence. Only Bryony’s muffin remained untouched. She was watching Big Bob. He looked, she thought, rather sad. And when Big Bob was sad, so was Bryony.
‘There’s something else,’ Clarissa went on. ‘We get to write the songs. So we need to come up with some sure-fire show stoppers! Now – anything you want to ask?’
The little Bells shot question after question at Clarissa.
‘Will we get to sing solos?’
‘Will we have a suite of star dressing rooms?’
‘Will there be any famous soap stars?’
‘Will Little Bob get a bit part?’
Still Bryony sat, butter dribbling down her arm.
‘I think Bryony has something she wants to know,’ Big Bob said at last.
A big lump formed in Bryony’s throat, but she said as casually as she could, ‘So – is there an opening for an ace skater in this Panto?’
Everyone stopped talking. Angelina glanced sideways at her. It was just a tiny glance, but it spoke volumes.
‘Oh, Bryony,’ Clarissa said at last. She was smiling, but her diamante earrings swayed as she shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, what part could you play on skates?’
Bryony thought frantically.
‘Well…’ she began. ‘I could be… I could be the Fairy Godmother! I could come gliding in, with a sparkly frock and a magic wand, and I could change the pumpkin into a coach…’
Clarissa looked thoughtful. ‘Y-es,’ she said slowly. ‘But I had a kind of notion that maybe Angelina could play the part. She’s got great rhythm, and her high kicks are brilliant. Given me a cracking idea for a Fairy Godmother song.’
‘It’d be really magical, though,’ Big Bob put in, ‘if Bryony skated on. Wouldn’t it?’
He looked at the six Bell faces hopefully, and the six Bell faces looked silently back at him. Angelina’s lower lip curled into the deepest pout she could muster.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ he repeated.
* * *
‘So that’s it,’ Bryony concluded. ‘Seems like I will not be going to the Ball.’
It was the next day after school, and Bryony was sitting on the wall of Peachtree Primary. On the pavement below, gazing up at her with huge sorrowful eyes, was her best friend Abid Ashraf.
‘I think it’s criminal,’ Abid said for the fourth time. ‘There you are, bursting with talent, and they’re not giving you a look-in. Well, they don’t know what they’re missing, if you ask me.’
Bryony brightened up. Abid could always be depended upon to say just the right thing at the right time.
‘“C’est la vie”, as Mrs Quigg says,’ she sighed. Then she jumped off the wall, laced up her everyday black skates, and skated round behind Abid. ‘Maybe,’ she said, brightening up, ‘they’ll have a change of heart and find a skate-on part for me after all.
‘Come on, Abid,’ she said, giving him a push. ‘If we step on it, we could see the first reh
earsal!’ And she steered Abid round in the direction of the Empress Theatre.
The main theatre doors were shut, but Bryony skated in through the Stage Door. From the bowels of the theatre, voices rang out.
‘There they are!’ Bryony hissed. ‘And they don’t sound very pleased.’
The Singing Bells sounded anything but pleased. Above a series of aggrieved little cries, Clarissa’s voice boomed loud, strong and very, very upset. Then a door burst open and out she marched, her face red and tear-streaked.
‘Mum?’ said Bryony. ‘What’s wrong?’
She squeezed her mother’s arm comfortingly, and Clarissa dabbed her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘Oh … nothing really, Bryony,’ she sniffed. ‘They’ve double-booked the stage – some audition or other – and it’s going to delay our first rehearsal. Sorry, love,’ she went on, pulling herself together. ‘I’m overwrought. It’s the last thing the little ’uns need…’ And she shepherded them into a cramped and dowdy-looking dressing room.
Bryony pushed Abid back down the corridor. ‘Let’s go, Abid,’ she said, adding under her breath, ‘Seems like the “suite of star dressing rooms” didn’t materialise…’
She was about to open the stage door when a voice crackled through the tannoy system.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Ken Undrum – Man of Mystery!’
There was a short drumroll, then silence.
Bryony listened, skating her way slowly back into the theatre followed by a bemused-looking Abid.
‘What is it, Bryony?’ he hissed, as Bryony led him to the wings of the Empress Theatre stage itself.
Bryony parted the red velvet curtain and peered at the little man with the huge red handlebar moustache who was standing in the spotlight.
‘Sssh!’ she told Abid. ‘Just watch…’
Ken Undrum, Man of Mystery, took off his top hat to reveal a shock of faded red hair, and placed it on the table in front of him. Then he raised his wand and, muttering mysteriously under his breath, gave the hat’s rim three gentle taps.
Under the Spell of Bryony Bell Page 1
