Withering Tights with Bonus Material

by Louise Rennison

  Ruby said, “Why were you lurking in the undergrowth?”

  Vaisey said, “Not us, them. Boys. They were quite cute, weren’t they, Lullah? But . . . anyway, you are too young for this sort of talk, Ruby. Did you play skipping and stuff today?”

  Ruby just looked at her. “I’ve kissed boys, tha knows.”

  What?

  She said, “There’s nowt to it. It’s natural, like cows and that.”

  Do cows kiss? I didn’t know anything about anything.

  Vaisey was amazed. “You’ve kissed boys?”

  Ruby went on, “They allus want to kiss you. You have to shape them up a bit, some of them don’t even know to take their chewing gum out.”

  I couldn’t think of one single thing to say.

  The others came out with their provisions and Ruby said, “I’ve found some owl eggs, do you want to see them?”

  Jo and Flossie said they had to go, because they had a lot of provisions to get through, and Vaisey wanted to go and read Wuthering Heights. We have Dr. Lightowler tomorrow. Oh good. Or goooooooood as she might say. But probably not to me.

  Vaisey toddled off.

  I really like her.

  And Rubes?

  She’s . . . well, what would you call her? Too little for a proper friend. A friendster? A mini friendster? A fun-sized friend?

  She and I went down the side path that ran along the back of the Dobbinses’ house. We bobbed down because I could see Dibdobs in the kitchen and I didn’t want to have the staring brothers following us. As we passed my bedroom window at the back, I looked up to see what you could see. Quite a lot is what you could see. For instance, if someone had been, say, standing in the window in their pajamas, spying on you snogging. You could have seen that.

  I said casually to Ruby, “Um, do you know a boy called . . . Cain?”

  Ruby laughed. “Who doesn’t know Cain? Who doesn’t know the Hinchcliffs? Ruben and Seth are bad enough, but Cain . . .”

  Oh, this was worse than I thought.

  I said nervously, “What is this Cain . . . um . . . what does he, why is he, um . . .”

  Ruby said, “He’s all right really, but he’s as much use as a chocolate teapot. The girls go mad for him, though. He’s good-looking, I’ll say that fer him, but the way he . . . well.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “The way he . . . what?”

  “Well, he goes out wi’ girls and snogs ’em and then he dumps ’em. And gets another one, and then he goes back t’first and gets ’er again and then dumps ’er again. The amount of crying about that lad.”

  I said, “Well . . . I mean, more fool the girls for going out with him.”

  Ruby said, “Oh, he nivver takes ’em out anywhere. They just turn up to see his gigs.”

  I said, “What do you mean, ‘they just turn up to see his gigs’?”

  Ruby sighed, “The Hinchcliff boys formed a band called The Jones. They’re right boring, they just moan on about stuff.”

  I said, “Like what?”

  Ruby crinkled her nose up. “You know, stuff like . . . ‘Girlfriend in the River, I Know, I Know It’s Really Serious’ is one of their tunes. They’ve got one that Cain wrote about his girlfriend at the time. It’s called ‘Shut Up, Mardy Bum.’”

  We’d reached an old barn and Ruby stopped her tale of Cain the Cad to say, “The eggs are in here at the far end. I’ll just make sure Connie’s not around or she’ll attack our heads.”

  Connie? Attack our heads?

  I said, “Does Connie own the barn?”

  Ruby said, “No, you barm pot, Connie’s the big mother owl.”

  Now I remembered Connie, snoozing as she ate the mouse.

  I pulled my hat down.

  We went farther into the dark barn and over to some hay bales. And there they were, the eggs, two of them. Glowing sort of whitely. We looked at them for a bit. It’s quite fascinating, but, um, boring. I said, “When will they, you know, come out?”

  She said, “Dust tha mean hatch?”

  I nodded.

  She said, “Abaht three to four weeks, I reckon.”

  We looked at them again.

  Ruby said, “They’re nice eggs, aren’t they?”

  I said to Ruby, “Ruby, do you think that we all have egginess in common?”

  She looked at me. “Dad said this would happen. He said that you were all barmy and that if I hung around with you it would only be a matter of time before I was prancing around like a tit.”

  I said, “It’s not me. This posh girl called Lavinia did an eggy performance. She said that she became more egg-shaped as she did it. I only did my accidental comedy version of Irish dancing.”

  Ruby said, “Go on then, do it for me.”

  I said, “I feel a bit shy.”

  Ruby just looked at me. “That’ll be a help when you’re on’t stage in front of folk.”

  I said, “All right, I will . . . I’ll do it, I’ll just get in the mood by doing the intro music first.”

  Ruby sat on a hay bale and I got up on another one.

  I started singing, “Well, hiddly diddly diddly dee. We’re all off to Dublin in the green, in the green, hiddly diddly diddle dee . . .” And went into my dance. Arms by the side and leaping, leaping, leap. High kick, high kick, twirly ankle, twirly ankle.

  Ruby was laughing like a drain when I heard the barn door creak open and a deep voice said, “Ruby, are you in here?”

  Cain!

  I tried to get behind the hay bale and promptly fell over it. Nearly smashing the owl eggs as well. As I was lying in the hay, the best-looking boy I have ever seen loomed over me. He was tall and long-limbed with a cool Fred Perry shirt on. I could see he had longish, thick hair and a lovely broad mouth. He smiled at me and held out a hand to pull me up.

  “Hello, I’m Alex, Ruby’s brother.”

  I said, “Hello, I’m . . . um . . .”

  And I’d forgotten my own name.

  Ruby seemed unfazed by this. She said, “She’s called Tallulah and she goes to that bonkers school.”

  Alex laughed. “Rubes thinks that anyone who prats around on stage is mad.”

  I said, “Heehee, your dad said me and my friends were breeding.”

  Were you supposed to say “breeding” in front of bestlooking boys?

  To cover it up I said, “I nearly smashed up the owl eggs, but I didn’t and I’m glad because we . . . we’re all like eggs . . . in a way.”

  Ruby said, “Dunt start that bloody egg business agin.”

  It turns out that Alex is going to go to performing arts college in Liverpool! As we walked back from the barn I said, “Wow . . . um . . . oh, wow. Liverpool. That’s, well, that’s not . . . here, is it?”

  He laughed again. “Nope.”

  He was sooooo lovely. And, well, gorgeous. He had everything a dream boy should have. Back, front, sides.

  Everything. A head. And all in a boy shape.

  When we got to the Dobbinses’ gate, I said, “Buenas noches!” and giggled like a nitwit.

  Ruby looked at me and rolled her eyes and then said, “I’m off.”

  As Ruby ran on home, Alex said, “Well, nice to meet you. Yeah, actually I’m coming up to the college sometime soon, doing some work with Monty.”

  I said, “Monty?”

  “Monty de Courcy.”

  I said, “Oh, that Monty . . . hmm.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “Nice to meet you, Tallulah. That must be one of the coolest names. Bye.”

  In my squirrel room.

  I have met a dream boy, in boy form. He said I had a cool name.

  He said nothing against my knees.

  He couldn’t actually see my knees, but . . .

  I realize that in one day I’ve had more boy fun than I have had in fourteen and a half years. Today has made the bottom-touching kitbag incident fade into insignificance.

  I LOVE Yorkshire. I do. I really do.

  I’m not an Irish dancing broom


  I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT Ruby has got such a gorgeous brother.

  Alex.

  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

  I thought, I can hardly believe that a whole week has gone by.

  A whole week since I first came to Dother Hall and nearly a whole day since I’ve seen Alex.

  I have decided to wear my green top and tight zip-sided jeans. And a little cardi. And the flip-flops that Dad brought me back from Brazil. They are gold.

  My hair is bouncy today. Should I backcomb the top bit to give it more umph?

  As I looked in the bathroom mirror, the sun shone and beamed into my eyes. They gave me a bit of a turn. They do look very green indeed today. Funny to look at your own eyes and think, crumbs, that’s a bit green.

  Hey and hang on a minute, I think, maybe, when I look closely I can see little tiny bumps under my T-shirt. Woo-hoo! At this rate I might even be able to buy a bra by the time I am forty. Just in time for my pension.

  Still, it’s a start.

  Two starts actually.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to find Dibdobs in ginormous shorts and a cowboy hat with bits of rope on it.

  She looked up and gave me a salute. “Dib dib dib, Tallulah.”

  She put two boiled eggs on the table for me. They had little bobble hat things to keep them warm. Still, as I now know, we are all eggs deep down. Did that make it cannibalism if I ate them?

  I removed an egg hat to smash its head in and Dibdobs said, “Harold made the egg hats. I did tell you we’re going away this weekend. It’s the Brownies camp for me and the boys. It’s the tiddlywinks grand final, so it’s all tension.”

  I started to say, “I haven’t got my tiddles, um, or is it winks, so I couldn’t possibly—”

  She was smiling. “And Harold is going into the woods with his Iron Man group.”

  His what?

  I said, “Well that sounds . . . wizard.”

  Dibdobs came and gave me a big hug. “I thought you would like to be with Vaisey, so I’ve arranged for you to stay at The Blind Pig—pop round there after college tonight.”

  I was doing secret inward sniggering. And a secret inward voice in my head was saying (in a strange breathy voice . . .), Yes, yessss, I will pop round to The Blind Pig. I will “pop” round because guess who lives at The Blind Pig? It is not a blind pig, it is Alex. Alex, the best-looking boy in the universe. Alex, who said I had a cool name. Alex, who . . .

  And that is when the twins came in, both in huge shorts.

  They came and stood an inch away from me to do their silent looking.

  But I was too happy to be freaked out by them.

  So I smiled at them in between mouthfuls of eggy.

  They did what they think is smiling back. The wobbly teefs have gone, so now when they smile it’s like looking at sock creatures. If you can imagine that.

  I left the house a bit earlier than I needed to, so that I could get to the pub and maybe accidentally-on-purpose bump into Alex. But Vaisey was already sitting on the wall waiting for me. Just as well, really, I would have probably said something insane and fallen over a leaf if I’d seen him.

  And to be honest, he only said I had a cool name.

  We mooched to Dother Hall and as it loomed into view I remembered that we had Dr. Lightowler for two hours. The roof still had its bit of old blanket flapping about. Mrs. Rochester is not a highly skilled worker. I hope for the girls’ sakes it doesn’t rain anytime soon.

  After registration we crowded into the studio for Bob’s “talk” on music and music technology.

  I couldn’t help noticing that his ponytail, burnt off in the dorm inferno, seems to have grown back. Twice the length.

  I whispered to Flossie, “He’s wearing a false ponytail.”

  Bob gave us the benefit of his many years “on the road” with bands.

  “Listen up, dudes. Yes, I’ve toured with some of the greats. The legends. I’ve done all the big gigs: Wembo, Glasto.”

  Glasto? Wembo?

  Bob looked at us.

  “The Glastonbury.”

  Vaisey said, “Which bands did you do?”

  Bob was twiddling with knobs and put his feet on the mixing desk. He was wearing leather Cubanheeled boots. He put on his shades.

  “The lot, the big boys—Floyd, Purple, Zep, Heap.”

  We looked at him. Who were Zep Heap? Or did he mean Purple Zep?

  He let us bang a drum and rattle some maracas. It was exciting when he showed us the sound booths and asked if anyone wanted a go. Vaisey and Jo sang a bit from Grease and Flossie and Honey did “Oo-oo-oooos” in the background.

  “You’re the one that I want . . .”

  “Oo-oo-oooo.”

  They were good, actually.

  Jo had to stand on a little box to reach the mike and Vaisey was moving her bottom around in time to the music.

  Bob recorded it and then he did “multitracking” so it sounded like fourteen people singing. This is more like it.

  I said to the girls, “I feel like part of this great big crazy world of showbiz, now!”

  Bob said as we left, “The Jones are coming in to lay down a few tracks. It’s not my sort of stuff, not heavy, just more indie landfill, but they’re local so . . . you might want to come on down, chill out, and get your ears on.”

  Get our ears on?

  I said, “Did he say ‘chill out’? It doesn’t seem right coming from a man with a false ponytail.”

  Anyway, I will not be going to see The Jones for love or money. In fact, if it is at all possible, I will never see any of the Hinchcliffs again.

  Cain in particular.

  We walked along to the small theater space for the dreaded Dr. Lightowler experience.

  Dr. Lightowler swished in in her cloak. I wonder if she has a summer cloak and a winter cloak?

  As part of the background for our end-of-summer-school performance of Wuthering Heights, Cloakwoman was telling us about the appalling life of the Brontës.

  She said, “It’s hard for you spoiled modern girls to imagine the evenings in that forsaken place, Haworth Vicarage . . . cooped up, imprisoned by the forces of nature, no escape, because of the weather, but also because they were women.”

  Dr. Lightowler was going on and on, swishing her cloak about as she talked. I wonder if she goes to bed in it?

  “Now, girls, get up and start moving about in the space. Imagine that you are the Brontës. It’s a dark winter afternoon. . . .” She snapped off all the lights and said, “I’ve got some torches here, girls, some of you come and take one and shine them in an improvised way.”

  She put on a torch in the dark and handed more to Honey and Vaisey and some others I couldn’t see. She held a torch under her chin so it lit her up really weirdly.

  She said in a spooky, guttural voice, “The light is gone by three, and the wind howls around the drafty cold house, making the candles gutter and cast strange shadowy shapes on the wall. Could some of you howl a bit?”

  We howled like mad and she had to shout over the top of us.

  “Girls, just light howling, please.”

  I said, “Okeydokey, Dr. Light-howler.”

  Which Vaisey thought was funny, but fortunately the doctor didn’t hear.

  We toned the howling down.

  Dr. Lightowler went on. “Flossie, perhaps you are Emily huddling by the fire and trying to entertain your sisters. To take their minds off their bodies racked with consumption.”

  Two of the girls formed a fire with their torches, and Flossie huddled by it, shivering and coughing. She said in a Texan drawl, “Now y’all girls, come here a cottonpickin’ moment.”

  Dr. Lightowler said, “Emily is from Yorkshire, Flossie.”

  Flossie tried again. “Ay up, lasses, come around t’fire and we’ll sing a song.”

  Dr. Lightowler came forward. “Milly, Tilly, be Anne and Charlotte.”

  Milly and Tilly came and huddled alongside Flossie, warming their hands at the torch fire.
r />   Dr. Lightowler said to us in a hushed voice, “Perhaps they might make up little stories about the shadows? The rest of you girls be imaginary shapes guttering across the room. Girls with the torches, flicker them everywhere.”

  Be an imaginary shape?

  Honey and the rest started swooping and fluttering about.

  Tilly cried, “Oh, Emily, Charlotte, what is that? Over there by the fire extinguisher . . . um, by the . . . loom. . . . Why, is that an eagle? Er . . . hunting?”

  And Flossie said, “Nay, lass, I think it’s a witch, high on a broomstick.”

  I tried to join in, but I just felt like a twerp. Especially as when I did attempt to flutter about I caught myself in the midriff with the fire extinguisher. It crashed to the floor and Dr. Lightowler gave me a foul look. I tried to get it to stand up again, but it was making a hell of a noise clanking about.

  The “Brontës” were excitedly saying, “I think I can see, I can hear . . . a little hand tapping at the window, is it Cathy out on the moors looking for Heathcliff????”

  Then Flossie said, “Yes, yes, I can hear it, what is that over there?”

  And she pointed at me. And everyone stopped and shone their torches on me.

  So I put my arms down by my side and bobbed about.

  I don’t know why I do Riverdance when I’m in the spotlight. I must have an inner Irish dancer trying to get out.

  Everyone started laughing.

  Apart from Dr. Lightowler, who said, “What are you doing, Tallulah Casey?”

  I said, “Um, I’m sweeping up. I’m an Irish broomstick.”

  I could see Flossie put her fist into her mouth and Jo had a coughing fit.

  Dr. Lightowler just looked at me.

  I can see that inwardly she’s ticking me off her list of people for next year’s places.

  Do you think my corkers are growing?

  AS WE WALKED DOWN the long main corridor toward the café, Vaisey said, “Ruby was telling me about The Jones. They are supposed to be cool, but moody. And the lead singer is called Cain, that’s la gothic, isn’t it?”

  Cain.

  I didn’t answer. Where to begin? Where to end?

  The Mark of Cain.

  I am haunted by Cain.

  And now he could be somewhere in the building.