PAULINE MCLYNN
PUFFIN
Table of Contents
Dude!
Trash
Eek!
’Tis The Season
Seeing Red
It’s Complicated
Enterprise
Fore!
Mum’s The Word
Mad Men
Plans
Begin Again
Making Do
Dark Arts
Confession Time
Telly Tubby
Da Blues
Budget
Pen Pals
Super Saturday
Savage Saturday
Sinking Saturday
Stewdio
Fever
Everybody Needs Good Neighbours
Think Twice
Show Time
Performing
Laffs
Post-Show
Runny Sunday
Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot!
S’cruel
So Damn Unpretty
Shadowy
A Helping Hand
And Breathe!
All Hell
Run Ragged
The Handy Hiding Place
Rebirth
Fussy Hussy
Seconds Out
Sort It Out!
Romance is Dead
The Final Act
Real Life
Pauline McLynn lives in Dublin with her husband, Richard, and two cats named Brenda and Alice. She used to have other cats too – Mutt, Geoff, Noel, Brendan, Snubby and Geezee. When she was growing up in Galway, in the west of Ireland, her family had dogs – Roberta, Lady Pink Weasel, Dennis and TD. Her brothers used to call her ‘verruca head’ and ‘hook nose’ (serio) but they don’t do that any more, at least not to her face, which is good. She has a wonky, crackly right knee from doing Irish dancing (probably the wrong way!) when she was younger. Pauline still loves performing and is now an award-winning actor, perhaps best known for playing the roles of Mrs Doyle in Father Ted and Libby Croker in Shameless. She is also very good at knitting and has written eight other novels, but Jenny Q is her first series for teenagers.
Books by Pauline McLynn
JENNY Q, STITCHED UP!
JENNY Q, UNRAVELLED
For Emily White,
a v neglected, teenage god-child
Dude!
There’s only one way to say this – babies are full of shizz. Top to toe FULL OF IT. We got a new one before Xmas and his name is Harry. He is the best little bundle of gurgles and chuckles and POO. I can’t believe the amount that comes out of his tiny little body. In the beginning it was very green and sticky. Now it’s very yellow and sticky. And not massively solid. Though it looks quite massive in general after he’s dumped it in his nappy. He smells yummy for a while and then his little face goes all red, nearly maroon* and you just know looking at him that he’s depositing something fairly vile for a family member to take care of.
See, that’s also the thing with babies: they get help with everything. They do virtually nothing in return, except capture your heart and make you love them. It’s like we’re staff. Not that I mind: Harry is the BEST.
Ennyhoo, there he is with his little maroon face looking like he’s concentrating on something that’s really hard to figure out and along comes the smell, and Harry somehow looks like he’s smiling, and you know it’s time for a change of undies for Harry Quinn, otherwise he’ll holler the house down like he’s being tortured.
Oh, nearly forgot to mention that he’s fond of spewing up all over himself too, and anyone else around or under him, at random times. Like, right now he’s hanging over Dermot’s shoulder (that’s my older bruv) and he’s just opened his mouth and puked down Derm’s back, then a stretch of his little fisty fists and he’s asleep again. He has managed to miss the towel on our brother’s shoulder, carefully placed there to catch such emissions. What an aim! SHOT! No one tells you just how much goo comes out of a baby, all ends, and what joy they seem to take in their efforts. Goo, poo, wee – Harry’s full of the stuff.
His belches are a mighty big sound too.
There’s no predicting Harry. Gran says we can’t ever ‘second guess’ him because ‘he’s been here before’. Clearly Harry has not been here before, he’s very new to the place, but my gran is as crazy as the rest of the Quinn family, so you gotta roll with that (trust me, let it wash over you, do not resist, for resistance is futile). I should know: I’m one of them. I’m Jennifer Quinn, of the crazy Quinns of Oakdale, Dublin, and a middle child now, since the lil bro arrived.
I’m Jenny Q†
How do you do?
Welcome to my world of puke and poo!
OK, should explain that too – me and my Besties (Dixie and Uggs) are kinda doin’ a poetry jam after school from time to time. Hence me RHYMES. And ‘riddums’, as one of my gran’s MAD friends calls them. It’s a good laugh and we all resist criticism of anyone’s efforts so it’s v positive too, which can’t be bad!
So, the Quinns have officially gone gaga. Yes, I know some of you would argue that this was always the case BUT I speak of a super-mega-gaganess. It’s understandable, though, because as I have explained Harry Quinn is a little gem and the most beautiful baby in the world – I’m not usually a boastrel but that is one solid factoid.
And it’s not just us Quinns who’ve gone a bit loopy for the babe, my brother’s group Ten Guitars‡ are all well into the lil dude: Harry is their official mascot. Actually he got born v early just so as he could be their lucky charm – he was meant to stay ‘inside’ a while longer but one television appearance by the group on Teen Factor X and Harry was out and in the middle of the action. He’s clearly a kid with attitude, big ’tude, if his birth is anything to go by.
All in all, Harry is making his small presence felt in a big way.
The Quinns now speak a different language at home from the rest of the world at large. It’s all ‘Wot does da liggle fellah want?’ and ‘Whodabestest boy in the whole wide world? Iddit Hawwy? Iddit? Iddit?’ Idiot, more like, because that’s what he’s made of all of us. Then we tickle his toes and it’s hard not to take a bite of his chubby little legs cos he’s so cute. My gran goes ‘coocheecoochee coo’ a lot to him and he seems to know what she means because he kind of gurglesб at her in response.
After his bath each evening it’s a treat to get to blow raspberries on his tummy, and he loves that. Harry has the softest skin ever in the history of very soft skin.
He does a good line in stretches too. Mum says it’s his baby version of t’ai chi. And sometimes it’s a bit jerky, so that’s when we know he’s practising his kung fu moves.
I LOVE IT ALL!
And to think I wasn’t all that thrilled when I heard the news that I was going to have a baby brother. Was I nuts?
Oh, and the house smells all baby powder lovely now too. Well, that is, it smells lovely and babyish when Harry isn’t doing a jobby in his nappy, because that’s the darkly odorous side of human beings, whatever size they may be.
Trash
Today I’m in the kitchen with Harry, in charge of babysitting for a while because Mum is having a well-earned snooze. She has to breastfeed Harry every two
hours and he can take his own sweet time if he has a mind to, dawdling while enjoying his surroundings. I still get a leeetle bit wobbly seeing my mum’s chesticles every so often and I’m totes MORTO if anyone outside of the family espies them. Dad says Harry’s a clever little chap because he won’t get a proper ‘go’ at boobies again till he’s ancient – EUW, DAD! Way, way too much information right there.
Don’t worry, Gran is lurking and keeping an eye on me, supervising my babysitting, so there’s no need to call Social Services just yet. And I would NEVER let ANY harm come to Harry on my watch, no WAY, not EVER. As I think of it, Gran is around a lot right now. OK, it is the Yuletide season, which is big time family time, and she does live in what used to be our garage (!), but even so she’s everywhere since Harry arrived. I should probs wonder Why? more but I am distracto in the head.
Reason? I can hear Dermot and some of his friends strumming their guitars in the lounge and it makes my heart do funny jumps. Stevie Lee Bolton is in there. He’s one of the Guitars. He is the fittest guy in Oakdale, where we live, and he’s sixteen and probably thinks I’m a squirt – well, of course he does, how could he not? I’m thirteen and he’s an older generation – they always see the youngsters as eejits and nuisances if they even truly notice us at all. It is the way of things and always has been since the dawn of time, I’d say.
Steve Bolton has deep brown eyes and floppy, curly hair and I can’t really get past that now as I imagine him in my mind – in other words the kind of looks that can mesmerize a gal (me!). He is seriously, meltingly gorgeous. My chest hurts a bit thinking about him. Dixie once remarked that I might be bewitched.*
Ennyhoo, we recently celebrated the New Year so I’m thinking of my annual Things To Do List. I love lists. I have a pen with a red feather on top that writes in turquoise sparkly ink and it’s lined up on the kitchen table beside a totes cute notebook that Dixie gave me for Christmas, ready to take my instructions to myself for the next twelve months. I don’t want to call them ‘resolutions’ because those always seem doomed to failure in the world of Jenny Q: ‘Just asking for trouble,’ as Gran would say. So it’s a list of Things To Do or suggestions, as Dixie has proposed we call them this year.
‘We’ is the Gang = me (Jennifer Margaret Anne Quinn), Dorothy ‘Dixie’ Purvis and Eugene ‘Uggs’ Nightingale.
Uggs’s dog, Gypsy Nightingale, is NOT one of the Gang, though she tries to muscle (her wiry, pongy self) in at every turn.
Harry has just been changed and he’s got a sleepy look on his face, so I’ll put him in his cradle for a snooze. He needs a lot of sleep because he’s busy growing and eating and so on. I can’t resist giving him a little volley of kisses on his lovely little face. I hear someone clearing his throat and, when I look, it’s Stevie Lee Bolton. EEP! I hope my hair† isn’t sticking out too much and that my face isn’t too red from my baby duties.
‘I’m in charge of making coffee for the Guitars,’‡ he says and goes to fill the kettle.
My legs are feeling tingly and I think I’d probably best sit down before I fall over.
‘You know where everything is, don’t you?’ My voice sounds thin and squeaky. My behind is clenched up with embarrassment.
‘How’s the little guy?’
‘Great. Time for his snooze,’ I say and put the baby down.
My hand immediately goes to my hair to check on what kind of thatch is rockin’ a look up there. I can’t decide if I can feel product or grease. There’s a bit of an awkward silence in the kitchen now because I don’t know what to say next. It doesn’t seem to bother Stevie Lee, but then again he is older and way cool, so nothing really gets to him. My heart is thundering in my chest and I have a weird ringing in my ears. Surely he can hear all that? I want the floor to open and swallow me.
The kettle rumbles to a boil and clicks off.
SLB is looking at me in a strange way.
‘Err, Jen,’ б he says.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there a reason why Harry is in the recycling box?’
WHAT??!!!
I look and, sure enough, my tiny baby brother is sleeping soundly on top of a pile of newspapers in the box next to his cradle. He looks v v comfortable but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I, his one and only sister, put him in the trash. Harry might have been thrown out into the green bin!
If this is discovered I’ll never be allowed to look after the baby ever again.§
Eek!
I am in a total fluster now – who wouldn’t be?!
SLB is looking calm, as if this is normal – It’s so not! I nearly threw my baby brother in the bin. In fact, I kind of did, seeing as how he was in the recycling box when spotted, clean as that bin is. I check his Babygro for print marks* because we, the Quinn family, are big into all things criminal and detective and that would be a totes giveaway if this case ever gets to court. EEEK!!!!
I was so busy trying to look cool for Steve Bolton, going, ‘See how it’s, like, so second nature to me to look after Harry that I don’t even need to check where I’m putting him as I lay him down,’ that I messed up on the baby’s actual location. Not good. Unacceptable. V v (v) bad.
Dire, actually. Totes DIRE.
‘We will never speak of this,’ Bolton says, trying not to smile.
‘Thank you.’ I remain formal because this is an important moment in life, as well as in our non-existent relationship. ‘So we are agreed? And no harm has come to anyone.’
‘Agreed.’
I am scarlet, I just know it and MORTO too, and a vile creeping creature upon the face of the earth to do such a thing to a newborn babe.
Gran shuffles in. I drag in a breath and hold it = painful. Will Stevie Lee shop me to the adult(ish) person actually in charge? Now that I think of it, where was she when I needed her? EH?
Bolton keeps to the party line and says nothing. † He just continues coffee-making. Gran, though, can smell situations, so I worry what she’ll get up to. However, surely she knows that I totally fancy Bolton?‡ I may never know the (surely awful) truth, but she cuts me some slack and only asks, ‘How goes it all?’ We mutter nonsense that sounds like an answer.
Gran then glances at me and says, ‘Jen, you really should put Harry down in his cradle if he’s sleeping, otherwise he’ll get into terribly bad habits and want to be held all the time.’
I have to bite my tongue because if I tell her exactly why I’m holding the baby, she might banish me from my duties for evermore.
‘K,’ I say and pop the lil dude into his official bed. He’s not a bit bothered, doesn’t even give a sigh.
Gran is scouring the kitchen with some dark purpose, i.e. it looks like she’s considering rustling up some food. This is bad news for anyone who’ll have to eat the bizarro concoction she comes up with – once she boiled an egg and the Fire Brigade had to be called, no kidding: one of the more epic failures on a list of truly competitive failures for the Quinn family. Her last effort here in the main house was a liver curry (imagine!) because she thought Mum ‘needed iron’. We had no idea what had happened until we were sitting in front of the ‘meal’ and it was too late to retreat or escape the potentially deadly Connie Curry.
‘Interesting,’ Dad said, though without tasting the mix. The smell of it was darkly pungent and threatening enough to put him off that.
The rest of us were stifling screams.
Gran had a mouthful and said, ‘This doesn’t taste right.’
There was almost an audible family sigh as we all edged our plates further away from us, hoping that was the end of the incident and we could have chips and eggs and forget the horror.
; Gran went to the fridge and came back with a large tub of orange yoghurt and added it to the curry, tasted it again and declared it a delight.
Here’s the weirdest thing – it did make the thing taste edible … v v strange indeed.
Still, it’s no reason to encourage her culinary adventures, truly.
’Tis The Season
My phone beeps a text: bah humbug! Am running away from home. It’s Dixie.
I reply: c u in 10?
And get: make it 5!
Dermot arrives to help Stevie Lee to carry the Guitars’ coffees and they disappear. Gran is still skulking.
‘Why do I feel you’re acting shifty?’ she muses, catching my eye in a searching way that I so don’t love. I’m not sure how adults do it, but they can sniff controversy or a ‘situation’. I play dumb – eh, obvs – and I’m not sure if I want her to think it’s my crushmostpash for SLB that’s at the heart of this shiftiness she senses or the fact that I chucked my beautiful new bro in the bin. Such choices can leave a gal entirely between a rock and a hard place. I am saved by a v v melodramatic entrance by my bestest galpal, Dixie.
‘All this cheery happiness and good will to all men is killing me,’ she declares. ‘Plus my dork brother,* who I swear must be adopted and not related to me, drank a bottle of something pink and vile and is holed up in our loo as a result, so that’s out of bounds now. Maybe for evermore.’
‘Full-sized Kit Kat, so?’ I enquire.
‘Totes. And immédiatement – if not sooner!’
This means she’s in a genuine crisis. Ordinary snackage can be dealt with by a two-finger bar, but four … well, that’s major, that’s need not just want.
‘Plus, we’re down to the crapola chocs in the Christmas boxes in our house now,’ she says.
I shiver. ‘Coffee flavoured?’†
‘Yup. And nougat.’ Her voice is dripping scorn as she elongates the word noogah. ‘YUCK! NOOGACK! Who in their right minds ever thought that was a good thing to invent?’
Jenny Q, Unravelled! Page 1
