Sweetie opens Mum’s present next: it’s a beautiful life-size doll with real fair hair, eerily like Sweetie’s, and she’s wearing a matching party dress.
‘There, darling! She’s been specially made to be your little twin! Isn’t she lovely? You can comb her hair and change her clothes. See how many outfits she’s got! I ordered her from a lady over in America – she usually makes these dollies for grown-up ladies, but I knew just how much you’d care for her and treasure her. You will, won’t you, Sweetie?’
‘Oh, yes, Mummy, she’s the most wonderful doll in the world!’ says Sweetie.
She poses beautifully with her, kissing the doll’s forehead, stroking her hair, holding out both their dresses, while the photographer flashes and clicks. She even lets all the other little girls have a turn holding her, walking her up and down.
Then it’s Mum’s turn to be photographed. There they are, three golden-haired smiling beauties, like a puzzle in a child’s comic: Which one is the doll?
I’m smiling too, but I can’t help remembering my sixth birthday. Why didn’t I get a wondrous life-size replica doll? Well, it’s obvious why. Imagine a great gawky doll with frizzy hair and gappy teeth. Who would want a doll like that?
Now Sweetie’s about to open the last and biggest parcel, Dad’s present. It’s far too heavy for her to lift. Dad has to help her undo all the wrapping. A pink edge pokes out, and then little glass jars on a shelf. It’s a shop, Sweetie’s own sweetshop. It says so in fancy lettering on the shop sign. It’s big enough for Sweetie to clamber behind the counter and sit on a little pink stool. There are tiny old-fashioned scales on the counter so she can weigh all the sweets, and a cash register where she can keep her money. This is pretend, but all the sweets in the jars are real: fruit drops all colours of the rainbow, peppermints, chocolate toffees, wine gums, dolly mixtures . . .
‘Oh, Daddy, it’s such a glorious present!’ says Sweetie, clapping her hands. ‘You must come to my shop and be my first customer!’
Dad looks thrilled, but he glances at Rose-May, wondering if it’s right for his image to be photographed squatting down buying sweets from his little girl. Rose-May nods approvingly, so Dad plays his part while the photographers flash all over again. Then Sweetie has to serve all the other little girls, acting so charmingly, like a real little birthday princess.
I can hear Mum and Dad whispering.
‘You might have told me!’
‘I did, I did, I said I was getting her a shop.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t say a sweetshop, not with real sweets. She’ll make herself sick if we’re not careful – and rot her perfect little teeth.’
‘For God’s sake, Suzy, it was your idea to have an entire sweet-themed party – look around you, there are sweets galore.’
‘Yes, but they’re just decorations. The kids aren’t scoffing the lot.’
‘Lighten up, can’t you? Let Sweetie enjoy her present. Why make such a fuss just because she likes it more than that big dolly?’
‘She loves that doll. She’ll be like a real heirloom for Sweetie.’
The photographer is calling for a family picture in front of the sweetshop.
‘Come on, Danny and Suzy,’ Rose-May says, shaking her head at them as if they’re naughty toddlers. She’s smiling brightly, with strange emphasis, to set them an example: let’s have Happy Faces for the birthday photo.
Dad smiles, Mum smiles, and they hasten obediently over to Sweetie and her shop. Ace is there too, delving into the jars, sucking and licking each sample.
The photographer beckons to me to be part of the Happy Family, but I’m saved by the bell. The last little guest has arrived at long last. I run down the hall to open the door and usher her in.
Then I stand frozen, open-mouthed, forgetting to hide my teeth. It’s a very little girl with bunches, younger than Sweetie, only three or four years old – a plain little girl blinking at me anxiously, clutching a grubby cuddle blanket over her nose so that it hides her face like a hijab. The young woman with her tugs at the blanket impatiently.
‘Come on, Pandora, time to put blankie away now, we’re at the party.’
‘No, no, Auntie Liz, I need blankie,’ Pandora protests.
I know this auntie. She’s blonde and ultra-skinny in her tight jeans and tiny top. She’s got a little girl’s bobbed hair and darkly shaded eyes with thick lashes and a very big mouth shining bright red. It’s Big Mouth, the girl in the Milky Star film, turned up like the Bad Fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s party.
She smiles at me with those terrifying lips and moves forward.
‘Hello. I think you’re Sunset, Danny’s elder daughter? Your dad invited us to the party. This is my little niece, Pandora. Sorry we’re so late – we lost her wretched blanket . . .’
She steps indoors in her strappy high heels, dragging Pandora after her. I’m not quick enough to stop them. I stand stupidly dithering when I should push them back outside and slam the door in their faces, because I know what will happen, I know, I know. I follow them helplessly down the hall, watch as they go to join the party, Liz Big Mouth pulling Pandora along, and then they’re in the room and I hover at the door, holding my breath.
I see Dad look up and give a little nod, I see Claudia hold out her hand reassuringly to Pandora, I see the photographer flashing away, I see Mum smiling, kneeling beside Sweetie, and I think for a moment it will be all right. Pandora will be absorbed into the crowd of little girls, and Big Mouth will blend in with the gaggle of mums and nannies drinking champagne at the other end of the room. But then Mum’s head jerks. She’s staring at them. She stands up, her face flushing a startling red.
‘Suzy,’ Rose-May says quickly, looking at the photographer and the journalist from Hi!
I don’t think Mum even hears her. ‘Who invited you?’ she hisses.
Big Mouth stands still, looking over at Dad.
‘Get out!’ Mum screams, and everyone jumps. Some of the little girls start crying. ‘Get out – and take that mousy little brat with you!’
Pandora cries too, sobbing into her blanket, and I follow as they’re both hustled down the hall.
‘Don’t cry, Pandora, it’s not your fault!’ I gabble.
I see the little pile of our new bears discarded on the stairs and grab my panda. ‘Here, have this for a going-home present,’ I say.
I thrust it into her arms as she’s tugged off down the drive.
11
DESTINY
‘Where’s my little singing star?’ Mum calls as she opens the front door.
I don’t answer.
‘Destiny?’ She comes into the living room, and then stops. ‘Destiny, what is it?’
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ I mumble.
‘Well, come on, you silly girl, don’t just sit there all hunched up. Give me a hug! Aren’t you pleased I’m home so early? Louella was an angel, said she’d see to my last two ladies.’
I stand awkwardly and let her put her arms round me. I don’t want her to hold me. I’m scared she’ll start me crying. I can see she’s dying to ask about this afternoon’s contest – but doesn’t quite like to now she can see there’s obviously something wrong.
‘Tell me, sweetheart,’ Mum says quietly. She suddenly jerks. ‘Oh God, your leather jacket’s OK? No one’s nicked it?’
‘It’s there, on the back of the chair.’
‘So what’s up?’
‘Nothing’s up.’
‘Are you feeling a bit nervous about tonight’s concert? Don’t worry, darling. The moment you step onstage and start singing you’ll feel wonderful.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘Well, I’ll feel wonderful, watching you.’
‘You won’t. Because I’m not singing tonight.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, Mum, don’t look like that. I’m not singing. It’s no big deal, so let’s shut up about the stupid concert and have tea.’ I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘Who say
s you’re not singing?’
‘Me.’
‘Did you sing this afternoon?’
‘Yep.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, did you forget your words?’
I give her a look.
‘I can’t stand this, Destiny! Will you just tell me what happened? Did your voice go funny? Did you just dry up? Tell me, darling.’
I lay out two mugs, two plates. Mum’s put a white cardboard box on the worktop. I look inside. There’s a slice of pink cream gâteau with a strawberry on the top. It’s from the posh French pâtisserie near the market. We’ve often looked in the window and played the game of choosing which cake we like best. I chop and change, but nearly always choose the strawberry gâteau.
I stare at it. The strawberry blurs, the cake wavers. I’m crying, though I vowed I wouldn’t.
‘I didn’t win the talent contest, Mum,’ I whisper.
‘Well, never mind, darling. As if it matters,’ says Mum bravely. ‘Who won then?’
‘This girl Angel.’
‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘She’s so not a lovely girl.’
‘But she’s a good singer?’
‘She didn’t sing, she did a dance.’
‘So, did you come second?’
‘Nope. I didn’t come anywhere. And it’s not fair,’ I cry, like a total baby. ‘I sang OK, Mum, I know I did, but none of the kids gave me good marks because I’m still the new girl and I’m not in the right gang and they don’t like me.’ I’m crying in great ugly gulps, my nose running. I cover my face with the shame of it.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. That’s awful! And ridiculous. So you think they deliberately voted against you? Couldn’t Mr Roberts sort them out? What sort of a hopeless wuss is he, unable to get the upper hand with a bunch of children? And what sort of spiteful, mean-spirited kids are they, deliberately marking you down?’ Mum’s working herself up into a state, making the tea but banging the mugs down hard.
‘Well, I don’t know for certain that was why they didn’t give me good marks. Maybe I just sang like rubbish.’
‘That’s nonsense talk, you’re a wonderful singer.’
‘Yeah, but you’re my mum – of course you’re going to think that.’
‘Everyone’s going to think it this evening when they hear you.’
‘No one’s going to hear me because I’m not taking part. There’s no point. It’ll happen all over again. And it’ll be awful. They were all nudging each other and laughing and Angel said horrible stuff and—’
‘And that’s why you’re going to go to this evening’s concert with your head held high. You’re going to sing your little heart out. I don’t give a stuff if they vote you first or last. You’ll still have sung your special song. I want you to sing it for me, Destiny. It means so much. Please.’ Mum’s looking at me with her big staring eyes and squeezing my hands tight and I can’t possibly wriggle away from her.
‘Please,’ she says again. ‘I don’t ask you for much, darling. We both know I mostly let you do what you like. But just this once I’m begging you.’
‘Oh, Mum. Stop it. All right.’
‘There!’ says Mum triumphantly, wiping my face, dabbing at my nose as if I’m a toddler again.
‘Mum!’
‘Now, let’s sit down and have a cup of tea and you eat your gâteau. Don’t you dare say you’re not hungry, it cost a blooming fortune.’
‘Only if you have half.’
‘I’ll have a bit. Then I’ve got to go and have a quick bath and get changed. Do you think my best blue top will be all right or it is a bit too low cut for school?’
‘Mum, it’s no big deal. It’s a crappy school concert and I’m going to be crap and it’ll be torture for both of us. I wouldn’t bother with your blue top. I’d go for a bin bag. Wear it over your head so no one realizes you’re related to the girl who’s a rubbish singer.’
Mum wears her blue top – but it is too low cut. She used to wear it with a special push-up bra and it looked really sexy, but now she doesn’t seem to have much chest left to push up. Her collarbones stick out and you can see the start of her ribs. She’s wearing a belt on her best jeans, but they’re still much too baggy, practically hanging off her.
‘Mum, just how much weight have you lost?’
‘A few pounds.’
‘Don’t give me that. It looks like a few stone.’
‘Of course it’s not. Stop staring at me like that, you make me feel a freak. I’ve always been thin – it’s natural for me,’ says Mum.
‘Not this thin. Mum, I think you should go to a doctor.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m fighting fit, full of energy, holding down all three jobs. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.’ Mum’s saying it too quickly, her words jerky. She’s frightened too.
‘Mum, this is the deal,’ I say, taking hold of her by her poor bony shoulders. ‘I’ll make another total fool of myself and sing in this poxy contest if you’ll go to the doctor.’
‘But I told you, there’s nothing wrong. And even if there is, what can he do about it?’
‘He can give you pills – or special treatment – or take you into hospital and give you an operation,’ I say. My own voice is wobbling now.
‘Yes, well, I’m not going into any hospital, thanks very much. How would we cope?’ says Mum.
I suddenly get it. I realize why she’s suddenly so keen for me to meet Danny, why she’s palled up with Louella. She’s been worrying what will happen to me if she’s really ill. If . . . if . . .
‘You’re going to the doctor tomorrow, promise? And whatever it is, we’ll manage, we’ll get you better – do you hear me, Mum?’ I say. ‘It’s a bargain, right? Or I won’t do the concert. You’ve got by far the best deal, because I’ve got to hang around backstage for two whole hours while the others perform, and then I’ve got the total public humiliation of all the judges rubbishing me. You’ve just got to nip down the medical centre and see someone for ten minutes. So, shall we shake on it?’
I hold out my hand and Mum shakes it. Then we hug each other hard because we’re both so scared. I don’t even care about the concert now. All I care about is Mum. It’s like I’ve sensed there’s something wrong for months. I’ve woken up and worried at night. I used to have bad dreams as a little kid, scared there was a man hiding in the wardrobe. Sometimes I’d lie there and fancy I could hear him breathing – but in the morning I’d forget all about him and go into the wardrobe for my coat and shoes without a second thought. This illness of Mum’s is just like that man in the wardrobe. I’ve been keeping him at bay for weeks – but now I’ve opened the door and there he is, grinning horribly, with a big knife in his hand, aiming it at Mum.
I hang onto her arm as we walk to school. She takes the quickest way through the estate and I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t realize what the Flatboys and the Speedos can be like. If I tell her she’ll only worry about me even more. At least we’re together – and if any boy dares do anything to mum I’ll kill him, I swear I will.
Speedo boys are lurking in a stairwell, Flatboys are spitting off a top balcony, but none of them take any notice of us. The flats are too busy, mums and a few dads and lots of grannies with gaggles of little brothers and sisters, are all making their way purposefully towards the school.
Mum nudges me. ‘Your audience, babe!’
‘Don’t!’
I see Angel strutting along with a whole posse of family and friends – aunties, cousins, all sorts – she must have traded for extra tickets.
‘That big girl waved at you. Is she your friend?’ Mum asks.
‘No, more like my deadly enemy. That’s Angel.’
‘Oh. Her,’ says Mum, sniffing loyally.
I spot Jack Myers coming out of his flat with a couple of the Jack the Lads. They hurry on ahead of their mums – but Jack stops when he sees me.
‘Hi, Destiny,??
? he said.
I mumble ‘Hi’ back.
‘You nervous?’
‘Nope.’
‘Me neither.’
We stay silent. Mum’s glancing from me to Jack and back again, her eyes big.
Jack clears his throat. ‘It wasn’t fair this afternoon,’ he says. ‘You were robbed.’
‘Angel was good.’
‘Yeah, but you were heaps better,’ says Jack. ‘Anyway, good luck tonight.’ He nods and then hurries on to join his mates.
‘Wish him luck too!’ Mum hisses.
‘Good luck, Jack!’ I shout.
He turns back, grinning, and gives me a wave.
‘Who was that?’ Mum asks. ‘Another total deadly enemy?’
‘Well, I thought he was. But he was quite nice, wasn’t he? He’s in a street-dance act. Maybe he’ll win tonight – he’s ever so popular.’
‘Just you wait and see,’ says Mum.
It’s so weird going into school with her. There’s a big banner over the main door: Bilefield’s Got Talent – Tonight’s the Night, the Grand Final!!!
Mrs Avery is in the hall, giving out programmes and showing people where to sit. I stare at her, astonished. I’m used to seeing her in T-shirts and tracky bottoms and trainers – but tonight she’s wearing a tight sparkly red dress with really high heels. She looks amazing, not at all like a teacher.
‘Hello, Destiny,’ she says.
‘You look so different, Mrs Avery!’
‘I’m on the judging panel tonight. Mr Roberts insisted we all dress up a bit,’ she says, pulling a face.
‘Oh no, is he wearing that jacket again?’ I ask.
‘Destiny, don’t be so cheeky!’ says Mum.
Mrs Avery giggles. ‘You got it, it’s the brocade jacket jobby again. Anyway, you’d better nip backstage. Good luck!’