by Adam Baron
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2021
Published in this ebook edition in 2021
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
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Text copyright © Adam Baron 2021
Cover illustration © Benji Davies 2021
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Adam Baron asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN: 9780008267087
Ebook Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9780008267094
Version: 2020-12-23
For Kate Higgins, without whom Jessica and Milly would never have existed
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: Jessica
Chapter Two: Cymbeline
Chapter Three: Jessica
Chapter Four: Cymbeline
Chapter Five: Jessica
Chapter Six: Cymbeline
Chapter Seven: Cymbeline
Chapter Eight: Jessica
Chapter Nine: Thimbeline
Chapter Ten: Jessica
Chapter Eleven: Cymbeline
Chapter Twelve: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirteen: Jessica
Chapter Fourteen: Jessica
Chapter Fifteen: Cymbeline
Chapter Sixteen: Cymbeline
Chapter Seventeen: Cymbeline
Chapter Eighteen: Jessica
Chapter Nineteen: Cymbeline
Chapter Twenty: Jessica
Chapter Twenty-One: Cymbeline
Chapter Twenty-Two: Jessica
Chapter Twenty-Three: Cymbeline
Chapter Twenty-Four: Jessica
Chapter Twenty-Five: Cymbeline
Chapter Twenty-Six: Cymbeline
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jessica
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jessica
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty-One: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty-Two: Jessica
Chapter Thirty-Three: Jessica
Chapter Thirty-Four: Jessica
Chapter Thirty-Five: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty-Six: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Cymbeline
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jessica
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Jessica
Chapter Forty: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-One: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Two: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Three: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Four: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Five: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Six: Jessica
Chapter Forty-Seven: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Eight: Cymbeline
Chapter Forty-Nine: Cymbeline
Chapter Fifty: Cymbeline
Chapter Fifty-One: Cymbeline then Jessica
Chapter Fifty-Two: Cymbeline
Chapter Fifty-Three: Cymbeline
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Books by Adam Baron
About the Publisher
Here’s something that will make you LAUGH.
Yesterday we went to this place called Cuckmere Haven (Mum, Dad, Milly, Benji and me) and we played Pooh Sticks.
What, not clutching your sides? Not rolling on the floor in fits of giggles? Well, get this.
We played Pooh Sticks with a REAL POO!
We did! Honest! The poo belonged to Benji, who suddenly needed one. Dad had left his potty in the car so Mum pulled his shorts down by this big stream. Once Benji had done it, the poo rolled down between his trainers, bounced down the bank and jumped into the water. It sank, came up and swirled round to the middle, which would have been quite funny on its own. But Milly had an idea, something I have to admit because she’s bigger than me and, if I take the credit, she’ll hit me. She grabbed a stick from beneath a bush, me not knowing what she was up to until she’d lobbed it in.
‘Pooh Sticks!’ she bellowed. ‘Pooh Sticks! We’re playing Pooh Sticks with poo!’
‘And sticks!’ I shouted, as I grabbed one too and bunged it in after. ‘We’re playing Pooh Sticks with poo and sticks!’
And we weren’t the only ones. Mum said, ‘Girls!’ and, ‘Stop that!’, but Dad clearly didn’t think that ‘Girls’ applied to him. He grabbed a stick and chucked it in as well, leaving Mum to tut, and wipe Benji’s bum, as the three sticks (and poo) began to move. Now we’d done what most people do when they’re playing Pooh Sticks – cheat. Milly had thrown her stick in front of the poo, I’d thrown my stick in front of hers, and Dad had thrown his in front of mine. But it did NOT matter. While our sticks turned in circles or got snagged on weed and reeds, the little brown ball from Benji’s bottom overtook them all.
‘Poo,’ Milly shouted, jumping up and down on the bank, ‘is really good at Pooh Sticks!’
‘Not all poo, I shouldn’t think,’ Dad said. ‘Good job it wasn’t a Sticky Poo!’
And, if you’re not laughing now, forget it.
Well, Benji wanted to know what the fuss was about so, once he was bum-wiped and dressed, Dad hoisted him on to his shoulders. We all ran along the bank, Mum still not that amused as Milly and I shouted, ‘Go, sticks!’ while Dad and Benji shouted, ‘Go, poo!’ (and some birdwatchers looked on in shock). Mum was even more embarrassed when all the sticks got jammed up on some stones and Milly (who had Crocs on) ran into the stream.
‘What are you doing?!’ Mum yelled. Milly had pulled her dress up and was holding it in place with her chin.
‘I can’t let him win!’ Milly said (she’s super competitive). ‘Sticks are useless!’
But Mum bellowed so loud that Milly got out without doing her own poo and we had to watch Benji triumph, our sticks soon far behind as the poo (almost as if it knew it was in a race) sprinted on. It swept beneath a footbridge. It wobbled past a few ducks, which some other birdwatchers were looking at. It began to go so fast that we could hardly keep level, Benji almost hoarse from shouting and Dad panting to keep up with Milly and me. Then the stream got wider: there was a beach up ahead. The water was shallower and the poo started to skip, hopping out of the water as it leapt over little stones and round small boulders. It was hard to see, then more so as the sun burst out and made the water all sparkly.
‘We’re going to lose the poo!’ Milly shouted, urging me to go faster. We stumbled on, thinking it was gone forever, until Milly caught sight of it. She pulled me by the arm and we sped up, just in time to see the poo roll out of the stream and on to the beach in front of us.
We stared down at the poo in awe and with respect. It didn’t even look tired.
‘Olympic standard,’ Dad said, puffing to a halt beside us, then cough
ing. He’s been having some problems with his fitness recently. ‘Olympic-standard poo.’
‘Let’s do it again!’ Milly said. ‘Let’s go back, only the poo belongs to me this time!’
‘You pick it up then,’ I said and, because Milly wants to win stuff so much, I swear she would have. But Mum arrived, really cross now, hissing at Dad about being poorly recently and how he wasn’t supposed to run, as she scrabbled around in her backpack. She pulled out a nappy bag, scooped the poo up and marched off towards a bin. Milly sighed, and I was disappointed too, turning back to see if any of the sticks had made it that far. Maybe I’d come second, or First Pooh Stick Made Of Stick Not Poo. When Milly realised what I was looking for, though, she spun round too, both of us shielding our eyes until the sun went in.
Which is when I saw it.
In the water.
My eyes just settled on it and I stared, blinking, sort of calm inside as if, for some reason, it had wanted me to find it.
Not a stick.
Or another poo.
No.
I saw the thing that would change our lives forever.
Here’s something you won’t believe.
I, Cymbeline Igloo, am on the front page of EVERY newspaper in the country. I am also trending heavily on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook (though Mum won’t let me look at those because of the Russians) and will feature later on something called Newsnight (though I’ll be in bed). And it’s not just me. Marcus Breen’s on these things too, as well as Lance, Veronique, Billy, Daisy, Vi, Miss Phillips and Charles Dickens (our class goldfish). He’s called that because Veronique got to name him after she was pulled out of Miss Phillips’s bobble hat. Charles Dickens wrote novels 2,000 years ago, including A Tale of Two Cities, which Veronique was reading (she’s super brainy). It begins like this:
‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’
And that’s a coincidence because what happened to me is like that too, only the best times come last and the worst times are where I’m about to start. And they were REALLY worst, so prepare yourself.
I waited AGES for my dad that day.
And I mean AGES.
The Reception kids left first, as usual. I could see them from our classroom window, staggering into the playground like wind-up toys about to run out of clockwork. Once they’d all been collected, we were allowed to go, me grabbing my two bags and jumping down the stairs. I ran into the playground and looked around, desperate to find Dad. But Elizabeth Fisher was picked up first from our class. She goes diving on Fridays and has to get to Crystal Palace. Her mum’s always out there like the next runner in a relay race.
But Dad would be next surely.
Only he wasn’t.
Daisy and Vi left then (football). Danny Jones’s dad arrived to get him and then lots of parents came at once, everyone pointing across the playground, getting the nod from Miss Phillips before dashing off. I kept looking, but Dad didn’t come and soon the crowds of kids and parents began to shrink because, of course, all the other years were out there getting picked up too.
I began to get this thin, liquidy feeling, which got worse, then worse again as fewer and fewer parents came through the gate into the playground. And then no one turned up at all and suddenly it was weird: how could a place be so busy, so swarming with people, and then so totally and completely empty? And it was empty. All that was left in the playground were four jumpers, six schoolbags, a glove, another glove (from a different pair), a lunchbox, a pair of trainers, a mobile phone, a baby’s bottle and me.
Miss Phillips looked down. ‘Who’s picking you up today?’
‘My dad,’ I said.
‘Right. You did tell me, of course you did. That heavy?’
She meant my weekend bag, which I was still holding, my schoolbag on my back. ‘Not really. I mean, not for long.’
Miss Phillips smiled, then smiled again at Mr Ashe and Mrs Cooper, who were walking over from the staffroom with cups of tea. Mrs Cooper gave Miss Phillips a sympathetic smile, then waved to me.
Miss Phillips said, ‘And it’s this weekend?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well, how about I go into the office and give him a little ring?’
‘Okay. You don’t need to, though. He is coming.’
‘Of course,’ Miss Phillips said, but she led me over to the office anyway. She told me to wait outside and I did, wishing I could run into the ICT room and go on Friv or something. There are no after-school clubs on Fridays, though, so I just had to stand there, watching, as Mr Briggs came out with a big set of keys. He locked the back door of the school and then went round the playground, shaking his head as he picked up the jumpers, bags, the lunchbox, the pair of trainers, the two (different) gloves, the mobile phone and the bottle, which he dropped into the lost-property bin.
‘Did you call?’ I said, when Miss Phillips came back. She ruffled my hair.
‘I couldn’t get through so I left a message.’
‘Then he’ll be here soon. Probably some delays on the trains.’
And I carried on waiting for my dad. I stared out through the gates, up the road, as Miss Phillips asked me again if I was certain that it was this weekend. I nodded, a hot red flower blooming inside me, my face beginning to burn as I remembered telling her. I’d told everyone in fact. The WHOLE CLASS knew what I was doing that weekend. The hot red flower seemed to blend in with the liquidy feeling as I forced my eyes past the parked cars, willing my dad to appear, trying to force him to run round the corner, panting, carrying his bag, waving as he ran towards me. That would scrub the liquidy feeling right out, and the image was so clear that I could almost believe it was happening – and, when I saw a movement on the steps that lead down from Blackheath to our school, my heart leapt up like a powerball. At the same time, the sun came out and blinded me. I squinted and held up my hand, though when the sun went in again it wasn’t my dad that I saw.
It was my mum. Miss Phillips must have rung her too.
She had her car keys in her hand and looked harassed, though her whole face softened when she saw me.
‘Oh, Cymbeline,’ she said, after Miss Phillips had opened the gate for her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried calling him, I have, but … Oh. I’m just so very sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said, though it did matter, something that I knew, and she knew, and Miss Phillips knew too, but which I tried my best to hide. I waved goodbye to Miss Phillips and Mr Briggs, who locked the gate behind us. Mum held my hand as she led me up the steps.
‘Are Charlton at home tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, if they are, shall we go?’
I nodded and for a second I pictured the Valley, Jacky Chapman leading the team out on to the bright green grass as Mum and I jumped up and down. But then it wasn’t the Valley I was seeing. And it wasn’t Jacky Chapman. It was the Nou Camp in Barcelona, which I’d googled about fifty times in the last month. The greatest football stadium in the world. And I was looking at De Jong and Griezmann, Piqué and Alba, and I was looking at Lionel Messi. And it wasn’t Mum beside me, jumping up and down and shouting.
It was Dad.
I blinked the image away. I asked if Lance could come and Mum said yes, stopping as she got to the car. She didn’t want to get in, though. Instead, she looked around, the same hope on her face that I’d had. Then she told me to wait there. She ran back down the steps and I could see her at the bottom, staring up the road. She got out her phone and I watched her tap in some numbers, then listen, and then hiss to herself, before shoving it back in her bag.
‘Come on,’ she said, when she’d walked back up again. And she took my bags from me and loaded them into the boot.
It was on the far side of the stream – wedged under a big bit of wood. And I swear it was looking at me. I forgot about the sticks (and the poo). I stepped forward, trying to keep my eyes on it as I picked my way across the water on some of the bigger sto
nes. But Milly spotted me. She turned and followed my gaze. I sped up, but I wasn’t fast enough – of course. And she had Crocs on. All I could do was watch as she splashed through the water, not even caring that she was soaking me.
‘Hey!’ I shouted. ‘That’s mine!’
But Milly didn’t answer. Instead, she pushed the piece of wood aside and grabbed it. She shook it, drops of water fanning out into the stream. Then she squeezed it like a swimming costume before holding it out in front of her.
‘Dad!’ she cried. ‘Look what I found!’
‘YOU!?’ I tried to get to Milly then, but the stones were too slippery. My left foot went in the stream and my trainer filled up. ‘No WAY did you find it. I saw it first.’
‘Who says?’ Milly laughed, getting away from me, then running back on to the beach. ‘Anyway, I’ve got it now. That means it’s mine.’
‘It doesn’t!’ I screamed, not caring any more, just running right through the water towards her. ‘Dad, tell her!’
‘Tell her what?’ Mum said.
Mum was walking back from the bin. She looked down at my soaked feet, before raising her eyebrows at Dad. He shrugged so she turned to my lying thief of a sister instead.
‘What’s that?’ Mum said.
And the answer is as weird as WEIRD. You see, it wasn’t some amazing thing that Milly and I had raced each other for. It wasn’t a brand-new pack of pens, which I would have loved, or a rugby ball, which Milly would have adored. It wasn’t a ten-pound note or a bag of sweets, or the last Golden Ticket in the world.
No.
It was something small, and drenched, covered in mud and sand. Mum and Dad grimaced and Benji just said, ‘Yuck!’ And he was right. Even from where I was standing, it STANK. It must have been in the stream for ages. Most people would have been perfectly happy to leave it there.
But, for a reason I didn’t understand yet, I wanted it.
And so did Milly.
But Mum – well, she had other ideas.
‘Cym,’ Mum said, when we were both sitting in the car. ‘There’s really only one thing you can do when something like this happens.’
‘Is there?’ I said, not sure there was anything you could do. What could make up for not going to Barcelona with my dad when I’d been thinking about it for ages? I’d had my bag packed for weeks, and last night I’d been so excited that I hadn’t been able to sleep. I kept checking the alarm clock to see if it was time to get up yet.