Little Darlings

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘You’re crazy, Mum! He hit me. He was horrid. What is all this? Why aren’t you happy just being us? It sounds like you’re desperate to get a boyfriend again.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I just worry so. You need a proper family.’ Mum plays with a strand of her hair that’s come loose, winding it round and round her finger. ‘What do you think about visiting your grandma?’

  ‘Now I know you’ve gone totally bonkers!’ I say.

  Mum’s mum, my grandma, is a hateful old bag who kicked Mum out when she was expecting me. She doesn’t act like a real grandma at all. Last time we went to see her, she just gave us our tea and then she was off down the pub with her boyfriend, not the slightest bit interested in talking to Mum or me.

  ‘What was it Grandma said about me?’ I say, pretending to think. ‘Oh, I know – I was a cocky little madam and goodness knows why, because I was a gawky little kid with wonky teeth. Yeah, remember?’

  ‘That was awful of her – but she’d think you’re lovely now, Destiny. You’re growing up gorgeous,’ says Mum. ‘And she is family.’

  ‘I don’t want to be her family. We’re family, just you and me. Now shut up with all this daft stuff. I need you to help me with my homework.’

  ‘I’d love to help you, sweetheart, but you know I’m useless at literacy and maths and all that stuff.’

  ‘You’re a total Danny expert. You could get a flipping degree on Danny Kilman – so I want you to help me with his song. I’ve said I’ll sing Destiny at the stupid school concert. Can I practise with you?’

  ‘Oh, darling!’

  I’ve distracted her at last.

  ‘You’ve been picked to sing at a concert!’

  ‘We’ve all been picked, every single one of us in my class.’

  ‘But your teacher must think you’ve got a lovely voice – and you have.’

  ‘It’s not like anyone else’s voice though. Miss Belling at Latchford said I sounded overpowering, like I was trying to drown out all the others.’

  ‘Well, that’s just typical of that rubbish school. They can’t recognize talent when it’s right under their noses. Good for Bilefield! And how lovely to be singing your very own song! I’m so proud of you. Danny would be too. You’re a chip off the old block, darling.’

  6

  SUNSET

  I keep thinking about that girl Destiny. Could she really be my sister? Mum’s so angry about it, it’s almost as if she’s got something to hide.

  ‘Don’t you dare mention it to your father!’

  Well, I do dare. And I’ll tell him Mum slapped me round the face. I put my hand up to my cheek. The slap doesn’t hurt any more, it hasn’t left the slightest mark, but I can still feel it. Sometimes I think Mum hates me. And sometimes I hate her.

  I wait till late in the afternoon. I’m not daft – no one goes near my dad in the mornings, especially on Sundays. We all have a very late lunch. Sweetie and Ace babble away but I keep my lip buttoned tight. Mum’s not saying much either, but she keeps looking at me anxiously. She just picks at a tiny piece of chicken, nibble-nibble with her perfect teeth.

  I wait till she goes off with Claudia and Ace and Sweetie. Dad slopes off down to the pool with the Sunday papers. He’s not said much either. I’m not sure if he’s in a good mood or not. But I have a cunning plan. Destiny’s given me an idea.

  I go to the drinks cabinet and pour a whisky and soda just the way Dad likes it – lots of whisky with just a splash of soda, in one of the fancy crystal glasses. I tie a tea towel round my waist, put the whisky on a tray, and then carry it very carefully to the pool.

  Dad’s rifling through the tabloids, looking for photos from last night. Mum’s done that already, of course, but there’s no Danny Kilman pics at all, just lots of snaps of Milky Star.

  ‘What do you think of Milky Star, Sunset?’ he asks me, scratching his head.

  He hasn’t combed his hair properly and his bandanna has been tied on so carelessly I can see his scalp, weirdly pink under his very black hair. It makes me feel sad for him.

  ‘I didn’t reckon them much,’ I say, wrinkling my nose.

  ‘Yeah, can’t see what all the fuss is about myself,’ says Dad. ‘They’re so bland and boring, you can’t tell one from the other. Can you? Which one do you like best?’

  ‘I said, Dad, I didn’t really like any of them. I couldn’t tell which one was which,’ I fib. That’s the way to keep him in a good mood. You just repeat back everything he’s said, simply changing the words round a little.

  ‘What’s this then?’ says Dad, nodding at my tray and tea towel.

  ‘I’m Sunset, your cocktail waitress. Care for a drink, sir? My speciality is whisky and soda.’

  ‘Yes please, you funny little kid,’ says Dad.

  I serve him his drink and then sit down beside him. I kick off my flip-flops and dangle my feet in the pool.

  ‘It’s so great having you for my dad, Dad,’ I say, really sucking up to him.

  He smiles and sips his drink.

  ‘It’s great for Sweetie and Ace too,’ I continue, splashing my feet in the water. I pause. I wait till half the whisky has slipped down. ‘And I bet Danny Junior and Topaz are dead chuffed to have you as their dad too,’ I say.

  I don’t look at Dad. I keep on splashing. We don’t ever mention Dad’s first family. Dad had another wife, Ashleigh, long before Mum. I’ve never met her, but Danny Junior and Topaz used to come and stay with us sometimes, mostly before Sweetie was born. Danny Junior drank a lot and Topaz didn’t eat anything at all. They didn’t act like they wanted to be friends with me.

  Dad makes a grunting noise, not commenting further. He finishes his drink.

  ‘Let me get you another, sir. I am your ever-willing cocktail waitress,’ I gabble, and then charge back to the living room.

  Oh, shoot, Mum’s there – but she starts as guiltily as me. She’s checking something on her mobile. No, not hers – that’s little and pink. She’s checking Dad’s mobile. He’s left it with a pile of change and his car keys on the big coffee table. Mum’s clicking through all the messages. She nearly drops it when she sees me.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  She glares at me, suddenly focusing. ‘What have you got draped round your hips? It looks awful, showing off your tummy – take it off, Sunset. You’ve got no more sense of style than a monkey in the zoo.’

  I gibber and pretend to scratch under my arms, to show her I’m not a bit hurt – though I am.

  ‘It’s a tea towel! What in God’s name are you doing wearing one of my tea towels?’

  ‘It’s my apron, ma’am. I’m your friendly cocktail waitress. I’ve just been serving the gentleman by the poolside, but I’ll be right back to mix you a vodka and tonic – slimline naturally – or I have a very delicious dry white wine.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re ten years old. You’re not supposed to be messing around with alcohol.’

  ‘I’m not drinking it, I’m serving it. Ma’am.’

  ‘Well, stop serving it. It’s a stupid game.’

  ‘I have to serve the gentleman. He’s wanting his whisky.’

  Mum sighs. ‘Well, serve it then – and then go and amuse yourself sensibly. I don’t know what the matter is with you, Sunset. You’ve got your own plasma television, an Apple Mac, a Nintendo DS – I’d have given anything to have all this stuff when I was a kid – and yet all you do is play silly baby games or lock yourself in your wardrobe and mutter to yourself. I think you’re a bit simple in the head.’

  I pull a simple face at her, pour another whisky and soda in double-quick time, and get out of there. Dad is lying back on the lounger, his eyes closed. His mouth is turned down in an I-don’t-want-company manner, but I can’t give up now. I rattle the whisky glass and he opens his eye.

  ‘Your repeat order, sir,’ I say, holding out the tray.

  He sits up a little, shaking his head. ‘You’re a funny kid, Sunset,’ he says, taking the glass.

  ‘Yes, I know
I am,’ I say, squatting down by his feet. I take the tray and swivel it earnestly round and round so I don’t have to look him in the eye. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Dad, you know we were talking about all your kids?’

  ‘Were we?’

  ‘How many have you got?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many—’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for trick games, poppet.’

  He sounds very curt even though he’s called me poppet. But I have to persist now.

  ‘It’s not a trick question, Dad. How many kids have you got?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘All your children.’

  ‘OK, five then. You know I have.’

  ‘Yes, but are you quite sure you haven’t got one more?’ I say, my voice going husky now because my throat’s so dry.

  ‘One more?’

  ‘Because – because I met this girl, Destiny – you know, called after your song – and she says you’re her dad.’

  ‘Well, lots of kids have crushes on me, you know that,’ Dad says. ‘She’ll be pretending I’m her dad, bless her.’

  ‘No, she’s not pretending, she says it’s real. And her mum does too.’

  ‘So who’s this mum?’ Dad asks, taking a long swig of his whisky.

  ‘She’s called Kate Williams, a very thin dark lady, and she says she was your girlfriend before Mum, and Destiny is your daughter. Destiny is a little older than me and she looks a bit like me, but she’s dead cool – though guess what, Dad, she’s got my weird teeth—’

  ‘Give it a rest, Sunset, you’re burbling. You and your silly stories,’ says Dad, finishing his drink in one last gulp and thumping the glass on my tray.

  ‘But it’s not a story, Dad.’

  ‘Enough! Run away and play. And stop spouting nonsense, do you hear me?’

  I hear him all right. But I still don’t know. He hasn’t said yes, but he hasn’t said no. Though he’s clearly not going to talk about it any more. And Mum won’t either.

  It’s an awful afternoon. We have to go to tea with this famous tennis player who’s just moved to Robin Hill. He’s got a little girl of seven and she wants to play tennis with me. I don’t want to play in the slightest – I’m rubbish at most games – but Mum glares at me and tells me not to be a spoilsport. It’s a nightmare. She is as small as Sweetie but she’s brilliant at tennis, whereas I can hardly hit the ball over the net. I fall over and skin my knees and very nearly cry in front of everyone.

  Later on the tennis player and his wife have a match with Mum and Dad. Dad’s always gone on and on about his prowess at tennis but he’s pretty useless too, and he drops out after a few games, saying he’s hurt his ankle. Mum’s not played tennis much but she’s quite good at it, nipping briskly around the court. The tennis player starts giving her a few tips, holding her arm and her back, teaching her how to improve her serve. Dad watches with a sour expression – and when we go home at long last he starts sounding off about Mum flirting.

  Mum just laughs at first and tells him he’s being silly – but Dad gets really mad at her. Then Mum suddenly loses it and says something about his secret texting – and then they really start. Claudia hustles Sweetie and Ace away quickly and gets them ready for bed. I slope off to Wardrobe City and try not to listen to the big argument. It doesn’t sound as if anyone’s going to come and say goodnight. Claudia pokes her head round the door about ten.

  ‘Aren’t you in bed yet, Sunset?’

  She doesn’t tell me what to do because she’s not my nanny, I’m too old to need one. Claudia’s only been with us a few months. She’s not foreign like most of the others, and she’s very posh. She talks like people in an old-fashioned film. She looks old-fashioned too: she wears a black velvet Alice band to stop her straight mousy hair falling in her eyes and she has very crisp white shirts and irons her jeans. I heard Mum and Dad giggling about her once, taking off her accent. They’re not giggling now. They’re shouting at the tops of their voices so you can hear them clearly in my bedroom. They’re calling each other all kinds of things. Claudia is pink in the face and her eyes don’t quite meet mine.

  ‘Night-night then, Sunset,’ she says.

  ‘Night, Claudia.’

  She pauses. Dad bellows something and then the front door slams. Mum yells something after him and then starts sobbing. I hear the car rev up and drive away.

  ‘I’m sure everything will be hunky-dory in the morning,’ Claudia says softly.

  ‘Mmm.’

  She hesitates, then comes right up to me in the wardrobe and gives my shoulder a quick pat. I freeze because I don’t like anyone coming near me when I’m in Wardrobe City. All my people freeze too. They can never show they’re real when strangers stare. And now I’m getting older and a little bit ashamed of playing pretend games, they won’t become real even when the strangers go. I am abandoned outside the city wall with a handful of shabby little ornaments and worn-out toys.

  Claudia doesn’t understand. ‘Night-night,’ she repeats dolefully, and backs out of my room.

  Oh dear, now she’ll think I don’t like her. No one really likes poor Claudia, not even Sweetie and Ace. We should be friends, because no one really likes me either.

  I sit back on my heels and shut my eyes tight so that I don’t start crying. I can still hear Mum. Maybe it’s all my fault this time. I heard her shrieking something about a girl. Perhaps she feels dreadful that Dad has another daughter. Maybe I should have shut up about her.

  But I can’t help thinking about Destiny. I wish I knew her email address. I need to tell her mum that I kept my promise. I did tell Dad. I want to email Destiny. It’s not just because she might be my sister. I want her to be my friend.

  I go out in the garden early next morning in the mad hope that they might have come back, but there’s no one there. It suddenly feels so lonely standing all by myself in our huge garden.

  I go to check the garage. Dad’s car is still missing. I wrap my arms around myself. I can feel my heart thumping. Dad’s gone, and maybe it’s all my fault.

  Mum doesn’t come down to breakfast either, but I know she’s here. I try going into her bedroom but she shouts at me to go away. She’s got her head under the duvet so I can’t see her, but it sounds as if she’s still crying.

  I don’t think Sweetie and Ace know that Dad’s still out, but they can guess something’s wrong. Sweetie is extra whiney and won’t eat her yoghurt and banana, and cries when Claudia tries to brush her hair.

  ‘It hurts, it hurts! I want Mummy to do it, and I hate horrid plaits anyway,’ she moans, sticking her lower lip out.

  ‘Mummy’s not feeling too good, Sweetie. Do keep still. You know you have to have plaits at school,’ Claudia says, trying her best. ‘Ace, you need your hair brushed too. It’s sticking up all over the place.’

  ‘I’m Tigerman and I never never never get my hair brushed,’ he says. He reaches for his juice, not quite watching what he’s doing, and spills orange all down his white T-shirt.

  ‘Oh, Ace, now I’ll have to get you changed all over again,’ says Claudia.

  ‘I’m Tigerman and I never never never get changed. I don’t wear clothes at all, I just have my stripy skin,’ Ace declares. He pulls off his T-shirt, his shorts, even his underpants, and runs around naked, growling.

  Claudia looks as if she’s about to burst into tears.

  ‘Come here, Tigerman. You’re just my little cub and I’m the great big Daddy Tiger, and you have to do as I say or I’ll smack you with my giant paw,’ I say. I catch him and lift him up and blow a raspberry on his tummy so that he squeals with helpless laughter.

  I carry him off and sponge all the sticky juice off him and stuff him into clean clothes, keeping him happy by starting up a tiger-roaring contest, seeing which of us can roar the loudest.

  ‘For God’s sake, stop that ridiculous noise, you’re giving me a headache,’ says Margaret, the housekeeper, going downstairs with a breakfast tray. ‘
You kids are the giddy limit. No wonder your mum’s taken to her bed with a migraine. You should be ashamed of yourself, Sunset, a great girl like you playing silly games and egging your brother on when you should be getting ready for school.’

  It’s so unfair that my eyes prick with tears.

  ‘Now now, don’t turn on the waterworks,’ says Margaret, pushing past us.

  Margaret can be really mean sometimes. She likes Sweetie best – she’s always making her special fairy cakes and chocolate cookies, and letting her lick out the bowl. Sweetie plays up to this and cuddles up to Margaret and says sickening stuff like, ‘Oh, Margaret, I do love you. You’re the best lady in the world next to my mummy.’

  I get lumbered taking Sweetie into the Infants while Claudia drags Ace into the Nursery. All the kids smile and wave and call to Sweetie the moment they spot her, but she hangs back, clutching my arm.

  ‘What?’ I say irritably.

  ‘Mum and Dad were quarrelling again,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Sunset . . . do you think they’re going to split up?’

  My tummy lurches. I wish she hadn’t put it into words.

  ‘Of course not, Sweetie. All mums and dads quarrel,’ I say, trying to sound very grown up and certain. ‘You mustn’t worry about it.’

  ‘But Daddy hasn’t come back. I went into Mum and Dad’s room when I woke up and he wasn’t there,’ Sweetie wails.

  ‘He just had to go to this club to see some of his friends,’ I suggest. ‘You know what Dad’s like with his music mates – they stay out till all hours.’

  I’m trying to convince myself as much as Sweetie. She’s still frowning at me, biting her lip. Her hair’s lopsided and straggly because Claudia hasn’t got the knack of plaits, and she’s got a rim of orange juice round her mouth. She still manages to look breathtakingly pretty.

  ‘Come here,’ I say, spitting on a tissue and scrubbing at her.

  ‘Leave off!’ she says, struggling, but when I’ve wiped off most of the orange she leans against me. ‘Sunset, if Mum and Dad split up—’

  ‘I said, they’re not going to.’