‘This is what I’ve always dreamed about!’ says Mum, her eyes scanning the letter. ‘Oh, Destiny, she’s tried to tell Danny, she’s going to try again. Oh, bless the child.’
‘There! Isn’t it a friendly letter? That stupid Louella was going on about us not having any friends. She doesn’t have famous celebrities who are friends and relations. Only I want you to keep in with her for Friday the eighteenth of July just to cover you if you need to work late at all – and I hope you can get out of your shift at the Dog and Fox too – because you have a very important date, Kate Williams.’
‘Do I? What?’
‘You are coming to Bilefield’s Got Talent – and guess who is going to be top of the bill? Mr Roberts’s new singing sensation – me!’
I grab the hairbrush and start singing Destiny, putting my heart and soul into it. Mum watches, hands clenched, mouthing the words along with me. When I’ve finished she bursts into tears.
‘Mum? I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
‘You were wonderful, but I shouldn’t tell you that, you’ll get big-headed.’
‘No, no, tell me heaps of stuff. I want to feel great! Do you think I’ve got a chance of winning then?’
‘If you don’t win I’ll want to know the reason why!’ says Mum. ‘Now, I’d better get the supper on. I’ll whizz the vacuum round too – Louella pointed out the carpet was all over fluff.’
‘Louella! Look, I’ll do the vacuuming if we really have to.’
‘No, you get your homework done – and you’ll need to write a really nice thank-you letter to Sunset. I can’t get over her sending you her jacket.’ Mum holds it up admiringly. ‘It’s a real beauty, isn’t it? Imagine what it would fetch on eBay. Sunset Kilman’s very own jacket.’
‘Mum, we’re not putting it on eBay, it’s mine.’
‘Better not wear it on the estate, pet. One of them kids will nick it off you as soon as look at you.’
‘I won’t wear it outdoors, I’m not daft. I’ll wear it indoors. Like right now!’
I slip it on and then write my letter to Sunset.
Dear Sunset,
Thank you very very very much for the leather
jacket. I absolutely LOVE it. I can’t believe you
could just parcel it up and send it to me. It fits
me just perfectly too.
It was good of you to try so hard to ask your
dad – our dad! – about me. I expect it’s an
awkward embarrassing subject for him. It
obviously is for your mum! I’m sorry she got so
cross. I hope she’s OK now.
Hey, Sunset, you’ll never guess what. I’m
going to be in this crazy end-of-term talent
contest, Bilefield’s Got Talent – you know, like
the TV show – and I’m going to be singing my
very own namesake song, ‘Destiny’. I don’t want
to boast but my teacher Mr Roberts thinks I’m
very good at singing. I suppose that IS boasting
a bit – sorry. Do you like singing?
I know you said you like art and English best
at school (me too). What sort of school do you go
to? I expect it’s a really posh private one with
lots of famous pupils. What’s it LIKE, being
famous?
Love and lots more thank yous,
Destiny
P.S. I don’t have an email address as I don’t
have a computer. I love your notepaper with all
the teddies. I have two teddies on my duvet and,
don’t tell anyone, but I used to play silly games
with them.
I get my felt tips and doodle all around my name, drawing a little sun on one side and a cloud with raindrops on the other. Then I carefully draw a rainbow arching through my name. I hope she thinks it looks pretty. I wonder if she will write back? I add another P.S.:
It would be great if you wrote back to me.
Maybe we could be penfriends?
8
SUNSET
Dear Destiny,
I’m so pleased you like the jacket. I knew it would look fantastic on you.
I promise I will try talking to Dad again – but he’s been in a very bad mood recently for several different reasons and I daren’t say anything at all just yet.
It’s great that you’re going to be in a talent contest. I have never taken part in one, on account of the fact that I have no talent. I am useless at singing. I sound like an old frog croaking.
I suppose my school IS sort of posh. You have to pay lots of money to go there. I would pay lots of money NOT to go there. I hate my school. It is very progressive. That means there aren’t any rules and you are encouraged to express yourself. I wish I went to a REGRESSIVE school, with heaps of rules, where no one’s allowed to argue back. There are a few famous pupils. Well, they’re famous because their mums or dads are famous, like footballers or film stars – or rock stars, like our dad. So I suppose that makes me a little bit famous, like you said. It’s horrible. I can’t ever be just an ordinary girl, I always have to be with the whole family, and people always notice us and come up and say stuff and take pictures with their mobile phones. The proper photographers are worse, always yelling at you to smile, and you have to make sure you’re dressed up and look cool. Only I am the exact opposite of cool, worse luck. Sometimes I would give anything not to have a famous dad.
Let’s definitely be penfriends – that would be absolutely fantastic.
Love from Sunset
One of the reasons Dad is in such a very, very bad mood is he’s worried he’s not famous any more. Well, he is – there’s this two-page article in one of the big newspapers. Rose-May fixed up the interview, a proper one. Dad’s thrilled and thinks it’s gone really well, and he even gets up early on Saturday to read it – and then he nearly hits the roof.
We don’t know what’s going on. Dad’s ranting and Mum starts crying, and there are all these telephone calls, and then Rose-May comes rushing round and tries to calm them down.
‘What’s wrong now, Sunset?’ Sweetie asks. She’s in a bad mood too, because Mum’s supposed to be taking her out this morning to buy a party dress for her sixth birthday and now it looks as if the shopping trip’s postponed.
‘I think someone’s written something really bad about Dad,’ I say.
‘What, like they’ve called him bad names?’ Sweetie asks.
‘They’ve called him Bum and Poo and Knickers!’ Ace says, naming all the bad words he can think of and giggling hysterically.
‘Shut up, silly little peanut,’ I say, picking him up.
He flings himself about wildly, spluttering the same stupid words over and over again.
Sweetie looks at him coldly. ‘Isn’t he a baby?’ she says.
‘Yes, a tiny baby, and if he doesn’t calm down this instant we shall put him in a nappy and stuff him in a cradle,’ I say.
‘I’m not a baby. I’m Tigerman,’ Ace says, struggling. ‘I want my Tigerman outfit!’
I let him wriggle free and he runs off to plague Claudia to dress him in his stupid costume. Sweetie sighs and raises her eyebrows.
‘I lots of times don’t really like Ace,’ she says.
I don’t always like Sweetie, but I smile at her sympathetically. She’s listening to the row downstairs.
‘I can’t hear what Mum’s saying,’ she says. ‘Can’t she take me shopping and let Dad and Rose-May do the shouting? I don’t want Claudia to take me. She likes all those silly little baby dresses – yuck! I want something bee-yoo-tiful and cool.’
‘You have a knack of making most things beautiful and cool,’ I say, sighing. ‘Don’t worry, Sweetie. I happen to know Rose-May’s fixed up Hi! Magazine to come and take photos of your party, so they’ll want to make sure your dress is absolutely perfect. I think Mum will take you shopping tomorrow, you wait and see.’
Sweetie sighs and starts p
icking the varnish off her nails.
‘Don’t do that, you’re messing it up.’
‘It’s messed up already. Will you take it off properly, Sunset, and paint my nails a new colour? And then put little daisies on, like the lady who does Mum’s nails?’
I give it a go, raiding Mum’s bedroom for her varnish and remover. I try my best, trying to keep Sweetie happy. I think I make quite a good job of it, painting her stubby little nails silver and then putting a dab of red on each one that looks like a rose – sort of. But Sweetie’s very hard to please.
‘You’re doing it all wrong, Sunset. It’s all gone blobby and smudgy!’ she wails.
‘Well, of course it’ll smudge if you won’t keep still and wave your hands about like that,’ I say.
‘I’m going to get Claudia to do it properly,’ says Sweetie, though we both know that Claudia thinks any kind of nail varnish on little girls is an awful idea.
I flop on my bed, wishing I had Destiny with me as my real sister. I wonder if I dare tell her about Wardrobe City. I’m sure she’d laugh her head off – though she did say she loved my doll’s house.
I get up again and peer in at Wardrobe City. I badly want to join all my people. I imagine them behind the walls, chatting away – but when I open up the doll’s house they are suddenly silent, morphing into chipped and grubby toys with unblinking beady eyes.
‘Please come alive. Let me play too,’ I whisper, but they don’t so much as twitch.
I kneel there, biting my lip. ‘I’ll make you play,’ I say, and I drag little Mrs Furry out of her soft bed. ‘Come on, it’s time you were up. We’ll give you a quick wash. Hold out your paws. And hang on, we’d better spruce up your whiskers.’
She stays limp in my palm and my voice sounds silly and self-conscious. It’s no use. I hide her back under her bedcovers and slam the doll’s house shut.
I feel like crying. Why can’t I believe it any more? I know I’m too old, but I don’t want to be. I want to be little and cute like Sweetie, and free to play imaginary games all day long. Though the only game she really likes playing is pretending to be grown up, laughing and pouting and standing with her hands on her hips, as if she’s permanently strutting down a red carpet.
I hear Ace roaring in the playroom. At least he’s happy being Tigerman. Dad is still doing his own roaring downstairs. Whatever can they have written about him?
My heart starts banging. Could Destiny and her mum have gone to the papers and told them that Dad is her father?
I’ve got to find out. Dad and Mum and Rose-May are all shouting in the big living room. I know better than to go in there.
I put my head round the kitchen door. Margaret is making coffee and arranging a plate of her home-made shortbread.
‘Oh, Margaret, I love your shortbread,’ I say, staring wistfully at the plate.
‘Your mum says I mustn’t give you any more snacks. She doesn’t want you turning out tubby,’ says Margaret – but she winks and pops a big wedge of shortbread into my open mouth.
I munch happily, unable to speak for several seconds.
‘There! I hope my shortbread will shut them up too when I serve it. Going at it hammer and tongs, they are. What a fuss about a silly newspaper article. I didn’t think it was anything to get het up about.’
‘Have you got a copy of the paper, Margaret?’
‘I did – but His Lordship came and ripped it to shreds, would you believe! As if that’s going to help! And even if he rips up every copy he can find, it’s still posted on the Internet, as any fool knows. And I hadn’t even read half of the paper – and John always likes to do the crossword. Ha! There’s been enough cross words just recently to last us a lifetime. I’ve had about enough of it.’
‘Oh, don’t leave, Margaret, please,’ I beg – though all the staff leave sooner or later.
She gives me a wry little smile. ‘It’s you kids I feel sorry for,’ she says.
That makes me shiver. Margaret sees, and looks anxious.
‘Here, have another shortbread, pet,’ she says. ‘Now, you run along. Steer well clear of your mum and dad. I wish I could steer clear of them – and that Rose-May.’
I go out of the kitchen, mouth full of shortbread. I go back to my bedroom and switch on my computer. I type in Dad’s name and the newspaper – and Margaret’s right, there’s the article! There’s a headline in big letters: LAST DINOSAUR OF ROCK ’N’ ROLL. I see a cartoon drawing of Dad as a dinosaur with a long wrinkled neck and a bandanna round a tiny reptilian head.
I start to read the article but it’s quite difficult and boring, analysing the music scene, and going on about Dad way back at the start of his career, when the journalist was a big fan. But then it talks about him being a parody of himself nowadays, unwise enough to collude with the Milky Star film-makers. The journalist wonders if it was overwhelming vanity or simple stupidity that made Kilman make such a fool of himself. He talks about Dad’s looks: his many wrinkles, his puny arms, his pot belly, his ridiculous bandanna failing to hide his receding hairline – on and on, relentlessly.
Then it talks about Dad’s love life – his first family and his string of girlfriends. I pore over this part, looking for the name Kate Williams, but she’s not mentioned. So many other women are though. Then, after many paragraphs, he starts writing about Mum, calling her the Page Three Popsie, not scared to show her claws if any other deluded girls start fawning over Danny.
So now the senile rock star has ceased his strutting. It’s many years since we’ve heard that once-great gravel voice. Now he plays Happy Families in Hi! Magazine with his kitten wife and three unfortunate kids with the standard outlandish names of celebrity offspring – Danny Kilman, the last dinosaur of Rock ’n’ Roll.
I shut the page quickly and sit rocking in my chair, trying to make sense of it all. Why does the journalist hate Dad so much? Is he really a laughing stock? I always thought everyone adored my dad, but now everything’s turned upside down. And why does he call Sweetie and Ace and me unfortunate?
The row goes on for most of the day. I creep downstairs every now and then to listen. Rose-May can usually calm Dad down but he’s mad at her this time, shouting that it’s all her fault.
‘You’d better watch it, Danny,’ Rose-May says. ‘You can only push me so far.’
‘Oh yeah? You’re the one who’d better watch it. I could just get myself a new manager,’ Dad yells.
‘What makes you think anyone else would take you on?’ Rose-May shouts, and she slams out of the room.
Then the row gets worse because it’s just Mum and Dad. It rumbles on and off throughout the evening. Then there’s a shouting match in the hall because Dad’s going out again.
‘Where are you going, Danny? You’re going to see her, aren’t you?’ Mum shrieks.
‘Shut up, you jealous cow,’ Dad says.
‘Why should I be jealous of you? You’re the sad old fart that’s past it,’ Mum yells.
There’s a horrible slapping sound. I don’t know if it’s Dad hitting Mum or Mum hitting Dad. Maybe they’re fighting each other. I’m sitting with Claudia and Sweetie and Ace now, and she’s trying to make us play a silly old game called Snakes and Ladders, but none of us can concentrate. We hear the shouting, we hear the slap, and we sit frozen, as if the snakes have wriggled right off the board and are writhing towards us, their forked tongues flickering.
‘You needn’t think I’ll wait in for you, sobbing my heart out,’ Mum cries. ‘I don’t give a stuff any more. I’m going out and having fun.’
We hear her rushing up to her bedroom and then clopping back downstairs in high heels.
They both slam out and drive off in separate cars.
‘This is the absolute pits!’ says Claudia, shaking her head.
‘I want Mummy,’ says Sweetie.
‘She’s obviously gone out,’ says Claudia.
‘But she didn’t say goodbye. I want to go with Mummy! I want her to buy me my party dress! I want to g
o to the shops!’ Sweetie cries, distraught.
She tries to run into the hall but Claudia takes hold of her.
‘Don’t be silly, Sweetie. The shops will all be closed now,’ she says, struggling with her. ‘Come on, let’s carry on playing Snakes and Ladders. Whose go is it to throw the dice?’
‘I don’t like Snakes and Ladders,’ says Ace. ‘The snakes are all staring at me. I’m Tigerman and I’m going to bite them into bits.’
He snatches up the board, spilling counters everywhere, and crams the edge into his mouth, biting hard – and then bursts into tears, because of course it hurts. Claudia tries to calm him. I try cuddling him, but he wriggles and screams. Sweetie is wailing for Mummy, so Ace yells that he wants Daddy Tigerman.
‘Oh Lordy,’ says Claudia. ‘Look, it’s no use going on at me. I want your mummy and daddy to come back. This happens to be my night off and I had plans to go out. I get a Saturday night off once in a blue moon, but they didn’t even think of that when they both stormed out. They could have just asked me. It’s so unfair.’ She looks as if she’s about to burst into tears herself.
‘Never mind, Claudia. You go out. Sweetie and Ace will be just fine with me,’ I say, patting her shoulder. ‘I’ll be the babysitter.’
‘Oh, Sunset, don’t be silly. You’re much too young.’
‘I’m not silly.’ I was only trying to help – and I can control Sweetie and Ace better than she can.
But she’s intent on being a martyr so I let her get on with the long tedious job of getting each child quiet, bathed, and into their own beds. I retire wounded to my room. I don’t try to go to Wardrobe City. I sit on the end of my bed muttering, ‘Why do they have to shout and cry all the time? Why do they, all of them – Dad, Mum, Sweetie, Ace, Claudia. Why can’t they all shut up and leave me in peace?’
The mutter turns into a rhythm. I start whispering it over and over. Then I fetch a piece of my teddy-bear notepaper and try to write it down. I work out the words in a flash and sing them to myself until they make the right tune. I don’t know how to write music but I put little arrows under the words, showing where the tune goes up and where it goes down, so that I’ll remember it.
Little Darlings Page 12