All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart

by Caroline Hulse

  12

  Sometimes, I’d prefer it if people didn’t listen to me.

  (paradox)

  Twenty-seven days to the fair

  I didn’t get twenty-five quid for all the magazines. I only got the cover price for the film magazine, and only a fiver for Readers’ Wives. I reckon if the boy who’d bought it had been able to see inside, I wouldn’t have got that.

  But – one hundred and twelve pounds. That was more money than I’d ever had in my life. That was fifty-six goes on the Waltzers.

  Fifty-two goes, if you threw in popcorn and candyfloss. Which I definitely would, thank you very much. When I finally got to the fair, I would be doing it in style.

  While Mum and Dad watched the England–Spain game downstairs, I opened the jewellery box where I keep my hair bobbles. The ballerina turned, the plink-plonk music played, and I tucked my money in the pouch at the back. I shut the box with a snap.

  I ignored all Mum and Dad’s shouts to come downstairs, even Mum’s, ‘Penalties! Fi, surely you want to come down for the penalties?’

  There were roars from downstairs and I could guess the result, even before Dad shouted up, ‘Semi-finals, Fi! We’re in the semi-finals!’

  I came downstairs to find out who’d scored what, and Dad and Mum had their arms round each other. They danced around the lounge to ‘We Are the Champions’ like they were dancing round Blackpool Tower ballroom, and I knew school was going to be awful all week, again.

  While our teatime baked potatoes were in the oven, Mum and Dad decided to use the time usefully, so their good moods were over pretty quickly.

  I eavesdropped on my quarry at the garage door. Just practising really. I didn’t expect to hear anything good.

  And I didn’t.

  Mum and Dad had been meaning to paint the hallway for as long as I can remember. This was as far as they got – occasionally checking if the paint in the garage has gone hard. And, for some reason, because they hate painting so much, that means they both had do it, which doesn’t make sense, but that’s my mum and dad for you.

  ‘What, really?’ Mum’s voice went high. ‘Fiona made more money than you?’

  ‘Don’t start, Gail.’

  ‘I’m not starting. I just knew I should have gone. Did you sell any ironing board covers?’

  ‘She seemed really popular with the older boys, Gail.’ I heard the sound of shuffling feet and clanging tins. ‘We don’t need to be worried, do we?’

  The clanging stopped.

  ‘Of course not,’ Mum said eventually. ‘She’s eleven, Jonathan. We’re not there yet.’

  I wondered where there was.

  Didn’t matter. I wanted to go now.

  More shuffling and clanging.

  ‘Do you think that one’s OK?’ Mum said. ‘Poke it. No, harder. Break the crust.’

  There was a crispy noise, like slicing through burnt toast.

  ‘I reckon it’ll do,’ Dad said. ‘So long as we give it a good stir.’

  I heard the sound of the lid going back on the tin.

  ‘OK, so that’s paint sorted.’ Mum said it like she’d run a marathon. ‘Now, where on God’s earth did we put the Polyfilla?’

  Half an hour later, the three of us sat eating jacket potatoes at the peninsula.

  Dad sliced into his potato. ‘I’ve been hearing you get good stuff to sell on at dead people’s auctions. So maybe I’ll do that for the next car boot sale.’

  ‘Sounds like you need to.’

  ‘Don’t start, Gail.’

  ‘I’m not starting, just saying.’

  I watched Dad chase a baked bean round his plate sadly. I was almost pleased it was the football the next day.

  It didn’t help that when he finished eating before us, he went to the Cupboard of Office Things.

  ‘Bloody hell, Gail, why are we always, always, out of stamps?’

  And then Mum and Dad had a big back-and-forth about why each other would have taken the last stamp without saying something, and I cut a big piece of potato and shoved it in my mouth and made myself eat it, even though it was way too hot.

  After tea, Mum and I were in the car, on the way to the big out-of-town shopping centre to get new school shoes. So I was surprised when she pulled up at the precinct.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I asked.

  ‘While I remember. To shut your father up.’

  I followed her till I saw where we were going – Paper Rack – and slowed. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. And you can dawdle on your own time, Fiona.’

  I zigzagged across the car park after her. ‘Dawdle on your own time, Fi,’ I muttered.

  I passed some older kids gathered round a car with its doors open, rave music pumping. Two of the kids were swapping tapes, but I wasn’t as impressed by older kids these days – not since I realised some of them couldn’t even get their own porn.

  And – tapes. Not even CDs.

  Being older was wasted on some of these kids.

  I followed Mum into Paper Rack and she went right up to the bald man at the counter.

  ‘One book of six first and one of six second-class stamps, please. And I’ll pay the paper bill while I’m here.’

  The newsagent looked down at me.

  I shuffled a little under his gaze.

  ‘Larson, fourteen Archer’s Way,’ Mum added.

  The newsagent jerked his head at me. ‘This one yours?’

  ‘For my sins.’

  The man looked at me for a bit longer.

  I stood up straight and did my best smile.

  Mum looked at me and back at the man, her smile bright.

  ‘That’ll be twenty pounds forty,’ he said finally.

  Mum did a giggly laugh, being friendly enough for two. ‘Now, my purse.’ She started getting things out of her handbag and clanging them onto the counter – hairbrush, car keys, spotty umbrella. ‘Hang on – sorry.’ Mum always made up for strangers’ rudeness by being overly, fussily nice. Unless she gets angry and decides to eyeball them back – you never quite know what you’re getting with my mum. That’s why she’s so hard to live with.

  When we hurried out of the shop, Mum put the stamps in her purse. ‘I’m not sure I like that man.’

  I walked quickly past the car with rave tunes. ‘I don’t think I do, either.’

  We got back in the car and set off for the shopping centre.

  ‘Can I listen to the news?’ I said. ‘I want to find out the latest in Bosnia.’

  ‘Too depressing.’ Mum flicked an indicator. ‘So, Fi, you sold more than your father at the car boot today.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Your father’s too nice, that’s his problem. How much did you make?’

  ‘Eighteen pounds,’ I lied quickly. ‘But I’m saving it.’

  ‘Wow!’ Mum looked genuinely proud. I felt a stab of something, knowing I’d have to write this on another Scar list someday.

  Sometimes I really wish I didn’t have such a good memory for the bad stuff I’ve done.

  Mum shoved the middle of the steering wheel. The horn screeched.

  ‘Oh, COME ON!’ Mum threw her hand up. ‘Yes, you may well wave. Apology not accepted.’

  Mum sighed. She moved her head from one side to another, like she was stretching her neck, and kept driving.

  We pulled up at the big out-of-town shopping centre and Mum bought my new shoes. She let me carry the bag and I banged it against my leg as we walked back to the car.

  I saw a man who looked familiar, in the walkway by one of those stalls with a big awning. Those stalls that sell soft cookies and ice cream. The good stalls.

  Was that Mr Kellett?

  But the man stepped to the side and I realised it couldn’t be Mr Kellett after all because he w
as holding hands with another man.

  But then the Mr Kellett man dropped the other man’s hand and turned so he was fully facing me – and it was definitely Mr Kellett. And he’d been smiling and chatting to the other man before, but now he wasn’t. He was staring at me, and standing completely still.

  The other man turned around with two cookies, and he handed one to Mr Kellett.

  Mr Kellett took it without saying thank you.

  And then I smiled, realising what I’d seen. The men weren’t holding hands. What I’d seen was Mr Kellett giving the other man money to buy him a cookie.

  I waved.

  After a second, Mr Kellett waved back. His friend looked from him to me, then turned to look at something in a shop window.

  ‘Dawdling again, my little sales pro?’ Mum said.

  ‘Just thinking.’ I tugged on the sleeve of Mum’s coat. ‘Can I have one of those big cookies?’

  ‘No.’

  I followed Mum towards the exit. And I was so busy thinking about how much I wanted one of those cookies, and how big and soft and melty they looked, I forgot to even mention I’d seen Mr Kellett.

  ‘How about next time?’ I said in the car, nearly home.

  ‘We’ll see next time,’ Mum said.

  ‘It’s just they’re really soft.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about cookies anymore, Fiona.’

  We took a left down George Street. I pointed out of the window. ‘That’s our lamppost. Where I meet Lewis and Sean to walk to school.’

  Mum didn’t say anything.

  I pointed at the postbox. ‘We always cross the street here. And on the way back, we cross there.’ I looked at the house in between. ‘Did an axeman live at that house, Mum?’ I pointed. ‘The one back there. Fifty-six George Street.’

  Mum didn’t answer for a few moments. ‘An axeman? What do you mean?’

  ‘A man with an axe. Sean said a man lived there who cut off his brothers’ heads and arms and legs and . . .’ I stopped before saying and they found a foot with a flipflop in with the bananas at the Co-op.

  Mum stared straight ahead. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say.’

  ‘If there was an axeman there, you would have heard, wouldn’t you?’

  She looked at me, finally. ‘Of course we would have heard.’

  ‘But we don’t walk in front of that house, we always cross the street before it. I think I don’t because you don’t and—’

  ‘But I do walk in front of that house.’

  I blinked. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I walk in front of it exactly as much as any other house. You kids! Making up stories, based on silly little things like where people cross the road! With your imaginations, you could drive people crazy, you know?’ Mum shook her head and turned to face me. ‘Of course it won’t be true about the man with an axe. You think something like that could have happened, here, in Monkford, and the only person who knows about it is a twelve-year-old kid called Sean?’

  She gave me a tight smile and turned back to face the road.

  We reached our road and Mum parked up in the drive. I thought the conversation was over, but she said, ‘There’s been no axe killings in Monkford and I don’t give any of this a second thought. We don’t want you having nightmares.’

  She patted me on the shoulder and got out of the car.

  I unclipped my seatbelt and got out of the car slowly. I followed Mum into the house, questions popping like fireworks.

  Because Mum didn’t walk in front of that house. And how was I meant to forget that?

  I know Mum wants me to be like her. She doesn’t notice things if she doesn’t want to notice. If she gets a scab, she puts a plaster over it straight away.

  But if I get a scab, I pick it off and roll it up and wait for the skin to scab up again. Then I pick it again, and pick deeper.

  Even if the area keeps bleeding. Even if my skin hurts.

  13

  When I try to make myself look older, it does the opposite.

  (paradox)

  Twenty-seven days to the fair

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ Lewis gave himself a hug. ‘I don’t want to think about the axeman. It’s not true, and it’s horrible. So let’s talk about something else. About how we’re going to be so popular now you’ve sold all those magazines. The best kids in school.’

  I smiled at him. I’d never dared even dream of us being the best kids at school. But that was before. Before the car boot sale.

  The two of us sat on his bed that evening, the Scrabble board between us. Scrabble wasn’t my first choice for a Saturday night, particularly a Saturday night when I’d made a hundred and twelve pounds – but I’d left The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™ at home, and I really didn’t want Lewis to get out his book of magic tricks.

  I looked at my tiles. XJYAPCB. ‘Have you made your secret spy pocket yet?’

  He moved one tile to a different place on the rack. He shook his head.

  I put X down on a triple letter score in front of the letter I.

  Lewis stared at me.

  ‘Xi’s a word.’ I pronounced it ‘chee’ like Grandma did.

  ‘Xi?’

  ‘Xi.’

  ‘It’s not a word.’

  ‘It is! Go and get your Scrabble dictionary, I’ll prove it.’

  ‘We don’t have a Scrabble dictionary.’

  ‘I promise, I’ve seen it in the Scrabble dictionary with my own eyes.’

  ‘What does it mean then?’

  I jumped up. ‘Let’s ask your parents.’

  I ran down the stairs, Lewis following. Lewis’s parents were sitting, one on each sofa, watching telly.

  ‘Mrs Harris, will you tell Lewis xi is a real word for Scrabble?’

  ‘Chi? Short for cheese? I don’t know.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘You kids know more than me.’

  ‘Your mother’s rubbish with word things,’ Lewis’s dad said, reaching for the remote control. ‘No point asking her.’

  Lewis’s mum laughed again, like she always did when he was being mean about her. Sometimes she didn’t even need Lewis’s dad to be mean, she did it to herself. What a mess I look today! Oh, this old thing? Oh, I’m sorry it’s a little overdone, I’m a hopeless cook.

  I turned to Lewis’s dad. ‘Do you know xi then? If you’re better at words?’

  ‘It’s not a real word. And you need to be careful with that cheek.’ He turned back to the telly.

  ‘Can we phone my grandma, then? She’ll tell you.’

  ‘Give it up, little girl.’ Lewis’s dad switched the volume up. ‘Quit when you’re behind.’

  I looked at Lewis. He begged me with his eyes not to say any more, so I walked upstairs.

  ‘Leave that bedroom door open,’ Lewis’s mum said.

  ‘No harm if the boy’s feeling red-blooded, Lisa.’

  I shut the door and sat on the bed again.

  Lewis looked at the letters on his rack. ‘You shouldn’t be cheeky to him.’

  ‘Your dad doesn’t know anything, so I don’t know why he always calls your mum stupid. I would never let anyone call me stupid like that.’

  I left a gap. Lewis was always letting his dad say that about him.

  ‘I don’t believe xi’s a word,’ Lewis said quietly. ‘Dad says it isn’t.’

  ‘I promise it’s in the Scrabble dictionary. I’ll bring it in to school with me on Monday.’

  I counted up the score in both directions, including the triple letter score, and wrote 38 on the score sheet.

  I picked out a new letter from the bag. T.

  I shook my head at how unlucky I was and put it on my letter rack. ‘Why does your mum want us to keep the door open? She thinks we’re going to be kissing? Or having sex? She’s crazy.’
>
  Lewis punched me lightly on the arm. ‘I don’t want to kiss you.’

  ‘I know.’ I shook my head. ‘Maybe your dad’s right after all.’ I moved my letters around. ‘Maybe your mum is stupid.’

  The next day was Sunday and Mum and Dad were both around, so I used the time first thing in the morning to write letters. And the good thing was, we had stamps again.

  I applied for a job at the dog rescue centre, one at the laundrette and one at the chicken farm, though I almost hoped I didn’t get that one. The advert said you needed a strong stomach, and I thought I did – but I really didn’t want to have to find out.

  Later, I helped Mum and Dad do the gardening. Dad was trimming the bushes with his big clippers while Mum weeded the flower beds.

  My job was deadheading the roses. I quite liked it, as jobs went. Walk along the flowerbed, check out each flower. If it’s dead – snip. Head tumbles like Anne Boleyn’s. Pick up the head and put it in my basket.

  Maybe I should be an executioner when I grow up. ‘I’ve been thinking of watching Gardeners’ World.’

  They both kept weeding. Even though Mum, at least, would definitely have heard.

  I snipped the head off another rose. ‘You won’t believe this. Lewis’s parents don’t have a Scrabble dictionary.’

  ‘That’s not an actual crime,’ Mum said.

  Dad stopped clipping to watch the conversation.

  ‘And they don’t know xi is a word.’

  Mum dug her trowel into the soil. ‘I think that’s fair enough, Fiona.’

  I snipped the dead head off another rose and looked at the next rose along. It wasn’t properly dead.

  They all would be soon though. Snip. ‘Lewis’s mum says we shouldn’t shut the bedroom door after us. Though his dad says it’s fine if Lewis is feeling red-blooded.’

  Dad snorted.

  I picked the deadish head off the grass and put it in my executioner’s basket. ‘What?’

  Mum lifted her knees and adjusted the position of her knee protector. She twisted and gave Dad a look.

  I stared at Dad. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Shall I ask Lewis’s dad?’

  Mum gave Dad another look. She kneeled down again and put her trowel on the grass. ‘Geoff wants Lewis to be normal. People find it easier for their kids to be normal.’