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

by Caroline Hulse

I noticed Naomi glance at Alison and back. ‘I heard Dr Sharma say to make sure you have your inhaler on the trip to the science museum.’

  ‘I don’t really need the inhaler.’ I shrugged. ‘I only carry it because my mum freaks about my health. The doctor says it’s up to me whether to carry it – she can tell I’m mature enough to decide.’

  ‘You only carry it because your mum freaks about your health. . .’ Alison looked at Naomi. The two had stopped eating.

  Attack. ‘What does your mum say, Alison? She’s the doctor’s receptionist.’

  ‘No, she’s—’

  I put my hand up, as if to shade my eyes. ‘Is that Sean? Want me to see if I can get him to come over?’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Alison folded the top of her crisp packet over. ‘You don’t really need an inhaler, but the doctor gave you it anyway, just to please your mum.’

  I nodded.

  Alison looked at Naomi and back at me. ‘And the doctor said you don’t need to bother taking your inhaler if you don’t feel like it.’

  I pulled my rucksack further onto my shoulder. ‘Thing is, the inhaler isn’t about me.’ I left a gap. ‘My sister died, you know. My big sister.’ I left a longer gap. ‘And when that happens, your parents get extra careful. So I let them fuss because it makes them feel better. And the doctor feels sorry for Mum and Dad, so she gave me an inhaler.’

  The girls left a pause after my catalyst.

  ‘Do you get asthma a lot?’ Jodie asked.

  ‘Hardly ever.’ I held up the cigarette one last time and put it back in my pocket. ‘Anyway, I’m going to smoke it after school with Lewis.’

  Jodie pointed. ‘There’s Lewis now.’

  Lewis walked through the playground, his coat completely done up – top button and everything – on the twelfth of July.

  I raised my hand to wave. He turned and walked the other way.

  ‘Are you definitely going out with Lewis Harris?’ Yasmin asked.

  ‘Definitely.’ I hurried after him. ‘I’ll just check he’s OK.’

  But when I reached the school building, he’d gone.

  I made Lewis sit next to me in drama. I chased him round the room with my chair, and it was like musical chairs, trying to make sure I was in the right place next to him when Mrs Vernal quieted the class down.

  It worked.

  The first exercise was something about expressing inner rage, but I wasn’t listening properly. I was watching Lewis, who looked far away. As Mrs Vernal said, ‘In your pairs, begin!’, I could see his eyes going all watery.

  I turned my chair to face his. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Something awful’s happened.’

  I glanced around but it was safe. For now, Mrs Vernal was supervising other kids’ inner rage. ‘What?’

  ‘Dad’s moved out. For good, Mum says.’

  I felt something fill my throat. No.

  ‘After you went that night, they shouted at each other. Then Mum made him go.’

  His eyes were getting wetter.

  I pulled his arm, hard. ‘Not here! Never here. Stop that right now.’

  ‘Very good inner rage!’ Mrs Vernal stood over us, looking at Lewis’s face. ‘Very internalised!’

  She looked closer, at the wetness of Lewis’s eyes. Her own eyes gleamed.

  I pulled Lewis round so she couldn’t see his face. ‘He’s a good actor.’

  Mrs Vernal stood looking at us for a second. She walked away.

  ‘We should find our inner rage.’ Lewis was staring at his shoes. ‘We haven’t got long.’

  I glanced around to check no one was looking. ‘Do you mean it? You think your dad’s gone for good?’

  ‘He’s never left the house before. Mum sat me and my brother down and gave us a long talk about how they weren’t good for each other. And it was after you said I was your boyfriend. Mum hated how happy Dad was. So it’s your fault.’

  ‘Lewis, hang on.’ I sat up straighter. ‘It can’t be my fault!’

  ‘Back to the circle!’ Mrs Vernal called out.

  I sat down and Lewis hurried quickly to a chair on the other side of the room. I shook my head at him, though he wasn’t looking. I edged my chair nearer to Jodie’s.

  ‘Now.’ Mrs Vernal sat down, her legs wide in her floaty trousers, like a man on the train who doesn’t want anyone to sit next to him. ‘In twos, I want you to discuss what you want to be when you grow up.’

  Jodie and I moved our chairs to face each other.

  ‘This really isn’t drama,’ I whispered.

  ‘She said it’s self-development when I asked,’ Jodie said. ‘She said it’s an important part of drama.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is but it definitely isn’t drama.’

  Jodie glanced up at Mrs Vernal, walking by. ‘So, what do you want to be?’

  I thought. ‘A farmer maybe. But I wouldn’t be good at the early starts. Postman?”

  ‘Early starts again.’

  ‘I could work in sales for the brewery, like Mum did. Or be an aeroplane engineer, like Dad was?’

  ‘I thought your mum was a driving instructor. I thought it was Gail Larson, Driving Instructor.’

  ‘She used to work in sales though.’ I pictured Monkford main street. ‘Hairdresser – no. Newsagent – no.’ I thought some more. ‘I could work at the fair? Be the person who takes the money and starts the rides?’

  Behind me, I heard a little laugh.

  I flinched.

  ‘Fiona! Can’t you think bigger?’ Mrs Vernal talked in a voice loud enough for the room. ‘Newsagent? Taking money on the fair? Whoever taught you kids to think so small?’ She shook her head. ‘Do none of you want to travel the world in an orchestra? Or cure cancer? Imagine that! We’re talking about living dreams. You can do anything.’

  Me and Jodie looked at each other.

  ‘I want to cure cancer now,’ Jodie said.

  I looked up at Mrs Vernal. ‘I did say aeroplane engineer earlier, Miss, but you didn’t hear me.’

  She smiled at me kindly. ‘And why did you say aeroplane engineer?’

  I looked down. ‘My dad was one.’

  Mrs Vernal gave another little laugh. She moved on.

  ‘Lewis,’ I heard her say, ‘what about you? I bet you’ve got big dreams.’

  There was something about Mrs Vernal asking Lewis in front of people that made me freeze. No.

  ‘I could be a train driver.’

  I relaxed a little bit.

  ‘You could. What else?’

  ‘I could be a driving instructor.’

  ‘But a creative boy like you, Lewis, can’t you think of something else? You could be a dancer or a singer? An artist? A dress designer?’

  There were titters round the room.

  ‘You didn’t see the horse he drew in art last week, Miss.’ I jumped up. ‘Two massive back legs and two spindly ones at the front. That horse wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone canter. No way Lewis is an artist.’

  Mrs Vernal stopped smiling. ‘Fiona. Enough.’

  Lewis stared at me. He looked back up at Mrs Vernal. ‘I want to be a train driver.’

  Mrs Vernal sighed. ‘Where are all the actors and astronauts?’ She looked around the room. ‘Does nobody want to be an astronaut?’

  ‘How about being a teacher?’ I asked. ‘Is that the job you always wanted?’

  Mrs Vernal licked her lips.

  The room was silent.

  ‘Fiona, I will be telling Dr Sharma you’ve been incredibly nasty. And I will tell your parents, at Parents’ Evening.’

  I slumped back in my chair. Nasty? How?

  I looked at Lewis, who was staring into space.

  I hoped he – at least – would realise I’d been trying to help.

  At th
e end of the lesson, we all started picking up bags and coats. I hurried over, but Mrs Vernal got to Lewis first.

  ‘Can you stay behind?’ she said.

  I squeezed his arm. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  I left in the crush of thirty kids, all trying to get through the doorway in one bunch. I waited for Lewis at the roundabout outside school, kids flooding past me, knocking my rucksack.

  The flood slowed to a trickle. No rucksack-knocking anymore, the pavement different now it was quiet. It was like that bit in The Lion King, when the wildebeest stampede turned to nothing.

  Dr Sharma walked past, sunglasses on. ‘I thought you usually couldn’t get out of here fast enough, Fiona?’

  ‘I’m waiting for Lewis. Mrs Vernal made him join her for one of her special chats.’

  ‘Special chats?’

  ‘The ones when she tells us why we should be sad.’

  Dr Sharma laughed, then stopped instantly. ‘Don’t be rude about your teachers.’

  ‘I wasn’t being rude!’

  But she’d gone.

  I waited for ages, but Lewis didn’t come out past the roundabout.

  I realised he must have gone a different way out of school for once, so I sat waiting for him in the second-biggest bush in the park, cigarette and grill lighter laid out in front of me.

  I waited for an hour. But Lewis never came.

  33

  Dead people can be more interesting than live ones.

  (paradox)

  Seven days to the fair

  I still didn’t want to go home so soon – not on the day before Danielle’s birthday. I needed to make the home part of the day as short as possible.

  And Danielle’s birthday being tomorrow meant it was only a week to the fair.

  I needed to focus on my spying. I’d got nowhere with the Box of Special Things and I had no leads anymore. Except Adrian Sykes’ address, and I was still working myself up to go there because – well. The thought was terrifying.

  Carl wasn’t even a lead anymore. Still, I found myself slowing as I walked past his house, spying on him partly out of habit. Partly because I needed to kill time before going home.

  Mainly, because he was all I had.

  I stood at the lamppost and put up the hood of my anorak as a disguise. And I got lucky because it started raining.

  I stared through the rain at the house and waited. Carl’s car was there, with its Baby on Board sticker and the picture of the blue buggy on the back windscreen. There was a car I didn’t recognise parked next to it on the drive.

  The rain got louder on the hood of my anorak. I tugged it further up.

  ‘You OK there, hon?’ A lady walked past with an Alsatian on a metal lead. ‘You lost something?’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  The front door opened. Carefully, trying not to move too much, I hunched my hood further up.

  Carl showed a man and a woman out. ‘Just come back any time. Any questions at all.’

  They shook hands and the couple got in the car. Carl gave the roof a tap goodbye – ‘Adios!’ – and turned to walk back in.

  He saw me. ‘What are you doing there in the rain, Fiona?’

  ‘It’s not raining anymore!’ I shouted back. ‘Not much, anyway.’

  He beckoned me with a finger and I walked over.

  ‘Those were the excellent people who are buying this house. Hopefully. They’re getting a builder round, so keep your fingers crossed we still exchange contracts next week. They’ve had a couple of surveys fall through already. They’ve got a lot of questions about damp and termites. I was well out of my depth, though I know this is a newish house so they shouldn’t have issues with—’

  I stared at him.

  Carl rubbed the back of his head. ‘But you don’t care about all that.’

  We stood there for a second, Carl rocking on his heels.

  ‘Why do you have a “baby on board” sticker when you don’t have a baby?’

  Carl looked at the sticker. ‘Ah, but I do have a baby. He lives with his mother. I suppose I still live there too, kind of.’ He reached up with both hands and adjusted his ponytail. ‘I’m not sure. We both had busy jobs and it was fine till the baby came along. That’s partly why I’ve done the house sale direct, give her some space so she has some time to see sense and—’

  He stopped.

  Carl had a lot more extra words for a kid than most people do. Most people don’t think it’s worth telling a kid anything except instructions.

  He swallowed. ‘Anyway, I don’t live with her. Well, I do and I don’t. Anyway, how’s the phone?’

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  He smiled. ‘Have you called anyone yet?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  He was so smiley, it made me take a step back.

  He peered at me. ‘What’s up?’

  I looked at my shoes.

  ‘Spit it out.’ Carl smiled. ‘Lies are always worse than the truth. At least – that’s what my wife says. Ex-wife. No – wife. It’s just complicated because—’

  One week to the fair – I needed to hurry this up. ‘My friend Lewis thinks you want to flash me.’

  There was a splashing noise. A car drove through a puddle.

  Carl didn’t move out of the way. Some of the puddle splashed up his jeans.

  He still didn’t move. ‘What?’ He gave an awkward bark, like a laugh made of fear. ‘Flash you? NO! God! It would never cross my mind!’ He paused. ‘But I’m hearing myself, and the more I say I’m not going to flash you, the more that sounds like something someone like that would say, and I’d never, NEVER—’

  He kept going a bit longer.

  Thing was, I believed him. Flashers didn’t talk about damp course, and termites, and excellent people, and girlfriends who might be ex-girlfriends and it’s complicated. If flashers talked to you at all, it was about puppies. Usually they just stood, in silence, macs open, peckers out.

  ‘You promise?’ I said.

  ‘The fact you’d even ask. . .’ Carl crouched, so I was the taller one, looking down at him. ‘Fiona, I’m a normal guy. I’m a parent. And I don’t go around . . . you know.’ He bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘I like kids, but in the right way. Why does Lewis think I might be . . . one of those?’

  ‘Well.’ I scratched an itch on my cheek. ‘At first, it was because you wanted him to do strimming.’

  Carl wrinkled his forehead. ‘But only because he knocked on my door and offered to—’

  ‘And then you acted interested in what I had to say. When I’m a kid.’

  ‘But I was just making conversation.’

  ‘And then you gave me the phone.’

  ‘Right.’ He stood up again. ‘OK.’ He turned away. ‘Shit.’

  The rain was getting heavier. I pulled my hood further up.

  ‘I think, maybe’ – he ran his hand through his hair – ‘giving you that phone was a mistake.’

  I pulled my coat flaps tighter. No.

  ‘I’d forgotten how small towns work. Which is why I moved away. Have you got the phone with you?’

  I pulled my coat tighter still. ‘No.’

  ‘I should take it back. Please go and get it for me.’

  ‘You can’t give a present and then take it away! That’s not how presents work!’

  ‘But if it makes you think I’m a—’ He shuddered. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a flasher.’ He flinched every time I said it. ‘It was Lewis who said you were a flasher. Lewis is a worrier and he gets everything wrong. Causes me all sorts of problems.’

  Carl rubbed the bit between his nose and his top lip.

  ‘Come and sit on the step, out of the rain.’ He indicated the front step, under
the little porch.

  I took a step towards the road. ‘Here’s fine.’

  ‘I thought you said you knew I wasn’t . . . one of those.’

  He made his voice softer. ‘Fi?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ I rushed down the drive.

  ‘This isn’t right. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing.’ He raised his voice after me as I hurried away. ‘I promise you, Fiona. You don’t understand. I’m actually a really nice man!’

  I had to go home in the end. Sometimes, you have no choice.

  I tried my best to make conversation with Mum and Dad over our Friday takeaway, as we ate burgers at the peninsula.

  I didn’t make a great start. ‘It’s rainy for July.’

  Neither responded.

  ‘Do you want to know the science behind why people say blood is thicker than water?’

  Dad nodded, like I’d said a fact, not a question.

  I sighed. Time to bring out the big guns. ‘Mrs Vernal called me nasty today. She’s going to tell you at Parents’ Evening.’

  They both looked up.

  ‘Nasty?’ Mum focused her eyes. ‘Nasty, how?’

  ‘She made us discuss what we wanted to be when we grow up.’ Ha! I won. Kind of. ‘She said there are other jobs apart from the ones you can see. Asked why we talked about being driving instructors and farmers and why none of us wanted to be astronauts or actors. She said our dreams were small.’

  Mum looked at Dad. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And then I asked if she’d always wanted to be a teacher.’

  ‘And?’ Mum said.

  ‘And that’s it. Hand on heart. Is that the job you always wanted? And she called me nasty for that.’

  Mum nodded. ‘OK.’ She stared at her burger. Like she wasn’t sure how it had got there or what she was meant to do with it.

  Dad looked out of the window. He didn’t tell me off, either.

  Which meant it had started.

  I forced a long chip into my mouth, letting it break in the middle so I could get it all in.

  It wasn’t the actual day till tomorrow, but that didn’t matter. The air in the house had changed.

  Danielle’s birthday had started.

  34

  Sometimes the kindest thing is not to try to be kind at all.