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

by Caroline Hulse

  Dad was still there, on his knees, the bin in front of him. Not moving.

  ‘Dad!’ I waved my hand in his eyeline so he looked up. ‘You don’t need to do more sanding tonight. I can hardly see the bad Fs now, anyway.’

  He nodded and stood up. He had the bin in his hand – Dad always empties my bin for me, though not usually at night. I realised I’d thrown Carl’s photo in there, but that was fine – I didn’t need his picture anymore.

  I reached for my book. ‘Goodnight.’

  I turned back to check he’d seen me speak, but Dad and the bin had gone. There was just the whoosh of wood across carpet and the click of the latch, as Dad shut my bedroom door behind him.

  42

  Bad blood isn’t a real thing. Type B isn’t good and type O isn’t bad. You can’t tell if someone’s good and bad from their blood.

  Fiona Larson, 7E’s Blood Project

  One day to the fair

  The sandpaper was still on the floor when I got up the next morning. I shook my head. Dad. I couldn’t even put it in the bin because Dad had forgotten to bring that back, too.

  When I opened my bedroom door, Mum was on the phone. ‘Just tonight after school, till just after seven.’ Mum spoke quietly. ‘I’d really appreciate it, Lisa. I’ve got to work till seven and Jonathan . . . Jonathan’s away. For a few days.’

  I frowned.

  ‘Well – you get it. You of all people,’ Mum said. ‘I’m sure things will be fine, it’s just complicated.’

  She was talking so quietly that I was struggling to hear.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t super-stuck,’ Mum whispered. ‘I’ll find a longer-term solution after tonight.’ There was a pause. ‘What, tonight? No, I’d completely forgotten, what with everything. Thanks so much, Lisa. I owe you.’

  A moment later, Mum stood in my bedroom doorway. ‘You’re to go home with Lewis after school today.’

  ‘Lewis is angry with me, though.’

  Mum made a swatting motion, like there was a fly in front of her face. ‘It’s not up to Lewis, it’s up to his mother. I’ll pick you up from there before Parents’ Evening tonight.’

  Parents’ Evening. How had I forgotten that?

  But then – fair-phone-Adrian-cigarette-porn-wasps-New Head. That’s how.

  Either way, Mum hadn’t remembered either. And she didn’t sound happy about it.

  ‘Why am I meant to go to Lewis’s after school? Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s gone to a conference.’

  ‘He should have told me. When he was doing the swastika last night.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mum turned to go downstairs. ‘Yes, he probably should.’

  It was only mid-July, but our flash of summer was over already. The rain poured down that morning, drumming hard on my coat hood as I half ran into school.

  I passed Carl, who was carrying several shirts on hangers. He hunched over to keep the shirts dry before putting them in his car.

  ‘Carl!’ I shouted.

  He didn’t hear me over the rain. He went straight back into his house, leaving his car boot up.

  I kept walking. It was probably better to tell him about Mum and the phone some other time anyway. Some time when it wasn’t raining so hard.

  And I couldn’t be late for school today. Not when I was in too much trouble already.

  School news!

  They found a turd in the corridor behind the science labs! A human turd!

  It was definitely human because animals can’t get in the school without people noticing. And the turd was massive. Like someone had been saving it up.

  All day, kids who hadn’t seen it had been trying to describe the size and shape. By the afternoon, it was the biggest, curliest turd that had ever been known.

  The kids noticed before the teachers did so, all morning, kids kept appearing at classroom doorways, saying each other needed to be called out of lessons because I’ve got an urgent message from his mum.

  Everyone says The New Head was furious because the turd was so big she thought it might be one of the teachers’. But she calmed down now she’s been told this happened last year too.

  I’d forgotten it happened last year. Sometimes, there are just too many school things to remember, and you can end up remembering the wrong ones.

  Anyway, the turd was the talk of the school today. It was the new Greeney’s haircut. It was the new Fiona’s wasp-face.

  I was pretty grateful to that turd actually.

  ‘And it was so curly, Dr Sharma. Like a brown Mr Whippy.’

  ‘I said you could sit here at lunchtime, Fiona.’ Dr Sharma didn’t even look up from her marking. ‘I didn’t say you could talk to me.’

  Dr Sharma glanced at my face and sighed. She closed the exercise book. ‘Come on, then. While you’re here, show me this blood project you’ve been working on.’

  ‘Dr Sharma! It’s lunchtime!’

  Dr Sharma patted the chair at her side.

  I slid my blood project book out of my bag and walked up to her marking table.

  Dr Sharma let the book fall open, at the page with all the bits of bloody paper.

  ‘That’s my blood.’ I slid into the chair next to her. ‘So it’s fine.’

  Dr Sharma hunched her eyebrows together. ‘You cut yourself, Fiona? On purpose?’

  ‘Who would cut themselves on purpose? No, I was showing you what O positive looked like. I took the opportunity when I made lots of blood with my teeth. But it was by accident.’ I glanced at her. ‘I didn’t do it with the saw.’

  Her eyebrows moved up now. ‘The saw?’

  ‘But I didn’t do it with the saw,’ I repeated patiently.

  She just stared at the page for a moment. ‘So much blood. So unnecessary.’

  She turned the page, to my family blood chart.

  ‘See?’ I tapped my table. ‘O positive. We’ve got all the different letters in my family. Mum’s AB, Dad’s A, Danielle was a B. But we’re all positive. Dad said he’s A positive influence.’

  Dr Sharma kept looking at the page. She put her forefinger and thumb to her mouth. She pulled her bottom lip forward a millimetre.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it was very funny either.’

  There was a scream of excitement from the playground outside.

  Dr Sharma took her hand away from her mouth. ‘Right.’ She snapped the book shut. ‘I’m delighted to say you’ve done some good work on this project.’ She held the book to her chest, arms folded over it. ‘But I’m going to keep hold of this because it’s actually unsanitary.’

  ‘The blood won’t spill, it’s dry.’

  Dr Sharma opened her top drawer and threw the book in. I saw confiscated earrings, a penknife, a Walkman. That drawer was a treasure chest. ‘Dr Sharma—’

  ‘That reminds me. You keep asking about your sister.’ She slammed the drawer shut. ‘What did you want to know? I taught her briefly.’

  I blinked. ‘You taught Danielle?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Dr Sharma leaned on her elbows. ‘Like a kid.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Fiona.’ She gave a kind smile. ‘I’m afraid none of you are that different. You all merge’ – she wafted a hand – ‘into one.’

  ‘But you can’t have forgotten Danielle. She was perfect and special.’

  ‘I think I would have remembered if I’d ever taught a perfect kid, don’t you?’ Dr Sharma chuckled. ‘Perfect kids. Honestly. What are you like?’

  ‘But wasn’t she as pretty as a picture?’

  Dr Sharma raised her gaze. ‘Fiona, I don’t know what you think goes on in teachers’ heads, but we just want to get through the day and get on with our lives. I do remember Danielle a littl
e. Not because she was perfect, but because she died. She was polite and she did her work without a fuss.’ She studied me. ‘She wasn’t a troublemaker. Making dramas didn’t run in the family.’

  ‘Please don’t say that to Mum at Parents’ Evening.’

  ‘I think your mother knows. I got that sense when I called her in just yesterday.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said quickly. ‘Tell me more about Danielle.’

  ‘There’s nothing else to say. She concentrated in class. She didn’t cause trouble. But special?’ Dr Sharma sniffed. ‘She was no more or less special than any other kid I’ve ever taught.’

  I slumped back in my chair.

  ‘Why do you look so shocked?’

  I licked my lips. ‘Are you just saying that to make me happy?’

  ‘Why on earth would I want to make you happy?’

  There was a thud. A ball outside, hitting the wall of the lab.

  ‘Dr Sharma, can you tell from the blood type who’s good and who’s bad? Is O blood the bad kind and—’

  ‘No!’ Dr Sharma’s shout filled the room.

  I stopped.

  ‘You’ve just done a whole project on blood. I thought you’d actually learned something. Then you come out with this nonsense. Am I wasting my time? I am, aren’t I?’

  I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to say yes or no.

  She folded her arms. ‘Blood just ferries oxygen round the body. That’s all.’

  ‘It fights diseases, too.’

  She waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘And carries oxygen and nutrients. It carries hormones—’

  ‘Well done, Fiona.’

  ‘And heat. It carries heat too.’

  ‘Yes, enough, you know a lot about blood.’

  ‘I only ask about blood types because . . . I’m wondering if I’m bad, right down. Down to my blood.’

  ‘Fiona!’ Dr Sharma shook her head like I was stupid. ‘Blood doesn’t tell you whether you’re good or you’re bad. In fact – this will really blow your mind, get ready for this – there’s no such thing as good or bad.’

  ‘O isn’t bad blood?’

  ‘What would that even mean?’

  ‘And B blood isn’t good?’

  ‘Stop talking. I don’t ever want to hear you speak of blood types, ever again.’

  I shuffled in my chair.

  She walked over and opened the door. ‘If I ever hear you talking about blood types like horoscopes, I will be furious. That reflects on me, you know? On my professional skills. On my teaching.’

  I picked up my school bag and stood up. I looked at her drawer.

  She looked where I was looking. ‘Your project book’s confiscated.’

  ‘Will I get it back?’

  ‘No.’

  I did a few loops of the school field for the rest of lunchtime, and headed into my geography class.

  Halfway through, the school secretary knocked on the door. ‘Is Fiona Larson in here?’

  She looked around the class and spotted me. The shaky-legged girl she’d help pick up pens and pencils in the corridor, two days ago. The one she’d taken to the slaughter.

  Not slaughter. You get what I mean.

  ‘Your mum rang. She says you’re to go straight home today, after all.’ The secretary glanced at her note. ‘Your grandma will be there.’

  I was so relieved it was only that, I barely noticed all the ooh, grandma! noises.

  But the secretary kept looking at me. ‘Also, Mrs Shackleton said to say, you must go to see her tonight. Introduce her to your parents. At Parents’ Evening.’

  The ooh grandma!s stopped.

  The secretary smiled at me – like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in my lap – and left the room.

  I tried my best to have a lovely time with Grandma after school. She said it was a surprise holiday, and that surprise holidays are the best holidays, and she made a big fuss of me and we baked a coconut cake while we waited for Mum to get home from work.

  But, still. I couldn’t forget.

  The New Head.

  Parents’ Evening.

  43

  Parents’ Evening is the one time kids don’t comment – or seem to notice – that you have parents.

  (paradox)

  One day to the fair

  It’s like a whole-school ceasefire. It’s like when those World War One soldiers stopped shooting and played football on Christmas Day.

  For most kids, anyway. As long as no one’s mum wears a top that’s too low-cut, or calls their kid Mr Tickles or my special little man or something. Then it’s different rules again. For that kid, the ceasefire’s definitely off.

  The tables in the school hall were laid out like a grim restaurant and I went up to table after table with Mum and Grandma, while teachers talked about me like I wasn’t even there.

  I’d got those appointments in a deliberate order, leaving Mrs Vernal and Dr Sharma till last. Hoping the world would end before we got there.

  But the world didn’t end. And, too quickly, it was time. We sat in the waiting area in front of Mrs Vernal’s desk – and I still hadn’t introduced Mum to the New Head.

  This, I decided, was going to be worse than the wasps.

  ‘That’s the teacher?’ Mum’s gaze narrowed a millimetre at Mrs Vernal. ‘The one who said you should use your feelings about Danielle to get better at drama?’

  I tugged on her sleeve. ‘Mum, please don’t . . .’

  Lewis walked past with his mum and dad.

  ‘That Mr Kellett’s got his head screwed on,’ Mr Harris was talking to another parent, smiling, making conversation like he was playing World’s Best Dad in a sitcom.

  Mrs Harris saw us all. ‘Hi, Larsons!’

  On seeing my mum, Lewis quickly rushed round to the other side of Mr and Mrs Harris.

  ‘Jonathan’s still at a conference,’ Mum said.

  ‘Whereas Geoff’s actually here.’ Mrs Harris looked dazed. ‘And asking loads of questions too. He never came to Parents’ Evening when we were together. Though,’ she scratched the side of her mouth, ‘he is mainly asking about PE.’ She nudged Lewis. ‘It’s polite to say hello, you know.’

  Lewis stayed behind his mum. ‘Hi.’

  Mum sighed. ‘Lewis, I know you told Fiona about the asthma.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m not cross,’ Mum added.

  ‘OK,’ Lewis said, still behind his mum. ‘I just like standing here.’

  ‘Fiona Larson!’ Mrs Vernal beckoned us with a finger.

  Mrs Vernal sat opposite Mum, me and Grandma, a brochure titled Drama Brings Out Life! on the table between us.

  Mrs Vernal gave a smile that was polite on the surface, something else underneath. She left one of her special pauses.

  Grandma smiled back – a proper smile, like the world was a sunny place and she had all day.

  Mum folded her arms.

  Mrs Vernal continued with her special pause.

  Mum sighed. She shifted in her seat.

  ‘I’m afraid to tell you, Fiona can be disruptive.’

  Mum nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘She doesn’t always follow instructions.’

  Mum picked up the brochure and started flicking through. ‘You should have been there for primary school.’

  ‘And the magazines—’

  She kept flicking. ‘We’ve spoken to Dr Sharma and it’s been dealt with. My daughter’s not exactly Hugh Hefner.’ Mum turned another page of the booklet.

  Mrs Vernal pressed her lips together. ‘Fiona seems to have trouble integrating.’

  ‘She does.’ Mum kept flicking. ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Now.’ Mum threw her brochure down. ‘I hear you’ve been tel
ling them to become astronauts.’

  Mrs Vernal gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve just tried to help them lift their horizons.’

  ‘You don’t think they should work in farms and florists.’

  ‘It’s about opportunities. Don’t we all want better for our children than we have for ourselves?’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s helpful to be telling eleven-year-olds to expect to go into space. And please never, ever again tell my daughter to use her feelings about having a dead sister to get better at drama.’ Mum stood up. ‘Don’t want to be late for Dr Sharma. Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Vernal.’

  Grandma beamed, like Mrs Vernal had given her a present. Over-smiling, to make up for Mum.

  We took a seat in Dr Sharma’s waiting area. Mum stared straight ahead.

  She smiled at another parent. ‘Disruptive,’ she muttered.

  The points of the Isosceles triangle were moving quickly tonight.

  I looked around for a catalyst.

  ‘See that family, Mum?’ I nodded at Naomi and her mum. ‘They live in one of those massive houses on the hill. Naomi’s room is massive and she has little cabinets that are stuck to the wall, like they came with the house. She has her own bathroom.’

  Mum frowned. ‘On sweet?’

  ‘Very on sweet. It even has an extra half-toilet. And they call tea supper and they have it at half-seven. Sometimes eight.’

  Mum looked at Naomi and her family with interest. ‘I bet they do.’

  ‘Fiona Larson!’ Dr Sharma shouted.

  I noticed Dr Sharma had got changed since school earlier – at least, she was wearing a special scarf. Like Mrs Vernal did.

  Like Mum’s funeral jacket, this felt like another bad sign.

  But Mum was much nicer this time.

  ‘Thing is, Dr Sharma,’ Mum leaned forward on the table. ‘She’s not exactly Hugh Hefner.’

  Dr Sharma held up a palm. ‘I have no intention of discussing that tonight. I’m sure you’ve had a conversation with her father now.’

  ‘They weren’t his magazines.’

  ‘I notice he’s not here.’

  ‘He’s at a conference.’ Mum sat up straighter. ‘Nothing to do with the magazines, don’t read anything into him not—’