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

by Caroline Hulse

  ‘She was a student teacher, she just went to a different rotation.’

  Mademoiselle Brun! I sat back. I hadn’t thought about her in ages.

  I wondered if she still wanted to be a teacher, after all. Or whether the food fight had put her off.

  ‘So don’t be losing any sleep this summer, kids.’ Mr Kellett opened his copy of The Taming of the Shrew. ‘I’m sure there will still be enough teachers left to educate you all.’

  I waited till the other kids had gone before I went up to Mr Kellett.

  ‘Fiona.’ Mr Kellett sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. ‘Good to see your face is healing.’

  ‘Is Mrs Vernal leaving?’ I asked hopefully. ‘She’s friends with the New Head.’

  He smiled. ‘No. No, it doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Dr Sharma?’

  He shook his head again. ‘The rest of the teachers will still be here in September.’

  I squidged my mouth to the side. ‘Oh. OK.’

  He smiled politely. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you a word thing again, if that’s OK? Seeing as you were so helpful last time.’ I zipped The Taming of The Shrew into my rucksack and took a breath. ‘Mr Kellett, who is Hugh Hefner?’

  On the walk home, I thought about what Mr Kellett told me, imagining how it would feel to live in my dressing gown in a house with loads of girls like Kelly from Winchester.

  I let myself in and stopped.

  Dad was at the peninsula with Mum, mugs of tea in front of them.

  I dropped my rucksack and rushed over to hug him. I pressed my cheek to his chest.

  I felt his arms, tight around me, and his heart, beating quickly. He smelt of a different deodorant than usual – of washing-up liquid mixed with the sea.

  I looked up so he could see my lips. ‘Are you back?’

  ‘I am.’ He smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I missed your Parents’ Evening.’

  ‘It’s not like Lewis’s dad?’

  ‘It’s not like that at all.’

  ‘Your father and I have been talking.’ Mum picked up her mug. ‘Everything is OK now.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Promise.’

  ‘Has Grandma gone?’

  Mum gave a half-smile. ‘Your grandma’s gone to Keep Fit at the leisure centre. She’s going to stay around tonight, so the two of you can say goodbye.’

  ‘And,’ Dad picked up a big book from the side, ‘I bought you this.’

  He handed the book to me. It was heavy.

  A Comprehensive History of the Balkans by P.T.R. Cavendish.

  I stared at it. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Come on.’ Dad stood up. ‘Let’s go for a walk, Fi, just you and me.’

  We walked through the park, past the second-biggest bush.

  Dad slowed, looking at the tennis courts.

  I tugged on his sleeve. ‘You always stare at the tennis courts when we come to the park.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘That’s where you taught Danielle to serve. She had a strong forehand, but you especially helped her with her backhand. And making sure she used the whole of the court.’

  Dad looked at the ground. ‘We talk about her too much.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s OK.’ I don’t know why I said that.

  We walked through the park and the fields, then down by the brook.

  Dad sat by a silver birch tree, legs sticking out. ‘Sit with me.’

  I did.

  ‘Your face is looking better. You haven’t disturbed any more wasps while I’ve been away?’

  ‘No,’ I said quietly.

  ‘How about bees’ nests? Lions? Sharks?’

  I shook my head. I scratched a piece of the silver birch’s skin and peeled it down. The strip narrowed to nothing and jumped into a spiral, like a ribbon curled with scissors.

  ‘I had to go away.’ I could feel Dad watching me. ‘And it was nothing to do with you.’

  I concentrated on my peeling. ‘Did you really go to Uncle Jim’s?’

  ‘I did, for one night. But I spent most of the time at a hotel. I was cross with your mum.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She was worried about something and she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Was it about me being given . . . a something?’ I’d worked it out. It took me a while.

  Dad nodded. ‘She thought I’d be upset about a strange man giving you a phone, so she didn’t tell me. Which really hurt me. Me and your mother shouldn’t have secrets. We promised ourselves a long time ago that we’d never have secrets again.’

  ‘Does the strange man know I don’t have the phone anymore?’

  Dad paused. ‘Yes. I went to see him, to explain that he shouldn’t be giving little girls presents. And he understood.’

  ‘What’s strange about Carl, Dad?’

  ‘Nothing, he’s just a stranger, that’s all.’ Dad made a funny half-smile. ‘That’s the whole point – he’s absolutely no one.’

  I picked up all the peelings from the ground and rested them on one palm. ‘Who was in the wrong, then? You or Mum?’

  ‘I said we’re OK now, Fiona.’

  I made my voice quieter. ‘Mum told everyone you were at a conference.’

  ‘Sometimes you don’t have to tell people everything.’

  ‘Like you and Mum didn’t tell me about Danielle’s asthma.’

  Dad sighed. ‘We’re your parents, Fi. It’s our job to work out what to tell you when.’

  I shook my head and kept peeling.

  ‘Did you want to know Father Christmas didn’t exist when you were three?’

  I stopped peeling instantly and clenched everything. The fact I ever believed those icing sugar footsteps were made by a herd of reindeer trotting through our lounge made me want to run, just run, as fast as I could – just to get away from the thought of stupid young stupid STUPID Fiona.

  ‘But you’ve told me everything now,’ I said. ‘And you won’t ever lie to me again.’

  Dad looked across the field. ‘Something’s hovering. Is it a kestrel?’

  I nearly looked. ‘Promise me, Dad.’

  Dad crossed one leg over the other. ‘Are you a grown-up, Fiona? Do you pay for your own food and clothes? Do you drive a car and vote for a government and go to work and earn money?’

  ‘You know I don’t.’ My voice was tiny.

  ‘Do you remember when you wanted to stay up and watch that film about the clown? And we said you wouldn’t like it, so you pretended to go to bed, but watched it in our bedroom instead?’

  I flushed. I concentrated on peeling. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember you had to sleep in our bed for weeks? That you kept picturing that scary clown and the blood in the bathroom?’

  I stopped peeling for a second. ‘Please never tell anyone from school.’

  ‘We made the decision long ago, that we would tell you about Danielle’s asthma when you were thirteen, and not before.’

  I looked down at the peelings in the lap of my school skirt. ‘But I’m nearly twelve and I’m fine. You were wrong.’

  Dad leaned further back on his hands, not taking his eyes off me. ‘We made a judgement.’

  ‘What age will I know everything?’

  Dad laughed. ‘I’m fifty-two. I still don’t know everything.’

  ‘Dad.’

  He looked at me and sighed. ‘You know pretty much all there is to know. The Comprehensive History of the Balkans has got nothing on you. But eighteen’s a good age, isn’t it?’

  Eighteen. Would I ever, really, be eighteen? That was older than even Selina Baker. That was Kelly from Winchester age.

  I’d be so tall at eighteen. I’d have had a massive growth spurt and overtaken everyone. I’d wear a bra every day. I’d wear
shoes with heels and no straps. I’d have long straight hair that I could flick behind my shoulders, like Kelly’s. I’d drive everywhere – but in a car like a boy’s, without stuffed toys in the hatchback. I’d drive past lads in the street, poking my cigarette out of the window to flick ash while they watched.

  Dad was still talking.

  ‘Say that again,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘I said, if there was anything we were keeping from you, we’d tell you at eighteen. And that’s a promise.’

  I thought about this. ‘But you aren’t keeping any secrets from me now?’

  Dad gave me a big smile. He pulled me in for a hug.

  ‘You know I’m a good spy. I find out in the end,’ I said. ‘Always.’

  I felt Dad go stiff for a second.

  Then he went softer. ‘Then it’s a good thing,’ he said into my shoulder, ‘that we don’t have any secrets. Isn’t it?’

  After our walk, Dad let us back into the house.

  Mum came into the lounge straight away, smiling at me. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I haven’t told her yet.’

  I looked from one to the other. ‘Haven’t told her what yet?’

  ‘Two things.’ Dad glanced at Mum and back. ‘Your mum and I have been talking . . . a lot. And we think it might be a good time to move house. Get a new house.’

  I tried to take this in.

  ‘Still in Monkford,’ Dad said.

  I still tried to take this in. A new house.

  The words didn’t make sense.

  ‘To live in.’ Dad frowned. ‘Fi?’

  I got it. ‘A new house?’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘No promises,’ Mum said. ‘We’re just going to start looking. It’s expensive to move, there’s estate agent fees and stamp duty. And the prices removals companies charge’ – she shook her head – ‘are actually criminal.’

  ‘Can I have the second-biggest bedroom?’

  ‘We don’t know what the house is, so we can’t answer that question.’ Mum rearranged the clip in her hair. ‘Depends on the layout, where the light is, which room has the best view. And it isn’t definitely happening yet.’

  ‘But you won’t have to save a bedroom for Danielle?’

  Dad went to speak, but Mum interrupted him.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We won’t have to save a bedroom.’

  ‘You can save her the third-biggest room, if you want.’ Mum was looking sad, so I tried to cheer her up. ‘And if we’re moving, that means you don’t have to paint the hallway anymore, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ Mum sighed and leaned against the wall. ‘I’m afraid, Fiona, this time, it means we definitely have to paint the hallway.’

  She and Dad made eye contact.

  ‘This weekend,’ Mum said.

  Dad nodded hard, like nodding would make it happen.

  They turned back to me.

  Dad coughed. ‘So that was the first bit of good news.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And,’ Dad made his voice bright. ‘The other news is that we’ve taken in what you said. That you really really want to go to this fair.’

  I held my breath. No.

  I raised my head slowly to look at him. It can’t be.

  ‘We’ve spoken about it’ – Dad looked at Mum – ‘at length – and your mum and I don’t think we can go.’

  ‘But I could go on my own?’ I said hopefully.

  Mum gave a faint smile. ‘Your grandma’s going to take you. After tea, when she’s back from Keep Fit.’

  ‘I’m going to the fair?’ I shrieked.

  ‘Though please don’t tell us about it afterwards. It has very bad memories for us.’ Mum rubbed her upper arms. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘I won’t tell you anything. However good it is. I’ll just keep it quiet.’

  Dad gave a little smile. ‘I’m not sure you’ll manage.’

  ‘And I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘We’ll sort that. As long as you promise not to come back with a goldfish,’ Mum said. ‘Tell your grandma I said that. Remind her if you start hooking ducks and she gets one of her ideas. Massive stuffed toys – fine. Living things – not fine.’ Mum took a breath. ‘Tell her, Fiona, and I’ll tell her too, because there’s no way’ – Mum folded her arms, furious with Grandma in advance – ‘that I am going out at ten on a Monday night to buy a bloody fish tank.’

  47

  Sometimes I get so happy it makes me sad.

  (paradox)

  Minus three days to the fair

  I always knew what I was going to wear if I ever got to go to the fair, so I didn’t need time to decide. I ran upstairs and got straight into my best jeans and denim jacket.

  I took my trainers into the bathroom and cleaned them with wet toilet roll.

  I put the front of my hair into a knot and put my dolphin chain round my neck. I smeared raspberry lip balm on and pressed my lips together. I slipped the pot into my pocket.

  I came back downstairs casually and sat in the lounge, where Mum, Dad and Grandma were watching the weather.

  My family glanced at me and smiled at each other. And no one said anything.

  It was still light when Grandma and I walked to the fair.

  We passed a woman, hand-in-hand with a toddler. The toddler was carrying one of last year’s turquoise owls rather than a pinkish panther, but I supposed the kid was too young to know any better.

  ‘Do you want me to come onto the rides with you?’ Grandma asked. ‘Or would you prefer I just watch?’

  ‘Maybe just watch? Sorry.’ The boy wouldn’t push my car on the Waltzers if that car had an old lady inside. Even if the old lady was as great as my grandma, it just wouldn’t happen.

  The whooping and music got louder as we got closer to festival field. The sweet and sour mix of bitter onions and candyfloss filled the air.

  A man shouted through a tinny speaker. ‘Place your bets! Donkey derby is ready to go!’

  Grandma grinned. ‘You’re holding your breath. Try to breathe, darling. It’s more fun if you breathe.’

  I concentrated. In and out. In and out. My chest felt wrong, like it had Lewis sitting on it.

  We turned the corner, onto the main road. I reached for Grandma’s hand.

  Across the road, festival field – the place of slippy leaves and dog mess, the place I’d practised cartwheels, where older kids practised drinking – was transformed.

  Hundreds of people moved around behind the barriers. A big wheel carried cars into the sky, its shape outlined in white lights. A hut called Games Shack glowed with lights, all zigzagging and changing colour.

  I took a step forward.

  Grandma squeezed my hand. ‘Careful. The road.’

  The music was so loud now, it made my heart throb. Underneath the song, ‘Blooded Face’ by Knives of Pain, there was a continuous whirr, like someone was hoovering the field with a giant vacuum cleaner.

  We crossed the road and slipped between the barriers. The floating onion and candyfloss smell was stronger still.

  Just – magical. It was all magical.

  We walked through all the people, past the hook-a-duck tent and the shooting range. Selina Baker passed by, carrying a pinkish panther. It was so neon bright it was almost orange, with skinny arms that whipped and dangled.

  And even though I’m too old for stuffed toys, she was Selina Baker. ‘Can we get a pink panther, Grandma? Mum only mentioned not getting a goldfish, she didn’t say anything about a panther.’

  ‘Only if we can find one to buy,’ Grandma said. ‘The games are all rigged.’

  ‘Grandma!’

  I looked closer at one pinkish panther, hanging sadly next to its friends in the front of the ‘test your strength’ stall, in what lo
oked like a mass panther crucifixion. On closer look, the kids at school were right. The panther was too orange to be the pink panther. And the snout was too long.

  Still. There was no way I was leaving tonight without one.

  In front of the stall, a huge dad, his arms criss-crossed with sticking-out veins like ropes, raised a hammer and smashed it down on the metal button.

  The red marker on the thermometer went a third of the way up, past featherlight to weedy.

  ‘See?’ Grandma grinned at me. ‘Rigged.’

  I frowned. ‘It can’t be. Not the fair.’

  Grandma waved in the direction of the claw machines. ‘Ever seen anyone win on one of those?’

  I blinked. ‘No, Grandma. I’ve never been to the fair. Haven’t you been listening? That’s the point of me.’

  I looked up at the cars of the big wheel. I stilled.

  Grandma looked at me softly. ‘Breathe, darling.’

  That made me think of Danielle. Of Danielle, at the fair, not breathing.

  I looked at Grandma. She couldn’t have realised what she’d said, so I tried to smile.

  But I looked around me, at all the people. Wondering.

  When Danielle happened, did the Waltzers stop? Did the hot dog turning machine keep going, or did someone switch it off? Were people still going on rides all around Danielle, while she was on the grass? When the ambulance came?

  I shivered a little.

  You have a different kind of asthma.

  There was a chant of kids behind me – ‘fight, fight, fight’. I turned to look, and—

  Lewis.

  Not fighting, obviously. Just watching. He stood with his hands in his pockets, hitching up the bottom of his fake leather jacket so you could see a skirt of yellow football shirt.

  I swallowed and walked up to him. ‘I like your Tottenham shirt.’

  ‘My dad got it for me.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  Lewis glanced at Grandma and back. ‘You were allowed to come in the end, then.’

  I nodded. I looked up at Lewis’s mum. ‘Hi, Mrs Harris.’

  ‘Hi, Fiona.’ Mrs Harris was eating candyfloss, though candyfloss is for kids. ‘Why don’t you two go on a ride? Me and Helen’ – she waved a hand at Grandma – ‘can go and buy a very expensive coffee.’