Starring Tracy Beaker

by Jacqueline Wilson

  'I can see him! There's my dad! My dad's right at the front! Hey, Dad, Dad, here I am!'

  Then all the children rushed to the gap in the curtains, sticking their heads out and peering.

  All the children except me.

  I hung back. I thought of all those chairs, row after row to the back of the hall. I thought of my mum. I willed her to be sitting there right at the 136

  front, but not next to Justine's dad. I wanted her to be there so much it was as if I had laser eyes that could bore right through the thick crimson velvet. There she was, sitting on the edge of her seat, smiling, waving, her pink heart gleaming round her neck . . .

  I had to have one little look. Just to make sure.

  I elbowed Justine Big-Bottom Littlewood out of the way and put one eye to the gap between the curtains. The hall was absolutely heaving, with almost every seat taken. I saw all the parents and the wriggly little brothers and sisters. I saw Jenny and Mike. I saw Elaine. She'd taken off her antlers but she had a sprig of mistletoe tied rakishly over one ear (who would want to kiss Elaine?). I saw Cam shunting along the front row, finished with her make-up session, every last member of the cast pansticked into character. I saw Justine's awful dad with his gold medallion and his tight leather jacket. I saw everyone . . .

  except my mum.

  I looked right along every single row. She wasn't there. She wasn't in the front. She wasn't in the middle. She wasn't at the back.

  Maybe she'd got held up. She'd be

  jumping out of her stretch limo

  right this minute, running

  precariously in her high heels,

  teeter-tottering up the school

  drive and now here she

  was . . .

  Not yet.

  Any second now.

  I stared and stared and stared.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  'Get into place on stage, Tracy.

  We're about to start,' Miss Simpkins said softly.

  'But my mum hasn't come yet! Can't we wait five minutes more? I don't want her to miss the beginning.'

  'We'll wait one minute then. You go and settle yourself in your counting-house chair. I'll go and get the carol singers assembled. Then we'll have to start, sweetheart.'

  'I can't. Not without my mum.'

  'You're going to have to, Tracy. The show must 138

  go on,' said Miss Simpkins.

  I didn't care about the

  show now. There wasn't any

  point acting Scrooge if my

  mum couldn't see me. I

  clutched my chest. It really

  hurt. Maybe it was my

  heart breaking.

  'I couldn't act to save my

  life,' I said.

  'What about acting to save

  my life?' said Miss Simpkins. 'And what about Cam? What about little Peter and all the children who signed his petition? You can't let them down, Tracy.'

  I knew she was right. I swallowed very very very hard to get rid of the lump in my throat. I blinked very very very hard to get rid of the water in my eyes. I took a deep deep deep breath.

  'Bah!' I said. 'Humbug!'

  Miss Simpkins gave me a thumbs-up and then beetled off to cue the carol singers. I sat in my chair, hunched up. They started singing 'Once in Royal David's City'. I started singing my own mournful little version:

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  'Once in poxy London city

  Stood a lowly primary school

  Where this girl waits for her mother To come and see her act the fool.

  Carly is that mother wild

  Tracy Beaker is that child.'

  Then the curtains parted with a swish, the lights went on dimly to show my candle-lit counting house, and I

  sat tensely in my chair,

  scowling.

  I hated the noise of the

  chirpy carol singers. All their mums and dads were watching

  them, oohing and aahing and

  whispering, 'Ah, bless.'

  My mum wasn't there. She

  couldn't be bothered to come, even though I'd bought her all those presents. She didn't care tuppence about me.

  Well, I didn't care tuppence about her. I didn't care tuppence about anyone. I stomped to the side of the stage and shook my fist at the carol singers as they all cried, 'Happy Christmas!'

  'Bah!' I said. 'Humbug. Be off with you!'

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  I felt as if I'd truly turned into Scrooge. My nephew came to wish me Merry Christmas and I sent him off with a flea in his ear. I didn't want to make merry with him. I bullied my stupid clerk Bob Cratchit, and then had a bite to eat. I ate my chicken drumstick like a finicky old man, and when one of the little kids played being a dog on all fours I

  snatched the bone away and shook

  my fist at him. He growled at me

  and I growled back. I heard

  the audience laugh.

  Someone whispered,

  'Isn't that Tracy

  Beaker a proper

  caution!'

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  Then I went to bed and Justine Enemy-For-Ever Littlewood clanked on stage as Marley's Ghost, the coffin bandage round her head, her long chain trailing keys and padlocks and coinboxes.

  Justine's ridiculous dad started

  clapping wildly before she'd so much as opened her mouth and Justine

  Utterly-Unprofessional Littlewood

  totally forgot she was Marley's Ghost.

  She turned and waved excitedly at

  her father, just like a five-year-

  old in her first Nativity play.

  I gave a gasp to remind Justine she was there to spook me out and give me a warning. Justine shuffled towards me unwillingly, still peering round at her dad. Her chain tangled around her feet. She wasn't looking where she was going. Recipe

  for disaster!

  Justine tripped

  over her own

  padlock and went

  flying, landing

  flat on

  her face.

  She lay there, looking a total idiot. Her face was all screwed up. She was trying not to cry.

  My chest hurt. I knew just how she felt, falling over and making such a fool of herself in front of her dad. I reached out a shaking hand.

  'Is it you, Jacob Marley, my old partner? It can't be you, because you're as dead as a doornail.' That was in Miss Simpkins's script.

  Now it was time for a spot of improvisation. 'Yet it must be you, Marley. You were unsteady on your feet in your last few years on earth – and you're unsteady now in your present spirit situation.

  Allow me to

  assist you,

  old chap.'

  I took hold of Justine and hauled her up. The audience clapped delightedly because I'd saved the situation.

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  'Pray tell me why you're fettered,' I said, following the script again.

  'I wear the chain I forged in life,' said Justine, pulling herself together. She sounded pretty miserable, but that was in character.

  Then I was visited by Louise as the Spirit of Christmas Past. She'd put her own make-up on over Cam's so she looked more like she was going out clubbing than off haunting mean old men, but at least she didn't fall over.

  We acted out the bit where little

  boy Scrooge was sent to a horrible boarding school and told he couldn't ever go home. It was a bit like me being sent off to the Dumping Ground.

  I thought about Mum sending me

  there and not coming back to fetch me.

  Not even coming today, when I was starring as Scrooge. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I don't ever cry. But I wasn't being Tracy Beaker; I was acting Scrooge, and doing it so well I heard

  several snuffles in the audience.

  They were moved to tears too

  by my brilliant performance!

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  I had a chance to blow my nose on my nightshirt hem while everyone danced at the Fezziwigs' party. Then the cur
tains closed and the carol singers stood in front and sang 'Away in a Manger'.

  I sang my own version to myself:

  'Away in a schoolhouse

  No mum watched her daughter

  But Little Tracy Beaker

  Acted incredibly – she didn't falter!'

  Miss Simpkins and a host of little helpers rushed round the stage scattering real holly and ivy and mistletoe and fake painted plaster turkeys, ham, mince pies and clementines.

  Then the curtains opened and I peered out, waving the carol singers away and going

  'Ssh! Ssh!' to the audience. Fat Freddy waddled on stage in his Father

  Christmas outfit as the Spirit of

  Christmas Present and took me to

  see the Cratchit family.

  Peter was shaking all over, scared out of his wits, but the moment he hopped across the stage using his crutch 145

  everyone went 'Aaah! Doesn't he look sweet!'

  When he said, 'God bless us every one,' they all started clapping.

  It looked as if weedy little Peter had stolen the show.

  It was my show. I was Scrooge. I wanted them just to clap me. But Peter was my friend. He'd tried so hard for me. My chest hurt again. He liked me so much. And I liked him. I really did.

  Maybe I was a little bit glad he was being such a success. When the Spirit of Christmas Present told me Tiny Tim was going to die I cried straight from the heart, 'No, no! Oh no,

  kind Spirit! Say he will be

  spared!'

  Then, as midnight struck,

  I spotted the two tiny

  children hiding under

  the Spirit's robes, the

  smallest skinniest

  kids Miss Simpkins

  could find, one

  playing Ignorance

  and one playing Want.

  The last Spirit came

  creeping onto the stage,

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  draped in a long black robe, the scary Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. The lights were very low so it looked as if we were wandering through the night together. We went to the Cratchit house, so melancholy without Tiny Tim. Then we went to the graveyard. Miss Simpkins shone a torch on the great cardboard tombstone. I saw my own name written there, Ebenezer Scrooge. I

  trembled and threw myself

  down on my knees.

  'Oh, Spirit, have

  mercy!' I cried. 'Tell me

  I can sponge away the

  writing on this stone. I

  have learned my lesson.

  I will honour Christmas

  in my heart and try

  to keep it all the year.'

  Then the lights

  went out and I jumped into my own bed quick as a wink and then acted waking up on Christmas Day. The carol signers sang 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' outside my window. I sprang out of bed, did a little caper in my nightgown, and then went and called out to them.

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  'I wish you a Merry Christmas too, dear fellows. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and I, Ebenezer Scrooge, am going to lead a happy new life.'

  Bells rang out and I danced up

  and down. Then I put my coat on

  over my nightshirt and rushed off

  stage, staggering back with the

  most comically enormous turkey,

  almost as big as me. I invited everyone to my house for Christmas. The

  whole cast crammed on stage and

  we 'ate' plastic mince pies and

  quaffed pretend wine – even Marley's Ghost and the three Christmas Spirits – and then we all sang 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'.

  I got Peter to shout out, 'God bless us every one!'

  right at the end.

  Then the clapping started. It

  went on and on and on. We all

  stood holding hands and

  bowing. The four Ghosts got

  a special bow. Then Peter had

  to bow all by himself. He was so

  excited he did a little hoppy dance, waving his crutch, and the audience roared.

  Then it was my turn. I stood in

  front of all the others. Cam and Jenny and Mike and Elaine stood up and started clapping and clapping. Miss Simpkins at the side of the stage was clapping and clapping.

  Mrs Darlow at the

  back of the hall

  was clapping and

  clapping. All the

  mums and dads

  were clapping

  and clapping.

  But my mum

  wasn't clapping.

  She wasn't there.

  It was the proudest moment of my life. I'd acted Scrooge and I'd been good at it. Glorious.

  Magnificent. The audience shouted 'Bravo!' And

  'Good for Tracy!' And 'What a little star!'

  Mum didn't know. Mum didn't care.

  I had a smile all over my face and yet my eyes were going blink blink blink. I was in serious danger of having an attack of hay fever in front of everyone.

  Miss Simpkins came out onto the stage holding an enormous bunch of red roses and white lilies done up with a huge red satin ribbon.

  'They've just arrived, Tracy. They're for you, she said, handing them over.

  There was a card inside.

  'It's from my mum!' I said – but the note proved fatal for my hay fever. Still, everyone knows flowers trigger hay-fever attacks. I wasn't crying. I don't ever cry.

  Then we had a proper party in the hall with real mince pies for everyone. Cam came and hugged me hard and said she was so very proud of me.

  'You were totally brilliant, Tracy,' she said.

  'And there's you saying you couldn't remember a word!'

  'Well, it didn't feel as if I was remembering it.

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  It wasn't like acting. It was as if I was really living it,' I said.

  'Aha! That shows you're a real actor,' said Cam.

  'Like Mum,' I said.

  'Just like your mum.' Cam smiled at me.

  'Aren't they gorgeous flowers? Wasn't it lovely of her to send them? Imagine, getting your own huge bouquet of flowers.'

  'Yeah. With a lovely note. Did you see what my mum wrote?'

  'Yes, Tracy.'

  'The only thing is . . .'

  I swallowed. 'It's not my

  mum's handwriting.'

  I looked hard at Cam. She

  didn't look away. She stared

  straight into my eyes.

  'Of course it's not your

  mum's actual writing, Tracy.

  You order the flowers on the

  phone and say what you want on the card and then the local florist writes it down.'

  'Oh!' I said. I swallowed again. The mince pie seemed made of very lumpy pastry. 'You wouldn't kid me, would you, Cam?'

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  'No one could ever kid you, Tracy Beaker,' said Cam.

  'Well, I think it was lovely of my mum. But it would have been a lot lovelier if she'd actually come to see me,' I said.

  'I'm sure she would have done if she possibly could,' said Cam.

  'Do you think she's still coming to see me on Christmas Day?' I said.

  'Well . . . maybe she is,' said Cam.

  'And maybe she's not,' I said. 'So what am I going to do on Christmas Day, eh? I hate Christmas in the Dumping Ground. Jenny and Mike try hard but they've always got the little kids clinging to them and everyone tears open their presents too quickly and then fusses because they think the others have got better things, and there's never enough new batteries and often the stuff doesn't work anyway. We watch television but all the programmes are about families and we are all so not a family. We have turkey and Christmas pudding for dinner because Jenny wants it to be traditional so we don't miss out, but I don't really like turkey or Christmas pudding – though I eat too much anyway – and then we're supposed to play these 153

  crazy games but the little kids are too dim to play and the big kids just want to slope off to their rooms
and someone always throws a tantrum because they're so fed up and lonely and left out.

  That someone is quite often me, as a matter of fact.'

  'Hmm,' said Cam. 'It sounds as if we both have crap Christmases. Tell you what, Tracy. Let's join up together. You come to me for Christmas. What do you think?'

  'I think that sounds a brilliant idea,' I said.

  So that's exactly what I did. I woke up very early on Christmas morning and opened all my presents

  peacefully, all by myself.

  Jenny gave me cool

  new jeans and a

  CD and Mike

  gave me new

  trainers and

  amazing black nail

  varnish. Elaine gave me a little fluffy blue teddy bear – yuck yuck yuck!

  Peter gave me a silver yo-yo. It was very sweet of him. I decided to give him the blue teddy.

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  My mum didn't give me anything.

  I expect the roses and lilies cost a lot of money.

  Acting is a chancy profession. Maybe Mum was a bit strapped for cash at the moment.

  Of course, Grizelda Moonbeam might work her magic and Mum might appear in person, weighed down with presents. But somehow it wasn't starting to seem very likely. It didn't look as if I was going to be spending this festive occasion with my Loved One. Unless . . . maybe Cam counted as a Loved One? Was I her Loved One??

  Had the charm actually worked a double whammy???

  I knew Cam was certainly short of

  money so I wasn't too hopeful about her present to me. She arrived

  astonishingly early. She was wearing a woolly hat and scarf and mittens, with a big woolly jumper over her

  jeans and woolly socks.

  'Happy Christmas, Cam!

  Have you got woolly knickers

  on? Why are you all bundled up?

  And you're so early. We haven't even had breakfast yet. Do you want

  some?'

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  'Happy Christmas, Tracy. You need to pile on lots of woolly jumpers too. We're going for a walk.