Lottie Project

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Yours utterly sincerely – and

  with lots of luv and XXXXXXXX

  Charlie

  Jamie read my letter over my shoulder (I let him because I was trying so hard to be a new sweet person) and he cracked up laughing.

  ‘That’s a merry sound, James – but a little inappropriate in a classroom,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘Please tell me why you’re laughing.’

  Jamie had long since stopped laughing. He had gone red and stammery. ‘I – I was just clearing my throat, Miss Beckworth,’ he said.

  ‘I not only have all-seeing eyes, James. I also have all-hearing ears. You were not clearing your throat. You were laughing. Why?’

  Jamie shifted desperately on his chair. He’s so weird, he gets so worried the rare times he gets told off. I expected him to blurt out that he’d laughed because of my letter but he kept his lip buttoned to try to keep me out of trouble. Which was sweet of him, but a total waste of time.

  Miss Beckworth was looking at me, eyebrows raised, one arm extended. ‘Bring me that piece of paper, Charlotte. How dare you mess around instead of getting on with your set written work.’

  ‘It is my written work, Miss Beckworth,’ I said, taking it out to her.

  She read my letter. For one second her lips twitched – and I thought I was going to be OK.

  No such luck.

  ‘This is not a formal letter of apology, Charlotte,’ said Miss Beckworth.

  ‘It is – sort of,’ I insisted unwisely. ‘You know what I’m like, Miss Beckworth. I always have to do things my way.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Charlotte. There is just one small point you seem to have missed. This is my class, not yours. In my class we do things my way. And you will do me a proper sensible sticking-to-the-rules formal letter of apology now, and you will write out another five formal letters of apology, all different, at home tonight. That might make you reflect a little and learn that it makes more sense to do things my way right from the start.’

  That was the most amazingly atrocious punishment of all time – especially as I wanted to do something extremely important and very time-consuming that evening. But even I realized it would be unwise to argue further. It seemed utterly unbelievable that such a cruel unbending beastly teacher could have let me cry all over her jumper just yesterday, but there you go.

  The one weeny good thing was that she gave me my original letter back, so I could give it to Angela and Lisa at playtime. They laughed too. Lots. And we’re best friends all over again, so at least that’s something.

  I got started on my five foul letters the minute I got home. It took me ages but I knew it would be foolish to fudge them. I actually wrote a sixth letter, just a little one.

  Dear Miss Beckworth,

  This is partly yet another formal letter of apology. I am sorry I mess around at everything. I will truly try to do things your way. Though it will be very very difficult.

  This is also an informal letter of thanks. Thank you for letting me say all that stupid stuff on Monday. Sorry I used up your tissues! And you were right, because Robin is lots better!

  Yours sincerely,

  Charlotte

  Mark might have made it plain that he wanted nothing to do with me, but he phoned Jo to tell her that Robin’s temperature had gone down, his chest was clear, and the antibiotics were obviously doing their job well.

  ‘So is Robin properly awake now, sitting up and able to look at things?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not taking you to the hospital again, no matter what you say,’ said Jo.

  ‘It’s OK. I can see we can’t go. Mark really hates me now, doesn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t. He’s just still terribly wound up and anxious over Robin,’ said Jo.

  ‘And he blames me.’

  ‘He wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘Look, I blame me. But it’s just sort of weird. Being hated by someone.’

  ‘He doesn’t hate you, I keep saying that. And anyway, it doesn’t even matter if he does because you don’t have to see him ever again. He probably won’t want me to work for him any more, let alone . . .’ Jo’s voice tailed away. She looked so miserable I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Jo? I’m sorry I’ve mucked things up for you and him,’ I mumbled.

  Jo gave me a push. ‘What rubbish! You’re not the slightest bit sorry about that, Charlie! You did your level best to spoil things right from the start. And I don’t know why you’re carrying on about Mark not liking you, because you made it amazingly plain that you hated him.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I couldn’t stand it when he smarmed all over me, and kept trying to take my side. But now . . . I still don’t like him but I want him to like me.’

  ‘That’s just typical of you, you spoilt brat,’ said Jo. ‘Have you finished all your letters? Shall we go to bed and watch telly for a bit?’

  ‘You’re the one that spoilt me! Not that I blame you, of course. Seeing as I’m so chock full of charm.’

  ‘Ha! Come on, I can’t be too late. I daren’t mess them about at the supermarket after missing my Monday shift.’

  ‘I want to do a bit of drawing first. You go. I promise I won’t wake you if you go to sleep first, I’ll creep in ever so quietly.’

  I sat up for hours doing my drawing. I drew a bed in the middle of the page, with a pale little boy and a tiny toy bird propped up on the pillows. Then in all the rest of the space I did an immense flock of birds come to wish Robin and Birdie better. I did great eagles and albatrosses swooping round the ceiling, parrots and cockatoos and canaries singing silly songs, soft doves fanning him with their feathers, lovebirds billing and cooing above his head, tiny wrens whizzing every which way while swallows flitted in strict formation, ostriches and emus picking their way cautiously across the polished floor, little fluffy chicks cheeping in clumps, proud peacocks spreading their tails as screens around the bed.

  I coloured it all in as carefully as I could, until my eyes watered and my hand ached. But it was done at long last – and I just hoped Robin would like it.

  Jo came rushing in to tell me she liked it at half past five in the morning.

  ‘Hey! I didn’t wake you up last night,’ I grumbled under the covers. ‘Can you stick it in an envelope and post it to Robin at the hospital?’

  Jo said she would – but when I got home from school that day she told me she’d taken it to the hospital herself.

  ‘It would have spoilt it, folding it all up to fit into an envelope. So I took it to the hospital after I’d been to the Rosens’. I was just going to give it to one of the nurses but then I bumped into Mark quite by chance . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah!’

  ‘What are you looking at me like that for? Anyway, he seemed quite happy about me having a peep at Robin, and he’s doing wonderfully. They think he can come out of hospital by the end of the week. And I showed him your picture and he just loves it, Charlie; he spent ages and ages looking at all the different birds and now he’s got it pinned up on the wall beside his bed. Mark was so pleased. He looks a bit better himself now that Robin’s recovering. He’s taken the next week off his work too, and he’s talking about taking Robin to the seaside.’

  ‘With Robin’s mum?’

  ‘Ah. No. She’s had to go back to Manchester – when she knew Robin was going to be all right.’

  ‘Has that upset him?’

  ‘Well. He obviously misses his mother a great deal, but Mark was always the one who looked after him most even when they were together.’

  ‘She looked a right cow to me,’ I said.

  ‘Charlie!’ said Jo. But she looked pleased.

  ‘What about Mark? Does he miss her too?’

  ‘Well . . . He doesn’t seem to, no. He said things were never very good between them, and they had all these rows—’

  ‘Yeah, listen and proceed cautiously, Josephine! That’s what marriage is all about. Rows,’ I said, wagging my finger at her. ‘Don’t you dare think of ev
er getting married, right?’

  I did another picture for Robin that night. This time I drew him in a warm red woolly jumper with a pair of massive feathery wings sticking out the back, brown to match his trousers, real robin colours, and he and Birdie were flying over the sea with a flock of seagulls, and they all had sticks of rock or candy-floss

  or portions of fish and chips in their beaks and way down below there was a beach and everyone was waving and pointing and smiling up at them.

  Jo took it in to Robin at the hospital. This time I got my own picture back. It was a portrait of me. Well, it had my name on it in very wobbly letters. My hair was an orange scribble right down past my knees. My eyes were crossed. My arms stuck straight out of my neck. My legs were mostly hidden beneath a triangle of green frock, but my feet were vast and stuck out sideways.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Is this supposed to be flattering?’

  ‘He tried ever so hard,’ said Jo. ‘This was his third attempt.’

  ‘What’s this pointy thing sticking in me? A dagger? Did Mark add that?’

  ‘It’s an arrow, pointing to you, to show you’re Charlie. And Mark doesn’t want to stick any daggers in you, you daft girl. In fact he wants you to come to the hospital tomorrow to see Robin.’

  ‘Oh, wow, His Lordship has given his orders, eh?’ I said.

  ‘Charlie?’ said Jo. ‘Oh, don’t be like that.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll go. To see Robin.’

  ‘Are you going to do him another picture?’

  ‘How about one he can eat?’

  I wanted to make him a proper robin cake in the shape of a bird, but I couldn’t work out how to do it, and the wing tips and little claws would be far too fiddly and break off. So in the end I made two ordinary round sponges and sandwiched them together with lots of butter cream and jam and then I made up this super brown butter icing with a bit of cocoa powder and smeared it over most of the cake, doing an extra feathery layer each side for wings, and then I stuck on two brown smarties for eyes and a yellow one for the beak, and I filled in the gap with new bright-red butter icing.

  It all took much longer than I’d thought, and the robin cake still didn’t look quite right.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ said Jo.

  ‘No, it looks like the robin’s been severely squashed,’ I said, sighing.

  I really wanted to stay up all night and try again, but I’d used up all the eggs and icing sugar and practically half our housekeeping money, so I couldn’t.

  I kept worrying about the stupid cake the next day at school. Or maybe I was worrying about going to the hospital. Or something.

  I took my time going home from school.

  ‘Come on, what kept you?’ said Jo. ‘We won’t get there in time for Robin’s tea at this rate.’

  ‘I don’t feel like trailing all the way over there,’ I said. ‘You go.’

  ‘After you’ve made Robin the fantastic cake?’

  ‘It’s a stupid cake. But you can take it if you think he’d really like it.’

  ‘You’re the one that’s being stupid. Dump your schoolbag, find your jacket, and let’s get cracking,’ said Jo. Firmly.

  So I went to the hospital clutching my cake in a tin. Mark didn’t smile at me, but he nodded. Robin put his head on one side shyly, but he had this great big grin on his face.

  ‘It’s Charlie!’ he whispered – as if I were someone important.

  I don’t like little kids much. Especially little boys. But somehow I dumped my cake tin and put my arms round Robin and gave him a great big hug. He’d always been a skinny little thing but now he felt like one of those little glass animals that snap off an arm or a leg when you just look at them. I tried not to hug him too hard in case I hurt him. Then I had to hug Birdie too. His general appearance hadn’t been improved by Robin’s recent adventures. I didn’t really enjoy having this filthy piece of cloth rubbed round my face, but I didn’t complain.

  My cake had got a bit bashed about inside the tin, but it was still just about recognizable as a robin. The real Robin didn’t want to cut it at first, but I made Birdie pretend to be starving hungry and nibble a corner of the cake, so Robin gave in.

  It wasn’t a work of art ornithologically (ha!) but it certainly tasted good. Robin had a great big slice. So did Mark and Jo and two nurses and a couple of kids in the main ward that Robin had made friends with. I had a great big slice as well. Two, actually, just to check it tasted good all the way round.

  ‘It’s a lovely cake,’ said Mark, giving me another nod. Then he smiled at Jo. ‘I expect you helped Charlie with it?’

  I spluttered. ‘Jo can’t even make toast!’

  I felt like clouting him with the cake tin. But I didn’t. I sensed our relationship was still dead precarious. I still couldn’t stick him. I didn’t ever want to make friends with him. But I did want to be friends with Robin.

  Mark took him to the seaside the next week. Bournemouth. I’d never been there.

  ‘I have,’ said Jo. ‘Your grandma and grandpa used to take me there on holiday when I was little. In a big white hotel and they played tennis all day and whist in the evening and I just mooched about, too shy and stupid to make friends with any of the other kids.’

  ‘Aaaaah!’ I said, teasing her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll play with you next time we go to the seaside.’

  ‘We could go to Bournemouth on Saturday,’ said Jo, trying to sound casual. ‘Meet up with Robin and Mark. Mark phoned and suggested it.’

  Jo still had to do her supermarket shift early Saturday morning, but I met her at eight o’clock and we went straight to the station and set off for Bournemouth. Robin and Mark met us off the train. Robin looked a bit bigger and bouncier out of bed, though he was so well wrapped up against the sea breeze that he could barely move. Birdie’s appearance had deteriorated even more because he’d dived into the sea by mistake when Robin was paddling in wellie boots – but at least he’d had a good wash.

  It was a bit nippy for the beach but we walked right along the sands and I laboured long and hard making a sandcastle for Robin. He twittered beside me and Jo and Mark billed and cooed in the background. I was beginning to think I’d maybe done enough hard labour and that it was time I was let off for good behaviour – but I perked up a little when Mark bought us all ice creams.

  It was far too cold to go swimming in the sea, of course, but we went to the Leisure Pool instead. Birdie took a nap in a locker while Robin splashed around happily with me. Robin still looked a bit too thin stripped to his bathing costume but he was very perky. Mark looked a right berk in his trunks. I practically fell about laughing.

  We spent ages drying every tiny bit of Robin afterwards and wrapping him back in his one hundred and one layers and then we had hot chocolate to make sure he was well and truly warmed up before going out into the wind.

  We went on the pier and Mark spent a small fortune on the cuddly-toy cranes. He’s useless at them . . . but eventually he won a lop-sided parrot for Robin and a simpering blue bunny for Jo. And then he got this hideous bug-eyed troll with long orange hair – and gave it to me.

  I wasn’t particularly charmed with that little seaside souvenir. But I tell you what I did get. There’s an amazing museum place in Bournemouth called the Russell-Coates Gallery. It’s this big Victorian house and it’s stuffed full of everything Victorian and I went round and round peering at everything, pretending I’d really stepped back into the past. No nurseries, though – my Lottie wouldn’t have had a job.

  Robin needed to have a wee so I took him into this lavatory – and it was a genuine Victorian one, with a special picture down the pan and a great big wooden seat. I tried it out too.

  I hoped I’d be able to buy a postcard of it, but no such luck. I bought lots of other postcards, though. Not for Lottie’s diary. It had become obvious to me that Miss Beckworth was not going to approve of my project. It was very much my way, not hers. And yet there was no way I was going to change it now. So I
decided if I couldn’t win a prize for best Victorian project then I might as well make sure that Jamie did. I bought all the postcards for him.

  SEASIDE

  Dear little Freddie pulled through! One night his fever rose alarmingly and he didn’t know any of us and we all really felt this was the end – but towards dawn he quietened and grew calm and suddenly opened his eyes and said ‘Mamma’ as clear as anything. He took a long drink and then settled down into a peaceful sleep. He woke at lunchtime almost his old self, though his sweet curls were all in a tangle and his face pale and drawn. He lapped up all his broth and made it plain that he wanted more.

  The Mistress cried, Mrs Angel cried, Eliza cried – and oh how I cried too! We were all so tired and strung out watching over little Freddie that the Master decided to take a week away from his business and hire rooms for us all at the seaside as soon as Freddie was fit to travel.

  We went on the steam train, an amazing adventure! Victor was beside himself with glee, asking questions nineteen to the dozen – and Louisa insisted on sticking her head out of the window and got herself covered in sooty smuts.

  It was dark when we arrived at long last and there was such a to-do getting the children to bed and all our belongings unpacked that I simply crawled into my own bed and fell fast asleep while Eliza and Mrs Angel were still joshing and giggling (we three share a room in the seaside lodgings and it is very companionable). But I awoke early. I looked in on Freddie but he was still fast asleep, and there wasn’t a peep from Louisa or Victor either. So I wrapped myself in my cloak and ran down to see the sea.