Girls on the Up

by Linda Newbery

  “They’re cool,” said Kris. “See, you could do as well as that – Hey, Prue Miller! Is that your Prune? I didn’t know she was into drawing, as well?”

  “She isn’t.” Andie’s voice came out strangled.

  Kris raised her eyebrows. “They look pretty good to me.”

  “But they’re mine! The ideas are hers, the clothes. I drew them – to cheer her up – but she never told me – the lying cow!”

  Kris seemed to find this amusing. “Well, I guess you’ll be having words with her, later on.”

  “You can say that again!”

  “Do you think you could have your argument out on the street?” A woman’s face appeared around one end of the screen, and a curly-haired toddler ducked underneath to peer at the girls, round-eyed. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the exhibition.”

  “Sorry.” Andie hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room. “But how could she?” she hissed at Kris. “Put her signature on my drawings! It’s fraud, that’s what it is!”

  She stared at the drawings in indecision, half inclined to rip them off the display board. But part of her was proud to have work on show in an exhibition in the King’s Road, even if it was just a larky summer holiday thing. The cheek of Prune, though!

  “It’d be worse,” Kris pointed out, “if she’d taken your paintings. Your moon pictures. I mean, these are good, but they’re not really you, like the others are.”

  Andie wouldn’t be pacified. It was still outrageous. It was practically theft.

  “May as well take a look at the rest, now we’re here,” said Kris.

  The drawings and paintings passed before Andie’s eyes in a blur of colour and line. She was impatient to get home, and let out the pressure that was building up inside her till she felt jet-propelled with anger and indignation.

  “Prune? Prune, you in?” she shouted, letting herself into the flat.

  No answer. Typical of Prune not to be around when she was wanted. Now what?

  Andie ran downstairs and out to the garden, looking for Kris. And there Prune was – on the swing, swaying gently back and forth.

  “Prune? What are you doing?” Andie yelled.

  Prune looked up vaguely. “Waiting for Sushila.”

  “Oh. And then what are you doing? Going to look at the exhibition next to the Town Hall, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Prune, but the pinking of her cheeks gave her away.

  “Yes, you do. Three drawings signed by Prue Miller. Three of my drawings. Signed themselves, did they? Entered themselves for the competition?”

  “Oh,” said Prune. “Those.”

  “Yes, those. How could you do it, Prune? How could you be so sneaky? Why didn’t you ask?”

  “They were my ideas.” Prune looked at her defiantly. “You wouldn’t have done it otherwise. You only did the drawing.”

  “Only! What do you mean, only?”

  “Oh, don’t be so mean, Andie! You know how much I want to work in fashion. If I win that competition—”

  “If you win it!” Andie humphed. “Some chance! Did you look at the other entries? There are loads better than yours – I mean mine. How could you be so sneaky, entering my drawings with your name on them! You didn’t even ask – didn’t think that we could both have entered – didn’t say a word!” She paused for breath, and relaunched. “That’s just typical of you! Whatever you want, you think you can help yourself – like that bangle, and the Biba dress—”

  “Stop it, Andie!” Prune stood up, red-faced. “Don’t keep going on at me! It was just a mistake, you know, in the shop, and—”

  “Huh! And I suppose this was a mistake! Signing my pictures, and taking them to the exhibition? Don’t make me laugh—”

  “What on earth’s going on?”

  The big male voice shocked them both into silence. It was Patrick, standing at the top of the cellar steps.

  “I said what’s going on? It sounds like a wild-cat-fight’s broken out. Can’t you go upstairs and have your squabble?”

  He was talking in his usual mild way, but there was a sternness behind it that made Andie feel intimidated.

  “Oh – nothing,” she faltered.

  “Didn’t sound like nothing. What’s all this about someone signing someone else’s pictures?”

  Kris had come up the steps behind him. Everyone was looking at everyone else; no one was talking.

  “It’s – a bit complicated.” Andie was first to break the silence.

  “Well, cool it, will you? You’re like a pair of parrots, screeching away. It’s too warm inside to have the doors closed, and believe it or not, I’m trying to work.” He turned, bumped into Kris, and went back down the steps.

  “Sorry!” Andie called after him.

  Kris pulled a rueful face, and followed. Prune and Andie, very aloof with each other, went up to the flat.

  As if Prune hadn’t done enough already! Andie grumped to herself. Now Patrick, who she wanted so hard to impress, thought she was a squawking parrot, a raucous nuisance.

  Eventually, Prune made the first move, coming into the bedroom, where Andie sat icily by the window with her sketchbook. “Listen, And. Why don’t we go there, to the gallery? Then you can cross out my name and put yours, and we can ask for the entry form back and put your name on that as well.”

  “You go,” Andie mumbled. “I can’t be bothered.”

  Still, it was the nearest thing to sorry she was likely to get from Prune. And only now did she remember the message she was supposed to pass on. “I saw Zak this morning. He said fine for tomorrow, quarter to nine. What’s that about? Is it a date, or what?”

  “A date? No!” Prune laughed, then gave her a furtive look. “I’ve got a job there. I’m going to help out two days a week, Thursdays and Saturdays. Or at least I was – I said I’d do it for the whole summer holidays, only now how can I, when we’re going back home on Friday week?”

  “Didn’t you think of that?”

  “Course I did, Miss Smartypants, only I thought something would turn up. And it doesn’t look like it will. We’re heading back to the Slough of Despond.”

  Andie looked at her. “How did it happen, then, getting the job? I mean, last time we were in there, you—”

  “I know,” Prune said defensively. “Tried to nick something. You’re going to say I’m the last person they’d want working there. But I liked Zak – he was funny and nice, and he didn’t shop me to Alicia – that’s the manager, the woman we saw – when he easily could have. So I went back to say thank you, and – and that it wasn’t a mistake, but I wouldn’t do it again. And then he asked if I’d like to help out. I’ve got a job, Andie! A job in the King’s Road! It’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited. You’ll be there three days before we go home.”

  Later, while Andie was washing up the cat dishes and Mum and Dad were watching Man Alive on TV, Kris came up.

  “Will you do me a favour? No, what I mean is, will you do yourself a favour?”

  “Course,” Andie said, surprised. “What?”

  “Come down and show Patrick your paintings. Your moon paintings.”

  Andie was suspicious. “Why?”

  “Well –” Kris was unwisely trying to cuddle Rumpelteazer, who yowled, and stalked away in indignation – “I told him why you argued with Prune. And I told him about your paintings and how good they are. And he said he’d like to see them.”

  Andie shook her head. “No! He’ll think they’re rubbish.”

  “Up to you.” Kris threw both hands up. “Have it your way. Don’t bother talking to Patrick, who’s – well, I’m not saying he’s a genius, but he’s good, and he makes a living from it, and he teaches students and he knows when someone’s got it and when they haven’t, but never mind what he thinks. Go back to your dreary old art teacher, and let her tell you whether you can paint or not. Is that what you want?”

  “No –”
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  “Right. So let’s go.”

  Andie wished she had something better than a cardboard folder held together with string, something more likely to impress Patrick – but she needn’t have worried. By the time she and Kris got down to the cellar, he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh, sorry!” Marilyn said, when they trooped back up to the kitchen, where she was slicing a pineapple. “Doug turned up unexpectedly, and they’ve gone to the Pheasantry to meet this record producer. Doug’s his agent,” she explained to Andie. “And it looks like a big contract might come out of this, so they’ve got a lot to talk about – I shouldn’t think he’ll be back till late. Oh, and you wanted to show him your pictures – what a shame!”

  She sounded, Andie thought, like a kindly teacher encouraging an infant. But she didn’t say that she wanted to see the paintings. Andie tucked the folder more firmly under her arm, wanting to hide it from view.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said, half-heartedly. She’d take it back upstairs where it belonged, hidden behind the wardrobe.

  “No, leave it.” Kris prised the folder from Andie’s grip. “He can look tomorrow.”

  While Andie fretted and fidgeted about not having her paintings in their usual hiding place, Prune erupted into the flat with good news.

  “I can stay at Sushila’s! Stay here for a whole two weeks. I needn’t go back home with you!”

  “What’s this about?” Dad was reading the newspaper, Mum ironing one of his striped shirts.

  Prune gabbled it out. She was going to carry on helping Mrs. Kapoor with her charity fundraising – there was a special day of speeches and talks coming up at the Town Hall in the middle of August, and Sushila was doing part of the organizing, and Prune would help, too – and she had her part-time job at East of the Sun, West of the Moon, so she’d be earning her own money, and Mr. and Mrs. Kapoor said she was welcome to stay with them, and it would be great, and Mum and Dad couldn’t possibly object, could they? Not when she’d be doing something so useful.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Mum was wearing her cautious expression. “I’d need to talk to the Kapoors myself. Are you sure that’s what they said? And the middle of August? That’s when your exam results come out. It’ll be time to make decisions about your future. You’ll need to enrol for a course – we’ve put it off too long already.”

  “That’s all right – I’ll be home by then. And I’ve more or less decided to stay on at school, if my grades are good enough. Go on, Mum! Dad! Say yes – I want to, so much –”

  “Well, I can’t see why not, as long as—” Dad began.

  “What’s this about a part-time job?” Mum interrupted.

  Just gone midnight, and Andie was wide awake.

  A week from now would be their last night at Number Six, Chelsea Walk. No more Kris. No more Ravi. No more King’s Road. No more London on their doorstep, with all its excitement.

  No more skywatching. Well, she could still watch the sky, of course; she could stand out in the back garden and look at the stars, but it wouldn’t be the same without Ravi and his telescope and his knowledge. Nor would it be the same as being up high in the London rooftops, picking out landmarks.

  What was she doing, lying in bed now, wasting precious time? She hadn’t heard Ravi go up – no telltale creaking above her head – but he might be there, all the same.

  She put on sandals and a sweater, and crept out of the flat and up the attic stairs, tuning her ears to the silence. It was funny how silences could vary. There was the almost tingling silence when you knew something would happen, someone was there – like that first time. And then the really silent silence that meant only emptiness. The whole house was sleeping, and Andie knew, before tiptoeing past the maids’ rooms and through the storeroom to the low door that led out, that Ravi wasn’t there. The door was locked.

  Well, he didn’t come up here every night – she knew that. But all the same she felt hollow with disappointment. She went back down, and got into bed, and lay there hot and resentful as she listened to Prune’s steady breathing. Everything was working out for Prune, wasn’t it? Mum and Dad had agreed that she could stay on with Sushila, and even seemed pleased at her initiative in getting the shop job. So Prune had got what she wanted, and it didn’t seem at all fair, to Andie.

  She thought of her tatty card folder, down in Patrick’s flat, and felt uneasy, wishing she hadn’t left it there. First thing tomorrow, she’d go down and fetch it back.

  The cellar doors were open. Andie went down, hearing a voice inside; but it was Marilyn, talking on the phone at her bench. There was no sign of Kris, nor of Patrick, and Andie remembered now that Kris was spending the day at a drama workshop.

  “Hang on a minute.” Marilyn lowered the receiver. “Have you come for your folder, Andie? It’s over there.” She smiled and nodded, and went back to her conversation.

  The card folder was lying on a worktop at Patrick’s side of the room. Andie grabbed it, and clutched it to her chest. Was that all, then? Had Patrick even bothered to look? Perhaps he had, and thought her work was awful – too childish to waste his time on.

  Out in the garden, she flipped it open and had a quick look inside, thinking he might have left a note, even just a Not bad or a Thank you.

  Nothing. He must think it was so awful that he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  SPLASHDOWN DAY FOR APOLLO MOON MEN was all over today’s paper; but even this excitement couldn’t brighten Andie’s spirits. She didn’t want to look at her paintings, let alone do any more. She wandered aimlessly along the Embankment, then returned to flick aimlessly through the pages of a book. In such a slump as this, nothing seemed worth doing; with no way to cast it off, she may as well let herself wallow. There was no one around to notice, with Mum and Dad and now Prune all out at work for the day. Mungojerrie seemed delighted that she was so miserable, and lay alongside her, warm and purry. “Typical!” she told him. “You’ve decided you actually like me now, I suppose? Now that I’m nearly going home?” The Slough of Despond awaited, and maybe it was the best place for her.

  Time dragged by. It was a still afternoon, the sun shining hotly through the bedroom window; it would be cooler in the garden, but Andie couldn’t summon the will to move. She was annoyed with herself, but unable to do anything about it. How stupid to be wasting what little was left of her time in London!

  She didn’t even stir from the bed when at last a key turned in the lock of the front door.

  “Come on down, And!” Prune burst into the bedroom, looking in the best of moods. One day at East of the Sun, West of the Moon, and already she looked a little less dolly-bird and a bit more Zak-like, in jeans and a patchwork waistcoat, with a small bell on a chain round her neck.

  “What’s happened to you?” Andie mustered enough interest to prop herself on one elbow.

  “Nothing – only everyone’s down in the garden, and Patrick’s opening champagne. He’s got something to celebrate, he says – it’s like another party!”

  “Mum won’t let me drink champagne,” Andie grumphed, and almost added that she wasn’t coming down, and had never felt less partyish, but curiosity got the better of her. She could always come back up.

  Outside, everyone was sitting on deckchairs or on the grass, while Ravi had the swing. A folding table held two bottles of champagne, and wide glasses; Patrick was pouring, and Kris handing round the drinks.

  “Well, who knows?” Patrick was saying. “You can never tell, with these rock groups – they come and go. But this bunch have really got something, in my opinion.”

  Mum turned round and smiled. “Oh, you’re here, love. That’s good.” Behind her back, Kris handed a glass to Andie; she took it, feeling tiny sparkles sputtering over her hand. Dad was there as well, tie loosened, suit jacket slung over the back of a deckchair. Music floated up from the basement – something electronic and spacey that sent tingles down the back of Andie’s neck.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Kris.
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  “It’s fantastic! Patrick’s got a contract to do album covers for Legend – you know? – to give them a special look that everyone’ll recognize. It’s big money – the record company’s really investing in them –”

  “– yes, there’s a feature on them in the New Musical Express – they’re playing at the Isle of Wight next month – that’s right, the rock festival – then touring the States –” Patrick was telling everyone.

  “Is this them?” Andie asked Kris, meaning the music.

  “Yes, aren’t they fab? We’ll go inside in a minute, and I’ll show you the artwork. You’ll love it.”

  In all the excitement, Kris seemed to have forgotten entirely about showing Andie’s paintings to Patrick. Andie nursed a small ache of resentment that promised to swell into a rage of self-pity as soon as she was alone.

  Now everyone had a glass, and Marilyn called out, “Here’s to Patrick – and Legend!”

  “To Patrick!”

  “I’m so proud of you, darling –”

  “Congratulations – well done!”

  Andie took a glug of champagne, too much at once – the fizz erupted sneezily in her nose, and she doubled over, spluttering. Mum looked at her in dismay, and reached across to take the glass.

  Only now, for the first time, did Patrick look at her. “Here she is! When she’s quite finished choking – give her back that fizz, Maureen – we’re all going to raise our glasses again, to this young lady here.”

  Andie recovered enough to look round the group for a young lady she couldn’t have noticed, then realized with a jolt that he meant her.

  “Andie.” Patrick raised his glass to her. “You’ve certainly got a future as an artist, if you choose to take it. To Andie Miller, everyone – a name you’re likely to hear more of –”

  Kris was grinning widely. “Told you!”

  “Oh! You really think so, do you?” Dad said to Patrick, looking bemused. “I always thought she was quite good – but what do I know? Art, these days – but she’s never without her sketchbook and her paints –”