The Bed and Breakfast Star

by Jacqueline Wilson

  But I built her up into such a little Baby Wonder that the kids in my class were drooling, and they all wanted to see the show with me and this mega-brilliant little brat and our glamorous movie-star mummy.

  ‘Sorry, folks, we’ve been sold out for weeks because the show’s so popular,’ I said breezily, though my heart was beating fit to bust.

  That shut them up for a few seconds, but then I started to wonder about going-home time. Mum had caught me out yesterday by trailing round to the school. What if she did it again today? What if she’d just pulled on her oldest old T-shirt and leggings and hadn’t bothered to do her hair? All the children would see her for themselves. And even if I could somehow manage to convince them that she was just practising for a forthcoming searingly realistic drama on the telly about a careworn young mother ground down by the system, they’d see Pippa too.

  It might help matters if my whole family were present and correct. I could tell them that Mack was all set for a remake of King Kong. He didn’t even need to bother with a costume.

  I shot out of school the moment the bell went. It was a huge great relief to see that Mum wasn’t there, though I couldn’t help feeling a weeny bit miffed all the same, because she said she’d come. She wasn’t back at the hotel either. None of them were. I couldn’t get into room 608 because I didn’t have a key, so I had to mooch about the corridors for ages. Naomi came along but she was a bit narked with me because I hadn’t waited for her after school, and she couldn’t play with me now anyway because she had to help her mum with her brothers. Then Funny-Face sloped into view, scuffing his trainers and spitting. He was even more narked with me because my mum had stirred things up yesterday and the school had done a check on their registers and sent the truant officer round and now Funny-Face and the Famous Five had to turn up at school tomorrow or else.

  ‘Or else you’ll all get into trouble and Elsa’ll get into trouble for getting you lot into trouble,’ I said, pulling a funny face at Funny-Face.

  He didn’t pull one back. He called me a lot of rude names, even the infamous one he wrote on the wall that I had to correct.

  I swept away loftily and pretended I didn’t care. But I felt a bit friendless by now. And I was starting to get dead worried that I might be familyless too.

  Why had they all pushed off without telling me where they were going? What if they’d finally got fed up with me and packed up and scarpered? I knew Mack didn’t want me. He’d go like a shot and he’d take Pippa and Hank because they were his kids and he cared about them. But Mum wouldn’t walk out on me, would she? Although only this morning, when the drains all went wrong and someone else’s dirty water came bubbling up in our basin, she burst into tears and said she couldn’t stick this rotten dump a day longer. So maybe . . . maybe she had gone too.

  The ceiling suddenly seemed a long long way off. I felt I was getting smaller and smaller until I wasn’t much more than a squeak. I hunched up on the floor with my head on my knees and held on tight in case I disappeared altogether.

  ‘Elsa? What on earth are you doing? What’s up, eh?’ said Mum, coming down the corridor.

  Yes, it was Mum, and I was so very pleased to see her even though she sounded cross. And I was very pleased to see Pippa even though she was all sniffly with her nose running. And I was very pleased to see Hank even though he was howling his head off and needing his nappy changed. And I was . . . No. I wasn’t very pleased to see Mack. I wouldn’t ever go that far.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been back from school ages and ages!’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry, love, but it’s not our fault. We had a right ding-dong with that useless Manager this morning because we’re all going to end up getting typhoid or cholera stuck in this poxy dump, and the tight-fisted pig won’t even send for a plumber to fix things, would you believe! Anyway, he said we could clear off if we didn’t like it here, and so I said we were doing our best to do just that, but we didn’t have any place to go, so then we went down the Housing Office, all of us, and would you believe they kept us waiting all day. They weren’t even going to see us at all because we didn’t have some stupid appointment, but we sat it out and I knew you’d be waiting, pet, but I couldn’t do anything, could I?’

  ‘So what happened, Mum? Are we getting a house?’

  ‘Are we heck,’ said Mum. ‘They just mumbled on about priority families and exceptional circumstances and said even if this dump was affecting our health we’d have to get some really bad complaint and it would all have to be written up in medical reports and even then, if we were all at death’s door, they couldn’t blooming well guarantee us a house or even a mouldy old flat like we used to have.’

  ‘So I asked what would guarantee us a house – did one of you kids have to snuff it altogether, is that it?’ Mack said. ‘It’s getting dangerously close too. Look at little Pippa, all sniffles. She can’t get rid of that cold, and as for the baby, well, I don’t like the sound of his chest at all.’

  Mack sighed over Hank, who was still exercising his magnificent lungs. They certainly sounded in full working order.

  ‘Yeah, Mack started to get really stroppy. Well, I did too, especially when they said they couldn’t even guarantee us a proper set of rooms here like we’re entitled to, instead of us having to squash up like sardines. They said there was nothing further they could do at this moment in time, and threatened to set the police on to us unless we left the office.’

  Mum sighed theatrically, the back of her hand to her forehead. She mightn’t be a proper actress but it certainly sounded as if she’d been giving a good performance down at the Housing Office. She threatened to go back again tomorrow, wondering if she could get us rehoused by sheer persistence.

  ‘Yes, good thinking, Mum,’ I said, encouraging her so she wouldn’t come to collect me from school and crack my credibility.

  Only I needn’t have bothered. Someone else started telling the wrong sort of tales the very next day. Someone with a funny face. And a great big mouth.

  Funny-Face got shoved in the special class too. Right next to me, at the front, under the Fisher’s pop eyes. This reminded me of 101 Popeye the Sailorman jokes – you know – and I swopped some of them with Funny-Face and we both got terrible snorty giggles, and Mrs Fisher’s eyes popped so much they almost rolled down her cheeks, and her mouth went so tight her lips disappeared.

  ‘I’m glad you two are finding school so amusing,’ she said, dead sarcastic. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share your little jokes with me, hmm?’

  Perhaps not. If she heard some of the wilder Popeye jokes she’d go off pop herself.

  So Funny-Face and I were getting on famously until playtime. And then one of the kids in the class asked if Funny-Face performed too.

  ‘You what?’ said Funny-Face.

  ‘Are you a child star like Elsarina and Pipette?’ They elaborated on the famous fictional talents of me and my family, and Funny-Face fell about, thinking this was just another joke, a wind-up on my part.

  ‘You lot aren’t half loopy,’ said Funny-Face. ‘How come you’ve fallen for all this rubbish? Elsa isn’t a famous star! She’s just a bed-and-breakfast kid, like me. And cripes, you should see her mum and her dopey little sister – stars!’

  That was enough. Funny-Face saw stars then. Because I punched him right in the nose.

  All the children started shouting ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ I was all set to have a proper fight even though I’m generally gentle, and Funny-Face was bewildered but wanted a fight too because I’d made his nose bleed. But as soon as we’d squared up to each other Mrs Fisher came flying forth and she seized Funny-Face in one hand and me in the other. She shook us both very vigorously indeed, practically clonking our heads together, and told us we were very rough, naughty children and we had to learn not to be violent in school.

  Then, as she stalked off, she said just one word. Well, she muttered it, but I heard. And Funny-Face did too. She said, ‘Typical.’ She meant we were typical bed-and-
breakfast kids indulging in typical disruptive behaviour. And I suddenly felt sick, as if I needed my bed and might well throw up my breakfast.

  Funny-Face didn’t look too clever either. He wiped the smear of blood from his nose and pulled a hideous face at Mrs Fisher’s back, crossing his eyes and waggling his tongue.

  I giggled feebly.

  ‘Why did the teacher have crossed eyes, eh? Because she couldn’t control her pupils.’

  It was one of my least funny jokes but Funny-Face guffawed politely.

  ‘Well, she’s not going to control us, is she, Elsa?’

  ‘You bet she’s not.’ His nose was still bleeding. I felt up my sleeve for a crumpled tissue. ‘Here,’ I said, dabbing at him.

  ‘Leave off! You’re acting like my mum,’ said Funny-Face.

  ‘Sorry I socked you one,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well, if that old trout hadn’t come along I’d have flattened you, see. Just as well for you. Though you can hit quite hard – for a girl.’

  ‘If you start that I’ll hit you even harder,’ I said, but I gave his nose another careful wipe. ‘We’re still mates, aren’t we?’

  ‘Course we are. Though why did you have to attack me like that, eh?’

  ‘Because of what you said about my mum and my sister.’

  ‘But you were the one telling porky-pies, not me! Why did you spin all those stupid stories about them? I mean, it’s daft. As if you lot could ever be in showbiz.’

  ‘We could, you know,’ I said fiercely. ‘Well, maybe not my mum. Or Pippa. But I’m going to be some day. I’ll be famous, just you wait and see. I’ll be a comedienne – that’s a lady who tells jokes – and I’ll have my own show and I’ll get to be on the telly, you’ll see, maybe sooner than you think.’

  It was sooner than I thought, too. Because when Funny-Face and I went home from school that day there was a camera crew filming in the foyer of the Royal Hotel!

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ said Funny-Face. ‘Hey, is this for telly? Are we going to be on the telly?’

  He pulled a grotesque funny face for the camera, waving both his arms.

  I sighed scornfully. I wasn’t going to behave like some idiotic amateur. I eyed up all the people and spotted the man in the tightest jeans and the leather jacket. That one just had to be the director. I walked right up to him, smiling.

  ‘Hello, I’m Elsa, I live here and I’m going to be a comedienne when I grow up. In fact, I’ve got my whole comedy act worked out right now. Would you like to listen?’

  The director blinked rapidly behind his trendy glasses, but he seemed interested.

  ‘You live here, do you, Elsa? Great, well, we’re doing a programme called Children in Crisis, OK? Shall we do a little interview with you and your friend, eh? You can tell us all about how awful it is to have to stay in a bed-and-breakfast hotel, right?’

  ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong!’ said the bunny lady receptionist, rushing out from behind her desk. Even the telephonist lady had chucked her Jackie Collins and was peering out from behind her glass door, all agog.

  ‘Go and get the Manager, quick,’ the bunny lady commanded, shooing the telephonist lady up the corridor. ‘Now listen to me, you television people. You’re trespassing. Get out of this hotel right this minute or I’ll call the police and have you evicted.’

  ‘I can tell any joke you like. We’ll have a police joke, OK? What did the policeman say to the three-headed man? Hello hello hello. Where does the policeman live? Nine nine nine Let’s be Avenue. What’s the police dog’s telephone number? Canine canine canine.’

  ‘Very funny, dear,’ said the director, though he didn’t laugh. ‘Now, once we get the camera rolling I want you to say a bit about the crowded room you live in and how damp it is and maybe there are nasty bugs in the bath, yeah?’

  ‘How dare you! This is a scrupulously clean establishment, there are no bugs here, no infestations of any kind!’ the bunny lady screeched, so cross that the fluff on her jumper quivered.

  ‘Bugs, OK, I’ll tell you an insect joke, right? You’ve got this fly and this flea, yes, and when they fly past each other what time is it? Fly past flea.’ I laughed to show that this was the punchline.

  ‘Mmm, well. Simmer down now, sweetie, we want you looking really sad for the camera. And you, sonnie, do you think you could stop pulling those faces for five seconds?’

  ‘OK, I can look sad, it’s all part of a comedienne’s repertoire. Look, is this sad enough?’

  ‘Well, you needn’t go to extremes. Cheer up just a bit.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve thought of another insect joke. There were these two little flies running like mad over a cornflake packet – and do you know why? Because it said, “Tear along dotted line”.’

  I laughed, but that made me cheer up a bit too much. And then the Manager came charging up and started shouting and swearing at the television people and they tried to film him and he put his hand over the camera and I started to get the feeling I might have lost my big chance to make it on to the television.

  ‘Phone the police this minute!’ the Manager commanded.

  ‘I know some more police jokes,’ I said, but no-one was listening.

  ‘Who put you up to this? Who invited you in, eh? Has one of the residents been complaining? Which one? You tell me. If they don’t like it here they can get out,’ the Manager shouted, making wild gestures. He nearly clipped me on the head and I ducked. ‘It was your mum and dad, wasn’t it, little girl!’

  ‘That man’s not my dad.’

  ‘The big Scottish bloke, he was throwing his weight around and moaning about his basin.’

  ‘What animal do you find in a toilet? A wash-hand bison,’ I said, but I seemed to have lost my audience.

  The police arrived and there was a big argy-bargy which ended in the camera crew having to squeeze all their stuff back round the revolving door, while the Manager continued to rant and rave to me, saying it was all my family’s fault and we’d better start packing our bags right this minute.

  I began to feel very much like a Child in Crisis. I whizzed out after the camera crew, desperate for one last chance to get on the telly.

  ‘Hey, don’t go, don’t pack up!’ I yelled, as I saw them heaving their gear into a van. ‘Look, couldn’t we do an interview in front of the hotel, eh? I’ll be ever so sad – I could even try to cry if you like. Look, I can make my face crumple up – or I tell you what, I’ll go and get my little sister and brother from our room, they’re great at crying—’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie, but I think this is a waste of time,’ said the director. ‘I don’t need this sort of hassle. And besides, you’re a great little sport but you’re not the sort of kid I’m looking for. I need someone . . .’ He waved his hand in the air, unable to express exactly what he wanted. Then he stopped and stood still.

  ‘Someone like that little kid there!’ he said, snapping his fingers.

  I looked for this favoured little kid. And do you know who it was? Naomi, mooching along the road, trailing a brother in either hand, looking all fed up and forlorn because I’d rushed off with Funny-Face instead of waiting for her.

  ‘Hey, sweetie, over here!’ The director waved at her frantically. ‘Where did you spring from, hmm? You don’t live in the bed-and-breakfast hotel by any chance?’

  Naomi nodded nervously, clutching her little brothers tight.

  ‘Great!’ He threw back his head and addressed the clouds. ‘A gift!’

  ‘We don’t want any gifts. We don’t take stuff from strangers,’ said Naomi, and she started trying to hustle her brothers away. She hustled a little too abruptly, and Neil tripped and started crying.

  ‘Hey, shut up, little squirt,’ said Funny-Face. ‘You’re going to be on the telly. Can I still be on it too, mister?’

  ‘And me?’ I said urgently.

  ‘Well, you can maybe sort of wander in the background,’ said the director. ‘But no clowning. No funny faces. And absolutely no jokes.’

  I
didn’t actually feel like cracking any jokes right that minute. Naomi was going to be the star of the show. Not me, even though I’d been perfecting my routine and practising on everyone all this time. Naomi, who couldn’t crack a joke to save her life, little meek and mousey Naomi!

  OK, I thought. Maybe just one joke to try to cheer myself up. So I whispered all to myself, ‘What do you get if you cross an elephant with a mouse? Socking great holes in the skirting board!’ I couldn’t help laughing. You can’t really do that quietly. The director glared in my direction. ‘Dear goodness, you dippy kids! I don’t want merriment, I don’t want laughter, I don’t want JOKES.’

  ‘OK, OK, no jokes,’ I said, and I pinched my lips together with my fingers so he could see I was serious. Only it was such a pity. The mouse and elephant joke had triggered off a whole herd of elephant jokes inside my head, and they were trumpeting tremendously.

  ‘Well I can’t tell jokes,’ said Naomi truthfully. ‘I can’t dance or sing or anything. So you’d really better pick Elsa.’

  ‘Oh Naomi,’ I said, immensely touched. ‘You can’t do all the showy things, but you’re ever so brainy. You could get to be on one of the quiz shows, eh?’

  ‘Never mind quiz shows. This little girl’s perfect for Children in Crisis. Now just stand here, sweetie – little brothers too, that’s it, and I’ll ask you a few questions while the camera rolls, right?’