by Anne Fine
Some reviews for The Tulip Touchw
‘Further proof that this author can do anything… brilliant and mesmerizing’ Guardian
‘Anne Fine has the knack of reaching straight to the heart of young readers’ Sunday Times
‘A children’s writer of rare gifts’
The Times Educational Supplement
‘An absorbing and insightful novel’ Daily Telegraph
‘Anne Fine takes the reader down a dark tunnel, but provides a light at the end which will provide inspiration to youngsters in similar predicaments’ Oxford Times
Books for older readers by Anne Fine
THE BOOK OF THE BANSHEE
FLOUR BABIES
GOGGLE–EYES
THE GRANNY PROJECT
MADAME DOUBTFIRE
THE OTHER DARKER NED
ROUND BEHIND THE ICE–HOUSE
STEP BY WICKED STEP
THE STONE MENAGERIE
THE SUMMER HOUSE LOON
THE TULIP TOUCH
UP ON CLOUD NINE
PUFFIN MODERN CLASSICS
the tulip touch
Anne Fine was born and educated in the Midlands, and now lives in County Durham. She has written numerous highly acclaimed and prize-winning books for children and adults. The Tulip Touch won the 1996 Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award; Goggle-Eyes won the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Carnegie Medal, and was adapted for television by the BBC; Flour Babies won the Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Children’s Book Award; Bill’s New Frock won a Smarties Prize; and Madame Doubtfire has become a major feature film.
Anne Fine was named Children’s Laureate in 2001.
www.annefine.co.uk
ANNE FINE
the tulip touch
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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4
Text copyright © Anne Fine, 1996
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not. by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-192793-0
Introduction
by Julia Eccleshare
Puffin Modern Classics series editor
Tulip vicious? Or victim?
When Natalie first meets Tulip she is charmed. Tulip is brave, imaginative and full of plans – all the things Natalie is not. This riveting new friendship easily fills the gaps in Natalie’s life after her father moves the family to their magnificent new home, the Palace hotel: his new workplace. And it isn’t just Natalie who is so taken with Tulip. After he’s seen her cold, miserable and unloving home, even Natalie’s father encourages her, taking pleasure in indulging her with treats and with kindness.
But there’s another side to Tulip, and, as her strangely imaginative ‘games’ become more and more disturbing, Natalie’s unease grows. The flights of fancy that once created Days of Dumbness, Rats in a Firestorm and Malaria! – mildly irritating to some of the hotel guests but hardly destructive – are now busy trying to draw Natalie into games like the truly sinister The Little Visits and the terrifying Wild Nights, and Natalie wants to break free. Almost as abruptly as it began, the friendship between the two girls has to end, and Natalie, no longer in thrall, sees everything differently and can only watch with horror as, alone again, Tulip spirals further and further out of everyone’s reach and control.
Anne Fine’s perfectly paced telling makes The Tulip Touch a penetratingly sharp picture of the appeal of a friend so intriguing on the surface, and yet so dangerously needy underneath. As Natalie is swept up by Tulip, so too is the reader. Like Natalie, we can spot all her flaws, down to the endless brittle lies Tulip tells to protect herself from the truths of who she is and what she does. And yet, like Natalie, we are irresistibly drawn into the make-believe world she creates.
The question that remains is: why? Has Tulip been irretrievably damaged by her childhood? Or was she just born bad? Anne Fine never spells out her judgement but she pulls no punches when it comes to Tulip’s final act.
Anne Fine won the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year prize for The Tulip Touch and subsequently became the Children’s Laureate.
Part One
1
You shouldn’t tell a story till it’s over, and I’m not sure this one is. I’m not even certain when it really began, unless it was the morning Dad thrust my bawling brother Julius back in Mum’s arms, and picked up the ringing telephone.
‘The Palace? Why ever would they want me at the Palace?’
Anyone listening might have begun to think of royal garden parties, or something. But even back then, when I heard people saying things like ‘the black horse’ or ‘the palace’, I got a different picture. And that’s because I’ve lived in hotels all my life. I don’t even remember the first one, the Old Ship. Mum says it was small and ivy-covered, with only six bedrooms. Then Dad was manager of the North Bay. And later he was moved to the Queen’s Arms, where we were living then.
‘So what’s the Palace’s problem?’
He listened so long, and sighed so heavily, that Mum had looked up from trying to placate Julius with his favourite furry rabbit even before we heard Dad say,
‘And I suppose you’ve forgotten I already have thirty beds to run here, not to mention a small son who makes sure nobody can even think’
That’s when he noticed us watching, and, turning his back, finished almost in a whisper.
‘All right. I’ll drive over. Just to take a look.’
I don’t know what time he got back, but it was late. Our flat was above the kitchens, and the huge extractor fans had stopped humming. The only sounds left were the usual muffled telephones and scurrying footsteps.
At breakfast, he said to me:
‘You ought to see it, Natalie. It’s enormous. It’s got over sixty bedrooms, and it sits on its lawns like a giant great wedding cake set out on a perfect green tablecloth.’
‘When can we come?’
He glanced at Mum, worn out from another bad night with Julius.
‘Soon. Before I finish there. I’ll take you over for the day’
But when we finally saw it, it wasn’t for the day. It was with suitcases and boxes and bags.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Dad kept saying.‘I really did think this was
going to be a short job.’
Mum tried to resettle Julius in the hot crush of his car seat. He squawked and struggled. And, tense from the packing, she complained the whole way.
‘A few lumps of plaster falling in the guests’ hair, you told me. Three weeks at most, till all the ceilings were fixed. And now it’s wet rot. And dry rot. And problems with the piping, and the fire doors. Why can’t the old manager cope? He’s the one who let it all happen.’
Dad knew there was no point in answering. He just drove.
‘One man not up to his job,’ Mum grumbled. ‘And suddenly three weeks is three months, and Natalie has to come out of school a week before the holidays, and –’
We swung round the last bend, and she broke off. Before us stood the Palace, vast and imposing, silencing petty complaints.
Dad switched off the engine and Mum scrambled out. Julius immediately stopped struggling and fell quiet. Mum unstrapped him and lifted him into her arms. And as she carried him up the wide stone steps to the Palace, suddenly behind her the whole sky was ablaze. And on the lawns on either side of her, the peacocks spread their glimmering fans.
‘See?’ Dad whispered to me, triumphant. ‘A good omen!’
But I felt differently. I felt so strange. I think I must have been dizzy from the ride. I stumbled out of the car, and suddenly the sky seemed too high above me, the grass too green. And then one of the peacocks let out the most unholy cry, and I was filled with such unease.
Everyone thinks they can see things when they look back. It’s nonsense, really, I expect.
2
Forget Dad counting the bedrooms. The Palace had over a hundred rooms if, as well as the lounges and dining rooms and bars and verandahs, you counted hot attics and dark cellars. In less than a week, Dad had the last few stubborn guests shunted off. Then, within hours, some floors were taken up, some ceilings down, and I was living in a strange new world, peopled by men in overalls.
‘Natalie, run up to the attics and tell Mr Forrester – he’s the one with the beard – that some bloke’s on the phone about his wallboard.’
‘Oh, no! The new sinks! Natalie, run round to the terrace and ask Ben if a couple of his lads can do a bit of unloading.’
And off he’d stride, to sort out the plasterers, or make arrangements for work to start on yet another floor. Every so often he’d remember me, and the cry would go up.
‘Where’s Natalie? Anyone seen her?’
If nobody had, then he’d panic.
‘Natalie! Can you hear me? Natalie!’
The shouts would echo through cavernous rooms and up lofty stairwells – ‘Natalie! Natalie!’ – till one of the workmen spotted me arranging dusty glasses in rows, like soldiers, on the copper cocktail bar. Or cartwheeling across the empty ballroom. Or leaning over till my panties showed as I peered in cracked urns on the terrace.
‘There she blows! Perfectly safe!’
I spent the summer skipping down corridors that had their carpets rolled, and holding endless imaginary conversations with the stone boy in the lily pond. For weeks, the Palace seemed more chaotic each time I picked my way down one of its great swooping staircases. Then, suddenly, the order was reversed. Day by day, dust sheets were whipped off tables and armchairs and sofas. Drills went back into toolchests. And cleaning began, till even my favourite gold cherubs over the mirrors glinted at me one morning, gleaming and bright.
Then, off to cadge a peppermint from one of the painters, I heard Dad taking a call.
‘A south-facing double room. Yes, indeed. And dinner on both evenings. Thursday and Friday next.’
I hurled myself at him, barely managing to keep quiet until he’d replaced the receiver.
‘Is it opening again? Is that it? Are we going?’
Wincing, he reached down and lifted me onto the polished brown sea of the reception desk. He looked over his glasses at Mum, who’d been sorting out keys in the corner, and she sighed and gave a tired little nod.
‘Natalie,’ he said gently. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got something rather awkward to tell you.’
‘Stay?’ I said, wide-eyed, when I finally understood just what it was they were trying to explain. ‘Stay in the Palace for ever?’
They started to comfort me! How could they have known so little? How could they have got it so wrong? It had been my one dream all those long, long weeks. To stay! To somersault endlessly down the wide slopes of clover-studded lawn. Wander at will through drawing rooms, writing rooms, boathouses and conservatories. Bounce on the cherry-red sofas. Pick my way like a gymnast, toes pointed, arms outstretched, along the stone ledges of the terraces –
‘Natalie?’
I stared at them.
‘Natalie, sweet.You don’t mind, do you? You won’t pine for old friends? You will be all right?’
I nodded at them, dumb with joy.
3
Mum had a hard time with the two of us when Julius was little. Even if my brother did ever finally fall asleep, Mum couldn’t hide the fact that she was shattered.
‘I’m sorry, Natalie,’ she’d say. ‘I know I promised. But I feel sick with tiredness. Can we do it another day?’
She’d give Dad one of her pleading looks, and, if he had the time, he’d take me off, across the lawns, through the rose garden, and then down the narrow twisty path that led through the dark belt of trees. It almost hurt to step out again, into the brightness of the open field. And that’s where we first met Tulip, still as a statue in the sea of corn.
‘Is that a scarecrow?’
Dad peered against the sudden glare.
‘No. I do believe that it’s a little girl.’
‘What is she doing out here, all alone?’
Dad shrugged.
‘We’ll ask.’ He took my hand and called across. ‘He-llooo! He-llooo!’
She turned to face us, and I could see that she was nursing something.
‘Is that a kitten?’
I was off in an instant. The Palace had stuffy old cats. But a kitten! Bliss! Dad roared after me. ‘Natalie! Think of the crop!’ And I came to a halt. Even I realized the farmers were our neighbours, and must be friends. So I stood, burning with impatience, while this stranger my age stepped carefully towards us, spreading the corn with her free hand and picking her way so gently that by the time she reached us I couldn’t see a sign of the track she had taken.
The kitten’s eyes weren’t even open yet.
‘What’s its name? What are you going to call it?’
Dad touched my shoulder.
‘It would be more polite, Natalie, to ask the young lady her name first.’
He looked at her expectantly. But she just tossed her unbrushed hair out of her eyes and stared as if he’d dropped from outer space.
Dad tried again.
‘This,’ he said, patting me, ‘this is Natalie. And I am Mr Barnes, from the hotel.’
Again we waited. And then, finally:
‘Tulip,’ she said.
I couldn’t believe that was her name. I thought she must mean the kitten. And sometimes I wonder if that’s the reason I dropped everything to run across and say hello to her a few days later, when she appeared at the edge of the playground. Because, still almost a stranger in my new school, I couldn’t miss the chance to say something so silly and bold.
‘Hello, Tulip!’
She stared at me, and I faltered. The silence between us grew. And then, too embarrassed to come to my senses, I added the really stupid bit.
‘Do you want to be friends?’
4
I paid for the privilege (if privilege is what it was). Nobody else would have Tulip in their gang. They knew from experience that she was out of school more often than in. (That’s why I’d never seen her.) From that day on, I spent countless hours scuffing alone round the playground, desperately hoping that she’d show up, or that some soft soul in one of the busy swarms of children whooping round me would crack and say the words I longed to hear.
I look back and think I must have been mad. What sort of friendship is it when one of the pair is hardly ever there, and the other is never permitted to go off and find her?
On this, my father was adamant.
‘I’m not even discussing it, Natalie. You are not going over to Tulip’s house. She can come here as often as she likes. But you’re not going there. And that is final.’
Why was he so firm about it? What had he seen that first day that made him so convinced the Pierces’ farm was no place for a daughter of his? Most run-down smallholdings are ringed with disembowelled machinery. Most small-time farmers keep frustrated dogs chained up to bark at every passing sparrow. And we didn’t meet Tulip’s parents. For all Dad knocked and knocked, no one appeared.
A dozen times a week I’d say to him:
‘Let’s go back and try again. I haven’t seen her for days. I probably won’t see her again, ever, at this rate, if I can’t go and find her.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe she’s ill.’
‘I doubt it, Natalie.’
‘It’s not her fault her parents don’t think school’s important.’
‘If I were you, I’d make some other friends. Because nothing’s going to change here. You are not going to be allowed to go to Tulip’s house. And that is that.’
Was I just being stubborn? What sort of magic did she have for me? All I know is I never made the effort to find another friend. I didn’t even put myself out to steal enough good things from the kitchens to wheedle my way into one of the school gangs. Instead, I stayed aloof; and during evenings and weekends I floated round the Palace, presumably content with the glancing interest of bored guests, and my own company, till I’d see her standing on the edge of the lawns.