by Anne Fine
By the time I joined Chopper in the dining hall at lunchtime, the top half of my body was seriously aflame.
He watched me pouncing on the worst places for a bit, then offered his advice.
‘You shouldn’t scratch. It only makes it worse.’
Rather than hit him, hard, I told him all about the Spice War at home. He listened, rapt, then he said thoughtfully:
‘I reckon your family’s cracking up.’
‘Cracking up?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Buckling under the strain.’
Reaching across, he lifted my untouched sandwich out of my lunchbox and peeled the two halves apart.
‘For example,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing in this sandwich. Only salad cream.’
‘That’s because it’s a salad cream sandwich.’
(Beggars can’t be choosers.)
Sadly he shook his head.
‘There’s no such thing. And it shouldn’t be in your lunchbox. Someone your size needs proper food.’
I wasn’t going to argue with that, was I? That was my opinion too. And I’d been saying it all term. But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear it from Chopper.
‘Things in your own house can’t be so brilliant. You have to argue with your parents for a week to stay out long enough to see a film.’
Chopper looked smug.
‘No, I don’t. That’s all finished.’
Pigs can fly . . .
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes.’
He took to waving his fresh crusty thick Italian roll in front of my face as he went on to explain. Great juicy slices of salami kept dropping out of it. I picked them up and popped them into my mouth. They were delicious. It was so long since I’d had anything worth eating at the paupers’ table that I let Chopper ramble on for quite a while before I realized he was saying something that could prove mighty useful in our house.
‘What was all that again?’
He went over it once more.
‘When Dad’s away, Mum and I settle between us what time I have to be back. Eleven o’clock, say. She sets the alarm clock for five past eleven and puts it outside her room. I creep in dead on eleven and switch the alarm off before it wakes her. Then I reset it for her crack of dawn start. Hey, presto! I get to see the end of the film, and Mum doesn’t have to lie there worrying in case she falls asleep before it’s time to wake up and worry about me.’
I had a bit of a scratch while I took all this on board.
‘What happens if you get home late and the alarm goes off?’
Chopper’s face darkened.
‘She says that since she’s sure I would never dream of breaking an agreement, naturally she’d phone the police at once.’ The scowl deepened. ‘And she would, too . . .’
I shook my head in wonder.
‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’ A nasty thought struck. ‘Did you think it up yourself?’
He looked embarrassed.
‘Found it in a book.’
This was a newsflash indeed: Chopper Reads!
‘What book?’
He blushed.
‘Coping with the Awkward Adolescent. My mother picked it up at some branch library sale.’
Oh, ho. The District Barbarian flinging away more gems. She clearly hadn’t changed. But it did seem to me as if everyone else who lives within five square miles of Wallace School had suddenly decided to get a grip. How many things had changed almost overnight? I’d stood up to everybody in my family. Muffy was making with the words. And now here was my mate Chopper (who hasn’t voluntarily opened a book since he had gloves on elastic in his sleeves) suddenly culling bright ideas from his recreational reading, and slotting them usefully into family life. He’d even managed to upgrade his manky lunches till they were practically haute cuisine. So why should I skid to a halt after Battle No. 1? They say that every victory brings another. Roll on the next big fight. It was time to solve all my other problems. For instance, I could insist on taking a few notes off Dad each time he goes to the bank. I could take responsibility for getting them changed myself. Then I’d have lunch money every day – no fuss, no bother. Or I could even add things to the weekly shopping list so, if I had to pack one, there would be something to pack.
It was a novel thought. I had a bit of a scratch as I worked out the details. And it occurred to me as well that if I was no longer having to trail round the house every morning before school, begging for lunch money, the rest of my family probably wouldn’t get on my nerves quite so much as they do now, and I might not get on theirs.
The pleasant notion of early-morning sunshine at 27 Beechcroft Avenue, inside and out, was interrupted by Chopper. He’d stuffed the last of his crusty roll into his mouth, and embarked on a precis of his recent reading.
‘In this book about the awkward adolescent,’ he told me indistinctly, chewing hard, ‘it says the childhood personality has to break down, so that a new one can grow.’
Weird.
‘What? Like shaking a kaleidoscope to get a new pattern?’
‘I suppose so. Or shuffling a pack of cards for a fresh game.’
‘I see.’
I stared across the room. Estelle was using both hands to plait Marisa’s hair, while Flora posted chips in her mouth for her. I had a bit of a think as I scratched, hard. It certainly did seem a pretty good description of what had been happening to my sister. Was I the next in line? Late bloomer, as usual. Still one year older, and still one behind. She moves in first, the strong attacking force. I follow after, the steady mopping-up operation. How many battles would I have to fight? And how would I end up?
Chopper was chuntering on.
‘Mind you, in your house sometimes it sounds as if everyone’s personality is breaking down.’
Scratch! Scratch! It was hard to think. But on the whole I reckoned Chopper was on the wrong track with this one. Things at home weren’t that bad. No one was cracking up. Mum and Dad go off their rockers from time to time. But generally they press on very well. They still shop. We still eat. They pay the bills. You can’t say fairer than that. William Scott Saffery saw men so badly shattered that nothing and no one would ever put them to rights again. They had collapsed on the field. They had become as deaf to the taunts and threats of their officers as they were to the sympathy of their mates. They were even indifferent to the fear of court martial (which as everyone knew meant little more than a swift bullet in the head). They had lost hope. The living world had proved so terrible that they no longer cared which side of the mad equation was wiped away: the horrors around them – or them.
No, things were nowhere near that bad. Maybe Mum sometimes hides in the garage, or climbs through the window, or Muffy sticks her head up a jumper. So what? If someone in a family has worked out that it’s time to change a bit into the person that they want to be, then one or two other people in that family might end up with battle fatigue. What’s wrong with that? Some battles are worth fighting. I’ve learned that from Estelle.
Estelle . . .
I took a peep at her while I was scratching. Flora caught my eye, and stuck her tongue out automatically. Then she bent down and whispered in Estelle’s ear. Estelle’s busy hands kept on plaiting, but she glanced in my direction. Then she looked again, and said something to Flora.
Flora said something back.
Estelle flipped the elastic band onto Marisa’s plait, doubling it till it was tight. Then, popping the last chip into her mouth, she strolled across to me.
‘Flora says you must have lice.’
I stopped scratching at once.
‘Nonsense.’
Estelle’s like Mum. She never stops to discuss things. Quick as a flash, she reached down and pushed my unbuttoned sleeves high up my wrists.
The rash was fierce.
‘That is awful, Will.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It isn’t bothering me.’
(I must be mad. I was in misery.)
Shrugging, Estelle tur
ned and went back to her table. I looked at Chopper, who was staring at me as if I were unhinged. Suddenly it was as if all the things I’d learned about myself at the weekend swept back over me in force. This business of changing inside is not quite as simple and straightforward as growing out of your trousers, I can tell you. You can’t depend on it. It comes in waves.
Late bloomer I may be; hopeless I’m not.
I stood up and started unbuttoning my shirt.
Chopper was still staring.
‘Go on,’ I ordered him. ‘Take it off.’
‘What?’
‘Your shirt. Take it off. My skin’s very sensitive, and yours isn’t. I want to swap shirts.’
He started to argue, but I cut him off.
‘Look, Chopper,’ I said. ‘I can’t stand sitting here suffering quietly any longer. So take your shirt off, please.’
Chalky made William Saffery swap boots with him once, for very similar reasons. I thought that was dreadful when I read it first. Now I think I understand.
Chopper could tell I meant it. He stood up. Together we unbuttoned. You don’t realize how many people are watching you in a public place, till you do something unusual. I was hardly down to my navel before the shouting and the stamping began. The noise in the lunch hall is always tremendous. This took it over the top. I was a bit embarrassed. After all, I didn’t look too fetching, inflamed in great blotchy patches. But Chopper was clearly enjoying the attention, the same way he got a buzz out of it that time we set all the parents off in the school hall.
‘Thank you,’ he said, bowing to left and right, and flexing his puny muscles. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you.’
Amongst all the cries of ‘More! More!’ and ‘Get ’em off!’ there were complaints that people at the hatch end couldn’t see. Chopper cooperatively climbed on a chair.
‘Thank you. You are so kind. Thank you, one and all.’
Miss Sullivan’s voice cut through his like a wire through cheese.
‘Rupert Murgatroyd Chopperly! Get off that chair at once!’
It isn’t fair, using someone’s real name as if it’s a lethal weapon. A ripple of sympathy ran through the hall. Chopper went pale, and climbed down from the chair. He wouldn’t look at her, and she knew better than to push her luck. She just strode out of the hall, and the faint hissing that had greeted her spite grew into a crescendo as she disappeared again through the swing doors.
When I looked back, Flora, Marisa and Estelle were standing in front of us.
‘That was brilliant, Chopper,’ said Flora.
‘Your muscles are huge,’ said Marisa.
‘You showed the Old Bag,’ said Estelle.
Girls are so nice. The colour flooded back to Chopper’s face.
‘Ta, Flora. Ta, Marisa. Ta, Stelly – I mean, Estelle.’
She favoured him with the amazing smile that hasn’t been sighted in our house for weeks.
‘That’s all right, Chopper. You can call me Stelly, since you’re so used to it.’
I still wouldn’t chance it myself, not on one of her bad days. But Chopper looked pretty thrilled.
Estelle turned to me.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Catch!’
I caught it. It was a tin of skin cream. ‘Jojoba and cucumber’ it said on the lid. ‘Soothing and safe.’
‘Don’t use it all,’ she ordered. ‘Flora says it’s wonderful.’
It was. I’d hardly rubbed a little in the worst places before my skin cooled down. Chopper claimed that the skin cream was useless, and the real cure was swapping shirts with him. I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the great glorious relief of stopping itching. I felt like a fiery furnace cooling down. In the sheer delirium of my reprieve, I ate the last salad cream sandwich I ever intend to eat in my whole life.
Meanwhile, Chopper was staring blindly after Marisa, Flora and Estelle, who were ambling out of the lunch hall.
‘Do you think she meant what she said?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Who?’
He stared at me.
‘Marisa, of course.’
I nearly choked.
‘Marisa?’
A seraphic smile spread over his face. I honestly think it must have been because I said her name. I was appalled. I may not have bothered to mention it too often, but Chopper isn’t stupid. Surely he realized that what Marisa said about his muscles was simply a bit of moral support for someone who had the misfortune to be named Rupert Murgatroyd Chopperly. Not that I’m claiming Chopper is a wimp. Anyone who can share a home with the man who runs ‘Start Orienteering’, and live to tell the tale, has to have inner resources.
But muscles? No.
What’s a friend for, if not to put you straight at the right moments?
‘Chopper—’ I pedalled off. But he wasn’t listening.
‘And did you see the way Stelly had plaited her hair for her?’
‘Chopper!’
‘It’s not really plain brown at all. It’s more a sort of tawny—’
‘Chopper!’
He pulled himself together, and stood up.
‘Anyhow,’ he said. ‘I’d better get off after them, to thank Marisa for the skin cream.’
‘The skin cream belongs to Flora.’
But he’d gone.
Chapter 10
LEAVING ME ON my own. Which is exactly how I’ve stayed over the last three days. I’m not that bothered. Chopper’s passions never last for long, and I reckoned I could do with a day or two of peace and quiet before I welly in about this lunch money, and better fillings for my sandwiches, and all the other things I’m going to be changing around here.
But I’ve made good use of the time, getting this war report brought up to date. Count them out. Count them back. If Chopper hasn’t come to his senses by the end of next week, I might log him down as one of the lost. But right now he’s still simply Missing In Action.
And I’m holed up here for the very last time. There’s not much else to write. I could keep on, of course. One of the things I’ve learned is that Miss Adulewebe was quite right. Once you’ve got your bum on a seat, it’s downhill all the way. You can write about almost anything. But I’d quite like to get back to reading other people’s books now. I have a whole pile down beside the bed. I’ve even found another Alec Whitsun (Alicia Whitley must keep herself busy!) – a nice change from carnage and war.
And there’s another good reason. THE BESHOOHOEFTE BANK is pretty well filled up. If I don’t stop, I’ll end up scribbling round the margins like Gran does on postcards. Better to knock off now. And I don’t even have to worry any more about The Curse of Miss Adulewebe falling on my head, because, flicking back, I see that I’ve even said quite a lot about how I feel.
In fact, I’ve written a whole book. That’s pretty amazing.
And kept it hidden from Estelle. That’s more amazing still. I go all hot and cold when I think what would happen if she came across it now. She’s been a whole lot more friendly since I had my first stand-up argument with Mum and Dad, but she’d still have my ears off. She’d mash my spleen. Banshee Out of the Basket! I’d be much safer if it were out of the house, but while Chopper’s so pally with Marisa (chum of Flora, chum of The Famous Estelle), it certainly can’t go to his house.
What can I do?
Where is the best place for a book if you want to keep it out of everyone’s hands?
A publisher! Of course! Alicia Whitley claimed the firm who do all her Alec Whitsuns are slower than snails, and nothing you send them ever comes back for months. That’ll be perfect. I’ll wrap it up, and post it tomorrow afternoon. I won’t tell them my real name, in case there’s a mix-up, and they go ahead and publish it by mistake. I’ll choose a pen name.
And I’ll take a leaf out of Alicia Whitley’s book. She chose a male name. Very clever, that. I’ll choose a female name – a plain one no one will even notice.
I’ll pick Anne. And since it’s a pretty good book for someone my age – well,
I think William Saffery would have liked it – I’ll call myself Anne Good. No. Too prissy. Anne Best? Worse. Sounds too boastful. How about Anne Fine?
Yes, Anne Fine. That’ll fool Estelle.
And that only leaves the title. No problem there. It won’t take long to peel all the gold letters off the front of THE BESHOOHOEFTE BANK, and shift them round until they spell the title I had in mind right from the start.
THE BOOK OF THE BANSHEE
That’s it, then. Brilliant!
About the Author
Anne Fine has written more than fifty books for children and eight books for adults. Our Precious Lulu is her eighth adult novel, her first being the critically acclaimed The Killjoy, which was runner up for the David Higham Prize for Fiction. Taking the Devil’s Advice and Telling Liddy have both been adapted for radio. Anne Fine’s work has been translated into over thirty languages. She has two grown-up daughters and lives in County Durham.
By Anne Fine, published by Corgi Books:
THE BOOK OF THE BANSHEE
THE GRANNY PROJECT
ON THE SUMMERHOUSE STEPS
ROUND BEHIND THE ICE HOUSE
UP ON CLOUD NINE
Published in hardback by Doubleday:
THE ROAD OF BONES
Published by Corgi Yearling Books:
BAD DREAMS
CHARM SCHOOL
FROZEN BILLY
THE MORE THE MERRIER
A SHAME TO MISS . . .
Three collections of poetry
Perfect poems for young readers
Ideal poems for middle readers
Irresistible poetry for young adults
Other books by Anne Fine:
For junior readers:
THE ANGEL OF NITSHILL ROAD
ANNELI THE ART-HATER
BILL’S NEW FROCK
THE CHICKEN GAVE IT TO ME
THE COUNTRY PANCAKE
CRUMMY MUMMY AND ME