I said to Ruby as we left them, cheeping away in the dark, “Little Lullah looks like me, don’t you think?”
As she pulled her hat down she said, “Don’t make me have to go say owt to me dad about you saying an owlet looks like you.”
It was spooky down the dark lane with the noises in the fields and the rain and moaning wind. There were strange rustlings in the trees and a far-off hooting.
Ruby huddled into her jacket and threw a stick for Matilda. Matilda looked at the stick as it flew over her head. Then she just went on toddling along. She knows that it’s not a biscuit, so why would she bother to go and get it?
Ruby said, “The Hinchcliffs have had a reight big fight. They smashed the Bottomlys outdoor lavatory when they fell into it.”
I tutted.
Typical.
“What were they fighting about this time? Who was the stupidest?”
Ruby said, “No, Ruben found out that Cain had been laiking around with his girlfriend.”
I tutted again.
Ruby went on.
“Cain made it worse by saying he was only doing Ruben a favor because she was a real mardy bum. And thick.”
Charming.
As we got back to the Dobbinses’ gate Ruby said, “Oh, I forgot, Alex gi’ me a letter for thee but I left it in my room. I’ll gi’ it thee tomorrow.”
I tried not to leap in the air or do Irish dancing. I said, “Oh, well. You know I had better . . . er, walk you to your door because of the . . . night . . . er, stuff.”
Ruby rolled her eyes at me.
“Come on then, soft lass.”
We went across the green to The Blind Pig and Ruby ran up the back stairs to her room.
I was hovering around by the door. With a bit of luck, I wouldn’t have to bump into Ted . . . at which point Ted Barraclough, Ruby’s dad, came out of the front bar.
I couldn’t help noticing he had a Viking helmet on.
And a guitar in his hand.
And was wearing a very tight pair of leather trousers. He was walking with small steps.
His whole big face lit up when he saw me. Oh dear.
“Well, what a lovely surprise—the thespian is back at last. Thank the Lord. Now then. Don’t tell me, let me guess what you are pretending to be this time.”
I said politely, “Hello, Mr. Barraclough, I—”
He waved his helmet about.
“No, dun’t tell me, dun’t tell me . . . Are you a historic figure? I’m thinking the woolly tights. Your rain hat, the slight roll as you walk. Are you Nelson? I’m right, aren’t I?”
I said, “I’m not doing mime. I’m just collecting—”
“Ah, the good days are back again. I’ve missed you. I really have. You and your friends, the STUDENTS. Monday, I will once more hear the sound of you cantering to Dither Hall on your imaginary ponies.”
Actually, Vaisey did have an imaginary pony. Black Beauty.
Had he been spying on us?
Ruby came back and handed a letter to me.
She said, “Don’t go daft.”
I took the letter and said to her, “Heeee-heee, why should I go daft, it’s only a letter from, you know, a mate to another mate, heeee, I don’t know what you mean.”
She just looked at me and shook her hair.
Then she said to her dad, “How did The Iron Pies rehearsal go?”
He said, “Bloody marvelous. The Iron Pies are going to be the biggest thing this side of Grimbottom. We are quite literally a sound sensation.”
Ruby said, “Oh yeah? How many songs have you got?”
“Well, fust of all, we’ve done some belters for the mums and dads. All with the original pie theme.”
Ruby said, “Like what?”
Mr. Barraclough said, “The well-known James Bond themes, ‘For Your Pies Only,’ ‘Golden Pie,’ and ‘From Russia with a Pie.’ Then a bit of a classic for the rockers, ‘Rock Around the Pie.’ And a few standard Beatles numbers, ‘The Long and Winding Pie,’ ‘All You Need Is Pies,’ ‘Lucy in the Pie with Diamonds.’ We’ll be cracking. I’ll have groupies trying to get hold of my pies.”
I didn’t know what to say, and I also didn’t want to think about his pies anymore . . . I was dying to read my letter. So I said I had to go because Dibdobs was waiting for me.
I ran across the green and into Dandelion Cottage. Harold was back from his knitting workshop and I had to do more hugging duties with him. Then I started yawning to give him the idea of beddy-byes, but he said, “Tallulah, before you go up the wooden stairs to Noddsville, let me just show you my new cloak. It’s hand-knitted, and as you can see it has shell buttons.”
As he was swishing around modeling it for me, he said, “You see, the shells show man’s connection with the earth or, in this case, Skegness beach.”
At last I was in my squirrel room. I have my squirrel lamp switched on by my bed, and outside the wind is howling across the moors. But I am snug inside with my letter.
My letter from the Dream Boy.
I paused before I opened it.
To drink in its atmosphere of boyness.
Then I sniffed it.
And licked it.
I don’t know why.
I’m turning into Matilda.
Ooooh. I can imagine him writing it. With a quill pen probably. A candle guttering late at night in his room. He is wearing his usual late-night wear—velveteen breeches and flouncy shirt. I don’t know why his shirt is wet as he writes. Maybe he has been for a midnight swim. Or a late-night, fully clothed bath.
To cool his ardor and passions, which are running riot.
He looks out of his window over the moonlit dales, thinking of me as he last saw me in late summer. My long dark tresses framing my face. Looking up at him with my green eyes. And as he looks long and deep into my eyes, I feel an urge to raise my bottom eyelids and . . .
Hang on a minute—I have changed into an owlet!!!
Get a grip, Tallulah!!
I opened the envelope.
Here goes:
Dear Tallulah,
Hello, Green Eyes, welcome back to Heckmondwhite and the dizzy world of showbiz!
Well done for making it to the new term—personally, I think it was your spectacular Sugar Plum Bikey that did it. I don’t think any of us who were there will forget your skirt catching in the back spokes, and you flying off into the backstage area.
Top.
I am off to Liverpool tonight to start my course but hope to see you in a couple of weeks when I come home. Good luck.
Knock ’em dead, but try not to break a leg! OR ANYONE ELSE’S.
Lots of love,
Alex xxx
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Outside in the dark I can hear an owl hooting. It will be big Connie out there, collecting food for the owlets.
She is holding her own mouse massacre. Ruby says the owlets will start hunting for themselves in a week or two. Having to do their own hunting will be a shock for them. They probably think there is a big owl in the sky that just hands them stuff.
I don’t think you would poo in front of the big owl in the sky. At the same time as eating. Pooing and eating doesn’t seem right to me.
Still, what does make sense in Nature?
Anyway to heck with Nature.
I’m not interested in Nature. I am only interested in Alex.
Alex in his velveteen breeches.
And flouncy shirt.
Alex who said, “Hello, Green Eyes.”
And, “Hope to see you in a couple of weeks.”
And who said, “Lots of love.”
And put three kisses.
That Alex.
I am keeping his letter under my pillow. Maybe I should write a letter back. Hmmm.
Night-night, Dream Boy.
Night-night, world.
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About the Author
Louise Rennison is the internationally bestselling and award-winning author of WITHERING TIGHTS and th
e angst-filled Confessions of Georgia Nicolson series. She lives in Brighton, the San Francisco of England (apart from the sun, Americans, the Golden Gate Bridge, and earthquakes). You can visit Louise online at www.georgianicolson.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Louise Rennison,
the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson books:
ANGUS, THONGS AND FULL-FRONTAL SNOGGING
ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, I’M NOW THE GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD
KNOCKED OUT BY MY NUNGA-NUNGAS
DANCING IN MY NUDDY-PANTS
AWAY LAUGHING ON A FAST CAMEL
THEN HE ATE MY BOY ENTRANCERS
STARTLED BY HIS FURRY SHORTS
LOVE IS A MANY TROUSERED THING
STOP IN THE NAME OF PANTS!
ARE THESE MY BASOOMAS I SEE BEFORE ME?
Credits
JACKET PHOTOS © 2011 BY ISTOCK
JACKET DESIGN BY BECKY TERHUNE
Copyright
Withering Tights
Copyright © 2011 by Louise Rennison Ltd
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rennison, Louise.
Withering tights / by Louise Rennison.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Self-conscious about her knobby knees but confident in her acting ability, fourteen-year-old Tallulah spends the summer at a Yorkshire performing arts camp that, she is surprised to learn, is for girls only.
ISBN 978-0-06-179931-0
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Camps—Fiction. 3. Performing arts—Fiction.
4. Self-confidence—Fiction. 5. Yorkshire (England)—Fiction. 6. England—Fiction.
7. Humorous stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.R2905Wit 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010045552
CIP
AC
* * *
Epub Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780062222190
11 12 13 14 15 CG/BV 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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