‘“Wash dishes”, similarly, is denoted by the green letters “W.D”, and so on. In time, it is to be hoped, we will become so familiar with the system we will no longer need letters.
‘I may even introduce a series of coloured badges.’
There were four sharp intakes of breath and one small gurgle. The little Bells looked at one another, aghast.
‘Now — down this side,’ Bryony went on, running the spoon down the left column, ‘we have the days of the week, and across the top are our names. You will see that I have, for the moment, omitted Little Bob on grounds of age.’ She flashed Little Bob a warning glance. ‘But as soon as he’s potty-trained, he mucks in with the rest of us! Any questions?’
The atmosphere was electric. For a few sizzling seconds no one said anything, and then everyone spoke at once.
‘You mean to say you’re expecting us to make breakfast and clear up?’
‘Where’s everything kept?’
‘Wash dishes? What about our nails?
‘How are we going to fit in our morning practice?’
Bryony held up her finger again.
The answers to your questions,’ she announced firmly, ‘in the order of asking, are:
1. Yes, and about time too
2. You’ll learn;
3. Wear rubber gloves; and 4. Get up half an hour earlier like I have to!
‘Do I make myself clear?’
Everyone looked at their feet, but no one asked anything else. Bryony replaced the spoon on the table, then turned to consult the Duty Rota. ‘Right, then’ she said thoughtfully, ‘today’s Saturday …’ She traced her finger along the top of the chart till she came to the turquoise letters ‘S.M.T.’, then slid it up to the ‘Names’ row.
‘…So it’s Emmy-Lou to set Mum’s tray,’ she announced, ‘Melody to wash dishes, Angelina to dry, and Melissa to put away. OK — break a leg!’
And, in a flurry of pink nylon, Bryony spun round and marched out. She walked slowly up the stairs listening to the chaos in the kitchen, then went into her bedroom, closed the door, and skipped round and round her bed.
‘I did it! I did it! I did it!’ she chanted. Then she got dressed, did her hair up in her extra-special pink and red rosebud elastics, and thundered back down. As she reached the kitchen she heard a crash and the sound of water hitting the floor from a great height. She considered ignoring it all and making her escape, then realised the greyish-white rollerskates were still on the flowerpots in the shed so, gritting her teeth, she opened the kitchen door again.
A scene of utter mayhem greeted her. The only person who was not in enormous distress was Little Bob, who was rocking to and fro in his high chair, gurgling and cooing with delight and singing Bob the Builder more raucously than usual.
Melody, wearing a large pair of pink rubber gloves on the wrong hands, was surveying with horror the shattered remains of the milk-jug. Angelina, her head down and knocked almost senseless by her braids, was dabbing at the kitchen floor — which was awash with soapy water — with the tip of a tartan oven glove. Melissa, holding three teaspoons and peering shortsightedly through her fringe, had just closed the microwave having realised it was not a cutlery cupboard after all, and was standing staring at the row of cereal bowls as though they had just beamed down from Planet Zargon. And Emmy-Lou, who appeared to have lost the will to live, was sitting on the kitchen table surrounded by broken eggshells, crying her eyes out.
As Bryony tried to slink out past them, they all glared accusingly at her.
‘And where might you be going?’ Angelina asked.
Bryony gave her the loftiest look she could muster.
‘If it’s any of your business,’ she said haughtily, ‘I have an important casting meeting.’
She threw open the kitchen door, made her exit, then turned and poked her head back in.
‘Just a little production I’m starring in,’ she said, casually. ‘Toodle-oo!’
Chapter: Eight
Abid’s house was a well-appointed villa on the better side of town. Bryony looked with approval at the stone lions that guarded the front door and the neat tubs of red and white geraniums set out in rows on the sparkling pink gravel as she waited for the doorbell to be answered.
When Mrs Ashraf opened the door she sent out a fragrant cloud of sandalwood. Bryony stood, blinking in disbelief. How could big, shambling Abid have such a small, elegant mother? She had the neatest, shiniest hair Bryony had ever seen, coiled stylishly round her head. She had three gold earrings in each ear, set with rubies and sapphires, one glistening gold ball in the side of her nose, and a golden jewel-encrusted necklace. Her lips were deepest red and her eyes deepest brown. She looked more like a film star than anyone Bryony had ever seen.
‘I’m Bryony,’ she managed to tell her. ‘Abid’s friend.’
‘Oh yes — Bryony!’ When Mrs Ashraf smiled, she looked even more exquisitely beautiful than before. ‘Abid’s always talking about you. Do come in, it is so nice to meet you at last!’
Bryony followed Mrs Ashraf into the hall. The floor was white marble like the lions and when she paused to take off her rollerskates Mrs Ashraf said, ‘Oh don’t worry about that, dear! Just freewheel through to the living room,’ and she led the way.
Rollerskating on white marble was the most delicious experience Bryony had ever had. It was the equivalent — in skating terms — of wearing silk. There was no resistance — not like the pavement, and certainly not like shagpile. Surreptitiously, she did a little spin. Cosmic!
‘Abid’s not up yet,’ Mrs Ashraf said, then went back out to the hall and roared, ‘Get out of your pit, you lazy article!’ in an unexpectedly earsplitting voice.
And it was as Mrs Ashraf wafted out that Bryony’s heart really turned over. Because the other utterly mind-blowing thing about Mrs Ashraf was what she was wearing. It was, thought Bryony, OUT OF THIS WORLD.
‘It’s like waking the dead, Bryony,’ Mrs Ashraf sighed, coming back in. ‘What can I get you, dear? Milk? Coke? A chocolate biscuit?’
But Bryony could only nod. Never in her life had she seen material like the material of Mrs Ashraf’s salwar kameez. One minute it looked blue, the next it looked green. It was like some wonderful liquid, or the wing of an exotic bird, its colours glowing and flowing into one another as if by magic.
But that wasn’t all. The top part was long and slinky, and its front glittered with gold embroidery and sequins and tiny mirrors. Then, because there were two big slits in its sides, you could see the trousers below had gold pleated inserts so that, when Mrs Ashraf moved, they whirled out like gilded ballet skirts.
‘I’ll have a glass of Coke, please,’ Bryony managed to say, and then: ‘I just adore your salwar kameez.’
Mrs Ashraf smiled and wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, this old thing!’ she laughed. ‘But this is terribly old-fashioned, sweetie. Very retro! You should see the suits I’ve just stitched for my daughters in London.’
‘May I?’ asked Bryony eagerly.
‘Of course — they’re in the kitchen. Come on!’
* * *
Bryony had never imagined such dresses as the ones that hung all around Abid’s kichen could exist. There was a white one, studded with tiny pearls, with whorls of silver beads the size of pinheads; there was a black one with even wider inserts than Mrs Ashraf’s, that were embroidered with golden flowers and birds and set with thousands of bright black glass beads; and — best of all — there was a pink one with just a hint of purply-lilac shooting through it, covered with layers of paler pink net so it looked as though it had been frosted over, or lightly dusted with icing sugar.
‘Oh, Mrs Ashraf!’ Bryony breathed. ‘These are died-and-gone-to-heaven dresses!’ And she held the pink one gently against her cheek and sighed in utter rapture.
Mrs Ashraf poured out some Coke, set three chocolate biscuits and four pieces of pistachio burfee on a plate, and motioned to Bryony to sit down. As she did, a very dishevelled Abid appeared and sl
umped down at the table opposite. Beside his mother, he looked huger and untidier than ever.
‘Hi, Abid!’ Bryony said brightly.
‘Oh, hi, Bryony,’ Abid replied, giving a little cough. ‘Have you come about the you-know-what?’ He flashed Bryony a warning look and glanced at his mother.
‘Eh … yes … The ‘homework problem’, Abid. Thought maybe we could discuss it while we’re both fresh.’
Abid yawned, coughed again, and nodded.
‘I must leave you both,’ Mrs Ashraf said, gathering up the dresses. She rested her chin on Abid’s head as she passed, and beamed across the table at Bryony. ‘We’re terribly grateful to you, Bryony, you know, for sticking up for Abid.
‘He’s such a baby sometimes. It’s with him being the only boy, you know — spoilt rotten.’
She nuzzled into Abid’s neck and Abid smiled long-sufferingly.
‘Do you know, Bryony,’ Mrs Ashraf went on, ‘that it took Abid till he was three to get out of nappies? He just hated his little potty, didn’t you, Abid?’
‘Mum!’ Abid hissed, trying to shake himself free. ‘Bryony doesn’t want to know the details of my toilet-training.’
‘Anyway, Bryony,’ Mrs Ashraf continued, ‘we know you’re a great support to him.’ She moved round the table till she was beside Bryony. The bundle of dresses glittered and glistened and winked.
‘Just supposing you were to have the dress of your dreams, Bryony,’ she said softly, ‘what would it be like?’
Bryony hardly hesitated. ‘It would be pink,’ she said decisively, ‘and it would have little mirrors round the yoke like yours, and gold embroidery like yours. And the trouser legs would have huge pleated bits in exactly the same colour as yours.’
‘Kingfisher blue inserts in a pink salwar kameez?’ Mrs Ashraf said doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ said Bryony. ‘And a top that’s got pleats too so when you spin round it spreads out … That’d be hard though, wouldn’t it?’
‘Mmm’ said Mrs Ashraf. ‘Maybe.’
Bryony bit into her third piece of pistachio burfee and thought rather sadly about Angelina’s blue sailor dress.
‘Though, actually,’ Mrs Ashraf was saying, ‘I like a challenge. Adds spice to life!’
Bryony chewed thoughtfully.
Liked a challenge, did she?
She raised her eyebrows at Abid. Another little gem of an idea had just begun to sparkle. She turned to Mrs Ashraf.
‘Do you think we could use the hall for our homework meeting, please?’ she asked her.
‘Certainly, dear,’ Mrs Ashraf said. ‘But do take cushions. That cold marble’s very bad for the back passage, as Abid will testify…’
‘Mum’ Abid protested, getting up to hold the door open for her, then closing it with relief.
‘Your mum’s incredible,’ Bryony said, as he sat back down. ‘Those dresses! Give her a bit of media exposure, Abid, and there’s no knowing where she could end up.’
Abid gulped some Coke and looked doubtfully at Bryony.
‘Do you think so, Bryony?’ he said. Then he brightened up a little. ‘She’d be in her element in the world of showbiz,’ he sighed. ‘Loves the limelight, does Mum. That’s why she pushes me to go on the stage, you know. Wants me to fulfill her dreams of stardom.
‘Maybe if she’d her own stage career she’d lay off me.’ Then he gave himself a little shake. ‘Ain’t going to happen though, is it,’ he said sadly. ‘Now — what about this swan thing, Bryony? Had any more breathtakingly-brilliant, scintillatingly-surefire gems of ideas?’
Bryony was just about to tell Abid the sad news of the loss of the Viper 3000s when Big Bob’s words flashed into her head. She stood up and led the way to the kitchen door and out into the wonderful silky-smooth rink that was Abid’s hall.
‘Come on, Abid,’ she called. ‘Hope you’re in good voice this morning, ‘cause I need you to sing for me.’
‘Sing for you?’ Abid cleared his throat nervously.
‘You betcha!’ smiled Bryony. ‘Sing, watch, and be amazed — be very amazed!’.
Then she skated out into the middle of the hall and spun so fast on its icy surface that Abid’s jaw dropped right down to his knees.
Chapter: Nine
Monday morning dawned bright and clear, and as soon as Bryony opened her eyes she knew that this was the perfect day to put her plan into action. The sweet smell of success hung in the air.
Her rollerskates dangled expectantly over the bedside lamp. The night before, Big Bob had helped her give them six more applications of shoe whitener and, provided you narrowed your eyes, they looked really quite convincing. She bounced out of bed and eased them into her schoolbag, supporting them carefully between Physics is Fun and Spelling Without Tears.
As she brushed her hair and selected a pair of white rosebud hair ties, she noted with satisfaction that the house was filled with the sounds of breakfast preparation, and as she sauntered down to take her place at the table she met Angelina carrying Clarissa’s tray up to her. Bryony gave her sister an encouraging nod, then stopped, hooked her by the elbow, and held up a finger.
‘What?’ said Angelina crossly. Her face was very red and some of her braids had unravelled in the effort of S.M.T.
‘I believe we have overlooked the rose, have we not?’ Bryony pointed out.
‘Oh no!’ sighed Angelina, turning back to the kitchen.
‘Don’t worry’ Bryony called after her encouragingly. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it!’ And she went to inspect the breakfast table.
‘Very nice,’ she complimented Melissa, who was munching a large slice of toast.
The toast was spread thickly with a lumpy brown substance studded with pink and orange sugary shapes, and Melissa had a rather odd expression on her face as she ate.
‘…though you’ll find we don’t actually need mango chutney or crystallised fruits at breakfast,’ Bryony observed.
Melissa paused mid-bite, peered through her fringe at the toast, then continued to eat in bemused silence.
‘So when is this performance you’re starring in, Bryony?’ Melody asked through a mouthful of cereal. ‘Some little school thing, is it?’
Bryony reached for the crystal flower-vase and poured milk from it into her tea. ‘It may be a “little school thing”, Melody,’ she told her, ‘but you mark my words — it’s going to be a groundbreaking “little school thing”.’
‘And you’re the star?’ Emmy-Lou asked, gazing at Bryony with eyes like big blue plates. She turned to Melody. ‘But Bryony can’t sing…’ she said quizzically. ‘Can’t be a star if you can’t sing, sure you can’t?’
Bryony swallowed a few mouthfuls of cereal and rose from the table just as Big Bob came in with Little Bob at his heels.
‘All right if I leave the washing-up this morning, Dad?’ she asked. Melissa and Melody and Emmy-Lou’s mouths opened in unison, but Big Bob winked and nodded.
‘No problem, Bryony,’ he said. ‘Special dispensation this week — your dad’ll do your duties for you. Least he can do!’
And, to a chorus of That’s not f-a-i-r’, Bryony marched haughtily out.
* * *
At the gates of Peachtree Primary, Abid was waiting nervously.
‘All set, Abid?’ Bryony said, giving his big arm a gentle punch, and Abid wheezed and nodded in reply. He appeared to have lost the power of speech. ‘Come on then,’ Bryony went on, pulling him by the sleeve, ‘to the staffroom, before it fills up. You know what they say, — “The early bird catches the worm”!’
The ‘worm’, in the shape of Mrs Quigg, was the only teacher in place at that time of the morning, and when Bryony knocked she called ‘You may enter!’ and glared over her little half-moon spectacles at her.
‘Might Abid and I have a quick word, Mrs Quigg?’ Bryony said, as calmly as she could.
‘If it’s about the ‘Swan’ part, Bryony,’ Mrs Quigg said wearily, picking up a large mug of coffee and taking seve
ral slugs, ‘I shall be extremely annoyed.’
Bryony paused. You had to hand it to her, she thought — Mrs Quigg was one sharp lady.
‘Well…’ she began. ‘It is, and it isn’t…’
At this, Mrs Quigg rolled her eyes heavenward. For a moment, Bryony thought she was going to shout at her. But instead she did something far, far worse.
‘You, Bryony Bell,’ she said tremulously, ‘do not understand the artistic soul. You are simply unable to appreciate the months of creative work that went in to writing The Ugly Duckling.’ She withdrew a crumpled handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her nose and eyes. ‘The pain,’ she continued, ‘the heartache, the burning of the midnight oil …
‘And you …’ Mrs Quigg struggled to her feet and pointed a trembling finger at Bryony, ‘… you would ruin it! You would trample the fruits of my labour under your feet! You would burst my bubbles, bring my dreams tumbling down…’
Abid, who had crept into the staffroom behind Bryony, took a few steps towards Mrs Quigg.
‘You wrote the play, Mrs Quigg?’ he said, in tones of wonder. Mrs Quigg blew her nose and nodded.
‘And the songs?’ Bryony gasped.
Mrs Quigg nodded again.
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Abid.
‘Awesome!’ breathed Bryony.
‘And I don’t mind telling you both,’ Mrs Quigg went on, a little more calmly, ‘that I consider The Swan Song to be my tour de force.’
Bryony and Abid exchanged puzzled looks.
‘My crowning achievement,’ Mrs Quigg explained. ‘The minute I found that swan costume in the Oxfam shop, I was inspired. It spoke to me.’
She sighed, slumped back down on her chair, and took a few more gulps of coffee.
‘To see Abid wearing it, and singing so divinely,’ she went on, ‘means more to me than words can say…’
There was a long and awkward silence, then Bryony spoke.
Bryony Bell Tops the Bill Page 4