‘Like what?’ Suddenly, I’m bit alarmed.
‘Something like –’ he thinks for a second – ‘high-fives!’ He raises his hand and our hands slap together, but we don’t let go. We leave our fingers entwined.
Bill walks backwards down the steps still holding my hand. ‘Who wants to do kissing?’ he says. ‘Yuck.’
‘Thanks, Bill,’ I say.
‘Don’t thank me,’ he says. ‘You’ve got me out of an embarrassing situation.’
‘One last high-five for the road?’
‘Let’s make it a long, lingering one.’
After three more high-fives, I let myself into the house, shut the door and rest my back against it. All I can do is grin.
I stick my head into the kitchen.
‘Hey,’ I say.
Rue and Dad look up from the table. They’re having a cup of tea. ‘There she is,’ says Dad. ‘My little girl … wearing the shortest skirt in the world.’
‘Sorry if I surprised you, Dad,’ I say. ‘I mean, I wanted you to be surprised, but in a good way.’
‘It was definitely good,’ says Rue. ‘Wasn’t it?’ She nudges Dad.
‘Yes, good,’ he says. ‘And a bit freaky.’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go up into the attic.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, Dad, it’s very important … It’s to do with true love.’
‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Just watch where you tread. I don’t want you coming through the ceiling.’
‘Why not take a hot chocolate up there,’ says Rue, getting to her feet. ‘And wear a jumper. It’s going to be chilly.’
Getting a mug of hot chocolate and a cat up a ladder is dangerous, but I manage it. After a few minutes of searching, I find the Quality Street tin. There’s nothing inside except one purple envelope and the faint smell of Christmas chocolates. ‘True Love’ is written on the envelope. I sit down with Mr Smokey on my lap. Then, after I’ve had a sip of my drink, I open the envelope and pull out two folded sheets of paper.
Dear Plumface,
True love … Has Dad told you about The Falling Star, and the moment we first set eyes on each other? Here’s how I remember it.
It was a hot evening and I was singing with The Swanettes in this pub in the depths of the countryside. We were stuck inside, performing our set to a handful of old boys. It was such a warm evening the doors were all propped open and, as the sun set, moths found their way in and batted around my face. Just as I was singing the opening of ‘Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye’, this tall, blond man walks in, ducking down to avoid hitting his head on a beam. He looked at me and I looked at him – our eyes literally met across a semi- crowded room. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t describe it as love at first sight – your dad has got pointy ears and oddly small hands, but his eyes … they were the kindest eyes I had ever seen.
After my set, your dad and I sat out in the beer garden until we were the only ones left, except for the cows in the next field, and told each other what we’d been doing with our lives while we were waiting to meet each other. When I got back to my B&B, I couldn’t sleep. I was so excited about my future with pointy-eared Nick Plum. At six in the morning, I crept outside and sat on a wet bench in the garden. Birds were singing all around me. It felt like the world was just beginning. I had to tell someone how happy I was, so I went into the village, found a phone box and rang up Nanna and told her I’d fallen in love. She said, ‘Are you drunk, Lorna?’ then hung up.
I was head over heels in love. But, you know what, Betty, your dad was just a warm-up act for the big one … for you.
When I first held you in my arms, all hot and pink, staring up at me with those dark eyes, I was overwhelmed with the biggest, craziest love ever. I held you close so you wouldn’t feel scared – after all, you’d just popped into the world and you looked quite annoyed about it.
‘Hello, Betty Plum,’ I said. You scowled and opened your fingers like a starfish. ‘I’m Lorna Plum. I’m your mum and I love you.’ You looked a bit like you didn’t believe me so I added, ‘Really. I’m going to look after you forever.’
I thought I would look after you forever, Betty. I am so sorry.
You are lying next to me as I write this, fast asleep. Dad lifted you out of your cot and put you next to me. You’ve pushed your foot against my arm. It is smooth and strong and warm. Your face is red and your hair is stuck to your cheek. In a moment, I’m going to put this letter in its envelope, seal it, and then put it in the Quality Street tin with all my other stuff that’s waiting to go up to the attic. Then I am going to lie so close to you that I can feel your breath on my face and see your chest move up and down. I’m going to watch you until I fall asleep.
When we were sitting in the garden of the pub, Dad told me that the stars in the sky aren’t all there, that some have died and what we can see is their light that has just reached us. I hope my love has reached you, Betty.
You see, these letters were never supposed to be my goodbye. They are my hello.
Hello, Betty Plum, I’m your mum and I love you. Always.
Mumface xx
‘Tack, Betty, tack!’ yells Bill as the wind hits the sail, swinging it round in my direction.
‘What?’ I say, then I’m smacked in the face by a metal boom and flipped out of the boat and into the lake. Quickly, I shut my eyes and mouth. I know the drill. This is the fifth time it’s happened today, but even so I manage to swallow some smelly water. I feel Bill’s arms pulling me to the surface.
‘I’m fine,’ I gasp, clinging to the side of the boat. I pull some weed out of my hair. ‘Just got to catch my breath.’
I hang on while Bill does something involving a line and a cringle. I really wasn’t listening when the instructor was explaining it all. Kat’s right. Bill does look ripped in a wetsuit. It’s very distracting.
‘Bea, you loser!’ yells Kat. Their boat flies past us, heading for a collision with a small boy who’s learning to windsurf. It’s too windy for us to go out on the sea today so all the beginners have ended up on a lake in the middle of a park.
‘Sorry!’ shouts Bea as the boy flies into the water. He’ll be OK. The water’s not deep.
‘Ready to come up?’ asks Bill.
‘Yep.’ I heave myself against the side of the boat and Bill pulls me under my arms.
‘C’mon,’ says Bill. ‘You’ve got to help me.’ I push hard against the slushy bottom of the lake and suddenly shoot out of the water, landing heavily on Bill. The boat sinks low and then bobs back up.
We laugh and then, because I want to and because he’s quite simply my best friend in the whole world, I kiss him. He kisses me back and I taste salt and Mars Bar, and the boat turns slowly in the water.
‘Hey,’ I say, looking down at him, ‘we just kissed!’
‘High-five,’ says Bill, and our hands meet. I wrap my fingers round his. I never want to let go. ‘Hang on,’ he says, wriggling out of my grasp. He looks at me intently then rubs his thumb across my cheek. ‘Swan poo,’ he explains. ‘Now … where were we?’
A small naked person is licking me. I don’t panic – this happens a lot. The naked person starts kissing my face. I smell Marmite and banana and … hang on … the person is not entirely naked. It’s wearing wellies. Wellies? This is new. And totally unacceptable.
I grope for my phone … 5.34 a.m.
5.34 a.m!
‘Bea!’ Emma cries. ‘Happy birthday!’
‘Go away. It is not my birthday.’ I try to push her out of my bed, but she resists and we start to scuffle. Mistake. For a three-year-old, my sister’s a mean wrestler. I briefly consider being grown-up, but before I know it we’re having a proper fight.
‘I got you a present!’ comes her muffled voice from somewhere around my feet.
‘Present later?’ I could probably sleep with her down there. It’s not so bad, quite cosy and –
‘PRESENT NOW!’ she screams.
She’s clearly in one of
her extra-special moods, so I say what I always say when I want to get rid of her. ‘Did you hear that, Emma?’
‘What?’
‘I heard Dad’s voice … He’s home! Dad’s home!’ (He isn’t. He’s in Mexico.)
‘Daddy!’ She shoots out of my bed and down the stairs, leaving me to roll over and snuggle my face into something warm and squidgy. A forgotten bit of banana, perhaps?
I sniff it. It’s not banana.
*
Two hours later, Emma’s come to the door to see me off to school. Headbutting me in the stomach, she shouts, ‘Love you, frog-nose!’
Birds fly off our neighbour’s roof.
‘Love you, botty-breath,’ I say, pushing her firmly back into the house. I walk down the path. Now is the time the shyness sweeps over me and I leave Real Bea at home and take Shy Bea to school.
Already, as I walk to the bus stop, Shy Bea is making me hunch my shoulders and stare at the floor. The further I get from my house, with Emma’s broken slide sitting on the patch of tatty lawn, and our red front door, the less I feel like me.
‘Though she be but little, she is fierce!’ I whisper under my breath as I approach the Year Elevens who hang out on the wall outside the Co-op. I sit in my usual spot away from the others and get out my phone. One of the boys throws an M&M at me. It bounces off my head and lands on my lap. He laughs and watches to see what I will do. I stare at it. It’s blue.
Though she be but little, she is fierce, I think.
Eat the M&M, Bea! Go on, EAT IT!
I brush it to the floor. Not my fiercest moment.
I’ve pretty much made myself invisible by the time the bus arrives, and when I drop down into the seat next to Kat she doesn’t even look up. She’s staring into the tiny mirror she always carries somewhere about her person. At first, I think she’s just checking out the perfectness of her blonde, blonde hair, but then she grabs my arm and pulls me closer, hissing, ‘Look behind us!’
I peer back through the bus, ‘What?’
‘It’s him: Ollie “The Hug” Matthews. Oh, God. Don’t look! Look! No. Don’t look. OK. Look now. Soooo hot!’ I sneak a sideways glance at her. Just as I suspected, her mouth is half open and her eyes are all big and puppy-like. She’s doing her ‘Sexy Lady Face’. She looks like Emma when she’s doing ‘a big one’ on the potty.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she says. ‘Look at him.’
And so I look. For once, I can see what she’s getting at. Ollie Matthews has got these kind, brown eyes, sort of tousled hair and shoulders that look a bit like man shoulders and his hands are …
‘Bean, are you listening?’ Kat snaps her mirror shut. ‘I think I need to be more realistic and forget about Year Elevens and focus on Year Tens. Also, well, maybe he’s the one? There was “The Hug”, after all.’
‘What? He said that was an accident.’
Kat snorts, ‘It didn’t feel like an “accident”!’
‘He thought you were his sister. You’ve got the same coat … that one with the birds on it.’
‘He. Is. So. So. Hot. Don’t you think?’ says Kat, ignoring my little slice of REALITY.
The Hug is listening to his iPod and looking out of the window in a, you know, hot type of way, with his eyes, which are open (sexily), looking at trees … hot trees covered in sexy green leaves. ‘Yeah, Kat,’ I say. ‘Ollie seems –’
‘Say it!’ Kat is gleeful. ‘Go on, say it. Say Ollie Matthews is HOT.’ I shut my mouth. ‘Say it say it say it!’
‘OK. I can see, from your point of view, that he could be described as … hot.’
‘Yes! He totally is.’ She grabs my arm. ‘Now tell me everything you know!’
I have a great memory. ‘Year Ten.’
‘I know that.’
‘Was in Bugsy Malone last year.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Bugsy.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘More,’ she demands hungrily.
‘Rugby team.’
‘Mmmmm.’
‘Captain of the rugby team.’
‘MMMMM.’
‘Sang that song at Celebration Evening with his band.’
‘What song?’
‘Do ya think I’m sexy?’ I sing under my breath.
‘Bean. Don’t.’
‘OK. Sorry.’
‘More?’
I look back at The Hug. ‘He rolls his sleeves up, you know, all the time, and his arms are …’ I trail off. I refuse to use that word again.
Also by JENNY McLACHLAN
FLIRTY DANCING
About the author
Before Jenny started writing books about the Ladybirds, she was an English teacher at a large secondary school. Although she loved teaching funny teenagers (and stealing the things they said and putting them in her books), she now gets to write about them full-time. When Jenny isn’t thinking about stories, writing stories or eating cake, she enjoys jiving and running around the South Downs. Jenny lives by the seaside with her husband and two small but fierce girls.
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in March 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
www.bloomsbury.com
Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Jenny McLachlan 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 5609 3
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