Jade had been the most reluctant of us to become involved – school fashion shows were like the lamest things, she said – but she cheered up when Trix told her she could be the Catwalk Challenge’s creative director. It was Jade who recruited the models from the Remove and who decided that the show would be ‘a total history of fashion over the last fifty years’. She was the one who convinced those taking part in the show to raid their parents’ wardrobes for historical items of fashion.
And me? I was on the sidelines, as usual. I found out the school hall was available and convinced the school administrator that we should be allowed to hold a charity show there two days after the end of exams. I worked out how we were going to sell tickets. I came up with the idea for a raffle.
At the time, it all seemed to be going well.
MISS FOTHERGILL
I was impressed. By the time exams began in late May, Holly’s rather saucy poster was all over the school. Jade had managed to persuade several of the Remove to be models. Trix was involving little William Church in some of the less glamorous details. Even at a time when the thoughts of (most!) Cathcartians were on exams, there was quite a little buzz about what was now called the Cathcart Catwalk Challenge. I was proud of my citizenship class.
Trix had mentioned to me the idea of inviting a special guest of honour. It seemed an excellent idea – a good way of showing one of the school governors that today’s teenagers are not all bad! I contacted the Reverend Patrick Cunningham, the local vicar who, in his younger days, had worked within the church in Kenya.
THE REV. PATRICK CUNNINGHAM
I was enormously encouraged that a group of Year 9 pupils were so engaged in the cause of alleviating world hunger. It was going to be a marvellous occasion and I much looked forward to it.
WIKI
The timing, I now see, was not great.
After exams, Cathcart goes weird. The sun is in the sky, work is over until the autumn, the holidays are still two weeks away. People are bored, restless.
But this year, there was the Cathcart Catwalk Challenge. The posters, with Kate Moss in a Cathcart tie and not much else, had sent out all the wrong messages. It was not Africa, nor giving to charity, that was on people’s minds as they made their way to the school hall that night. It was having a blinding good time.
I was on the door, taking tickets. All the seats had been sold but, on the day, Trix had told me to let in people without tickets, as long as they paid at the door.
‘Where will they sit?’ I had asked.
‘They’ll fit in somehow,’ she had said. Before I could say anything else, she came up with the usual killer argument. ‘Each of those tickets will help feed a starving child.’
What could I say to that?
Ten minutes before the start of the show, it was a sellout. And that was when a gang from the Lower Sixth – about eight boys and three girls – arrived. They were loud and some of them smelt of beer. They paid for a couple of tickets. Then, before I could collect the rest of the money, their ringleader, a loud, good-at-games type called Damien Sinclair, pushed past me and, laughing, the others followed him.
By the time I got into the hall, they were sprawled around the catwalk in front of the seats. I looked for Trix or Holly but they were backstage, helping Jade with the ‘models’. As I did my best to get some ticket money off the Lower Sixth gang, another five or six boys swaggered in. They actually laughed at the people who had bought tickets.
JADE
We should have had a couple of bouncers, like they have outside nightclubs. Instead we had Wiki Church, blinking at them. Terrific.
HOLLY
The hall looked good. I had managed to persuade Trix that filling the place with depressing photographs would spoil the atmosphere. So to make the point she wanted to get over, there was a table at the back of the hall with refreshments designed to reflect the theme of the evening.
Instead of soft drinks, there was water. For food, each member of the audience would be given a dish representing a day’s food their money would be providing for an African child: one meatball and some unappetizing slop called mealie meal.
OK, it was gimmicky but at the time we thought it could work.
WIKI
Miss Fothergill arrived with a priest in tow. He was dressed in full church gear, a tall, smiling man who wore glasses and a sincere, innocent expression on his face.
Miss Fothergill did an embarrassed flailing gesture in my direction. ‘William, this is the Reverend Patrick Cunningham.’ I shook his hand. It was like a sockful of cold porridge. ‘William is one of this evening’s organizers,’ she explained.
‘Well done, William,’ said the vicar. ‘You’ve done a marvellous job.’
I led them into the hall, up the central aisle to the two seats that had been reserved for them. Sinclair was sitting in one, a sleepy-looking Lower Sixth girl with tousled hair was in the other.
‘Thank you, Damien,’ said Miss Fothergill.
Grumbling, Sinclair and his girlfriend stood up and perched nearby on the edge of the stage.
By the time I got back to the door, more members of the Lower Sixth had made their way into the hall without tickets. The noise of chat and laughter was deafening.
Yup, there was no doubt about it. Trouble was in the air.
JADE
For the record, right? My bit of the show was just fine. The models were all there. A few looked kind of tragic, but most of them were OK.
A couple of minutes before the show as due to start, my friend Charlotte, who was dressed as a hippy, took a peek through the curtain.
‘It’s packed,’ she whispered. ‘Most of the Sixth are here.’
‘I’m scared,’ someone muttered.
‘It’ll be cool,’ I said. ‘Just think of Africa, right?’
We laughed. Possibly for the last time that evening.
WIKI
The lights went down. A spotlight hit the catwalk. The music came on, an old-fashioned big-band number from the beginning of time.
Someone said something at the back and there was laughter.
The girls came out one after another. Jade, who always fancied herself as a model, had suggested that the show should open with some really old clothes our grandparents used to wear way back in the last century.
It was a bad, bad idea. Any hope of the show being taken seriously drained away as girls strolled in wearing weird fancy-dress outfits. Soon they became aware that there were Lower Sixth people lounging on the floor near the catwalk looking up at them. They tried to joke it up, which encouraged more whoops and comments.
By the time Jade came on dressed in her best outfit, the evening had taken a serious dive for the worse. She strutted forward, a fixed smile on her face, but I could tell from the angry flush of colour on her cheeks, her narrowed eyes, the way she turned, that she was upset.
There were slightly mocking cheers as the lights went up at the end of the first half.
It had been Trix’s idea that, after a tremendously successful thirty minutes of fashion on the catwalk, the audience would be ready to hear about starvation in Africa. Then the models would come out again, do one last twirl, and the audience would vote for the best costume – the winner of the Cathcart Catwalk Charity Challenge.
Big mistake.
HOLLY
Miss Fothergill had discovered a film about a place in Ethiopia where the children are hungry and rain never falls and the crops wither and everyone has really terrible diseases. She and Trix decided that it would make for a perfect good-citizen moment during the Catwalk Challenge. They downloaded it and borrowed the Film Society’s big monitor.
There was a moment of silence as Trix introduced the film but when the voice-over, by a famous American actress, started, the restlessness in the audience soon returned.
‘Did you know that three hundred million children go to bed hungry every night?’ went the commentary.
‘Yeah, I’m one of them,’ said a voice at the back.
Someone tried to restore quiet, but there was more stifled laughter. No one was really watching the film any more.
I was sitting beside Trix. At first when I felt her body shaking, I thought she was crying. Then I realized she was trembling with anger.
I should have said something – stopped her getting back on that stage – but by the time I realized she was about to make a bad situation a whole lot worse, it was too late.
WIKI
When she’s angry, Trix can be a very scary sight but somehow, as she jumped up on the stage and stood in front of that screen, it was never going to work. It was Saturday night, summer term. She was too small, too pale, too serious.
‘Thank you very much for reminding me just how selfish rich people can be,’ were her opening words. Her voice sound strangled, well bred – even a bit silly.
There were sarcastic trills and ironic applause.
‘What you’re doing is actually laughing at starvation. How does that make you feel?’
‘We’re laughing at you, you div,’ someone shouted. There was applause.
Trix was losing it. All the hurt that she felt on behalf of the children of Africa came flooding out, but her voice was shrill and what she said got lost in the noise. A few words and phrases – ‘chronic disease’, ‘orphans’, ‘ravaged by disease’, ‘making a difference’ – could just be heard above the chat and the laughter, but no one was listening any more.
MARK
Major confession. I was in the back row and, as things began to slide out of control, I leaned back in my seat and reached for one of the meatballs on the table behind my chair. I bounced it in my hand a few times. Then, half-jokingly, I pretended to throw it at the stage.
I swear I had no idea what was going to happen next.
HOLLY
Mark Bliss started it. I noticed him tossing this ball up and down in his hand, as if he were playing cricket or something. Then I realized it was a meatball.
MARK
A couple of guys from the Lower Sixth in front of me noticed what I was doing. ‘Where did you get that?’ one of them whispered. I nodded in the direction of the table. As Trix Johansson-Bell droned on about death and disaster, they scuttled out of their seats and grabbed a handful of meatballs each.
HOLLY
Who threw the first meatball? Who cares?
All I know is that others were quick to follow. One meatball flew through the air, then another. Someone in the audience said, ‘Food fight!’ There was laughter and a general move towards the food table.
I still think the moment might have passed, if Jade hadn’t become involved.
JADE
The models were standing to the side of the stage when food started flying. I thought, excuse me, Jade Hart does not appear on stage in her best Karen Millen dress to have some Neanderthal dorks throw bits of meat at her. One of the ball things hit me on the shoulder, leaving a nasty greasy mark.
I did what any girl would do. I picked it up and threw it back as hard as I could. So sue me.
MISS FOTHERGILL
I simply could not believe what was happening. I’m all for high spirits but the older pupils were taking advantage of the situation. When the models started throwing food back at the audience, Trix stopped talking and stared around her in amazement.
‘I’m terribly sorry about this,’ I said to Patrick Cunningham.
To my surprise, he patted my hand. ‘I’m used to it,’ he said. ‘I deal quite a lot with delinquent teenagers.’
HOLLY
I had an idea. If the film stopped and the models did their last walk before the actual Catwalk Challenge – the vote – people would settle down. I couldn’t stop the film but I switched on the music, a hip-hop thing that Jade had chosen.
WIKI
Now there really was confusion. The film was still running but the commentary couldn’t be heard above the sound of the music. Some of the models began doing their last walk up and down the catwalk. Others – take a bow, Jade Hart – continued with the food fight. Trix just stood there in the centre of the stage, looking wide-eyed and horrified.
It was at that moment that the guest of honour in the front row decided to take control of the situation. The Rev. Patrick Cunningham stood up, hopped on the stage and, with a big friendly smile, held up both arms.
‘Kids, kids –’ he said. ‘Perhaps at this point, I may –’
Whack! A meatball caught him square in the eye. It must have been quite a well-cooked one because he staggered back and said a word that I never thought I would hear spoken by a vicar.
At that very moment, there was a crash from the back of the room as the double doors to the hall flew open.
HOLLY
There, like an avenging fury, stood the headmaster, Mr Griffiths.
Everything stopped – the cheering, the food-throwing, the laughter – but the music played on, deafeningly.
In my panic, it took me about thirty seconds to switch it off.
When the Head spoke, his voice was quiet and scary.
‘Would someone mind telling me what is going on here?’
WIKI
Miss Fothergill stood up.
‘As you know, Head, this is a show . . . er, in aid of Africa – the starving. Children.’ She hesitated. ‘Er, and the Reverend Cunningham is here as guest of honour, which is nice,’ she added, as if that somehow made everything all right.
On stage, the vicar wiped some meatball grease from his eye. ‘Hello, Nigel,’ he said uncertainly.
Mr Griffiths seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. He looked around the room.
‘Starving children in Africa, is it?’ he said in an ice-cold voice. ‘It looks more like a rave to me. Who is responsible for this?’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Trix stepped forward.
‘I am, sir,’ she said.
‘You?’
The Head glared at her as if no words could express his disgust and disappointment. He looked around. The silence stretched over seconds. Somebody had to speak. It had been Trix’s big project but she shouldn’t take the rap for all of us. I waited for Holly or Jade to speak up. Both were staring at the floor. I took a deep breath.
‘And me,’ I said.
Now that he had two victims, Griffo looked as if he had seen enough. ‘No one leaves the hall until it is tidied up and returned to its normal state,’ he said briskly. ‘When Miss Fothergill gives you permission, you will return to your respective houses and remain there for the rest of the evening. And you two – Church and Johansson-Bell – I’ll need to see you in my study at nine thirty tomorrow morning.’
He left, gently closing the doors behind him. The Cathcart Catwalk Charity Challenge was over.
WIKI
At Cathcart there are no such things as second thoughts. You are right or you are wrong.
Even Trix, who will continue to argue about things when everyone else has fallen asleep or is rolling around with their hands over their ears screaming for mercy, knew that there was no point in explaining to the head teacher that the great fashion-show disaster was not caused by us.
The following morning we went to the Griffon’s lair. Anyone who has ever been in trouble at school will know the sort of stuff that followed. Irresponsible, blah . . . utterly inappropriate behaviour, blah . . . bad example blah . . . given an inch, took a yard, blah . . . let everyone down, especially yourselves, blah blah blah blah.
End result : we were given Uniform Rustication (Cathcart language for having to stay in college and wear your school uniform at all times) for the last two weeks of the summer term. Oh, and our parents would be informed.
MRS GLORIA CHURCH
I cannot lie – it was a shock when we received a call from Mr Griffiths that day.
William had been in trouble, he said. There had been an incident of serious disruption. He had decided to make allowances because of William’s ‘circumstances’ (he is one of the few children of colour in his
year), but there would be disciplinary action – ‘Uniform Rustication’, he called it – until the end of the summer term.
William disruptive? Frankly, the idea beggared belief. He has always been the apple of our eye. When he won a scholarship to the famous Cathcart College, we were the proudest parents in the world. It was tough for us financially – even though his fees were paid by the school, there were books and clothes to buy – but until now we had believed that we were doing the right thing. Our only child was going to have chances in his life that his father and I had never had.
Now we were very worried. If he was guilty of serious disruption at fourteen, what would he be like at seventeen? That night, his father rang him. They had a very, very serious talk.
EVA JOHANSSON
I believe I received a message from the au pair that someone had rung from the school but I was preparing to go to Hollywood to pitch for a film project at the time and let it ride. Trix has always been good at looking after herself.
Missing, Believed Crazy Page 2