Family Fan Club

by Jean Ure

  Jazz had thought that was very unfair. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he couldn’t find work; it certainly wasn’t for want of trying.

  But then another time Dad had accused Mum of behaving like a prima donna, “Just because you’re in some second-rate soap!” And that wasn’t fair, either. Fame had never gone to Mum’s head; she’d still been the same old Mum.

  But perhaps, looking back on it, thought Jazz, Mum hadn’t been as kind to Dad as she might have been. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seeing Mum become a household name while he was still just an out of work actor.

  On the other hand, Dad could have tried a little bit harder to be happy for Mum and not to show that he was feeling hard done by.

  Maybe Rose was right, thought Jazz, sadly, as she toiled up the attic stairs, clutching Mum’s old childhood copy of Little Women. Maybe actors and actresses oughtn’t to get married to each other.

  When I am an actress, she thought, I shall marry someone boring and sensible who works in an office and earns money and won’t be jealous when I am rich and famous. We won’t yell and shout and upset our children by storming out and saying good riddance. (Which was what Mum had screamed when Dad had gone.) We shall stay together always and be a proper family.

  By the time she reached the attic, Jazz had difficulty seeing through her tears. She brushed them away, angrily. Jazz didn’t like crying, not even when she was on her own. She certainly wouldn’t do it in front of people. She was the strong one of the family.

  But never mind Christmas not being Christmas without any presents, she thought. How could Christmas be Christmas without any dad?

  “It’s so dreadful to be poor,” sighed Laurel, “looking down at her old dr—”

  “Stop!” Jazz waved her script, in anguish. “You don’t have to say that bit!”

  “What bit?”

  “Looking down at her old dress. That’s a stage direction! It’s something you’re supposed to do.”

  “Oh. Well, how was I to know?” said Laurel, aggrieved.

  “The bits in brackets are what you do. The other bits are what you say. You’d think,” grumbled Jazz, “that you’d know that by now. You’ve seen enough scripts!”

  “The scripts I’ve seen never looked like this,” said Laurel.

  LivinG Rooom, MARch household

  Jazz is lying on; the rug

  Jazz Chritsmas wonT be Chritsmas witout any presnets.

  MEG (sisghs) Its so daredful to be poor (looking dwon at her old dresss)

  “I can’t help it if the typewriter isn’t any good,” said Jazz. “Just get on with it! Rose, say your line.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things and other girls having nothing at all. Well, it isn’t,” said Rose. “But that’s what happens when you live in a capitalist society.”

  “Do you mind?” Jazz glared at her sister. “Just say the lines! Don’t add bits.”

  “Well, but this Amy person does my head in,” said Rose. “Why do I have to play her?”

  “Because I’m the director and that’s who I cast you as!”

  “But I’m nothing like her,” said Rose.

  “You’re the youngest!”

  “So what? It doesn’t make me like her.”

  “Look, just shut up!” said Jazz. “You’re supposed to be acting. Injured sniff. Give an injured sniff!”

  Rose did so.

  “That was good,” said Jazz. “Daisy! Your line.”

  “We’ve g–got f–father and m–mother and e–each other,” read Daisy, haltingly, from her script.

  “Vomit,” said Rose. “This is really yucky!”

  “It’s not, it’s lovely!” said Jazz. “Don’t be so horrid! It was Mum’s favourite book when she was young.”

  “I cried buckets when I saw the film,” said Laurel.

  “You would.” Rose looked at her eldest sister, pityingly. “The only films you ever like are weepies. And sickies.”

  “I don’t like sickies!”

  “Yes, you do! You just love it if it’s about someone getting ill and dying. You wallow.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant sick like people going round murdering people. I don’t like it when they go round murdering people. I l—”

  “Look!” Jazz, impatient, stamped a foot. Daisy jumped. “Are we rehearsing Little Women or are we having a mothers’ meeting?”

  “Rehearsing Little Women,” said Daisy.

  “Thank you! That is what I thought we were doing. Can we please get on with it? We’ve only got four days!”

  They staggered on, through the script that Jazz had so laboriously typed out on the old machine in the attic. Rose kept saying Vomit and Yuck and “I’m going to be sick!” Laurel didn’t pay proper attention and kept reading stage directions and typing errors.

  “Really, girls, you are both to be balmed – balmed? Oh! You mean blamed. You are both to be blamed, beginning to lecture in her – oops! Sorry! Stage direction. You are old enough to leave off such boysih – BOYISH tricks and tobe have better. What’s tobe have b – oh! To behave better. Why do you keep splitting words up all funny?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” said Jazz. “It’s the typewriter. It keeps sticking. If you would just concentrate—”

  “It’s all yuck,” said Rose.

  Daisy was the only one who really tried, but Daisy wasn’t the most brilliant reader at the best of times. It was as much as she could do to read what Jazz had actually typed.

  “If J–Jo is a r–romboy—”

  “A romboy!” Rose threw up her hands in delight. “Jo is a romboy!”

  Jazz screamed, “Tomboy, you idiot!”

  She wasn’t screaming at Daisy; you didn’t scream at Daisy. It was that stupid Rose, always trying to be so clever.

  “What’s the matter with romboy?” said Rose. “I like it!”

  “It’s w–what it says,” stammered Daisy.

  “Look, look! What’s this word here? Clotehs.” Rose wrapped her tongue round it, lovingly. “Meg wants some new clotehs!”

  “So do I,” said Laurel. “I want a whole wardrobe of new clotehs.”

  “We could invent a language,” said Rose. “Typing Error language. Like sock would be cosk and milk would be klim and b—”

  “All right! If you don’t want to give Mum a present” – Jazz hurled her script across the floor – “then don’t give her one!” And she raced from the room, slamming the door very loudly behind her.

  There was a silence.

  “We could call it Terrol,” said Rose, brightly.

  “Call what?” said Laurel.

  “The language. Typing Error language … Terrol! Book would be boko. Foot would be foto. Hair w—”

  “Stop it,” said Laurel. “We’ve upset her.”

  “W–was it my fault?” whispered Daisy.

  “No! Of course it wasn’t.” Rose rushed fiercely to her sister’s defence. “You only read what she’d typed. You weren’t to know!”

  “We shouldn’t have fooled around,” said Laurel. Laurel was, after all, the eldest. She was fourteen. Old enough to know better.

  “Well, she’s only got herself to blame,” said Rose. “Takes everything so seriously.”

  Rose was a fine one to talk. Get her started on one of her isms and she had about as much sense of humour as a shark with a sore tooth.

  “Anyway,” said Rose, “she’s not really doing it for Mum. She’s just doing it to show off!”

  “It’s not showing off.” You had to be fair to Jazz. It was true her enthusiasms sometimes ran away with her and made her a bit domineering, but she wasn’t a show-off. “It’s very important to her,” said Laurel, “being an actress.”

  “Yes, ’cos she really really wants to go to drama school,” said Daisy. “She wants to show Mum what she can do.”

  “Don’t see how she thinks we can afford drama school if we can’t even afford proper Christmas presents!” retorted Rose.

  “
She doesn’t mean fulltime,” said Laurel. “Just that little one up the road … Glenda Glade, or whatever it’s called. There’s a girl in her class goes there. Pinky Simons? The one with all the hair? She goes there twice a week. She’s done a commercial. It’s very frustrating,” said Laurel. “It’s what Jazz wants to do more than anything in the world!”

  “What, a commercial?” muttered Rose, but she was starting to look a bit shamefaced.

  “If she got a commercial,” said Laurel, “she’d probably earn enough money to pay for herself.”

  “Huh!” Rose didn’t mean to sound cynical, but how often had she heard Mum and Dad say the very same thing? If I could just get a commercial …

  “Well, I know,” said Laurel, reading Rose’s thoughts. “But she can dream!”

  Rose sighed. “I s’pose we’ll have to do it for her. Even though,” she added, with a flash of spirit, “we’d never be cast as Little Women. This was America! We’d probably have been slaves!”

  “Oh, don’t start!” begged Laurel. “Daisy, go and tell Jazz we’re sorry.”

  “Why me?” said Daisy.

  “’cos you’re the only one she won’t get mad at!”

  Jazz was upstairs in her bedroom. She lay face down on the bed. Great sobs were shaking her, choking her, making it difficult for her to breathe.

  Partly they were sobs of sheer rage. It was all so unprofessional! Messing up a rehearsal like that. How could they do such a thing? Rose and Laurel were the worst offenders. Poor little Daisy, she’d done her best. Daisy always tried to please. But those two—

  Jazz banged her clenched fist into the pillow. They just didn’t care!

  Fresh tears came spurting. Tears of self-pity, as well as rage. They knew how much it meant to her, being an actress! They were deliberately ruining her chances. If Mum could just see what she could do, what she could really do, not just pottering round in the chorus of the school nativity play, she would surely let Jazz go to drama school? Only two days a week! It wasn’t much to ask.

  A timid knock came at the door. Jazz sprang into a sitting position, snatching up her sleeve for a handkerchief. She blotted angrily at her eyes. What had got into her, just lately? She never cried! She was the strong one. Now, it seemed, the least little thing set her off. She wouldn’t normally let Rose and Laurel get to her. It must be something to do with Christmas, and Dad not being there. She couldn’t imagine Christmas without Dad!

  “J–Jazz?”

  It was Daisy’s voice, piping uncertainly. Jazz scrubbed at her eyes, blew her nose, stuffed her handkerchief back up her sleeve. She marched across to the door.

  “What do you want?”

  Daisy’s lip quivered. “They told me to c–come and s–say sorry.”

  “Why you?” said Jazz. “You didn’t do anything!”

  “They r–really are s–sorry,” whispered Daisy.

  “Just too cowardly to come and tell me themselves!”

  “They’re scared you’ll be cross with them.”

  “Well, I am,” said Jazz. But Jazz never stayed cross for long. She rushed up to the boil, and then just as quickly simmered down. (Unlike Rose, who could nurse a grievance for days.)

  “They want you to c–come and s–start rehearsing again.”

  “Only if they’re going to behave themselves,” said Jazz.

  Rose and Laurel promised humbly that they would. Well, Laurel promised humbly. She said, “It was mean of us and we were stupid and I’m sorry. Let’s start over! This time I’ll concentrate.”

  Rose couldn’t quite manage to be humble. She said, “I’ll try. But I’m no good at acting and I can’t get it together with this Amy person … not with any of them. They’re all so twee and geeky!”

  “They are a bit goody-goody,” said Laurel. She said it apologetically, not wanting to upset Jazz.

  “Did you think they were goody-goody in the film?” demanded Jazz.

  “Well – y–yes. Sort of. But it was all right in the film!”

  “Why was it all right in the film and not all right now?”

  “Dunno,” said Laurel. She shrugged. “Just was.”

  “I’ll tell you why it was,” said Jazz. “It was because of the costumes. They were all dressed up in old-fashioned clothes, so you didn’t mind. You expect people in old-fashioned clothes to be a bit goody-goody. Like … you know! Going to church and saying grace and not swearing, and stuff like that.”

  “And girls behaving like girls,” said Rose. She screwed up her face. “All prim and proper.”

  “It’s how they were in those days. But it doesn’t mean they weren’t real people! What you have to do,” said Jazz, “you have to pretend that you were living then, not now.”

  “Maybe it would help if we had costumes,” said Laurel.

  “Yes!” Daisy clapped her hands. “Let’s have costumes!”

  “Well …” Jazz sounded doubtful. She hadn’t planned on being quite so ambitious. If you’ll be responsible for them—”

  “I’ll help, I’ll help!” cried Daisy.

  “What did they wear?” said Laurel. “Was it crinolines? We could make hoops out of bits of wire and put them under our skirts and drape bedspreads over them and wear our school blouses with some of Mum’s big scarves and—”

  “Now see what you’ve done!” said Rose. “You’ve gone and turned it into a full-scale production!”

  “That’s all right,” said Jazz.

  “It’s not all right! I haven’t got time for all this. Costume fittings. Dress rehearsals. Read-throughs. Photo calls. I have work to do,” said Rose, all self-important.

  “What work?” said Laurel.

  “I’m writing a book, if you must know.”

  “A book? About what?”

  “Please!” Jazz waved her arms. “If we’re going to do it, let’s get started.”

  “I just wanted to know what she could possibly be writing a book about.”

  “She can tell us later. Let’s take it from the top! Christmas won’t be Christmas. We’re all sitting round the fire—”

  “It’s about a colony of ants, actually,” said Rose.

  “A colony of ants?”

  “Look, please!” said Jazz.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Laurel sank down, cross-legged, on the floor. Rose bumped down beside her.

  “Different-coloured ants,” she hissed. “Black ants, red ants, white ants, b—”

  “Christmas,” said Jazz, very loudly, looking hard at Rose, “won’t be Christmas without any presents.”

  “Sorry,” said Rose.

  This time, they managed to get through all six pages of the script. It was Laurel who had the final speech.

  “No, it’s the toasting frok, sorry, fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the beard. Beard??? Oh, bread! Silly me!” Laurel giggled. “With Mother’s shoe on it instead of the bread. Phew!” She fanned herself with her script. “Is that the end?”

  “Yes, because that’s where Marmee comes in.”

  “Thank goodness for that! I don’t know how I’m supposed to find time to learn all these lines,” said Rose.

  “Learn them?” Daisy sounded startled. “Have we got to learn them?”

  “Only if you can,” said Jazz, kindly. “But don’t worry if you can’t.”

  “I won’t,” said Rose.

  “I didn’t mean you!” Jazz swung round. “I meant Daisy.”

  Rose heaved an exaggerated sigh, but she didn’t try to argue. It was accepted in the family that Daisy was treated more gently than the others.

  “Know what?” said Jazz. “We actually are quite like the girls in Little Women. We are!” she said, as Rose opened her mouth. “In spite of what you say.”

  “How?” said Laurel. “How are we like them?”

  “Well, if you think about it … their dad’s away from home—”

  “Their dad’s fighting in a war,” said Rose.

  “Yes, well, so’s ours, in a way. Except he’s fighting it
against Mum. Trying to prove to her that he can make it as an actor. The point is,” said Jazz, a touch testily, “he’s away from home.” She really couldn’t stand it when people would insist on interrupting with their little niggles and nitpicks when she was off on one of her flights of fancy. “Their dad’s not there. Right?”

  Daisy nodded, rather tremulously.

  “And they’re all dead worried in case he doesn’t come back.”

  Daisy’s eyes grew big. Her lower lip began to tremble. Really! thought Laurel. Jazz could be so dumb at times.

  “It’s all right,” she said, squeezing Daisy’s arm. “He does come back, in the end.”

  “Oh. Right! Yes,” said Jazz. “Soon as the war’s over … he comes back to them. Wars don’t last for ever! So. As I was saying. There’s four of them, yes? Just like us. They live with their mum. They don’t have much money—”

  “Tell us about it!” said Laurel.

  “I’m trying to, if you’d only listen! We’re just the same as they are, only in another age. Meg’s the oldest, right? And she really cares about the way she looks.”

  “She’s mumsy,” said Laurel. Meg was her part. She didn’t think she wanted to be compared to Meg.

  “She’s not!” said Jazz. “She’s pretty – like you. And she enjoys being pretty.” Jazz warmed to her theme. This was what being a director was all about! Giving your cast something to work on. “She only gets mumsy when she gets married. Like you probably will.”

  “I will not!” Laurel was indignant. She was going to be a top fashion model. She wasn’t going to get mumsy!

  “Well, anyway, you’re both pretty,” said Jazz. Everyone acknowledged that if Rose was the brains of the family, Laurel was the beauty. “And you both like to wear nice clothes. You can’t deny it! You’re always going on about clothes.”

  “Clothes are important,” said Laurel.

  “Yes, but they’re specially important to you. The rest of us don’t care so much. Wouldn’t bother me,” said Jazz, “if I didn’t ever wear anything but dungarees.”

  “Now you’re making me sound like a fribble!”