Dare Game (17 page)

‘Mmm,’ I said. My tummy really hurt, as if this new doll had given it a hard poke with her pointy parasol.

‘So did you bring her with you?’ Mum persisted, lighting another cigarette.

‘Give us a fag, Mum, go on, please,’ I said, to try to divert her.

‘Don’t be so daft. You’re not to start smoking, Tracy, it’s a bad habit.’ She started off this really Mumsie lecture and I dared breathe out. But my mum’s not soft. ‘So where
is
she
then? Bluebell?’ she persisted.

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You see, the thing
is
, Mum, I had to leave her in the Children’s Home.’

‘They wouldn’t let you take your own dolly?’

‘She got a bit . . . broken.’

‘You broke your doll?’

‘No! No, it wasn’t me, Mum, I swear it. It was one of the other kids. They poked her eyes out and cut off all her ringlets and scribbled on her face.’

‘I don’t
believe
it! That place! Well, I’ll get on to Elaine the Pain straight away. That doll cost a fortune.’

‘It happened years ago, Mum.’

‘Years ago?’ Mum shook her head. It was like she couldn’t get her time scales right. She kept acting like she’d only popped me in the Children’s Home last Tuesday when I’ve actually been in and out of care since I was little. My folder’s
this
thick.

‘Oh well,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway. You’ve got a new dolly now. Even better than Bluebell. What are you going to call this one? Not a daft name like Marshmallow this time. She’s a beautiful doll. She needs a proper name.’

‘I’ll call her . . .’ I tried hard but I couldn’t come up with anything.

‘What’s your favourite name? You must have one,’ said Mum.

‘Camilla,’ I said without thinking.

Mum stood still.

BIG MISTAKE
.

‘That woman’s called Camilla, isn’t she?’ said Mum, drawing hard on her cigarette.

‘No, no!’ I gabbled. ‘She’s Cam. She never gets called Camilla. No, Mum, I like the name
Camilla
because there was this little girl in the Children’s Home,
she
was called Camilla.’

I was telling the truth. I used to love this little kid Camilla, and she liked me too, she really did. I could always make her laugh. I just had to pull a funny face and blow a raspberry and Camilla would gurgle with laughter and clap her pudgy little hands.

Camilla’s been my favourite name for ages, long long before I met Cam. Cam never gets called Camilla anyway. She can’t stand it. She thinks it sounds all posh and pretentious. I tried hard to get Mum to believe me.

‘Camilla,’ Mum said, like it was some particularly smelly disease. ‘Your favourite name, eh? Do you like it better than Carly?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Carly’s the best ever name, obviously, because it’s yours. But I can’t call the doll Carly because
you’re
Carly. Hey, maybe she should be called Curly?’ I scooped the doll out of her box and shook her so that her ringlets wiggled. ‘Yeah, Curly!’

‘Careful! You’ll muck those eyes up too!’ Mum took the doll from me and smoothed her satin skirts.

‘It wasn’t me that poked her eyes out.’

‘Even so, you must play with her
gently
.’ Mum handed her back to me.

I held her at arm’s length, not quite sure what to do with her. ‘Hello, Curly. Little girly Curly. Curlybonce!’

‘That’s not a very nice name. She’s a very special collector’s doll, Tracy. Don’t you like her ringlets?’

‘Yes, they’re lovely.’

‘It’s about time we tried to do something with
your
hair. Come here.’ She fiddled in her handbag and brought out a little hairbrush. ‘Right!’ She suddenly attacked my head.

‘O-w-w-w-w-w!’

‘Keep still!’ said Mum, giving me a little tap with the brush.

‘You’re pulling my head off!’

‘Nonsense. It seems like it hasn’t been brushed for weeks. It’s like a bird’s nest.’

‘O-u-c-h!’

‘Do you make this fuss when Cam does your hair?’

‘She doesn’t.’

Mum sighed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know, she’s being paid a fortune, and yet she lets you wander round like a ragamuffin.’

‘Cam’s not really into how you look,’ I said, trying really hard to hold my head still though it felt like she was raking grooves in my scalp.

‘Typical,’ said Mum. ‘Well,
I
care how you look.’

‘I care too, Mum,’ I said. ‘Ouch! No, it’s OK, don’t stop. We women have to suffer for our beauty, eh?’

Mum creased up laughing though I hadn’t meant it as a joke. ‘You’re a funny little thing,’ she said. She paused, tapping the back of her hairbrush on her palm. ‘You do love me, don’t you, darling?’

‘
Ever
so much,’ I shouted.

It still didn’t sound loud enough to Mum. ‘More than anyone else?’

‘Yes!’ I insisted, though my throat ached as I
said
it. ‘Yes. You bet. You’re my mum.’

She reached out and patted my face, cupping my chin. ‘And you’re my little girl,’ she said. ‘Though you’re getting to be such a big girl now.’ She fingered my lips. ‘They’re all chapped. You need a spot of lip balm. Half a tick.’ She rooted in her handbag amongst her make-up.

‘Oh, Mum, make me up properly, eh?’

Mum put her head on one side, looking amused. ‘It might help give you a bit more colour, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, I want to look all colourful like you, Mum.’

She laughed. ‘We’ve got different skin tones, pet. But I can certainly liven you up a bit. You’ve got quite a nice little face, though you must watch it when you scowl. You don’t want to be all wrinkly when you’re my age.
Smile
, Tracy.’

I smiled until my ears waggled.

‘Maybe you could get away with a pale pink lipstick and a spot of rouge on your cheeks.’

‘I want bright red lipstick like yours!’ I had a rootle in her bag myself.

‘Get out of there!’ said Mum, trying to snatch it back. ‘Tracy! You’re mucking up all my things.’

I’d found a red mock-crocodile wallet.

‘You after my money?’ said Mum.

‘Is there a photo of me inside?’ I said, opening it.

I peered. There
was
a photo but it certainly wasn’t me. ‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

‘Give that wallet here,’ said Mum, acting like she meant it now.

‘Who’s the guy?’ I asked, handing it over.

‘He’s no-one,’ said Mum. She took the photo out of the plastic frame. ‘This is what I think of
him
,’ she said, and she tore the photo into tiny little bits.

‘Is it my dad?’

‘No!’ said Mum, sounding amazed, like she’d forgotten I’d ever had a dad. ‘No, it’s my boyfriend. My ex.’

‘The one that went off with the young girl?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Mum. ‘The
slug
. Still, who needs him, that’s what I say.’

I
said he’d have to be crazy to go off with anyone else when he had someone as beautiful as Mum. She liked this a lot. We sat down on the sofa together, and I put Curly carefully on my lap and tucked Marshmallow under my arm. Mum fed me another white chocolate. I
didn
’t really fancy it but I ate it up anyway, licking her long pointy fingers so that she squealed.

‘You and me will be all right, won’t we, Tracy?’ said Mum. It seemed like she was seriously asking me.

‘We’re going to be just great,’ I said.

‘We’ll stay together, yes?’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’

‘It’s what you want?’ Mum persisted.

‘More than anything in the world,’ I said.

We had a huge hug, Mum and me (Curly and Marshmallow got a bit squashed but Mum didn’t nag), and it was like we were spinning in our
own
little world, and it was whirling us all the way up into outer space.

The Tree Home

I GOT A
bit miffed when I went back to my home. Football and Alexander were there already, playing football. Well, Football did the kicking. Maybe Alexander was meant to be the goalie. He seemed to be acting as a goalpost too.

I didn’t think they had any right to be there. Well, not before me. I flounced back to the kitchen. Alexander had supplied the cardboard refrigerator with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. I felt this was extra mean as I’m not very keen on orange. I ate three even so, just to show him. I wanted a drink but there was just this silly cardboard cut-out kettle. I scrumpled it up. What sort of idiot was he?

‘It took me a long time to get the sides equal and the spout right,’ Alexander said reproachfully, standing in the kitchen doorway.

‘Never mind your silly bits of cardboard!
Hey
, you’ll never ever guess what!’

‘What?’ said Alexander.

‘I’m going to live with my mum.’

‘Are you?’ said Alexander, as if I’d said ‘I’m going to help myself to another Jaffa Cake’.

‘What do you
mean
“are you”? That’s a bit of a limpy wimpy response. Why aren’t you, like, “Wow, Tracy, you lucky thing, how fantastic, super-duper mega-whizzo brilliant”?’

Alexander stood to attention. ‘Wow, Tracy. You lucky thing,’ he said obediently. Then he paused. ‘What else was it?’ He was acting like he didn’t think I was the luckiest kid in the whole world.

‘Look, you haven’t
seen
my mum.’ I wished I had a photo to show him. ‘She looks totally fantastic. She’s really really beautiful, and she wears these wonderful clothes, and her hair and her make-up are perfect. She made me up too and styled my hair and I looked incredible.’

There was a very rude snort from the living room where Football was obviously flapping his ears, listening to every word.

I marched in to confront him, Alexander shuffling after me. Football dodged back and
shielded
his face, pretending to be dazzled. ‘Here’s Tracy the Incredible Beauty!’ he said, fooling about.