Family Fan Club (2 page)

There was a silence.

“What for?” said Rose.

“For fun!”

“I wouldn’t think it was fun,” said Rose.

“Yes, you would, you’d enjoy it! Once you got started.”

“Don’t want to get started.”

“Oh, don’t be such a gloom!” Jazz took a flying leap on to the sofa and sat there, hugging her knees to her chin and rocking to and fro. “Think of Mum! She’d love it! You know she’s always saying the things she likes best are the ones we’ve really worked at, like when we make our own cards.”

“So we’ll make our own cards,” said Rose.

“We’ll make our own cards
and
act out a scene. It will be like a present from us all.”

Rose pulled a face. Laurel shook her head. There wasn’t any arguing with Jazz once an idea had taken hold of her. She bounced up off the sofa.

“I’ll go and start copying right now!”

“Can’t,” said Rose. “Mum’s got the script with her.”

“Then I shall make up my own one, from the book!”

“How are you going to copy it?” yelled Laurel, as Jazz scudded through the door. “Nobody can read your rotten writing!”

Jazz stuck her head back in again. “Not going to write! Going to use the typewriter.”

“That old thing!” said Rose.

They had discovered the typewriter up in the attic, when they had moved in. It was very ancient. It had strange old-fashioned metal keys that rattled, and which you had to bash really hard, and an inky ribbon made of cotton that kept winding itself back every time it reached the end of the spool. To make copies you had to use carbon paper, which was messy, especially if you had to correct mistakes. Even messier if you put the carbon paper in the wrong way round.

“It’s ridiculous,” said Rose. “Why can’t we have a computer?”

Jazz’s head, which had disappeared, popped back in again.

“’cos we can’t afford one!”

“It’s like living in a cave,” grumbled Rose. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even got a
television!
”

Of all of them, Rose was the only one who was technologically minded. It was Rose who discovered how to use the video and Rose who learnt all the programmes on the washing machine. Mum was useless, and Dad hadn’t been much better. Imagine having a dad who didn’t know how to work the video!

Imagine having a
dad.
Jazz blinked, rapidly, as the tears came to her eyes. Sometimes even now, when she thought about Dad, great waves of misery would wash over her. They had all tried so hard to be brave about it, when the Great Row had happened and Dad had gone storming out. They had heard it from the upstairs landing. One by one, first Jazz, then Laurel, then Rose and Daisy, clutching Tink in her arms for comfort, had come creeping from their rooms and crouched, tense and shivering, at the head of the stairs.

It wasn’t the first time Mum and Dad had shouted at each other. Jazz had always tried explaining it to herself by saying, “Well, they’re actors. Actors are like that. They enjoy making a noise.” But this time she had known, they had all known, that this was the big one. The Great Row.

It was about money, as usual. Before Mum had got into
Icing
they had rowed about the fact that they hadn’t got any. They had rowed about whether they should both continue to pay their Equity fees and their fees to Spotlight, the actors’ casting directory, or whether only one of them should. They had rowed about whether one of them should give up acting and do something else. Get a proper job. They had rowed because Mum had got her hair done for an audition and Dad had said it was a waste of money, and because Dad had a new publicity photograph taken and Mum had said it wasn’t necessary.

They had rowed because they were worried. Because they couldn’t afford to pay the bills or find a decent place for the family to live.

And then Mum had got into
Icing
and the money had come rolling in and they
still
had rows. Still about money. Mum had wanted to do one thing with it, Dad had wanted to do another. And instead of talking it out calmly and sensibly, they had ended up yelling. One time Mum had yelled, “Who’s earning this money, I’d like to know?”

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.