Jacky Daydream (27 page)

She died the day before we took our eleven plus. Christine came to school red-eyed but resolute. She sat the exam along with all of us – and passed.

Which character in my books has a mum who has cancer?

 

It’s Lola Rose in the book of the same name.

Mum’s fever went down, but she had to stay in hospital a while. Then she was well enough to come home, though she still had to go for her treatment. First the chemotherapy, weeks of it.

All Mum’s beautiful long blonde hair started falling out after the second treatment. It was so scary at first. Kendall and I were cuddled up with her in bed in the morning and when she sat up great long locks of her hair stayed on her pillow.

‘Oh my God,’ Mum gasped. She put her hands to her head, feeling the bald patches. ‘This is just like being in a bloody horror movie!’

I wanted to write truthfully about Victoria and her illness. She calls herself Lady Luck – and I do so hope she will be lucky and get completely better. She means so much to Lola Rose and her little brother Kendall. Still, they also have Auntie Barbara to look after them. I
love
Auntie Barbara. I wish I had one!

31

Our Gang

CHRISTINE AND I
were best friends – but we were also part of a gang. There were our two boyfriends, David and Alan. They were best friends too. David was a freckle-faced, rather solemn boy with brown hair and clothes that my mother would call ‘nobby’. David’s mum had him wearing checked shirts and khaki shorts and baseball boots, clothes we’d consider cool now but were a little odd in the 1950s. Alan wore ordinary grey boy clothes. His sleeves were always rolled up, his collar open, his socks falling down, his sandals scuffed. He had straight fair hair, the sort that has to be smarmed down with water to stop it sticking straight up. He had a cheeky grin and a happy-go-lucky character.

David was my boyfriend; Alan was Christine’s. It was all very convenient – though secretly I preferred Alan to David. One play time Christine talked a little wistfully about David.

‘Do you really like him then?’ I asked.

‘Well, yes. As much as Alan. In fact more. But don’t worry, Jacky, I know he’s
your
boyfriend. I’d never ever try to take him off you.’

‘Mm. Christine . . . the thing is, I like Alan. More than David. I wish we could swap.’

‘Well . . . can’t we?’

We tried to think of a tactful way of putting it to the boys. We didn’t want to hurt their feelings. We didn’t want them to go off in a huff and take up with two other girls.

‘We
can’t
tell them,’ I said.

‘Yes we can,’ said Christine.

She was bossier than me and very determined. She caught my hand and pulled me over to the corner of the playground, where Alan and David were swapping cigarette cards with some other boys.

‘Hey, Alan and David, Jacky and I want to talk to you,’ she said.

They sighed and came over, shuffling their footballers and cricketers into separate packs.

Christine put her arms round their shoulders. ‘We like you both very much, but Jacky was just wondering . . .’

‘Christine!’

‘OK, OK,
we
were wondering, how do you fancy swapping over for a bit? So you can be my boyfriend, David, and Alan, you can be Jacky’s boyfriend.’

We waited, while David looked at Alan and Alan looked at David.

‘Yep. That’s fine,’ said Alan.

‘Fine with me too,’ said David.

Then they went off to bargain for more cigarette cards and Christine and I went off to swap beads, all of us happy.

They weren’t
proper
boyfriends, of course. We didn’t go out with each other. I didn’t go round to play at David’s or Alan’s and I wouldn’t have dreamed of inviting them for one of Biddy’s cream-bun teas. Our romances were very low key. We sometimes took turns giving each other ‘a film-star kiss’, but it was really just a quick peck. We wrote love letters to each other in class, but they were brief to the point of terseness, though for years I treasured a crumpled piece of paper saying, ‘Dear Jacky, I love you from Alan.’ I was far closer to Christine, to Ann, to Cherry – and to another new friend Eileen.

She wasn’t a new girl but she
seemed
new in Mr Branson’s class. She’d been away from school for a couple of months in Mr Townsend’s class with a badly broken leg. I remembered her as a curly-haired pixie-faced girl, maybe a little babyish for her age. She came into Mr Branson’s class transformed. She’d grown several inches. Not just upwards. She had a chest!

She was the first girl in our class to wear a real bra. The boys teased her as soon as they found out and twanged her bra at the back, but Eileen managed to slap them away and keep them in their
place
. She looked so much older than everyone that she had sudden authority. She swished around the playground in her full patterned skirts, her small waist cinched in with an elasticated belt. She had an air of mystery about her, as if she knew all sorts of secrets. Well, she did. She sat in a corner with Christine and me and told us what it was like to have a period. We knew some of this Facts of Life stuff already, but it was interesting to have Eileen telling us practical details.

We must have been a satisfying audience, Christine and I, with our short haircuts and little white socks and Clarks sandals. Eileen elaborated, telling us things that seemed utterly unlikely – and yet maybe people
really
did this or that? She also told us about some sort of boyfriend she’d met in the summer holidays, Mr Honey. I
hope
he was complete fantasy.

Eileen had a real boyfriend at school now, red-haired Robert, a small, eager boy almost as bright as Julian. Robert seemed an unlikely match for this new sexy Eileen in his short trousers and pullovers and black plimsolls, but they seemed a happy couple for all that. Julian came to play with us too, though he didn’t have a girlfriend himself. So this was our gang – Christine, David, Alan, Eileen, Robert, Julian and me.

We started to play together every day. We had our own special club and a badge, and we had to
use
particular green biros whenever we wrote to each other. We called ourselves the Secret Seven, like the Enid Blyton books, but now we had Eileen with us we didn’t act like Blyton children.

Mr Branson always chivied us when he was on playground duty. We liked to sit huddled together against the wall of the boys’ toilets – not, I suppose, the most attractive location. Mr Branson would kick the soles of our feet in irritation.

‘Come on, you lot, stop flopping there like a bunch of rag dolls. Go and have a run round the playground, get some fresh air into your lungs.’

He’d harangue us until we got up, groaning, and jog-trotted round and round. It wasn’t just Mr Branson who picked on us. All the teachers started trying to get us to separate, even our dear Mr Townsend, suggesting skipping for Christine and Eileen and me, football for the boys. We were puzzled at first. Christine and Eileen and I loathed skipping, and felt we were too old to jump up and down chanting:

‘Nebuchadnezzar, King of the Jews
,

Bought his wife a pair of shoes
.

When the shoes began to wear
,

Nebuchadnezzar began to swear
.

When the swear began to stop
,

Nebuchadnezzar bought a shop
.

When the shop began to sell
,

Nebuchadnezzar bought a bell
.

When the bell began to ring
,

Nebuchadnezzar began to sing
,

Do ray me fah so la ti dooooooo!

You had to whirl the skipping rope twice as fast for the last part, doing ‘bumps’ until you tripped. I always tripped as soon as I started bumping because my arms wouldn’t whirl round fast enough, but who cared anyway?

The boys were even less keen on football. They were gentle, dreamy boys who didn’t want to charge round shouting and kicking. Mr Townsend
knew
this. Why did he suddenly want to break us up and make us start being sporty?

I think the teachers were scared we were growing up too soon. Maybe all this boyfriend/girlfriend stuff alarmed them, though it was all perfectly innocent. Eileen probably unnerved them, with her knowing look and new figure.

We took to huddling right at the very edge of the playground, behind the canteen, hoping that none of the teachers would spot us there, but if
they
didn’t find us, some bossy form monitor would creep round the corner and pounce on us.

Then
I
was made a very special monitor – and all our problems were solved.

In one of my books there’s a girl who talks with a fake American accent and acts much older than she really is. Do you know which book it is?

 

It’s
Candyfloss
.

‘Open your present, Floss. You’re such a slowpoke,’ said Margot.

She meant
slowcoach
. She’s got this irritating habit of talking in a fake American accent and using silly American expressions. She thinks it makes her sound sophisticated but I think she sounds plain stupid.

I could make a l-o-n-g list of reasons why I can’t stick Margot. She used to be ordinary – in fact I can barely remember her back in the baby classes – but
this
year she’s making out she’s all grown up. She’s always giggling about boys and sex and pop stars. Judy giggles too. She looks as babyish as me but she’s got an older brother who tells her all these really rude jokes. I don’t understand most of them. I’m not sure Judy does either.

Floss doesn’t like Margot because she’s very worried her friend Rhiannon will go off with her.
But
by the end of
Candyfloss Floss
has found a
much
nicer friend.