Little Darlings (11 page)

Then I go into my own bedroom. I look up at the big damp patch on the ceiling (the roof leaks every time it rains). I look down at the fraying carpet squares on the floor. I look at my old bed with my faded duvet bears waving wanly at me.

I go to bed but I can't get to sleep. I toss and turn for hours until I hear Mum's key in the lock at last. I hear her tiptoeing about in the dark.

‘It's OK, Mum, I'm still awake,' I call.

‘You're a bad girl then. Go to sleep at once!' says Mum, but she's not really cross.

She takes off her clothes and crawls into my bed, and we spend the night huddled together under Pinky and Bluey. Neither of us sleeps much, even though we're exhausted. Mum gets up first and brings me a cup of tea on a tray – but I don't want to wake up now.

‘I've set your alarm for eight. Promise you'll get up then,' Mum frets, sipping her tea as she gets dressed. ‘Destiny? Promise!'

‘Maybe,' I mumble, sliding back down under the duvet.

‘You do as you're told,' says Mum, prodding me. ‘Come on, babe, promise me you'll go to school. No bunking off. You're going to get a good education if it kills me.'

She has to leave or she'll be late for her cleaning
job at the uni. It's a good forty-minute walk to the campus but at least she's not in her high heels now, she's in her old trainers – though she's still blistered from yesterday.

‘I wish you didn't have to walk so far, Mum,' I say, propping myself up on one elbow.

‘You'll be walking there yourself in a few years' time,' Mum says. ‘Doing some fancy degree course.
If
you get a good education.'

I sigh. ‘OK, OK. Don't nag.'

‘That's what mothers are for,' she says. She gives me a kiss goodbye. She sings the usual verse from a Danny song: ‘
Goodbye, my babe, it's time to go, don't wanna leave, I love you soooo
.'

I generally sing along with her but I shut up this time. When my alarm goes off at eight I shuffle around the house eating cornflakes straight out of the packet. I stop and stare at each Danny poster on the living-room wall. There are so many we don't need wallpaper. I look at the biggest poster, a young Danny striking a pose, head back, singing into his mike.
My Destiny
is printed at the top.

I suddenly tug hard on the poster and it falls down with a crash, the edges tearing, lumpy with dried Blu-Tack.

‘I don't want to be your Destiny, you silly old fart,' I say, kicking the poster.

Then I pick up my school bag and slam out of the door, turning the key and then slipping its string down my neck, under my school blouse. I'd give anything not to go, but I promised Mum.

I go the long way round, of course. If I took the short cut through the estate, someone would be sure to spot me and they'd start chasing me. There are two major gangs on the estate, the Flatboys and the Speedos. They're silly baby names but they're not all little boys playing at being baddies. Some of the bigger guys carry knives, real serious flick knives, not kids' penknives. Jack Myers is in my class and his eldest brother is the leader of the Flatboys. The Speedos captured him recently, and when he swore at them they cut him down his arm and tattooed him on either side of his eyes with a lead pencil to show he was a marked man. So then the Flatboys caught one of the Speedo kids and hung him by the ankles from the top-floor balcony and very nearly dropped him.

The Flatboys and the Speedos mostly pick on each other. They don't often hurt girls, but you never know. Both gangs would go after me because I'm a Maisie. They call me that because our house is one of the maisonettes around the edge of the estate. Everyone hates the Maisies and thinks we're snobs. You're
especially
hated if you own your house instead of renting.

So I trudge all the way round the outside of the Bilefield Estate. My school shoes are too small for me and cramp my toes but I don't want to tell Mum because she'll only worry.

I hope she's feeling better now. My own stomach cramps thinking about her. I try to remember Sunset's seven different bedrooms to distract myself. I count them on my fingers. Then I make up different outfits for her. It's almost as if she's walking along beside me, keeping me company. She isn't wearing any of her cool designer clothes, she's in her pyjamas and huge fleece, and she's a bit embarrassed about it too, but I promise I'll flatten anyone who dares tease her. I can do that, easy-peasy, with most of the kids in my class. Well, I'm a bit wary of Jack Myers and Rocky Samson and some of the other boys already in Flatboys/Speedo gangs, but I'm just as tough as any of the girls, even Angel Thomas, and she's twice my size and should have been christened
Devil
Thomas. I can fight and be really mouthy if I want, but most of the time I'm dead quiet at school. I don't even talk to the teachers much.

I liked my last school more, especially the teacher I had in Year Five, Miss Pendle. She lent me storybooks and gave me a gold star in literacy
and said I had a Wonderful Imagination. I didn't even mind when the other kids teased me for being a teacher's pet. I
wanted
to be Miss Pendle's pet. But now I'm in Year Six at Bilefield and I'm still looked on as the new girl. I'm not really anyone's friend. The Year Six teacher is Mr Roberts. He's very strict and shouty and is always giving us tests. He smells of tobacco and has a silly beard and gets damp patches under his arms, and no one in the world would want to be
his
pet.

He doesn't shout quite so much now because we've finished all our tests and half the time we're mucking around instead of doing proper lessons. Mum's daft to think I'd be missing out on anything by bunking off school now, but she won't listen.

I
don't listen much when Mr Roberts starts chuntering on about us being the top of the school – we'll soon be starting a whole new scholastic life at secondary school and isn't it exciting? Yes, very exciting to be going to Bilefield Secondary, where the big kids stick your head down the toilet and nick your mobile and your money as soon as you start in Year Seven.

Then he goes on about our Year Six end-of-year entertainment. I can't get interested. He wants to call it
Bilefield's Got Talent
– oh, very witty. Everyone groans and moans, especially when Mr
Roberts says we've
all
got to do an act whether we want to or not. Jack Myers says he's not poncing about on a stage making a fool of himself, but Mr Roberts suggests he might like to get together with some of the other lads and do some kind of street dancing – and that shuts him up.
All
the boys want to street dance. They divide up into Flatboys and Speedos, apart from silly Ritchie and Jeff, who want to dress up in frocks and do a daft ballet dance, and Raymond Wallis, who actually can do ballet properly and wants to do a special acrobatic solo. Most of the girls want to dance too, singing along at the same time. There are two groups of girls who want to do Girls Aloud numbers.

‘Fine, fine, but we could do with a little
variety
,' says Mr Roberts. ‘Can't any of you think of an act that's a little bit different?'

‘Yeah, OK, I'll do a pole dance, Mr Roberts,' says Angel Thomas.

‘Well, maybe that's a little
too
different,' says Mr Roberts. ‘We'll put that idea on hold, Angel. Perhaps you can do some kind of exotic dance, but a pole dance would get us both into a lot of trouble.'

Natalie and Naveen and Saimah and Billie-Jo are whispering together.

‘We want to do a play, Mr Roberts. Can we do our own play?' asks Natalie.

‘That's an excellent idea,' says Mr Roberts. ‘But you'll need to do it properly, write it out and rehearse it, and it can't be longer than ten minutes maximum. I'll help you rehearse, girls. And boys, you need to choreograph your street-dance routine. We'll see if Mrs Avery can help you get started, choose the right music. I want you all to take this very seriously. We're going to entertain the whole school
and
your parents, so I want you all to give a cracking performance. We'll sort out some kind of voting system and give a proper prize to the overall winner, OK? Now, who hasn't chosen their act yet?'

‘I can't do nothing, Mr Roberts,' says Hannah, sighing. ‘I can't sing and I can't dance.'

‘Maybe you could join up with Natalie and co. and be in the play.'

‘I can't act either,' says Hannah.

‘Can I do magic tricks, Mr Roberts?' says Fareed. ‘My dad's shown me how to do heaps of card tricks, and I can even pull a rabbit out of a hat. Almost.'

‘Excellent! Well, Hannah, perhaps you could be Fareed's assistant. Magicians always have a lovely lady assistant.'

‘Yeah, you can saw her in half, Fareed,' says Angel, laughing. She catches my eye. ‘And make Destiny disappear. For ever.'

I give her a little sneer, acting bored. It would never ever do to show Angel that I'm just like the others, dead scared of her.

Mr Roberts is looking at me too. ‘Yes, Destiny, what about you?' he says in the same false bright tone he used for Hopeless Hannah. He obviously has me down as one of the sad thickos. Well, see if I care.

‘Perhaps you don't want to sing or dance. Tell you what, how about doing a recitation?'

Oh, sure. Poetry. The other kids would have a field day, shouting,
Off, off, off!
And throwing tomatoes at me.

He doesn't understand.

‘I could help you find a poem. It doesn't have to be too long. Maybe you could read it if you find it hard to learn it. You're a very good reader, Destiny,' he says earnestly. ‘You just need to gain a bit of confidence.'

‘I'll sing,' I say, just to shut him up.

He looks surprised. I never join in his stupid music lessons. I
hate Kumbaya
and
Lord of the Dance
. I don't even bother to open my lips to mouth the words.

‘Do you know any songs?'

Stupid question. I know every track, genuine or bootleg, of every single Danny Kilman album, from
his debut songs with the defunct rock band Opium Poppy to his last recorded tracks six years ago.

I just nod vaguely, but he clearly doesn't trust me.

‘Which song?'

It might as well be the obvious.

‘I'll sing Danny Kilman's song
Destiny
,' I say.

Some of the kids snigger uncertainly. I don't think they've even heard of Danny. Though Mr Roberts looks surprised but enthusiastic.

‘Of course! Brilliant choice. Actually I'm a big Danny Kilman fan.'

Oh God.

‘Tell you what. I could accompany you on my guitar if you like – do that little melancholy riff in the middle—'

No!

‘I thought I'd leave that bit out,' I say quickly. ‘Just sing the word part. If that's OK.'

‘Yes. Yes of course,' he says, but he looks disappointed. I feel a bit bad but I'm not having him mucking up my special namesake song even if I've decided I don't want Danny for my dad any more.

I don't say anything to Mum when she comes home – but she sees I've torn the big poster down straight away. She gasps as if the real Danny is lying crumpled on the carpet. She kneels down and
smoothes the poster out, wincing at the tear marks. She fetches the Sellotape and mends him very carefully on the back of the poster so that he doesn't have to have shiny Sellotape bandages across his face. Then she gets a whole new packet of Blu-Tack, stands on a chair and puts him up in his place again, taking the greatest care not to stick him on a slant or give him any creases. She doesn't say a single word to me while she's doing this, but her lips are moving. I think she might be whispering to Danny.

She looks terrible. She hasn't had time to wash her hair so she's still got it pulled back in a ponytail and it droops lankly down her back. Her face is grey-white, with shadows like bruises under her eyes. I don't know if it's because her hair is scraped back so tightly, but her eyes look truly scary, as if they might pop right out of her head. When she raises her arms I can see all her ribs through her T-shirt, and the knobs of her elbows look as sharp as knives.

I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and look for food in the Aldi carrier Mum's dragged home. I stick two big potatoes in the oven. Then I cut some bread and butter and bring it into the living room on a tray, with a cup of tea.

Mum is sitting down now, sifting through the
post. I think it might be more bills. Her hands are shaking.

‘Here, Mum, have some tea,' I say, sticking the tray on her lap.

‘Oh, that's lovely of you, sweetheart,' she says. She sips her tea but doesn't touch the bread and butter.

‘
Eat
, Mum.'

‘I'll have it a bit later, darling.'

‘No, we've got baked potatoes with cheese later – and maybe baked beans? But you need to eat something now, Mum. You look awful, like you're starving to death.'

She flinches.

‘I'm sorry, Mum, I didn't mean to upset you, it's just that you're scaring me. Look, you've not gone anorexic, have you?'

‘What? No, no, of course not.'

‘Because you're way too thin as it is. You'll be a skeleton if you carry on not eating.'

‘OK, lovey, I'll eat. Look!' She takes a big bite out of the bread and butter. ‘There now – and you've made a lovely cup of tea. You come and share the bread and butter with me.'

She pats the armchair and I squash in beside her. I have a little peer at the letters. Yep, more bills. I pull a face.

‘It's OK. We'll manage,' says Mum. ‘It's worth having to scrimp and scrape so we can live here. Imagine if we were still stuck in that dump of a flat on the Latchford Estate. We haven't done too badly, have we, Destiny? Our very own house!'

‘Yeah, Mum,' I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, although there's so much needs doing to the house, and I can't help thinking the Bilefield Estate is almost as bad as Latchford, and it does your head in trying to avoid the Flatboys and the Speedos all the time.