Little Darlings (15 page)

Mr Roberts sighs. ‘Girls, girls, girls! Lower your voices – and speak
slowly
.'

‘But we
have
to speak quick to get it all in, you said we've only got ten minutes, Mr Roberts,' says Natalie.

‘Then we must cut the words, not gabble them,' says Mr Roberts, taking notes. ‘I can see my dinner hours are going to be chock-a-block too.'

Fareed isn't very inspiring with his magic tricks, dropping his cards twice, and Hannah just hangs her head and stands beside him, not doing anything.

Mr Roberts sighs. ‘I think we need to build a little razzmatazz into the act, kids,' he says, making notes. ‘But don't worry, it's going to be fine.'

Angel is in a sulk and hasn't got an act prepared at all. ‘There's no point if you won't let me do a pole dance,' she says.

‘Maybe you and I could work out an acrobatic dance together, Angel,' says Mrs Avery. ‘Like a solo street dance? Do you have a favourite song – something with a real beat to it? I'll help you work out a routine.'

‘Whatever,' says Angel, still sounding sulky, but you can tell she's really pleased.

Now it's me. Mr Roberts smiles at me encouragingly.

‘OK, Destiny, your go. Do you still want to try this Danny Kilman number?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Well, do you have the backing music?'

‘No.'

He looks delighted. ‘Then maybe you'll need me to accompany you on my guitar after all?'

No, no, no!

‘If – if you don't mind, Mr Roberts, I'd sooner sing by myself, like I said. The guitar might – might put me off,' I stammer.

‘Very well. But you're probably going to need a little back-up for the actual performance. That's a truly difficult song to pitch
a cappella
.'

I don't know what he's on about. I don't want his
Kumbaya
dithery guitar noises mucking up my song. I don't need to hear any backing. I've heard
Destiny
almost every day of my life. I know every little note and nuance the way I know the sound of my own breath.

Mr Roberts is looking doubtful. The boys are looking bored, the girls spiteful, ready to snigger. Angel is yawning, rocking back on her chair. I
suddenly feel sick. Maybe I'm going to make a total idiot of myself and ruin Danny's song into the bargain.

Your dad's song
, says Mum, inside my head.

I close my eyes. I'll sing it just for her. I open my mouth and get started. As soon as I've sung, ‘
You are my Destiny
,' I'm there in the song, on a different planet, and I'm feeling the words, the soar and sweep of them making the hairs stand up on my arms, and I carry on to the last beautiful long note, letting it all out.

Then there's silence.

I open my eyes. Everyone's staring at me. I feel myself getting hot. I'm sure I'm blushing. I
have
made a fool of myself. They clapped everyone else. They even clapped Fareed and Hannah, and they were hopeless.

Why are they all just sitting there looking so stunned?

Then Mrs Avery starts clapping. She actually
stands up
and claps, and the others join in. Mr Roberts claps too, in a weird uncoordinated way, as if he isn't quite sure his hands are still on the ends of his arms.

‘For goodness' sake, Destiny,' he says eventually, sounding sort of cross. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

I peer at him. Tell him
what
?

‘You've got the most amazing voice.' He's still peering at me as if he can't quite believe it. ‘You've never sung like that before. Why didn't you sing like that in my music lessons?'

I shrug.

‘Well, I'm still astonished, Destiny. I'm not sure I've got any advice for you. Just sing your heart out.'

I can't wait to get home to tell Mum. I can sing, I can sing, I can sing! Well, I've always
known
I can sing. Mum says I've inherited my dad's voice, but actually I don't sound a bit like Danny Kilman. Maybe I take after my mum. We always lark around singing together when we're dusting or decorating or scrubbing the floor.

Actually Mum hasn't been singing much recently. But this will cheer her up. Mr Roberts is going to put me on last in
Bilefield's Got Talent
. We're meant to be all in with an equal chance but it's obvious I'm in the top spot. There will be an afternoon performance for the rest of the school, and then another one at seven for all our families, both with panels of judges. It's a Friday and Mum starts her evening shift at the Dog and Fox spot on seven. I'll just have to hope she can swap shifts with someone.

I hurry home, knowing she won't be back till half six at the earliest. She's got this new client,
Maggie Johnson, who likes Mum to put her to bed with a cup of tea and a Tunnock's teacake, and then they watch
The Weakest Link
together. Mum has to join in too, even though she's not an Anne Robinson fan and never knows any of the answers. Maggie doesn't know many of them either, but it cheers her up to have a go. Mum's tried to make me go round to this Maggie's house because she worries about me being on my own and she thought it would cheer Maggie up. It didn't work. I can't stand Maggie's home because it's dark and it smells and there are wet knickers and nighties drying all over the radiators and the backs of chairs – and Maggie herself isn't a sweet rosy-cheeked old lady, she's a mean old bag who glowered at me, and kept asking in a loud whisper, ‘What's she doing here?'

I wish Mum didn't have all these awful mouldering clients monopolizing her. She's my mum and I want her looking after
me
. But wait till I tell her about Mr Roberts's reaction to my singing! I let myself in and find a note telling me that someone's tried to deliver a parcel. They've left it with Mrs Briggs next door.

A parcel? We never get parcels. I clutch the key and run round to Mrs Briggs's. She takes ages getting to her door, creaking along behind her
zimmer frame. I call through the letterbox, ‘It's just me, Mrs Briggs, Destiny, don't worry!' but she still puts her door on the chain and peers through the crack suspiciously.

‘Are you kids plaguing the life out of me again?' she demands.

‘It's
me
, Mrs Briggs!'

‘Ah yes, young Desiree,' she says. She's never quite got the hang of my name. ‘Yes, you'll never guess what, dear, someone's sent you a parcel. Is it your birthday?'

‘Well, it
was
, last week.'

‘You never said! I would have got you a card. So how old are you, darling?'

We go all round the moon discussing me being eleven and Mrs Briggs being eighty-seven when all I want is
to get my parcel
! But eventually she lets me in and I pick up the huge Jiffy bag in her hall. I peer at the writing on the bag. I don't recognize it. It's not really heavy. You can still squash the bag, but there's definitely something inside. Thank goodness the postman didn't just leave it on the doorstep. It would have been nicked before his back was turned.

I thank Mrs Briggs and whizz back home to open it in private. It's so carefully taped up I lose patience and rip. Suddenly I'm holding a jacket, a
beautiful leather jacket, soft as a kitten, beautifully styled, the most gorgeous jacket in the entire world. I stare at it, shaking, unable to believe it. I realize I've seen the jacket before. Oh my God, it's
Sunset's
jacket!

I pick it up properly to try it on and a letter flutters out. I slot my arms into the silkily lined sleeves and pull the jacket on. It fits perfectly, as if it were made for me. Then I pick up the letter and read. It
is
from Sunset. It's a lovely letter too. She did her best to ask Danny about me – and she hopes the jacket will suit me.

I go to the bedroom and look at myself in Mum's mirror. Oh, it
does
suit me, it truly does! I look just like a celebrity! I pick up Mum's hairbrush and start singing, pretending it's a microphone. I can't wait for Mum to get home. Now there are
two
special things to tell.

The moment I hear the key in the door I go, ‘Mum, Mum, wait till you hear!'

‘Hey, darling! I've brought Louella back for a cup of tea.'

Oh
rubbish
, why did she have to do that? I whip the jacket off quick and stuff it under my pillow and then walk reluctantly into the living room. Louella has already sat herself down in my chair. She nods at me.

‘How are you doing, Destiny?'

‘Fine, thanks, Louella,' I say.

She nods sceptically. ‘I hope you're not giving your mother cause for grief. She's always worry-worry-worry over you. One little scrappy girl gives her more worries than my four give me.'

‘My Destiny's a total love. It's my silly fault if I worry about her,' says Mum. ‘I'll go and put the kettle on.'

Louella glares at me. ‘
You
should be making the tea for your mum, Destiny, a big girl like you. There she is, on her feet all day, caring for all those dear old souls. She needs a little care herself when she gets home.'

‘I
do
make the tea sometimes. I'll do it now,' I say crossly.

‘No, no, I'm
fine
. You two sit and chat,' Mum calls from the kitchen.

I don't
want
to chat to Louella and she doesn't look like she wants to chat either.

‘Your poor mum's working herself to the bone,' she says. ‘Skin and bone, that's all she is now. I keep telling her, you're working too hard, girl, always on the go. You need to take it easy, put a little flesh on those bones.'

Louella herself has more than enough flesh on hers. She's so fat she totally overflows my chair,
her vast brightly patterned dress spread out around her. Her feet are wide apart, planted firmly. Pop socks and sandals are
so
not a good look.

‘How's school then, Destiny?' she asks. ‘You working hard?'

I shrug.

‘Staying out of trouble?'

She's got such a cheek. Her twin boys, Adam and Denton, are only in Year Three and yet they're already famous throughout the whole Juniors for getting into trouble. They might hold hands and blink their big eyes at their mum and deny everything, pretending they've been picked on, but they're incredibly bad. Just last week they hid in a wheelie bin and jumped up at one of the dinner ladies and nearly gave her a heart attack, and the week before that they liberated the Year Three classroom gerbils in the girls' toilets. Her middle child, Jacob, is one of the most feared Speedos even though he's only nine. Her oldest, Cherie, who's twelve, goes round with this other girl in Year Seven and I've seen them wearing really tight tops and short skirts, both looking at least sixteen, going out as if they're
looking
for trouble.

Louella has
no
idea. She only sees her kids when they're all neat as ninepence and in
Louella-approved outfits, school uniform or Sunday best, with white socks and highly polished shoes.

‘I'm not in any kind of trouble,' I say.

I so want to tell her that Mr Roberts and Mrs Avery treated me like a total wonder-child today, but I don't want to tell her before Mum.

Oh, Mum, come
back
. How long does it take to make a cup of tea? Louella is looking all round the living room, nosy as anything. She shakes her head at the Danny posters.

‘Your mum and her Danny! I don't know what she sees in him myself. So scruffy and so old. If she must go for one of these golden oldies, why not plump for Cliff? He's always so smartly dressed,' Louella chunters. ‘And does she really need all these posters? She could get some really good pictures at a car boot and they'd give the room a bit of style.'

‘This is
our
style,' I say, even though I don't like the posters now. I don't like Louella either – but I can't resist asking her: ‘These Danny pictures – look at them, Louella. Does he remind you of anyone?' I say, and I jut my chin and angle my own head in a Danny pose.

I want her to slap her huge thigh and exclaim, ‘Oh my Lord, Destiny, it's you, you're the spitting
image!' even though I'll deny it because we're not telling anyone, and definitely not Louella. But she doesn't seem to be struck by any revelation.

‘He just looks like all those other hairy old rockers,' she says dismissively. ‘I wouldn't even know what he sings like.'

‘I'll put on one of his CDs if you want,' I tease her. ‘Nice and loud.'

‘
No
, thank you! I've got more respect for my ears,' she says. ‘You want to listen to some
proper
singing, Destiny. You come along to our church on a Sunday and listen to our choir. They're so stirring they'll send shivers down your back.'

‘We don't go to church.'

‘It would do you the power of good – and you'd make lots of friends there, you and your mum. You two need to get out and mix more. It's so sad you've no friends, no family.'

‘We've got each other. We're fine,' I say indignantly.

I long to push her right off my chair. What right does she have to barge in here and criticize? I leave the room in a temper and go and find Mum. She's just standing there in the kitchen. The kettle's boiled, but she's not making any attempt to pour it. She's leaning against the draining board, biting her lip.

‘Mum?'

She jumps, flips the switch on the kettle, and starts throwing tea bags into mugs. When the kettle starts bubbling she whispers, ‘Were you being rude to Louella?'

‘She's being rude to me!'

‘Shh or she'll hear! I wish you'd make an
effort
with her. She's a truly good woman. She'd do anything to help me.'

‘That doesn't mean I have to like her.'

‘Oh, Destiny, stop it,' Mum says. She looks so sad and I can't bear it.