Pick 'n' Mix

Dedication

For Rebecca Cross and Amy Saunders, who have been so helpful

Epigraph

I didn't mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet…

Contents

Chapter One

I didn't mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet. Not that I'm claiming it was an accident, exactly, though it could have been. Like if I'd tripped over the edge of the bed, for instance, with Dad's Stanley knife clutched in my hand, the blade might well have gone plunging into the carpet all by itself and carved a huge great chunk out of it. I mean, that is what could quite easily have happened. I'm not saying that it
did
; just that it could have.

All I'm saying is, I didn't set out to cut a hole. It wasn't like I woke up in the morning and thought, “Today I shall cut a hole in my carpet.” It just seemed like a good idea at the time, as things so often do. Then afterwards you wonder why, only by then it's too late. This is something that happens to me rather a lot. I am quite unfortunate in that way.

What I was doing, in actual fact, wasn't thinking about cutting holes so much as trying to find a way of fitting my corner cabinet into a corner. Gran had given me the cabinet when she moved out of her house into a flat. It's really cute! Very small and painted white, with pink and blue flowers all running round the edge, and tiny glass-panelled doors. Gran used to keep china ornaments in there. Shepherdesses and milkmaids and old-fashioned ladies selling balloons. I keep my collection of shells and fossils and interesting stones with holes in them. Gran knew I'd always loved her corner cabinet. I was so excited when she gave it to me! But the thing is, it is a
corner
cabinet. That is why it is shaped like a triangle. It has to stand in a
corner.

I've only got two corners in my bedroom. This is because it's the smallest room in the house, tucked away under the roof, and is shaped like a wedge of cheese. The big front bedroom is Mum and Dad's; the one at the back is Angel's; the little one over the garage is Tom's; and the one the size of a broom cupboard belongs to me. Mum says that when Angel goes to Uni, Tom can have her room and I can have his. And when
Tom
goes to Uni, I can take my pick. But since Angel is only fifteen, it seems to me I'm going to be stuck in my broom cupboard for years to come.

I don't really mind; I quite like my little bedroom. It's cosy, like a nest. And I love the way the roof slopes down, and the way the window is at floor level. The only problem is, the lack of corners! My bed is in one, and my wardrobe in the other. I'd tried fitting Gran's cabinet into the angle between the roof and the floor, but it was just the tiniest little bit too tall. If I could only slice a couple of centimetres off the bottom of it…

That was when it came to me. If I couldn't slice anything off Gran's cabinet, how about cutting a hole in the carpet? It just seemed like the obvious solution. What Dad calls
lateral thinking.
I reckoned he would be quite pleased with me. He is always telling us to “think outside the box” and “use your imagination”. That was exactly what I was doing!

I left Rags on the bed – Rags is our dog, though mostly he belongs to me – and went rushing downstairs to fetch Dad's carpet-cutting knife from the kitchen drawer. It was Sunday morning, which meant everyone was at home, but fortunately neither Mum nor Dad seemed to be about. I say fortunately as they both (though 'specially Mum) have this inconvenient habit of demanding to know why you want things. Angel is bad enough. She was in the kitchen eating yoghurt and painting her toenails. She looked at me like I was some kind of criminal.

“What are you doing with that knife?” she said.

I said, “What knife?”

“That knife you've put up your sleeve.”

“Oh!” I said. “That.” And I gave this little laugh, to show that I was amused.

“That's Dad's Stanley knife, that is. You're not supposed to play with it.”

“For your information,” I said, loftily, “I am not
playing
with it.”

“So what d'you want it for?”

“Ha!” I said. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

Angel looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You'd better not be getting up to anything,” she said.

I gave this manic laugh. She gets me like that at times. Always so
bossy.
So
interfering.
What was it to her, what I got up to?

As I left the kitchen, I bumped into Tom on his way in.

“She's got Dad's Stanley knife,” said Angel.

Tom grunted. It is his way of carrying on a “Uh?” conversation.

He has upward grunts, like “Uh.” and downward grunts, like “
Uh.
”

“I want to cut something,” I said.

Tom said, “Uh.”

I do occasionally wonder whether Tom might be some kind of alien from outer space, but at least he is not bossy and he never,
ever
interferes. Mum says he is the strong and silent type. I wish my sister was the silent type! She is one of those people, she just can't stop her tongue from clacking.

“On your own head be it!” she yelled, as I went back up the hall.

Dunno what she meant by that. Mostly, I take no notice of her.

I made a really good job of cutting a hole. I cut it triangular, to fit the cabinet. What I did, I stood the cabinet on a sheet of newspaper, then I marked all the way round with a felt tip pen, so I had a pattern, then I cut out the pattern and put it on the carpet and cut round the edge of it with Dad's knife. I know it is wrong to boast, but I couldn't help feeling a sense of pride. Mum always accuses me of being slapdash.

“You don't take enough care, Frankie!”

But I took care of my hole! It worked like a dream; Gran's cabinet was a perfect fit. Nobody would ever know I'd had to take a bit out of the carpet. There was only one slight problem, and that wasn't my fault: the carpet seemed to be fraying, and coming apart where I'd cut it. Long fronds of nylon had started waving about.

Rags, who'd been lying on my bed watching me work, came bounding over to have a look. I told him to go away. I didn't want his big furry head pushing itself in while I chopped off the fronds.

“Here,” I said. “Have this!”

I gave him the triangle of carpet to chew, and he jumped back happily on the bed with it.

“Good boy,” I said.

He
is
a good boy. Angel complains that he is too big and clumping, and that he smells when he gets wet, but she is only miffed cos she wanted a rabbit.

I'd just started to snip off some of the fronds when there was a knock at the door and Tom's head appeared.

“Gotta come downstairs,” he said.

I was immediately suspicious. I said, “Why?”

“Mum wants you.”

“What for?” What had I done
now
? Honestly, I get the blame for everything in our house. Only the other day Mum accused me of breaking her flour sifter, just because I'd borrowed it to sift some earth for my wormery that I was making. All I can say is, it wasn't broken when I put it back in the cupboard. I'm sure it wasn't. But just, like, automatically, it has to be my fault.

“Is she cross?” I said.

Tom said, “Uh?”

“Cos I haven't done anything!”

“Uh.”

Unless Angel had gone and told her about the knife?

Mum, Frankie's gone off with Dad's knife! She says she's going to cut something.

Mum gets really fussed about stuff like that. Stuff you read about in the papers. People being stabbed and everything. But I wouldn't ever,
ever,
take a knife out of the house. I know better than that! I'm not stupid. I just needed it to cut a hole in my carpet. “You coming, or what?” said Tom.

I clumped reluctantly behind him down the stairs. It was slowly occurring to me that maybe Mum wasn't going to be too happy when she discovered what I'd done. If Angel hadn't gone and told her about the knife, she wouldn't ever have had to know. It wasn't like it was obvious. Nobody was going to go into my bedroom and cry, “Ooh, look, there's a hole in the carpet!” But if Angel had gone and opened her big clattering mouth…

Mum was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Dad was also there.
Angel
was there. This looked serious.

“I haven't done anything,” I said.

Angel gave a short screech of laughter. She sounds quite mad when she does that. I think, actually, she is a bit mad. (I mean mad loopy, not mad angry, though she's usually that as well.)

“Take a seat,” said Mum. “And don't look so worried! This isn't about anything you may or may not have done. It's a family conference. Tom, come and sit down! Don't drape yourself over the sink. Right. OK! Now, then… you know my lady Mrs Duffy?”

I knew Mrs Duffy; she was one of Mum's customers. Mum always refers to them as her ladies. They come to have hems taken up, and dresses made, and zips put in. Tom was looking blank. He never really notices people; only stuff that's on his computer screen.

“Mrs Duffy's the big lady,” I said.

Angel sucked in her breath. “That is
so
not the sort of thing to say!”

I didn't see why. Mrs Duffy
is
big. Like Angel is thin as a pin. But it didn't seem quite the right moment for starting an argument, so I ignored her and informed Tom that, “She has a daughter called Emilia.”

Tom said, “Uh?”

“Mum made her a special dewdrop outfit for her school's dressing up day. She looked really sweet! Didn't she, Mum?”

“She did,” said Mum. “And in fact it's Emilia we have to talk about.”

I sat up straight and arranged my face into its listening shape. It's the face I use in class when I want a teacher to know that I am paying attention and taking everything in. I liked the idea of talking about Emilia. Far better than talking about me and something I might or might not have done.

Mum explained how Mrs Duffy was going to have to go into hospital for an operation.

“She'll be in for about two weeks, then she'll need at least another two to get her strength back. She's really worried about what's going to happen to Emilia. She'd normally go to her nan's, but her nan's had a stroke and has had to go into a home, and her dad's no longer on the scene, so that means she's going to have to be fostered, which for a girl like poor little Emilia is really problematic.”

Tom said, “Uh?”

“She has learning difficulties,” said Mum. “And she's never been away from home before, except to stay with her nan. Her mum's in quite a state about it. So, I was wondering… how would you feel about Emilia coming to us? At least that way she'd be with people she knows. Well, she knows me, and she knows Frankie. It would really set Mrs Duffy's mind at rest. On the other hand…” Mum paused. “I have to say that your dad is a bit dubious about it, but I need to know how you three feel. Angel?”

Angel shrugged. “I guess it'd be OK. So long as I'm not expected to
do
anything. I mean, how old is she?”

“She's thirteen,” said Mum. “But she's very young for her age. More like an eight-year-old. Tom? How about you?”

Tom said, “Uh?” And then, “Yeah. Fine.”

“Frankie?”

“I think she should
definitely
come,” I said.

“There is just one thing,” said Mum. “How would you and Angel feel about sharing a bedroom?”

I don't know who was more appalled, me or Angel.

“You've got to be joking!” shrieked Angel.

“They'd end up throttling each other,” said Dad.

“I'd throttle
her
,” said Angel, casting me a venomous look. “Mum, please! I can't have her coming and messing up my bedroom!”

Mum sighed. “I thought you'd say that.”

“Well, honestly! You know what she's like.”

I might have retorted that I knew what she was like, screaming blue murder if anyone just dared to even
breathe
on any of her precious bits and pieces, but an idea had come whizzing into my brain.

“If Angel moved into my room,” I said, “me and Emilia could share hers!”

“You'd still mess things up,” snapped Angel.

“No, I wouldn't, cos you could take everything out so's I couldn't contaminate it.”

Angel said, “Huh!” Mum looked at me, doubtfully.

“Frankie, are you sure?”

“I don't mind sharing,” I said. “Just so long as it's not with
her.
”

Angel stuck up a finger. This is
such
a rude thing to do. And Mum let her get away with it! I bet she wouldn't have let me.

“Angel, could you bear to move into Frankie's room?” she said. “Just for a few weeks? I know it's asking a lot of you, but…”

We all waited. I could see the struggle going on inside Angel's head. She hated the thought of me being in possession of her room while she was banished to my humble broom cupboard, but she obviously didn't want to be thought mean or uncharitable. In the end, rather grumpily, she said, “I s'ppose I wouldn't mind.”

“That's really good of you,” said Mum. “I really appreciate that! Mrs Duffy will be so relieved.”

“Can I go now?” said Angel.

“Yes, yes! Off you go.”

Angel and Tom disappeared upstairs, Dad went off to his shed.

“So when will Emilia be coming?” I said.

“Some time in the week; Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. I won't move you into Angel's room until the last minute. But Frankie, I have to ask, are you really quite certain about this? Emilia's a sweet girl, but it's not going to be easy. She's not like an ordinary thirteen-year-old.”

“No problem,” I said. “I'll look after her. It'll be good training!” I plan to be a social worker when I leave school. Either that or an aromatherapist. At any rate, something to do with helping people. Mum knows this. “I reckon the sooner I get started,” I said, “the better.”

“Well… so long as you're sure.”

I told Mum that I was absolutely positive and went galloping back upstairs to admire my corner cabinet standing in its corner. It was a pity I wasn't going to get the benefit of it for the next few weeks, but Angel needn't think she was putting
her
stuff in there. I wasn't turning out my fossil collection just for her.