Time for Jas (10 page)

‘I’ll help you,’ Maud promised. ‘I’m good with horses.’

Gloria laughed. Maud tooted her trumpet, a single blast that made everybody jump.

I watched their faces, all of them, all through the evening. Peter, quiet and grave. Barney lost in music. Maud like some sort of ethereal, mischievous sprite. Flora quieter than usual. Skye for once not talking about horses. Gloria half asleep. Zoran thumping away at the piano. Grandma beaming. Twig laughing, his rugby bruises fading. Pixie with Pumpkin on her lap, clapping to the music. Jas with her curls bouncing back.

I wanted to film them, but I didn’t dare, not in front of Flora’s friends. But there was something in the air tonight, something I wish I’d caught. Something unreal and bigger than us all.

It was raining this morning. Skye (who is paid) worked in the yard, and Maud kept her promise to help Gloria, but Barney and Twig stayed in bed while Flora, Peter, Jas and I drove round sodden country lanes and tramped the dripping streets of Plumpton, distributing leaflets for Gloria announcing that the Horsehill School of Riding would shortly be open for business. Afterwards we huddled …..into a café with steamed-up windows and lots of shivering, damp-looking tourists and soggy paper ghosts decorating the walls, where Flora ordered tea for everybody and asked what the plan was for Halloween.

Jas started stabbing the sugar bowl with her spoon.

‘What’s everyone going dressed as?’ Flora continued. ‘Have you got your costumes yet?’

Jas finished murdering the sugar and started shredding paper napkins as the whole Cupcake Crew story came out.

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this?’ Flora demanded again when Jas had finished.

Jas hung her head.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she demanded, glaring at me.

‘I tried to!’ I protested. ‘You were doing that stupid silent week.’

‘You put leaflets in everybody’s lockers? You wrote a poem?’

Jas mumbled that it was a good poem, and that it had taken her ages to write it. Peter laughed. Flora buried her face in her hands.

‘You told me to stand up for myself!’ Jas protested.

‘Not like that!’ Flora cried. ‘Anonymous leaflets … Jas, it’s so sneaky.’

‘The wings weren’t sneaky,’ I said. ‘The wings were brave.’

‘Yes.’ Jas had gone all droopy, and Flora’s expression softened as she looked at her. ‘The wings were brave. OK, let’s think about this. There has to be something we can do.’

She pressed her head in her hands again. We all watched and waited.

‘I’ve got it!’ Flora slapped the table, and we all jumped. ‘Jazzcakes, the wings were brave. The problem is they were also too small. They weren’t
enough of a statement. Let’s go!’

We splashed after her down Plumpton High Street.

‘Where are we going?’ I panted.

‘In here!’ Flora stopped so suddenly we all crashed into her.

‘The charity shop?’

‘It’s where Pixie bought that cloak.’

She pushed open the door and waved us all in. We stood dripping in the middle of the shop. The sales assistant looked dismayed.

‘Jazzcakes,’ Flora announced, ‘we are going to get you the best flipping Halloween outfit those girls have ever seen.’

We put on a talent show this evening. We pushed back all the furniture in the lounge and Peter rigged up poles and sheets and bedspreads as a stage, and almost everyone took turns to perform.

Zoran played the piano. He opened with ‘Frosty the Snowman’, which made everyone laugh, then played some of his old ragtime favourites like ‘The Entertainer’, then he accompanied Jas as she recited one of her poems, and Pixie doing a series of acrobatic yoga exercises. Twig did a card trick, and Skye told a joke about a greyhound, a camel and a horse (even though I told him a million times it wasn’t funny).
Barney played his fiddle and Maud played her trumpet, and Gloria sang a song in Spanish she said was all about gypsies and mountains and people murdering each other, and Isambard and Lizzie sang a duet from their favourite opera, and Grandma told a scary old Dartmoor story about a witch.

If Marek were here, I thought, out of nowhere, he would read
Of Mice and Men.

Then Flora made everybody laugh with funny dances imitating different animals like penguins and elephants and even a sloth.

‘I didn’t know Flora could dance,’ I said to Peter.

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ he said.

Peter and I were the only ones who didn’t have an act. He worked away quietly in the background all evening, changing lighting and moving furniture around so that everyone could do their turn properly, while I filmed everything. Then afterwards, while we were clearing up, he asked if I ever wanted to be in front of the camera rather than behind it.

‘It’s not my thing,’ I said, and then I started to blush, because he asked what was my thing, and I wanted to ask him if he agreed with Zoran, about film being like art and all that, but I didn’t know how without sounding totally up myself.

‘Can I see?’ Peter held his hand out to my camera, and I shook my head.

‘I don’t like showing my work,’ I said, and then we both burst out laughing, because that did sound up myself, and also because I realised as I said it how it didn’t make sense, because what’s the point of making films that no-one is going to watch?

It’s even more pointless than drawings that get washed away by the rain.

‘What sort of films do you want to make?’ Peter asked.

I have often noticed how laughing makes you not afraid any more.

‘Films that are better than real life,’ I said. I thought about what Zoran said about art, ages ago, when he was trying to help Jas with her art project. ‘Films that change people’s lives.’

Peter stacked the last sheet on top of its pile. He picked up the whole stack, but instead of leaving to take them upstairs he just stood there, staring out of the window at the night, and said, ‘One day, we’ll all make a film together. I’ll design it and that lot’ – he pointed at Flora and Maud and Barney – ‘will star, and your camera will turn the whole thing into a work of beauty.’

‘Work of beauty!’ I tried not to look too pleased.

Peter, who is a very practical person, said that if I
really wanted to make films, I should apply to do a summer course next year at the South Bank School of Film Studies.

‘I’m not good enough!’ I protested.

‘You’ll never know if you don’t try.’ He nudged me, just like Zoran does. ‘You’ll see, Blue,’ he promised. ‘One day you’ll make history.’

He’s mad of course. There is no way I am good enough, but still … My mind is going crazy, shooting off into daydreams. Mum and Dad crying at my Oscars acceptance speech … A premiere at an Imax cinema, a red carpet and me in a glittering dress and journalists all whispering, ‘Who is she?’

‘Don’t you know?’ one of them will say. ‘THAT is the famous camerawoman, Blue Gadsby.’ My life, like a fabulous Hollywood movie.

You’ll make history.
The way Peter said it, I almost believe him.

A parade. That is Flora’s plan.

Halloween is on Sunday evening. We go home on Sunday morning. Between now and then, it’s all about the costumes.

‘What about Zoran and Gloria and the stables?’ I asked.

‘Be reasonable, Blue. Do they need us?’

‘But I don’t want to be in a parade,’ Twig protested.

‘I’m supposed to be doing Halloween with the rugby team. It’s important. It’s like a bonding exercise.’

Flora said the rugby team could join us as long as they do exactly what she says, and that we all had to pull together. Even the drama students are involved.

‘Can Todd come too?’ Jas asked, and Flora cried sure, the more the merrier.

I’m a little bit worried about this whole operation.

Peter has taken over the costumes. We found lots of stuff in the charity shop, and also in Grandma’s attic. We have a tutu and a top hat, Pixie’s cloak and a short scarlet cape, a man’s tweed suit and a Victorian lady’s riding habit, a bridal veil and a gas mask, a gold-fringed shawl and a length of purple velvet.

I don’t see how this all fits together, but Flora says we are going to put on the best Halloween display Chatsworth Square has ever seen, and show those cupcake madams once and for all just how little Jas needs them.

‘That way they will leave you alone for good,’ Flora said.

‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked her this evening, as Peter measured Pumpkin up for his costume (as well as being good at sets, he is excellent with a sewing machine).

Flora asked, ‘Sure about what?’ I said it just seemed like a lot. Flora said, ‘A lot of what?’

I thought of Dodi, who has still not answered any of my messages.

‘A lot that could go wrong,’ I said.

Flora said nonsense, and we had to stand united before the cupcake girls to show them Jas could not be crushed.

‘I’m just not convinced it’s always a good idea to stand up to people,’ I said. ‘I think sometimes it can backfire.’

‘The trouble with you, Blue,’ Flora said, ‘is you lack ambition.’

‘I’m extremely ambitious!’ I protested, but as usual she didn’t listen.

It’s early in the morning, and I am writing from the train.

Flora made us leave two hours before we had planned this morning, to make sure we have plenty of time to get ready for the parade. She left even earlier than us in the car with the drama students. They are going to get ready at her friend Tamsin’s house, and meet us at five o’clock in our costumes in the mews by the church in Chatsworth Square.

‘Why don’t you get ready at home?’ Jas asked, but Flora said it was probably best if she came home later rather than sooner.

‘Because she’s supposed to be in Scotland,’ Twig said.

‘Just pretend it’s a normal Halloween,’ Flora said. ‘Carve pumpkins. Buy trick or treat stuff. Then get dressed and come and find us.’

Everyone is nervous.

I am nervous in case Dodi will be in Chatsworth Square and won’t want to talk to me, and also in case Marek sees us and thinks we are ridiculous.

Twig is nervous because Flora has persuaded him to ask the rugby team to join in the parade, and they are all coming to our house this afternoon to get ready, and he has to convince them to let him put makeup on them.

And Jas is the most nervous of all, because of the sheer scale of what Flora wants us to do.

Mum loved our costumes when we showed her them before going out, and she didn’t mind at all about the rugby boys (who were very well behaved), but she was furious about the fire, and mystified about Flora’s presence.

‘Torches!’ she cried. ‘Fiddles and trumpets and setting fire to things!’

Dad, who thought the whole thing was splendid (his word), tried to placate her by saying how creative the whole parade idea was.

‘Creative! A house nearly burned down!’

Flora said that was a bit of an exaggeration. Mum turned on her.

‘What are you even
doing
here, Flora? You say you’re on holiday, but I don’t remember seeing any mention of half-term when we looked at term dates.’

Barney, Peter and Maud started shuffling towards the door.

‘We’d better go,’ Maud said.

‘Class tomorrow,’ Barney agreed.

‘Long drive,’ Peter murmured.

Flora tried to back out of the room with them.

‘And that’s it?’ Mum cried, unreasonably. ‘You’re leaving, just like that?’

Flora turned back. In the hall outside, the others froze. For a very short moment, no-one spoke.

Then Flora said, ‘Actually, I’m not going back to Scotland,’ and Mum went nuts again.

Twig and I tiptoed out with Maud, Peter and Barney and walked them round the corner to the blue car with the red door.

‘What’s going on with Flora?’ I asked Peter, but he said that she should be the one to tell us.

‘So long, camera girl.’ He pulled me into an enormous hug. ‘I’m looking forward to that film we’re going to make together one day.’

‘Me too,’ I said, and then they were gone.

As we turned for home, a group of zombie rugby players ran past us, still tossing the silver ball back and forth across the street.

‘Do you want to join them?’ I asked Twig, but he shook his head.

‘I dropped the ball,’ he whispered. ‘When Tom threw it to me. Did you see?’

I wasn’t sure what to say, because obviously I did see – I even caught it on film.

‘Anyone would have dropped it,’ I said, but Twig just sighed and looked depressed.

When we got back Jas and Pixie were sitting on the landing in their dressing gowns, with most but
not all their makeup scrubbed off, listening to Mum and Dad and Flora shout at each other in the living room.

‘Flora has come back to do Angel’s play,’ Jas whispered to us. ‘She’s been doing rehearsals by Skype.’

‘Is that even possible?’

‘That’s what Dad asked, but Flora says yes. The play opens in two weeks, and after it’s finished Flora says she’s going to stay.’

Downstairs, the noise was getting worse.

‘We have paid for a whole year of tuition!’ Mum cried. ‘You begged and begged and said this was what you wanted!’

‘I’m sorry!’ Flora didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘I’ll pay you back!’

‘WITH WHAT MONEY?’

‘The money I make from the play!’

Mum started to laugh like a crazy person.

‘Cassie.’ Dad’s voice was unusually firm. ‘Let her do this. Then we can talk about what she wants to do next.’

‘This is what I want,’ Flora said. ‘The real thing. Not tongue massages and breathing exercises. Proper acting.’

Jas shivered and sneezed. Pixie stood up and
pulled her to her feet. ‘A hot bath,’ Pixie said. ‘I have some herbs you can put in it to stop you getting a cold.’

Twig and I followed. There seemed no point in staying. No-one can ever get in Flora’s way when she’s made her mind up about something.

Later, when things had calmed down and we’d had dinner and done some of the homework we should have done in the holidays, and Flora was happy again because Mum and Dad agreed to let her do the play, I went in to see Jas.

Her eyes were red and her nose was running, and she kept either blowing it or sniffing.

‘I’ve got a cold,’ she said. ‘Pixie’s herbs didn’t work.’

I pretended to believe her.

‘The parade was great,’ I said, but I was lying too, and she knew it.

Afterwards, when Jas had gone to bed, I went through my film of Halloween. There were Flora and Jas and all the others, splendid in their costumes, and there was Mrs Doriot-Buffet and the rugby team and Prince Charming and his violin, and the door to the gardens with the ivy and pixies and robin, but however hard I looked, I couldn’t find a single sign of Marek Valenta. I zoomed in on the fire, but
instead of looking at the burning hedge, focused on his house next door.

There were no decorations outside, and only one light, right on the top floor.

Was it his?

Oh God … if the fire had been worse, Flora could have set fire to his house!

My phone pinged. A message from Dodi, with a photograph. Her and me and Iris, eight years old, dressed up as ghosts for Halloween with sheets over our heads with cauldron-shaped trick or treat bags.

The message just said, ‘Meet me before school?’

It didn’t say where, but I already knew.

There is only one place.

‘Eight o’clock,’ I replied.

Dodi wrote, ‘I’ll bring snacks.’

The place is the bit in the park where nobody is allowed to go, where the gardeners keep their tools and machinery.

It is the place we always used to come with Iris, when there were important things to say.

The place where she was going on the night she
was hit by a van, on her way to rescue some baby foxes born at the wrong time of year.

We haven’t been back there since she died four years ago. I wasn’t even sure you could still get in. The hole in the fence we used to squeeze through when we were children has been blocked off, but we’re bigger now, and when I got there this morning I realised how easy it was to climb over.

Dodi was already there, wiping dirt off her jeans. As I jumped down beside her, she held up a packet of Bourbon biscuits and two cartons of Ribena.