A Midsummer Tight's Dream (6 page)

Ruby said quietly, “Oh, bloody hell, it’s the other Bottomly sisters, Chastity, Diligence, and Ecclesiastica.”

I started to laugh.

“Ecclesiastica? Does she get called Eccles for short?”

Ruby said, “No. Dun’t start, they’re Bible names and they don’t think it’s funny. The Bottomlys dun’t think owt is funny, except fighting. In between bus driving, their mam does cage fighting in Leeds.”

Chas, Dil, and Eccles, as I called them (quietly in my brain), were looking at us and then they lit up fags.

I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “Are they going to get their pipes out next?”

One of them shouted across, “What are you stuckup madams looking at?”

Oh dear.

Ruby said, “That’s Ecclesiastica. You’re lucky she’s in a good mood.”

Mr. Barraclough came out of The Blind Pig and said to Ruby, “Rubes, say night-night to the thespians, it’s school tomorrow.”

The Bottomly sisters started laughing and going, “Oooooohhh, it’s SCHOOL t’morra. Say night-night.”

Mr. Barraclough glanced at the Bottomly sisters and said, “Hello, ladies.” Then he turned to go off into the pub.

Ecclesiastica drew on her fag and said, “Ay up, Grandad.”

Ruby sat down and said, “Oh, well, that’s done it.”

There was a bit of a quiet moment, then Mr. Barraclough turned around and said to Ecclesiastica, “Is my wall comfortable enough for your enormous arse, dear? Or is it time you took it somewhere else?” And the other two sisters sniggered. Eccles went a sort of dull red color but she didn’t move—she just kept looking at Mr. Barraclough.

He said, “Well, I’ve tried to be nice, but I can see I will have to go the whole hog.”

Ruby said, “Dad. Not the …”

He looked at her sorrowfully. “I’m as sorry as you are, Ruby, but it has to be done.”

Ted went into the pub and came back a moment later with his Viking helmet on and a photograph. He came and showed it to us. It was the picture of him with a gun standing on a pile of pies. Underneath it said,
Ted Barraclough, champion pie eater. 22 steak and kidney, 4 pork
.

Then he walked across and showed it to the Bottomly sisters, and said to them, “Have some respect, girls. Thy father only ate ten pies and then had to go and have a bit of a lie down, so bog off somewhere else.”

The Bottomly sisters looked at him and then they got up and sloped off.

Ted went back into the pub singing, “I am the king of hellfire!!! PIES, I’m gonna teach you to burn. PIES, I’m gonna teach you to learn!!”

I went to bed happy after seeing the Tree Sisters. But I gave my nose a good scrub in case any of Cain’s molecules had got into it. And besides, I am sleeping on Alex’s letter and don’t want to besmirch it.

I
WOKE UP EARLY
the next day partly because I’m excited about starting college but also because it was like sleeping in a zoo.

Birds had been tweeting and carrying on in the trees outside my window practically since I’d gone to bed. How can anyone sleep in the country? I think some of the birds have got secret mouth organs. And drums. Like a really bad band rehearsing. A band of birds singing with no tune. Like those people in bygone days who wore black polo-necks and played jazz that had no tune. Beatniks they were called. I think my dad was one. Hey, perhaps the birds are … beakniks!!!

Not beatniks but BEAK-niks.

I must write that down in my notebook because one day it may be comedy gold.

Especially if I do a bird opera.

Which I might. Following on from the triumph of my bicycle ballet.

I could call it
Feather
!

Or maybe
Saturday Night Feather
!

We Will Flock You
!

Grouse
!

Pheasant of the Opera
.

Right, so this is the official start to my performing-arts notebook.

I need a name for my secret notebook.

What shall I call it?

What does the book suggest? I looked at the cover. Plums, dark …

Dark, fruit … unanswered questions … questions that need answering.

Something like …

The Darkly Demanding Damson Diary.

That’s me, that is.

It’s going to be my spontaneous stream of consciousness. Here goes …

I’ll start a new page after the Labradad entry. I may need to add drawings, and so on, of the Labradad. So I’ll start a new blank page and begin. Right, I’m just going to go mad and improvise. I’m going to let myself go and not censor myself at all. Let my pen flow over the pages.

Oh, hang on, I’ll just get a pen that has a thicker point.

Hmmmm, good, good. Nice thick pen. Right.

Now, my stream of consciousness begins … No, no, my feet are all wrong. No one can improvise with squirrel slippers on. I’ll put my ballet shoes on for inspiration. Yes, good, good. Ballet shoes, good. And … oh, crikey, now I’ve got the squirrel slipper’s tail sticking in my bottom … I’ll just … anyway, off we jolly well go …

Aaaah, once again I can smell the crowd and hear the roar of the greasepaint. This is where I belong. I want to go to the tippy top of the toppermost. I know that Sidone Beaver has said that we will pay the price of fame.

She said, “Your feet will bleed before you wear the golden slippers of applause.”

I am ready. I am girding my feet and my loins to suffer what I have to for my art. Here in the wilds of Yorkshire I feel the spirit of Charlotte Brontë filling my snug winter tights. And in my heart I hold the letter from Alex. And so my Winter of Love begins with his letter.

Performance note:

When I say I am holding the letter from Alex with my heart, I don’t mean this in a weird way.

I know that hearts can’t hold letters really.

Although I could make a papier-mâché heart with little arms.

I hid the diary under my pillow with Alex’s letter in the back of it. I will start my letter to him tonight.

When I went down the wooden stairs to the kitchen, Dobbins was trying to dress the lunatic twins for school. Max looked at me and smiled his sock animal smile.

He looks even more not normal.

Oh, I see. He’s got goggles on. And a swimming hat. Cripes, it’s scary. Goggle Boy came for his morning knee hug.

“Ug oo, Lullah. I’s a wimmen.”

What? He’s a woman now? Overnight?

I managed to escape with minimal hugging. Dibdobs was red-faced and breathless.

“Hello, Tallulah dear, there’s a boiley egg for you, but I … Will you take the goggles off, Sam dear, I can’t get your beret on.”

Sam biffed her with his snorkel and knocked her glasses sideways.

“NO, LADY. I’s a WIMMEN too!!!!!”

Dibdobs was trying to put a beret over the top of his swimming hat.

You can’t say she doesn’t try.

Dibdobs said, “It’s not swimming till this afternoon.”

Max said, “Shhhh, lady.”

They were wearing snorkels and berets when they left. They’ll never make any normal friends.

Five minutes later, I was staggering through the village to the path that leads to Dother Hall. For once it isn’t snowing or raining but there is a gale force wind blowing. Ruby yelled across at me from The Blind Pig, “Ay, come and say good-bye to Matilda, she wants to show you summat.”

When I struggled over to the shelter of Ruby’s front door, Matilda went dogtastic.

Leaping up at me.

She has her ballet tutu on! It really suits her. And I notice she is wearing a little satchel on top of it.

Ruby said, “She’s got her playtime snacks in it.”

I said to Matilda, “Have you got your doggie treats in there? Have you got your ickle doggie bickies in there, have you?” She nuzzled me with her snout. Aaaah. I don’t normally like animals nuzzling me, but she is so cute.

Then Ruby said, “Yep, she’s got her snack hoofs.”

“Hoofs?”

Ruby was going off down the path toward Blubberhouse. “Dad gets them from the farm when they slaughter a cow. He has the cow heels and Matilda has the cow hoofs.”

This is not the kind of talk that a creative artiste listens to.

Especially one who has had her face licked by a hoof eater (Matilda).

And an animal in trousers (Cain).

Two face-lickings in as many days.

I was halfway to college in about ten minutes because the wind was behind me. As I passed by the sign that read
Woolfe Academy for Boys
(at about twenty miles an hour), I couldn’t help thinking about Charlie again.

What was it going to be like when we bumped into each other?

I wish I could say he was a rubbish kisser.

Like bat boy.

But he wasn’t. It was softy and made my legs feel a bit droopy and … it was the best kiss I’ve ever had. Well, in fact, it was the second kiss I’ve ever had. For all I know it might have been a Number 4 on Georgia’s snogging scale, “a kiss lasting over three minutes without a break.” I will never know though, because I didn’t have a watch.

Anyway, I’m not going to ever think about it again. About how he kissed me, and then said this is wrong, I’ve got a girlfriend.

And another thing, has nose-licking even happened to anyone else? There is no mention of it in
Jane Eyre
, is there? Even when Mr. Rochester is blinded, he doesn’t go for Jane’s nose.

I might have to write to Cousin Georgia, like an agony snogging aunt, and ask her advice about nose-licking.

I still can’t believe he did that.

Cain Hinchcliff.

Perhaps he’s one of Fang’s adopted children. Only he’s half-dog, half–complete moron. Only.

There is a poster on the village hall to say that his band, The Jones, is playing on Saturday night.

Ruby said that she doesn’t think they will play, though, because of the big fight they had when Cain got off with Ruben’s girlfriend. She thinks they have split up again.

They are like wild animals. The whole family, Seth, Ruben, Cain. They are all bad.

Not good.

Not like Alex. He wouldn’t lick someone’s nose.

Or destroy an outdoor lavatory.

He’s not a nose-licking, lavatory-destroying sort of guy.

He is a dreamy sort of guy.

And good.

Then I rounded the corner and there it was, just as I remembered, Dother Hall. The rambling manor house with its turrets and its mullioned windows. Its magnificent Gothic chimneys towering into the wind-tossed sky. Blaise Fox took me up there and told me I could be Heathcliff. She said I had a “special quality” and …

Hang on a minute!

A spooky figure was staggering about up there on the roof. Dancing? A mad person dancing on the roof. Like a scene from
Jane Eyre
. Could it be the ghost of mad Mrs. Rochester?

I had a strange sense of déjà vu.

As I got closer, I could see that it wasn’t Mrs. Rochester. It was Bob the technician.

Up on the roof. Like he was the first time I turned up at Dother Hall.

In fact it wasn’t déjà vu.

It was déjà Bob.

What was going on? He seemed to be fighting a black parachute. On the roof. I don’t think gale force conditions are a time to go parachuting.

I pushed the heavy front door open and went into the front hall, which was a tumbling mass of hysterical girls. The noise level was a million decibels. Gudrun Sachs, Sidone’s assistant, looked even madder than I remember. She was in dungarees and had her clipboard out. She was shouting, “Girls, girls, calm down, let’s have some quiet while I take the register.”