Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Introducing Beauty
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
How Well Do You Know Beauty?
Bake Bunny Cookies
About the Author
Also by Jacqueline Wilson
Copyright
About the Book
‘Beauty is a ridiculous name . . . I am SO not beautiful’
Beauty’s name sometimes feels like a curse – she’s plain and timid and is teased at school. Home isn’t much better – Beauty and her lovely mum live in fear of Dad’s fierce rages.
To cheer themselves up, Beauty and Mum bake sugary treats together. But Dad’s temper is getting out of control . . .
Will Mum and Beauty find the sweeter life they crave?
For games, competitions and more, explore www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk
To Martha Courtauld –
I love all your ideas
I TURNED ON the television. I timed it perfectly. The music was just starting. I saw the cartoon picture of Sam and Lily spinning round, Sam waving, Lily delicately nibbling a carrot. They whirled faster and faster while a voice sang, ‘Who do you want to see?’
Little children piped up: ‘Sam and Lily in the Rabbit Hutch!’
I sang it too, but very quietly, just mouthing the words. There was only Mum at home and she was out in the kitchen. She wouldn’t mind a bit if I wanted to watch a baby programme like Rabbit Hutch but I still felt embarrassed about it. Imagine if some of the really mean snooty girls at school, Skye Wortley or Emily Barrington or Arabella Clyde-Smith, came barging through our front door and caught me watching a programme for five-year-olds. They teased me enough anyway. I could hear them screaming with laughter over Beauty and her lickle bunny-wunny friend in the Rabbit Hutch.
I shut my eyes tight.
‘Hey there!’ said a soft gentle voice from the television.
I opened my eyes. There was Sam smiling at me, the real man, not the funny cartoon picture of him. I smiled back at him. I couldn’t help it. He had such a lovely funny grin. His brown eyes shone and he ducked his head a little so his soft shiny brown hair flopped across his forehead.
‘How are you doing?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I whispered.
He nodded and then looked down at Lily. He was holding her close against his chest. He needed both hands because there was a lot of Lily. Her lop ears brushed the collar of Sam’s checked shirt, while her back paws dangled past the belt of his jeans. Sam held her firmly so she felt safe. She relaxed against him, slowly blinking her blue eyes. She knew he would never ever drop her.
‘I wonder what you’ve been doing today?’ said Sam, looking at me.
‘School,’ I muttered.
‘Which one?’ Sam asked.
‘Lady Mary Mountbank. I started there last year,’ I said, sighing.
‘Is it that bad?’ said Sam sympathetically.
I considered. It wasn’t all bad. Rhona Marshall had asked me to her birthday party. She’d given my arm a special squeeze as she gave me the pink invitation card and said, ‘I do hope you can come.’
I liked Rhona a lot, even though she was best friends with Skye. Rhona never ever joined in the horrible Beauty routine. She just looked embarrassed and raised her eyebrows at me and once she whispered, ‘Take no notice.’ This was sweet of her, but how could I help noticing when they were chanting stuff right in my face.
Miss Woodhead had been kind to me too. She specially liked my Roman project. I know this sounds as if I’m showing off, but she said I was a joy to teach. She said it quietly just to me and I went bright pink I was so pleased. But one of the others heard her and by break time half the class were muttering it and then making vomit noises. Skye made such loud vomit noises she nearly made herself really sick all down her school skirt. That would have been great.
I didn’t have time to gabble all this to Sam so I just shrugged my shoulders. He’d understand.
‘Lily likes her school,’ he said. ‘But her lessons are easy-peasy. One lettuce plus one carrot plus one cabbage equals one big bunny snack! Just so she doesn’t get too fat I’ve made her a new rabbit run in the garden. Do you want to go and do your exercises, Lily?’
She nodded.
‘Shall we go and watch her?’ Sam asked.
I nodded.
Sam carried Lily outside into the garden and gently lowered her into her new run. He’d put carrots and cabbages and lettuces at the very end of the run. Lily spotted them straight away and gambolled off like a greyhound, her ears flapping.
‘Would you run like that if your mum put your tea at the end of the garden?’ Sam joked.
Mum and I often did have tea in the garden, special picnics. Sometimes we even put our coats and scarves on and wrapped rugs round us and had winter picnics.
‘You bet, Sam,’ I said.
Mum always made us magic picnics. She didn’t cook anything, she didn’t ever really cook, but she made each picnic special. She sometimes chose a colour theme, so we’d have bananas and pineapple and cheese pasties and custard tarts and lemonade, or tomato quiche and apples and plums and Kit-Kats and raspberry juice. Sometimes she’d choose a letter of the alphabet and we’d have sausages and sandwiches and strawberries and shop-bought sponge cake carefully cut by Mum into an S shape.
When I was little she’d lay places at the picnics for my dolls and teddies, or she’d let me dress up in my Disney princess dress and she’d serve everything on the best china and curtsy every time she spoke to me.
I loved loved loved my mum. Sam understood. He said the word ‘mum’ softly, knowing it was a special word.
‘I wonder if you miss your mum, Lily?’ said Sam, squatting down beside her.
Lily nibbled a lettuce leaf, not really listening.
‘Remember when you were really little, Lily, just a weeny newborn baby rabbit?’ said Sam.
He looked at me. ‘Do you know, she was only this big,’ Sam said, cupping his hands and holding them only a little way apart.
I cupped my hands too, imagining a little fluffy baby Lily quivering under my clasp.
‘Do you remember when you were just a weeny newborn baby person?’ said Sam. ‘I bet you weren’t much bigger. Do you have a photo of you when you were a little baby?’
I nodded. Mum still had that photo inside her wallet, though it had got creased and crumpled. Dad had the same picture in a silver photo frame on his big desk at work. It was so embarrassing. I was big and bald and I didn’t even have a nappy on. My belly button was all taped up and you could see my bottom.
‘I bet you looked cute then,’ said Sam, chuckling.
I didn’t smile back at him. I nibbled my lip miserably. I didn’t look remotely cute when I was a baby, but at least I was cuddly. Mum said she held me all day and half the night too she was so happy to hold me. She said she cried because she was so thrilled she’d got a little girl.
Dad cried too.
Most dads don’t cry, especially very very very fierce dads like mine. My dad actually cries a lot. He cries at films on the television, even children’s cartoon films like The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast. He cries at the news on television, when a little child is rescued in an earthquake or when a man with artificial legs runs in a race. He cries heaps whenever his favourite wins on The X-Factor or Search for a Star. He said I was his little star with that special X-factor the day I was born. He scooped the newborn baby me out of Mum’s arms and cradled me close.
‘Just what I wanted! A little girl at last,’ he crooned. ‘And such a beautiful little girl too, with those chubby cheeks and big blue eyes. Just wait till your hair grows, my darling. I bet you’ll be a little blonde like your mum. You’re going to turn into a perfect beauty.’
Then he let out such a yelp I started crying.
‘I’ll take her, Gerry,’ Mum said anxiously.
‘Beauty! Don’t you get it? That’s her name, our little sweetheart’s name! We’ll call her Beauty,’ said Dad. ‘Isn’t that a great name for her, Dilly?’
Mum promised me she thought it an awful name, but you didn’t dare argue with Dad, even in those days.
I was christened Beauty. It’s a ridiculous name. It would be a silly show-off shallow name even if I just magically happened to be beautiful. But I am so not beautiful. I don’t take after Mum, I take after Dad. I am small and squat, with a big tummy. My blue eyes turned green as gooseberries when I was still a baby, and you can’t really see them anyway because I have to wear glasses. My hair’s mouse, long and lank. Mum tries to tie it up with slides and ribbons but they always fall out. You can see why Emily and Arabella and Skye tease me so. I am a laughing stock because of my name.
I wasn’t laughing. I had silly baby tears in my eyes now, safe with Sam and Lily.
‘Hey, don’t cry,’ said Sam.
I sniffed, ashamed. ‘Not crying,’ I mumbled.
It seemed to be raining inside my glasses. I poked my finger up and tried to make it work like a windscreen wiper.
‘Why don’t you clean them on the corner of your T-shirt? Your glasses will get all smeary wiping them like that,’ Sam said softly. ‘So what are you not crying about?’
‘My silly name,’ I sniffed. ‘Beauty!’
‘I think Beauty’s the most special name in all the world.’
‘No it’s not. And it doesn’t suit me,’ I said tearfully. ‘Skye Wortley at school says I should be renamed Plug Ugly.’
‘Silly old Skye,’ said Sam. ‘I expect she’s so mean because she’s jealous of you.’
‘Oh, Sam, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say something stupid,’ I said. ‘As if someone like Skye would ever be jealous of me. Skye’s got lovely long wavy fair hair and big blue eyes – sky blue – and she’s clever and she’s great at dancing and she’s got Rhona as a best friend and – and—’
‘Well, you’ve got sand-coloured hair and great green eyes and you’re even cleverer than Skye and who cares about dancing and you’ve got Lily and me for your best friends,’ said Sam.
‘Truly? You and Lily are really my best friends?’
‘Absolutely definitely, aren’t we, Lily?’ said Sam, bending down and scratching her head. She stopped nibbling the cabbage, looked up, and nodded her head so vigorously her ears flapped forwards.
‘Well, you’re my best friends for ever ever ever,’ I whispered rapturously.
We smiled at each other, the three of us.
‘See you tomorrow, Beauty,’ Sam whispered.
Then he raised his voice.
‘Nearly time to go now. Time we were getting back to the hutch, Lily. You’ve had enough tea now. Maybe it’s time for your tea? I wonder what you’re having? Lily’s favourite tea is raw cabbage, as you can see, but somehow I don’t think raw cabbage is your favourite best-ever food. Still, maybe your pet likes it. Why don’t you send me a painting or drawing of your pet’s favourite food? Send it to Sam at the Rabbit Hutch, OK? Bye then.’ He waved, then picked up Lily and helped her waggle her paw.
‘Lily’s waving goodbye too,’ said Sam.
‘Bye, Sam! Bye, Lily!’ I said.
Rabbit Hutch faded, and the cartoon Sam and Lily whirled round and round and the voice said, ‘Who have we just seen?’
‘Sam and Lily in the Rabbit Hutch,’ I sang.
‘Sam and Lily in the Rabbit Hutch,’ Mum sang too, coming in from the kitchen. ‘Do you want a little tea-time snack, sweetheart? I’ve bought a couple of those little pink iced buns, the ones with jam inside.’
‘But Dad said I wasn’t to eat them any more,’ I said.
I’d had a pink iced bun when we were all going round the Flowerfields shopping centre. I’d bitten into it and jam spurted all down the front of my best blue frilly top. Dad had knocked my hand hard so that the bun flew out onto the floor.
‘Don’t you ever buy her that pink jammy muck again,’ he’d hissed at Mum. ‘Look, she’s ruined her best little blouse. She didn’t ought to be stuffing her face anyway, she’s getting ginormous.’
Mum had meekly promised not to buy me any more buns and had whipped me into the ladies’ toilets to sponge all the jam off. I’d cried a little bit and she’d given me a hug but begged me to cheer up because I’d make Dad worse if he saw me with a long face. I’d done my best, though I’d felt particularly mournful as the pink buns were my favourites.
‘Dad won’t know if you gobble it up now,’ said Mum. ‘Hang on half a tick.’
She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two pink buns on her best little green-leaf cake plates.
‘Here, I’ll keep you company,’ said Mum.
We both sat cross-legged on the furry white hearth rug, eating our buns.
‘Yum, yum,’ I said.
‘Yep, yummy yummy,’ said Mum.
‘I’d better not spill jam all down me again,’ I said.
‘Me too!’ said Mum, licking the icing on her bun as if it was an ice lolly.
We munched companionably.
‘M-u-m?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mum, why do you think Dad gets so …’ I couldn’t think of the right word.
‘Cross?’ Mum suggested.
Dad didn’t just get cross. It was way way way more scary. He was like a volcano. You never quite knew when he’d erupt and explode and engulf you in molten lava.
Mum wriggled forward on her bottom until her knees nearly touched mine.
‘I don’t know why he’s like that,’ she said. ‘I used to think it was just me. I know I can be a bit silly sometimes – Silly Dilly, OK? But you’re not silly, Beauty, you’re the smartest little kid ever. He’s got no reason whatsoever to yell at you the way he does. I wish I could figure out a way to stop him. I’ve tried talking to him about it but that just makes him rant even more.’
Mum looked so miserable I felt awful. I crammed the last bit of bun into my mouth and then put my arms round her.
‘Don’t worry about it, Mum. Dad’s not cross all the time,’ I said. ‘Sometimes he can be the loveliest dad in the whole world.’
Sometimes.
Very very rarely.
WE ALWAYS KNEW if Dad was going to be in a good mood because we could hear him whistling as he parked the car in the drive and walked to the front door.
He was whistling now, his silly ‘Happy Homes’ song. Mum breathed out slowly and smiled at me. I smiled back, licking my lips to make sure I hadn’t left the tiniest trace of jam.
‘Hello hello hello, my two best girls,’ Dad called, opening the front door.
‘Hello, Gerry,’ Mum called quickly.
‘Hello, Dad,’ I echoed.
We heard Dad taking his shoes off and putting them in the special rack by the doorstep. It was one of his many rules. All outdoor shoes must be left at the front door because we mustn’t risk scratching the polished parquet floor. Then he cleared his throat and started singing as he slid up the hall in his socks.
‘Happy Homes, Happy Homes
Where everyone smiles
And nobody moans—’
He skidded into the living room, grinning at us, his arms outstretched.
‘There’s a mummy’ – pointing at Mum.
‘And a daddy’ – pointing at himself.
‘And a gorgeous little girl’ – pointing at me.
‘So if we’re Happy in our Home
Then give us a twirl!’
He twirled around foolishly, his toe pivoting on the thick pile of the living room carpet.
He paused.
‘GIVE US A TWIRL!’ he shouted, wafting his hands in the air.
Mum and I stood up immediately. Even if Dad was in a very good mood like today, the slightest thing could still upset him and make him turn.
Mum twirled around, holding up her skirt prettily, pointing her toes. I twirled too. I whizzed round too fast as I was in such a hurry to get it over. I managed to trip over my own slippered feet and nearly fell headlong.
‘Whoopsie!’ said Dad, catching me. ‘Dear goodness, Beauty! You’re so clumsy! I think we’d better send you back to those dancing lessons.’
My iced bun turned a somersault inside my tummy. Dad had sent me to ballet lessons when I was six. I was the oldest in the baby class. There were some tiny girls who were only three or four. They were all much better at dancing than I was. I couldn’t do bunny hops – I simply landed with a bump on my bottom. I couldn’t skip – my arms and legs went all wonky. I couldn’t point my toes properly – they wanted to point in, not out. And I couldn’t twirl gracefully to save my life.
I stuck it out for a year, until Miss June the dancing teacher tactfully told Mum that I didn’t seem to be enjoying my dancing classes so perhaps it might be better if I tried another hobby.
‘Please don’t make me do ballet again, Dad!’ I said.
‘Don’t you want to learn to dance like a little fairy?’ said Dad.
‘Fairy elephant, more like,’ I said.
Dad chuckled and ruffled my hair. He sat down in his big leather armchair and then pulled me onto his knee. He pulled Mum onto his other knee, as if we were both his little girls.
‘Hey, Gerry darling, did you get the planning permission for the Water Meadows project?’ Mum asked.
‘I’m still working on it, but it looks very likely,’ said Dad. ‘That’s what we need, two hundred spanking new, top-of-the-range Happy Homes with river views. They’ll make our fortune, Dilly, you wait and see.’
‘You’ve already made our fortune,’ said Mum.
‘I’ve worked hard for my girls, my wife, my daughter.’ Dad paused. ‘And my ex-wives and my layabout sons.’
Mum gave me a little frown. That meant, Don’t say a word!
I was fascinated by the first Mrs Cookson and the second Mrs Cookson and my three half-brothers, Gerry Junior, Mark and Ryan. When we’d all met at Gerry Junior’s wedding and Grandma’s funeral I’d loved feeling part of a great big family. But Dad didn’t seem to like any of them any more. He especially didn’t like giving them any money, even though there seemed heaps to go round. The first two Mrs Cooksons had their own Happy Homes and now Gerry Junior and his new wife Julie had their own Happy Home too.
‘So that makes them blooming lucky,’ Dad said. ‘I didn’t have that kind of start in life. I had to make my own way.’
Dad had started off working on a building site at sixteen. He worked his way up, until he ended up buying the building firm. Then he branched out, becoming a property developer, building lots and lots of Happy Homes. There were starter Happy Homes for young couples, standard three-bedroom Happy Homes for ordinary families, and deluxe five-bedroom, two-bathroom Happy Homes for rich families.
We used to live in a deluxe Happy Home, but now we’d moved to an even bigger, fancier home specially built for us. We had six bedrooms, three bathrooms and a special wetroom and a hot tub outside. I even had my own en suite bathroom, dusty rose to match my pink bedroom, with silver dolphin taps.
Dad said I was the luckiest little girl in the world. He didn’t know of another child anywhere who had her own en suite bathroom. He kept asking me why I didn’t want to invite any of my friends from Lady Mary Mountbank for a sleepover. They could sleep in one of the twin beds with the dusty-rose silk coverlets patterned with sprigs of violets, sprawl on the pink and violet velvet cushions, comb their hair at my Venetian glass dressing table and admire every inch of my en suite bathroom.
I hadn’t invited anyone so far. It made me turn dusty rose in the face to admit it, but I didn’t really have any proper friends. I did wonder if I dared ask Rhona to tea, but that would annoy Skye and make her meaner to me than ever. Maybe Rhona wouldn’t come anyway.
I wasn’t even sure I wanted her to come myself. I’d probably feel dreadfully shy and not know what to say to her. What would we play for all those hours before bedtime? I liked reading when I was by myself but you couldn’t really read together. I liked painting but I had to do it in the kitchen with newspaper spread everywhere, long before Dad came home. I wasn’t supposed to do any painting whatsoever in case I spilled paint on the carpets.
Dad didn’t even allow felt-tip pens in case I got marks on the cream sofas. I was always very careful but Rhona was a giggly girl who never sat still. What if she flung her arm out when she was painting and accidentally spattered the wallpaper? If Dad saw he’d get into a rage whether Rhona was here or not.
I felt sick at the thought of Dad ranting in front of Rhona. I often cried because he scared me so. Perhaps he’d make Rhona cry too. Then she’d tell everyone at school. She’d definitely tell Skye because she was her best friend.
I kept pretending to Dad that I’d simply forgotten to ask anyone for a sleepover. He seemed to have forgotten himself for the last few weeks … forgotten until this very moment!
‘You still haven’t had any of your friends to stay, Beauty,’ said Dad, jogging me on his knee as if I was a little baby.
My heart started thudding. I nibbled my lip anxiously.
‘Don’t do that,’ said Dad, lightly tapping my mouth. He frowned at my teeth. ‘They’re sticking out more, Beauty. We’re definitely going to have to get you fitted out with braces.’
‘I don’t want braces,’ I mumbled.
‘You don’t want to end up looking like Bugs Bunny, do you?’ said Dad, pulling a silly rabbit face, making his own teeth protrude.
‘The dentist said to wait a year or so, darling,’ Mum said. ‘He’s not even sure Beauty really needs a brace.’
‘Nonsense! She needs perfect choppers, all girls do,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, who’s your best friend at school, Beauty?’
‘I like Rhona, but she’s Skye’s friend, not really mine,’ I said.
‘Can’t you all be friends?’ said Dad. ‘Invite them both over. What about this Saturday?’
I breathed out thankfully.
‘I can’t this Saturday, Dad. That’s when Rhona’s having her birthday party,’ I said.
‘And you’re going to this party?’
‘Well, she’s given me an invitation.’
‘Lovely. Well, we’d better get cracking organizing a party for your birthday!’
I started nibbling my lip again.
‘Stop it!’ said Dad. ‘Yes, we’ll throw a really big bumper party for your birthday for every girl in your class, all your new Lady Mary Mountbank friends.’
‘Do I really have to have a party, Dad?’ I said desperately.
‘I’m not sure about a lot of over-excited children running round the house,’ Mum said quickly. She knew how Dad fussed so about the carpet and the cream sofas.
‘We won’t have them running riot here,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll take them out somewhere swish. Leave it to me, I’ll work on it. I want my Beauty to have a really fantastic birthday.’
‘It’s ever so kind of you, Dad,’ I gabbled, though my heart was sinking.
I just had to hope he might somehow forget about it. I wasn’t sure many of the girls in my class would come, especially not Skye or Emily or Arabella. Or if they did, they’d all call me names the way they did in class.
‘What does my best girl want for her birthday present, eh?’ said Dad.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Well, think!’ said Dad. He tapped my forehead. ‘What’s going on inside that little noddle of yours, eh? I bet you’ve got some idea of what you’d really really like for a present.’
‘Well …’
‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, what is it?’
Mum leaned forward, looking tense. Dad shifted his knee, tipping her off his lap.
‘You go and make a start on tea, Dilly, I’m starving. Whack a steak under the grill. Even you can manage that.’
I tried to get up too but Dad hung onto me.
‘No, no, you stay and keep your old dad company, little Beauty. I want to get to the bottom of your birthday wishes. What are you pondering? I can tell you’ve set your heart on something.’
I wriggled, wondering whether I dared ask.
‘Come on, sweetie. No need to be shy of your old dad. What is it, eh? Have you got your eye on some outrageously expensive outfit? It’s OK, baby, I’m used to your mum. I’ll happily fork out for the junior designer doodahs of your choice – with a dinky little handbag and maybe your first pair of shoes with tiny heels, yes?’
‘Well, actually, Dad, I wasn’t really thinking about clothes.’
‘Aye aye! Something more expensive, eh? It’s OK, darling, the business is doing well. You heard me tell your mum I’m on the brink of the biggest deal yet. Do you fancy your very own little laptop? Or a personal flatscreen telly for your bedroom?’
‘No, Dad. It’s very kind of you but I truly don’t want anything like that.’
‘Then what is it? Come on, spit it out. I’ll get you anything you like, my lovely.’
‘Then please could I have a rabbit?’ I whispered.
‘What?’ Dad cupped his ear.
‘A rabbit,’ I repeated. ‘I’d really like a white one with loppy ears, but really any kind of rabbit would be …’
My voice tailed away when I saw the expression on Dad’s face.
‘Are you thick, Beauty?’ he said.
‘I – I don’t know, Dad,’ I said, not sure whether he wanted me to say yes or not. It didn’t look as if I could win whatever I said.
‘You come on like Miss Smarty Pants but I SAY YOU’RE THICK,’ said Dad, jabbing me in the back at every word.
The last jab shoved me right off his lap onto the carpet. I tried to scuttle out of Dad’s way but he caught hold of me by the wrist.
‘Don’t, Gerry!’ Mum said, darting back into the room.
‘I’m not hurting her,’ said Dad. He deliberately loosened his fingers so that they were just like a fleshy pink bangle on my arm. ‘Am I hurting you, Beauty?’
‘No, Dad,’ I said.
‘And are you thick?’ he said.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I said.
‘Yes, Dad, certainly, Dad, as thick as three short planks, Dad,’ said Dad, in a horrible high squeaky imitation of my voice.
‘Please let her go, Gerry,’ said Mum. ‘What has she done to upset you?’
‘She’s only gone and ignored one of the very basic rules of this household – this particularly luxurious house, custom-made by my own best craftsmen for our benefit. I don’t think it’s asking much to want us to take care of this lovely home. I’m not what anyone would call a finicky man, now am I?’
Mum and I didn’t dare contradict him.
‘I just like my house to be well looked after. No scratches on the parquet, no chips on the plaster, no dirty hairs or stains on the carpet. What causes scratches and chips and hairs and stains, mm, Beauty? Do you really not know the answer?’
‘Pets, Dad,’ I whispered.
‘Yes. Full marks. And what has my view on pets always been?’
‘I know I can’t have a dog or a cat, but I did think a rabbit might just be OK, because it wouldn’t be in the house, it would live in a little hutch outside.’
‘In a little hutch? Where, precisely? In the middle of my lawn? The rosebeds? The patio?’
‘No, just by a wall somewhere.’
‘Yes, that would really add to the classy atmosphere, rabbits in smelly hutches. What else would you like, pigeons in cages, ferrets scrabbling in a run?’
‘Not ferrets, Gerry, they’d eat the rabbits,’ said Mum, trying to turn it into a joke.
‘You shut your face, Dilly,’ said Dad. ‘No one’s asking you.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, Gerry, please,’ said Mum. She tried to say it firmly but I could see she was trembling.
‘I’ll talk how I please in my own house,’ said Dad. ‘Now listen to me, Beauty. I don’t mind animals on a farm or in a field. I can get very fond of a winning gee-gee at a race track. I just won’t have animals in the house – or surroundings, OK? When we were peasants in mud huts back in the bad old days, folk shared their homes with a cow and a goat and a guard dog, but we’re not peasants now and this isn’t a mud hut, this is a luxury home. Get that?’
Dad stuck his face right up close to me so that his head seemed horribly big. I could see the vein throbbing in his forehead, the blood vessels in his eyes, the hairs up his nostrils, the flecks of spit on his lips.
He looked like a story-book ogre about to eat me up. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I knew I mustn’t cry in front of him. I always looked so ugly when I cried. My eyes screwed up, my nose ran, and my mouth went square. It always made Dad madder than ever.
I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry, I said inside my head, but the tears were already spurting down my cheeks.
‘Go to your room right this minute, Beauty,’ said Mum. ‘It’s naughty of you to nag at your dad for a pet, you know the rules.’
I knew Mum wasn’t cross with me too. She was just trying to save me.
‘Yes, get upstairs, now!’ Dad thundered.
I was off like a shot. I was in such a hurry I tripped on the stairs and scraped my shins, making me cry harder. I flopped onto my rose-silk bed and hugged my old rag doll PJ. I had a shelf of big fancy china dolls in Victorian costume. They had ringlets and bonnets and parasols and long flounced dresses and tiny heeled boots. They were all collector’s dolls and very beautiful but I couldn’t play with them properly. They just stood on their shelves and stared straight through me with their spooky glass eyes.
I’d had PJ ever since I was a baby in a cot. Mum made her for me. Her eyes were crossed and her mouth was wonky and her arms and legs were uneven. I’d given her a drastic haircut when I was little which didn’t help her appearance. PJ stood for Plain Jane but I didn’t mind a bit that she wasn’t very pretty. Her mouth still smiled and she felt soft and she had her own special sweet smell. When I was little I liked to suck my thumb and nuzzle my nose against her cloth cheek. It made me feel safe.
I tried sucking my thumb now, holding PJ close. I could hear Dad shouting downstairs. Poor Mum. She was getting the worst of it now.
I wanted to run downstairs, turning rapidly into SuperBeauty, my arms pumping, legs bounding a mile a minute. I’d floor Dad, seize Mum in my arms, and with one mighty bound we’d soar through the open window, up up up, away from our Happy Home.
I CURLED UP in my bedroom, clutching PJ like a big baby. I smelled steak grilling. I didn’t like meat much – it always made me think of the poor dead animal, but my mouth watered even so.
It didn’t look as if I was going to get any tea. I sucked my thumb mournfully and then prowled round my bedroom looking for something – anything – to eat. I opened up my lunchbox. I’d finished my egg sandwiches and carrot sticks and crisps and muesli bar and apple and orange juice. I put my head right inside the plastic box, licking the crumbs. I sucked the last drop of juice from the carton and crunched up the brown apple core.
I found half a Polo mint at the bottom of my school bag and gobbled that down in a flash. The only other remotely edible object in the room was the little chocolate chicken Mum had given me at Easter. I liked it so much I said I was never going to eat it, I was going to keep it as an ornament.
That was months ago. I’d not been the slightest bit tempted up till now. I reached out, undid the yellow ribbon, and pulled the little brown chicken out of its cellophane wrapping. I held it in my hand. I made it go cluck cluck cluck in an anxious fashion.
‘It’s OK, little chicken, no need to be scared,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not going to eat you. I just want to look at you. Well, maybe I’ll have just one little weeny lick …’
I stuck out my tongue and ran it along the chicken’s glossy back. Soft milky chocolate glided over my taste buds. My mouth watered so that I drooled all over the little chicken. Then my teeth bit. I beheaded it, chomping the chocolate and swallowing it in seconds.
The chicken looked awful now its hollow innards were exposed. I ate the rest of it as quickly as I could, until the only sign the chocolate chicken had existed was the empty cellophane wrapper and the brown smears on my fingers.
I wished I hadn’t eaten it now. I’d golloped it down so rapidly I hadn’t really tasted it. It had taken the edge off my hunger but now I felt sick.
I wondered what would happen if I was sick. I’d once not made it to the bathroom in time and thrown up on the carpet and Dad had been so cross. I needed to distract myself quickly. I got out my schoolbooks and did my sums quickly, finishing all of them in twenty minutes, even though they were quite difficult problems. I started doodling in my rough book, making up my own problem.
Dad is a good man because
a) he loves us
b) he’s given us a beautiful home
c) he works very hard for us
Dad is a bad man because
a) he gets so cross
b) he orders us around
c) he’s a great big bully
So is Dad a good man or a bad man???
I had no idea how to find out the answer. I flipped over the page and started trying to draw the chocolate chicken from memory. I coloured it in with my crayons, feeling guiltier than ever. I did it very carefully, not going over my lines, even leaving little white spaces in the brown to give the illusion of glossy chocolate sheen.
I printed: Dear Sam and Lily, This is my pet chicken, neatly at the top of the page. I didn’t give her some tea. She was MY tea!
A little later Mum came into my room carrying a tray.
‘Dinner is served, madam,’ she said, making a little curtsy, pretending to be a maid. She gave me a jaunty smile but her eyes were red.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I said. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Come on, pet, eat your supper.’
She’d made me a tuna-and-sweetcorn sandwich with a few oven chips and a little tomato salad. She’d cut the crusts off the sandwich and arranged the oven chips like a flower and cut the tomatoes into zig-zag shapes, trying to make it all look special. I wanted to wolf it down appreciatively but I still felt a bit sick. Maybe it was eating all the chocolate chicken.
‘I’m not sure I can eat it all, Mum,’ I said.
‘Never mind. I’ll have a little nosh, shall I?’ said Mum. ‘Oh chips, yummy yummy.’
‘In my tummy,’ I said automatically. ‘Mum … is Dad still mad?’
‘He’s OK now. He’s just nipped out to the office to check on something.’ She paused. ‘This new Water Meadows deal means a lot to him, Beauty. Maybe that’s why he’s so … tetchy at the moment.’ Mum’s voice sounded odd, like she was reading aloud. She wasn’t looking me in the eye.
‘That’s rubbish, Mum,’ I said. I nestled up close to her. ‘I’m sorry you got shouted at when it was my fault, getting him all worked up about the rabbit. He was so angry I thought he was going to whack me one!’
‘Your dad would never ever hit you, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘You’re his little Beauty.’
She put her arms round me, knocking my glass of orange juice over. ‘Oh no! I’m so clumsy. We’ll have to change the sheets, otherwise it’ll look like you’ve wet the bed!’ said Mum, trying to joke again. Her smile was stretched so tight it looked as if her face might split in two.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I said, starting to cry.
‘There now, pet,’ said Mum, rescuing my crayons and drawing pad from my damp bed. ‘Oh, what a lovely chicken!’
‘I ate it, Mum,’ I confessed. ‘The real chocolate chicken. I ate it. It’s all gone.’
‘Even its little chocolate beak and claws?’ said Mum. ‘Well, good for you! You had to wait long enough for your tea.’
She shook her head at the picture.
‘You’re so good at art, love. Can I keep it? We could frame it and hang it up in the kitchen.’