Читать книгу Family Fan Club - Jean Ure, Stephen Lee, Jean Ure - Страница 5

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” sighed Jasmine, stretched out on the rug.

“What?” Laurel’s head shot up from the magazine she was looking at. “What are you talking about?”

“Christmas,” said Jazz. “Without any presents.” She sighed again, rather more dramatically this time.

“N-no presents?” Daisy’s lip quivered. “No presents at all?”

Solemnly, Jazz shook her head.

“Who said?” demanded Laurel.

“Nobody said.” That was Rose, just a tiny bit scornful. How easily people allowed themselves to be taken in! “She’s winding you up.”

“You mean we will have presents?” said Daisy, hopefully.

“’Course we will!” Jazz rocked herself into a sitting position. “Got you going, didn’t I?”

Daisy was still looking bewildered.

“Oh!” Laurel’s face cleared. “It’s from Mum’s play!”

“Opening line! Little Women … ‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents’. I thought everybody knew that,” said Jazz. But she and Rose were the only two who really read books, and Rose’s were usually big fat learned volumes all about history. Rose was what Jazz privately thought of as “eleven-going-on-a-hundred". Took life just so-o-o-o seriously. Thought novels were a frivolous waste of time.

Laurel was the opposite. She only read film and fashion mags. As for Daisy – well! A smile curved Jazz’s lips. It would be kindest to say that Daisy struggled. Tries hard was what the teachers always wrote on Daisy’s school reports.

“You are all so ignorant,” said Jazz.

“I knew it was the opening line,” said Laurel. “I remembered it from the film.”

“You ought to read the book. The book is far better.”

Laurel pulled a face. “The book’s old-fashioned.”

“So?”

“So I like things that are new!”

“No soul,” grumbled Jazz. “I suppose you’ll say Mum’s play isn’t as good as the film.”

“No, I won’t, ’cos Mum’s in it and it wouldn’t be kind.”

Mum was playing the part of Marmee. She had been rehearsing all through December, ready for opening on Boxing Day. Of course they were all going to see it, even though it was “way out in the sticks", as Jazz called anywhere that wasn’t London.

“If it had been in the West End,” mourned Laurel, “she’d be making a fortune.”

“Not a fortune,” said Jazz. “You never get a fortune, working in theatre. You have to do films and telly for that.”

Their mum had been on telly, once. She had been in a soap called Icing on the Cake, all about a woman who ran a business making wedding cakes. Mum hadn’t been the actual woman, but she’d been the woman’s best friend. It had run for four years and Mum had been famous. Well, quite famous. Famous enough to be recognised in the street and for people to come clamouring for her autograph.

For the first time that any of them could remember there had been money in the Jones household. No more scraping and pinching and worrying about how to pay the bills. No more searching for clothes in the local Oxfam shops. No more hand-me-downs or cast-offs. Instead, it had been meals out and shopping in Marks & Spencer and FUN. They had even moved from their dark dingy flat in Dartford (out in the sticks) to a real house in London. It was admittedly only just in London. South London. But it was on the tube, said Jazz, and so it counted.

Icing on the Cake had been axed at Easter and now the money was starting to run out.

“We’re going to be poor again,” wailed Laurel, who was the eldest and could remember very clearly what it had been like before Mum was on the telly. Laurel really hated being poor. Jazz declared bravely that there were other things in life besides money, and Daisy was an undemanding little creature. So long as she had her cats, she was happy. Rose just muttered about the evils of isms – sexism, racism, classism – and made everybody groan. They always groaned when Rose started on what Jazz called her spouting.

“I hate it when you can’t have the things you want,” said Laurel. She meant clothes. Laurel loved to look smart and wear the latest gear. “If only Mum could get on telly again!”

Little Women was the first real job that Mum had had since Icing. They had held a conference, the five of them, to discuss whether she should accept it.

“It’ll mean me being out in the evenings,” warned Mum. “But we do need the money and Marmee is a good part.”

“When I was little,” said Jazz, “I used to wonder what Marmee meant!” She giggled.

“What does it mean?” said Daisy.

Laurel said kindly, “It’s the American way of saying Mummy.”

“They say mommy” explained Jazz. “Only it comes out” – she adopted an exaggerated American drawl – “as marmee.”

Daisy nodded and went back to grooming Tinkerbell, their white cat. Tink was big and fluffy and Daisy spent many contented hours combing out the knots with his special cat comb. None of the others had the patience.

“I need a whole new wardrobe,” said Laurel. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in half the stuff I’ve got!”

“Yes, and I want acting classes and Daisy wants another kitten and Rose – well, I don’t know what Rose wants.”

“Nothing.” Rose said it grandly. “I don’t want anything.”

“Just as well, since you probably won’t get anything.”

“You mean we’re really not having any presents?” Daisy’s face crumpled. “Not even stocking fillers?”

“Oh! Well. Yes. I expect we can run to those. But nothing big.”

“A kitten isn’t big.”

“Kittens cost money.”

“No! I know someone whose cat’s just had a litter! They’re giving them away free.”

“Honestly!” Laurel shook her head. “You’ve already got Tink and Muffy! What do you want another one for?”

“I just love them so,” said Daisy.

Rose said, “She needs something to cuddle.”

“Cats are very cuddly,” agreed Jazz. “Especially that great fat lump of a Tinkerbell.”

“I’d sooner have Dad!”

The words seemed to come bursting out of Daisy before she could stop them. There was a silence.

“I thought we’d agreed,” said Jazz, “that we wouldn’t talk about Dad.”

“I can’t help it!” sobbed Daisy. “I miss him! I want him!”

“We all miss him,” said Laurel. But it was true that Daisy had been Dad’s girl. He had always had a specially soft spot for his little Daisy.

“Maybe he’ll come home for Christmas,” suggested Rose.

“Well, he won’t,” said Jazz, “’cos I asked Mum and she said it was all over between them and we’d got to get used to the idea.”

“That needn’t stop him coming back for Christmas.” Rose could be stubborn. She also enjoyed arguing. “He doesn’t have to stay with us.”

“No, but I don’t expect he could afford the air fare.” Laurel said it sombrely. “It costs a bomb.”

Dad had been in the States for almost six months, now, looking for acting work. So far he’d only found what Jazz called bit parts. Bread-and-butter parts. Spits-and-coughs. Last time he’d rung he’d told them proudly that he was going to be in a Mel Gibson movie – “But it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-me kind of thing. Know what I mean?”

“It’s so unfair!” cried Jazz. “Dad’s a really brilliant actor!”

“There probably aren’t that many parts for English actors in the States,” said Laurel, sadly.

“Specially not black English actors.” said Rose. Who else?

“Oh, don’t start on politics!” Jazz turned on her, crossly.

“It’s not politics,” said Rose. “It’s a fact of life. It’s why he couldn’t get work over here. ’cos they don’t use black actors.”

Jazz opened her mouth to argue — and then closed it again. If she said, “They do,” then it would be like saying Dad just wasn’t good enough. But he was good! Even Mum said so, and Mum wasn’t on speaking terms with him at the moment.

On the other hand, if she agreed with Rose … Jazz bit her lip. That would mean there wasn’t going to be much of a chance for her when she grew up. Jazz couldn’t accept that. She was going to be an actress, she was going to be a success, she was going to be a STAR.

“They do use some,” she muttered.

“Oh! Some. Just a few. Just as tokens.”

“Not always!”

“So when did Dad ever get a real part? I mean a real part? You tell me!” said Rose.

“Look, you two, just give it a rest!” begged Laurel. “It’s incredibly boring when you go at it like that. I get sick to death of all this political correctness stuff.”

“It’s not p—”

“Oh, stop it! Just stop it!” Laurel clapped her hands to her ears. “If you don’t stop I shall scream!”

There was a pause.

“Know what I think?” said Rose.

Jazz rolled her eyes. “No, but go on! Tell us.”

She would have done, anyway. There was no stopping Rose when she got on her soap box.

“I think Mum and Dad should never have got married. I think it was doomed to failure from the word go. That’s what I think.”

Jazz stared at her, aghast. “Now you’re being racist!”

“I’m not being racist! All I—”

“You are! You sound just like Nan! She’s always going on about mixed marriages.”

“’Tisn’t what I meant,” said Rose.

“So what did you mean?”

“If you’d just let me talk, instead of jumping down my throat all the time, you wouldn’t have to ask. What I meant,” said Rose, “was that Mum being an actress and Dad being an actor was just a fatal combination. They almost never stay together, actors and actresses.”

Jazz fell silent. She couldn’t think of any argument against that.

“I suppose it wouldn’t have been quite so bad,” said Laurel, “if Dad had been the one to get into a soap.”

Jazz whipped round. “Why not?”

“Well—” Laurel hunched a shoulder. “Women don’t seem to mind so much. Men don’t like it when their wives get famous and make a lot of money. Something to do with male pride,” she said.

“Especially when Nan kept going on,” agreed Rose.

“But Mum never did!”

“I don’t see why they had to fall out about it,” muttered Jazz.

“People always fall out when they’re married. I’m going to stay single,” said Rose.

Jazz resisted the temptation to inform her sister that she probably wouldn’t have much choice in the matter, because what man would ever want to marry her with that mouth? Daisy was rocking to and fro with Tink cradled in her arms, and her face was puckered in distress. Mum and Dad breaking up had been harder for Daisy than for anyone. Part of the reason they had agreed not to talk about Dad was that it always ended in tears.

“This will be the first Christmas we’ve ever had without him.” Daisy whispered the words into Tinkerbell’s fur.

Rose frowned and turned away. Jazz and Laurel exchanged glances. They had promised Mum that if she accepted the part of Marmee, they would take care of Daisy. Mum was worried about Daisy. When Dad had left, she had wept almost non-stop for a week. Even now, if she got too wound up she was capable of crying herself into a state of exhaustion. Daisy wasn’t as robust as the others. They all missed Dad, of course they did! But life had to go on.

“Just remember,” said Jazz, bracingly, “it’ll be far worse for Dad than it is for us … we’re at home and we’ve got each other. He’s all by himself in a foreign country.”

“Jazz!” Laurel kicked hard at her sister’s ankle. Trust Jazz! Trying to be helpful and simply being tactless. As usual. If anyone could put their foot in it, Jasmine could.

Jazz seemed suddenly to realise what she had done. Hastily, putting her other foot in it, she said, “Well, no, actually, come to think of it, Dad will probably have a ball! I bet he’ll be going to all the Hollywood gigs and meeting all the big stars … Mel. Al. Leonardo.”

“Leonardo!” Laurel went into a mock swoon. Leonardo DiCaprio was the current love of her life.

“Imagine Dad getting to meet all those famous people!” enthused Jazz. “He probably won’t miss us at all!”

Rose threw up her hands. Laurel said, “Of course he’ll miss us! And he’ll miss Daisy more than anyone. But he’ll try not to be sad, because people shouldn’t be sad at Christmas, and he won’t want us to be sad, either. And he’ll call us Christmas Day, like he promised, and Daisy can have first talk.”

“And last one, too,” said Rose.

“And last one, too. So you’d just better start thinking of things to say to him!”

“Make notes, I would,” said Rose. “In case you forget.”

Daisy liked that idea. She scrubbed at her eyes.

“I will!” she said. She scrambled to her feet, still hugging Tinkerbell. “I’ll start thinking straight away!”

As Daisy left the room, Laurel looked at Jazz and tapped a finger to her forehead. “Dumbo!”

She meant Jazz, not Daisy, but Jazz’s thoughts were already elsewhere. They never stayed still for very long.

“Hey! Know what?”

“What?”

“I just thought of something!” Jazz sprang up, excitedly. “Something we could do … we could copy some of the pages from Mum’s script and act out a scene for her on Christmas Day!”

There was a silence.

“What for?” said Rose.

“For fun!”

“I wouldn’t think it was fun,” said Rose.

“Yes, you would, you’d enjoy it! Once you got started.”

“Don’t want to get started.”

“Oh, don’t be such a gloom!” Jazz took a flying leap on to the sofa and sat there, hugging her knees to her chin and rocking to and fro. “Think of Mum! She’d love it! You know she’s always saying the things she likes best are the ones we’ve really worked at, like when we make our own cards.”

“So we’ll make our own cards,” said Rose.

“We’ll make our own cards and act out a scene. It will be like a present from us all.”

Rose pulled a face. Laurel shook her head. There wasn’t any arguing with Jazz once an idea had taken hold of her. She bounced up off the sofa.

“I’ll go and start copying right now!”

“Can’t,” said Rose. “Mum’s got the script with her.”

“Then I shall make up my own one, from the book!”

“How are you going to copy it?” yelled Laurel, as Jazz scudded through the door. “Nobody can read your rotten writing!”

Jazz stuck her head back in again. “Not going to write! Going to use the typewriter.”

“That old thing!” said Rose.

They had discovered the typewriter up in the attic, when they had moved in. It was very ancient. It had strange old-fashioned metal keys that rattled, and which you had to bash really hard, and an inky ribbon made of cotton that kept winding itself back every time it reached the end of the spool. To make copies you had to use carbon paper, which was messy, especially if you had to correct mistakes. Even messier if you put the carbon paper in the wrong way round.

“It’s ridiculous,” said Rose. “Why can’t we have a computer?”

Jazz’s head, which had disappeared, popped back in again.

“’cos we can’t afford one!”

“It’s like living in a cave,” grumbled Rose. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even got a television!”

Of all of them, Rose was the only one who was technologically minded. It was Rose who discovered how to use the video and Rose who learnt all the programmes on the washing machine. Mum was useless, and Dad hadn’t been much better. Imagine having a dad who didn’t know how to work the video!

Imagine having a dad. Jazz blinked, rapidly, as the tears came to her eyes. Sometimes even now, when she thought about Dad, great waves of misery would wash over her. They had all tried so hard to be brave about it, when the Great Row had happened and Dad had gone storming out. They had heard it from the upstairs landing. One by one, first Jazz, then Laurel, then Rose and Daisy, clutching Tink in her arms for comfort, had come creeping from their rooms and crouched, tense and shivering, at the head of the stairs.

It wasn’t the first time Mum and Dad had shouted at each other. Jazz had always tried explaining it to herself by saying, “Well, they’re actors. Actors are like that. They enjoy making a noise.” But this time she had known, they had all known, that this was the big one. The Great Row.

It was about money, as usual. Before Mum had got into Icing they had rowed about the fact that they hadn’t got any. They had rowed about whether they should both continue to pay their Equity fees and their fees to Spotlight, the actors’ casting directory, or whether only one of them should. They had rowed about whether one of them should give up acting and do something else. Get a proper job. They had rowed because Mum had got her hair done for an audition and Dad had said it was a waste of money, and because Dad had a new publicity photograph taken and Mum had said it wasn’t necessary.

They had rowed because they were worried. Because they couldn’t afford to pay the bills or find a decent place for the family to live.

And then Mum had got into Icing and the money had come rolling in and they still had rows. Still about money. Mum had wanted to do one thing with it, Dad had wanted to do another. And instead of talking it out calmly and sensibly, they had ended up yelling. One time Mum had yelled, “Who’s earning this money, I’d like to know?”

Jazz had thought that was very unfair. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he couldn’t find work; it certainly wasn’t for want of trying.

But then another time Dad had accused Mum of behaving like a prima donna, “Just because you’re in some second-rate soap!” And that wasn’t fair, either. Fame had never gone to Mum’s head; she’d still been the same old Mum.

But perhaps, looking back on it, thought Jazz, Mum hadn’t been as kind to Dad as she might have been. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seeing Mum become a household name while he was still just an out of work actor.

On the other hand, Dad could have tried a little bit harder to be happy for Mum and not to show that he was feeling hard done by.

Maybe Rose was right, thought Jazz, sadly, as she toiled up the attic stairs, clutching Mum’s old childhood copy of Little Women. Maybe actors and actresses oughtn’t to get married to each other.

When I am an actress, she thought, I shall marry someone boring and sensible who works in an office and earns money and won’t be jealous when I am rich and famous. We won’t yell and shout and upset our children by storming out and saying good riddance. (Which was what Mum had screamed when Dad had gone.) We shall stay together always and be a proper family.

By the time she reached the attic, Jazz had difficulty seeing through her tears. She brushed them away, angrily. Jazz didn’t like crying, not even when she was on her own. She certainly wouldn’t do it in front of people. She was the strong one of the family.

But never mind Christmas not being Christmas without any presents, she thought. How could Christmas be Christmas without any dad?