Something totally weird was happening. Me and Andy were sharing a sort of moment, clutching our sides with laugher and not caring that we weren’t exactly the closest of chums.
“You lezzer!” bawled Asta. “How did you write that backwards? Omigod, Courtney’s got lesbian powers!
“Call me a lez? You fell asleep on me! Your head’s all blue and if I find any of that wiped on my jacket I’ll smear you!”
“Harley!” Rachel snapped, slapping me on the head from behind so hard that it smarted. “I said, do you have a hairbrush?”
“It’s in my bag.”
“O-K!” shouted Winterbum, who had regained her puff-chested “composure”. “We’re just pulling into the campsite now. Pick up all your rubbish and hand luggage, and get ready to disembark!”
Once off the coach, it occurred to me that we were onto a problem. The educationalists had asked us to organise groups to share a tent with. Charlie, Andy and Jordy had nabbed a three-man months ago, but not wanting to waste anyone’s time, I’d gone ahead and let Devon, Rachel and Dani organise themselves before I found out if I’d be able to come.
“Sophie Baxter, Court-ney Fish…yet, As-ta Price, Lauren Tomp-kin-son!” Winterbum struggled to read from a probably handwritten sheet. She’d taken register for our PE group two years straight and still didn’t seem to be able to predict which surname came after which name.
“It’s Fitchett!” protested Courtney.
“This tent will be yours,” announced Mr Ball, grabbing the first off the four-man heap and thrusting it at them.
“Andrew Godfrey, Cha-zeer Hartley and Jordan Johnson!”
She pronounced Charlie’s name like “severe” – not that I could blame anyone for feeling that way about him on this particular occasion.
“First pitch up from the male staff cabin!” ordered Ballsy.
“Norma Dawson, Carrie Hancock, Kirsty Smith, Ella White!” Windybum picked up the pace, as if urgently sorting teenagers into categories was her favourite pastime. “Luke Baker, Sean Brown, Gavin Horton! Krystal Davies, Tiffany King, Chelsea Turner! Matthew James, Matthew Johnson, Michael Johnstone! Kaylean Cox, Danielle Dimon, Rachel Howell!”
I stood awkwardly as the three of them collected their tent even more awkwardly. I knew how it worked – the stragglers had to straggle right up until everyone else had been called, otherwise how would the stragglers know they weren’t getting called? And the worst part – I may have been at the school for three years now, but I didn’t know most of the group. Who was going to be left over? Eek!
“James Clarke, Tommy Harris, Ryan Taylor, Scott Walker! Tansy Jackson, Emmy-Leigh Martin [audible ugh], Jessica Palmer, Mad-lyn Wood!”
Nobody.
I felt quietly angry that Miss Winterbottom had sneered at so many of our names. What must she be like teaching certain classes in our school? I wondered, considering that this was just the people who could somewhat afford a trip. For sure, she would’ve been arsey about mine if she’d had the chance to call it.
“Excuse me,” I said, nervously, after the last of the group had dispersed. “I wasn’t called.”
“Mahala Hartley,” she sniffed.
Miss Windyknickers… I seethed inside.
“Are you sure you’re paid up for the trip?”
“Yes,” I managed. “And so’s Charlie.”
“So which group are you supposed to be with?”
“I… don’t mind,” I stuttered, although my toes crossed tight for it not to be Asta.
“The only group with a space is Rachel’s,” she told me, after a scan of the list. “And that’s only if they switch to a four-man tent.”
I was about to protest, certain that Devon and Rach would be all the worse for the effort of taking down the tent and pitching another, when I realised that – screw them! – the more space we could get between us, the better.
“I’ll run and tell them,” I offered, with no intention of running, desperate to get away from her breath. For the benefit of Prying Aussies, I’m going to describe Balls and Windy: Balls is short and stocky, claims to be Scottish, and according to Mr Wordsworth, started shaving his head back in the nineties so we can only vaguely tell how old he is. Windy bleaches her thin, layered hair widdle yellow, and is around the same height and kind of baggy for a fitness nut who hates children way too much to carry any. It is speculated that she used to be quite overweight.
“Hey!” I shouted as soon as I was within audible distance. “Windbag says I’m with you, but we need to start over with a bigger tent!”
“Ooooh!” hooted Dani, excitedly.
“This is a luxury spot!” Rachel called out. “Bet Devon’s chuffed!”
“Shut up!”
It was not a luxury of any kind. As I approached the girls, I could see that their idea of a perfect place to pitch was right on the lip of hill on the riverside – the furthest possible away from the kitchen gazebo, teachers, toilets and civilisation. The other side of the river was all woods, which anything could come out of, and forgive my paranoia – we were a good couple of counties away from home!
I dumped my bag on the grass and helped tear down the half-erected tent in silence.
“Mind the sun!” gasped Devon.
The sun? There was none. It was jacket weather.
“Hey!” Devon whined again, grabbing something from the ground between me and Dani. “My sun…”
It was a flat, tin sun, or some kind of metal anyway. It had cute cherub lips in a vague smile, and chubby cheeks. It was really almost creepy in a way, and now its trailing flames were bent out of shape.
“I bought it to hang on the tent,” she explained, preciously.
“Well it’s hideous like you!” sniped Rachel.
“Anyone would think you were on your period,” said Devon, with a petulant scowl. She looked like she would’ve cried if it wasn’t a stand-your-ground situation.
“I don’t… period!” protested Rach, as if she hadn’t been able to think of a scientific word.
Dani giggled.
“Er, this is your new tent,” said Mr Wordsworth sheepishly from behind us.
My face grew hot. “Thank you,” I managed, taking it from him. It was heavy, and clunked junkily within its bag.
“I hope I can trust you girls to be gentle with it – I think it’s an elderly one, this tent.”
Dani giggled again.
“Yeah, sure,” huffed Rachel, grabbing the bag from me. She started to spread things out on the ground.
Mr Wordsworth shuffled away.
“He’s not an elderly one,” I snickered to Danielle, hoping everyone would get their silly on even if it did have to be about exactly which bits of my English teacher we should be gentle with.
It actually sort-of worked.
* * *
Being the last to get tented, we were settled inside for about a yoctosecond before everyone was dragged back to the sociable end of the campsite for Tentkeeping Rules, Duty Rules, Activity Rules, Safety Rules and General Rules.
I let the wave of order/requests flow over my head, catching the odd “can do hot water bottles and hot chocolate” or “no more than one shower a day without permission” or “tampons down the toilets; use the bins provided – that means you too, boys!”
Windybum went on like that for so long that I once again felt close to starving unconsciousness.
“Whoever’s on cooking duty must rise at half-past six, and everyone else will rise at seven…” she droned. It had grown dark already, though I hadn’t the foggiest what time it was.
“Any questions?”
No.
“If anybody has any medical things or money, we can take charge of those.”
Silence because: yeah right.
“If anybody would like a hot water bottle…”
Silence because: what do you really think?
“OK, you’re free to go to bed. Lights out in thirty!”
Someone muttered, “Thirty what, Miss?”
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“Don’t be…”
I blacked out. It was only for a second, but a second is long enough to fall off one of those crappy camping stools that our stingy stepdad had purchased from Lidl the other week.
“Oh yeah, Harley was hungry,” I heard Andy comment, sounding almost as amused as he did sympathetic.
“She gave me her sandwich because I was sick…” mumbled Charlie, who seemed to feel bad about that.
“Diabetic snacks for Harley!” shouted Windy after her boyfriend in the cabin. At least she had the decency to use my nickname, even if there was no telling whether she hated it more or less than my legal name.
“She’s not diabetic,” said Charlie, stupidly. “And I’m hungry too.”
Ten minutes and two cereal bars each later, it was pitch black. I rushed to the tent for my washbag with a quarter of an hour until lights out, and rushing was rather difficult when I still felt dizzy. Devon had waited.
“I wasn’t gonna go with Rachel, now, was I? She can stumble about on her own.”
“Dev, I’m not playing silly games. I’m going to brush my teeth. You can come, and be nice, or have your grouchy thoughts alone.”
“Fine,” she said, then tailed me wordlessly, little chains jingling from her washbag like a dog collar.
Coming out of the dimly lit toilets, I saw Charlie, Andy and Jordy still yet to drag their butts to the washbasins. Charlie came over to say goodnight to me. He never usually bothers, so I knew he must have been looking for some sort of normality to help him sleep.
I’d thought of that.
“What if I can’t sleep?” he wibbled.
“What if you can sleep?” I teased, hoping he’d had the common sense not to stop for a hot chocolate. The last thing I wanted was him embarrassing me by having any problems.
“Harley…”
“Then you shouldn’t have come. I stuck Bobo the Hobo in your bag by the way.”
He grumbled. “Why is it that now I know he’s here, I feel worse?”
Ever the ungrateful…
“Oi, Charlie!” Jordy yelled. “Nice teddy!”
“He’s my sister’s! I don’t know how he got in there!”
“He?” snickered Andy.
“It!”
“Hey, I’ve got one!” shouted one of the Matts. “DLG, has a teddy! One to help him sleep in bed…-dy!”
Dev marched over to the boys’ tent. “Oh, how did this get here? It belongs to their little sister. She’ll be devastated if she doesn’t have it to take to bed.”
“Aww, I’m sorry,” said Jordy.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit unreasonable if someone can’t have their teddy to take to bed?” Devon hissed. “If they need it to sleep?”
“’Course,” he said, uncomfortably.
“Then you’d better not do anything to harm Kitty’s teddy bear,” she threatened.
“I’ll be looking after that!” snapped Charlie, grabbing the bear. “Hey, why were you guys going through my bag anyway?”
“I was wondering if you had a penknife for this bungee cord,” said Jordy, all innocence. “It’s too tight to undo.”
“Yeah, like any right-minded person would entrust a penknife to Charlie.” I smiled, especially at Jordy. “You’d better watch out. G’night guys!”
By the time we got back to the tent, Rachel and Dani had nodded off. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Devon flipped on the hanging lantern and spread a tonne of tiny hairbands out over her sleeping bag. “Really should’ve done these earlier on the coach,” she said to herself, without looking up.
Rachel jolted awake. Dani pulled her cuddle pillow over her head.
I opened my bag and pulled out one of Charlie’s million hand-me-down metal shirts and a pair of shorts, which I put on in silence. I actually wondered to myself whether my twin brother was only in a hand-me-down metal phase. Otter in all his olderness seemed to have the biggest influence over Charlie and the guys.
“I have to say it looks better on Charlie,” Devon felt the need to say. “Ugh, sorry, I’m a bitch. I wonder if it’s too late to take Windy up on her hot water bottle.”
I watched Devon disappear into the dark with her fluffy, glittery-cased hot water bottle.
When I turned back, Rachel was glaring at me. “I’m sorry, but I totally can’t bear her!”
I sighed, scrambling into my sleeping bag. “Then be asleep when she comes back.”
“But she smells.”
“Of raspberries. Or whatever it’s supposed to be,” I corrected.
“Oh, OK! I fancy Alfie. Now will you pay attention? We’re so suited, and he never said a word to me when he was here.”
“Is that all? I mean, he never said anything to anyone except Dev. And even that was creepy and smarmy.”
“So you agree!”
“I agree that their relationship was for show. But I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“She can’t know what this is about.”
“What thi- Rach, this is about Alfie? She thinks it’s about being a gypsy, or not being a gypsy, or whatever you were saying.”
“And she can’t know. I was a bitch and I shouldn’t have said it, but she’s just gonna have to start liking me again on her own, ’cause I don’t owe her a thing!”
“Then don’t say anything to her unless it’s absolutely necessary. Necessary is toilet paper and quoits, not mean comments about her clothes.”
“And you can get off your high whore while you’re here,” Rachel catted once again, before turning off the light and ducking right inside her sleeping bag.
I lay down, and not a second later heard Devon unzip the tent door.
“Ugh…” she moaned, flopping body and bottle down onto her sleeping bag.
“What?”
“Windy was on the loo, so Mr Wordsworth had to do it. He’s so nice; it was awful.”
“How is it awful? Sounds like it was just as embarrassing for them.”
“It’s awful when he knows what’s happening to your uterus.”
“He’s been to university; I think he’s clear on that,” I mumbled, tiredly. Somewhere in my dizzy head, I imagined that training teachers took extra sex-ed, and besides, I didn’t want to have to think about cramps when I didn’t have them – that was just overtime. “Are you OK?” I yawned.
“I will be.”
“Good. Night.”
“Goodnight!”
Awkward silence.
“Goodnight, Devon…”
#4 Bucketing Cockadoodles!
“Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo!”
“It be mornink,” Devon giggled in some sort of put-on accent as she shook me awake. “Vake up, ma leetle blossom!”
“Gluten moron,” murmured Rachel, competing for my attention.
“Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo!”
I blinked in disbelief. Roosters? “What on earth’s that?”
“Somebody’s got a really annoying ringtone set on alarm,” explained Dani, who actually seemed well-rested compared to us. I know it’s mean, but I secretly wondered if it was possible to reach a level of blubber where it would become comfortable to sleep on the cold, hard ground.
The tinny voice went off again: “Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo! Cock-a-doodle doo!”
“Aren’t you going nuts yet?” I asked Devon, who was already clothed and oiling up for a day of outdoor activities, skirt tucked into her maroon baroque knickers.
“My moody day was yesterday,” she reminded me. Omigod! I thought. Enough of the oversharing! I really don’t care! In fact, I actually now SORT-of care, because I really want you to shut up!
“Cock. A. Doodle. Doo… COCK A DOODLE DOO!!”
“Whoever that is, for fluff’s sake, turn it OFF!!” shouted Somebody Gobby. (My hero.) “Some of us don’t have to be awake for another half an hour!”
I knelt up, still in my bag, peeled the tent flap open and peered out
. Asta was tramping across the dewy grass towards the toilets, hair disorderly like she’d slept with clips in.
“COCK A DOODLE DOO! COCK A DOODLE DOOOOO!!”
“This is getting beyond a joke, now!” screamed Courtney. (OK, hero statement retracted.) “Whoever it is, HOW CAN YOU SLEEP WITH THAT BESIDE YOUR HEAD?!”
Heads without bodies were rapidly appearing at the tent-fronts, jabbering things like, “Asta, shut up!” and “It’s Courtney!” and “You’re making more noise than the bloody ringtone!”
“COCK A DOODLE DOO! COCK A DOODLE DOOO!!”
“Oh, is that my phone?” asked Mr Wordsworth, who had appeared at the door of the male staff hut in a dressing gown, hair tousled and earring still very much in place. He squinted in the early morning sunlight. “Could somebody please pass me that? Or would you rather keep listening to it while I throw some clothes on?”
Dani looked about to combust at that statement, and just a month ago, I would’ve done.
One of the boys retrieved it from the cup-holder of a collapsible chair.
“Well, now I know it gets you all up, I can unleash it on my classes next year. They won’t know what hit them, first period Monday… Oh, and Asta? Wherever you are, if you could maybe not swear so loudly in the mornings? I shouldn’t think the Year 6 group over the way will appreciate it.”
If they were anything like Zak, they’d be giggling worse into their pillows after a night awake on their Gameboys…
“It. Was. Courtney!” erupted Asta from her stall, just as she let out a monster fart. I mean, I’m not being vulgar, it was the unhealthiest thing I’ve ever heard – and it was heard from all the way in our tent by the river. Dani giggled.
“Right! We’ve done bacon for the people who want bacon, and we’ve made some tea and coffee!” called Sophie from the kitchen gazebo. “Cereal is on the table!”
“Harley, get dressed,” said Devon, dragging random shorts and a T-shirt out of my bag on my behalf, and thrusting them at me. “God only knows where you keep your knickers…”
I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and gave a cursory check to my legs. I’d shaved two days ago, but a large and conspicuous patch had been forgotten as I’d rushed from the bathroom so that the queue of three people outside could use the loo.
“I don’t think I should do the short thing, Dev, but thanks anyway.”
“Who’ll notice that?” she scoffed, stretching out her own, enviably smooth ones and patting away a last smear of posh suncream before clicking the lid shut. So typical of someone who didn’t have to fight anyone for the hot water, Devon’s curvy, milky coffee coloured legs glistened hairlessly with moisture.