I suddenly don’t want to leave Mum. She squeezes my hand and mouths I love you at me. I mouth it back to her, and then go out of the hall again and in through the backstage door. It’s crammed full, of course, but no one’s doing back-flips or practising dance routines. Mr Roberts has them all sitting down cross-legged. He’s sitting cross-legged himself, looking like the Buddha.
‘Come and join us, Destiny. We are eliminating our nerves by doing yoga – well, an approximation. You’ll twist your legs back to front if you try to get into the lotus position without proper training. Sit with a nice straight back, hands loose, and breathe i-i-i-n, and then very gently and slowly ou-u-u-ut. Close your eyes and visualize a quiet happy place – maybe the seaside or a country field, or maybe just your own bed, and—’
‘Can we breathe again, Mr Roberts?’ Hannah gasps.
‘Yes, Hannah, the trick is to keep on breathing, even when I don’t remind you. There now, my little class of calm children, I want you to enjoy the contest tonight. Things went a little haywire this afternoon. I rather think it was all my fault. I didn’t pick a particularly balanced panel and they clearly let their tribal loyalties overcome their artistic appreciation—’
‘What are you on about, Mr Roberts?’ asks one of the Superspeedos.
‘Very well, I’ll put it another way. You was robbed. This afternoon’s panel weren’t voting fairly. I’m sure we were all surprised by some of the scores.’
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have won?’ says Angel, sticking her chin in the air.
‘No, Angel Cake, I’m absolutely thrilled that you won, and you fully deserve your prize.’
She got a little silver pin-badge with WINNER!
engraved on it in tiny letters. She’s wearing it on her top now. She keeps pointing to it and smirking.
‘Have you got another one of them pin-badges for tonight’s winner?’ Jack asks.
‘I might just have one hidden about my person,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘I wish I had one for all of you, because I think you’re all winners. You’ve all tried very hard and performed to the best of your ability in very difficult circumstances, so give yourselves a pat on the back. Not too vigorously in this confined space – I was speaking metaphorically. I want you to go onstage tonight and do yourselves justice. Let’s hope tonight’s panel will vote fearlessly and with common sense.’
‘Who are the panel, Mr Roberts?’
‘Is it our parents?’
‘Yes, pick my mum, then I’ll get all the votes!’
‘It’s not parents, for obvious reasons. The panel are utterly impartial, specially selected teachers.’
‘That’s not fair! All the teachers hate me, so no one will vote for me!’
‘The voting will strictly reflect ability, hard work and talent this time, or I shall have one of my famous hissy fits,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘Now calm down again, all of you. Breathe i-i-i-n and ou-u-u-ut . . .’
I can’t. I’m all tensed up. Will the new panel really vote fairly? If so, Raymond should win, or the Superspeedos – or me.
Mrs Avery’s on the voting panel, and she’s funny and fair and she was quite nice to me just now.
‘I know it’s Mrs Avery on the panel – but who are the other teachers, Mr Roberts?’ I ask.
‘Mr Juniper.’
Oh no, oh no, oh no. He’ll take one look at me and give me nought out of ten. I’ve somehow accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to report to him for my detention. I’d hoped it had gone out of his mind – and yet here I’ll be, singing straight at him.
‘Then there’s Miss Evans.’
Some of the boys wolf-whistle. Miss Evans is very young and very pretty and very girly. She’ll vote for Girls Very Soft or the Dancing Queens. I’m not her style at all.
‘And the last member of our excellent panel is Mrs Riley.’
Everyone goes ‘Ahhh!’ Mrs Riley is the most popular teacher in the whole school. She teaches the little kids in Year Three. She’s plump and cosy with a very gentle voice. Everyone adores her – even Louella’s terrible twins think she’s lovely. She’s especially good at coping with bad boys, so she’ll like the Jack the Lads or the Superspeedos. She didn’t ever teach me so I won’t mean anything to her.
I’m going to lose all over again. Maybe I’ll come bottom this time. I don’t think I can do it. I might as well walk out now, take myself off and save my breath. The others would jeer at me and say I’d lost my bottle. No, I’ll say I just can’t be bothered. I’ll yawn and act like I’m bored and have got better things to do – I’ll be the girl who’s too cool to compete.
I stand up and start strolling out casually.
‘Where are you going, Destiny?’ asks Mr Roberts.
‘I’m just going to . . . to nip to the toilet, Mr Roberts,’ I say. ‘Back in a minute.’
He lets me go – and I’m off, it’s as easy as that. I walk out of the door and down the corridor. I can carry on walking right out of the school. I needn’t ever come back. We break up in a few days. I’m free as a bird. Yes, I can sprout beautiful leathery wings from the back of my jacket and fly away . . .
There are parents still crowding into the hall, talking to each other, laughing and waving and gossiping. I look through the door – I can’t stop myself – and see my mum right at the front, all by herself, staring up at the stage as if I’m already on it. She’s got her hands clasped, almost as if she’s praying.
Who am I kidding? I’ve got to sing for my mum. It doesn’t matter if they don’t give me a good score. They can throw rocks and rotten tomatoes at me, and do their best to boo me right off the stage, but I’ll stand there and sing my socks off for my mum.
I go to the toilet and then hurry back. Mr Roberts gives me a little nod. I sit down obediently and cross my legs and do his daft breathing exercises, i-i-i-n and ou-u-u-ut – and then it’s time.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ says Mr Roberts, and I see the beads of sweat on his forehead and realize he’s really nervous too.
Then he dashes onstage and there’s a burst of applause. We’re meant to stay sitting still as mice waiting for our turns, but we all crowd into the wings, wanting to see what’s going on.
‘Hello, hello, hello. Good evening, ladies and gentleman. Welcome to Bilefield’s Got Talent,’ Mr Roberts shouts into the microphone, bouncing about the stage. ‘I am Mr Roberts, I teach Year Six, and my goodness me, they are all tremendously talented. You are in for a night to remember and no mistake. Our preposterously gifted pupils will perform, and our tremendous panel of hand-picked teachers will comment and give marks accordingly. Let me introduce Mrs Avery, Mr Juniper, Miss Evans and Mrs Riley. Thank you very much. Now, let our show begin. I’d like you to put your hands together and give a warm welcome to . . . the Jack the Lads.’
Jack takes a deep breath and then bounds onstage, all his lads following. Mrs Avery can’t do the music as she’s on the panel. It’s Mrs Linley who’s been left in charge, and she’s not quite as practised. She starts the music too quickly, before everyone’s in place. Jack’s so keyed up he starts at once, spitting on his hands and stamping his feet, but the lads are two beats behind and can’t catch up. But it’s actually better like that – Jack does a backflip, they look, they copy; Jack does a handstand, ditto. It’s got more pace and rhythm to it than when they’re all trying to keep together. The fight is funnier too. Jack pretends to punch, then all the others swing their arms and start up another fight. At the end, when they usually just peter out and stop, Jack trips. Is it deliberate? He falls flat on his face – and down go all the other boys like dominoes. There’s a huge round of applause, and the panel join in.
‘These boys have improved tremendously,’ says Mrs Avery. ‘They’ve obviously worked very hard on their routine. I thought tonight’s performance was brilliant.’
‘If you’d only put the energy and determination you’ve shown in your dancing into your schoolwork you’d all be top of the class. Well done, lads,’ says Mr Juniper.
&n
bsp; ‘Wow!’ says Miss Evans. ‘You were amazing, boys!’
‘Good for you, Jack the Lads. You always made me chuckle when you were in my class, Jack, even though you were so naughty – and you’re still making me chuckle now. Well done, all of you,’ says Mrs Riley.
‘Your scores, please, ladies and gentleman,’ says Mr Roberts.
Mrs Avery gives them ten, Mr Juniper eight, and Miss Evans and Mrs Riley give them both nine. So that’s it then. The Jack the Lads have got thirty-six. Only one less than Angel scored this afternoon, I think they’ll win this evening – and although this hurts, I’m truly pleased for Jack. I grin at him when he comes panting backstage, still terribly out of breath.
‘Well done!’ I whisper.
‘I thought I made a right prune of myself,’ he whispers back. ‘I didn’t mean to fall over. It didn’t half hurt too! But it seemed to work, didn’t it?’
‘You know it did,’ I say. ‘I think you’ll win.’
‘Rubbish. You will,’ says Jack.
‘You’re both talking rubbish. I’m going to win again,’ says Angel.
‘Shh!’ says Mrs Linley as she puts on the music for Girls Very Soft. They’re very good, but a bit boring. We all know their little step-shuffle routine and join in backstage, though Mrs Linley glares at us and gestures to us to sit down. The panel all make positive comments and the girls end up with twenty-eight, not a bad score at all.
Then it’s Fareed and Hannah. They still haven’t got the hang of half the tricks. The audience don’t laugh so much, trying to be kind, so their act doesn’t work so well until right at the end, when the toy rabbit gets stuck in Fareed’s hat. He struggles, tapping it hopefully, biting his lip.
‘Look, it’s in there somewhere, Fareed,’ Hannah hisses. She scrabbles inside the hat and yanks it out. There’s a sudden burst of helpless laughter as she waves the poor mangled toy in the air, its ears drooping, and they both end up with a big round of applause though they don’t score high.
The Dancing Queens are good – well, they look good in their pink T-shirts and little black shorts and flashing tiaras, and one of their mums has made them up with silver eyeshadow and pink lipstick, and sprayed pink streaks in their hair. Mr Juniper goes pink himself watching them and gives them a nine. Miss Evans likes them too, but Mrs Avery isn’t quite so keen, and Mrs Riley says they’re all lovely girls but she wishes their act wasn’t quite so . . . sophisticated. Wait till she sees Angel!
Then there’s Natalie and her friends doing the play. Mr Roberts went over it with them after school and he’s helped them cut half of it – but it still seems ultra long-winded and very silly and shouty. When they finish at last, someone in the audience gives a huge cheer. It’s probably Natalie’s dad. The teachers don’t rate them at all, though Mrs Riley says they’ve all clearly tried extra hard and it was a brave attempt.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Angel Thomas, this afternoon’s overall winner. Give her a big hand,’ Mr Roberts bellows.
Angel elbows her way past us, wiggling her big bottom. There’s enthusiastic applause as she stands on the stage. She grins and waves her hands, mouthing More, more! milking it for all she’s worth. Maybe Angel’s going to win again.
She does her cartwheels, she performs her little crab act, she spins on her bottom with such gusto it’s a wonder she doesn’t rub a big hole in her leggings. She finishes differently this time, doing rather wobbly splits, but this gets her more applause.
‘Well done, Angel, that’s certainly an incredible dance routine,’ says Mrs Avery. ‘No wonder you won this afternoon.’
Angel positively glows – but Mrs Avery only gives her a seven, as does Mr Juniper, Miss Evans gives her an eight and Mrs Riley a six – so she hasn’t won this time. She gives us all a shove as she comes backstage, absolutely furious.
So Jack’s still in the lead – but now it’s Raymond’s dance, and he is so brilliant. He whirls around and leaps up in the air, twiddling his feet, his head up, his arms out, the whole line of him perfect poised. No one whistles or yells silly things at him this time, everyone watches, totally rapt, and when he’s finished everyone claps like crazy. Mrs Avery stands up to clap him, smiling all over her face.
‘Well done, Raymond. We’re so lucky to have such a brilliant dancer at our school. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we’re flocking to watch you in a real dance company in a few years’ time,’ she says – and she gives him ten.
Mr Juniper gives him nine, and Miss Evans and Mrs Riley give him nine too.
So that’s it then. Raymond’s won, with thirty-seven points. At least he deserves to come first. I clap him as he bounces backstage, and Jack pats him on the back – though Angel glowers.
‘It’s not fair if Raymond wins,’ she whines. ‘He’s been going to his poncy dancing classes for years and years. Of course he’s going to know more twiddly steps than any of us.’
‘Shut up, Angel,’ says Jack. ‘He’s better than us, full stop. And we don’t know whether he has won yet.’
‘There’s only rubbish acts left,’ Angel hisses. ‘Them two stupid boys mucking about, then the Speedos doing their little swoopy dance, and Destiny caterwauling. They’re not going to win, are they?’
‘Just ignore her,’ Jack mutters, though I think she’s right.
Jeff and Ritchie certainly aren’t any competition, though they look funny now because someone’s lent them tutus and they’ve certainly got bottle to go out onstage wearing those fluffy white sticky-out skirts. They still haven’t worked out a proper routine. They just flounce about and teeter on the tips of their trainers. It’s funny for a few seconds but quickly gets tedious – and the teachers vote accordingly.
‘Now we have another astonishing dance routine. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to introduce the very talented Superspeedos,’ says Mr Roberts.
My stomach starts churning. I’m next, I’m next, I’m next. My throat tightens and I’m not sure I can even speak, let alone sing. I watch the Superspeedos sweeping through their routine. Jack fidgets by my side, watching them anxiously too. He doesn’t seem to mind Raymond beating him, but I know he’ll hate it if the Superspeedos get a better score than the Jack the Lads. There’s very loud applause at the end, and Mrs Avery goes on and on about their hard work and how they’ve proved practice makes perfect. Jack groans, especially when she gives them another ten. Mr Juniper gives them an eight, and Miss Evans and Mrs Riley both go for a nine – so that’s thirty-six, exactly the same score as the Jack the Lads.
Jack breathes out and grins.
‘Our last act on Bilefield’s Got Talent is a little lady with an astonishingly large voice. Please give a warm welcome to Miss Destiny Williams,’ Mr Roberts shouts.
Jack reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘Good luck!’
I stumble out of the wings and onto the stage. It’s exactly the same stage as this afternoon, so why does it seem so much bigger? There’s a spotlight on me, half blinding me so I can’t see the audience. I can’t even see Mum right at the front. She’s part of the dark blur – but she’s out there, I know she is, and I can’t let her down. I detach the mike from its stand and wait till the audience are quiet.
‘I’m singing this for my mum,’ I say into the mike. It’s so powerful it makes me jump hearing my voice boom out so. ‘It’s her favourite song. So this is for you, Mum.’
There’s a few ‘Ahhh’s, a few groans and several nervous giggles. Mrs Avery, Mr Juniper, Miss Evans and Mrs Riley are all sitting in front of me, looking expectant. Mr Roberts is at the side of the stage, looking a little worried now.
‘Take your time, Destiny,’ he whispers.
I’ve taken my time. I open my mouth and start singing.
‘You are my Destiny . . .’
My enhanced voice fills the large hall. It feels so big and powerful I picture it spilling out, flooding the corridors, bursting out of the windows, rushing in a torrent along the roads until the whole town is awash with the
sound. Maybe far, far away in Robin Hill, Sunset and our dad are listening, hand in hand.
I sing each word, thinking of it as a deeply personal message for me, not just a simple love song. I feel it in every part of me. I ache with it, and after the last long note I’m wrung out, exhausted, near tears. There’s a long silence. I take a couple of steps towards the wings, wanting to hide – but then the clapping starts. Such clapping! I’m dazed by the noise. All four teachers are on their feet, clapping. Mr Roberts is clapping! And down there in the audience there’s Mum. I can see her now the lights have gone up a bit. She’s standing up and cheering – oh God, the embarrassment – but there’s lots of people standing. It’s all right, they’re all showing me they like me – so why have I got tears running down my face?
Mrs Avery’s dabbing at her own eyes. ‘Oh, Destiny, that was marvellous. I’ve been lucky enough to hear you sing before, and I knew you had a lovely voice, but that was just incredible!’ she says.
Then it’s Mr Juniper’s turn. Surely he’ll still hate me.
‘I think your voice is awe-inspiring, Destiny. It’s practically rendered me speechless. However, I’ve got just enough breath to remind you that we have a little detention date, so see me on Monday after school!’ He’s trying to look fierce, but he’s laughing – everyone’s laughing.
‘You’ve got a thrilling voice, Destiny. I could listen to you for ever,’ Miss Evans gushes.
‘It’s hard to believe such a big powerful sound could come out of such a slight girl! You’ve given us the performance of a lifetime, Destiny,’ says Mrs Riley.
‘Wonderful comments, Destiny,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘You’re clearly going to get a high score – but you’ve got Raymond’s excellent thirty-seven to beat. Teachers, may I have your scores, please.’
They hold up their cards. Ten, ten, ten, ten! I can’t believe it! I’ve got a ten from each of them, even Mr Juniper, so I’ve got forty, maximum marks, and I’ve won! Poor Raymond – but lucky, lucky, lucky me. I’ve won the contest, I’ve won it for Mum!