I could not believe it. I knew it would be a very large stretch of water, but I’d pictured it like the river at home. I had no idea it would shimmer as far as the eye could see. And it moved so, wave after wave rolling over and over.
It was very cold in the early morning air but I tore my boots and stockings off and paddled in the shallows just to say I had done it! A fat old woman told me I could use one of her bathing machines if I cared to, but I was happy enough just to let the water whirl about my ankles. My feet were blue with cold all morning but I didn’t care.
Then, when I took the three children to the beach later that morning there was an ice-cream man selling hokey-pokey for a penny a lump, even though it was the winter season. I had three pennies so I bought one for Louisa, one for Victor, and one for Freddie and me to share.
My first ice cream! This time my lips turned blue but I licked them warm again.
I still cannot say I enjoy being a servant – but it has its compensations!
CHRISTMAS
Jamie’s Victorian project did win. Well, it was obvious it was going to. It was easy-peasy, simple-pimple to work it out. Though my postcards from Bournemouth certainly helped. They made Jamie’s project much thicker and the pages clicked enticingly as you turned each page. These postcard pages were so bright and glossy that Miss Beckworth couldn’t help being dazzled. All right, she puts lots of ticks and stars and Well Dones! on his sections on railway engines and factories and coal mines, and she liked his town and country pages and all his maps in the British Empire bit, and she went a bit overboard on his Crimean War with an EXCELLENT! underlined. My postcards just got a tick or two, but that was obviously because she didn’t want to deface the beauty of the page.
Miss Beckworth held Jamie’s project up and showed it to the class and all the goodie-goodies went Oooh and Aaah and all the baddie-baddies went Yuck and Boring and Swot and Teacher’s Pet. I would normally count myself the baddest baddie-baddie – and yet I found myself thumping old Jamie on the back and saying, ‘Well done, Clever Clogs.’
He went very red when I said that. Maybe I thumped a bit too hard. Then he had to go up to Miss Beckworth and shake her hand and she said ‘Well done’ too. She said she’d like to give him a little prize. She gave him a £5 book token and a little painted Victorian soldier. Jamie was dead chuffed.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit wistful then. I waited for Miss Beckworth to hand out the rest of the projects. I was sure mine would have red lines all through it and SEE ME, CHARLOTTE! in cross capitals. But you’ll never ever guess what! Miss Beckworth paused theatrically.
‘Jamie’s brilliant project tells us almost all there is to know about Victorian times. But there’s one other project here that tells us what it feels like to be a Victorian.’ And she held out MY project!!! ‘I’m so impressed with your diary of Lottie the Nursery Maid that I’d like to award you a prize too, Charlotte.’
‘Great! Good for you, Charlie,’ said Jamie.
Yep! Good for me! Miss Beckworth beckoned me out to the front of the class and I had to go through the handshaking ceremony too, which was OK – but I kept thinking, am I getting a prize like Jamie? And I did! A £5 book token, and a tiny reproduction china doll the size of my little finger.
‘Oh, she’s sweet! Thank you very much, Miss Beckworth,’ I said.
‘Do you know what they used to call that sort of doll? They were called Frozen Charlottes,’ said Miss Beckworth, and she actually grinned at me.
I appreciated her little joke. I actually sort of appreciated her for once. She asked me to read out some of my diary entries for Lottie. So I did. Everyone got a bit shuffly and sighing to start with – but by the time I’d got to the bottom of the first page they were riveted! I read on and on and not a single person said Yuck, so there!
Lisa and Angela got a teensy little bit snotty afterwards. Lisa especially, because her dad had done all her Victorian project on his posh computer with special loopy writing and graphics and it hadn’t even had a special mention.
‘You’re really getting to be a teacher’s pet now, Charlie,’ said Lisa. ‘I don’t know who’s the swottiest now, you or your precious Jamie.’
‘He’s not mine. And he’s not precious either, come to that,’ I said, snorting.
‘We saw you putting your arm round him when his project won,’ said Angela, giggling away.
‘Purlease!’ I said. ‘Don’t be so pathetic, Ange.’
‘You’re the one that’s pathetic, Charlie, getting all matey with Jamie Edwards. He’s the nerdiest boy in the whole class.’
‘So?’ I said fiercely.
‘So what do you see in him?’ said Lisa.
‘He can be quite good fun sometimes. OK, he does look a bit weird—’
‘You’re telling me!’ said Lisa.
‘And he wears the grottiest clothes,’ said Angela.
‘Yes, right, he’s a total Arnie-Anorak, but I don’t care.’
‘She’s gone off her rocker,’ said Lisa to Angela.
‘Completely nuts,’ said Angela to Lisa.
‘Yeah, you’re mad, Charlie. You could probably get any boy in our class keen on you – well, apart from Dave Wood – yet you choose Jamie for a boyfriend.’
‘He’s NOT my boyfriend. You two aren’t half slow at catching on. He’s a friend who happens to be a boy – OK a nerdy, grotty, swotty boy – but so what?’ I shouted. A little too loudly. Jamie himself came out the boys’ cloakroom and stared. Lisa and Angela doubled up laughing. I felt myself going red. Totally screamingly scarlet.
‘Better leave the two lovebirds together,’ said Lisa, and she tugged Angela away.
They went giggle giggle giggle down the corridor.
‘Idiots,’ I muttered. I blew hard up my nostrils, fluttering my fringe. ‘Phew, isn’t it hot in here?’ I paused. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘Did you just say I was nerdy and grotty and swotty?’ Jamie asked.
‘Oh,’ I groaned. ‘No.’
‘I heard you,’ said Jamie, looking wounded.
‘Well, all right, yes. But it wasn’t my description,’ I said.
‘So everyone thinks I’m nerdy and grotty and swotty,’ said Jamie.
‘No. Yes. Well, a few of the girls maybe. And the boys. Don’t look all upset, Jamie, I’m trying to make things better.’
‘I’d hate it if you were trying to make things worse then,’ said Jamie.
‘Look, you’re not daft, you must have twigged that’s what they think,’ I said.
‘You are making it worse,’ said Jamie.
‘But you don’t really care, do you, Jamie?’
‘Don’t I?’ said Jamie.
‘Well, I don’t care what anyone thinks of me,’ I said.
‘Yes, but that’s because everyone likes you,’ said Jamie.
‘No they don’t. Not even Lisa and Angela much, and they’re supposed to be my best friends.’
‘And . . . did you say I was your friend too?’ said Jamie, looking a bit perkier.
I shrugged. ‘Mmm,’ I said.
‘You mean it? We’re really friends? Even though I’m a boy? And a nerdy grotty swotty one at that?’ Jamie didn’t seem at all upset now. I wondered if he’d been pretending before. I wouldn’t put it past him.
‘I generally can’t stick boys,’ I said. ‘But you’re OK.’
‘So are you,’ said Jamie.
We stood there looking at each other. For two ultra-chatty people we suddenly seemed lost for words. And then there were these s-t-u-p-i-d slurpy kissy-kissy sounds. Angela and Lisa had crept back towards us.
‘Look at them!’
‘Gazing into each other’s eyes, dumbstruck!’
‘Go on then, Jamie, kiss her.’
‘They’ll be snogging at the school disco next week!’
They collapsed with laughter.
‘Take no notice,’ said Jamie calmly. ‘Let the lower mortals prattle.’
‘You what?’ said Lisa.
‘He’s talking in some foreign lingo now,’ said Angela.
‘See if you two can understand plain English then,’ I said – and I used some very short sharp shocking words to indicate that I wanted them to go away.
‘Who is using that disgusting language?’ said a familiar voice.
A teacher came stalking down the corridor. The one with the all-hearing ears. You’ve guessed right.
She gave me a detention too, even though it wasn’t really my fault at all that I’d been reduced to blunt language. But I still felt quite fond of her, even though she was always so snappily strict. So when our top year had our special disco party and Miss Beckworth organized it and asked us to bring some refreshments from home I went overboard.
I went round to Jamie’s house and hunted through the Victorian books – and found a great big fat one with lots of recipes called Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. I flipped through it until I found the perfect cake.
It needed quite a lot of ingredients but that was no problem. (For reasons I will divulge later!)
It took ages to make the special cake. I had to make this special lemon jelly and then pour a little bit into a big tin and then stud it with glacé cherries like jewels, and then I did another layer of jelly and stood sponge fingers all the way round the tin and then I made a special eggy custard and poured that on and let it all set and THEN the next day I dunked the tin very quickly in hot water and then, holding my breath and praying, I gently tipped it out onto a pretty plate like a little kid turning out a sandcastle. You know what often happens with sandcastles? They crumble and break, right? But my special Victorian cake came out whole and perfect, easy-peasy, simple-pimple.
It was a bit of a mega-problem getting it to school, though. I had to carry it on a tray and hope it wouldn’t rain. My arms were aching terribly by the time I got to school. I was a bit late too, because I’d had to walk so carefully to keep my cake intact.
‘Charlotte Enright, you’re late for school,’ said Miss Beckworth.
‘Only half a second, Miss Beckworth. And it’s in a very very good cause,’ I said, propping my heavy tray on a desk and peeling back the protective tinfoil I’d arched over it.
‘And what’s this very good cause, might I ask?’ said Miss Beckworth.
‘You!’ I said, pulling the last of the foil off with a flourish. ‘I’ve made you a cake, Miss Beckworth. Well, it’s for all of us at the disco, but it’s in your honour and you’ve got to have the first slice. It’s a Victorian cake. And you’ll never ever guess what it’s called!’
Miss Beckworth looked at my wondrous masterpiece. She blinked her all-seeing eyes. They twinkled as she met my gaze.
‘I can guess,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘In your own ultra-irritating phrase, it’s easy-peasy, simple-pimple! It’s an absolutely magnificent Charlotte Russe.’
She really is all-knowing! We shared the cake-cutting ceremony when it was nosh-time. I got a bit worried my Charlotte cake would collapse, but it stood its ground splendidly. And it tasted great too, mega-yummy. It was all gone in a matter of minutes – just a lick of lemon jelly and a few sponge crumbs left on the plate.
I made sure all my special friends got a slice. Then the disco started up. It wasn’t a real evening disco with a proper DJ and strobe lighting. It was just an afternoon Christmas party in the school hall for Year Six, with the headmaster playing these mostly ropy old discs. Hardly the most sophisticated exciting event of the century – though you’d maybe think it was, judging by the fuss Lisa and Angela and some of the other girls made.
We were allowed to change into our own home clothes, you see. The boys didn’t think it much of a big deal. They looked worse out of school uniform.
I didn’t try too hard either. I was too busy creating my cake to fuss about my outfit. And I can’t actually win when it comes to cool clothes way in the front line of fashion. My kit comes from the label-free zones of Oxfam, Jumble and Car Boot Sales, especially nowadays. Though this might change soon. (Second hint of changes in the Enright family fortunes!)
Lisa and Angela and lots of the other girls tried very hard indeed. Lisa looked particularly lovely.
But Angela was the big surprise. She usually wore ordinary old jeans and jumpers when we were hanging round after school. But now her mum had bought her this new party-time outfit down the market. Angela’s got too tall for kids’ clothes so this was really grown-up gear. And Angela looked ultra-adult in it too.
‘Look at Angela!’
You couldn’t help looking at her. Everyone did. It was as if she’d become an entirely new girl to match her new outfit. When she danced the boys all circled round. Even Dave Wood.
Jamie’s jaw dropped when he saw Angela too, but he didn’t try to dance with her. He didn’t dance with anyone at first. I danced with lots of people. Then I went and stood near Jamie. I waited. It started to get on my nerves.
‘Come on, Jamie. Let’s dance,’ I said commandingly.
‘I don’t think I’m very good at dancing,’ said Jamie.
He was right about that. He just stood and twitched a little at first.
‘Let yourself go a bit,’ I said, jumping about.
Jamie let himself go a bit too much. His arms and legs shot out all over the place. I had to stay well back to stop myself getting clouted. But I suppose he was trying.
Lisa was standing near us. I prepared myself for some ultra-sarcastic comments. But Lisa’s eyes were a little too bright, her smile showing too much teeth. She wasn’t watching Jamie and me. She was watching Angela and Dave.
‘Hey, Jamie. I want to dance with Lisa for a bit,’ I said.
‘Good! I need a rest,’ Jamie puffed.
So I danced with Lisa for a bit. And then I danced with some of the other girls. And some other boys. So did Lisa. And at long last Dave Wood came slithering up to her, because he’d been elbowed away from Angela by the rest of the boys. I expected Lisa to send Dave Wood off with a flea in his ear. I’d have added a swarm of stinging wasps and a buzz of killer bees. But would you believe it, Lisa just gave him this stupid smirk and danced with him devotedly. Lisa has got a very pretty head but it contains no brain whatsoever.
‘Do you want to dance again, Charlie?’ Jamie asked eagerly. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of it now.’
He was a little optimistic. But we had fun all the same. The party ended at three and we were allowed to go home then.
Lisa and Dave Wood went off together, so she was happy.
Angela went off with half the boys in our class, so she was happy.
I decided to go back to Jamie’s house because I was still a bit peckish in spite of my Charlotte Russe (the other refreshments weren’t up to much) and I fancied one of his brother’s toasted cheese sandwiches. We walked along Oxford Terrace together. I peered up at all the attic rooms right under the roofs and imagined Lottie looking out.
Jamie kept walking closer and closer to me, so that his schoolbag banged my shins several times. I turned to tell him off – and he kissed me on the cheek!
‘What are you playing at?’ I said furiously.
‘I – I – well, you kept sticking your chin up and looking up in the air so I thought you wanted me to kiss you,’ Jamie stammered.
‘Well, you got it seriously wrong, matie,’ I said, giving him a shove. I scrubbed at the little wet patch on my cheek with the back of my hand. ‘You do that again and I’ll clock you one,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ said Jamie. He sighed. ‘I wish I could figure girls out. I especially wish I could figure you out, Charlie.’
‘It’s part of my deeply mysterious feminine charm,’ I said, chuckling.
Jamie’s brother came up trumps with another toasted sandwich and his mum asked if Jo and I could go round to their house on Boxing Day. They have a party every year. Jo got a bit worried when I told her and said she didn’t think it sounded her cup of tea – well, glass of punch – but she’s agreed to come with me b
ecause I’ve been astonishingly agreeable about her Christmas plans.
I shall give Jamie his Christmas present then. I’ve bought him a big fat paperback Victorian novel. Jane Eyre – by Charlotte Brontë, and inside the cover I’ve written: This is a present by a Charlotte, from a Charlotte!
I’m going to make Jamie’s mum a special cake to eat at her party. I’ve got it all worked out. It’s going to be a square cake, iced all over with a cake lid on top and marzipan ribbon, so it looks like a special gift box – for Boxing Day, get it?
I’m going to be so busy busy busy making cakes in the Christmas holidays. I’ve got to make one for Grandma and Grandpa when Jo and I go over there on Christmas Eve – yuck! I had all sorts of good ideas but Jo talked it over with me and she thinks they’d like an ordinary conventional Christmas cake, white icing and HAPPY CHRISTMAS, boring boring boring – but I’ve said I’ll do it.
I’m making one more cake – and this one’s a special one.
Jo fixed a beautiful red breakfast in bed for us on Sunday (ruby grapefruit and raspberry Danish pastries and cranberry juice). When we’d eaten it all up we cuddled down in bed again and I started up one of our games and Jo tried to join in but I could tell she wasn’t concentrating.
‘Jo? What is it, eh?’ I could feel her tense.
‘Well . . . I want to talk to you about something,’ she said.
I felt as if all the delicious red food inside me was being whisked in a blender. This was it. I knew what she was going to say. I wriggled away from her and lay stiffly in bed, waiting.
‘It’s about . . . Robin,’ she said.
‘And Mark,’ I said, through clenched teeth.
‘Well. Yes, I suppose so. Oh, Charlie. I don’t know how to say this.’