‘I’ll be a ghost, Miss. I’m great at scaring people. Look, look, I’m a headless ghost!’ I pulled my school jumper up over my head and held my arms like claws and went, ‘Whooooo!’
Silly little Peter Ingham squealed in terror and ducked under his desk.
‘See, I can be really convincing, Miss! And I can do you all sorts of different ghosts. I can do your standard white-sheet spooky job, or I can moan and clank chains, or I could paint myself grey all over and be this wafting spirit ghost creeping up on people, ready to leap out at them.’
I leaped out at Weedy Peter just as he emerged from under his desk. He shrieked and ducked, banging his head in the process.
‘Well, you’re certainly entering into the spirit of things, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins, bending down to rub Peter’s head and give the little weed a cuddle. ‘There now, Peter, don’t look so scared. It isn’t a real ghost, it’s only Tracy Beaker.’
‘I’m scared of Tracy Beaker,’ said Peter. ‘Even though she’s my friend.’
I wish the little creep wouldn’t go around telling everyone he’s my friend. It’s dead embarrassing. I don’t want you to think he’s my only friend. I’ve got heaps and heaps of friends. Well. Louise isn’t my best friend any more. She’s gone totally off her head because she now wants to be friends with Justine No-Fun-At-All Littlewood. There’s no one in our class who actually quite measures up to my friendship requirements.
Hey, I have got a best friend. It’s Cam! She comes to see me every Saturday. She’s not like my mum, glamorous and beautiful and exciting. But she can sometimes be good fun. So she’s my best friend. And Miss Simpkins can be my second best friend at school.
Peter’s just my friend at the Dumping Ground. Especially at night time, when there’s no one else around.
Peter seemed to be thinking about our night-time get-togethers too.
‘Promise promise promise you won’t pretend to be a ghost tonight, Tracy?’ he whispered anxiously.
‘Ah! I’m afraid I can’t possibly promise, Peter. I am the child of a famous Hollywood star. I take my acting seriously. I might well have to stay in character and act ghostly all the time,’ I said.
‘Maybe we’d better cast you as something else, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins.
‘Oh no, please let me be the ghost!’ I begged.
It turned out there were four main ghosts in A Christmas Carol and a motley crew of ghostly extras too.
There was the Ghost of Christmas Past.
‘Let me be the Ghost of Christmas Past, Miss Simpkins,’ I said.
‘No, Tracy, I need a girl with long fair hair to be the Ghost of Christmas Past,’ said Miss Simpkins.
She chose Louise.
‘Now there’s the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said Miss Simpkins.
‘Let me be the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ I said.
‘No, Tracy. I need a big jolly boy to be the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said Miss Simpkins.
She chose old Fatty Freddy.
‘Now there’s the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,’ said Miss Simpkins.
‘I thought Charles Dickens was meant to be a good writer. He’s a bit repetitive when it comes to ghosts, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘Still, let me be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.’
‘No, Tracy, I need a very tall boy to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,’ said Miss Simpkins.
She chose this pea-brained boy called Philip who couldn’t haunt so much as a graveyard.
‘There’s just one more main ghost and that’s Marley’s Ghost,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘He wails and clanks his chains.’
‘Oooh, I’m a totally terrific wailer and clanker, you know I am! Let me be Marley’s Ghost,’ I begged.
‘I’m very tempted, Tracy, but perhaps you might indulge in a tad too much wailing and clanking,’ said Miss Simpkins.
She chose Justine Can’t-Act-For-Toffee Littlewood, who can’t clank to save her life and can barely whimper, let alone give a good ghostly wail.
I was Severely Irritated with Miss Simpkins. I decided she wasn’t my friend any more. I didn’t want to be in her stupid play if she wouldn’t pick me for one of the main ghosts. I didn’t want to be one of the no-name extra ghosts or any of the other people – these silly Fezziwigs and Cratchits.
I turned my back on Miss Simpkins and whistled a festive tune to myself . . . with new lyrics.
‘Jingle Bells, Miss Simpkins smells,
Jingle all the day.
Oh what a fart it is to take part
In her stupid Christmas play.’
‘And now there’s only one part left,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘Are you listening to me, Tracy?’
I gave the tiniest shrug, slumping down in my seat. I tried to make it crystal clear that I wasn’t remotely interested.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Miss Simpkins cheerfully. ‘Yes, there’s just the part of crusty old Ebenezer Scrooge himself to cast. Now, I’m going to have serious problems. This is the key part of the whole play. The best part, the leading part. I need a consummate actor, one who isn’t phased by a really big juicy part, one who can act bad temper and meanness and lack of generosity, and yet one who can convincingly thaw and repent and behave wonderfully after all. I wonder . . .’
I sat up straight. I gazed at Miss Simpkins. She surely couldn’t mean . . .
‘You, Tracy Beaker! You will be my Scrooge!’ she said.
‘Yay!’ I shrieked. I bounced up and down in my seat as if I had an india-rubber bottom.
‘That’s stupid, Miss!’ said Justine Can’t-Hold-Her-Tongue Littlewood. ‘You can’t let Tracy be Scrooge. Why should she get the best part? She just mucks around and doesn’t take things seriously. You can’t let her be in the play, she’ll just mess it up for all of us.’
‘I’ll certainly mess you up,’ I mumbled.
I rushed out of my seat, right up to Miss Simpkins.
‘I’ll take it all dead seriously, Miss Simpkins, I promise. You can count on me. And don’t be surprised if I turn out to be unexpectedly brilliant at acting as my mum is a Hollywood movie star making one film after another.’
‘As if!’ said Louise.
‘I know the only sort of movies Tracy Beaker’s mum would star in. Blue movies!’ said Justine Liar-Liar-Liar Littlewood.
My fists clenched, I so badly wanted to punch her straight in the nose, but I knew she was just trying to wind me up so Miss Simpkins would lose her temper with me and not let me be Scrooge after all. I simply raised my eyebrows and hissed a small rebuff along the lines that her dad belonged in a horror movie. Then I turned my back on her and smiled at Miss Simpkins.
‘As I’ve got the biggest part you’d better give me a copy of the play straight away, Miss Simpkins, so I can get to be word perfect. In fact, maybe I ought to be excused all the boring lessons like literacy and maths just so I can concentrate on learning my part.’
‘Nice try, Tracy, but I’m not that much of a pushover,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘No, you’ll have to learn your part in your own time.’
I was so anxious to play Scrooge I learned my lines in other people’s time. Mostly Cam’s. I used up two entire Saturday visits getting her to read out all the other parts while I Bah-Humbugged my way through Scrooge. Cam tried almost too hard at first, doing weird voices for all the Christmas ghosts and an extremely irritating little-boy lisp for Tiny Tim.
‘Hey, I’m the one that’s supposed to be acting, not you,’ I said. ‘Just speak the lines.’
‘Look, I’m the adult. Aren’t I the one supposed to tell you what to do?’ said Cam, swatting me with the script of the play. ‘Oh no, sorry, I forgot. You’re Tracy Beaker so you get to be Big Bossy-Knickers, right?’
‘Absolutely right, Cam. You got it in one! Hey, all this saying lines about sucking pigs and sausages has made me simply starving. Any chance of us going out to McDonald’s?’
I didn’t just pester Cam to hear my lines. I got Jenny and Mike at the Dumping Ground to
help me out, though I got dead annoyed when they wanted Justine Utter-Rubbish Littlewood and Louise and weedy little Peter to attend our special rehearsals too.
‘It’s not fair! I can’t concentrate with all that rabble around,’ I declared. ‘Let’s send them packing.’
‘They’re all in A Christmas Carol too, Tracy. You’re not the only one who needs help with your lines,’ said Jenny.
‘We can act it all out together,’ said Mike. ‘Trust you to behave like a prima donna, Tracy.’
‘Yeah, trust me, because what is the definition of prima donna, Mike? Isn’t she the star of the whole show? I rest my case!’
I even considered commandeering Elaine the Pain to help me with my part. She’s always encouraging us looked-after kids to role-play and act out our angst so I wondered if she might have any useful tips.
I’d lost it a little there. As if Old Elaine could ever be useful at anything! Especially Elaine in Christmas mode, decking our ropy Dumping Ground with tinsel and home-made paper chains, a pair of wacky rainbow antlers bobbing manicly on her head and a Comic Relief nose pinching her own. She was wearing a holly-berry-red knitted jumper and an ivy-green skirt, way too tight, and was warbling the words of ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’.
‘Elaine my social worker
Had a very large fat bum,
And if you ever saw her
You would scream out loud and run,’
I sang under my breath.
Not quite under enough. Elaine heard and got quite aerated. She burbled on about Cheek and Attitude and Silly Offensive Personal Remarks that could be Really Hurtful. I started to feel a little bit mean. I was even considering saying sorry. Elaine can’t help having a huge bum after all.
She said she understood I was feeling tense and anxious because she’d heard I’d taken on a huge part in our school play when I simply wasn’t used to Applying Myself and Being Responsible.
I stopped feeling even the tiniest bit sorry. I was glad when I heard Elaine say to Jenny, ‘Look, can I ask you for a really honest answer? Do you think my bu—behind looks a bit big in my new skirt?’
I decided I would simply rely on myself and learn my part properly and show them all. This was fine and dandy during the day but not quite so easy at night. I kept having these bizarre nightmares where I was all alone on stage and I kept opening my mouth like a goldfish but no sound at all came out. I couldn’t so much as blow a bubble. The audience started getting restless, pelting me with rotten fruit. One maggoty old apple landed straight in my gaping mouth, so I looked exactly like the Ghost of Christmas Present’s sucking pig. Then they put me on a spit and roasted me. I screamed that I was burning so they threw water at me. Lots and lots of water . . . When I woke up my bed was unaccountably wet and I had to go on a dismal damp trek to the bathroom and the linen cupboard.
I met up with Weedy Peter on a similar mission. He was actually crying. Like I said, I never cry. I might occasionally have an attack of hay fever but that is a medical condition, not an emotional state.
‘What are you blubbing for, silly?’ I asked.
‘I’m so scared I’ll be rubbish in the school Christmas play,’ Peter sobbed. ‘I wish wish wish Miss Simpkins hadn’t made me be Tiny Tim. I don’t want to act. I can’t remember the words and I can’t figure out which leg to hop on, and it will all be so so so much worse with people watching us. It’s all right for you, Tracy. You never get scared of anything and you’re a terrible show-off so acting’s right up your street.’
‘Cheek! Don’t you dare call me a terrible show-off!’ I said.
‘But you are.’
‘Yes, I know, but you don’t have to point it out.’
‘I’d give anything to be a terrible show-off,’ Peter said earnestly. ‘Can’t you show me how, Tracy? Is there a special trick?’
‘It’s just a natural gift, Peter,’ I said. ‘I was born showing off. I shot out of my mum and said, “Hi, folks!” to the doctor and the nurse, and then I turned a somersault, stood on my tiny feet and did a little tap dance on the delivery table.’
I felt for Peter’s head in the dark. His mouth was hanging open. I closed it gently.
‘Joke,’ I said. ‘OK, as an extra special favour to you, Peter, we’ll act out all our scenes together.’
We started meeting up for midnight rehearsals on a regular basis. Peter was soon word perfect because he had hardly any lines to learn. I mean, how hard is it to remember ‘God bless us, every one’ for goodness sake? But though he could say the words he couldn’t act them at all. He just mumbled them in a monotone.
‘You certainly are rubbish at acting, Peter,’ I said. ‘Oh stop it, don’t go all sniffly on me. I’m not being mean, I’m simply stating a fact. But don’t worry, I’ll help. You’ve got to feel your way into the part. You’re this little weedy boy with a delicate constitution and a gammy leg. That’s not hard, is it? Talk about type-casting.’
‘I haven’t got a gammy leg,’ said Peter the Pedant.
‘I’ll kick it hard if you like,’ I said. ‘Now, even though you’re down on your luck, you’re a chirpy little soul, the favourite of your family. Your dad especially dotes on you.’
‘I wish that bit was true,’ said Peter mournfully.
‘Yeah. Me too,’ I said.
We huddled closer under our shared blanket.
‘I wish I had a family to come and see me in the play,’ said Peter. ‘Well, maybe I don’t – not if I’m rubbish.’
‘You won’t be rubbish, you’ll be terrific with the Totally Tremendous Tracy Beaker directing you. Yes, it’s sad you haven’t got anyone. Never mind, I’ll ask my mum to give you a special wave.’
‘Your mum’s coming?’ Peter asked, sounding astonished.
‘You bet. She’s coming for Christmas, she promised,’ I said. ‘She’ll be desperate to watch me act to see if I’ve inherited her show-biz talents – which I have. I’ve written her a letter telling her all about the show.’
I’d written her several letters. In fact I wrote to her every single day and gave them to Jenny to post.
‘I know just how much you want to see your mum, Tracy, but don’t get too fixated on her coming to see you,’ said Elaine.
‘But she is, she wrote and said – she promised . . . practically.’
‘I know how much you want her to come, but sometimes our wishes don’t always come true,’ said Elaine.
I wished I didn’t have a social worker. I wished I had a fairy godmother who said, ‘You want your mum to come and see you? Certainly, Tracy, no problem,’ and she’d wave her wand and wow! pow! there would be my mum, all pink and powdery and perfect, her arms outstretched ready to give me a big hug.
I haven’t got a fairy godmother. I have to work my own magic.
The next Saturday Cam came to see me at the Dumping Ground as usual. We had a quick run-through of the whole play – and I mean quick. I gabbled my way through my part like I was on fast forward. I possibly missed out whole chunks, but when Cam pointed this out I just said, ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever, but I’m on this bit now,’ and revved up into Thousand-Words-A-Minute Top Gear.
We finished the play in twenty minutes dead.
‘Right! Done the rehearsal. Now let’s go out,’ I said.
‘Ah! So McDonald’s is calling?’ said Cam.
‘No. Well, yes, I’m starving actually, but I want to go round the shops. I want to do some Christmas shopping.’
Jenny gives all of us older kids a special Christmas shopping allowance. She goes shopping with the little kids and helps them choose – otherwise they just spend it on sweets for themselves. Us older kids usually snaffle a little for sweets too, but this time I wanted all my money for presents. One set of presents in particular.
‘I might as well do my Christmas shopping too, Tracy,’ said Cam.
‘Ooh! What are you getting for me, Cam?’ I asked, momentarily diverted. ‘I could really do with some new jeans. Designer, natch. And one of those really co
ol furry jackets with a hood.
And there’s this seriously wicked motorized go-cart that would be fun for swooping all round the gardens of the Dumping Ground – swoosh, swoosh – Oh I’m sorry, Justine Littlewood, was that your foot?’
‘Tracy, I can’t afford to buy you so much as a motorized matchbox at the moment. I’m totally skint. You’ve got to adopt a new attitude. It’s the thought that counts.’
‘It strikes me you should be playing Scrooge, not me, if you’re not giving proper Christmas presents,’ I said. ‘Honestly, Cam, why don’t you get your act together and write a socking great bestseller? Something that would be snapped up by Hollywood in a million-dollar movie deal. Then me and my mum could star in it.’
‘Dream on, sweetheart,’ said Cam. ‘I somehow don’t think I’m bestseller material.’
‘You’ve got to think positive, Cam. You’ve got to make your dreams come true,’ I said.
I was intent on doing just that.
When we got to the shopping centre I got Cam to come to Boots with me to buy some really special make-up.
‘So what’s the best brand, Cam?’ I asked.
‘Don’t ask me, Tracy, I hardly ever wear makeup. I just buy whatever’s cheapest,’ she said.
‘Well, this is a present for my mum so I want the most glamorous gorgeous stuff possible.’
I fiddled around trying out different lipstick shades on my wrist until it looked like I had red-rose tattoos up both arms.
Then I finally selected the most perfect pearly pink.
Cam thought we were done. ‘No, no! Hand lotion next!’ Cam sighed and fidgeted while I tried out all the lotions, sniffing them carefully and comparing them for creaminess. After a while my hands got very slippery and sticky and I had to wipe them on my skirt.
‘I don’t think Jenny’s going to be very thrilled about those great greasy marks,’ said Cam. ‘Come on, Tracy, let’s go to the bookshop now.’