Little Darlings Read online

  ‘I’d say you have a lot of raw talent, lads – with the emphasis on raw,’ he says. ‘What do you think, Mrs Avery?’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got a lot of potential, guys. Jack, can you do a somersault?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Jack, spitting on his hands and flipping over.

  ‘Cool. We’ll make a feature of that. I can help you sort out a routine, all you guys dancing in unison. Maybe we can work in one or two surprise elements.’

  ‘That’s not fair, miss, if you’re giving them all this help and coaching,’ says Rocky Samson, who’s in the Speedo dance group.

  ‘Mrs Avery is here to help everyone, Rocky,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘She’s a positive saint, prepared to give up her dinner hour every day to help you lot, so I hope you’re properly grateful to her. And to yours truly.’ He gives an ironic little bow.

  Some of us are going to need more help than others. The girl dancers are not too bad. They’ve been practising in the playground already and they’ve mostly copied routines off the telly. Raymond’s dance is brilliant, not the slightest bit sissy, though the boys were all set to laugh at him. They don’t laugh at Ritchie and Jeff, though they’re supposed to be funny. The girls’ play is hopeless – they just waffle, and then there’s a sudden argument and they all start shouting so loudly and so fast you can’t even hear what they’re saying.

  Mr Roberts sighs. ‘Girls, girls, girls! Lower your voices – and speak slowly.’

  ‘But we have to speak quick to get it all in, you said we’ve only got ten minutes, Mr Roberts,’ says Natalie.

  ‘Then we must cut the words, not gabble them,’ says Mr Roberts, taking notes. ‘I can see my dinner hours are going to be chock-a-block too.’

  Fareed isn’t very inspiring with his magic tricks, dropping his cards twice, and Hannah just hangs her head and stands beside him, not doing anything.

  Mr Roberts sighs. ‘I think we need to build a little razzmatazz into the act, kids,’ he says, making notes. ‘But don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.’

  Angel is in a sulk and hasn’t got an act prepared at all. ‘There’s no point if you won’t let me do a pole dance,’ she says.

  ‘Maybe you and I could work out an acrobatic dance together, Angel,’ says Mrs Avery. ‘Like a solo street dance? Do you have a favourite song – something with a real beat to it? I’ll help you work out a routine.’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Angel, still sounding sulky, but you can tell she’s really pleased.

  Now it’s me. Mr Roberts smiles at me encouragingly.

  ‘OK, Destiny, your go. Do you still want to try this Danny Kilman number?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, do you have the backing music?’

  ‘No.’

  He looks delighted. ‘Then maybe you’ll need me to accompany you on my guitar after all?’

  No, no, no!

  ‘If – if you don’t mind, Mr Roberts, I’d sooner sing by myself, like I said. The guitar might – might put me off,’ I stammer.

  ‘Very well. But you’re probably going to need a little back-up for the actual performance. That’s a truly difficult song to pitch a cappella.’

  I don’t know what he’s on about. I don’t want his Kumbaya dithery guitar noises mucking up my song. I don’t need to hear any backing. I’ve heard Destiny almost every day of my life. I know every little note and nuance the way I know the sound of my own breath.

  Mr Roberts is looking doubtful. The boys are looking bored, the girls spiteful, ready to snigger. Angel is yawning, rocking back on her chair. I suddenly feel sick. Maybe I’m going to make a total idiot of myself and ruin Danny’s song into the bargain.

  Your dad’s song, says Mum, inside my head.

  I close my eyes. I’ll sing it just for her. I open my mouth and get started. As soon as I’ve sung, ‘You are my Destiny,’ I’m there in the song, on a different planet, and I’m feeling the words, the soar and sweep of them making the hairs stand up on my arms, and I carry on to the last beautiful long note, letting it all out.

  Then there’s silence.

  I open my eyes. Everyone’s staring at me. I feel myself getting hot. I’m sure I’m blushing. I have made a fool of myself. They clapped everyone else. They even clapped Fareed and Hannah, and they were hopeless.

  Why are they all just sitting there looking so stunned?

  Then Mrs Avery starts clapping. She actually stands up and claps, and the others join in. Mr Roberts claps too, in a weird uncoordinated way, as if he isn’t quite sure his hands are still on the ends of his arms.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Destiny,’ he says eventually, sounding sort of cross. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I peer at him. Tell him what?

  ‘You’ve got the most amazing voice.’ He’s still peering at me as if he can’t quite believe it. ‘You’ve never sung like that before. Why didn’t you sing like that in my music lessons?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well, I’m still astonished, Destiny. I’m not sure I’ve got any advice for you. Just sing your heart out.’

  I can’t wait to get home to tell Mum. I can sing, I can sing, I can sing! Well, I’ve always known I can sing. Mum says I’ve inherited my dad’s voice, but actually I don’t sound a bit like Danny Kilman. Maybe I take after my mum. We always lark around singing together when we’re dusting or decorating or scrubbing the floor.

  Actually Mum hasn’t been singing much recently. But this will cheer her up. Mr Roberts is going to put me on last in Bilefield’s Got Talent. We’re meant to be all in with an equal chance but it’s obvious I’m in the top spot. There will be an afternoon performance for the rest of the school, and then another one at seven for all our families, both with panels of judges. It’s a Friday and Mum starts her evening shift at the Dog and Fox spot on seven. I’ll just have to hope she can swap shifts with someone.

  I hurry home, knowing she won’t be back till half six at the earliest. She’s got this new client, Maggie Johnson, who likes Mum to put her to bed with a cup of tea and a Tunnock’s teacake, and then they watch The Weakest Link together. Mum has to join in too, even though she’s not an Anne Robinson fan and never knows any of the answers. Maggie doesn’t know many of them either, but it cheers her up to have a go. Mum’s tried to make me go round to this Maggie’s house because she worries about me being on my own and she thought it would cheer Maggie up. It didn’t work. I can’t stand Maggie’s home because it’s dark and it smells and there are wet knickers and nighties drying all over the radiators and the backs of chairs – and Maggie herself isn’t a sweet rosy-cheeked old lady, she’s a mean old bag who glowered at me, and kept asking in a loud whisper, ‘What’s she doing here?’

  I wish Mum didn’t have all these awful mouldering clients monopolizing her. She’s my mum and I want her looking after me. But wait till I tell her about Mr Roberts’s reaction to my singing! I let myself in and find a note telling me that someone’s tried to deliver a parcel. They’ve left it with Mrs Briggs next door.

  A parcel? We never get parcels. I clutch the key and run round to Mrs Briggs’s. She takes ages getting to her door, creaking along behind her zimmer frame. I call through the letterbox, ‘It’s just me, Mrs Briggs, Destiny, don’t worry!’ but she still puts her door on the chain and peers through the crack suspiciously.

  ‘Are you kids plaguing the life out of me again?’ she demands.

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Briggs!’

  ‘Ah yes, young Desiree,’ she says. She’s never quite got the hang of my name. ‘Yes, you’ll never guess what, dear, someone’s sent you a parcel. Is it your birthday?’

  ‘Well, it was, last week.’

  ‘You never said! I would have got you a card. So how old are you, darling?’

  We go all round the moon discussing me being eleven and Mrs Briggs being eighty-seven when all I want is to get my parcel! But eventually she lets me in and I pick up the huge Jiffy bag in her hall. I peer at the writing on the bag. I don’t recognize it. It’s no