Little Darlings Read online

  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.

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