Lottie Project Read online

  ‘Why didn’t you say I slapped you?’ I whispered.

  Jamie blinked at me nervously. ‘I’m not a sneaky tell-tale,’ he said.

  ‘Well. Thanks,’ I mumbled.

  He didn’t say anything back but his other cheek went red too.

  So perhaps Jamie isn’t one hundred per cent revolting and disgusting and infuriating. Just ninety-nine per cent. But as if I’d ever sit chewing my nails waiting for his phone call!

  Nobody rang. Not a single soul required the services of the strong reliable schoolgirl.

  ‘Why don’t you ring him?’ said Jo, still dopily deluded.

  But the next day Miss Pease from downstairs waylaid her as she was stumbling back from her morning shift at the supermarket.

  ‘Yes, Miss Pease wanted a little word about you, Charlie,’ said Jo, hands on her hips.

  ‘If she’s nagging on about my music again she’s nuts. I keep it turned down so soft I can barely hear it myself. She must have ears like Dumbo’s,’ I said, munching toast.

  Jo snatched half of it from my plate. ‘Here, spare a crumb for your poor hardworking mother,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘So am I. You make your own. I’ve got to go to school.’

  ‘Yes, well, you can wait a minute. Miss Pease says you’ve been soliciting.’

  ‘I’ve been what?’ I said.

  ‘Well, that’s the word she used,’ said Jo. She was trying to sound stern, but she looked as if she might giggle any minute. ‘Yes, that’s what she said. “I really must bring this to your attention, Josephine. Charlotte has been soliciting.”’ Jo’s voice wobbled.

  I chuckled tentatively. It was a mistake.

  ‘No, it’s not funny, Charlie. What have you been playing at, posting all these little letters in people’s flats offering to do work?’

  ‘I was wanting to help out.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie. You are a nutter. Miss Pease is right for once in her long and boring life. You can’t advertise yourself like that, especially when there are such loonies around. Some weird guy might have read about this little schoolgirl wanting work and got some terrible ideas.’

  ‘I’m not little, I’m big. And strong. But I take your point. Still, you don’t have to fuss. No-one’s phoned. Not a single sausage, and after all that money I spent on photocopying. It’s daft. The whole idea was to make a bit of money.’

  ‘Don’t worry. That’s my job. And anyway, it has worked in a way. Miss Pease says she’s got a job for you.’

  ‘Really?’ I tried to feel pleased, but Miss Pease is such a pain. She’s the sort of old lady who pats you on the head like a puppydog and relentlessly asks you how old you are, as if you might have aged five years since the last time you told her a week ago. Still, work is work.

  Only this work was worse than most. You’ll never guess what she wanted me to do. Read to her.

  I don’t really like reading aloud at the best of times. I don’t like hearing my voice go all silly and showing-off. And that’s when I can pick and choose my own book. Miss Pease wanted me to read her library book, one of those large big-print books that make your arms ache when you hold them up. My arms ached, my back ached, my head ached, my throat ached, my entire body was in ache overdrive after I read to Miss Pease for a whole hour.

  It was this terrible stupid story about some dippy woman who kept being pursued in the desert by this total nutcase in a striped nightie. Well, that’s what he was wearing on the book jacket. Instead of telling him to get lost sharpish the heroine simpered and swooned into the sand. I kid you not. And Miss Pease obviously adored this utter rubbish. She sat back literally licking her chops. Mind you, that might have been because of all the Cadbury’s Milk Tray she was eating. She got through a good half of the box.

  ‘Of course I’d offer you one, Charlie dear, but you can’t really read with your mouth full, can you?’ she said.

  ‘I can try,’ I said hopefully.

  She thought I was joking. And I thought she was joking when she handed over my wages for the reading session.

  ‘Here you are, dear,’ she said, fumbling in her purse. She handed me a ten-pence piece.

  I stared at it. Had she mistaken it for a pound coin? Even so, what a totally mingy rate of pay!

  ‘Pop it in your money box, dear,’ said Miss Pease. ‘And come back and read to me tomorrow.’

  Not flipping likely! I was dead depressed, and annoyed when Jo just laughed and found it funny. But she was in a good mood because she’d got herself another job, cleaning this big posh house three days a week from ten to twelve.

  ‘Three jobs!’ she said, and she sent out for pizza with three extra toppings to celebrate.

  ‘You’ll exhaust yourself,’ I said. ‘What with getting up at five and doing the supermarket and then looking after the silly little sprog in the afternoons.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. And this new job’s a doddle. The house is big, but they keep it very tidy. She’s ever so worried about the idea of employing another woman to do her dirty work. I bet she runs round with the vacuum before I get there.’

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked, my mouth drooling cheese fronds.

  ‘Oxford Terrace,’ said Jo.

  I stared at her, so shocked that my half of the pizza slipped out of my fingers onto the floor. I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry any more.

  FOOD

  Oh, how I long for Mother’s cooking. One of her meaty stews, bubbling with barley beans and carrots. Or rabbit pie. Mother has such a light touch when it comes to making pastry. Her fruit lattice pies are famous all over the village. And her suet puddings. If I could only have a plateful of Mother’s jam suet pudding and custard! Or even a big doorstep slice of bread and dripping . . .

  I have to slice up the bread so thin here I slice my fingers too, and Louisa won’t eat her crusts even then. The baby likes his bread pounded into mush with warm milk. Mother would never dream of pampering us so. We always ate what we were given and chewed it cheerily. Well, mostly. But Louisa always plays around with her food and cries and complains something chronic, and Victor is extremely pernickety for a boy, fuss fuss fussing if he swallows a little lump in his custard. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to grab their plates and eat it up for them because I’m so hungry. I have to manage on nursery food too, no meat at all during the week, and just one slice off the roast on Sundays. I am allowed one egg a week too, but it’s a pale watery thing compared with the deep gold yolks laid by our hens at home.

  I have to make do with this niminy-piminy fare with the merest scrape of butter The only food that is plentiful is milk pudding. I shall start mooing before long.

  ‘We don’t want you to fall ill with too rich a diet,’ says the Mistress, as if servants have different stomachs from posh folk.

  Mrs Angel the cook and Eliza the maid are supposed to survive on this frugal diet too, but they eat their meals down in the kitchen and Mrs Angel is adept at keeping back the choicest portions for their own plates before Eliza serves the Master and Mistress in the dining room. I have my meals in the nursery so I miss out on these perks. Mrs Angel and Eliza treat me like one of the children anyway. They whisper and have secrets and laugh unkindly at the things I say. They are excessively tiresome. They are the childish pair. I do my best to ignore them, but then Mrs Angel calls me hoity toity and Eliza pulls my hair so that it tumbles down out of my cap. It is hard to bear sometimes. At home I was always a favourite. At school I was definitely Miss Worthbeck’s pet. All the children loved me. Even the boys. Yes, even that great lummox Edward James. But now I am openly despised and it makes my heart sore. At night I cry into my pillowcase, the sheets pulled right over my head so the children will not hear me.

  Victor sees my red eyes in the morning and says that I have been blubbing.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say firmly. ‘I have a slight cold, that is all.’

  Perhaps that was tempting fate. Now the whole household has gone down with colds, even little baby Freddie. Mrs Angel has taken to