Bryony Bell Tops the Bill

For Sharon Duncan, my oldest friend.

Chapter: One

Chapter: Two

Chapter: Three

Chapter: Four

Chapter: Five

Chapter: Six

Chapter: Seven

Chapter: Eight

Chapter: Nine

Chapter: Ten

About the Author

A Note on the Author

Jan Mark: Eyes wide open

Sue Purkiss: Changing Brooms

Black Cats — collect them all!

Bryony Bell thundered down the stairs three at a time. Four steps from the bottom she grabbed hold of the banister, flung herself over, took a running jump on to the mat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, and let it slide her smoothly to the front door. Then she clicked open the letterbox and hissed through at the rectangle of blue serge, ‘Don't ring!'

The postman dutifully froze, and when Bryony opened the door he was still standing like a strange statue, index finger pointing bellwards.

‘Shhhhh!' Bryony cautioned needlessly.

‘Parcel for Ms B. Bell,' the postman whispered. ‘You've to sign for it,' he added, almost inaudibly.

‘Brilliant!' hissed Bryony. ‘They've come!'

She signed the form.

‘Don't want anyone knowing,' she explained as she handed it back. ‘Top secret, it is — 'cept for my dad.'

The postman handed over a brown box covered in express delivery stickers, and hoisted his bag on to his shoulder. Then, with a muttered ‘Mum's the word, then,' he shuffled off, leaving Bryony in her pink frilly nightie, gazing at the parcel in delight.

All was still quiet in the Bell household, but Bryony knew that time was running out. She made for the kitchen, ripped off the wrapping paper and read the writing on the box.

‘Wicked!' she whistled. ‘Viper 3000s with white fibreglass composite uppers, adjustable toe-stops, extra strong bearings and Ice-Lite wheels …'

She opened the lid, lifted the white tissue paper, and gazed in wonder at what nestled within.

The early morning sun glinted off the shiny aluminium wheel-trims. The whole kitchen
glowed in the dazzling whiteness of the fibreglass composite uppers. The wheels had ‘speed' written all over their black rubber and the adjustable toe-stops looked strong enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.

Bryony picked one up, held it to her nose and breathed in its delicious new smell. ‘Viper 3000s …' she whispered over and over to herself. ‘White Viper 3000s — the ultimate in rollerskating perfection.'

She ripped back the Velcro strap, loosened the laces and slipped her foot inside. The rollerskate fitted like a glove. She took the other one out and put it on too, and, very slowly, she sidestepped gracefully round and round the table, first in one direction and then, backwards and considerably faster, in the other. She finished with a little spin, threw her head back, and, holding her nightie out with both hands, curtsied at the kettle, the fridge, and the bread-bin in turn.

‘There's no stopping me now,' she said, smiling happily to herself. ‘With Viper 3000s, the world's my oyster!'

She glanced upwards, head to one side, listening out for the familiar little creaking sound which meant her father was up. When she heard it, she blew a kiss in its direction and whispered, ‘I love you, Dad!'

Hurrying now, she eased her feet out of the rollerskates and laid them gently back on their bed of tissue paper, just overcoming the temptation to kiss them too. Then she slid the box out of sight under the towels in the airing cupboard.

‘Just in the nick of time!' she breathed, as a series of high-pitched sounds rent the air above her head.

She turned on the tap to fill the kettle. It was always best to do this during the ‘voice exercises' because the gushing sound drowned out the worst of the top notes.

Then came ‘scale practice'. During this, Bryony liked to be setting out the cereal bowls and jars of jam and marmalade and honey. And finally — and by this time she had to have the eggs on to boil and the bread in the toaster — there was the Bell Family Song.

The Bell Family Song rang out as usual, in close four-part harmony and with earsplitting gusto …

We're The Singing Bells and we'll sing till we drop

We're The Singing Bells and we're bound for the top

We're The Singing Bells and we'll try ‘n try un-t-i-l

We get to the top…

We get to the top…

To the top of WHAT?

At this point there was the usual dramatic pause, during which Bryony tossed five teabags into the teapot then clamped her hands over her ears before the climax line:

WE GET TO THE
…

T-O-P

O-F

T-H-E

B-I-L-L!!!!!!

‘And after all that,' she muttered, pouring in the boiling water, ‘they'll be absolutely ravenous.'

She set the teapot on the table, filled the milk jug and stood well back to watch the kitchen fill to the brim with little Bells.

There was Angelina Bell, who was nine, Melody and Melissa Bell, who were both eight, Emmy-Lou Bell, who was five, and ‘Little' Bob Bell, who was two, and who came at the end, rather like a full stop. Following in the wake of his son and daughters was ‘Big' Bob Bell, who was about the same height as Angelina and a full head shorter than Bryony.

‘Right, now, take your cereal and mind your manners,' Big Bob shouted as he lifted Little Bob into his high chair. Soon the kitchen was filled with the sounds of
snaps, crackles
and
pops
of all
descriptions. Big Bob sat down, looked over the sea of eaters, and caught Bryony's eye. He raised one eyebrow slightly, and Bryony raised one of hers in return. Then she lifted the milk jug and, coming round to his side of the table, bent over his shoulder to fill his bowl. And as she poured, she whispered conspiratorially, They've come, Dad! And they couldn't be better. Thanks a million trillion zillion!'

Big Bob grinned. ‘That's my girl!' he whispered back. ‘Oh Bryony,' he added, ‘go easy on the butter on your mum's toast this morning. Bit of a heavy night at the Club, if you catch my drift.'

Bryony scraped some of the butter off the toast fingers she had prepared, carefully cut the top off one of the soft-boiled eggs, poured some very strong tea into a rose-patterned teacup, and set off upstairs with her mother's breakfast tray.

As she passed Big Bob he hissed, ‘Just a minute, lass!' Then he grabbed a pair of scissors, rushed outside into the garden, and came back with a pink dewy rosebud and a huge proud smile.

‘A rose for a rose,' he said, resting the stem against his little brown moustache and breathing in ecstatically, then popping the flower into a tiny vase and placing it reverentially on the tray between the soft-boiled eggs and the buttered toast fingers.

Bryony walked sedately upstairs. She eased the bedroom door open with her foot. The air inside was a musty mix of Air du Temps perfume and very old Newcastle Brown.

‘Morning, Mum!' she said brightly.

Her mother groaned and heaved herself up on a multitude of pink silk pillows, each of which was embroidered with the letter C surrounded by garlands of pink rosebuds. She lifted one side of her black lace eyemask and said something that sounded like, ‘
Isthatthetime?
'

‘Good audience?' Bryony asked tentatively.

‘Not bad,' her mother replied. ‘But it was such a late night, Bryony. I'm going to be shattered today, and we've a big rehearsal tonight for
TV Family Star Turns
. Did the little ‘uns do their morning practice OK?'

Bryony nodded, and her mother smiled weakly.

‘Only three weeks to go,' she said. ‘Time's tight. Plump up my pillows will you Bryony? There's a love.'

Bryony laid her mother's tray on the floor, gritted her teeth, and began to thump.

‘We'll do it though,' Clarissa went on, ‘supposing it kills us. “That's show business”, as they say!'

Bryony paused mid-punch, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. In dealings with Clarissa, timing, she knew, was everything — and this just wasn't the moment. Giving the
pillow one final, colossal, thump she picked up the breakfast tray, set it on her mother's ample lap, and perched on the edge of the bed to wait till the time was ripe.

Nervously, she watched her mother eat the first boiled egg. A dozen or more photographs of her mother smiled back at her, for the bedroom was a veritable shrine to Clarissa Bell.

Clarissa Bell was her mother's stage name, her real name being Tracy which was way too ordinary. Most nights, Clarissa could be seen singing in a variety of working men's clubs, where she was enormously popular. Just like all the other Bells, Bryony thought her mum was magic, and she always loved to see her all dolled up. And Clarissa liked nothing better than to slip into a long slinky dress, coil up her wavy blonde
hair high on her head like a luxurious cream dessert, and sing for them all. It made them all feel terribly special. And it made all of them — except Bryony — long for the day when they too would share in her fame.

All the Bell girls, except Bryony, had beautiful singing voices, and even Little Bob could gurgle his favourite song,
Bob the Builder
, well enough to be recognisable. Usually, it didn't bother Bryony — after all, she was going to be a skating star, nothing surer. But for the past month the Bell household had revolved around
The Singing Bells
. As far as Clarissa was concerned, thought Bryony ruefully, nothing else really mattered.

The Singing Bells
was Clarissa's brainchild. She longed to see the family name up in lights, and when she had seen the advert for
TV Family Star Turns
, nothing would do but she would enter them. They had passed the first rounds with flying colours; and now that the live television final was just weeks away, they spent every spare minute practising.