Little Darlings (23 page)

There are two small girls I vaguely recognize, Emerald and Diamond, the daughters of one of the Dollycat Singers, and there's Jessie and Lucie-Anne, twins belonging to a soap star who's recently made a record. Mum and Rose-May have worked together to assemble lots of little girls who look right: they're all small and blonde with flouncy dresses, though none quite as petite and pretty and ultra-flouncy as the birthday princess. They are like a bevy of small bridesmaids, and Sweetie is quite definitely the bride.

They are nearly all here now, so the photographer takes several group photos. Then there are grisly family portraits on the long sofa, Sweetie sitting up very straight between Mum and Dad, smiling serenely, while Ace flops about at their feet. I edge to the furthest corner of the sofa, mouth set in a rigid smile, my lips pressed together so I don't expose my teeth.

‘Cuddle up to Mum and Dad, darling,' says the photographer, but I take no notice. Mum doesn't
make me. Perhaps she's thinking it will be easier to lop me off the photo that way.

Mr Humbug is playing an accordion, singing little-girly songs, and Miss Barley Sugar and Miss Lemon Drop are playing a
Tie a Yellow Ribbon
game with everyone. Sweetie isn't concentrating, desperate to open her presents.

The photographer takes lots of shots of her kneeling by the present tree, holding this parcel and that, taking particular notice of the largest presents in their sparkly paper, bedecked with yards of ribbon. One is as tall as Sweetie, the other even taller.

Mum decides we can't wait any longer for the last guest, and Sweetie is allowed to start feverishly unwrapping. There are dolls and teddies and picture books and jewellery from all the little girls. Margaret and John give her a cake-making set with a little apron. Barkie gives her a big box of chocolates. Rose-May gives her a silver bracelet with dinky charms. Claudia gives her a big box of crayons and a drawing book. Sweetie doesn't look very interested so I hope I might be able to purloin them. She barely gives my present a second look either – it's a big book of fairy tales with lots of coloured pictures of palaces and golden-haired princesses. Ace gives her a toy tractor and starts playing with it himself.

Sweetie opens Mum's present next: it's a beautiful life-size doll with real fair hair, eerily like Sweetie's, and she's wearing a matching party dress.

‘There, darling! She's been specially made to be your little twin! Isn't she lovely? You can comb her hair and change her clothes. See how many outfits she's got! I ordered her from a lady over in America – she usually makes these dollies for grown-up ladies, but I knew just how much you'd care for her and treasure her. You will, won't you, Sweetie?'

‘Oh,
yes
, Mummy, she's the most wonderful doll in the world!' says Sweetie.

She poses beautifully with her, kissing the doll's forehead, stroking her hair, holding out both their dresses, while the photographer flashes and clicks. She even lets all the other little girls have a turn holding her, walking her up and down.

Then it's Mum's turn to be photographed. There they are, three golden-haired smiling beauties, like a puzzle in a child's comic:
Which one is the doll?

I'm smiling too, but I can't help remembering
my
sixth birthday. Why didn't
I
get a wondrous life-size replica doll? Well, it's obvious why. Imagine a great gawky doll with frizzy hair and gappy teeth. Who would want a doll like that?

Now Sweetie's about to open the last and biggest parcel, Dad's present. It's far too heavy for her to lift. Dad has to help her undo all the wrapping. A pink edge pokes out, and then little glass jars on a shelf. It's a shop, Sweetie's own sweetshop. It says so in fancy lettering on the shop sign. It's big enough for Sweetie to clamber behind the counter and sit on a little pink stool. There are tiny old-fashioned scales on the counter so she can weigh all the sweets, and a cash register where she can keep her money. This is pretend, but all the sweets in the jars are real: fruit drops all colours of the rainbow, peppermints, chocolate toffees, wine gums, dolly mixtures . . .

‘Oh, Daddy, it's such a glorious present!' says Sweetie, clapping her hands. ‘You must come to my shop and be my first customer!'

Dad looks thrilled, but he glances at Rose-May, wondering if it's right for his image to be photographed squatting down buying sweets from his little girl. Rose-May nods approvingly, so Dad plays his part while the photographers flash all over again. Then Sweetie has to serve all the other little girls, acting so charmingly, like a real little birthday princess.

I can hear Mum and Dad whispering.

‘You might have
told
me!'

‘I did, I did, I
said
I was getting her a shop.'

‘Yes, but you didn't say a sweetshop, not with real sweets. She'll make herself sick if we're not careful –
and
rot her perfect little teeth.'

‘For God's sake, Suzy, it was your idea to have an entire sweet-themed
party
– look around you, there are sweets
galore
.'

‘Yes, but they're just decorations. The kids aren't scoffing the lot.'

‘Lighten up, can't you? Let Sweetie
enjoy
her present. Why make such a fuss just because she likes it more than that big dolly?'

‘She
loves
that doll. She'll be like a real heirloom for Sweetie.'

The photographer is calling for a family picture in front of the sweetshop.

‘Come on, Danny and Suzy,' Rose-May says, shaking her head at them as if they're naughty toddlers. She's smiling brightly, with strange emphasis, to set them an example: let's have Happy Faces for the birthday photo.

Dad smiles, Mum smiles, and they hasten obediently over to Sweetie and her shop. Ace is there too, delving into the jars, sucking and licking each sample.

The photographer beckons to me to be part of the Happy Family, but I'm saved by the bell. The
last little guest has arrived at long last. I run down the hall to open the door and usher her in.

Then I stand frozen, open-mouthed, forgetting to hide my teeth. It's a very little girl with bunches, younger than Sweetie, only three or four years old – a plain little girl blinking at me anxiously, clutching a grubby cuddle blanket over her nose so that it hides her face like a hijab. The young woman with her tugs at the blanket impatiently.

‘Come on, Pandora, time to put blankie away now, we're at the party.'

‘No, no, Auntie Liz, I
need
blankie,' Pandora protests.

I know this auntie. She's blonde and ultra-skinny in her tight jeans and tiny top. She's got a little girl's bobbed hair and darkly shaded eyes with thick lashes and a very big mouth shining bright red. It's Big Mouth, the girl in the
Milky Star
film, turned up like the Bad Fairy at Sleeping Beauty's party.

She smiles at me with those terrifying lips and moves forward.

‘Hello. I think you're Sunset, Danny's elder daughter? Your dad invited us to the party. This is my little niece, Pandora. Sorry we're so late – we lost her wretched blanket . . .'

She steps indoors in her strappy high heels, dragging Pandora after her. I'm not quick enough to stop them. I stand stupidly dithering when I should push them back outside and slam the door in their faces, because I know what will happen, I know, I know. I follow them helplessly down the hall, watch as they go to join the party, Liz Big Mouth pulling Pandora along, and then they're in the room and I hover at the door, holding my breath.

I see Dad look up and give a little nod, I see Claudia hold out her hand reassuringly to Pandora, I see the photographer flashing away, I see Mum smiling, kneeling beside Sweetie, and I think for a moment it will be all right. Pandora will be absorbed into the crowd of little girls, and Big Mouth will blend in with the gaggle of mums and nannies drinking champagne at the other end of the room. But then Mum's head jerks. She's staring at them. She stands up, her face flushing a startling red.

‘Suzy,' Rose-May says quickly, looking at the photographer and the journalist from
Hi!

I don't think Mum even hears her. ‘Who invited you?' she hisses.

Big Mouth stands still, looking over at Dad.

‘Get out!' Mum screams, and everyone jumps.
Some of the little girls start crying. ‘Get
out
– and take that mousy little brat with you!'

Pandora cries too, sobbing into her blanket, and I follow as they're both hustled down the hall.

‘Don't cry, Pandora, it's not your fault!' I gabble.

I see the little pile of our new bears discarded on the stairs and grab my panda. ‘Here, have this for a going-home present,' I say.

I thrust it into her arms as she's tugged off down the drive.

‘Where's my little singing star?' Mum calls as she opens the front door.

I don't answer.

‘Destiny?' She comes into the living room, and then stops. ‘Destiny, what is it?'

‘Nothing, I'm fine,' I mumble.

‘Well, come on, you silly girl, don't just sit there all hunched up. Give me a hug! Aren't you pleased I'm home so early? Louella was an angel, said she'd see to my last two ladies.'

I stand awkwardly and let her put her arms round me. I don't want her to hold me. I'm scared she'll start me crying. I can see she's dying to ask about this afternoon's contest – but doesn't quite like to now she can see there's obviously something wrong.

‘Tell me, sweetheart,' Mum says quietly. She suddenly jerks. ‘Oh God, your leather jacket's OK? No one's nicked it?'

‘It's there, on the back of the chair.'

‘So what's up?'

‘
Nothing's
up.'

‘Are you feeling a bit nervous about tonight's concert? Don't worry, darling. The moment you step onstage and start singing you'll feel wonderful.'

‘No I won't.'

‘Well,
I'll
feel wonderful, watching you.'

‘You won't. Because I'm not singing tonight.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, Mum, don't look like that. I'm not singing. It's no big deal, so let's shut up about the stupid
concert and have tea.' I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

‘Who says you're not singing?'

‘Me.'

‘Did you sing this afternoon?'

‘Yep.'

‘And?'

‘And nothing.'

‘Oh, sweetheart, did you forget your words?'

I give her a look.

‘I can't stand this, Destiny! Will you just tell me what happened? Did your voice go funny? Did you just dry up? Tell me, darling.'

I lay out two mugs, two plates. Mum's put a white cardboard box on the worktop. I look inside. There's a slice of pink cream gâteau with a strawberry on the top. It's from the posh French pâtisserie near the market. We've often looked in the window and played the game of choosing which cake we like best. I chop and change, but nearly always choose the strawberry gâteau.

I stare at it. The strawberry blurs, the cake wavers. I'm crying, though I vowed I wouldn't.

‘I didn't win the talent contest, Mum,' I whisper.

‘Well, never mind, darling. As if it matters,' says Mum bravely. ‘Who won then?'

‘This girl Angel.'

‘That's a lovely name.'

‘She's so not a lovely girl.'

‘But she's a good singer?'

‘She didn't sing, she did a dance.'

‘So, did you come second?'

‘Nope. I didn't come anywhere. And it's not
fair
,' I cry, like a total baby. ‘I sang OK, Mum, I know I did, but none of the kids gave me good marks because I'm still the new girl and I'm not in the right gang and they don't like me.' I'm crying in great ugly gulps, my nose running. I cover my face with the shame of it.

‘Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. That's awful! And ridiculous. So you think they deliberately voted against you? Couldn't Mr Roberts sort them out? What sort of a hopeless wuss is he, unable to get the upper hand with a bunch of children? And what sort of spiteful, mean-spirited kids are they, deliberately marking you down?' Mum's working herself up into a state, making the tea but banging the mugs down hard.

‘Well, I don't know for
certain
that was why they didn't give me good marks. Maybe I just sang like rubbish.'

‘That's nonsense talk, you're a wonderful singer.'

‘Yeah, but you're my mum – of course you're going to think that.'

‘Everyone's going to think it this evening when they hear you.'

‘No one's going to hear me because I'm not taking part. There's no point. It'll happen all over again. And it'll be awful. They were all nudging each other and laughing and Angel said horrible stuff and—'