Bryony Bell Tops the Bill by Franzeska G. Ewart, Kelly Waldek Page A

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!!!!!!
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 alldescriptions. 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?
’
    â€˜Good audience?’ Bryony asked tentatively.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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