did it feel like to be eleven years old 150 years ago? Miss McDougall says that life Wasn’t Easy back then. I wish someone would tell her that’s it’s not exactly a picnic now.
‘Think hungry,’ Miss McDougall says when Aisha and I are acting out the workhouse scenes. ‘Think lonely, think lost,’ she says when we’re trying to put some feeling into Oliver’s solo song. ‘Think scared,’ she says when we’re acting out the bit where Oliver gets stolen away by Bill Sykes, or the bit where Bill kills Nancy and Oliver can’t do a thing to stop it happening.
I can do all that. I can do hungry, lonely, lost, scared, and more.
‘Good girl, Indie,’ Miss McDougall says. ‘Good girl.’
We have rehearsals after school every Monday and Friday. It’s not so hard to learn all those words, not when you’re all in it together, scene after scene. It gets so it’s like a story running in your head, a Disney film you know by heart, a nursery rhyme you can say forwards, backwards, sideways.
We have singing practice with the whole class every afternoon, just for half an hour, till we know all the songs. Miss McDougall says we need more practice, but you can tell she’s pleased. Sometimes, Aisha and me have extra practice at lunchtimes, polishing up the solo song or going over some tricky scene.
Miss McDougall sets a competition to design a poster for the show, and Iqbal wins with a drawing of a sad-eyed boy holding out a bowl. Miss Kearns and Mr Leonie are painting backdrops for us, and Kai’s mum comes in and measures everyone for costumes. We get a letter home, asking if anyone’s parents can help with the sewing, and Mum says she’ll have a go.
Miss McDougall sends her acres of sugar-pink lining fabric and a sample dress, and she stitches ten girly frocks for the flower-seller scene in just one week.
Mum’s up every morning now, before I go to school, making porridge with a swirl of honey, pouring orange juice, tidying the flat. She sleeps, she eats, she even laughs. She keeps Misti clean and tidy, plays with her, goes to the park, takes her to toddler group. She gets the shopping every day, she washes and irons, she makes soup and stew and macaroni cheese and apple crumble with custard. She’s stopped crying the whole time, and she never talks about Max any more.
She never sneaks out late at night, when she thinks I’m asleep, to ring him.
Sometimes she fetches shopping for Mrs Green, or sits up late drinking coffee and laughing with Ian Turner.
Jane’s stopped worrying. I’ve stopped worrying.
We’re free.
Mum notices that I haven’t been to Jo’s house for a very long time. ‘It’s OK, you know, if you want to,’ she says. ‘I’m OK now, really. I know how wonderful you’ve been, keeping things together here, looking after Misti. I’m sorry I put you through that, Indie. But it’s fine now. Go and enjoy yourself a bit. Go to Jo’s.’
I shrug.
‘Or ask her here again, if that’s easier? We could have pizza, make popcorn…’
‘I don’t see Jo much any more,’ I say.
OK, I see her every day, but I can’t look at her. If she walks towards me, my eyes slide away and I turn my back. There are only so many times you can lie down flat and let someone walk all over you.
Mum looks stricken. ‘Oh, Indie, love, I had no idea…’
She puts her arms round me for a moment and we cling on, squeezing hard. Misti comes up, looking anxious, and burrows into the middle of us. We’re a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, messed-about sandwich.
When we break away, Mum makes hot chocolate and floats marshmallows on the top. Misti’s face is streaked with chocolate and goo.
‘Mum…’
‘Yup?’
‘Could I ask someone else? Gould I ask someone else to tea?’
Aisha walks home with me after rehearsals on Friday, and she doesn’t moan about how far it is or tell me I’ll have to go to Rathbone High. She likes 33 Hartington Drive.
‘It’s huge,’ she says in awe. ‘Really spooky, just
‘Think hungry,’ Miss McDougall says when Aisha and I are acting out the workhouse scenes. ‘Think lonely, think lost,’ she says when we’re trying to put some feeling into Oliver’s solo song. ‘Think scared,’ she says when we’re acting out the bit where Oliver gets stolen away by Bill Sykes, or the bit where Bill kills Nancy and Oliver can’t do a thing to stop it happening.
I can do all that. I can do hungry, lonely, lost, scared, and more.
‘Good girl, Indie,’ Miss McDougall says. ‘Good girl.’
We have rehearsals after school every Monday and Friday. It’s not so hard to learn all those words, not when you’re all in it together, scene after scene. It gets so it’s like a story running in your head, a Disney film you know by heart, a nursery rhyme you can say forwards, backwards, sideways.
We have singing practice with the whole class every afternoon, just for half an hour, till we know all the songs. Miss McDougall says we need more practice, but you can tell she’s pleased. Sometimes, Aisha and me have extra practice at lunchtimes, polishing up the solo song or going over some tricky scene.
Miss McDougall sets a competition to design a poster for the show, and Iqbal wins with a drawing of a sad-eyed boy holding out a bowl. Miss Kearns and Mr Leonie are painting backdrops for us, and Kai’s mum comes in and measures everyone for costumes. We get a letter home, asking if anyone’s parents can help with the sewing, and Mum says she’ll have a go.
Miss McDougall sends her acres of sugar-pink lining fabric and a sample dress, and she stitches ten girly frocks for the flower-seller scene in just one week.
Mum’s up every morning now, before I go to school, making porridge with a swirl of honey, pouring orange juice, tidying the flat. She sleeps, she eats, she even laughs. She keeps Misti clean and tidy, plays with her, goes to the park, takes her to toddler group. She gets the shopping every day, she washes and irons, she makes soup and stew and macaroni cheese and apple crumble with custard. She’s stopped crying the whole time, and she never talks about Max any more.
She never sneaks out late at night, when she thinks I’m asleep, to ring him.
Sometimes she fetches shopping for Mrs Green, or sits up late drinking coffee and laughing with Ian Turner.
Jane’s stopped worrying. I’ve stopped worrying.
We’re free.
Mum notices that I haven’t been to Jo’s house for a very long time. ‘It’s OK, you know, if you want to,’ she says. ‘I’m OK now, really. I know how wonderful you’ve been, keeping things together here, looking after Misti. I’m sorry I put you through that, Indie. But it’s fine now. Go and enjoy yourself a bit. Go to Jo’s.’
I shrug.
‘Or ask her here again, if that’s easier? We could have pizza, make popcorn…’
‘I don’t see Jo much any more,’ I say.
OK, I see her every day, but I can’t look at her. If she walks towards me, my eyes slide away and I turn my back. There are only so many times you can lie down flat and let someone walk all over you.
Mum looks stricken. ‘Oh, Indie, love, I had no idea…’
She puts her arms round me for a moment and we cling on, squeezing hard. Misti comes up, looking anxious, and burrows into the middle of us. We’re a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, messed-about sandwich.
When we break away, Mum makes hot chocolate and floats marshmallows on the top. Misti’s face is streaked with chocolate and goo.
‘Mum…’
‘Yup?’
‘Could I ask someone else? Gould I ask someone else to tea?’
Aisha walks home with me after rehearsals on Friday, and she doesn’t moan about how far it is or tell me I’ll have to go to Rathbone High. She likes 33 Hartington Drive.
‘It’s huge,’ she says in awe. ‘Really spooky, just
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