Lottie Project by Jacqueline Wilson Page A

Victor asked.
    ‘Certainly not!’ I said, and I took Victor’s hoop and bowled it so hard he had to run like the wind to stop it going into the road and under a carriage.
    That settled
his
hash. He well knows that his mamma does not allow the servants to have gentleman callers. I had to protect Eliza when she was canoodling in the kitchen with her current sweetheart, the draper’s assistant, who had come to deliver the Mistress’s new shawl and gloves. In finest cashmere. If only I had a warm woolly shawl and mittens! I have chilblains that throb and itch like the devil.

    Anyway, I was down in the kitchen fetching the children’s hot milk and biscuits when I heard the Mistress clip-clopping down the stairs in her neat kid boots.
    ‘Quick, Eliza, the Mistress is coming!’ I hissed, and then I bounded
up
the stairs and waylaid the Mistress by telling her a very long story about Miss Louisa-not-drinking-her-milk-even-though-it’s-so-good-for-her, and by the time I’d done and the Mistress had made her way down to the kitchen Eliza had had time to bundle any number of gentlemen callers out of the back door.
    She didn’t say anything to me, but Eliza and Mrs Angel stopped calling me Baby and laughing behind my back – and yesterday when the children were asleep Eliza slipped into the nursery with a bowl of Mrs Angel’s special sherry trifle for my supper.
    Mrs Angel is Mother’s age but she has gentlemen callers too! The fat policeman for the street calls on a regular basis for his piece of pie and Mrs Angel’s patter. I was astonished to see a woman so old go rosy-cheeked and chuckle when he praised her pastry.

    I received a letter from Rose today and now I am starting to worry that Mother herself might be courting!!! Rose says that Mr Higgins from the Dog and Duck brings Mother a jug of ale from time to time, and in return she cooks him a meal. I do not like the sound of this!

    Rose’s letter makes me feel so homesick. It is a poor ill-spelt half-page but I have read it as avidly as if it were a masterpiece by Mr Dickens. Rose has never tried hard enough at school. She writes that Miss Worthbeck sends her kindest regards and can scarce manage without me. And a certain Edward James sends a most impertinent message to Dear Little Lottie. Hmm!

SUNDAY
    I FOUND IT seriously weird going round to Jamie’s house. I mean, this was Jamie Edwards, the worst boy in the whole class, old chubby-chops super-swot wimpy-wuss Jamie. I made pretty sure all the boys in our class treated me with respect but I wanted a capital ‘R’ from Jamie.
    Yet in his huge great famously Victorian villa he was so different. As if he’d grown to fit his fourteen-roomed house. (I counted.) And I felt different too. As if I’d shrunk considerably. It felt strange just going into his house through that dark-blue front door with the big brass lion knocker. I felt as if I should slink round the back or down the basement steps like my Lottie.
    If Jamie and his family had lorded it over me I’d somehow have felt easier. I could just dismiss them as horrible snobs and sneer at them. But they were ever so friendly. Even Jamie’s elder brother Jules.

    Elder brothers are usually a race apart. Angela’s elder brother charges straight past you without even bothering to say hello. He doesn’t even mean to be rude, it’s just that you don’t register with him. But Jules said Hi and chatted like I was his age and he made me and Jamie a toasted sandwich. We ate it in the kitchen – but
what
a kitchen! I stared round, scarcely able to swallow.
    There was a shelf of cookery books and I had a quick peer but I couldn’t see anything special on cakes. When Jamie’s mum got home much later I saw she wasn’t really a cake-maker. She came in clutching all these files and folders, her cardie falling off her shoulders, her scarf trailing on the ground. She said hello as if she was really pleased to see me, and then she unpacked some shopping and made us