passion in her heart came to a glow upon the petals but why had she the dull pain in her soul?
‘Why must you always be fondling things?’ he cried, in his musical caressing voice.
Interesting but overwrought quivered Miss Gleet. Lawrence would be disappointed.
The only Mandy who took the novel business even remotely seriously was Stott. Stott had nearly finished A Mind of Her Own which was about a fifteen-year-old runaway with a drunken father who goes on the road with a pair of juvenile delinquents.
‘What was the Gleet verdict?’
‘Only shown her the plan so far,’ said Stott. ‘ “Gritty.” Gritty! Wait till she sees it. The gang bang’ll make her hair curl.’
Bunty and Stott both had a free last period on Tuesdays. Bunty had made a run for it, but Stottie had hung around in the library and was now loitering by the school gate in hopes of catching Baker on her way home and renewing the offer of the spare bed.
‘Sorry about yesterday. How about tonight? Cheese on toast for tea.’
‘I’m not a big cheese person. How did the exam go?’ The question was automatic but the answer bloody wasn’t. The Handel Suite in G had gone quite well considering and she was fairly pleased with the Scarlatti Sonata and the Beethoven adagio was a breeze but the contrary motion scales were a bit of a nightmare and she hadn’t done herself justice in the sight reading (not having Baker’s flair for it) and so she only got merit and Mrs Stott was really disappointed. Mrs Stott had bought a bar of milk chocolate all ready to give to her and had given it to Stephanie instead.
Baker fought hard to stifle a yawn.
‘But merit’s brilliant, surely? No one ever gave me merit.’
‘Yes but Steff got distinction for her grade three last year.’
‘Stephanie’s going to get very, very fat by the sound of it.’
‘Do come round. We could make a Rice Krispie cake – you used to love that.’
‘Not allowed out, sadly.’ Dad’s curfew was practically a blessing.
Baker got home to an empty house and found the second post on the doormat: yet another brown envelope. She left it lying where it was, then made a tactical retreat to her bedroom. There would almost certainly be one of Spam’s spazzy little notes on the kitchen worktop: ‘Be an angel and sort out a few spuds/grate cheese/pod peas/curl butter if you’re back in time, sausage. Fondest P’ but that only worked if Baker made a bee-line for the biscuit barrel and Baker wasn’t hungry.
She was fast asleep over her Scripture revision when she heard the slam of the front door, shortly followed by the resentful rattle of saucepans as Spam, still in her coat, lit the oven and began peeling two pounds of King Edwards while her husband lay on the sofa with a can of lager and the second post until his supper was on the table.
‘Who was your letter from?’
A defensive look in Dad’s eyes while the rest of his face chewed chop.
‘You know perfectly well what it was, the name was on the envelope. It’s another brochure from another school.’
‘Lots of girls like to make a fresh start in the sixth form,’ said Spam, ‘and it’s got masses of facilities: swimming pool; judo; language lab.’
What went on in language laboratories, wondered Baker, were there rats in mazes?
‘You’d soon make new friends.’
She’d bloody need new friends after this morning, and she remembered with an unhappy shiver the unfamiliar snotty note in Bunty’s voice. I don’t have to tell you everything . Since when? It wasn’t as if Baker specially wanted any of the grisly details about Bunty’s dirty afternoon: it was the principle of the thing. And she’d have to tell somebody . . . Stottie? Or Queenie? Queenie was a bit of a dark horse. Lots of people told her stuff. Surprising people.
The phone rang during the news headlines, interrupting Baker’s miserable musings.
‘Who on earth can that be?’ tutted Dad. ‘It’s gone ten.’ (Though he never went to bed
‘Why must you always be fondling things?’ he cried, in his musical caressing voice.
Interesting but overwrought quivered Miss Gleet. Lawrence would be disappointed.
The only Mandy who took the novel business even remotely seriously was Stott. Stott had nearly finished A Mind of Her Own which was about a fifteen-year-old runaway with a drunken father who goes on the road with a pair of juvenile delinquents.
‘What was the Gleet verdict?’
‘Only shown her the plan so far,’ said Stott. ‘ “Gritty.” Gritty! Wait till she sees it. The gang bang’ll make her hair curl.’
Bunty and Stott both had a free last period on Tuesdays. Bunty had made a run for it, but Stottie had hung around in the library and was now loitering by the school gate in hopes of catching Baker on her way home and renewing the offer of the spare bed.
‘Sorry about yesterday. How about tonight? Cheese on toast for tea.’
‘I’m not a big cheese person. How did the exam go?’ The question was automatic but the answer bloody wasn’t. The Handel Suite in G had gone quite well considering and she was fairly pleased with the Scarlatti Sonata and the Beethoven adagio was a breeze but the contrary motion scales were a bit of a nightmare and she hadn’t done herself justice in the sight reading (not having Baker’s flair for it) and so she only got merit and Mrs Stott was really disappointed. Mrs Stott had bought a bar of milk chocolate all ready to give to her and had given it to Stephanie instead.
Baker fought hard to stifle a yawn.
‘But merit’s brilliant, surely? No one ever gave me merit.’
‘Yes but Steff got distinction for her grade three last year.’
‘Stephanie’s going to get very, very fat by the sound of it.’
‘Do come round. We could make a Rice Krispie cake – you used to love that.’
‘Not allowed out, sadly.’ Dad’s curfew was practically a blessing.
Baker got home to an empty house and found the second post on the doormat: yet another brown envelope. She left it lying where it was, then made a tactical retreat to her bedroom. There would almost certainly be one of Spam’s spazzy little notes on the kitchen worktop: ‘Be an angel and sort out a few spuds/grate cheese/pod peas/curl butter if you’re back in time, sausage. Fondest P’ but that only worked if Baker made a bee-line for the biscuit barrel and Baker wasn’t hungry.
She was fast asleep over her Scripture revision when she heard the slam of the front door, shortly followed by the resentful rattle of saucepans as Spam, still in her coat, lit the oven and began peeling two pounds of King Edwards while her husband lay on the sofa with a can of lager and the second post until his supper was on the table.
‘Who was your letter from?’
A defensive look in Dad’s eyes while the rest of his face chewed chop.
‘You know perfectly well what it was, the name was on the envelope. It’s another brochure from another school.’
‘Lots of girls like to make a fresh start in the sixth form,’ said Spam, ‘and it’s got masses of facilities: swimming pool; judo; language lab.’
What went on in language laboratories, wondered Baker, were there rats in mazes?
‘You’d soon make new friends.’
She’d bloody need new friends after this morning, and she remembered with an unhappy shiver the unfamiliar snotty note in Bunty’s voice. I don’t have to tell you everything . Since when? It wasn’t as if Baker specially wanted any of the grisly details about Bunty’s dirty afternoon: it was the principle of the thing. And she’d have to tell somebody . . . Stottie? Or Queenie? Queenie was a bit of a dark horse. Lots of people told her stuff. Surprising people.
The phone rang during the news headlines, interrupting Baker’s miserable musings.
‘Who on earth can that be?’ tutted Dad. ‘It’s gone ten.’ (Though he never went to bed
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