Katy Page 2

  Or maybe I’ll write seven great magic books like J. K. Rowling, because I’m good at making up stories. Then I’ll get very rich and I’ll buy a big castle somewhere, and Cecy and all my brothers and sisters can come and live with me there. I’ll have a cheery servant or two and pay them so much money they won’t mind a bit doing all the chores. They’ll fill and empty the dishwasher and sort the rubbish into the right recycling bins and tidy all the bedrooms – all the boring, boring, boring stuff that Izzie keeps nagging me to do.

  I’ll be famous at something some day, you mark my words.

  2

  At twelve noon on Saturday we all gathered on the garage roof. Well, Clover and Elsie and I did. Dad won’t allow the littlies to climb up the ladder, so they had to wait lolling below us. Izzie says Elsie’s not allowed either, but she so wants to be with us that she never takes any notice.

  It’s a low garage and the ladder’s fixed against the wall, so it’s really quite safe. Sort of. The garage roof was leaking years ago so Dad had these workmen come to retile it. They put the ladder up and forgot to take it away again. Lots of green moss has grown back on the roof now, which makes it very soft and comfortable, like a green carpet.

  I like to sit with my legs swinging down, peering out over next-door’s garden. Not number four next door, where Cecy lives. I mean number eight the other side of us – the sad house. Old Mrs Burton lives there. At least I think she does. No one’s seen her for years and years.

  She used to be this perfectly ordinary old lady when Mr Burton was still around. They invited Clover and me in for tea several times, after Mum died. We didn’t really like to go, because we didn’t know what to say to them and there was nothing very much to do. Mrs Burton had a collection of little china pots with painted lids and she let us look at each one, but we weren’t allowed to touch because they were precious and we were only little.

  The tea was very strange too. We had to drink out of cups on saucers, whereas we were used to mugs, so we found it difficult. Then there was a plate of thin bread and butter to eat. Not even any jam. Just a piece of bread and butter. Mrs Burton said if we ate it all up we would be allowed cakes. So we chewed valiantly and then Mr Burton went into the kitchen and came back with a small plate of little iced cakes. He called them fancies. There were two yellow and two pink. I chose yellow and Mrs Burton and Mr Burton took the pink ones. I saw Clover’s face. I knew just how much she wanted a pink one too. She didn’t eat her yellow one properly; she just bit all the icing off the top and licked the little bit of cream inside.

  Mr and Mrs Burton weren’t cross with her. They shook their heads and patted her curls and said she was a lovely little girlie.

  ‘A real Goldilocks,’ said Mr Burton.

  They didn’t call me any fairy-tale character. Perhaps they thought I was the wicked witch or the big bad wolf but were too polite to say.

  Anyway, it was uncomfortable having tea with the Burtons, so we told Dad we didn’t really want to go any more. Then Mr Burton got ill and died and Mrs Burton stopped inviting us. She stayed indoors by herself. Well, she saw a home help every week, and the Ocado van came every Friday with her very small order, but that was all. Dad went to call on her, partly as a neighbour, partly as her doctor, but he said she simply wanted to be left alone.

  As we got older Clover and I made up stories about her, seeing her as mad and tragic, like a modern Miss Havisham (she’s in Great Expectations too). We even dared each other to go and look through her windows or knock on her door. But now I’m older still I feel a bit uncomfortable about her. I don’t think she’s so much mad as sad. She’s still grieving for Mr Burton, who was clearly the love of her life. That seems a bit strange to me, because Mr Burton didn’t look anything like a romantic hero. He had false teeth that made him hiss a little and a silly moustache and he always wore cardigans – but perhaps he was Mr Perfect in Mrs Burton’s eyes.

  I felt truly sorry for her now but it didn’t stop me leading the others on special secret expeditions into her garden. It’s a very long garden, much bigger than ours. The ordinary back garden is a bit boring. When Mr Burton was alive it used to be bright with flowers in the summer, but now Mrs Burton has a garden firm come once a month and they’ve planted shrubs that don’t need much attention. They just cut them back a bit and mow the lawn. But they only tend the garden as far as the old greenhouse.

  It’s not a proper greenhouse now; it’s all falling to bits. That’s a shame because it would make a marvellous playhouse, but some of the glass is broken and all jagged. I’d be extra careful, and Clover would too, but it’s not somewhere we could ever risk the littlies. Stupid Izzie gave me these sorrowful little lectures about my being the eldest and therefore I should try to set a good example to my brothers and sisters. But I am careful and responsible. I won’t let the children play in the greenhouse. We play behind it. The gardeners never go there because it doesn’t show from the house. Mrs Burton certainly doesn’t go there. No one does. Only us.

  It’s like another wonderful, wild, secret garden. There are still roses there in summer and lots of buttercups and daisies and dandelions in the long grass. It’s so overgrown that it’s like a jungle for our dog Tyler. He absolutely loves it in the secret garden. He plays at being a tiger, stalking his prey.

  There’s a big weeping willow too, which makes an amazing green cave where we can have important meetings and special picnics. Best of all, there’s a big tree right at the end by the fence that has brilliant branches for climbing. I can shin up there whenever I want. You can see for miles, all over everyone’s back gardens, all the way to the park. It would be the most brilliant place for a tree house. I’m gathering bits of wood out of people’s skips and secretly hoarding them. When I’ve got enough I’ll make us all a tree house.

  I told all the children and everyone thought it was a brilliant idea – everyone except Elsie.

  ‘What do you mean, make a tree house? You don’t know how, Katy Carr. It’s not just nailing planks of wood together. You have to make it safe. And how are you going to balance it on those tree trunks? You’re all talk, you are,’ she said, her voice shrill. ‘It won’t be safe!’

  ‘Oh yes it will, just you wait and see,’ I said airily, refusing to be rattled.

  ‘I suppose it will be as safe as that stupid boat you made when we nearly all drowned!’ said Elsie, pink with triumph.

  Once, when we were on our way to the park all together, me in charge, I happened to see a piece of someone’s fallen-down fence in a skip. I had this sudden brilliant idea that we could turn it into a raft. Clover, Cecy and I carried it all the way to the duck pond where I launched it on to the water. It was fine when it was just me perched on it. I even risked paddling it from one side to the other and it floated perfectly. But when the others all crowded on to the raft too it tilted violently and suddenly sank. We all got very wet of course, but we didn’t nearly drown, not when the water only came up as far as Phil’s waist.

  ‘You shut up, Elsie,’ I said, and I gave her a little push.

  She practically made herself fall over and then cried and I got into yet more trouble from Izzie for bullying my little sister. It would be much, much easier if I didn’t ever have to include her in our games, but then she’d whine and whimper that we were leaving her out.

  So there we all were, Clover, Elsie and me up on the garage roof, Dorry, Jonnie, Phil and Tyler playing digging down below, all of us waiting for Cecy. She goes to dancing lessons now, ballet and modern, on Saturday mornings. Clover’s so envious. I don’t really want to go and learn dancing, especially not ballet. Oh dear! The thought of looking like a lamp post in a leotard, a metre taller than everyone else, makes me go hot with horror. But I would like to go to a Saturday-morning class.

  I know you can do drama at the place where Cecy goes. I would so love to do drama! We don’t do it properly at school at all. The only play we’ve ever put on was a Nativity play when we were in the Infants. I wanted to be Mary bec
ause it’s the main part but our teacher chose one of her tiny girly pets. Then I hoped I’d be the angel Gabriel because he’s very important and it wouldn’t matter if he were tall, but horrible, simpering Eva got that part. I had to play a shepherd’s wife. I wasn’t even a shepherd – a shepherd’s wife. I’d have sooner been a sheep. But even so, I gave the part all I had, beaming at my shepherd husband, startled by the star, overawed by little Baby Jesus, all the while feeding this manky toy lamb with a doll’s bottle. I thought I was giving a wonderful performance but my teacher wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Calm down, Katy Carr. Stop all the silly faces. You must learn to stand still on stage. You’re distracting everyone. The story isn’t about you, it’s about Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus,’ she said.

  I wanted it to be about me. I’m sure if I went to a Saturday drama club with a proper drama teacher she’d realize my potential and give me a lead part. And Clover should go to dancing class because she’s really quite good at it, almost as good as Cecy. Dorry wants to go to cookery classes because he loves watching The Great British Bake Off. Izzie won’t let him cook in her kitchen because she says he’d make too much mess. Jonnie could do gymnastics with all the cool little dudes. I suppose Phil’s too small for classes. He loves finger painting at nursery though, always bringing home huge great sheets of paper bigger than him, daubed all over with bright poster paints. He did a family portrait of all of us once and it was really good, even though we were all round blobs. He did my legs much, much longer than anyone else’s, which was very observant of him. So when he’s five or six Phil could go to art classes.

  I’ve left Elsie out. Not really on purpose. I just can’t think of her possessing any particular talent. I suppose she’ll have to tag along with one of us. This is the point though. Dad won’t let us go to any Saturday classes or after-school classes whatsoever. It’s so unfair. Almost everyone I know goes to something.

  Dad just laughs at me when I pester him.

  ‘If you seriously think Izzie and I have got time to ferry you lot around to all these silly classes then you’re more of a dunce than I imagined, Katy. Besides, I don’t hold with all this hobby-hustling. I think you have far more fun going out to play and making up your own games.’

  I suppose this is not all bad news, because Dad does let us roam around and play out lots, whereas some kids I know aren’t even allowed to play in their own gardens without supervision. But I still envy Cecy, because she goes to dancing lessons (and piano on Tuesday evenings and junior gym on Fridays) and she gets to hang out and play with us too.

  ‘I wish Cecy would hurry up!’ I said to Clover now, consulting my watch. It’s a very, very precious watch, my favourite piece of jewellery. It’s not a very expensive watch, the sort you can buy in any old shop, but it’s the best watch ever because it was Mum’s. Dad kept it and then gave it to me last Christmas.

  I heard Izzie murmur that it wasn’t a good idea to give me Mum’s watch.

  ‘I know Katy will be thrilled, and it’s a lovely thought, but you know how careless she is. She’ll lose it or break it within days and then she’ll be so upset. Wouldn’t it be better to keep it safely and give it to her when she’s grown up?’ she said.

  ‘I want her to have it now. It will mean the world to her. I’m sure she’ll be extra-specially careful with it,’ said Dad.

  And I am. I can’t believe Izzie didn’t want me to have it.

  My precious watch said it was twenty past twelve now. The littlies and Tyler were getting restless down below. Jonnie and Phil were throwing balls for Tyler and he was leaping about, yelping excitedly. One of them was going to fall over or bite any minute.

  Dorry was suspiciously quiet. I leaned right over to see what he was doing, hanging on to Clover for support. I saw my sneaky little brother with his hand in the picnic basket!

  ‘Hey, Dorry, get out of there!’ I yelled.

  Dorry jumped and immediately stuffed a whole chocolate chip cookie into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t you dare start on the picnic!’ I said.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, scarcely able to speak for cookie in his mouth. He held up his hands. ‘See, I haven’t taken anything!’

  ‘You bad, wicked fibber! I’ve never known such a greedy guts. Right, we’ll all have chocolate chip cookies when we’re in the secret garden, but you can’t, because you’ve scoffed yours now,’ I said.

  Dorry immediately burst into tears, nearly choking himself.

  ‘Oh, do stop, Dorry! You’re such a baby,’ I said, exasperated.

  I ended up having to climb down the ladder to thump him on the back. Then Tyler smelled food in the picnic basket and stuck his little head in and growled and howled when I hauled him out. It looked as if the picnic was turning into a disaster but then – hurray, hurray! – Cecy came hurtling over the little garden gate between our back gardens, smiling and out of breath.

  ‘Sorry, sorry! I got held up talking to Miss Lucy. Guess what? She’s giving me the star part in the summer show!’ Cecy said triumphantly. ‘And look! My mum’s given us crisps and chocolate for the picnic!’

  ‘Oh, yummy!’ said Dorry. ‘I’ll carry them for you, Cecy.’

  ‘Don’t let him get his hands on them! He’ll gobble them all up before we’ve even got to the secret garden,’ I said, starting to climb down the ladder.

  Clover followed me. We wasted another few minutes over Elsie, who made a huge fuss, saying she felt dizzy and didn’t dare climb down herself.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t ever have climbed up, you little wuss,’ I said. ‘We didn’t want you up there anyway.’

  Elsie’s face crumpled and she started crying.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ I said, but I felt a bit mean. Very mean. Why did I always have to be horrid to Elsie? ‘Look, if you can climb up, you can climb down. It’s simple.’

  Clearly Elsie felt it wasn’t simple at all. I sighed and shinned up the ladder again, going one-handed to show how easy it was.

  ‘There now, Elsie,’ I said, mopping up her tears with the edge of my T-shirt (I never seem to have a tissue on me when I need one). ‘Come on, I’ll help you. I’ll climb down on to the first rung and then, when you come down, I’ll wrap myself all round you so you can’t possibly fall. OK?’

  ‘It’s not a trick, is it?’ Elsie sniffled. ‘You truly won’t let me fall?’

  ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly, I’m your sister. I won’t ever let you hurt yourself,’ I said grandly, as if I had all the superpowers in the world.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elsie in a tiny voice. The way she looked at me then made me feel almost fond of her.

  ‘Come on, Elsie-Chelsea,’ I said, and I coaxed her gently all the way down.

  ‘There!’ I said, when we were safely on the ground and the chocolate and crisps were crammed into the picnic basket. Clover and Cecy carried it between them while I helped the littlies into the secret garden.

  It wasn’t the easiest job. We’d always had a proper gate between Cecy’s garden and ours, because we’d been friends forever and Cecy and I had grown up playing with each other. But the Carrs had never really been proper friends with the Burtons, and now she’d become this weird recluse Mrs Burton certainly wasn’t going to have a gate put in just for our convenience. She didn’t have a proper fence anyway, just a very big, overgrown, prickly hedge.

  I’d found a spot near the old greenhouse where the hedge grew more sparsely. Tyler had helped, digging furiously each day until he’d made a proper little tunnel between the gardens. We could crawl through, just about. It was still very prickly, but I wrapped each small child’s head in an old towel so that their faces didn’t get too scratched. Our clothes always got filthy, but who cared? Izzie always had the washing machine on the go.

  So we all wriggled through one by one. I put Clover and Cecy (plus picnic basket) through first, because they were sensible enough to keep absolutely quiet in Mrs Burton’s garden just in case she happened to be looking out of her back windo
ws.

  It was always a struggle with the twins. Dorry was getting so tubby it was a real squeeze. Jonnie was thin as a pin, but she always wanted to drag Zebby through with her. Zebby wasn’t a cuddly toy; he was a child-sized chair with a zebra head. Jonnie loved Zebby so passionately she frequently tried to take him to bed with her, and he always had to accompany her on expeditions. Zebby got his head stuck in the hedge this time, but after a lot of tugging he struggled through too.

  When the last child was in Mrs Burton’s garden I let the squirming Tyler go and he shot through like a rocket. I crouched down and crawled through myself. It was getting more and more of a struggle for me as well. I kept thinking of those illustrations in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, where Alice has drunk the magic potion and grown enormous, scarcely able to fit in the house. Halfway through the hedge, almost stuck fast, I had a depressing vision of the future. Perhaps I was going to be a total freak of nature that never stopped growing. I’d end up ten feet tall, Giant Katy, swaying in the breeze like a poplar tree, and the children would have to climb up me with grappling hooks in order to talk to me.

  But once I was safely through to Mrs Burton’s I cast off this worrying thought and concentrated on getting us safely to the secret garden behind the greenhouse. I kept glancing at her kitchen and living-room windows but there was no sign of any melancholy old woman peering out. I put my finger to my lips even so, and made each child tiptoe across the grass. Tyler went careering off in the wrong direction and I couldn’t risk calling him, but – thank goodness – after three mad circuits of the garden he came scurrying back and I grabbed him and carried him down beyond the greenhouse with us.