Lula Does the Hula (10 page)

‘We’re all local to there,’ said Pen.

Fat Angus looked adoringly into Pen’s face. She didn’t notice, still frowning at the telly. ‘You’re so clever,’ he breathed.

Carrie, Tam and I rolled our eyes, but Alex looked pensive.

‘By
boyfriend
, they mean Gavin, right?’ I asked her quietly. ‘Seriously, are you not worried?’

‘I was.’ Alex gave me a wry smile. ‘But I went down to see Sergeant T at the police station this afternoon, and she –’

‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘She told you stuff? Isn’t that, like, against police –’

‘Hey! Give me a chance! I was waiting outside her office and I heard her tell one of the officers to leave the Gavin Healey investigation and review existing evidence instead.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘That’s a convenient bit of eavesdropping.’

Alex flushed. ‘This investigation is all they’re talking about . . . And she did catch me with my ear to the door.’

‘
No!
’ My eyes were big. How could Alex be this calm? ‘I would have
dropped dead
of embarrassment!’

‘Hey,’ she said, looking at the telly. ‘Isn’t that . . .?’

I looked over at the screen and saw that a familiar face had butted into view alongside the news reporter.

Arnold caught my eye. ‘It’s Esme Trooter, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Yep,’ I replied. Esme was Hambledon town-crier extraordinaire, and she was saying something about squatters’ rights. ‘What is she on about?’

‘I wish I could hear,’ said Jack. ‘Do you think it’s relevant?’

‘I’ve come across her before,’ said Jazz. ‘She’s just an old windbag.’

I could feel Mr K bristle beside me, but he kept quiet. Jazz was saying something else.

‘Really,’ said Jack. ‘You have those kind of contacts? Do you think Channel 4 would go for that angle?’

‘Definitely,’ said Jazz. The news was over and someone flipped to a music channel. Jazz looked irritated. She pointed to her ears and shook her head at Jack, then gestured outside to the garden. The two of them went out before I could call to Jack that I was going. As they went through the French doors on the side of the living room, I saw Jack trip over the raggedy carpet, his head angled at the sharp edge of the door.

‘Eep!’ I said, but Jack steadied himself just in time and bowed out into the moonlight.

Mr Kadinski was watching me. ‘Don’t worry about that boy. He’s not going to get hurt. There’s too much other stuff going on to be concerning yourself with that.’

I nodded. ‘I know. But I still have this feeling, like I’ve got to stop something terrible happening to him. It’s because of the whole jinx thing I think – I just can’t believe it’s really gone away . . .’

‘You don’t need me to tell you that’s ridiculous.’

‘I know.’ We walked into the kitchen and I picked up my bag, and huffed out a sigh. ‘Bye, Mr K. You’ll get a ride with Bludgeon?’

He nodded and smiled. ‘Look, Lula. How about Bludgeon and I keep an eye on your boy?’

‘Really?’ I felt a load lift from my shoulders. ‘You’d do that?’ Then, ‘Hang on . . . You’re working with Bludgeon now?’

Mr K rubbed his chin, and it made a raspy sound. He tilted his fedora back and chuckled. ‘No, not working
together
exactly, but we share information.’

‘Huh,’ I said, and looked at him sceptically. He winked. ‘Mr K,’ I said finally, ‘if Jack could stay unharmed, I’d be such a happy girl.’

‘We don’t want people talking about jinxes now, do we?’ he asked, his grey eyes sparkling.

‘We don’t,’ I agreed. ‘Though mostly I . . . well, I just want him to be okay.’ Mum was looking for her keys. It was about time to go. ‘Actually, I
am
going to say goodbye to him,’ I decided finally.

Mr K nodded. ‘See you soon. I’m over the road if you need me.’

‘So am I,’ I replied. ‘But not for help on the stairs. The stairs you can manage on your own.’

‘You know me too well,’ he said, and went to where Bludgeon was blushing while Fat Angus and Pen had their own fond farewell.

I stepped outside and stared into the garden. I couldn’t see Jazz and Jack anywhere. Where were they? Then someone turned on a bathroom light and a bright rectangle flooded out a good way across the patchy grass. Jazz and Jack were sitting on upturned buckets, very close, talking intently.

Suddenly my throat hurt.

‘Come on, Lula,’ said Pen, appearing at my shoulder. She followed my eyes out to the far reaches of the lit rectangle. ‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Time to go.’

I swallowed, the sound loud in my ears. ‘Definitely,’ I said, and stepped back into the house. ‘Definitely time to go.’

Okay. So that’s not strictly true. I’ve had a text. But A TEXT, people? I’m feeling unloved. Then feeling bad about that, because really the priority should be Emily Saunders, and being supportive of Alex, who had told people now that she was seeing Gavin, and everyone was looking at her like she was a serial-killer’s assistant.

Oddly, this did not seem to bother her. ‘Oh, pfff,’ she said. ‘They’re still talking more about you than they are about me.’

‘You cruel girl,’ I said. But my heart wasn’t in it. We were walking to our last class of the day and I was heading for the school gates to go over the road for art. Not even that was going to cheer me up.

‘Oh, Lula,’ said Tam, putting her arm round me. ‘I don’t like to see you so sad.’

‘Me neither,’ I said, and I whimpered a little, though I know that’s pathetic.

‘At least you got a text. What did it say?’ asked Carrie.

‘He’s got another story to film,’ I said in a self-piteous
voice. ‘And lectures till five every day, so he’s got to work nights to get the story going.’

‘Nights with Jazz,’ said Alex.

‘Alex!’ said Tam. ‘That is not helpful!’

‘Flirt with someone,’ suggested Alex. ‘Always peps me right up.’

‘Alex!’ cried Tam again.

Mr Tufty was not pleased to see me. Which wasn’t any change, but still. It felt different to be ridiculed in front of a boy.

‘Oh, no,’ he said when he saw me. ‘Can you take the easel in the corner? I can’t cope with bananas today.’

I blew out a sigh.

Arns was just behind me and said, ‘Jeepers creepers.’

‘Who are you?’ barked Mr Tufton.

‘Er . . . Arnold Trenchard,’ said Arns. He walked uncertainly over to Mr Tufton, who was standing legs astride, arms crossed. He was in full assertive, ant-eating mode today, that’s for sure.

‘Portfolio? Sketchbook?’

‘Er . . .’ Arnold began rummaging in his bag. He pulled out an A4 spiral-bound sketchbook a lot like Grace Mutsapho’s, but more bashed about. ‘These are my own – I mean, I don’t usually . . . I’d rather not –’

Mr Tufton made a sound like, ‘Ftshh,’ and snatched
the sketchbook. He slammed it on his painting table and flipped the cover open. Then, fists planted either side of it, arms straight, he bent his head to examine the first drawing. I was curious and came out from behind my easel.

‘You,’ yelled Mr Tufton to me, ‘get back. I’ll talk to you later.’

I gulped and cowered behind the wooden board on the easel, and shakily took out a small roll of oil paper from my bag. I pinned it carefully to the board and snuck a look at Arns and Mr Tufton. They were standing exactly as they were before, but Mr Tufton had turned a few pages.

Grace and Delilah came in and took up their positions, only Delilah set up a few easels down from me, which made me really start to worry. Oh, geez. Tufty was clearly really peed off about me using the oil stuff. The only other thing I knew for sure about my painting teacher was how much he hated inactivity in his class, so I rummaged quietly in my bag and pulled out a box of oil pastels that Darcy, my older sister, had left for me before she went back to the Yehudi Menuhin school of music. They were for my birthday a fortnight ago, but I only got them yesterday because my parents had forgotten all about them.

I found the cellophane tag and pulled it gently. The wrapping came off with a rustle and suddenly Mr Tufton pushed away from his desk. It shifted on the floor with an ominous groaning sound. I held my breath and took
another peek. Arns had shoved his hands into his pockets and was looking straight back at his new art teacher.

‘So,’ said Mr Tufton, folding his arms. ‘You have talent.’

‘Er . . .’ said Arns.

‘But you need to loosen up. Why so uptight? It’s like you’re hiding something. Don’t be ashamed of your creativity. I want to see it all. In this class, you will become something special. Like Grace. Like Delilah.’ He threw a hand out at each in turn.

‘Er . . .’ said Arns again.

Tufty saw me peeking out and yelled, ‘You! No oils till I say so! Back to acrylics!’

My heart sank. ‘I’ve got some new oil pastels today . . .’ I ventured.

‘PASTELS?’ roared Mr Tufton. ‘Put that crap away! AWAY! Acrylics! Paint him!’ He gestured at Arns. ‘And you’ – he gestured at Arns – ‘paint her.’

‘Who?’ asked Arns. He took a step away from Mr Tufton and looked back at me, panicky.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Tufton. ‘Paint her. That’ll sort you out.’ He whirled round to Grace and Delilah. ‘Good work on Monday, girls, please continue. See you all later.’ And he bounded out.

There was a frozen moment, then Grace began to laugh quietly.

‘I need a drink,’ said Arns weakly. ‘I don’t feel so good.’

*

After a few minutes of Delilah being sensible and bossing us around, Arnold and I were seated either end of the painting table, with desktop easels in front of us, charcoal sticks in hand. We’d agreed never to show each other the portraits. It was just going to be better that way and, once that was decided, we were back to our easy chatting.

‘So Mum got a call yesterday afternoon from Parks and Green Spaces. They found bird flu up at Frey’s Dam,’ said Arnold.

‘Whoa!’ I said, and my charcoal stick snapped. ‘First Emily Saunders goes missing, then there’s bird flu there? That’s mad. Doesn’t that whole area fall under Cluny now? I wonder what he has to do about it all . . .’ I got up and began gathering tubes of acrylic over near the sink.

‘Hey,’ said Arns. ‘Sit back down. You can’t just get up when you feel like it!’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘sorry. Give me a minute. So that’s a bummer for Cluny. Does he now have to pay to get all the ducks and stuff tested?’ I got back on my chair and began squeezing paint on to a palette.

‘Dunno,’ said Arns. ‘Move to the left, please.’

‘The sun’s burning my face there!’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have sat there in the first place.’

‘C’mon, Arns!’

Delilah cleared her throat. ‘Can you two stop moaning
and whining at each other? Some of us are trying to work.’

I rolled my eyes and shifted left. ‘You’ve got five minutes!’ I said to Arnold, more quietly. ‘And you can start saving for my chemical peel from now.’

‘What’s a chemical peel?’

I rolled my eyes again. ‘Dude.’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘A peel takes all the old sun-damaged skin off to reveal gorgeous new skin below.’

‘You’ve already got gorgeous . . .’ Arns trailed to a halt.

I flushed. Grace began laughing again.

Arns looked at me. ‘You do have good skin.’ He put down a piece of chalk and went over to get his paints.

‘
Muchas gracias
,’ I said, and was pleased he wasn’t looking at me. The sun was making me feel all hot and uncomfortable. Grace came out from behind her easel and pulled the muslin drapes across the window. It was still light, but now I wasn’t being blasted.

‘Thanks,’ I said to Grace.

‘Sure,’ she said, and paused at Arnold’s easel. She glanced from his work to me, and back to what he’d drawn. ‘Interesting,’ she said.

I put down my paintbrush and stood up, darting a look over at Arnold, still at the sink, pouring water in a jar.

‘No, you don’t,’ he said, without even looking. ‘We have a deal, remember?’

‘Huh,’ I said, and sat down. The acrylics I’d mixed were already starting to dry. ‘Hurry, Arns, I need to paint now.’

‘Don’t rush it, Tallulah,’ said Grace. ‘That’s your trouble.’

‘They dry too fast,’ I moaned.

Grace leaned out from her easel and considered me. ‘Then you need to cheat, darlin’,’ she drawled. She picked up a small bottle of taupe-coloured gel from the table next to her and lobbed it over. I caught it and examined the label.

‘Wow, Grace. So it could be like painting with oils.’ I grinned back at her. ‘Thank youhoohoooo!’

‘Don’t let Mr Tufton see. Mix it in now and you won’t feel so stressed with the brush in your hand.’

I did as I was told and threw the bottle back over to Grace. Dipping the paintbrush into a circle of ochre on the palette, I examined my friend’s face carefully while he examined mine. I felt uncomfortable at first, but as I moved the paint around my charcoal sketch I began to get a feel for the contours of his face. Heaven knows it should be imprinted on my mind forever after the makeover.