Magenta McPhee (13 page)

‘I don't know.' I couldn't really invite Cal. I didn't know him that well. A wedding was an intimate thing – more
than camping. If your crush was with someone else at a wedding you really needed someone totally on your side to be with you. You needed your best friend. ‘Can I bring Polly, then?'

‘Of course, darling,' Mum sounded very relieved. ‘I think that's a great idea. Better get back to it, then. Love you.'

‘Love you, too. Have a good time.'

Serena, I thought when I hung up. Serena was one of those names that made me think of creepy things. I forgot about texting Cal. I had more important things to do, really. I wasn't at all sure that a boy would fit into my life at the moment. Not with the cross-country practice and my father to keep on track. Obviously his romance needed all the help it could get, considering they were just smiling at each other. Then there were the Chronicles.

Ricardo sat down on the bed to take off his socks. The bed was a magnificent four-poster one with midnight-blue drapes. Serena would love this, he thought, dropping his socks in a pile of dirty washing. She loved luxury. It was a pity ... He wished he could stop thinking about her. He was here to woo Lady Rosa. She had beauty, intelligence and money. Serena, however, was an enchantress who had long ago stolen his heart. He put his head in his hands. When would he see her again? When would she let him come back to her?

Fantastic! Socks and added plot. The Chronicles were moving fast. I could fill in a few more squares, I thought. At this rate I'd have the first book written by the time Trib and Mum got married. That would leave the second book to finish before Dad and Sandra got married. Which they were sure to do. Everyone loves to live happily ever after, even if it's only for a little while.

I'd make sure something ghastly happened to Serena – in the Chronicles of course. In real life she'd probably turn out to be really lovely and lend me her special fingernail polish or something. That's what I love about writing – you can change real life around. In the Chronicles Serena could break Ricardo's heart and there Rosa Burgundy would be, waiting. Maybe not straight away, of course. First of all she might rescue Holly and go to find her father. On the way they could get lost and be helped by a handsome young boy called Callum, the son of a gypsy woman. Maybe Mum was right and life experience helped even a fantasy writer like myself.

In the interests of life experience I texted Cal. It was just a little message saying hi. Nothing even an alien boy could take amiss or read anything into. I'd hardly pushed Send when my mobile rang.

‘Hey,' Cal's voice said, sounding a little wobbly as though the connection wasn't particularly good.

‘Oh hi,' I said.

‘I have some credit,' he said. ‘What's been happening?'

I told him about Diana Wynne Jones, the socks and Sandra.

‘I could be the first fantasy writer in the world to bring in socks,' I said.

‘Gee, maybe you should email her and let her know?'

‘She doesn't have an email address,' I said. I'd already looked her up on the Net. ‘She's quite old, you know.'

‘Maybe you should write her a letter, you know, the old-fashioned way?'

That was such a good idea that without thinking I told Cal that if he ever wanted to come around for a few hundred games of SKIP-BO he was welcome.

‘Hey, that'd be cool. Actually I wanted to know if you wanted to come to the Winter Solstice lantern parade. You have to make a lantern. Well you wouldn't have to because we've got two and Lianna can't take hers because she's serving cakes.'

By the time he hung up I had a kind of date. The lantern parade sounded like a good thing for a fantasy writer to get involved in. This life experience stuff was beginning to work for me.

I sat down at my desk and wrote
Chapter Five
in big curling letters.

Lady Rosa willed herself to stay awake until the merriment had ended. She wouldn't have slept anyway. The kiss from Ricardo, rudely interrupted as it had been, burned on her lips. She kept touching her mouth and marvelling at the thought of his lips on hers. It was a shame that she had to leave when they'd barely become acquainted but her father and his whereabouts were more important than anything else.

In what she judged were the early hours of the morning, she stole down the long passageways to the dungeon.

‘Who is it?' whispered a frightened little voice when she opened the great door to Holly's cell.

‘Lady Rosa. There's nothing to be frightened of. I've come to get you out of here. We have to go and find my father.'

‘Oh. All right. That's a sensible idea, I suppose,' Holly said, getting to her feet. ‘I'll be happy to assist in any way possible, but before we do anything, I really need a pair of socks.'

‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,' Dad said whenever I wished for anything.

Once upon a time, Mum had made clop-clopping noises, sounding just like a real horse, or she'd held her hands in front of her as though she was holding reins, and bounced up and down in her seat at the breakfast table, making us laugh.

But that didn't happen anymore. Mum was hardly ever at the breakfast table these days.

‘I wish they'd never decided I needed a brother. Who needs brothers anyway? They're smelly and noisy and when they get bigger they pull your hair and break your best things.'

But Dad didn't say anything, because he was busy taking Mum a cup of tea and some dry crackers. He didn't even
offer to brush my hair which was in a real tangle – in the end I gave up and just put it in a pony tail with the knots all at the bottom. It would have to do. We were late again.

I'd have to go to the office for a pass. I hated that. I even hated driving to school – I didn't mind the walk when it was sunny. Mum and I would talk about things.

‘I wish things were back to normal,' I said, buckling up the seat belt.

‘I wish your mum wasn't so sick,' Dad said sharply, scowling at me in the rear mirror. ‘I think that's what we should wish for, Ruby.'

‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,' I said and then wished I hadn't; he looked at me with such disappointment. I didn't blow him a kiss goodbye the way I usually did, just gave him a little finger wave. Not that he noticed. Nobody noticed me these days. Still, I felt bad about the kiss all morning but at recess, Sarah, my best friend, told Bree, the new girl, that I had a crush on Bailey Ferguson. They spent the whole time following me round, chanting:

and I hated them so much I forgot about Dad.

After school I always walk home with Sarah. We cross the
road together and walk past the secondhand furniture shop with the little old pug dog. Then we walk past the fish and chip shop that always smells delicious and the hippy clothes shop that smells like a different country. We walk up the hill until Sarah turns off at her street and I go on past the supermarket and the library until it's my street.

But today I didn't cross with Sarah. She was standing with Bree. I didn't look at the lollipop lady but fell in behind Jess Mac, her annoying little preppie brother and their mum as though I was going home with them. When they turned into the videoshop car park, I kept going up the hill.

I looked over, once or twice, to see if Sarah was looking, but she and Bree dawdled a long way behind. Then I saw – I was kind of standing in the bus shelter, not spying, just reading the bus timetable as though I was going to catch a bus, which I wasn't, of course – I saw them walk into the fish and chip shop.

Sarah and I only do that on Fridays. Friday is canteen day and Sarah's dad gives her lunch money but she never puts in her lunch order. Instead I share my lunch with her and we go to the fish and chip shop after school and get minimum chips.

You just can't eat the hot chicken rolls at school. It's not chicken in them – it's rats. Someone had found a bit of a rat tail in one once. No one I knew, but the best friend of someone's brother or sister. So Sarah never got lunch at the canteen.

I didn't stay in the bus shelter long enough to see them walk out of the fish and chip shop. I walked on, even though I
was on the nasty-dog side of the road. I didn't care if the dog bit me.

In fact, if the dog bit me and I had to be taken to hospital and get stitches, then maybe Sarah would be sorry and the whole class would make me a get well card, the way they had for Sam when he went to hospital that time. Sarah would sign the card
I miss you so much Ruby, besties 4 eva.

But the dog wasn't in the front yard when I went past. Instead his owner was out there, surrounded by cardboard boxes and suitcases as though she was leaving home.

‘Good afternoon,' she said looking up, and I tried to smile, though I was nearly crying.

At the top of the hill, I had to walk an extra block, to cross at the lights. I thought about not doing that. How a car might suddenly swing around the corner, or out of the council car park and hit me. I'd be flung up into the air like a flopsy doll, every bone in my body broken. Then everyone would be really sorry. Sorrier than if I just had stupid old stitches.

Mum and Dad would wish they'd never decided to have another baby. Mum would say, if only I hadn't been sick, I might have walked down to pick her up from school the way I did before and this would never have happened.

I was so busy planning the funeral I nearly missed the lights and had to turn back at the florist's, but not before I'd decided to heap up rose buds onto the coffin – creamy yellow ones with a hint of pink – just like the bunch displayed in the florist's window. They were so beautiful they made me feel sad, just looking at them. I felt almost snivelly. The coffin would
be smaller than a proper one, despite the extra centimetres I'd grown over the summer. The rose buds and the size of the coffin would remind everyone there that I'd died very young, too young.

‘Need a tissue?' a woman standing next to me asked. ‘It's all the wattle around, I expect.'

‘No, thanks,' I said quickly, ‘I'm fine. No, really,' but it was too late, the woman stuffed a huge tissue in my hand. It wasn't like taking lollies from a stranger but I still didn't feel good about it. The way she watched me I had to blow my nose into it. I just hoped it wasn't soaked in some kind of poison to knock me out and then she'd take me and sell me as a slave girl. That would make Mum and Dad really sorry. But the tissue didn't smell of anything and after we'd crossed the road, the woman went into the supermarket, trundling her little shopping jeep after her.

I trudged home. I should have taken a library book back, but I hadn't finished reading it and the morning had been too rushed anyway. It was probably overdue though and there'd be a whopping big fine. On the other hand, maybe Mum had a good day and there'd be chocolate muffins when I got home. Or the new curtains she'd promised to make for my room.

But when I got home, Mrs. Wiseman from across the road, whom we hardly knew because she'd only recently moved in, was sitting in the kitchen as though she belonged there, drinking a cup of tea and reading the local paper.

‘Ruby,' she said, ‘oh good, I'm so pleased you're here. Your mum's had to go into hospital. Not that serious, no need for
that long face. She just has to be on a drip for a while. She'll be back tomorrow, good as rain.'

‘Hospital?'

‘Like I said, nothing to worry about.'

But who went to hospital for nothing?

‘Did she go in an ambulance?' Suddenly my stomach seemed filled with creepy crawly things trying to get out. How could I have been planning my funeral when Mum was so sick? If Mum died what would I do? I couldn't imagine it. I sat down suddenly on the nearest chair.

‘No, of course not. Your dad came home from work and drove her in. He'll be back by tea, he said. There's no need to worry, Ruby – your mum will be fine. Now, have you got homework to do?'

‘No,' I said and crossed my fingers behind my back. I wasn't going to sit in front of Mrs. Wiseman and struggle through the Maths sheet.

‘I expect you're hungry. Everyone is always hungry at four o'clock,' Mrs. Wiseman lifted a cover from a plate on the bench, ‘so I brought over a bit of Boston bun for you. It's yesterday's but it's still all right. With a bit of butter. Have you got any butter?'

It was the very end piece of bun, where the icing ran out. It looked dry. ‘No, thanks,' I said, ‘I'm not hungry, really.' My stomach growled, as though it knew it was being betrayed, but Mrs. Wiseman was so old she was sure to be deaf.

‘Come on, who can refuse a bit of Boston bun? Don't be shy. I brought it over for you.'

‘No, really, I'm fine,' I said politely. ‘You can have it. There's some butter in the fridge.'

‘Beggars can't be choosers,' Mrs. Wiseman said and popped the whole thing in her mouth without waiting for the butter. She sat back down and took another sip of tea. She was drinking it out of Mum's special cup – the one Dad and I had chosen for Mother's Day. Her red lipstick was smeared on the gold rim.

‘That's Mum's cup,' I said without really meaning to. The words blurted out before I had a chance to stop them.

‘Very nice,' Mrs. Wiseman lifted the cup up and peered at the bottom, ‘very nice indeed. Royal Albert. Quality. I like a good cup for tea – these thick mugs you get these days. Tea should be served in a cup. You can do what you like with coffee, but tea needs a cup.'

‘We bought it for her, Dad and I. For Mother's Day,' I couldn't believe that she was just going on drinking.

‘A very good present,' she nodded at me, ‘good choice. I bet your mum loves it.'

‘She does. No one else uses it,' I said pointedly.

‘Well, you wouldn't be old enough to drink tea, and your dad – in my experience men just don't notice things like cups. If they're tea drinkers they'd just as soon drink it from an old tin mug.'

‘Dad's got a special mug. Mum and I got it for him. It's a funny one, about him being an accountant, but I didn't get the joke at first.'

Mrs Wiseman smiled, nodded and kept on drinking her
tea. I would just have to wash the cup very carefully and remove every last trace of lipstick. That would have to do.

‘Well,' I said, after some time had passed in silence and the tea was finished, ‘I guess you could go now, Mrs. Wiseman. I mean, it was lovely of you to come over and look after me, but really I'm fine now by myself.' I didn't want to be marooned at the kitchen table forever. I could be playing on the computer or watching television or finishing my book. Instead I was sitting here watching the second hands of the clock tick over.

‘Leave you by yourself? Oh I don't think so, Ruby. Your mother asked me to look after you till your father gets home and that's what I'm going to do. She said there was some frozen food to heat up for dinner, so I'll get a move on with that in a little while. No rush. Your dad said he'd call on his mobile when he was leaving the hospital. What we did before mobiles were invented I simply can't remember. But, do you know, there was a time when not everyone had an ordinary telephone?'

I stared at Mrs. Wiseman. She was quite ancient, then, even though her hair was a faded blonde and her lipstick was so red.

‘Oh yes,' she said, ‘the world was very different then. Of course, I embrace technology. I have my own mobile,' she said, and raking around a strange oversized basket, withdrew a large mobile phone which she held out to me, proudly.

‘It must be quite old,' I said. ‘It's huge!'

‘I don't like the small ones,' she said, ‘they get lost too easily.'

I knew that. Dad was always losing his.

‘So, Ruby,' she said after a short silence, ‘we should use this time to get to know each other better. I know – describe yourself in five words.'

‘What?'

‘You know, find five words to describe yourself. Honestly, mind, no fibbing.'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘All right,' she sighed, ‘I'll start. I'm vivacious, sharp, diverse (which some people might call scatter-brained), multi-talented and neighbourly.'

‘That's more than five words,' I pointed out.

‘No, the bit about some people calling me scatterbrained wasn't part of my five words. That was their five words – actually one word. It's hyphenated. Do you see now?'

‘Okay,' I said slowly, ‘well, I'm – what does vivacious mean?'

Mrs Wiseman looked at me with her head on one side. ‘Hmm,' she said, ‘bright, talkative, excitable. If vivacious was a colour it would be red or orange. The life of the party. If it was a piece of music, it might be a jig. Get it?'

‘I don't think I'm vivacious. I'm friendly,' I said. That was safe. It was hard to describe yourself, though. Wasn't that something you left to other people?

‘Tick for friendly,' Mrs. Wiseman said encouragingly. ‘What about things you're good at?'

‘They'd take up more than five words,' I said.

‘Not if you do it properly. You just need to use your brains a bit. So, if you're good at reading, you could say I'm a reader.
That would only be one word.'

‘Okay, I'm friendly, a reader,' I stopped. What else did people say about me? My teacher said my head was in the clouds and that I was off with the pixies. How could I reduce that to one word? ‘I'm a dreamer,' I said triumphantly.

‘Very good,' Mrs. Wiseman said, approvingly. ‘I'd add smart to that list.'