Bryony Bell Tops the Bill Read online

  For Sharon Duncan, my oldest friend.

  Contents

  Chapter: One

  Chapter: Two

  Chapter: Three

  Chapter: Four

  Chapter: Five

  Chapter: Six

  Chapter: Seven

  Chapter: Eight

  Chapter: Nine

  Chapter: Ten

  About the Author

  A Note on the Author

  Jan Mark: Eyes wide open

  Sue Purkiss: Changing Brooms

  Black Cats — collect them all!

  Chapter: One

  Bryony Bell thundered down the stairs three at a time. Four steps from the bottom she grabbed hold of the banister, flung herself over, took a running jump on to the mat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, and let it slide her smoothly to the front door. Then she clicked open the letterbox and hissed through at the rectangle of blue serge, ‘Don’t ring!’

  The postman dutifully froze, and when Bryony opened the door he was still standing like a strange statue, index finger pointing bellwards.

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Bryony cautioned needlessly.

  ‘Parcel for Ms B. Bell,’ the postman whispered. ‘You’ve to sign for it,’ he added, almost inaudibly.

  ‘Brilliant!’ hissed Bryony. ‘They’ve come!’

  She signed the form.

  ‘Don’t want anyone knowing,’ she explained as she handed it back. ‘Top secret, it is — ’cept for my dad.’

  The postman handed over a brown box covered in express delivery stickers, and hoisted his bag on to his shoulder. Then, with a muttered ‘Mum’s the word, then,’ he shuffled off, leaving Bryony in her pink frilly nightie, gazing at the parcel in delight.

  All was still quiet in the Bell household, but Bryony knew that time was running out. She made for the kitchen, ripped off the wrapping paper and read the writing on the box.

  ‘Wicked!’ she whistled. ‘Viper 3000s with white fibreglass composite uppers, adjustable toe-stops, extra strong bearings and Ice-Lite wheels …’

  She opened the lid, lifted the white tissue paper, and gazed in wonder at what nestled within.

  The early morning sun glinted off the shiny aluminium wheel-trims. The whole kitchen glowed in the dazzling whiteness of the fibreglass composite uppers. The wheels had ‘speed’ written all over their black rubber and the adjustable toe-stops looked strong enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.

  Bryony picked one up, held it to her nose and breathed in its delicious new smell. ‘Viper 3000s …’ she whispered over and over to herself. ‘White Viper 3000s — the ultimate in rollerskating perfection.’

  She ripped back the Velcro strap, loosened the laces and slipped her foot inside. The rollerskate fitted like a glove. She took the other one out and put it on too, and, very slowly, she sidestepped gracefully round and round the table, first in one direction and then, backwards and considerably faster, in the other. She finished with a little spin, threw her head back, and, holding her nightie out with both hands, curtsied at the kettle, the fridge, and the bread-bin in turn.

  ‘There’s no stopping me now,’ she said, smiling happily to herself. ‘With Viper 3000s, the world’s my oyster!’

  She glanced upwards, head to one side, listening out for the familiar little creaking sound which meant her father was up. When she heard it, she blew a kiss in its direction and whispered, ‘I love you, Dad!’

  Hurrying now, she eased her feet out of the rollerskates and laid them gently back on their bed of tissue paper, just overcoming the temptation to kiss them too. Then she slid the box out of sight under the towels in the airing cupboard.

  ‘Just in the nick of time!’ she breathed, as a series of high-pitched sounds rent the air above her head.

  She turned on the tap to fill the kettle. It was always best to do this during the ‘voice exercises’ because the gushing sound drowned out the worst of the top notes.

  Then came ‘scale practice’. During this, Bryony liked to be setting out the cereal bowls and jars of jam and marmalade and honey. And finally — and by this time she had to have the eggs on to boil and the bread in the toaster — there was the Bell Family Song.

  The Bell Family Song rang out as usual, in close four-part harmony and with earsplitting gusto …

  We’re The Singing Bells and we’ll sing till we drop

  We’re The Singing Bells and we’re bound for the top

  We’re The Singing Bells and we’ll try ‘n try un-t-i-l

  We get to the top…

  We get to the top…

  To the top of WHAT?

  At this point there was the usual dramatic pause, during which Bryony tossed five teabags into the teapot then clamped her hands over her ears before the climax line:

  WE GET TO THE…

  T-O-P

  O-F

  T-H-E

  B-I-L-L!!!!!!

  ‘And after all that,’ she muttered, pouring in the boiling water, ‘they’ll be absolutely ravenous.’

  She set the teapot on the table, filled the milk jug and stood well back to watch the kitchen fill to the brim with little Bells.

  There was Angelina Bell, who was nine, Melody and Melissa Bell, who were both eight, Emmy-Lou Bell, who was five, and ‘Little’ Bob Bell, who was two, and who came at the end, rather like a full stop. Following in the wake of his son and daughters was ‘Big’ Bob Bell, who was about the same height as Angelina and a full head shorter than Bryony.

  ‘Right, now, take your cereal and mind your manners,’ Big Bob shouted as he lifted Little Bob into his high chair. Soon the kitchen was filled with the sounds of snaps, crackles and pops of all descriptions. Big Bob sat down, looked over the sea of eaters, and caught Bryony’s eye. He raised one eyebrow slightly, and Bryony raised one of hers in return. Then she lifted the milk jug and, coming round to his side of the table, bent over his shoulder to fill his bowl. And as she poured, she whispered conspiratorially, They’ve come, Dad! And they couldn’t be better. Thanks a million trillion zillion!’

  Big Bob grinned. ‘That’s my girl!’ he whispered back. ‘Oh Bryony,’ he added, ‘go easy on the butter on your mum’s toast this morning. Bit of a heavy night at the Club, if you catch my drift.’

  Bryony scraped some of the butter off the toast fingers she had prepared, carefully cut the top off one of the soft-boiled eggs, poured some very strong tea into a rose-patterned teacup, and set off upstairs with her mother’s breakfast tray.

  As she passed Big Bob he hissed, ‘Just a minute, lass!’ Then he grabbed a pair of scissors, rushed outside into the garden, and came back with a pink dewy rosebud and a huge proud smile.

  ‘A rose for a rose,’ he said, resting the stem against his little brown moustache and breathing in ecstatically, then popping the flower into a tiny vase and placing it reverentially on the tray between the soft-boiled eggs and the buttered toast fingers.

  Bryony walked sedately upstairs. She eased the bedroom door open with her foot. The air inside was a musty mix of Air du Temps perfume and very old Newcastle Brown.

  ‘Morning, Mum!’ she said brightly.

  Her mother groaned and heaved herself up on a multitude of pink silk pillows, each of which was embroidered with the letter C surrounded by garlands of pink rosebuds. She lifted one side of her black lace eyemask and said something that sounded like, ‘Isthatthetime?’

  ‘Good audience?’ Bryony asked tentatively.

  ‘Not bad,’ her mother replied. ‘But it was such a late night, Bryony. I’m going to be shattered today, and we’ve a big rehearsal tonight for TV Family Star Turns. Did the little ‘uns do their morning practice OK?’

  Bryony nodd
ed, and her mother smiled weakly.

  ‘Only three weeks to go,’ she said. ‘Time’s tight. Plump up my pillows will you Bryony? There’s a love.’

  Bryony laid her mother’s tray on the floor, gritted her teeth, and began to thump.

  ‘We’ll do it though,’ Clarissa went on, ‘supposing it kills us. “That’s show business”, as they say!’

  Bryony paused mid-punch, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. In dealings with Clarissa, timing, she knew, was everything — and this just wasn’t the moment. Giving the pillow one final, colossal, thump she picked up the breakfast tray, set it on her mother’s ample lap, and perched on the edge of the bed to wait till the time was ripe.

  Nervously, she watched her mother eat the first boiled egg. A dozen or more photographs of her mother smiled back at her, for the bedroom was a veritable shrine to Clarissa Bell.

  Clarissa Bell was her mother’s stage name, her real name being Tracy which was way too ordinary. Most nights, Clarissa could be seen singing in a variety of working men’s clubs, where she was enormously popular. Just like all the other Bells, Bryony thought her mum was magic, and she always loved to see her all dolled up. And Clarissa liked nothing better than to slip into a long slinky dress, coil up her wavy blonde hair high on her head like a luxurious cream dessert, and sing for them all. It made them all feel terribly special. And it made all of them — except Bryony — long for the day when they too would share in her fame.

  All the Bell girls, except Bryony, had beautiful singing voices, and even Little Bob could gurgle his favourite song, Bob the Builder, well enough to be recognisable. Usually, it didn’t bother Bryony — after all, she was going to be a skating star, nothing surer. But for the past month the Bell household had revolved around The Singing Bells. As far as Clarissa was concerned, thought Bryony ruefully, nothing else really mattered.

  The Singing Bells was Clarissa’s brainchild. She longed to see the family name up in lights, and when she had seen the advert for TV Family Star Turns, nothing would do but she would enter them. They had passed the first rounds with flying colours; and now that the live television final was just weeks away, they spent every spare minute practising.

  It wasn’t so bad, Bryony thought, being the only non-singing Bell girl — not when you had a brilliant dad who bought you mega-brilliant rollerskates. But, it was simply out of the question to ask that brilliant dad to buy you anything else…

  Chapter: Two

  Bryony took a deep breath. Time to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘You know the play I’m in at school, Mum?’ she said, leaning over to wipe a stray yolk dribble fom Clarissa’s chins.

  ‘The one you’re playing the lead in?’ Clarissa said promptly. ‘Like the family motto says,’ she beamed at Bryony, “always a Bell at the top of the bill”. You mark my words, Bryony — you’ll shine at something, even if it isn’t singing.’

  Bryony wrinkled her nose. The play was another sore point. ‘Anyway, Mum,’ she said, not wanting to dwell on it, ‘we’re getting a disco after the last performance; it’s going to be s-o-o-o-o-o cool. So …’ She gritted her teeth.

  Her mother read her mind.

  ‘You after a new dress, Bryony, love?’

  Bryony nodded, but her mother shook her head sadly. ‘Sorry, Bryony — absolutely out of the question. Your dad and I are going to have to spend every last penny in the Special Expenses Account on costumes for the little ’uns for TV Family Star Turns.

  ‘It’s the most important performance ever, Bryony,’ she said, eyes glowing. ‘The whole nation’s going to see The Singing Bells for the very first time. And if we get the most votes, there’s a recording contract and £50 000 in it. Just think of that!’

  Bryony felt a guilty little shockwave zing up her back. She had never thought about The Singing Bells needing new outfits. And neither, evidently, had Dad. She felt her face glow red, right to the roots of her hair.

  ‘But everybody’s going to have new clothes ‘cept me …’ she began, then her voice faded away hopelessly. How could she even have thought of asking?

  Clarissa was not listening. She gazed into the distance, hands outstretched, oblivious to the crumbs and drips of yolk she was shedding on to the duvet cover.

  ‘Just imagine it Bryony,’ she murmured in a dreamy whisper, ‘Angelina and Melody and Melissa, and Emmy-Lou and me, all singing on the telly together, and then the public phoning in and voting. Makes me wobbly to think of it! We’ve got to look just right.

  ‘I fancy pink and sparkly myself,’ she said decisively, ‘but that kind of thing doesn’t come cheap as you well know, and money — as ever — is as tight as a badger’s bottom.’

  She clinked the teacup onto the saucer with a note of finality.

  ‘You’ll just have to wear the blue one with the sailor’s collar. Matches your eyes and sets off your hair.’

  ‘But Mum,’ Bryony wailed despite herself, ‘the blue one’s been handed down to Angelina!’

  Clarissa wiped her mouth on the lace-trimmed napkin and replaced the eye mask. ‘Well, it’ll just have to be handed back up again,’ she said grimly, pulling the duvet up round her chin to indicate that breakfast, and the audience, was well and truly over.

  Bryony gathered up the tray and plodded back downstairs with a heavy heart. Of course she couldn’t have a new dress. Of course it was far more important that The Singing Bells looked just right.

  Of course it was. But still, it was a crying shame.

  * * *

  ‘Want a lift to school, Bryony, love?’ Big Bob asked as she reached the hall.

  Bryony shook her head. ‘Not today, thanks, Dad — I’ll go on my old rollerskates.’ She took hold of Big Bob’s arm and steered him away from the front door, where the rest of the family had assembled ready to be transported to their various destinations.

  ‘Dad?’ she whispered worriedly, ‘can we really afford the Vipers?’

  Big Bob laughed and ruffled her hair. “Course we can!’ he said. ‘What else have I got to spend money on than my special princess?’

  Bryony swallowed. ‘Costumes for TV Family Star Turns?’ she said quietly, looking at her feet.

  Big Bob’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Bryony!’ he gasped. ‘It never crossed my mind.’

  ‘They have to have costumes, Dad,’ Bryony said. ‘And Mum says money is as tight as a badger’s bottom.’

  Big Bob’s bald patch blushed bright crimson. ‘Well now,’ he said, giving a little cough, ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that but …’ He sighed and put a hand on Bryony’s shoulder as though she might be about to fall. ‘Perhaps under the circumstances, Bryony, love, we’ll have to return the Vipers for the time being.’

  Then, looking utterly crestfallen, he turned towards the door, shooed the little Bells into the van and swept Little Bob up and under his arm. Bryony clung on to his belt and followed him, the full horror of what was about to happen suddenly hitting home.

  ‘But Dad …’ she said, close to tears. ‘I haven’t even tried them. I’ve only skated twice round the kitchen table!’

  ‘It’s a sin, I know,’ her father said, sliding the van door closed, ‘but it just can’t be helped. We’ll discuss it tonight.’

  ‘It says on the box you can return them after fourteen days if you’re not entirely satisfied!’ Bryony whispered desperately. ‘Can I not keep them for a bit? I’ll not get them scuffed — I’ll just use them in my bedroom… please Dad!’

  ‘All right, Bryony,’ Big Bob hissed back at her with a wink, ‘they’re yours for a fortnight. But don’t breathe a word to the others, mind!’

  ‘Thanks Dad,’ breathed Bryony gratefully. ‘I won’t tell a living soul.’

  Big Bob opened the driver’s door and hauled himself up and in. When he had closed the door he rolled down the window and poked his head out.

  ‘And mark my words Bryony — one day they’ll be yours for keeps,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘or
my name’s not Bob Bell!’

  Then, with a cough and a roar and a spray of gravel, he drove away.

  * * *

  Bryony fetched the Viper 3000s from the airing cupboard and took them upstairs, where she hid them under her bed. Sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, she brushed her long blonde curls vigorously and gathered them into two very pert bunches, each secured with a silky pink and white orchid. She smiled bravely at her reflection; and her reflection smiled bravely back at her, and winked.

  It could be worse, she thought to herself. Some people never got to wear Viper 3000s — and she had them for a whole fortnight. And some people didn’t even have a handed-back sailor dress to wear to a disco after their school play.

  At the thought of the school play Bryony shook her head, got up, and strapped on her everyday black rollerskates. She wasn’t even going to think about the school play. That could really push her over the edge.

  Humming tunelessly to keep her spirits up she set off for school, skating sedately along until she reached the end of the road. When she had turned the corner and was out of sight of prying neighbours’ eyes, she picked up speed. Checking that the pavement was relatively empty, she balanced on the outside edges of her right foot, stretched her left leg straight out behind her, and glided towards the kerb where she jumped, spun in mid-air, and landed with her back to the road. Then, pushing off on her left foot and with her right leg in the air, she executed an elegant curve round the postman, finishing with a forward arabesque.

  The postman stopped and watched her in admiration.

  ‘That’s pure genius, Bryony Bell,’ he said, putting his bag down in wonder. ‘Poetry in motion, that is. Going to let me see a spin, then?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Bryony. ‘Hang on!’ She handed him her schoolbag and skated backwards. Then she stopped, struck a pose with one arm in the air and the other across her waist, and pushed off hard. When she was within a metre of the postman’s feet she stretched her arms out wide, moved her right foot in front of her left, snapped her arms against her sides, and spun so fast her hair looked like a big blonde blur.