Arabella
Parker
AND THE CHINESE SNAKEHEAD GANGSTERS
Ray Murray
BLUE JACARANDA
>P U B L I S H I N G<
Smashwords Edition
Published by Ray Murray at Smashwords
First published in 2012
Copyright © Ray Murray 2012
All rights reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author and publisher.
www.arabellaparker.com
The Old Coach House, 14 High Street,
Goring-on-Thames, Reading, RG8 9AR, UK
Blue Jacaranda Publishing Ltd: Reg No 7790913
www.bluejacarandapublishing.co.uk
Cover design: Ray Murray and Steve Banbury
ALSO BY RAY MURRAY
Arabella Parker and the Primrose School Revolt
To Abbie, who flies about all over the sky
(in her case as a busy airline passenger)
and was the original inspiration of the fictionalised Arabella character;
to Dave my editor and publisher at Blue Jacaranda
for his untiring efforts to put it all into print;
and last but very far from least, to my wife, Joan,
who puts up with my long bouts of writing the series.
CHAPTER 1
Mei Li
I give a quick glance along the upstairs landing to see that my mum’s not watching me, then take off and fly down to the hall without once touching the stairs or the banister rail. Another quick glance back up the stairs, makes sure she’s still busy in the bedroom doing things to her face and hasn’t seen me do a double somersault, followed by a two and a half twist, because if she had like the whole place would have shaken to screams of “ARABELLA! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT LIFTING YOURSELF UP?” Lifting myself up, being her way of saying flying through the air without touching the ground.
Ever since discovering that I can fly, I’ve felt different to my parents and to everyone else in our town, or even in our country for that matter. I suppose the reason for that is because I am different. Great Aunt Agatha says we’re born with it. It being what she calls our ‘special ability’. There may be other people who can fly but, except for Peter Pan and Mary Poppins and Aunt Agatha, I don’t actually know of any. But then, at one time, I couldn’t. Then, six months ago, suddenly, I could. I think it’s just something that happens.
It seems to me (big sigh), the only one who’s in any way sensible about my special ability is Great Aunt Agatha, and that’s only because she can soar up into the sky, too. In all other ways, she’s nutty as a fruitcake or as mad as a hatter, as my dad keeps telling me, and by far my favourite person. I don’t really know what a hatter is (I suppose it must be something to do with hats), or why a hatter should be mad, but that’s what he says.
My name’s Arabella Parker, aged nine and three quarters, soon to be ten, and in all other ways I suppose I’m quite ordinary. Mum might not agree: she tends to think the Parkers, as a family, are far from ordinary. Ordinary, in her opinion, means common and, in her opinion, we’re certainly not that. And by ‘we’ she means herself, my dad, Great Aunt Agatha and me.
Though she’s less convinced about Aunt Agatha and, if I’m honest, there are times when she’s less convinced about me. The reason being, she thinks we’re both Trouble with a capital T. She’s probably right. Aunt Agatha says she definitely is, then gives me one of her wicked smiles, know what I mean? Really, really cool!
My dad’s a bank manager and dreadfully, screamingly dull - as I suppose all bank managers must be, adding up boring figures all day must attract those kind of people. His main concern always seems to be about what head office might say or the bank’s chairman might think. When I ask, “Think about what?” he says, “Everything,” in a gloomy voice that is so like boring.
But enough of all this. It’s the first day back at Primrose Primary after the Christmas break and I’ve at last talked Mum into letting me walk there by myself, with Lucy Davenport, my very bestest friend.
Lucy lives next-door-but-two. She hasn’t always been my bestest friend, at one time I loathed and hated her and she loathed and hated me. But now we’re virtually inseparable. That means not willing to be separated - which isn’t exactly true. That would be like being glued together - but Miss Morgan, our teacher, just sniffs and says that as far as she can see it’s absolutely very nearly true. (The very nearly, I’ve put in.)
Our school’s like only two streets away but Mum has always said it’s much too dangerous for me to walk there on my own as there’s a busy road to cross. Which is silly because we have a lollipop lady to see us safely over. The real truth is, Mum’s only changed her mind about coming with me because, following the Primrose School revolt, last October, when we saved the school from being bulldozed to make way for a megastore, the parents she used to speak to there, are now like no longer speaking to her. Not because any of them are sorry we saved the school, or would have liked to see a shop put in its place, but simply because of the absolutely dreadful way Mum behaved, siding with that awful Lady Gilbert-Thomas. (If you want to know what happened, you’ll have to read the first Arabella book.)
The parents who now no longer speak to Mum are Mrs Barber, the golf club president’s wife, Mrs Jameson, wife of our local doctor, Mrs Dudley-Dupont, wife of a local architect, who Dad says is an important customer of the bank, and Mrs Rawlins, wife of an equally boring accountant.
To be honest, I can’t understand why she can’t just ignore Mrs Jameson, Mrs Barber, Mrs Dudley-Dupont and Mrs Rawlins altogether, and just speak to Mrs Brown, who’s much nicer and married to a local secondhand car dealer, and to Mrs Khaled, who’s from Afghanistan, and the rest of the mothers. But then parents are strange. They never seem to do what’s right, and when they get it wrong they always blame someone else - like me.
“I’m off, Mum,” I shout up the stairs, swinging my school bag over my shoulder and threading my arm through the strap.
“MUMMY, NOT MUM,” she shouts down from the upstairs landing. “ONLY COMMON PEOPLE CALL THEIR MOTHERS MUM.” I forgot to mention my mum has an extremely loud voice that can be heard hundreds of miles away - and very often is.
“Sorry, Mummy,” I yell back.
“THAT’S BETTER,” she booms, coming down the stairs. “See? You can remember when you try.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Wrap your scarf round your neck properly, not like that.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“And don’t scuff your shoes when you walk.”
“No, Mummy.”
“Now, are you sure you’ll be all right? Watch the lollipop lady. Cross when she says you can. And say ‘thank you’ when you go past.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“OFF YOU GO THEN,” she screams, standing, waving, at our front door.
As soon as I’ve turned right at the front gate and I’m out of her sight, I lift myself up, three inches off the ground (so as not to scuff my shoes!), loosen the scarf round my neck so that it hangs down my back, and skim along just above the pavement to land next to Lucy, waiting for me by her front gate.
“Wicked!” Lucy says with a big grin.
Over the Christmas holidays, Lucy and I have met and told each other what we had for presents, she’s visited me and we’ve played games, dressed up, and talked and made up stories; I’ve visited her and we’ve been to the local pantomime, spent our book tokens and vouchers, so there isn’t like much for us to chat about on the way to school.
Except flying.
Lucy is convinced that I could carry her on my back and we could fly off to somewhere new and exciting. When I say: “What about our parents? Won’t they be worried?” she says: “We’ll be back before they start to worry.” Which, in my opinion, doesn’t give us very far to fly. My parents worry even when I go to Mr Aziz at the corner shop to spend my allowance, and that’s less than five minutes walk away.
“How about the Tower of London?” Lucy says. “Or Madame Tussauds? I‘ve always wanted to go there.”
We reach the lollipop lady. “Come along girls. Cross quickly,” she says.
I say: “Thank you.”
She says: “Why, that’s nice, Arabella. And thank you.”
“Or we could fly to the Houses of Parliament and sit on top of Big Ben and see the view,” says Lucy.
I want to think about this. I’ve never flown over London. I don’t even know whether it’s allowed. Will the Queen think I’m a terrorist and send a fighter plane up to shoot me down? London doesn’t sound like a very good idea to me. “Flying,” I say, “is a ‘special ability‘, not something I’m allowed to play with. I can only use it like for something really important.” Not strictly true, but that’s what I’m saying, and if it sounds a bit uppity like, then it is.
Lucy thinks about it. “Like when we saved the school?”
I’m not sure that shouldn’t be when I saved the school; I did most of the organising and most of work; Aunt Agatha helped, of course. “Right!” I tell her.
Just then the school comes in sight and I breathe a sigh of relief. Flying’s not something I want to talk about too much. Flying’s something I ‘do’ without knowing too much about how. “There’s Miss Henderson,” I say to stop Lucy asking more questions.
Miss Henderson, our headmistress, is waiting by the doors, welcoming the children back from the Christmas break. Next to her stands a Chinese looking girl we’ve not seen before.
“Good morning, Miss Henderson,” Lucy and I say together, both gazing at the girl with her black hair and almond shaped eyes. She’s pretty.
“Good morning, Arabella. Good morning, Lucy,” Miss Henderson says. “Did you both have a good holiday?”
We nod. “Yes, thank you, Miss Henderson.”
“This is Mei Li Yu. She’s a new girl and will be in Year 4 with Miss Morgan… and with you, of course,” Miss Henderson says. “I’ll introduce her to the class when Assembly is over.”
I look at Mei Li. She looks scared. Lucy and I say “Hallo” and wonder, if she’s Chinese, whether she knows what ‘Hallo’ means.
“Hallo,” she says back in a soft squeaky voice.
I turn to Miss Henderson. “Does she speak English?”
“Of course she speaks English. She comes from Hong Kong. Well, Bradford and before that Hong Kong.”
I’ve never heard of Bradford and don’t really know where Hong Kong is. Except it sounds foreign like and kind of Chinesey.
“Sorry, I wasn’t being rude,” I say.
“That’s all right,” Mei Li says. “It is a perfectly sensible thing to ask.” And her English is very good. Just a slight lisp when she says the word ‘right’, which comes out sounding more like ‘light’.
Miss Henderson says: “Mei Li is here with her parents, living with relatives, or friends, I’m not sure which, over the Lotus Blossom takeaway just off the High Street. Aren’t you, dear?” Mei Li nods.
Miss Henderson is often a bit muddled about things and places. I think it’s because she doesn’t always listen. I know she doesn’t always listen to what I’m saying - especially when she thinks I’ve done something wrong.
I tell Mei Li that we’ve bought takeaway from the Lotus Blossom and that it’s very good. She nods and smiles. I don’t say, but only on special occasions, or tell her that my dad says it’s very expensive, because he says that about almost everything.
Miss Henderson tells us to hurry because our teachers will all be waiting for us in class, ready to march us into Assembly.
“We can take Mei Li in with us, if you like, Miss Henderson,” says Lucy.
“No, I want to introduce her properly. But thank you for offering, Lucy.”
Other children are arriving and they all stare at Mei Li.
“Now, take your coats off, hang them up in the cloakroom and make your way to your classrooms,” Miss Henderson calls over the chatter.
And this is the first time we - Lucy and I - set eyes on Mei Li Yu, never for a moment dreaming that it will like lead to such scary adventures. But, as you’ll see, it does.
CHAPTER 2
Aunt Agatha Knits a Dog’s Jacket
“We’ve got a Chinese girl in our class,” I say to Great Aunt Agatha when she comes to tea, as she does, every Saturday afternoon.
“That’s nice, dear,” she replies.
“From Hong Kong,” I add as though I know where this is.
“What’s her father, a stock exchange investor?” asks my dad. “I believe the stock market’s very big in Hong Kong.”
I have no idea what a stock market is. “No, I think he works in a Chinese takeaway.”
“Oh!” he says and I can hear the disappointment in his voice. He probably thinks people who work in takeaways aren’t quite as important as those in stock whatever. He’s probably right, but that doesn’t mean they’re not interesting.
We’re sitting in the lounge, which Mum insists on calling a drawing room even though we never seem to do any drawing in it. Aunt Agatha’s brought her knitting with her, and is producing what looks like a dog’s woolly jacket with four legs, which is interesting like, but strange. I know all dogs have four legs, but she doesn’t have a dog.
“So you won’t be introducing him to the golf club then, Percival,” Aunt Agatha says, with a slight smile on her wrinkled lips. I look at her and can see by the smile that she’s making fun of him.
“I don’t think they let Chinese in,” my dad says seriously. “I’ve never seen one there. I’ll have to ask the club president.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure they don’t,” says Aunt Agatha.
I don’t quite understand any of this talk. But then I often don’t when grownups chat. They never seem to talk about anything that’s like really sensible.
“Her name’s Mei Li Yu,” I say. “She’s very nice. A bit shy, but she speaks very good English. I think I’ll ask her to my birthday party.”
“Good idea,“ says Aunt Agatha. “What do you think, Gwendoline?”
“Oh, yes, quite,” Mum says, but I don’t think she’s really much in favour of birthdays, which doesn’t surprise me one bit. Dad doesn’t say anything. I know from past years that parties are not really their scene; they always breathe a huge sigh of relief when they’re over, everyone leaves and Dad’s finished going round checking that nothing’s been broken.
Aunt Agatha is carrying on knitting her dog jacket and Mum and Dad are suddenly silent. I expect they’re thinking about my coming party and all the noise we’ll make; at the same time busy adding up the cost in their heads. They’ve probably not thought much about a party till I’ve said I’m thinking about asking Mei Li; now they’re probably like thinking of reasons why I can’t have one.
Much to everyone’s surprise, Aunt Agatha suddenly says: “I went to Hong Kong once.”
Mum and Dad stare at her. “When on earth was that?” Mum says.
“Oh, a long time ago, Gwendoline. Long before your time. No planes of course then. We went by ship. I liked it. It was very nice.”
“We?” says Dad.
“Oh, someone I knew.”
Mum and Dad stare at her as though she’s from another planet. Then look at each other. I can almost hear my dad saying: ‘Nutty as a fruit cake. Mad as a hatter.’
“And did you eat Chinese food over there?” I ask.
“Of course. Where would the Chinese be without their fried rice and chicken chow mein. I didn’t like some of it, though: like bird’s nest soup, fried snake and boiled dog.”
“Ugh, they sound horrid.” Boiled dog! Worse than Brussels sprouts.
Mum raises her eyebrows and rolls her eyes. Dad frowns and taps the side of his head. Meanwhile, Aunt Agatha is busy counting stitches.
“The Chinese invented gunpowder,” I tell them. “And fireworks. I think they’re quite clever.” Miss Morgan thinks we ought to know something about China as we now have a Chinese girl in our class. Then, in case my parents and Aunt Agatha think I’m showing off, I add a quick: “Or so Miss Morgan tells us.”
Aunt Agatha nods and says: “Yes, they did, didn’t they?” Mum gets up and says she must get tea, which she does every Saturday. Dad says he’ll help, which he never does. I think they’re going to talk in the kitchen about Aunt Agatha going potty. And by the slight smile on Aunt Agatha’s face, she thinks so too.
“You still flying?” Aunt Agatha asks me when we’re alone.
I look across the room at the bookcase, my eyes fixed on the top shelf, remembering the first time I flew. It was when stretching up for an out-of-reach book that I suddenly found I was off the ground; then recall my mother’s piercing scream when she saw me like hovering there, and her pulling the curtains shut so the neighbours wouldn’t see.
“When nobody’s watching, I do,” I tell her, as it all floods back. By ‘nobody’ I mean my parents. Aunt Agatha nods - all cool like - she knows exactly what I mean.
“They’re not stopping you, I hope?”
“No. But then I usually only do it when they aren’t here. And only if it’s something important.” By important I mean if, by flying, it allows me to do something I couldn’t normally do if I couldn’t fly.
“That’s good.”
“Did you really go to Hong Kong?”
“Of course I didn’t. But it makes them think I’m going dotty in my old age, and that allows me to do what I like, when I like, without having to keep apologising to everyone for it. Life would be terribly dull, otherwise.”
Magic! Aunt Agatha never stops surprising me. I grin at her.
Mum wheels in a tea trolley on which are plates of paper thin cucumber sandwiches cut into neat triangles, home-made scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream and, my favourite, chocolate fudge cake. The teapot is silver, the cups and saucers are flowery chinaware, sugar is picked up with tongs, and milk comes like in a silver jug. It’s exactly the same every time Aunt Agatha comes. I think they’re trying to impress her so that she’ll leave all her money to them when she dies. Dad’s always saying: ‘Be nice to Aunt Agatha; you never know.’ Which doesn’t make a lot of sense. But then a lot of things that grown ups say don’t make sense.
Aunt Agatha puts down her knitting and takes a plate with a folded serviette on it. Dad puts on the smile that never seems to reach his eyes. “What’s that you’re knitting?” he asks.
“It’s a baby’s sleeping suit.”
“Who on earth for?”
“Goodness knows. I just like the pattern. I‘ll probably give it to a bring-and-buy sale,” she says.
Dad’s shocked. “Give it? You could probably sell something like that for two or three pounds. Maybe as much as five.”
Aunt Agatha looks at him. “Yes, you probably could,” she says. “You know it takes a bank manager to think like that.”
Dad’s pleased: he strokes his grey moustache and his grey face lights up. “Well, you know,” he says, “everyone to their own ability.”
I grin. Good old Aunt Agatha.
“So, when is this birthday?” she asks me.
She knows very well when it is, never once in all my past nine birthdays has she ever forgotten. She’s just reminding my parents when.
“January the thirty-first,” I say.
“As soon as that.”
“Yes.”
“And what would you like from me?”
I’d like a dog, then she can knit jackets for that instead of giving them to jumble sales. Lucy has a dog called Patch and he’s lovely. But Mum thinks they make a mess, and Dad says they cost too much to feed. Then, remembering Lucy saying we could fly to London and me wondering whether the Queen might send a plane up to shoot us down, I say: “A knitted parachute might be nice.”
“What colour?”
“Red,” I say. That’s my favourite.
Mum and Dad roll their eyes again, but Aunt Agatha just smiles and says: “Yes, I must see if I can find a pattern.”
CHAPTER 3
Alex
“So, are you really going to ask Mei Li to your birthday party?“ Lucy asks me.
We’re sitting in my bedroom, making out a list. It’s still like three weeks away to January the thirty-first but I want to make sure, you know, that I invite the right people and they all get their invitations in plenty of time.
In the few days that we’ve known her, Mei Li has been very quiet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Asked questions, she replies shyly and politely but doesn’t really tell us anything. It’s almost as though she wants to keep it all secret. And I know what Lucy means when she says am I really going to ask her; she thinks Mei Li will just be what my Aunt Agatha calls a bit of a wet blanket.
Mum has suggested that I have a ‘nice little party’ at home, but I would rather we all go to TGI Friday and have burgers and fries followed by another visit to the pantomime, Peter Pan, which is still on and one of my favourites. Mum thinks going to TGI Friday isn’t ‘quite the thing to do’ and a party at home with games like pass-the-parcel will be much nicer. So I then say, “A party at home? Oh, good! Can I have a disco?” knowing that’ll settle the argument once and for all. Dad gives a shiver - as I know he might; he hates pop music - and says: “God forbid. Let them go to TGI Friday, whatever that is.”
I tell him that it stands for Thank Goodness It’s Friday, which is a burger place. He frowns and asks whether it’s expensive. I say, I don’t think so. He sits there adding up figures in his head, and tells me I can ask ten people and no more. Aunt Agatha, when she arrives for her regular Saturday visit, straight away gets him to raise the number to twelve.
Sitting there in my bedroom, hugging Jimbo, my stuffed blue elephant, I think about Mei Li. Yes, it would be good to ask her. Being Chinese in a foreign country can’t be much fun. So I put Jimbo down, pick up my pen, and add her to my list.
Harry Mortimer is another person I’d like to come. And Hamid Khaled. Marie Worzniak I think about, then write her name down as well, though the spelling might not be right. That’s six, including Lucy and myself. In the end, Dad’s agreed to twelve: that must mean thirteen including me. Lucy, sitting on the bed, suggests I add Nicola and Sadie. I put down Hanif Shigra who’s new and doesn’t yet speak very good English. I think he comes from Pakistan where they speak Urdu. That’s nine. And by the time we’ve added Mandy, Amir, Fiona and Karin - making eight girls, four boys and me - it’s time for like Lucy to go home for her tea.
**
My birthday arrives and the arrangement is for all those invited to meet at TGI Friday. Mum’s very snooty about it all. But Dad, threatened with a disco, has said I can choose. So Mum has like given in in despair (her word, not mine), and has roped in Aunt Agatha to help.
I love my Aunt Agatha to bits. Even if she is old. She always smells of lavender and wears lace blouses and dresses, she calls frocks, with high necks and lace frills round the tops. When she comes to see us she wears shoes with button down flaps. At home, or when her feet are what she calls playing up, she wears white trainers which Mum thinks are unladylike and absolutely hates.
Before I could fly, I used to think Aunt Agatha was like quite scary, you know? I didn’t know then that she could fly; neither did my parents. Aunt Agatha had been too frightened to tell anybody in case they thought she was a witch. Thinking that the ‘special ability’ might be hereditary - that means someone can pass it on to someone else in the same family - it seems she’d been like hoping and waiting for me to take to the air, too. When I did, she was mega cool and did a lot to stop my parents forbidding me. Not that they could: it’s too important. They’d have to tie me down to the bed or something. And not that I fly everywhere. That would be silly. As Aunt Agatha says: “We’re unique, and we should respect this and use it mainly for doing good.” But I still like to have fun with it. Without fun, life would be incredibly, boringly dull, know what I mean?
Dad takes Mum, me, Aunt Agatha and Lucy to TGIF in his BMW but doesn’t come in; he has a golf match which he says can’t be cancelled. Sadly, Mei Li doesn’t turn up: twelve children pass wrapped presents to me, which I open to oohs and aahs. There are three CDs, two books, the rest are t-shirts with something lettered on the front, bath essence, a woollen hat, a voucher and a box of chocolates. The CDs I’ll have to play at Lucy’s and Mum won’t like what’s printed on the front of some of the t-shirts.
TGI Friday has dressed up the table with balloons, whistles and squeakers, and given us all paper hats to wear. Aunt Agatha immediately puts one on her head; Mum tries to look as though she’s enjoying herself even though I can see she isn’t; and we have burgers and fries with tomato ketchup in squeezy bottles, which Mum hates and thinks is common, and Diet Coke or orange squash, followed by ice cream with chocolate or raspberry sauce. Harry Mortimer has picked up a squeaker and blows it at Mum’s face: it unrolls with a squawking noise as it fills with air, and a feather on the end tickles her nose. Wicked! The party is really, really noisy. I grin at Aunt Agatha: this is like not my mum’s idea of a good time, and Aunt Agatha, who knows it, grins wickedly back.
Then comes the biggest surprise: Aunt Agatha has baked a birthday cake and smuggled it into TGI Friday without us knowing. It reads ‘Happy Birthday Arabella’ and has like a big figure ten in chocolate icing in a pink icing box with wings sticking out the side. It’s absolutely brilliant!
One of the waiters cuts it into slices and everybody sings Happy Birthday. Harry Mortimer shouts, “Speech,” which is something he’s heard at a wedding he went to, and I stand up and say: “Thank you, everybody,” and they all clap.
From TGI Friday we all go to the local theatre, just along the road, to see the afternoon performance of Peter Pan. I’ve seen it before. It’s very good, you know, except that when they’re flying, the performers are all suspended on wires hanging from the ceiling. I could do a much better job, without any wires. So could Aunt Agatha, even if her flying is a bit rusty. But the audience enjoy it, and I love the story.
In the foyer (that’s the entrance hall in a theatre), while Mum’s sorting out the tickets, one of the usherettes suddenly gives a loud shout; a boy pushes his way through the crowd and runs out the door with the usherette telling him not to come back.
“What’s going on?” Aunt Agatha asks her.
“Trying to get in without a ticket,” says the usherette. “Second time this week. He’s an absolute menace.”
I look round but the ‘menace’ has disappeared. I can see Aunt Agatha is like about to argue with the usherette but decides not to. Meanwhile, Mum’s busy trying to get the birthday party past and into the theatre without getting both herself and the usherette doing the counting in too much of a muddle. And Harry Mortimer doesn’t help by dodging backwards and forwards chatting to everyone. In the end the usherette gives up and just waves us through.
Inside, we sit in a row, me in the middle next to Lucy, Mum on the other side of Aunt Agatha. Suddenly, the usherette is shouting “Out, you!” and trying to grab hold of the ‘menace’ as she has called him. And the ‘menace’ is fighting his way along the row where we’re sitting, with the usherette after him.
Aunt Agatha grabs hold of the boy, stopping him in his tracks. At the same time, the boy is being grabbed by the usherette. He wriggles, trying to free himself. “Stop that,” Aunt Agatha cries and we’re all left wondering who she means, the boy or the angry looking usherette.
“He’s got no ticket,” the usherette says, red in the face.
“Of course he has,” says Aunt Agatha. “He’s with us. Show her the tickets, Gwendoline.”
Mum is looking confused. She looks at me and I can see her thinking, Is this one of the birthday party? And I know she can’t really recognise who I’ve invited and who I haven’t. I glance at Aunt Agatha, see her give a quick wink, and nod my head.
“Fifteen tickets,” says Aunt Agatha and begins to count the party. “Fifteen seats and fifteen people - thirteen children and two adults. Count them for yourself.”
“But he ain’t one of them,” the usherette says.
“Of course he is. Ask Arabella it’s her birthday party. That right, Gwendoline?”
Mum, who has completely forgotten that Mei Li is missing from the party, gives a confused nod. The usherette gives her an angry look and has to fight her way back along the row, leaving the menace sitting between Aunt Agatha and me.
He gives a quick grin and mutters out the side of his mouth: “Who’s the old lady?”
“The old lady as you call her,” Aunt Agatha tells him, “is Arabella’s Great Aunt. She’s also the old lady who got you a free seat to see Peter Pan.” The menace grins cheekily back at her. “Thanks. I been wanting to see this all month.”
“Do you really not have a ticket?” I whisper.
“No. Can’t afford it.”
“Won’t your parents pay for you?”
“Haven’t asked ‘em.”
Just then the curtain goes up, the lights dim, and I’m once more in the land of Peter Pan and Wendy.
**
During the interval I ask the boy, who looks to be the same age as me, what his name is.
“Why do you wanna know?” he asks.
“You’ve come to my birthday party, so I’d like to know who you are,” I tell him.
He thinks about this. “Al,” he finally says.
“Al? That short for Alex?”
“Yeah.”
“Alex is already short for Alexander,” I tell him.
“Yeah well I prefer Al.”
“Alex is much nicer. I’m going to call you Alex. My name’s Arabella.”
“So Aunt Agatha, here, told me.” He looks at me and frowns. “What do you care what I’m called,” he says.
Aunt Agatha leans over and says, “She cares because you’re at her birthday party and you wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t wanted you to be, so be nice to her.”
Alex grins. “Okay, I’ll be nice. But when this is over I’m gone outta here.”
“That’s up to you,” says Aunt Agatha. “So, welcome, Alex, for the short time you are here. Nice to meet you.”
And I say, “Yes, nice to meet you, Alex.”
The lights start to dim again and Alex whispers, “Happy birthday, Arabella. Nice to meet you too.” He grins. “And thank you for inviting me.”
I whisper back, “So, when’s your birthday?”
“Me? I don’t have birthdays like this, so it don’t matter, does it?”
**
When the performance is over, Alex makes a sudden dive for the exit. Mum looks at his back as he disappears and frowns. I look for him in the foyer but he’s disappeared from sight. Lucy wants to know who he is and what we said. She’s a bit put out like because he sat next to me.
“His name’s Alex,” I tell her.
“He’s not from Primrose Primary.”
“I know he’s not,” I say. I know because I know every child there.
“So where’s he from?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. All I know is he loved the play as much as I did. In fact, he loved it so much, know what I mean, that he forced his way in to see it even though he had no ticket. But I don’t say this, I only think it. Aunt Agatha is grinning, and I’m sure she knows what I’m thinking.
Parents of those who were at my party are waiting outside the theatre to collect their children and hear their excited chatter about the pantomime. All the children except Lucy, that is: because she lives next-door-but-two to us, Dad has told her parents that we’ll deliver her back home. Standing in the foyer Mum says: “Which one of the children at the party was the Chinese girl? None of them looked Chinese to me.”
“She didn’t come, Mrs Parker,” Lucy says.
Mum turns to Aunt Agatha. “You counted the children; there were thirteen. You and I make fifteen. So, where did the one who took the Chinese girl’s place come from?”
Aunt Agatha shakes her head. “I just counted them, that’s all,” she says looking innocent.
“Arabella, who was that boy?” Mum asks.
What could I say? “I don’t know, Mummy. I just thought he was a friend of one of those I invited.” It was a fib. But not like a big one.
Aunt Agatha says, “What’s it matter, Gwendoline? It was a good birthday party. If we had a gatecrasher all well and good. It means another child was able to enjoy the pantomime, at no cost to us.”
I’ve no idea what a gatecrasher is and I can see Mum’s like not mega convinced by Aunt Agatha’s argument. Just then Dad arrives in his BMW and we all pile in.
On the way home, we call in at TGI Friday to pick up the presents. And Lucy says: “I wonder why Mei Li didn’t turn up?”
I’m also left to wonder. I’ve never missed a birthday party in my life and can’t think of anything but measles or whooping cough like or some rare disease that would make me. “I’ll ask her,” I say to Lucy.
Meanwhile, I’m busy remembering what Alex had said when asked when his birthday is. “I’ve never had a birthday like this so it doesn’t matter.” At Primrose Primary everyone knows when everyone’s birthday is. Even the teachers. Each girl and boy is wished many happy returns by Miss Morgan and the class. So what’s he mean, it doesn’t matter?
“Perhaps, she’s got some Chinese illness, like malaria,” Lucy is saying, referring to Mei Li. “My daddy says paddling in paddy fields there can stir up the mosquitoes.”
As I don’t know what a paddy field is, I don’t bother to answer.
CHAPTER 4
Detective Work
“So, why didn’t you come to my birthday party on Saturday?” I ask Mei Li during the morning break.
Standing in the playground, looking very sad and lonely, she’s watching Angela Gomez do some complicated steps with her skipping rope. She drops her eyes, not wanting to look at me. “I could not come,” she says. “I want to but it is not possible.”
“Why?” I ask with a puzzled frown. If I want to go to a birthday party, I make sure I go.
“I had to look after my mother. She not feeling very well.” The ‘very’ comes out sounding like velly.
I look at her. I can tell she’s fibbing like by the way she tries not to look me in the eye. But I don’t know why. Her eyes are wet and shining; not with excitement or happiness, but with tears. A drop hovers on her bottom lid. She wipes it away. I can only think she must be homesick. I know I would be, among foreign people I don’t know. She’s the only Chinese girl in the class - the only Chinese girl in the school. I glance at Lucy but she doesn’t seem like to have noticed the sadness.
“Well, you missed seeing Peter Pan fly,” Lucy tells her sharply.
“Fly?” asks Mei Li.
“Yes, fly. But not as well as Arabella does.”
I can see Mei Li doesn’t know what Lucy’s talking about. She probably doesn’t even know who Peter Pan is. I stop Lucy saying anything more by asking Mei Li if her mother is feeling better now.