Family Fan Club. Jean Ure

last one, too,” said Rose.

      “And last one, too. So you’d just better start thinking of things to say to him!”

      “Make notes, I would,” said Rose. “In case you forget.”

      Daisy liked that idea. She scrubbed at her eyes.

      “I will!” she said. She scrambled to her feet, still hugging Tinkerbell. “I’ll start thinking straight away!”

      As Daisy left the room, Laurel looked at Jazz and tapped a finger to her forehead. “Dumbo!”

      She meant Jazz, not Daisy, but Jazz’s thoughts were already elsewhere. They never stayed still for very long.

      “Hey! Know what?”

      “What?”

      “I just thought of something!” Jazz sprang up, excitedly. “Something we could do … we could copy some of the pages from Mum’s script and act out a scene for her on Christmas Day!”

      There was a silence.

      “What for?” said Rose.

      “For fun!”

      “I wouldn’t think it was fun,” said Rose.

      “Yes, you would, you’d enjoy it! Once you got started.”

      “Don’t want to get started.”

      “Oh, don’t be such a gloom!” Jazz took a flying leap on to the sofa and sat there, hugging her knees to her chin and rocking to and fro. “Think of Mum! She’d love it! You know she’s always saying the things she likes best are the ones we’ve really worked at, like when we make our own cards.”

      “So we’ll make our own cards,” said Rose.

      “We’ll make our own cards and act out a scene. It will be like a present from us all.”

      Rose pulled a face. Laurel shook her head. There wasn’t any arguing with Jazz once an idea had taken hold of her. She bounced up off the sofa.

      “I’ll go and start copying right now!”

      “Can’t,” said Rose. “Mum’s got the script with her.”

      “Then I shall make up my own one, from the book!”

      “How are you going to copy it?” yelled Laurel, as Jazz scudded through the door. “Nobody can read your rotten writing!”

      Jazz stuck her head back in again. “Not going to write! Going to use the typewriter.”

      “That old thing!” said Rose.

      They had discovered the typewriter up in the attic, when they had moved in. It was very ancient. It had strange old-fashioned metal keys that rattled, and which you had to bash really hard, and an inky ribbon made of cotton that kept winding itself back every time it reached the end of the spool. To make copies you had to use carbon paper, which was messy, especially if you had to correct mistakes. Even messier if you put the carbon paper in the wrong way round.

      “It’s ridiculous,” said Rose. “Why can’t we have a computer?”

      Jazz’s head, which had disappeared, popped back in again.

      “’cos we can’t afford one!”

      “It’s like living in a cave,” grumbled Rose. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even got a television!”

      Of all of them, Rose was the only one who was technologically minded. It was Rose who discovered how to use the video and Rose who learnt all the programmes on the washing machine. Mum was useless, and Dad hadn’t been much better. Imagine having a dad who didn’t know how to work the video!

      Imagine having a dad. Jazz blinked, rapidly, as the tears came to her eyes. Sometimes even now, when she thought about Dad, great waves of misery would wash over her. They had all tried so hard to be brave about it, when the Great Row had happened and Dad had gone storming out. They had heard it from the upstairs landing. One by one, first Jazz, then Laurel, then Rose and Daisy, clutching Tink in her arms for comfort, had come creeping from their rooms and crouched, tense and shivering, at the head of the stairs.

      It wasn’t the first time Mum and Dad had shouted at each other. Jazz had always tried explaining it to herself by saying, “Well, they’re actors. Actors are like that. They enjoy making a noise.” But this time she had known, they had all known, that this was the big one. The Great Row.

      It was about money, as usual. Before Mum had got into Icing they had rowed about the fact that they hadn’t got any. They had rowed about whether they should both continue to pay their Equity fees and their fees to Spotlight, the actors’ casting directory, or whether only one of them should. They had rowed about whether one of them should give up acting and do something else. Get a proper job. They had rowed because Mum had got her hair done for an audition and Dad had said it was a waste of money, and because Dad had a new publicity photograph taken and Mum had said it wasn’t necessary.

      They had rowed because they were worried. Because they couldn’t afford to pay the bills or find a decent place for the family to live.

      And then Mum had got into Icing and the money had come rolling in and they still had rows. Still about money. Mum had wanted to do one thing with it, Dad had wanted to do another. And instead of talking it out calmly and sensibly, they had ended up yelling. One time Mum had yelled, “Who’s earning this money, I’d like to know?”

      Jazz had thought that was very unfair. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he couldn’t find work; it certainly wasn’t for want of trying.

      But then another time Dad had accused Mum of behaving like a prima donna, “Just because you’re in some second-rate soap!” And that wasn’t fair, either. Fame had never gone to Mum’s head; she’d still been the same old Mum.

      But perhaps, looking back on it, thought Jazz, Mum hadn’t been as kind to Dad as she might have been. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seeing Mum become a household name while he was still just an out of work actor.

      On the other hand, Dad could have tried a little bit harder to be happy for Mum and not to show that he was feeling hard done by.

      Maybe Rose was right, thought Jazz, sadly, as she toiled up the attic stairs, clutching Mum’s old childhood copy of Little Women. Maybe actors and actresses oughtn’t to get married to each other.

      When I am an actress, she thought, I shall marry someone boring and sensible who works in an office and earns money and won’t be jealous when I am rich and famous. We won’t yell and shout and upset our children by storming out and saying good riddance. (Which was what Mum had screamed when Dad had gone.) We shall stay together always and be a proper family.

      By the time she reached the attic, Jazz had difficulty seeing through her tears. She brushed them away, angrily. Jazz didn’t like crying, not even when she was on her own. She certainly wouldn’t do it in front of people. She was the strong one of the family.

      But never mind Christmas not being Christmas without any presents, she thought. How could Christmas be Christmas without any dad?

      

      “It’s so dreadful to be poor,” sighed Laurel, “looking down at her old dr—”

      “Stop!” Jazz waved her script, in anguish. “You don’t have to say that bit!”

      “What bit?”

      “Looking down at her old dress. That’s a stage direction! It’s something you’re supposed to do.”

      “Oh. Well, how was I to know?” said Laurel, aggrieved.

      “The