Family Fan Club. Jean Ure

Poor little Daisy, she’d done her best. Daisy always tried to please. But those two—

      Jazz banged her clenched fist into the pillow. They just didn’t care!

      Fresh tears came spurting. Tears of self-pity, as well as rage. They knew how much it meant to her, being an actress! They were deliberately ruining her chances. If Mum could just see what she could do, what she could really do, not just pottering round in the chorus of the school nativity play, she would surely let Jazz go to drama school? Only two days a week! It wasn’t much to ask.

      A timid knock came at the door. Jazz sprang into a sitting position, snatching up her sleeve for a handkerchief. She blotted angrily at her eyes. What had got into her, just lately? She never cried! She was the strong one. Now, it seemed, the least little thing set her off. She wouldn’t normally let Rose and Laurel get to her. It must be something to do with Christmas, and Dad not being there. She couldn’t imagine Christmas without Dad!

      “J–Jazz?”

      It was Daisy’s voice, piping uncertainly. Jazz scrubbed at her eyes, blew her nose, stuffed her handkerchief back up her sleeve. She marched across to the door.

      “What do you want?”

      Daisy’s lip quivered. “They told me to c–come and s–say sorry.”

      “Why you?” said Jazz. “You didn’t do anything!”

      “They r–really are s–sorry,” whispered Daisy.

      “Just too cowardly to come and tell me themselves!”

      “They’re scared you’ll be cross with them.”

      “Well, I am,” said Jazz. But Jazz never stayed cross for long. She rushed up to the boil, and then just as quickly simmered down. (Unlike Rose, who could nurse a grievance for days.)

      “They want you to c–come and s–start rehearsing again.”

      “Only if they’re going to behave themselves,” said Jazz.

      Rose and Laurel promised humbly that they would. Well, Laurel promised humbly. She said, “It was mean of us and we were stupid and I’m sorry. Let’s start over! This time I’ll concentrate.”

      Rose couldn’t quite manage to be humble. She said, “I’ll try. But I’m no good at acting and I can’t get it together with this Amy person … not with any of them. They’re all so twee and geeky!”

      “They are a bit goody-goody,” said Laurel. She said it apologetically, not wanting to upset Jazz.

      “Did you think they were goody-goody in the film?” demanded Jazz.

      “Well – y–yes. Sort of. But it was all right in the film!”

      “Why was it all right in the film and not all right now?”

      “Dunno,” said Laurel. She shrugged. “Just was.”

      “I’ll tell you why it was,” said Jazz. “It was because of the costumes. They were all dressed up in old-fashioned clothes, so you didn’t mind. You expect people in old-fashioned clothes to be a bit goody-goody. Like … you know! Going to church and saying grace and not swearing, and stuff like that.”

      “And girls behaving like girls,” said Rose. She screwed up her face. “All prim and proper.”

      “It’s how they were in those days. But it doesn’t mean they weren’t real people! What you have to do,” said Jazz, “you have to pretend that you were living then, not now.”

      “Maybe it would help if we had costumes,” said Laurel.

      “Yes!” Daisy clapped her hands. “Let’s have costumes!”

      “Well …” Jazz sounded doubtful. She hadn’t planned on being quite so ambitious. If you’ll be responsible for them—”

      “I’ll help, I’ll help!” cried Daisy.

      “What did they wear?” said Laurel. “Was it crinolines? We could make hoops out of bits of wire and put them under our skirts and drape bedspreads over them and wear our school blouses with some of Mum’s big scarves and—”

      “Now see what you’ve done!” said Rose. “You’ve gone and turned it into a full-scale production!”

      “That’s all right,” said Jazz.

      “It’s not all right! I haven’t got time for all this. Costume fittings. Dress rehearsals. Read-throughs. Photo calls. I have work to do,” said Rose, all self-important.

      “What work?” said Laurel.

      “I’m writing a book, if you must know.”

      “A book? About what?”

      “Please!” Jazz waved her arms. “If we’re going to do it, let’s get started.”

      “I just wanted to know what she could possibly be writing a book about.”

      “She can tell us later. Let’s take it from the top! Christmas won’t be Christmas. We’re all sitting round the fire—”

      “It’s about a colony of ants, actually,” said Rose.

      “A colony of ants?”

      “Look, please!” said Jazz.

      “Sorry, sorry!” Laurel sank down, cross-legged, on the floor. Rose bumped down beside her.

      “Different-coloured ants,” she hissed. “Black ants, red ants, white ants, b—”

      “Christmas,” said Jazz, very loudly, looking hard at Rose, “won’t be Christmas without any presents.”

      “Sorry,” said Rose.

      This time, they managed to get through all six pages of the script. It was Laurel who had the final speech.

      “No, it’s the toasting frok, sorry, fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the beard. Beard??? Oh, bread! Silly me!” Laurel giggled. “With Mother’s shoe on it instead of the bread. Phew!” She fanned herself with her script. “Is that the end?”

      “Yes, because that’s where Marmee comes in.”

      “Thank goodness for that! I don’t know how I’m supposed to find time to learn all these lines,” said Rose.

      “Learn them?” Daisy sounded startled. “Have we got to learn them?”

      “Only if you can,” said Jazz, kindly. “But don’t worry if you can’t.”

      “I won’t,” said Rose.

      “I didn’t mean you!” Jazz swung round. “I meant Daisy.”

      Rose heaved an exaggerated sigh, but she didn’t try to argue. It was accepted in the family that Daisy was treated more gently than the others.

      “Know what?” said Jazz. “We actually are quite like the girls in Little Women. We are!” she said, as Rose opened her mouth. “In spite of what you say.”

      “How?” said Laurel. “How are we like them?”

      “Well, if you think about it … their dad’s away from home—”

      “Their dad’s fighting in a war,” said Rose.

      “Yes, well, so’s ours, in a way. Except he’s fighting it against Mum. Trying to prove to her that he can make it as an actor. The point is,” said Jazz, a touch testily, “he’s away from home.” She really couldn’t stand it when people would insist on interrupting with their little niggles and nitpicks when she was off on one of her flights of fancy. “Their dad’s not there. Right?”

      Daisy nodded, rather tremulously.

      “And