Blood Magic: Chapter 2!

By popular demand: the next chapter of my young adults story, Blood Magic! As before, contains a few mild swears, an implied sexual swearword, and drug references. Enjoy!

Chapter 2: After School

We met up again in homeroom for our last period, another easy one I liked. Rel Studs was taken by Deefor, aka Doctor of Divinity David Davies, who looked like a cartoon monk with his smooth pink face and halo of silvery hair round his big pink bald patch. This term we’d be studying Lives and Teachings of the Great Prophets, which sounded interesting, and I felt quite cheerful as the front row handed round New Testaments and information sheets about Jesus and His Apostles, but Raven seemed quiet and thoughtful right up until the home-time bell went at twenty to four.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked her through the babble of voices and scraping of chairs as everyone leapt up to go.

‘Oof.’ She made a face. ‘Physics. It was so totally grim I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to go home! So, are you ready to come chez nous?’

Oh yes. ‘Whereabouts do you live?’ I asked as we retraced our lunchtime route past the fields to the back gate. ‘I don’t come out this way much.’ When I did, I always turned right to go to the mini High Street with the chippy and pizza-kebab takeaway, and the baker’s with the little pavement café which sold yummy sausage rolls and Russian slices as well as the best-ever pasties and baby Swiss, and the newsagent and hairdresser and greengrocer and nail bar and dog-groomer, and the tattoo parlour where Chard Jenkins went with her sister’s college ID and got her belly-button pierced illegally; or further on, to the new-build estate where Libby lives, and Chard and one or two other classmates I don’t hang around with.

Raven turned left instead, towards the old church and rectory on the edge of town where the houses turn into allotments and dry-stone walled fields. ‘Over there.’ She waved vaguely at a clump of trees up ahead. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not far.’

‘Did you move in over the summer hols?’

‘Yeah. Three weeks ago, officially. But I’ve had a room here forever, it was my godparents’ place – only they wanted to downsize, and my god-bro and sis didn’t fancy taking it on, so the goddies thought they’d have to sell it to a stranger until Mum stepped in.’ She smiled. ‘And now everyone’s happy. They can still visit whenever they like, and we absolutely love Hidden House. It’s the only real home we’ve ever had.’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean? How come?’

Raven giggled. ‘Well, the Prince was right, I do have fascinating stories to tell about my travels. I just don’t like to because some people don’t like travellers, and that’s what we were. Real travellers, I mean. As in Mum and Dad had no steady jobs, no money to speak of, no belongings except what fitted in the bus, and no fixed abode – unless you count the old warehouse where Dad had his studio, it was big enough to park inside and we sometimes stopped there for a bit. The rest of the time we were either on the road, or at some festival, or camping out with family and friends. I didn’t live in a house properly until I was ten or go to school till I was eleven, and I hated every single minute of both.’ She dimpled. ‘But I know I’m going to be really happy here.’

My mouth did the goldfish thing again. ‘Oh yeah, and before you say, ‘Wow, no school, lucky you, what a doss,’ blah blah,’ Raven went on just in time, ‘believe me – it wasn’t. I mean, you got, what, three months holiday a year, right? I didn’t! None of the traveller kids did- oh, it’s no good, I can’t tell it like this, all mixed up. I’ll have to start at the beginning. If you’re sure you want to hear.’

‘Yes please! Honestly, I’m really interested, I’ve never met a proper traveller before. I can’t imagine- I’ve never not lived in a house, or ever gone away anywhere for longer than a fortnight.’

Raven gave a tiny nod, as if I’d passed some kind of test. ‘OK. Well, it all starts way, way back with Mum’s family… they lived in Paris before the Revolution, and some went off to fight in the American War of Independence and settled there afterwards. They still live in New Orleans, and they’re still called Desmoulins-’

‘What? Like that journalist?’ (We’d done the French Revolution in History last year, and I felt pleased with myself even though I couldn’t remember his first name).

‘Camille Desmoulins? Yes, but they weren’t related – and when he got his head cut off, they didn’t want anyone thinking they might be! So they cleared out to lay low with country cousins, then came back as good little Republicans with their name changed to Moulin to sound more ordinary.

‘Fast forward to twentieth century. Marie-Louise Moulin born, grows up arty and musical like her mum and dad, visits the Louisiana Desmoulins every summer, and gets seriously into the local sounds – you know, trad jazz, Cajun, bluegrass.’ (I didn’t, so I just nodded wisely). ‘And some of the cousins put a band together, and she starts jamming with them, then stays over to do a season on the circuit as Mary-Lou and the Catfish Crew. And they do pretty well, so they release a song called ‘Jolie Blonde’ with Mum’s version of ‘Jolene’ on the B-side, and it turns into a big hit in the Southern States. So then the grandies arrange for them to come and do a little tour in France, and someone hears them and invites them to play at some festival in Cornwall – and that’s where she meets this totally hot blues guitarist called Graeme Childe, and boom! Love at first sight for them both.’

I sighed, picturing it. ‘How romantic.’

‘Yes, especially because he’d dropped out of an engineering degree to do music and stuck at it even though his folks were always on at him to stop messing about, go back to uni, get a real job, settle down blah blah.’ Raven made a face. ‘Not that I ever met them. There was a fire, faulty wiring or something, on the actual night after the festival when Dad was driving Mum up to introduce her as his fiancée… they got back to Yorkshire to find a gutted house crawling with firemen and police, both his parents dead of smoke inhalation, and him with nothing left but a rucksack of dirty laundry, his camping gear, and a vanload of instruments.’

‘Oh my God! How awful.’

‘Yeah… although it did mean he got a big wedge of insurance money and no-one to nag him about how he spent it. So he rented this old warehouse on the river in Wakefield, blew most of it on the business, and the Crew came to help him set up a rehearsal space with its own little recording studio so they could release their own stuff and help out other musos. Mum had already started calling herself Moon because she was sick of people mispronouncing Moulin, and Dad was a massive Rory Gallagher fan, so they decided to call themselves MoonChild Music, and bought a bus and had it painted black with silver stars and a huge silver logo, you know,’ she waggled her ring at me, ‘and all fitted out inside for touring. They got married not long afterwards – changed their names by deed-poll to Moon-Childe, even released a cover version of ‘Moonchild’ to celebrate.

‘And when I came along nine months later, I just slotted in. Obviously, it seemed totally normal to live on a bus – one of my first memories is sitting in my car-seat completely covered by this huge AA map, trying to follow the roads with my finger. I got so good at it Dad used to use me instead of the sat-nav.’ Raven’s eyes went misty. ‘We were like medieval troubadours… we only did small local festivals, so it was very cosy, all the regulars knew each other and us kids were in and out of everybody’s tents and caravans the whole time, so it never mattered that I had no brothers or sisters because we felt like one big family. Not going to school didn’t matter either, because the ones who did used to tell us what went on, and it didn’t sound as if we were missing much. Mum and Dad were bright enough to teach me all I needed plus a lot more, so I was properly home-schooled – and of course we were learning all the time just by going different places and doing stuff.

‘Anyway, they were brilliant parents, and I had a brilliant childhood – although a lot of people would think it was crap, which is another reason I don’t like talking about it. No monster TV, no X-Box, no Guitar Hero – we had real guitars! – no big flash car, nothing new because everything got re-used and recycled until it fell to bits… having to do chores every day, forage for kindling, mind the camp-fire, empty the chemical toilet… no MacD or KFC because practically everyone was veggie or vegan… but I totally loved it,  so I totally don’t need anyone’s snark or pity – especially when they haven’t the first clue what they’re talking about.’

By now we’d reached the clump of trees, which I saw were in the front garden of a big old house with the nameplate ‘Grange Farm’ and a hand-painted sign, FARM SHOP – FRESH FREE-RANGE DAIRY, FRUIT & VEG, LOCAL HONEY, with an arrow pointing down the little lane next to the gate.

‘Grange Farm do lovely butter and cheese,’ Raven said as we passed. ‘We get our eggs there too, until I can persuade Mum to let us keep hens. And that’s where the farm labourers lived,’ she added, waving at a row of pretty red-brick cottages with Idenowes Terrace 1825 engraved on a sandstone block under the middle roof.

‘Iden-owes?’ I read aloud. ‘What a funny name! I’ve never heard that one before.’

Raven laughed. ‘No, or you’d know the locals say it ‘Idden ‘ouse,’ which if you stick the aitches back on makes ‘Hidden House,’ and you’ll see why it’s called that in a minute.’

Catching my arm, she pulled me round onto a rough little lane, not much wider than a car, between the end of Idenowes Terrace and the stone wall of the next field. Looking back the way we’d come, I realised we’d been climbing a long, gradual hill – no wonder I felt a bit puffed – and the church clock practically opposite the cul-de-sac leading to the GSA back gate struck four just as I looked at it. About the same time as I’d normally get home, or to Fi’s. My cheeks burned a bit pinker with guilt that I’d not even thought about her since lunchtime – and now I didn’t have time to think any more, because Raven was striding off up the lane.

I hurried after her, gawping into the long, narrow cottage gardens on my right. They all started outside the back door with the same little paved yard and outhouse and washing lines; then some had lawns sloping gently up the hillside, ending with a brick wall and thick woods beyond, while others went up in terraces with stone walls and steps and rockeries; but my favourite was the one on the end, nearest to us. The yard had a picnic bench with a green and white striped umbrella and loads of potted plants and hanging baskets, and white roses climbing round the door, then two strips of bright green lawn with yellow and bronze and orange daisy-type flowers round the edges, and a crazy-paved path in between leading to an arch cut in a high privet hedge, with steps up to a neat vegetable garden on the right, and a gnarly old apple tree surrounded by bushes – currants, gooseberries, I couldn’t tell, I was rubbish at plants – on the side by the lane.

When the gardens ended, the brick wall carried on enclosing nothing but scruffy grass and trees. It was the same on my left, only the wall was grey stone with a high thorny hedge towering behind it, and a prickly undergrowth of brambles, then a band of trees too thick for me to see through to the other side, or even if it had one. Then I caught up with Raven, standing on the brow of the hill with her elbows propped on a wide wooden gate with a carved nameplate, IDENOWES FARM.

‘This is one of my favourite views, anywhere, ever,’ she said dreamily, ‘and now it’s all ours! Well, as much as humans ever can own bits of the planet. We’re just caretakers, really… passengers on Spaceship Earth.’

I propped my elbows alongside and looked down a proper lane, paved with flat cobbles, running steeply down between the field walls. On our right was a meadow of nodding long grass, with trees and a high rocky hillside behind. On our left was a sort of wild valley with bushes and more trees, and little glades full of tall white daisies and rattling dry seed-heads, and winding mown paths, and a small stream with willows weeping into it at the bottom. And straight ahead I finally saw the Hidden House, grey stone like Grange Farm but looking much older, with small windows and big blotches of yellowy-orange-brown moss and lichen on the roof, and a big stone barn sticking out at right angles from each end. The open square in between must’ve been a farmyard once, all muddy and hoof-churned and stinky with poo; but now it was a shady garden with grass and flowerbeds and a life-size stone wishing well with a proper tiled roof and wooden bucket, not like the plastic tat you usually see on people’s lawns; and the hay-racks on the walls were full of bright trailing flowers, like the hanging baskets by the doors and the window-boxes under the windows.

For a few seconds I felt too jealous to speak. Then I wished I hadn’t. ‘Wow! What a gorgeous place! Oh my God, Raven – you’re so lucky to live here.’ And by the time it sank in that she’d only come to live here because her dad had just died in a horrible way and her mum had sold their business to CanCom, it was too late, I’d said it, and I wanted to sink through the floor. ‘Oh, God – look,’ I started babbling, ‘I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean-’

‘No.’ Raven shook her head. ‘Don’t be. I’m not. Gray Childe – the one you know from the news – he wasn’t my dad, he wasn’t a very nice person, and I don’t miss him at all. My real father died when I was ten and I still miss him every day, but I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it.’ I must’ve looked totally confused because she went on, ‘It’s another long story – I’ll explain later, after you’ve met Mum. Come on, I’ll race you!’

Tucking her bag under her arm, she climbed over a stile next to the gate and set off running down the cobbled lane, whooping as she went. I hurried after, my bag thumping my hip – good job it was well-padded – as I jogged, faster and faster, then the slope caught me and I was running, bounding, feeling like the Seven League Boots guy in the fairy-tale, and shrieking as madly as Raven. Luckily the hill flattened out before we both crashed into the house and we slowed down, giggling breathlessly, as the lane ended in a cobbled crossroads with arms going left and right to the barns, and a flagstone path in the middle leading to the ancient wooden front door, (no roses round it, just a small green conical bush in a bright red pot on either side).  

Raven headed left. ‘We’d better go in through the garden room,’ she panted, ‘tidy ourselves up a bit first.’

My stomach went boing, then filled with a squirmy excitement. I’m the world’s nosiest person (though I do my best to hide it). Ever since I could walk, I’ve loved poking round other people’s houses. I don’t care if it’s a council flat like Nana’s, or a semi like ours, or a detached like the McD’s, or a huge stately home like Temple Newsam, where my folks took me to try and cheer me up after Fi went – I just love looking at other people’s stuff, their books and pictures and ornaments, the way they decorate their rooms, trying to get a feel for who they are. Rellies and family friends learned years ago that if they didn’t have a suitable book and a bag of sweets handy, letting me pick through their fusty old wardrobes trying on funny old clothes and shoes, or through junk in the attic looking for forgotten treasures, or through jewellery boxes, scrap books, or faded peeling photo albums, could keep me safely quiet for hours. It was the only thing that had made helping Fi pack her house up remotely bearable. So I felt a bit disappointed when Raven walked straight past an obvious set of garage doors, because I was dying to see what sort of car her mum drove, then past a sort of rough stable door in two halves. But I couldn’t help asking, ‘What’s in there?’

‘Just car stuff, tools – nothing interesting,’ she replied, heading for the next door along. This she did open, and we went into something like our garden shed only fifty times bigger, with whitewashed walls and a channel carved in the stone floor, I guessed to drain away animal wee. Glancing hungrily left as Raven turned right, I saw a little red tractor, two lawnmowers and some agricultural-type machines – I had no idea what they were for – with brooms and rakes and hoes and shears and hedge-cutters and other smaller tools standing neatly in wooden racks or hanging on the walls. Then I followed her through an earthy-smelling room fitted out with wooden shelves and benches, covered in plant pots and seed trays and watering cans and coloured planters of all shapes and sizes, with reels of hose and sacks of compost and garden umbrellas and fold-up furniture stacked round the sides. (My parents would’ve been green with envy – our garden shed was so full, every time Dad wanted to cut the grass, he had to take the deckchairs and picnic table out before he could get at the mower).

‘This is the garden room,’ Raven said, although I’d worked that one out for myself, ‘and there’s a sort of loft apartment up there for guests,’ she went on before I could ask, pointing to a rustic half-staircase, half-ladder, leading up to a square hole in the ceiling. ‘I’ll show you later if you want the Grand Tour.’

 ‘Yeah, that’d be nice,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m really interested in old buildings.’

‘Cool! Well, this bit’s more modern… we call it the mud room.’ Raven opened a door in the end wall. ‘It’s great if you get wet and mucky outside, you don’t have to drag dirt into the house.’

I followed her in. The mud room was much smaller than the garden room, with orangey-brown tiles on the floor, and half done out as a cloakroom – whitewashed walls with hangers for waterproofs and waders and tatty old fleece jackets and caps and big floppy hats, pegs sticking out underneath for wellies and work-boots, and wooden cubby-holes under the pegs full of Crocs and walking sandals. The other half was a bathroom, all white tiles with a shower cubicle in the corner, a heated towel-rail next to it, and a toilet and washbasin.

‘Help yourself to whatever if you’d like to freshen up,’ said Raven, hitching up her kilt, ‘and please excuse me, I’m bursting.’

I turned away while she peed, bent over the sink, and washed my sweaty face with a piece of rose-scented soap with pink petals in, then stood aside combing my hair while Raven washed her hands and rubbed in some cream from a little glass jar.

‘Here, try this,’ she said, passing it to me. ‘Another Mum special, made with our own orange blossoms.’

‘Oh,’ I translated the label aloud, ‘is that why she calls it Me?’

Raven laughed. ‘It’s Moy, not Moi. Short for moisturiser. Her little joke.’ She opened the shower cubicle and pointed to two bottles on a glass shelf inside, marked Poo and Dish. ‘She can’t be bothered to write out full labels for our house stuff.’

I rubbed some in, sniffed my hands, then rubbed some on my face too because it smelt so fresh and sweet, unlike me at the end of a school day. ‘Mm, thanks. It’s lovely.’ I glanced at myself in the mirror over the sink. At least I looked clean and tidy-ish, which was as good as it got. ‘Right, then – where to now?’

‘To see Mum and get a snack. I’m starving, aren’t you?’ I realised I was as Raven opened a door I hadn’t noticed because it was covered with tiles like the wall. We went through a little vestibule into a dining room like you’d see on Emmerdale Farm or something: a flagged floor with a huge coloured rag rug in the centre and a huge polished table in the centre of that, surrounded by twelve chairs; dark beams in the ceiling; a high shelf of serving dishes and jugs and teapots and sauce-boats running round three walls; a great big pine dresser filled with dinner plates, bowls, mugs, cups, saucers and jars of pickles and preserves; and a great big pine sideboard under the window set with all sorts of glasses and bottles of drinks.

Only the bottom half of the wall facing us was solid. The top half was like a fence made of thick vertical beams, with wide gaps in between and an open door in the middle so that you could see through to a passageway and a kitchen on the other side. It was the same size, with the same half-wall, and laid out like the dining room except that the sideboard was a big old-fashioned white sink, like a tank, with a wooden draining board and plate-rack, and the dresser was an Aga cooker, and there was a brick fireplace big enough to stand inside, with a black iron stove and wire racks above for drying things on, and bunches of flowers and herbs and onions and garlic bulbs dangling from the ceiling beams, and the pine table was smaller and rougher, with only six chairs round it, set with a loaded tray I hoped was for us.

‘Maman! We’re home,’ called Raven, taking off her blazer and hanging it on the back of a chair.

Faint music I hadn’t registered until it stopped, stopped. ‘Hallo!’ a voice called back. Then I heard a slap of feet on flagstones and a few moments later a taller, older Raven burst in, smacked kisses on her daughter’s cheeks, then turned to me and did the same.

‘Hallo, my dear,’ she said, sounding totally English apart from the ‘a’ in ‘hello.’ ‘Welcome to Hidden House! It’s a pleasure to meet- Eloise, isn’t it? How delightful. Were you named after our famous French romantic heroine?’

‘Um.’ I swallowed. Raven’s mum was definitely what the rude boys would call a MILF: deeply tanned, eyes a shade lighter and greyer than Raven’s, a petite Baldy-beak, a big white smile, and a big bush of dark hair threaded with silver, tied into a loose ponytail with a piece of garden string. She was wearing an unbleached, shapeless cotton hand-knit over calf-length cargo pants that might have been dark chocolate once, now washed to a pale milky cocoa. Her feet were bare, her toenails unpainted, her hands and forearms and the shoulder her jumper kept slipping off all brown and strong and veiny like a man’s, but feminine at the same time; and the few lines in her face made her look kind and wise, not old, and Raven a bit like an unfinished drawing beside her.

At least when I untied my tongue, I knew the answer to her question because the Joob had asked me the same thing in our first-ever French class, then told us all about the great historical lovers Abelard and Heloise. ‘Um, no,’ I said. ‘After a song by some Eighties band called The Damned. Mum had a crush on the singer.’

Raven’s mum raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? Then your mother has excellent taste. Dave Vanian was seriously hot.’ Then she winked at me so naughtily I burst into giggles, and suddenly I loved Mrs M-C like I loved Mrs McD.

Raven just rolled her eyes. ‘Mo-ther! Don’t embarrass her. Come on, Ellie,’ she pulled out a chair, ‘sit down, dig in.’

‘Yes – do make yourself at home.’ Her mum poured out two tall glasses from a white cloudy jug floating with ice-cubes and lemon slices and mint leaves, while Raven picked up a crusty loaf, tore off two chunks, spraying crumbs all over the table, and put one in front of me, no plate. Then she slid the tray across, dunked her chunk in a bowl of greeny-yellow oil with a peeled garlic clove in it, bit it off, and chased it down with a black olive. I pulled off a small piece, dipped in a corner and tried it. Wow. My breath was really going to smell- ah well, it wasn’t like I’d be snogging anybody tonight. Any night, come to that. I tried to wash the garlic taste away with the drink, which turned out to be either flat lemonade, or the lemoniest lemon squash I’d ever tasted. It was so good, and I was so thirsty, I gulped most of it down in one go, then tried Mrs M-C’s home-made sun-dried tomatoes, and a couple of olives, and a slice of Grange Farm cheese, and some baby pickled gherkins she called cornichons to go with the rest of my bread, (which I kept dipping in the oil to try and get used to the garlic, because I knew it was supposed to be a very French taste).

Raven downed a second glass of squash and let out a resounding burp. ‘Oops – pardon me! Thanks, Mum, that was great. Is it OK if I show Ellie round now? She likes old houses.’

‘Yes, of course. Eloise, I say to you as I say to all guests: our home is your home. Go where you like, when you like; all I ask is that you don’t enter my bedroom alone. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind picking me a few things for dinner before you go exploring.’ She said something in French to Raven, too fast for me to catch, then, ‘We’re just having soup and salad, nothing fancy – I hope that’s OK. We dine at six.’

My heart sank. Those were probably my least favourite things. But I was only missing Remnant Risotto at home, the last gasp of Sunday’s roast minced up with fried onions and frozen peas and sweetcorn, after we’d had the best cold cuts with bubble-and-squeak on Mondays. Sometimes Mum got adventurous, threw in a handful of sultanas and a teaspoon of bright yellow curry powder, and called it biryani. It wasn’t exactly bad. But it wasn’t exactly good either, so I stuck on my best smile and said, ‘Lovely. Thanks very much, Mrs Moonch- um, Moon-Childe.’

‘Boh.’ She waved a hand. ‘Don’t bother with that mouthful. Call me Lou.’ I must’ve looked doubtful because she added, ‘Or Lou-lou, or Auntie Louise, or Mamalou. Whatever you’re comfortable with.’

‘Yes, whatever,’ Raven butted in before I could say, ‘Thanks, Mamalou.’ She jumped up, grabbed her blazer and satchel, and headed off down the passage. ‘Come on, we can dump our stuff in the homework room-’

‘You have a special room for doing homework?’ I gasped, following her through a door behind the kitchen.

Raven giggled. ‘Only by default. It was the goddies’ home office.’ She put her bag on a big L-shaped desk and hung her blazer on the swivel chair at one of its two workstations. I put mine on the other, looking enviously at the smart laptop and printer, the filing cabinets, bookshelves, and green velvet chaise-longue under the window (I’d always fancied one of those), wishing my own room was this tidy and well-organised. I read a few titles in passing: Organic Farming, Smallholding from Scratch, The Complete Aromatherapist – nothing I fancied reading, although an antique-looking copy of Culpeper’s Herbal might be interesting.

‘Right, I’m off to get a trug. I won’t be a minute – have a look round while you’re waiting, if you like.’ Raven went back into the passage and pointed to the room opposite. ‘The goddies used that as a breakfast room because it gets the morning sun, and down there’s the music room.’ She jerked her thumb past a big wooden staircase towards the back of the house. ‘Head for that, it’s the way out to the garden.’

Oh, joy. ‘OK,’ I said, and nipped straight across into the breakfast room the second she’d gone. It still looked like morning even though it was late afternoon because of the golden carpet and primrose walls and gold-and-white stripy curtains to match four upholstered chairs set round a drop-leaf table by the window, and two big flumpy mustard armchairs with a full magazine rack next to each. The coffee table between was piled with glossy books, and an old-fashioned glass-fronted bookcase nearby was stacked to the ceiling with green books with curly gold patterns on the spines. I just had time to read a few golden titles including my childhood favourite Black Beauty before Raven came back from the garden room with a flat wicker basket over her arm.

‘I could spend hours in there,’ I said as we headed for the music room. ‘I love books.’

Raven smiled. ‘Well, knock yourself out. Mum wasn’t just being polite, you know. If you’re my friend, this is your house too now. Come back on Friday night and hole up for the weekend, if you want… although this is a great room to read in as well, if you don’t mind me or Mum fiddling about in the background.’

My mouth goldfished again as we went through a pair of double doors into a room wide as the house, with a back wall made completely of glass, and a sliding door in the middle leading out onto a wooden deck with wooden benches and tables, and potted plants dotted around; only it wasn’t too bright and glary because the deck had a shady roof made out of beams and a tangled green grapevine with actual bunches of purple grapes dangling from it. I’d never seen grapes growing before, only in plastic bags from the supermarket. The wooden floor was mostly covered with coloured rugs, and one end was like a lounge with a big squashy crimson corner couch, scattered with tapestry cushions, and the side wall covered in wooden shelves covered in knick-knacks, framed photos, and a mad jumble of hardback and paperback books. The matching shelves on the opposite side held a sound system with big speakers and hundreds of CDs, vinyl records, and tall, thin books I guessed were sheet music because the only other furniture on that side was an old piano, two chairs, two music stands, and a bunch of guitars, all different shapes and sizes, standing round like backing singers, with a violin, and a rack of tin whistles and recorders, and a load of tambourines, bongos, and flat drums, hanging on the walls.

Raven beckoned me through onto the deck and it was goldfish time again. We were looking down on a gently sloping orchard, some trees still heavy with fruit, enclosed by ancient crumbling brick walls that glowed as if red-hot in the sun. The side walls had arches in the middle with black wrought-iron gates; the left led to the wild valley we’d passed on the way in, and the right into a walled garden with vegetable plots and fruit bushes and a big glittering greenhouse either side of the gate, like I’d seen at stately homes.

‘This way,’ she said, skipping down the steps on the right-hand end of the deck. I followed her across a strip of lawn into the kitchen-garden, hot and sheltered and humming with bees, and into the nearest hot, humid greenhouse. ‘Pick any salad you like.’ She stuffed a cherry tomato into her mouth and a handful into her trug from a plant that smelt like cat-pee. ‘Or herbs. Anything that looks ready. Just make sure you get plenty of rocket,’ she nodded at a pot of green fronds, ‘it’s my favourite.’ I wandered behind, pulling leaves and a couple of cute plump baby cucumbers, until Raven said we had enough. Then we went into the orchard, and she showed me how to tell when a pear was ripe, and I picked three beauties that just fell into my hand as I cupped their bottoms.

‘There!’ Raven loaded them into her trug. ‘Job done. I’ll run this back to Mum – then you can hear the rest of my story if you like. OK,’ she went on when I nodded eagerly, ‘but I need to be in a Special Place to tell it… go through the gate, follow the path, and keep heading downhill, you’ll know it when you see it. I’ll catch you up.’

As she jogged away, I stood looking at the gate, feeling like Alice about to enter Wonderland – especially when I spotted the man’s face, made of carved stone leaves, peering back at me from the top of the arch. Then I took a deep breath and went through, and saw three paths, the width of a lawnmower, cut in the long grass; but only the one to the right went downhill, so that was the way I went. For about five steps. The grass felt like a soft, springy carpet under my soles, and there were no broken bottles or jagged cans or junkie’s needles or dog-poo to tread on like in the park, and it was so sunny and warm- oh, what the hell. I stopped, took my jumper off, tied the arms round my waist, kicked off my shoes, stuffed my tights inside, and tied the laces together so I could carry them. Then I walked slowly on, loving the cool dampness squidging between my hot toes, hearing nothing but birdsong and buzzing insects, smelling the musky scent of fallen leaves, winding down among the bushes and trees in a kind of green trance. So I practically fainted when a hand slapped my shoulder and a voice said, ‘Great minds think alike!’

Clutching my heart to stop it jumping out of my chest, I turned to see Raven barefoot, dangling her shoes by the laces. ‘Sorry to startle you,’ she laughed, not looking very sorry at all. ‘I thought you’d hear me coming, I made enough noise.’

‘I didn’t,’ I said weakly, ‘I was miles away. And I haven’t found your special place yet, I don’t think.’

‘No, but it’s not much further.’ Raven led the way – there wasn’t room to walk side-by-side – and we were too busy trying not to get nettled, brambled or thistled when suddenly the path widened and turned into a flight of shallow stone steps, and there between the weeping golden willows I saw the stream, only a couple of metres wide, babbling and glinting in the sun. Raven dropped her shoes, wadded her jumper into a cushion, put it on a step and sat down, her feet three steps lower, ankle-deep in water. I did the same and we sat in blissed-out silence for a minute; I felt the stream washing away all the sick pain of this morning, of this whole miserable summer, and let out a long, happy sigh.

Raven sighed too. ‘Right, then – story time, as promised.’ Drawing her feet up a step, she propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands and stared into the stream. ‘So, back to happy childhood… I forgot to say Mum decided to have me in Paris so she could stay with her folks, and get a GP and midwife, and be able to go to hospital if anything went wrong. And we stayed there until I could walk – I don’t remember anything about it, or that Dad was hardly ever around, but I do remember going on the road as soon as Mum thought I could cope with the travel, and absolutely loving it. Easter and Michaelmas fairs, summers at festivals all over England and Wales, winters mainly at the warehouse… it was quite cosy, actually. It used to be a car-repair place, so it already had a sealed spray-shop Dad converted into the sound studio, and a breeze-block office bit with loos and a shower and a staffroom and kitchen, and stores upstairs with a big empty space in the middle for rehearsing. So there was loads of room for bands to crash while they were recording, and it was always fun having them around, but if things got too crowded or crazy Mum and I used to decamp to Hidden House and leave Dad to it. We had Christmas with the goddies as well if we weren’t in Paris, and sometimes we’d all go up in the bus to my god-bro’s – he’s got a trout-fishery near Oban, it’s really cool – for Hogmanay.

‘So, yeah, lovely life and it all worked just right, and when I was old enough to understand how MoonChild worked, I was totally proud of my parents. I mean, Dad was a real muso who sank his whole life into a business to help other real musos make real music for real fans, rather than having to churn out commercialised crap just to survive. And Mum did all the artwork for posters and CD covers and stuff to keep things as cheap as possible, and they rented the space out for cost, and got their artists off-season jobs, pub gigs and parties and session-musician work, and everyone’s making a living, and sometimes someone’s song gets played on local radio and they get a bit famous for a while, and we’re all really happy until I hit nine and the wheels fall off, big-time.’

‘Why?’ I was all ears. ‘What happened?’

She sighed again. ‘Passengers on Spaceship Earth. That’s what Dad used to call us. That’s why I always loved that bloody song so much. Do you remember it, Le Passager? It got used for some stupid car advert.’

Oh, yes – I remembered. It had won awards. Moody monochrome, Paris on a wet night, monster black SUV, gorgeous black-haired male driver, blurry glimpses of gorgeous black-haired female passenger – a cheek, a chin, a long-lashed eye gazing out at the famous sights all lit up, reflected in rain-drippy windows. Very arty. Ends with passenger getting out at the Casino de Paris, and her name’s up in lights, and you realise she’s the singer, and next thing she’s on stage singing the song until the car fades back in and they’re driving away.

‘Well, that’s what happened. Cecile Renarde. La Voix d’Or. One of MoonChild’s folkies, Dad saw her at a club in Paris and signed her on the spot – so I’ve known her since I was a kid, she was part of the family, we all loved Sess. Anyway, Passager turns into quite a hit in France, and at first it’s exciting, we’re all pleased for her, and that MoonChild’s finally making enough money for Dad to pay the Crew – and everyone else who helped him get started – for their time, and to let bands use the warehouse for nothing now the business can afford it. So for a little while nothing much changes except to get better… but then Passager’s picked up by that car company and boom! It goes viral. So Sess releases it in English with an extended video, and that goes viral too.’

I nodded. I’d been one of the millions who downloaded both versions and watched the video endlessly. Cecile Renarde – ‘Foxy’ to the tabloids – was boy-slim and beautiful with short, spiky black hair and huge eyes so blue they looked fake, like contact lenses, and she was a great guitarist, and she sang with a husky catch in her voice as if she was about to burst into tears, and for once my folks agreed that some music I liked was brilliant; Mum said she sounded like Amy Winehouse and looked like Iggy Pop (it was true, I watched his original Passenger on YouTube and that was brilliant too, in a punkier way. And he was just as gorgeous).

‘So, suddenly MoonChild’s got a major star on its books, and everyone wants a piece of her, and she starts recording Goldenvoice,’ (her first album, I had that too), ‘and Dad’s on the phone the whole time arranging stadium gigs and world tours and interviews blah blah blah. You can’t imagine… I mean, MoonChild musos thought they were doing well to sell a thousand CDs a year, and suddenly Passager’s selling that by the hour! It was insane.

‘So, suddenly MoonChild’s big news as well-’ I nodded again, I remembered the rags-to-riches stories plastered everywhere, ‘-and people are getting interested in our other bands, especially Catfish Crew, and wanting new songs and re-releases of old ones, and pestering Mum and Dad to record a new cover of ‘Moonchild’ – and that’s when the arguments start. Dad was all for it but Mum totally didn’t want that sort of fame, to start playing Wembley Stadium at her age, or do international tours, or have paparazzi chasing us, you know, like they did with Sess and Dad. It was the first time I’d ever heard them rowing, it was awful.

‘Anyway, they compromise, just re-mix the original and jazz it up a bit and release it with a re-mix of Mum’s ‘Jolene’ – and that does really well, too. Then it’s more arguments till she caves in and agrees to make a farewell appearance as MoonChild, with the Crew supporting, to tag on for the Southern end of Sess’s American tour so we can visit the Desmoulins at the same time. It was a brilliant holiday for me… my last memory of us being happy as a family. I watched most of the gigs – they only did ten – from the wings, and in between Uncle Georges and Aunt Genie took me round New Orleans and Atlanta and Memphis, and we went to see Elvis’s house, and an old slave-owner’s mansion, and ate jambalaya and poled a pirogue down the bayou, all that good tourist stuff-’

I was desperate to ask what a pirogue was and how you poled one, but I knew the juicy part was coming and I didn’t want Raven to lose her thread, so I kept quiet.

‘-and the tour was a sell-out as well. So, now it’s add three noughts to all the numbers, and MoonChild’s mushroomed into something way too big for Mum and Dad to handle by themselves… but it’s still sort of OK because now they’re making serious jobs for other people. The goddies take over the Wakefield end, which is great for my god-sis Ferne – she goes straight from finishing her business studies degree to managing the warehouse, with her folks and their accountant down the road to help if she’s stuck. And Dad makes Stan the Sound Man full-time, and gives him an assistant, and finds a graphic artist to do what Mum used to… but now of course we need a proper base, a fixed address, and of course it has to be in London because God knows,’ her voice turned into Gray Childe, ‘you can’t expect top music industry executives and major promoters to fly into Leeds-Bradford for meetings in Yorkshire, can you?’ Although even I realised we couldn’t entertain people like that on the bus, or in a shabby old warehouse.

‘So Dad rents some ghastly glass office in Docklands, and staffs it from an agency, and finds this house… they row about that as well, but he wins because it’s a furnished let and they don’t have any furniture that isn’t built into the bus, or any time to go shopping, and Mum says no way is she  hiring a personal shopper and having some stranger choose their marital bed. So we move into this huge place – thirty-five rooms not counting cellars and attics, Mum and I went round and counted one day. It belonged to some diplomat who’d gone overseas- have you ever seen the video for John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’? Well, it was like that – it even had the white room with the white concert grand! I mean, totally white. Mum would’ve liked to play the piano, but she didn’t dare go in there in case she soiled something. It’s ridiculous, we rattle round like three peas in a bucket, except usually it’s only two because Dad’s at the office or wherever. So Mum and I pretty much live in the summerhouse or the housekeeper’s sitting room – she’d gone abroad with her boss – and if Dad’s away overnight we sleep together in my room because it’s only a double bed and theirs is super king-size and makes her feel like she’s lost in space.

‘But Dad thinks it’s brilliant, he keeps wandering round saying isn’t it amazing, look how far we’ve come, who’d have thought blah blah. And he’s really getting into the image – that stupid great SUV the car company give us, and designer suits and sharp haircuts-’

I remembered this Gray Childe, he was always in the news escorting Cecile Renarde to some showbiz event, or hanging out at posh nightclubs with the stars, and Mum was always going on about how he looked like some actor she fancies called David Essex. I Googled him and she was right about the blue eyes, which were the same colour as the stripes on my favourite PJs. Apart from that I thought he was more like Aidan Turner, with the same square tanned face, creased as if he laughed a lot, designer stubble, and a curly mop of black hair going grey at the short back and sides. Definitely a DILS. (Dad I’d Like to Snog. My imagination didn’t stretch to DILF).

‘-because suddenly, after all the years of being totally free, going our own way, we’ve got to look like everyone else in this game. And act like it. I remember Dad going totally ape when he gets back from some trip to find Mum washing up in this horrible science lab kitchen because she refuses to use a dishwasher, and Post-It labels stuck all over the units so we can find the handles and know what’s inside, and me drinking coffee and talking baby German to Magda, the Polish cleaning lady. So of course, now it’s time Raven goes to school because Mum shouldn’t be doing stuff like this, he needs her at MoonChild, so it’s either school or private tutors and by then I’m like yeah, bring it on, anything to get me out of this place all day. I thought they’d just send me to the nearest wherever they could get me in, but oh no, Dad’s found a boarding school where all the top people send their children… so then we’re all rowing, not that I’d mind going away, but Mum and I think it’s an obscene waste of money. So then I get the guilt-trip – ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling, you deserve the best, I never dreamt we could ever afford to give you an opportunity like this, most girls would give their right arm, it’ll help you get into Cambridge and you know what an advantage that would be in your career’ blah blah bleurgh.

‘And I knew how whiny I sounded – oh dear, poor little Raven doesn’t want to live in a mansion or go to a posh private school, what a first world problem – and the worst thing is, he’s right, it shouldn’t but it would open doors, help me get the sort of job I want, do as much good as I can… so OK, I’ll give it a go. And I honestly try, but the others- I mean, we were pretty rich by then, but not super-rich like Saudi princes and Texan oil princesses and Russian gangsters’ kids. This one lad, Oleg, hangs round me all term then sends me a hamper from the Harrods perfume department and a hundred red roses – a hundred – for Christmas! At eleven years old, like it was nothing! Madness. And the teachers were snobs, and word soon got round who I was, and then all the kids are sucking up but they don’t just want me to get them signed photos, they want Sess to sing at their birthday party, or Catfish Crew to be the band at their big sister’s wedding, then they get all snotty when I won’t even ask. It was awful, I begged Dad to take me out but he wouldn’t, so I- well, you know.

‘The Grammar was OK though. Very upper middle-class but it’s only a day school, the staff are a lot more discreet, the girls are a lot more normal, and I can go by myself on the Tube. And the Head’s really decent, lets me wear Mum’s hat and coat instead of the uniform stuff plastered with badges, and come in the staff way like a teaching assistant, because by now we’ve got press camped out at the front hoping to see celebs, so Jeff the gardener – he was nice – lets me come and go through his little gate at the back. Plus it’s a high-achievement place so we get loads of homework which is fine by me, I’ve got an excuse to hole up in my room away from the rows because they’re always at it now. Mum wants to rein things in, try and hang onto their old values but Dad’s turned into a massive bread-head, wants to keep expanding, broaden our horizons, bring in new mainstream acts because MoonChild’s always had a rep for quality so now everyone wants in, and think what we can do with the money, cherie… She only agrees on condition that she stays behind the scenes and I’m kept totally out of it, no publicity stunts or family photos in the media… and they do give shedloads to charity, and found music scholarships, and start a trust-fund for me, and Dad buys the Wakefield warehouse and the one next door, and starts converting that into a new state-of-the-art studio – but the stupid thing about being really rich is it’s all tax-deductible, and more just keeps pouring in all the time.

‘The awful part is Dad’s so good at it. He was studying to be an engineer, remember, so he’s really good at maths, even gets into playing the stock markets… and the worst part is he turns into Champagne Charlie. Before that I’d never seen him seriously trashed. Neither of my folks were drinkers because they were practically always driving or performing – they might share a bottle of cider or somebody’s home-brew round the campfire, or have the odd toot on a spliff, nothing heavy – and all they ever got was a bit high and giggly. But cocaine,’ Raven grimaced into the water, ‘it turned him into someone we didn’t recognise. Or like. Have you ever seen The Mask? You know, mild-mannered hero puts on mask and turns into supercool superhero, bad guy puts it on and turns into super-villain? Well, coke was Dad’s mask. It lit him up. Lots of people loved it, especially women – he could really turn on the charm – but Mum and I hated it. He got so manic, with this horrible electric aura, like a flickering fluorescent, or nails down a blackboard, screeeeeeee.’ She turned a demon face to me – mad Joker grin and bulging eyes – making the sound, then relaxed it into the expression I’d seen a thousand times, the cheeky half-smile, half-cocked eyebrow, and sexy, slitted eyes Gray Childe used to give the cameras as he ushered Foxy into some awards ceremony, or some pop diva out of Annabelle’s. It made her look much older, and as if she knew what I had under my clothes.

‘Ugh.’ I squirmed. ‘Don’t, Raven. It’s creepy.’

‘Tell me about it.’ She turned back into a sad, dad-less fourteen. ‘And we used to see it a lot, because now party season’s started, that’s why we need the huge house… first it’s business dinners Mum can handle, then it’s twenty guests, fifty, plus caterers and serving staff, and I have to be in disguise, in my own home, in case there’s some pap with a telephoto lens lurking round the grounds. So the folks don’t introduce me to people, and if I want to hang out with Sess or the Crew, I scrape my hair back and wear fake specs and a white apron and carry a tray of empties because no-one pays attention to a waitress, or wear one of Mum’s old blonde Mary-Lou stage wigs and pretend to be a French au pair who can’t speak much English.

‘It might be fun, sort of, if some people weren’t so obnoxious-’ she named several names you’d recognise, but I won’t in case they sue me, they sound like the type, ‘-demanding extra security and special imported Nordic glacier water and rainforest honey to protect their precious vocal cords – Mum used to give them Hidden House spring water and Grange Farm honey, they never knew the difference – and so totally boring when they’re off their face. So I shut myself in my room when I can’t stand it any longer, and in the morning Magda tells me what pigs they are, leaving used condoms in the bathroom and fag-ends ground out on the floors and skid-marks on the glass coffee tables.

‘So I’m, what, twelve, and things settle into this new normal, and it’s not too bad when Dad’s on his own with us except we can’t go anywhere en famille now because he gets recognised everywhere and it’ll blow my cover, so we just hang out at home jamming, and cooking, and playing silly games like we used to – but as soon as the coke-heads turn up, bang! He’s off again, so Mum and I leave him to it. She says we might as well make the most of London while we’re here, so we sneak out the back way and play tourist, see the sights, go to exhibitions, take in shows… and it’s OK, we do lots of cool stuff, but it feels a bit hollow when we’re always worried what Dad might be up to while we’re out. School’s OK too, I didn’t really hate every minute, just the sneaking around and remembering I’m registered as Blue Mullen – Blue’s my middle name, can you believe it? – and not being able to invite friends back or say much about home, so I’m not very popular because the girls think I’m stand-offish when the truth is I daren’t get close to anyone in case they suss me out and the gossip and hassle starts, because MoonChild’s big news again when Catfish Crew splits.’

I nodded. ‘Oh yeah. I remember that. It was sad.’

 Raven sighed. ‘Yes… so now it’s monster rows Stateside because Cousin Joey wants to go off for two years to star in some movie about the American Revolution, ‘oh, wouldn’t it be cool to have Captain Jean-Claude Desmoulins played by one of his descendants’ blah blah. He’s really up for it even though it’s not a musical and he’s never acted in his life, and everyone except his baby brother thinks he’s crazy. Upshot is, Joey says yes, if Pierre gets a part too, and they both quit on the spot – leaving the Crew stuck without a lead singer and guitarist, right in the middle of a tour! They had to struggle on with session musicians, and afterwards they just gave up for a while until the family persuaded them to re-form, go back to their roots, stick to small gigs on home ground and enjoy themselves like they used to. And they’re doing fine now. Pierre, too – he got picked up for a bit-part in a soap opera and now he writes jingles and performs musical adverts, you know, for TV.’ She grimaced. ‘But he seems happy enough. Joey not so much, ha ha karma. The movie didn’t totally bomb, but it was never released outside the States – the critics called him ‘a decorative plank’ or ‘Dire Desmoulins’ – and half the family still don’t speak to him because they’re too embarrassed or disgusted. We lost a few other oldies round that time as well. Do you remember Razz, Rob and Zoe Zetland? They had a Christmas hit a couple of years ago.’

‘Yeah, Mum and I loved it.’ They’d done a ‘Fairytale of New York’ with him on guitar and her on piano, a sort of argument sung in harmonies that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

‘Well, Zoe gets pregnant while they’re making the video for it, so they decide to retire and settle down in Hebden Bridge. They’re freelance music teachers now and they’ve got two adorable little girls, Chloe and Zara. And of course, other companies are always trying to poach MoonChild talent, and some people do want a change, to go solo, try different directions, and Mum and Dad let them, no argument. That was one thing they always agreed on. They saw themselves as enablers, they never seriously expected MoonChild to get so big, and they never wanted to stand in the way of anyone’s success, so they wrote a clause into the contracts that artists could leave whenever, no being tied to X number of albums for Y number of years or any expensive legal aggro.

‘Then Sess gets this monster, I mean megabucks offer from some big American company, and it’s headlines again. She turns them down. They up the offer – more money, modelling contracts, endorsements, you name it. She turns them down again. It gets twisted by the tabloids, ‘Money-Mad Moonchild,’ ‘More for Moi,’ crap like that, and the trolls get into her and Dad in the worst way, calling her a greedy whore, unbelievably horrible stuff. So to try and shut them up they make a press announcement-’

Yes, I’d watched it on TV with Mum and Dad, filmed on the steps in front of the MoonChild offices. Cecile Renarde looked fantastic in a little black dress with a silver MoonChild brooch, and totally took them down in husky, perfect English. ‘I owe all my success to MoonChild Music, a family to whom I am bound by love, trust, and loyalty – values I will not betray, now or in the future. Therefore I will not be signing with any other company, at any time, for any price.’ With a wave and a kiss of her hand, she disappeared back inside the building, and Raven’s dad took her place amid an explosion of flashes and questions. ‘You heard the lady. Cecile Renarde is not for sale. That’s our final word. And it’s the plain, simple truth,’ he looked straight at the cameras, ‘so please less it with the lies and abuse, all you trolls. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’d like to get back to making music. Thank you and goodnight.’

‘-and at first we think it’s worked, her fans are saying, ‘see, told you so’ all over social media. But then the morning papers come out and it really hits the fan. Most are OK, calling her No Deal Cecile, stuff like that, except for one vile tabloid.’ I tensed. I knew what was coming. ‘There’s Sess on the front page, making her statement, and they’ve caught Dad in the background, and inset an enlargement of his face, watching her with this stupid, sappy expression, and the headline ‘Look of Love?’

I was glad Raven was staring into the stream and didn’t see me go bright red. We got that paper, and on the centrefold they’d enlarged Gray Childe’s face some more, and put it next to an old photo of him, and on that his eyes looked blue and on the new one they looked black, his pupils were so huge, and above the pictures it said in big black capitals ‘GRAY’S EYES CAN’T LIE! IS IT LOVE OR DRUGS?’ and the article was all about whether he was in love with Foxy, or a druggie, or both. I lapped it up, I wasn’t especially interested in Gray Childe but I couldn’t get enough of Cecile, and of course I didn’t know about Raven then, or ever stop to think about their families, and friends, and how they mightfeel having millions of people gossiping about their private lives over the cornflakes.

‘Then the rest have to pick it up, and we’ve got Sess on the phone to Mum in tears saying it’s all rubbish, they’re not having an affair, and Dad gets hyper-paranoid, makes Magda deep-clean the house and flush anything she finds stronger than aspirin down the loo, and goes on this mad fitness drive, pumping iron in the home-gym and jogging round the grounds at all hours, then shutting himself in the white room plonking away on the piano when he’s not at the office. In some ways it’s better, at least he’s straight and the champagne-and-coke parties stop, and Sess stays away, and the press get bored hanging round the front gates and clear off, but in other ways it’s worse because even when he’s with us he’s not, like some weird twin in Dad’s clothes who can’t even be bothered to argue any more… and it should feel good that the rows have calmed down but it doesn’t, it feels all prickly and dark, then the storm breaks big-time when he signs SICKES without consulting Mum and bang! They’re at it again.’

I wasn’t keen on boy-bands and I couldn’t stand Brit-rap so I’d never been a SICKES fan, though I had to admit Steve, Ivan, Caleb, Kyle, Eddie and Si were cute-looking and very good dancers. Still, this was hot stuff, and I was hanging on Raven’s every word.

‘Dad manages to smooth things over – ‘these boys are serious artists, cherie, they want to break new ground, we’re enablers, we’ve got to give them a chance’ blah blah. So she’s OK, fine, let’s hear them, and next thing Dad’s organising this ‘Welcome to MoonChild’ party for two hundred and fifty, and fifty of those are the band and their dates and bodyguards and PAs and dressers and drivers and God knows what else, and Sess is coming as guest of honour. And SICKES are going to play a set, so we’ve got this stage on the back lawn under a ginormous marquee in case it rains, and Dad hires a company to twine all the pathways and porches and trees with about fifty thousand fairy lights, and brings in some top club DJ to do the rest of the music, and the band are so thrilled when they get the invitation they present him with this ridiculous sports car, bright red, talk about a penis extension. Mum and I loathe everything about it, won’t even sit in the thing, but Dad loves it of course, it suits his Mr Big image and now he can play racing driver as well.

‘Anyway, for once I feel like going as a guest, so Mum buys me a Chanel cocktail dress and a load of costume bling from a second-hand designer shop, and hair extensions, false nails, the works, and makes me up to look about twenty, and calls me Sophie and only talks to me in French so most people pretty much ignore me. Well, the men look. And it’s fine at first, everyone’s sticking to champagne and whatever they’re loaded with when they arrive, and SICKES put one of their gorillas in the hall to point people to the loos and stop them going upstairs, only Dad’s in a foul mood because Sess can’t make it after all, she’s had to fly home because her mum’s been taken ill, and we think he’s just pissed off and embarrassed that he can’t deliver – whatever, he’s getting seriously tanked up.

‘Then the band come on stage, and everybody flocks into the marquee except me and Mum, we just watch from the terrace, and they start off with one of their hits, one of those mixes where they steal someone’s riff and you think they’re going to cover something good but it’s only a sample. The guests go mad for it, though. Then they go all quiet and humble, and Si – he was alright, actually, the best of the lot – says they’d like us to be the first to hear their new direction, and they do a sort of reggae version of that Detectorists theme song, then some- I don’t know what to call it. Tribal, I suppose, lots of drumming and leaping about and pseudo-pagan lyrics, and a few people start drifting back into the house but Mum and I stick it out to the end. And they’re OK but not great, nowhere near MoonChild’s normal standard. So now she’s in a foul mood as well, and nothing she can do because the contract’s already signed and we’re stuck with them, and I can tell she wants to have a go at Dad so I get out of their way, go wash the muck off, turn back into myself. And it’s- oh, I don’t know, eleven-ish, and I’m sitting on the bed in my ‘jamas, with my buds in, playing on my tablet, and suddenly I look up and this man’s standing over me, the SICKES guy who’s supposed to be minding the stairs-’

I gasped. ‘Oh my God, Raven!’ That was my worst nightmare – unless the guy happened to be Joshua Brown. Or Aidan Turner. ‘What did you do?’

‘I pull my buds out and ask him what the hell he’s doing in my room. I can see he’s coked out of his brains, it’s all round his nose, and he just leers at me and says, ‘You’re too pretty to be on your own, darling, want some company in there?’ and starts undoing his belt. So I shoot my foot out and kick him in the trousers as hard as I can, and he crumples and pukes on the carpet, and I video-call Mum and show her, then lock myself in the en-suite. A minute later I hear grunting and thudding about in my room, then suddenly the music stops outside, and another minute later it’s all shouting and running around and car doors slamming and driving away. Then Mum’s knocking on the door and she tells me she went straight to SICKES, told them to clear their trash out of my room and get the hell out of her house, then pulled the plug on the sounds, waved her mobile at the guests, said it was footage of someone trying to sexually assault a fourteen-year-old girl upstairs, and if they and their drugs weren’t out in ten minutes she was calling the cops. Cue mass exodus and another screaming match until Dad roars off in his stupid car even though he’s well over the limit and Mum tries to stop him, says he’ll kill someone, himself probably, wrap it round a lamppost or something.

‘He doesn’t, though. Doesn’t even get a speeding ticket, God knows how he managed that, the way he used to drive it – but he might as well have done, because that was the end of things, really. Next day he tells Mum that although he’ll always admire and respect her as a musician and business partner and mother of his child, he doesn’t love her any longer, he loves Sess, he fell in love with her when she chose MoonChild over the Americans, and he’ll always take care of us financially but now he wants a divorce, and as soon as Sess gets back from France he’s driving up to Yorkshire – she was bunking with the goddies while she recorded a new album – to ask her to marry him.’

‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. That hadn’t made it into the papers.

‘At least he has the decency not to lay this on Sess while her mum’s in hospital, but when she rings to say she’s just landed at Leeds-Bradford and she’ll be back in the studio tomorrow, he rips the phone out of Mum’s hand and blurts it all out in front of us, says he can’t wait any longer to see her and not to go to bed, he’ll be with her by midnight. Then he disappears for ten minutes, comes back screeee, obviously wired, stuffs a bottle of vodka into his overnight bag, slams out and roars off without even saying goodbye.

‘Two hours later Sess is on the doorstep in hysterics, she’d hit the M1 straight from the airport to avoid him, they must’ve passed on the road. And she’s completely grossed out, thinks of Dad like a father, would never disrespect Mum and me by shagging him even if she fancied him, which she doesn’t, never has, never will. And we’ve only just calmed her down when the gate buzzer goes, and this time it’s the police, and Dad hasn’t wrapped the car round a lamppost, he’s wrapped it round a tree – lost control on a B-road between here and the motorway and boom! Crash and burn, bye-bye Gray Childe. He’d been driving with the vodka clamped between his thighs, slopped some down himself, it caught fire when he’s trying to light a fag, or a spliff, or dropped a lit one, whatever, and he veers off the road trying to put the flames out, doing about eighty. We find that out at the inquest. Only consolation is he didn’t burn to death when the car exploded, the whiplash broke his neck. Ha ha karma, eh?’

‘Kinell.’ It was the closest I got to the F-word but I couldn’t think what else to say, imagining Gray Childe’s last moments, drawing hard on his smoke, his blue eyes wild and bloodshot then bulging in panic as the glowing tip drops, igniting his shirt, free hand slapping frantically, foot stamping hard, involuntary, hitting the gas, the roaring red car leaping tree-wards, maybe a split-second of realisation, a rending crash, a bright fireball- then black nothing. Literally. The papers said he was burnt to a cinder.

‘Yeah.’ Raven shrugged. ‘But the funny thing about worst things is that you’re free afterwards, you needn’t worry about them happening any longer because they already have. We’ve already cried most of our tears so it’s almost a relief to be rid of Champagne Charlie, the maniac coke-head who stole my Dad… anyway, this is April Fool’s Day, ha ha karma again, the papers get loads of complaints from people thinking it’s a bad-taste prank, and Mum pulls me straight out of school, and I don’t go back after Easter. The inquest is pretty grim, but everyone rallies round – and then Mum’s adamant, she’s done, finished, no more MoonChild, no more fame, and definitely no maungey funeral.’ I bit back a nervous giggle, it sounded so funny to hear such a Yorkshire word in Raven’s accent.

‘So we have Dad – what’s left of him – privately cremated, no service, no fuss, no press. We don’t even go to the crem, just stay quietly home with Sess and the Crew and listen to his old songs, Moonchild gets lots of plays, obviously, and we talk about the old Dad, try to reclaim him, and then everyone’s crying again but it’s OK, things start getting better after that. Not so much for SICKES – they split up, can’t handle being called murderers for giving him the car even though it’s hardly their fault he crashed it – so that’s one problem solved. CanCom solves the rest. They’re French Canadian, the folks met them years ago through the Desmoulins, they handled all Sess and the Crew’s North American tours, and they’re on the phone the moment the news breaks over there – you know, terrible shock, huge loss, deepest sympathies, anything we can do to help blah blah. And Mum says yes, actually, and does a deal on the spot – signs over all the MoonChild artists who want to transfer as per their original contracts, and the whole operation, London office, works in progress, everything apart from the studios, and leaves them to sort it out. And the minute we get Dad’s ashes back we’re out of Hell Hall and on the bus up to Wakey, and both warehouses are fully refurbed by now so we stay in one of the band apartments, and Ferne and Stan are doing such a brilliant job managing the place Mum signs it over to them. I’m not sure exactly how much CanCom paid her but it was silly money, so she can afford it and she knows the old Dad would approve, and now they’re Fernley-Moon Studios and they’re doing what MoonChild always used to, helping musicians make good music dirt-cheap… and we’re living just down the road in a place we all love, taking care of it and trying to be as normal as we can.

‘Phew. So that’s it, my life story. You’re the first person I’ve told the whole thing to, and I don’t much want to tell it again.’ Raven looked at me, her eyes shiny with tears. ‘You won’t tell anyone either, will you, Ellie?’

Dumbly, I shook my head, a little at first then harder and harder, hoping she’d understand the words I couldn’t find, NO, no way, not a chance, never never never would I add to what she and her mum had been through – any more than I already had by reading all those prying articles and lapping up every cruel scrap. And I think she did, because she just nodded back, then lowered her feet into the water, leant down and washed them, and washed her hands too, murmuring something like, ‘carry my troubles away.’ Then she jumped up, grabbed her jumper and shoes, and danced off across the stream.

‘Come on, Ellie! We need to go to another Special Place now.’

Blood Magic: Your Comments, Please!

Your feedback invited – especially if you’re teenage/young adult, or a parent or teacher of/writer for this age group, or just fancy commenting on what I hope you’ll find a lightweight, amusing read! Yes, I enjoyed my first foray into children’s fiction, Henry Wowler & the Mirror-Cat, so much I followed it up with a Christmas Dickens skit, Henry Wowler & the Cat of Christmas Past (which will go into the sequel to HW&MC). I enjoyed that so much I tried a young adult fantasy last year, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, fell in love with all the characters, (especially my hot Santa!), and came up with plots for at least two more episodes to blog for Christmas ’22 and ’23, which I may eventually publish as a novella, ‘Christmas with the Joneses.’ Meanwhile these felt like such easy, natural ‘voices’ to write in that I wanted to carry on playing with youthful characters grappling with growing up, drawing on some of the fun, farcical and frightful episodes I remember from my own schooldays and young adulthood – and the result is Blood Magic, a vaguely supernatural, silly, sinister story now 50 pages long and counting.

I plan to do something with it – enter for competitions, self-publish as an e-book, whatever – but because this is a new genre to me, I’d welcome any comments/constructive criticism. Do you like it? Would you recommend or buy it for a teen/young adult? Is it chick-lit, or does it appeal to male readers too? (Hubcap likes it, but he likes all my writing so that’s nothing to go by). Please let me know what you think of the opening – does it grab you enough to want to read on? I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

WARNING: contains one F-word, some implied bad language/ milder swears, and drug references. No sex or violence (nor will there be).

BLOOD MAGIC: A NOVEL FOR YOUNG ADULTS

Preface

This is what happened – started to happen, I should say – the September when I was fourteen. I wrote a lot of it down at the time, even some of the conversations, in my secret diaries, the sort Mum always gave me for Christmas, with the tiny padlock I never locked because I always lost the key… although since Mamalou taught me how to remember, it’s still pretty clear in my head even ten years later. When I say clear, I don’t mean it makes sense. It never has. So I’m hoping that writing it down will help me understand, show me how much is accident, coincidence, paranoid over-thinking, and how much is – was – real, deliberate, long foreseen and planned. Hoping it’ll answer some questions. Do I wish I’d never met them, that none of it had happened, that I’d just come to terms with losing Fi and bumbled through my humdrum teens until I finally worked out what I wanted to do with my life? Was the price I paid worth it?

But it probably won’t. It’ll probably carry on dangling, a loose ending like Daphne du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel, which I read that autumn, (along with Rebecca and Jamaica Inn), curled up in a mustardy armchair or lying in a hammock on the sun-deck at Hidden House, under the grapevine. Did they, or didn’t they? Does it matter now, either way? Or has she done for me at last, Raven, my torment? I’ll probably never know… and you’ll have to make up your own mind.

Chapter 1: A Day of Firsts

‘Come on, Year 10, calm down now.’ The Bald Eagle pushed up his specs and peered down his beak at us, mock stern. It was the first time our whole – well, nearly whole – class had been together for six weeks, and everyone was still high and buzzing. Except me. For the first time, I had no-one to buzz with. No-one to nudge or pass notes to, no ear to whisper in, no-one to giggle with. My stomach felt cold, empty as the space between me and Libby, my nearest neighbour. I reached for my bag and put it on Fi’s chair to see if it made me feel better. It didn’t, but I left it there anyway.

I remember these tiny details so well because that first day of term started so badly. For the first time ever, I really didn’t want to go back. I mean, really really. Not just the usual, ‘OMG, school today, what a drag,’ feeling everyone gets. No, once I was past that, I loved autumn term – harvest festivals, panto rehearsals, carol concerts, all the fun seasonal stuff. Plus we’d be in our usual nice home-room with its view of trees and playing fields, and I’d have my usual good seat, far right, third row back, next to the window – with the added attraction of Mr Benjamin Bradley Theobald for our class teacher. Everybody liked Baldy Beak. He took us for Eng Lang, Lit and Drama – my favourites – and but for his nose and specs, looked enough like a taller, thinner Vin Diesel for Fi to have a major crush on him. He used to say that big noses ran in his family, and that ‘mockers with lesser proboscises’ just envied its magnificent size. He even wore jokey ties for us: green with a Disney Pinocchio, sky-blue with tiny bald eagles, a red Rudolph for the Christmas party complete with flashing nose. And it wasn’t just the usual wobbles about going up a year, and how I’d cope with extra homework and revision and mock exams on top of the average spotty hell of adolescence, or the usual rude awakening when the alarm goes off and that sinking feeling when you realise that no, summer wasn’t endless after all and yes, it really is time to get up and go to school.

No. Today, as well as all that, I had dread. A big doomy dread I’d been running away from ever since I found out, but now it had caught me up. Today would be the first time I’d pass the McDonald house on my way to Goldthorpe Senior Academy without stopping to call for Fi, my desk-mate and bestie since Year 7. The first time, (unless she’d been off with a cold or something), I’d walk the whole way there and back without her. The first time I’d do homework alone, instead of in her room or mine, with a glass of milk and two biscuits each, (always the ration, no matter how we begged), to fuel us till dinner. It made me feel sick, and I felt even worse when I opened my wardrobe.

Mum loved the GSA uniform – white shirt, V-neck sweater, trousers or kilt, plain black lace-ups – because it was smart, sensible, and lasted forever unless you outgrew it. It was carefully gender-neutral, although except for the last day of term when Danny Thomas wore his sister’s for a dare, the only lads who opted for kilts were Rob and Stewie Lennox in Year 12. The Terrible Twins had hi-vis hair and freckles, their dad drove a tiny old car, blue with a white St Andrews cross on the roof and Scottish Independence stickers all over, and they wore kilts year-round with thick white socks and garters. But being megastars on the school rugby team, they were used to cold knees, and being built like brick sheds, no one said boo to them about it). And best of all from Dad’s point of view, you could buy it on a ‘Dress Your Kid for 50 Quid’ special offer from the local supermarket.

I hated it, though. It might’ve been OK in navy or grey instead of mouldy maroon with yellow stripes for the optional tie and scarf from GSA Online, (supposed to be ‘gold’ for Goldthorpe but looked more like dry blood and pus), and if I had less of what Mum optimistically called ‘puppy fat.’ As it was- well, the crackly-new, next-size-up shirt fitted fine, but last year’s trousers were so snug they made my bum and hips look huge. I swapped them for my old kilt with the let-down hem, a baggy jumper to hide my muffin-top, and a blazer I had to leave unbuttoned. I blamed Ben and Jerry. And Papa John and the Colonel-  

‘Eloise Morton?’ Baldy’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘Hello? Earth to Eloise – do you read me?’

My face went hot as I raised my hand. ’Yes, sir.’

A split-second later, he moved on to the lad sitting behind. ‘Luke Myers?’

Hot needles jabbed my heart. I stared down at my desk, biting my lip, trying not to cry. Fiona McDonald, gone from the register. Erased. Deleted. As if she never existed. It was horrible, just like this morning’s journey to school had been. For the first time, I hadn’t crossed the main road at my usual place, just turned left and walked past very fast on the opposite side, looking the other way, until her house was far behind. Then I walked very slowly, checking my phone again. Still no text. Weird. But before I could look for anything else, the battery died – with all the upset I’d forgotten to charge it. I carried on walking slowly anyway. I didn’t want to get there early, didn’t want to talk to anyone. They were sure to ask about Fi, and I might start crying again-

‘There!’ Baldy ticked the last name. ‘All present and correct – for the moment.’ His eyes twinkled, then fell on Fi’s chair. The smile fell off his face. ‘Though I must say, things won’t be the same around here without Fi McD, and I know we’re all going to miss her very much.’ He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Eloise, are you able to give us any update?’

I should’ve known. Public Speaking was very big at GSA. Readings in assembly, class announcements, speech days, school radio, Debate Group, you name it, we did it – everyone, in turns, no excuses. It was meant to ‘build confidence, prepare students for oral exams, university and job interviews, the world of work, and many other challenges of adult life,’ according to the GSA website. I didn’t mind. I quite enjoyed it, actually – apart from two things. As always, the first started heating my feet the moment I stood up, and by the time I reached the front, I was glowing to my hairline. Which made the second thing happen. I didn’t know which I hated most, the sympathetic looks, stifled smiles, sniggers, or silly comments, I just knew they made it worse until I practically burst into flames.

Still, I stood tall, took a deep breath, and told the back wall, ‘Yes, we text every day. But Britain’s five hours ahead of Canada, so we can only really talk after Fi’s Sunday brunch, which is just after our Sunday lunch. Her new house looks nice, they’ve got a big garden with pine trees and a swimming pool and a hot tub, but school starts earlier than here so she had to go back last week. She says it’s OK though, and Montreal’s pretty cool, and, um, her dad likes his new job. And she sends love to everyone, especially Caro and Libby – but especially not to Jake Adams.’ I enjoyed the giggles and seeing him go bright red for a change. Fi hadn’t really said that. I just made it up because I knew he secretly fancied her, and because he sat on the front row, and he was always grinning and holding his hands out to warm them on me when teacher wasn’t looking, and I wanted to pay him back.

‘Oh yes, and they’re coming over to spend Christmas with her gran,’ saying it aloud made me smile, and I felt my face cool a degree. ‘So she says to please still buy her presents, but only small things that won’t make her suitcase too heavy.’ Then I dried up. I couldn’t talk about Fi being homesick, and hating everything, especially her parents for making her go, and saving up for a one-way ticket so she could come home to live with us the minute she hit sixteen in exactly 398- no, 397 days. (I hadn’t asked Mum and Dad yet, but they loved Fi so I was sure they wouldn’t mind, like I wouldn’t mind sharing my room).

 Luckily the Eagle swooped in before the silence got uncomfortable. ‘Thanks, Eloise. Now,’ he waved me back to my desk, ‘before we get down to business with the timetable, I have an important announcement to make, and I hope you’ll be as glad to hear it as I was. Yes, folks – we’re about to get a new addition to Year 10, a student who’s recently moved up here-’

My stomach went boing like it does when I see Joshua Brown. I didn’t hear what Baldy said next. Like everyone else, I was too busy listening to the clicking footsteps and rapid-fire voice of Principal ‘Batty’ Bates fast approaching. I got butterflies inside and goosepimples outside as two dark shapes passed the panel of wobbly glass in the corridor wall, pulling our heads with them like balloons on strings. Even though we were all looking at the door, I still jumped when the loud KNOCK-KNOCK came. Then it swept open and Prince Batty swept in, black academic gown billowing round her sharp black suit, and so tall with her killer heels and high-piled grey bun that she had to duck. (She dressed like that to intimidate difficult parents – it worked on mine, they were petrified of her – but to us and the teachers, she was a total pussycat).

‘Good morning! Good morning, 10 BT!’ she beamed. ‘How nice – how very nice to see you all back again, looking so fresh-faced and expectant! I trust Mr Theobald’s briefed you about our good news? Splendid, splendid! Then let me present the person you’ve been waiting for so quietly- come along, come along, my dear.’ Pushing the door wider, she ushered someone in. ‘Time to meet your new classmates.’

I didn’t realise I was holding my breath until I let it out. The new girl was tallish, with a black wavy bob, spot-free pale skin, pink cheeks, and a neat nose dotted with freckles. She was wearing the same clothes as me, but the rotten plum colour suited her, and her slim-but-curvy figure made it look more designer suit than superstore school-wear. She stood very still, hands clasped in front, eyes fixed politely on Batty gushing on about lovely warm Goldthorpe welcomes, being kind and helpful to the newcomer blah blah blah.

‘I speak for the entire staff when I say that we’re thrilled – absolutely thrilled! – to have Fiona McDonald’s place filled so soon by another student of Oxbridge calibre, who comes to us with such glowing reports from a highly-regarded London Girls’ Grammar School-’

My stomach sank. I knew what was coming. Little Miss Perfect was going to sit at Fi’s desk, on Fi’s chair, and I was going to hate her. But as the Prince burbled on, ‘-so she’s sure to keep you all on your toes, and I’m sure she’ll have lots of fascinating stories to share about her travels too, and her exciting life in our capital city,’ I saw her look down and blush. Prettily, of course, just a shade deeper pink on the cheeks. Her lips went tight and white, though. And her knuckles, gripping and twisting a small silver ring on her right hand. And I realised she was completely furious, and that maybe I wasn’t going to hate her quite so much.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. So without further ado, I’ll leave you in Mr Theobald’s capable hands,’ Dr B patted her shoulder, ‘and let you introduce yourself to the class in the time-honoured way.’ With a nod to him and, ‘Enjoy your day,’ to the rest of us, she ducked out.

          As the door closed, Baldy said to the new girl, ‘Well, that rather puts you on the spot! Are you OK with it – good to go?’

          She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ Moving to centre front, she struck a pose like a TV presenter, (her posh school must’ve taught PS as well, unless she’d just had a crash course from Batty), and launched into Module 1, ‘Getting To Know Me/You.’

‘Hi, everybody. I’m Raven Moon-Childe.’ She pronounced her surname as two words, not Moonchild like I would if it was mine, in a nice voice, the sort that says ‘barth’ and ‘parth’ instead of ‘bath’ and ‘path,’ but without sounding too stuck-up. ‘I’m very happy to be here, I prefer small towns to big cities, and I’d rather go to a mixed school than girls-only.’ Raven smiled at the lads hanging on her every word, Josh Brown at the front with his mouth hanging open, I mean, literally. I felt sick, if not as sick as Chardonnay Jenkins, (his latest squeeze/class hottie since Year 8, when her boobs inflated to 34 C), who looked like she was sucking a wasp.  

‘I know you’d rather have your friend here than me.’ Raven met my eyes. Hers were an oddly dark blue, almost navy, with the sort of long, thick lashes that don’t need falsies or mascara, and tidy natural brows. ‘But I can’t help being glad to get a place at Goldthorpe, it looks like a great school, and I’ll do my best to fit in. My favourite subjects are languages and geography, and my least favourite are algebra and calculus. I like athletics and swimming and gym, but I’m rubbish at team sports and anything involving balls,’ she paused for the predictable sniggers, ‘so don’t ask me to play tennis, either.

‘I can play guitar though, and I love all sorts of music, particularly folk, jazz and world, and all sorts of animals, particularly cats. The qualities I prize most in people are kindness, honesty and a good sense of humour, and the faults I despise most are cruelty, greed, and selfishness. My greatest fear is that humans will wreck the planet for every other species, and my greatest ambition is to do something about it. So I’d like to study earth science and politics, and be an ambassador for some big organisation like Greenpeace. Or,’ Raven grinned, showing lovely straight white teeth, not like my ugly metal mouthful, ‘become Britain’s first Green Prime Minister.

‘My favourite place on Earth is at home with Mum in our new house, and the people I’d most like to have round for dinner are Greta Thunberg, Jeremy Corbyn, and Sir David Attenborough. And you, of course.’ She grinned again round the whole room. ‘I’m fifteen next Sunday, Mum’s throwing me a big birthday party, and you’re all invited to come.’

‘Yay!’ Jake Adams did a drum-roll on his desk. ‘Party time!’

Suddenly everyone was clapping, me included. Raven transformed on the spot into a Hollywood starlet, eyelashes fluttering, hands clasped to her chest then flung wide, bowing low, milking it. You could practically see the spotlight and hear the crowd roar. Then everyone laughed, while Baldy gave her the eagle eye.

‘Well done, Raven. I can see you’d be an asset to Westminster… and you certainly would be to my drama group. Right then, go sit yourself down.’ He gestured to the only free chair. ‘I know I can trust Eloise to take good care of you, and we need to crack on.’

As she neared the desk Raven met my eyes, the corner of her mouth pulling down in a tiny grimace. She pointed. ‘May I?’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry.’ I grabbed my bag and hung it on the back of my own chair. She took hers – a battered brown leather thing that looked older than my dad – off her shoulder, hung it on the back of Fi’s, and sat down in a waft of something gorgeous that made my stomach boing again.

‘Thanks, Eloise,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘Cool name.’

I smiled too. ‘Not as cool as Raven Moonchild.’

‘It’s Moon-hyphen-Childe,’ she hissed back, frowning ever so slightly.

Nice one, Ellie. Piss off your new deskie in one easy sentence, why don’t you? ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, instantly scarlet. I couldn’t say more because Baldy was calling up the Year 10 master timetable and unlocking the stationery cupboard. (I’d nearly fainted in Year 7 when I first saw a six-day timetable and thought we had to come to school on Saturdays. Then when I discovered how they work, I liked the way it mixes the weeks up and stops you getting so bored, although Mum was forever moaning that she couldn’t keep track of when to wash and iron my sports kit).

‘OK, 10 BT, you know the drill,’ he said. ‘Let’s get that well-oiled machine into gear!’

The front row – Linsey Ackland, Jake Adams, Josh Brown, Tamsin Bryant, (lucky cow), Janey Collins, Tom Cooper, Caz Drury and Zack Edmonds – filed up one by one for stuff to hand out and began working up and down the aisles without jostling past or bumping into each other, and putting things down properly, no tossing or slapping, finishing with their own desks then one by one, sitting back down. The rest of us started filling in Name/Class No. labels with new black biros and sticking them on new white General ring-binders, (which we’d have plastered with graffiti and more interesting stickers by half-term).

Raven leaned close to whisper a rush of goosebumps down my neck. ‘Wow! Great timing. It’s like watching a ceilidh.’

‘Mm.’ I’d seen and done it a thousand times, so I wasn’t that impressed. I just inhaled and felt giddy, partly from relief that she couldn’t be that cross or she wouldn’t be speaking, and partly from her woody, earthy – almost mouldy – herby, heady scent. ‘What is that smell?’ I blurted aloud. ‘Is it you, or your clothes?’ Another nice one – if we were being graded on Making Polite Conversation, I’d be heading for a big fat F.

Luckily no-one else heard – like us, they were busily buzzing, popping binders open and shut, stuffing plastic pockets with rough-work paper, and loading them in between coloured card separators. And Raven only said, ‘Both,’ as if she didn’t mind at all, then reached into her ugly bag, brought out a little brown bottle and showed me the label. Clarity, I read, in pretty, curly handwriting with little flowers inked around. 

 ‘Hold out your wrist.’ I did. She unscrewed the black pipette lid and dripped on an oily drop. ‘Now rub them together, warm it up.’

I rubbed hard, buried my nose in between and sniffed deep. ‘Ooh… mmm… it’s gorgeous.

‘Yes, it’s my favourite – frankincense, sandalwood, patchouli, bergamot and clary sage.’ Raven put the top back on and held the bottle out to me. ‘You can keep it if you like.’

‘No! Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously. We’ve got tons at home. Mum’s big into aromatherapy, making her own perfumes and soap and stuff.’

‘Oh. Well then, um, thanks very much.’ I slipped Clarity into my desk, feeling guilty now for hating Raven on sight when she was turning out to be so nice. I tried being nice in return and said, ‘I love your ring. It’s really striking.’ It had struck me because we weren’t allowed to wear jewellery at school, only plain gold or silver studs if you had pierced ears (I didn’t), because of Health & Safety. And this was a proper signet ring, round and flat with a keyhole shape where her finger showed through. It reminded me vaguely of something… just as Raven herself reminded me vaguely of someone. ‘I’m surprised they let you keep it on, though.’

Peering closer, I spotted two engraved capital Ms, and suddenly it clicked. It wasn’t a keyhole, it was a logo, a child’s head and shoulders silhouetted against a full moon. I gasped, ‘Moonchild Music!’ One of my favourite singers was on that label. ‘Oh my God! You’re not related to Gray Childe, are you?’ That was who she reminded me of – his face had been all over the news. ‘Is he your dad?’

Raven’s eyes bugged wide. ‘SSHHH!’ she hissed through clenched teeth, twisting the ring, turning the Moonchild’s face into her palm.

Oh my God. Not again. ‘Why?’ I asked weakly. ‘What’s the matter? What did I say?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Not here. Not now.’

Not that we had time to talk. Baldy got us filling in timetables, with the core subjects we did together – English Lang/Lit, Maths (ugh), French, Art, Gen Studs, Rel Studs, and Sport – already printed on, for us to add our GCSE options round with our new felt-tips, a different colour for each subject. I felt a bit disappointed to see Raven pick out blue for Bio, cherry for Chem, and pink for Phys. I was using dark green for Geog, light green for Germ, and brown for Hist, (I suppose they couldn’t find a colour beginning with H), because I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do when I left GSA, I just knew that it wouldn’t be science. But I was pleased Day 1 gave us double Lit first (yay!) here in our homeroom, then break, then French till lunch in the Language Lab next door – a nice, easy way to slide into term. And Raven was pleased when Row 2 started handing round our lavender Lit binders for Period 1, plus stuff to stuff them with, and well-thumbed copies of our Set Novel (Classics).

She pounced on it. ‘Far From the Madding Crowd? Awesome!’

My eyebrows shot up. ‘You’ve read it?’

‘Oh yes. And seen the film versions. Mum’s a total Thomas Hardy freak, we read the most famous ones together while she was dragging me and Dad round ‘Hardy’s Wessex.’ At least, she dragged Dad. I thought it was ace. We went to Stonehenge – that crops up in Tess – and Salisbury and Winchester, and all sorts of other lovely old places where the stories are set. Anyway, there’s a chapter,’ she began leafing through, ‘where the anti-hero’s showing off to the heroine, trying to seduce her with his sword- yes, page 238, ‘Hollow Amid the Ferns.’ It’s pretty sexy for late nineteenth century, you should read it-’

‘Ahem!’ Mr Theobald interrupted. I went bright red, realising the whole class had gone quiet, listening, waiting, but Baldy seemed more amused than cross. ‘All in good time, Raven! Meanwhile, since you’re such a Hardy fan, after I’ve given the intro you can start us off reading aloud from Chapter 1.’

This was Baldy’s way. He never called us alphabetically, and you never knew if he’d stop you after a paragraph or a page, so you had to follow the reader and not go to sleep because you could be next any second. But at least we could read from our desks instead of the front, which meant I went less red and cooled down quicker. And Gabriel Oak sounded like a good guy, if a bit of a boring hero, (which I guessed he must be because he’s the first person mentioned, which usually means someone’s important).

When we’d all taken a turn and the chapter was finished, Baldy put our homework questions up on the screen for us to copy into our binders. Then it was our row’s turn to go to the stationery cupboard. He must’ve seen her panicky face because he said to Raven, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll manage. Just tag on behind Eloise, take your time, and mind you don’t fall over anyone.’

He gave me a stack of Set Plays: William Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1. I groaned inside. That sounded seriously heavy. But when we sat down again, Raven looked happy, so I said, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve read this as well. No-one reads Shakespeare for fun.’

She giggled. ‘I know what you mean. But the history plays are quite fun, actually. They’ve got bits of real history in them – what people thought at the time, anyway, or what Shakespeare thought Queen Elizabeth wanted to hear – and some truly awesome speeches. We did H4 1 and 2 last year at the Grammar, and there’s a part- brr!’ Raven broke off, rubbing her arms. ‘I come out in goosepimples just thinking about it, I love it so much I learned it by heart-’

Baldy, who’d been handing round Glossary sheets to explain the weird words, went back to the front and clapped his hands. ‘Right, folks – time for a dash of your favourite Billy Shakespoke.’ There was a chorus of groans and barfing sounds, mainly from the boys. ‘Oh, come on. You know you love it really. And to get us in the mood, would anyone care to perform a party piece from our last foray into Elizabethan theatre? Perhaps Daniel could show us his Bottom.’

Danny Thomas (class clown) muddled through a speech from our Year 9 end-of-term production Midsummer Night’s Dream – he’s a pain at times, but he can be very funny. (I’d quite enjoyed Dream because I only had to be prompter, so I could hide in the wings where it didn’t matter if I stayed bright red the whole way through). Then Raven’s left hand neighbour, Fi’s and my friend Libby Lyons, did a snip of Titania, Queen of the Fairies, with Jake Adams as her King Oberon.

‘Well done!’ said Baldy. ‘OK, let’s leave comedy now and turn to history. Raven, I gather you read Henry IV at your previous school,’ he must’ve been earwigging, ‘and there’s a part you’re particularly fond of. Would you like to share it with the class?’

‘Oh. Um, yes, sir.’ Raven took Henry with her to the front, leafing through for the place. ‘It’s this bit where the nobles are talking about the Prince of Wales and his household coming, ‘All furnish’d, all in arms, all plumed like estridges-’ She held the book open for show, but I could tell she was reciting, not reading; and when she came to, ‘I saw young Harry with his beaver on, his cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed, rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury,’ her face was glowing with hero-worship and she had such love and admiration in her voice that suddenly I saw him too, armour shining in the sun, vaulting lightly onto his snorting horse, making it prance and wheel around to show off what a good rider he was, and felt myself come out in goosepimples and get a proud, painful lump in my throat because he was my Prince Hal too, riding bravely off to war, and I wanted to find out what happened to him, whether he survived, and I got quite excited and thought that maybe Shakespeare wasn’t so bad after all.

No-one said much after that because we had to listen to Baldy explain the plot, and who Henry IV was, and that in Shakespeare’s time old people still talked about him because they’d lost grandfathers and great-grandfathers fighting for or against him. Then he checked to see if we’d understood, (Raven never put her hand up, but if he asked her something, she always knew the answer).

Then the bell went, and as soon as he said we could go, she jumped up. ‘Please can you show me where the loos are. Eloise? I’m bursting for a pee.’

I hurried her off to the nearest before it filled up with Year 11s trying to smoke out of the window, but she stopped me at the door. ‘I don’t really want to go. I just wanted to escape before- oh, you know, people started Getting To Know Me, asking questions I don’t feel like answering.’ She smiled. ‘So go on then, show me some ropes. What do you normally do at break-time?’

Right on cue, my stomach grumbled. I’d felt too sick to eat any breakfast and I was suddenly starving. So I took her to the tuck counter in the canteen and was reaching for my usual mega-Mars Bar when Raven said, ‘You don’t want to eat that.’

I went bright red. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re fat enough already.’ That was what I expected to hear, or something like. Instead, Raven gave me a Look.

‘Seriously? Because it’s poison! Non-recyclable plastic full of palm oil and nasty chemicals – I mean, have you ever actually read the label?’ She shuddered. ‘Ugh. I wouldn’t eat it if you paid me. I’d rather have a banana. They’re much healthier.’

‘Mm. I suppose.’ Reluctantly, I picked a ripe one and a pack of prawn cocktail Pringles.

‘Nah, you don’t want those, either.’ She took the tube from me and put it back. ‘I’ve got something you’ll like better, I promise.’

Not feeling very happy with Raven, I led her out into the little quad where we ate our packed lunches on nice days, because today was my favourite sort of September, apple-crisp, the trees impossibly bright gold and burnt-orange against a brilliant blue sky, with odd leaves drifting down in ones and twos and an exciting pungent whiff from the caretaker’s bonfire, one of my all-time favourite smells. (Although that might’ve been Year 12 sneaking a spliff in the bike-sheds hardly anyone used any more, at least not for bikes). She headed for the table under the birch tree which nobody liked because of pigeons, dumped her bag down among the white splats and unbuckled the flap. Sitting opposite wolfing my banana, I saw a name inked inside in faded blue, not hers, and read it upside down: M-L Moulin.

‘Help yourself.’ Raven unpacked two brown paper bags and a stainless-steel flask. ‘Mum always gives me way too much.’

Dubious, I peeped into the bag with the grease-spots. Hmm. Funny-coloured crisps. ‘What are these?’

‘Peppered carrot, sweet potato, parsnip and beetroot.’ Raven scrunched into a purply-red one. ‘Yum! They’re the best.’

I found I preferred parsnip; but they were all gorgeous, sweet, crunchy with sea-salt and black pepper, and now I was glad I hadn’t wasted my money on Pringles. The other bag was full of dried figs, prunes, raisins, and apple rings, which were good too. So was the yoghurty, minty drink she called lassi, and as we sipped it in turns she asked,

‘What did you think I was going to say to you in the canteen? Your face went all stiff,’ (tactfully, she didn’t mention its colour), ‘like you expected me to bite you.’

I went bright red. Looking down, I was about to say, ‘Oh, nothing.’ Then I looked up again into her eyes, soft with concern, and suddenly it seemed pointless to hold back. So I told her exactly what, and why. ‘I knew the second you walked in that you’d be put next to me and I’d be OFF again, same as with Fi-’

‘Off again?’ Raven frowned – prettily, of course. ‘What do you mean, off?’

‘Obligatory Fat Friend. Because she was so cute. You know, blonde, petite,’ I drew Fi in the air, half a head shorter than me and half as wide, ‘or UFF. You can guess what that stands for. It’s what some of the older lads used to call us. As in, ‘Lookout, guys, here comes Fi McD… and She’s OFF!’ Or Laurel and Hardy. Or Little and Large.’

Raven’s face sort of froze. Then she scowled. That wasn’t pretty at all, her eyes went so black and cold I felt almost frightened. ‘That’s horrible.’ She reached across and squeezed my hand, and I noticed the Moonchild had worked its way back to the right place. ‘Well, they’ll never say it round me, Ellie. Trust me on that.’

‘Thanks, Raven.’ I squeezed back gratefully, though I wasn’t sure how she could stop them. Then I blurted again. ‘I’m really glad now you’ve come, I thought it was going to be awful having someone else in Fi’s place but it’s actually really nice having a new deskie, much better than sitting on my own. And I’m sorry I upset you asking about your dad, it was stupid of me, and for getting your name wrong and thinking you’d be a snobby stuck-up swot.’

‘It’s OK. I’m not upset, and I don’t blame you. Teachers can be so clueless. Talking about you as if you’re not there, bigging you up, boasting about you – it drives you insane.’ (I wouldn’t know, I never had the problem). ‘They think they’re encouraging people but they’re not, it’s obnoxious and embarrassing and stupid because it just sets you up to be hated. I mean, when Doctor Bates was yapping on, you didn’t think ‘ooh, lucky us, a clever newbie from a top London school, must try really hard to keep up with her,’ did you?’

‘No,’ I giggled. ‘I hated you.’

‘There you go. But you can’t exactly tell teachers to fuck off, can you?’ Sly little dimples appeared in her cheeks. ‘Not unless you want to get expelled.’

I gasped, not just from the F-word. ‘Oh my God! You’ve been expelled?’

‘Yep. From my poxy boarding school.’

‘Oh my God, Raven! How did it happen? What did you say?’

‘Well, we’d just come back from Christmas vac – and I really didn’t want to, but Dad made me because he’d upfronted a full year’s fees to get me into the stupid place – and in assembly the Head hauls me up on stage and starts giving it this,’ she made her hand look like a quacking beak, ‘about me getting a special prize for getting 100% in French for the whole of my first term, and what a shining example I was blah blah bleurgh. And I mutter, ‘This is such bullshit.’ And he says, ‘What did you say?’ So I say it again louder, and he tells me to go straight to his office, and I tell him to go eff himself. I didn’t just say ‘eff,’ obviously. Then I tell the school they’re a bunch of spoilt, shallow, worthless wankers who can all go eff themselves too, and the Porsches they rode in on.’ Raven grinned. ‘It was sweet, totally worth getting ragged out by Dad when he came to pick me up. And Mum thought it was hilarious. Dad was even angrier when they only refunded half his money because Spring Term had already started. Serve him right, I never wanted to go there in the first place. Ha, ha, karma.’ Grinning, she waved the Moonchild at me. ‘It’s why I’m wearing this. I forgot to take it off before hockey – God, I hate team sports! – and some fool cracked my finger with her stick, and now I can’t get it over the knuckle. And it was Mum’s wedding ring, so I’m not having it cut off – the finger or the ring.’

Then the bell went BRRRRRRING! and my stomach went boing because we’d have to walk to the Language Lab past the old Sixth Form Block where the Year 13 to 14s lived, join the maroon streams pouring into and out of various doors, and I’d be OFF again. Only something weird happened instead. Of course, everyone stared at Raven because her face was strange as well as stunning – I saw the Lennox Lads actually stop dead, twin ginger heads swivelling to watch her go by – and everyone stared at me because I was with her. And we got smiles and waves from people I knew in other classes, and odd smirks and sniggers, and bitchy looks from some of the older girls, but no-one said a word except ‘Hey, Ellie!’

 It was even weirder when we went inside. The corridor babble rose and fell, voices hushing as we passed, chattering log jams parting as if an invisible bubble was forcing them gently aside. I glanced sidelong at Raven, walking tall, confident, radiating authority, acknowledging the stares with tiny nods as if she was the Queen. ‘What’s happening- what are you doing?’ I hissed from the corner of my mouth. ‘Are you playing Prince Batty?’

‘No, I’m Prince Hal.’ She favoured a fit Year 11 with a small smile. ‘And you’re Hotspur. So act like him – swagger!’

I giggled, feeling silly. ‘I can’t. I don’t know how.’

‘Then copy me.’ Raven put an arm round my round shoulders, pulled them square, and spoke in the other Prince’s voice. ‘Just fake it till you make it, my dear. Fake it till you make it!’

In French, re-christened Corbelle by Mlle Joubert because it made conversation easier when our names sounded French, (mine didn’t need to change, apart from adding accents), Raven had to introduce herself again. She kept it simple: ‘Mon nom est Corbelle, j’ai quatorze ans, j’ai les cheveux noirs et les yeux bleus, j’aime bien les animaux et la musique, j’habite chez Maman à la Maison Cachée’ and so on.

Then we all had to plug ourselves in. I enjoyed French Language, though I wasn’t so keen on the Lab; hearing my own voice in my ears embarrassed me, much more than speaking in normal class, and most of all when the Joob listened in and tried to get me to say my Rs properly. She told us that this year we were Going To France, with modules on Getting Around: Buying Tickets, Booking Rooms, Ordering Meals, Buying In Shops etc, and that today we’d be Visiting Paris. Slides flashed up showing Places To Go, while the narrators Jacques and Jacqueline took turns telling us about them, and we repeated their words floating white across the screen. I couldn’t tell how Raven was getting on until the bell went and we heard, ‘OK, allez déjeuner, tout le monde! Au revoir,’ in our ears. Then as everyone started chattering and grabbing bags and filing out, I saw the Joob beckon her over and my stomach went boing. Usually, this wasn’t good.

‘We’re off for lunch, El,’ said Libby, as I dawdled with my pencil-case. ‘You coming?’

‘Um- no,’ I said. ‘I ought to wait for Raven.’

Libby and Caro made faces at each other. ‘Well, we’re not waiting,’ said Libby. ‘We’re starving.’

‘Yeah,’ said Caro. ‘Leave her. She can find her own parth to the carnteen if she’s so bloody clever.’

‘Um.’ I dithered. ‘Yeah, but Baldy told me to take care of her, so perhaps I’d better-’

‘Feh – whatever. Just don’t blame us if the table’s full when you get there. C’mon, Lib,’ Caro said. ‘Let Miss Goody Two-Shoes wait for Miss Poshy-Pants.’

I trailed behind as they giggled out, then hung round the Lab door to earwig. If Raven was getting told off, it was in French too fast and blurry for me to understand, with a weird accent that made Oui sound like Oo-weh. I could only catch odd words, Rive Gauche, apartement, arrondissement, and wondered if they were swapping addresses. Then they parted with French kisses (on both cheeks, I mean); and as she came out, waved off by a beaming Mlle Joubert, Raven shrugged at me.

‘So shoot me, I’m bilingual,’ she said as we set off down the corridor. ‘Mum’s French, I was born in Paris, my grandies still live on the Left Bank, and I’ve been going on hols there forever. Which is why getting 100% in French is no big deal for me, which is why I went ballistic in that assembly because the Head knew perfectly well, Dad had banged on about it enough trying to get me in there. You won’t tell anyone though.’ Raven’s eyes were serious. ‘You know why. Just like you won’t tell anyone about Gray Childe. Will you, Ellie?’ I shook my head, liking her more and more for not being a show-off, and feeling sorry for her because of her dad. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’ she added as we passed the Assembly Hall and Sports Block. ‘I thought the canteen was back there.’

‘It is. But I need to go out to the shop,’ (the tuck counter was closed at lunchtime to try and make us eat a proper meal), I forgot my sandwiches and it was too late to sign up for school dinners.’ Then I remembered what she’d said about honesty. ‘Um- actually, I didn’t forget. I just felt too rubbish this morning to even think about food.’ I didn’t now, though, and my mouth watered as I tried to decide whether I most wanted something from the chippy or a Cornish pastie and chocolate Swiss roll from the baker’s next door. Then I suddenly felt sick again, because when I slipped my hand into my blazer pocket all I could feel was a 50p left over from last time I wore it, not the fiver Mum had left on the little hall table where we keep the keys, where I could pick it up on my way out. Oh, great. I dug in every other pocket, slowed down to look in my bag. No joy. Cup of soup from the drinks machine, then. ‘Um- sorry, Raven, we’ll have to go back, I actually have forgotten my lunch money.’

She shrugged. ‘No worries, we can share my pack-up. Let’s go and have a picnic on the playing field.’

We cut between the hard tennis courts and came out onto the fields, which have trees and tall hedges all round to keep in wild balls and screen them from the road along the top, and a few benches round the sides where you can sit to re-lace your boots or wait to be called in to play. We didn’t bother with those, we just picked a nice sunny spot and sat down on our blazers, turned inside out in case of grass stains, and took our jumpers off too because it was so warm.

Raven pulled out a long oblong tin from the bottom of her bag and opened it. One end was filled by a light brown box, like a shell, and the other by a banana curled round a pear, with brown paper bags tucked between. Pulling the box apart, she shook half its contents into the top and handed it to me. ‘Here you go, Mum’s version of Waldorf salad. It’s better than the recipe, she puts toasted seeds and pine-nuts in as well.’

‘What are those?’ I pointed to some crinkly brown chunks among the chopped celery, apple, and grape.

‘Marinated tofu.’ She popped a piece into her mouth. ‘Try some, it’s delish.’

I did, and it was. But I couldn’t see how to eat the salad without getting mayonnaise down my new shirt and getting killed by Mum, so I said, ‘Um- have you got a fork or something I can borrow?’

Raven grinned. ‘You don’t need one.’ To my surprise she opened her mouth wide, took a huge bite of the box and started crunching. ‘Hemp,’ she said when she could talk again. ‘Place Mum buys them does edible plates and bowls too. Brilliant idea, isn’t it?’

I nibbled the edge, which reminded me of crispbread or a savoury Cornetto. ‘Mm – yeah.’ It was too chewy to say much more until we’d finished. Then as Raven gave me her pear because I’d already had a banana, she punched me in the stomach with a question I hadn’t expected.

‘So what happened to your friend Fiona? She’s not dead, is she?’

Boing. More of a clench, actually, as if icy fingers had just grabbed my insides and squeezed hard. ‘No, but she almost might as well be!’ I blurted. Tactless, but I was suddenly too upset to think what I was saying. ‘She’s in Canada. Five thousand miles away! And she didn’t want to go but she had to because of her dad’s stupid promotion, and she used to live round the corner, and we saw each other every day- I mean, every day, our mums took turns feeding us on school nights, and at weekends she usually stayed at ours because of her brother.’ (Eight-year-old Jamie, ‘lively’ to his mum, was ‘a total pain’ to me and Fi, always messing with her stuff and barging into her room when we were in there, unless she remembered to wedge her door shut). ‘But now we can’t even talk when we feel like because of the time difference, only for an hour on Sundays!’ The hand squeezed again as I remembered I couldn’t text either until I got home and re-charged my phone.

‘Oh. Sorry, Ellie.’ Raven squeezed my hand, which felt much nicer. ‘You must miss her a lot… had you always been besties?’

‘No, we went to different junior schools, I only met her when we started here. We were both shy and scared stiff, and sort of clung together even when we’d settled in and got to know other people. So yeah, I miss her, and everything’s been horrible since we found out.’ My eyes filled as I remembered that Wednesday night. I’d been at Fi’s as usual till our nine o’clock curfew and was just getting ready for bed when she came racing round, banging on our front door in hysterics – like I was, when I finally understood what she was trying to tell me. Ugh. ‘You know, her folks didn’t say a word about Canada at first. Not a word! Fi thought her dad was just away on business when he went for his interviews, even the second time when her mum went with him, because it was no big deal, she often did,’ I grimaced, ‘and if they were just off for the evening, a works dinner or something, me and Fi used to babysit Jamie. Anyway, they said they didn’t want to upset her for nothing in case he didn’t get it, so they waited till it was official, then announced they were emigrating, and she wouldn’t be coming back to GSA this term – two days before we broke up!

‘It was awful at school for the rest of that week. Obviously, her mum told the Prince but Fi had to tell the class, and she started crying again, and got sent to Batty’s office to have a cup of tea and calm down, then on her last day we had a special assembly with a slide show about Canada, and Fi had to stand up at the end while everyone clapped and said goodbye.’

Raven rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God.’

‘Yeah, and all the grown-ups trying to be kind, cheer us up, saying what a great country, what a wonderful opportunity, you’ll soon make new friends blah blah, and Jamie practically bouncing off the walls because he can’t wait… and then we only had four weeks left, and that was all packing, and getting rid of stuff she couldn’t take with her, and helping her help her folks get the house ready to sell.’ I gulped. ‘The only good bit was the massive leaving party they threw in town. Everybody went, even some of the teachers – it would’ve been brilliant if it hadn’t been so sad. And that was it – they left next day to get settled in before Fi’s term started on the twenty-eighth, and her dad started his new job on September the first.’

‘What does he do?’

I didn’t really know. I wasn’t sure Fi did either, although she’d tried to explain. ‘He’s something called a Logistics Manager, and he works- I mean, used to work, in Leeds for a company called CanCom. They organise and televise big concerts and sports events.’ I’d been quite excited at first when Fi told me that, but her dad never got to meet famous stars, his job was doing important but boring stuff behind the scenes, like making sure the stadium ordered enough toilet roll for fifty thousand people. ‘And their head office has just opened some new section in Montreal, and they picked Mr McD to go and Logistics Manage it – worse luck for Fi and me.’

‘Oh my God.’ Some of the pink had gone out of Raven’s cheeks. ‘I don’t believe- this is so freaky.’

‘What?’

‘CanCom Montreal. Their new section – It’s called NAMCom, North American Music Company, and it’s going to produce music for Canadian and American bands as well as promoting them and organising gigs and stuff. I know, because it stands for North American MoonChild as well… it was CanCom that Mum sold the business to.’

What?

‘Uh, yeah. See what I mean about freaky? Fiona’s over there, and we’re here, and it’s all sort of our fault. Sorry, Ellie.’ My mouth opened and shut like a goldfish. ‘It’ll be OK, though,’ Raven added hastily. ‘Mum says everything happens for a reason, and maybe this has happened because we needed to meet. I mean, I know I can’t replace Fi and I’d never try, but I don’t know a soul here my own age, and I could really use a friend I can trust, so maybe I could- well, cling to you for a bit?’ Her eyes appealed, softly blue. ‘If you don’t mind. If you don’t hate me too much now.’

I still couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Then suddenly my stomach thawed, and a huge, melty rush of relief bloomed on my cheeks, making them feel (for once) just warm, and pleasantly pink. I didn’t want to be Ellie No-Mates, or odd one out with Libby and Caro, and it was much too late to hate Raven because the thought of being friends with her made me feel better than I had for weeks. So to tease her, I looked away, stuck my nose in the air.

‘Mm. Whatever. But Baldy told me to take care of you, so I’ll have to suck it up.’ Then I poked her in the ribs. Raven poked me back with her banana and caught a tender spot that creased me up. Then we had a poking fight and giggled ourselves silly. ‘It’s not really your fault though, is it?’ I said when I got my breath back. ‘I mean, it’s not like your mum tried to mess up our lives on purpose. Besides,’ I looked down, suddenly shy, ‘mine doesn’t feel so messed up now.’

‘Whew. Thanks, Ellie – that means a lot.’ Raven unzipped her weapon and chomped off the end. ‘I’d explain why, but it’s a long story- oh, I know! Come back to ours for tea and I’ll tell you the whole thing! Mum’ll be really glad I’ve started making friends already – and she won’t believe it when she finds out who you are, and how we’ve come to meet.’

My mum was glad too, I could tell by her voice when I borrowed Raven’s phone to ask if it was OK. And I was practically sick with excitement because of what Raven might tell me, the gory details that hadn’t made it into the papers or gossip mags, and I couldn’t wait- which must be exactly why she didn’t want people going on about her, or knowing who her dad was, because they’d be just as nosy as me – which made me feel so ashamed I had to stuff my mouth with her pear to stop it saying anything stupid.

‘It’s not like it’s a state secret,’ Raven went on as if reading my mind. ‘I don’t care if people find out gradually, just not till after my party. I want them to get to know me as me first, without sucking up to Gray Childe’s kid for what they think they can get or hating me for things I can’t help and never wanted in the first place. And you will come, won’t you, next Sunday?’ She raised a neat eyebrow. ‘It’ll be brilliant, just like the old days. You’ll love it.’

‘Um- yeah, look, about your party… are you sure you want to invite everyone? I mean, the whole class?’

Raven’s eyebrow went higher. ‘Yes, why not? It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.’

 ‘Um, well-’ I hesitated. It seemed only right to warn her, though I didn’t like being a grass- then again, Chard could be a real bitch and she was going out with the lad who made my stomach go boing, so I didn’t feel I owed her anything. ‘It’s just that- well, the Year 12 lads let Josh Brown and Jake Adams and Chardonnay Jenkins share their spliffs in the bike sheds because she shows them her Wonderbra. With her chest in, I mean,’ I mimed unbuttoning my shirt, ‘she doesn’t just bring one to school. So they’ll probably try and sneak some weed or alcopops or something in so they can sneak off somewhere and get smashed.’

‘Oh. Thanks for the heads-up, I’ll tell Mum.’ The sly dimples reappeared in Raven’s cheeks. ‘I’m sure we can handle a few teenage stoners. And shall I tell her I’ve had my first RSVP?’

My braces flashed in a big steely grin. ‘Yes, if she’s catering!’ By now we’d finished the last bits of dried fruit, drained the last dregs of lassi, and split a yummy cherry-almond flapjack. I felt nicely full, but not over-stuffed and sleepy like I often did in the afternoon, and very grateful that Raven had saved me from starving, going home to be told off for forgetting my money, or worst of all, getting a cardboard cup of powdery lumps from the drinks machine with my lonely 50p. ‘Yeah, thanks for sharing your lunch, I really enjoyed it.’

‘My pleasure. We can do it every day if you like. I never manage to eat the whole lot on my own, no matter how hungry I am.’ Raven folded up the paper bags, put them back in the tin with her empty flask, put the tin back in her bag, and her sweater back on. ‘And now please can you show me where the Science Block is? I’ve got Double Physics there after registration.’

‘No problem. But don’t worry if you forget the way, you can always follow Caro. She does Phys too.’ I shuddered. ‘And Chem and Advanced Maths.’