Withering Tights - By Louise Rennison Page 0,5
he said, “Keep your hair on, love, I was resting my kitbag, that’s all.”
But he wasn’t. I know a hand when I feel one on my bottom.
What it does mean is that I have got something that sticks out enough to rest something on.
I started singing to myself. I couldn’t help it, even though I am a lanky girl with nobbly knees and pimples instead of breasts, I am at the beginning of a big adventure! I am becoming me!!!
I flung open my window and started singing, “Fame!!! I’m gonna live for ever, I’m going to learn how to fly…”
I’ve put my hair in a ponytail and I’ve got mascara on. What can I do about being so pale? I know, I can pop into Boots, because they are open on Sundays, and see if they do any ‘cheeky’ products.
Coming out of the door, Dibdobs said, “I think the sun’s trying to get out.”
I smiled at her and said, “Top of the morning to you!”
It seems to be brightening up. The fog has cleared so now you can see the sheep, and over there, some sheep and a pig. No sign of people, unless they are crouching down behind the sheep.
I’ll go to the top of the lane and explore the village before I go to the high street.
Two rough-looking, dark-haired lads were by the bus stop, arguing about something. One of them got the other round the neck, yelling, “Take that back, tha great garyboy.”
And the other one kicked him in the shin and then took off, shouting back, “Come and get me, tha manky pillock, I’ll brain you!”
It’s charming being in the country.
I wonder if one of them is that Cain boy. Who would call a person Cain? Wasn’t he the boy in the Bible that killed his own brother?
Cain. You might as well call him ‘Rottenhead’ and have done with it.
OK, well here I am at the village green and there’s the village hall next to the pub, and then on this side is the grocer’s store, church and bus stop. I suppose the road to the main shopping bit is the one that goes off round the back of the pub.
The pub is called ‘The Blind Pig’. It’s got a sign with a pig on it. The piggy has dark glasses on and a walking stick in its trotter. Must be an olde Yorkshire story about a pig that saved the village single-handedly from the Vikings, even though it was blind.
Actually, it wouldn’t be single-handedly, it would be single-trotter-dly.
I have always been good at English, even if I say it myself. Which I have to because I haven’t spoken to anyone except myself for about two years.
You can’t count the Dobbins.
As I turned down the lane to the shops, a girl about my age came out of The Blind Pig. She had a mass of curly hair and a cute sticky-up nose.
She smiled at me and said, “Hello, do you live here?”
I smiled back and said, “No, I’m Tallulah and I’ve come to Yorkshire by mistake.”
She laughed and crinkled her nose up. She had a very gurgling hiccupping sort of laugh. She said, “My name’s Vaisey and I’m going to the performing arts summer school at Dother Hall.”
Hooray! Someone else on the planet besides Brown Owls and basin-headed people. Vaisey was staying at The Blind Pig because her bed wasn’t ready at the school.
I said, “Did you come with anyone, or do you know people there?”
She shook her hair. “Not yet, but I think it’s going to be great, don’t you? I feel a touch of the tap dancing coming on, I am so excited. The landlord of the pub says that they call it ‘Dither Hall’ in the village and that it’s all scarves and tambourines up there.”
I said, “Um…who’s the landlord? Is he a bit of a—”
At which point, a big, red-faced man in tweed breeches came out and looked at us.
“Oh…I see, another of you. Are you breeding?”
He shouted back into the pub, “Ruby, I said this would ’appen. The ‘artists’ are breeding already, there’ll be bloody hundreds of them by tomorrow. All miming their way to the bus stop.”
He went off in the direction of the village hall, laughing like a rusty goose.
A girl of about ten popped her head out of the pub door to look at us. She had pigtails and gap teeth and freckles, and a sweet little face.
She said in a broad accent, “Ullo, I’m Ruby. Who are