Jelly Breaks the Mould Read online

  He’d pulled one of her headphones away from her ear.

  Benji wasn’t scared of Sonja – he was fearless like Myf – which was why he and Myf had always got on so well.

  He yanked Sonja’s other headphone away from her other ear. ‘Just thought you’d look as one of our backing singers, that’s all.’

  And he went off laughing.

  ‘Oh, now he’s asking SONJA to be a backing singer!’ I told Myf.

  Myf looked outraged and shouted:

  ‘WE DON’T WANT TO BE BACKING SINGERS, JELLY! WE’VE GOT OUR OWN BAND!’

  –13–

  Jellyous

  As Cicily and Sandy got to the front of the queue Cicily said under her breath to me:

  ‘So what’s your band called, Jelly?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Jelly and the Mould Breakers,’ I muttered, busying myself with some rich tea biscuits.

  ‘We’re going to win Boxford’s Got Talent,’ Myf informed him.

  ‘You’ve entered! Brilliant!’ said Sandy.

  ‘Why dost thou and sO.M.G.! not entereth Boxford Hath Talent, Romeo?’ Cicily asked Sandy.

  ‘We’re only a covers band – we just sing O.M.G.! songs.’

  ‘WE are a . . .’ Roobs got out her clipboard and read out,

  ‘How totally stupid!!’ Cicily said, forgetting to be Elizabethan.

  ‘So when can I come and hear you play?’ Sandy said, ignoring Cicily.

  The word ‘play’ made me even more as we still hadn’t learnt any instruments or written any songs.

  ‘Well,’ I said to the rich tea biscuit I was arranging on a plate,

  ‘Anyway, Romeo, you haven’t got time for that with all your gigs and your major role in a Shakespearean production,’ Cicily squawked.

  ‘Well, I’m sure I could fit in going to see Jelly and the Mould Breakers,’ Sandy smiled.

  ‘And anyway,’ Cicily continued (now completely speaking in Elizabethan-the-second-ish), ‘I’ve heard there’s a dead cert for the winner of Boxford’s Got Talent this year – apparently Silas Crowe really likes animal acts and he’s judging the over twenty-fives.’

  I felt my chest melting into my knees. I knew exactly what she was going to say, but I still hoped she wouldn’t . . .

  ‘My uncle’s a bookie and he said the odds are on . . .’ (long pause like on The X Factor) ‘. . . Sue, Julian, Cat ’n’ Fats’s Folk Combo.’

  ‘Hey, Jelly, that’s your—’ Myf and Roobs began.

  I put my hands over Myf’s and Roobs’s mouths, which made it quite hard to serve squash.

  ‘Apparently they’re rubbish,’ Cicily prattled on, ‘but Silas Crowe loves dogs, cats and older people.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Sandy interrupted. ‘Jelly? Isn’t your mum called Sue, your stepdad called Julian, your cat called Cat . . . and your dog’s called Fatty, isn’t he?’

  I was slightly flattered that he remembered so much about my family, but of course I had to deny everything.

  ‘Ha ha ha! Not at all!’ I said as though the very idea was utterly ridiculous. ‘I don’t know ANYONE called Sue, Julian, Fatty OR Cat.’

  Then Cicily dragged him away.

  And as they went off I heard her say: ‘And there’s this REEEAAALLY old woman who’s entered – she’s got a good chance too because she wears a FOX STOLE apparently, which is a sort of animal, and she’s way way WAY over twenty-five – Carol or Garol? Grannie? Sings the blues or something . . .’

  Sandy glanced back at me (he’d met my granny, Grarol, when played at my mum’s wedding) and I made sure I was doing laughing with who had just asked how the bass playing was going.

  ‘What’s funny, Jelly?’ asked, in his dim-yet-handsome way, although it was a perfectly intelligent question in this instance.

  ‘She hasn’t even picked it up, Roger!!’ Myf shouted. ‘But she’s laughing cos her granny’s entered Boxford’s Got Talent!!’

  ‘ShuddUP, Myf!’ I growled.

  My granny isn’t called ‘Granny’. Instead, we call her ‘Grarol’ because when Jay and I were little she wasn’t sure about being called Granny (especially when there were attractive men around). So she insisted we called her Carol (her name) – but we’d forget and go to say ‘Gra–’ then see her alarmed expression and quickly try to change it to Carol – so it became ‘Gra-rol’.

  Grarol wasn’t completely sure about this new name, but at least it didn’t make her sound old (just completely weird).

  –14–

  It’s Her Age

  ‘Pleeeaaaase tell me it’s not true,’ I said to Mum when I got home.

  ‘Look, Jelly, you’ll just have to accept that Julian, Cat, Fatty and I are entering Boxford’s Got Talent. We’re not dead yet, you know.’

  ‘Not that,’ I told her. ‘Grarol.’

  ‘Oh that! I’m afraid so. You know how competitive she is. She’s upstairs getting dressed up. Don’t challenge her – you know it’s not worth it – uh-oh, here she comes . . .’

  Grarol was one of those people who thought she was good at everything – and therefore by association any relative of hers was also good at everything (but not quite as good as her).

  I stormed up to my room and waited for someone to follow me. Twenty minutes of snivelling later no one had appeared so I decided to do some EXTRA-LOUD .

  I was also getting hungry and I could Julian’s chicken curry cooking . . .

  I heard Grarol say:

  ‘It’s her age.’

  And Mum say:

  ‘It’s her hormones.’

  And Grarol add:

  ‘Yes, the combination can make you very angry.’

  I shouted angrily like a thirteen-year-old girl with raging hormones.

  Mum poked her head round the door.

  she said, trying not to sound irritable.

  Then after Mum went downstairs I heard her . I thought about going down but I wasn’t sure if it was crying or her rehearsing for Boxford’s Got Talent. And anyway I was busy designing a poster for Jelly and the Mould Breakers (Myf and Roobs were due round later).

  But then it got VERY loud and I knew it had to be – SURELY ??

  I said, trying not to sound irritable.

  I explained to Mum and Julian that Sandy had invited me to his gig, and about the groupies and how he and Cicily Fanshaw were getting on REALLY well, even though he did seem to find her a bit annoying, and now she was a backing singer in his band as well, and she had stolen his scarf off me and I hadn’t had a chance to explain that I didn’t throw it away and NOW he was wearing her scarf and she was really confident and pushy and bossy but he still went off with her!

  Julian cleared his throat.

  Mum said: ‘A lot of men – boys – like to be bossed about and organised – don’t they, Julian?’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘I mean, if I hadn’t bossed and organised Julian he’d still be living in his bedsit playing his violin and eating takeaways . . .’

  Julian had a faraway in his , and a little curling up the corners of his lips.

  ‘. . . and he wouldn’t be married to me,’ Mum continued, ‘cooking me lovely dinners and playing in an up-and-coming folk combo. Some men – boys – are not at all sure about themselves, or confident with girls or know what they want. So, if a bossy girl comes along and is all keen and says what she wants, sometimes they just go along with it. It’s not just us girls who are shy and unsure, is it, Julian?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ Julian said, at me.

  Mum lost her concentration then and started on about something else.

  Julian said to me, ‘Don’t be too bossy, Jells. Don’t tell your mother I said that though. Just be warm and friendly – that’s all that’s needed.’

  –15–

  Ear We Go Again

  Mum had managed to me with her personality again. I didn’t know what I wanted! And I didn’t want to be bossy. I just felt very, very, very, very, very, VERY, VERY upset and that the world was against me. That’s all.


  I felt so sorry for myself that I decided to cry into the mirror for a bit so I could really enjoy the full effect of my misery. It was a new three-way mirror Mum had got from Auntie Val.

  And that’s when ‘IT’ happened!! I saw my profile for the first time – and my ears in profile for the first time, more to the point.

  Of course I’d seen my ears in photos – but that wasn’t ‘real life’. NOW I could see my living, breathing, actual – and it was a terrible SHOCK!! I didn’t recognise myself!

  And my ears looked GINORMOUS again! I say AGAIN because I used to think I had big ears because Grarol used to say I looked like a little elephant and then I got over that and then years later Billy Rumble the school bully started calling me ‘Dumbo’ and I got all self-conscious about them again.

  But then Sandy told me I had ‘cute ears’ last summer – and that compliment had lasted me all this time. But now I wasn’t so sure – maybe he was just being kind when he said it? And anyway, with everything that had been going on, the effect of his compliment had started to wear off. The more I looked at my profile in the three-way mirror, the BIGGER my ears looked.

  –16–

  Vow of Silence

  Myf, Roobs and I were having a jamming session. We had written a song – well, Myf had written some lyrics apparently and we were going to try to set them to music (must learn instruments!!).

  I informed Myf and Roobs that I had discovered my ears in PROFILE and was only going to show my face front on from now on. I explained why – but they were totally uninterested.

  Myf started to read out her lyrics. They needed some tweaks here and there, but for a she’d done quite well.

  They went like this:

  She even had quite a good tune to go with it. We decided to record it on my phone.

  Myf introduced us:

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, the amazing new band, MYF AND THE MOULD BREAKERS!!’

  She really wouldn’t give up! She was such an EGO-MANIAC!

  ‘No,’ I told her, ‘JELLY and the Mould Breakers!’

  ‘Oh OK. Jelly and the Mould Breakers Feat. Myfz.H!’

  ‘Oi!’ Roobs cried. ‘Feat. Roobz.M as well!’

  ‘Oh all right,’ Myf said. ‘Jelly and the Mould Breakers (Feat. Myfz.H (mainly) and Roobz.M).’

  Then the recording time on my phone ran out.

  ‘Let’s listen!’ cried Myf (she’s SO immature) ‘It’ll be a laugh!’

  But Myf didn’t laugh.

  She had never heard her own speaking voice before except inside her own head.

  Gary Hook was a boy at our old junior school who was very brainy and had got a scholarship to a posh school. He had a squeaky yet nasally voice.

  Roobs and I tried to sad.

  –17–

  Rude Food

  The next night it was the dress rehearsal for the play (which is when everyone practises the play in full costume). We were lined up behind our catering table wearing the Jelly and the Mould Breakers T-shirts that we’d made. Myf was already TOTALLY over sounding like Gary Hook, which was unfortunate for me and Roobs as we’d quite enjoyed having a bit of peace and quiet.

  ‘How would you know, Gary?’ I said.

  Roobs and I laughed.

  ‘Gary?’ she asked.

  ‘Gary Hook,’ we reminded her.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one you sound like.’

  ‘Sound like?’

  (I told you she was over it – which in Myf’s case means she’s just forgotten all about it, which is the same thing if you think about it. Sadly, I hadn’t forgotten about my profile.)

  It was only a week till the actual performances of Romeo and Juliet and Roobs was getting very about the catering. There were three performances of the play, two on the Saturday and one on the Sunday. As well as catering for the on the Sunday we also had to do food on the Saturday between the matinee and the evening performance.

  Roobs seems to have become what my mum calls a ‘foodie’ – which I think means giving or exotic-sounding names to perfectly ordinary food and then going on about it.

  For example, food like sun-dried tomatoes . . . What they really are is dried tomatoes, which actually sounds quite yucky. Or wilted spinach which sounds even more yucky than spinach.

  ‘Right,’ said Roobs, clutching her notebook. ‘I’ve studied the play and it has a lot of tragedy in it and is very sad so I want the food to be joyous and comforting to and calm the actors. How about for the catering between shows we do an amuse bouche1 like mini paninis?’

  Myf and I giggled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It sounds rude.’ I told her.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, Myf! What about fajitas?’

  we cried, spluttering with laughter. Myf guffawed so forcefully . . .

  Then we both convulsed into , and the more sternly Roobs looked at us the more we laughed.

  Roobs sighed, ‘What about quiche?’

  Myf and I spluttered with more laughter even though it didn’t sound at ALL rude.

  ‘It’s very easy,’ Roobs continued. ‘And we could give it a modern twist and lots of colour – for example, yellow and red peppers.’

  Just then, Sonja came over looking like she was going to WHACK us. She had her Nurse’s outfit on, but she didn’t look very sympathetic (even less sympathetic than my mum looked when she was an imaginary nurse in my imagination).

  Roobs gave her some orange squash and a rich tea.

  ‘Haven’t you got a proper cup of tea? I like dunking my biscuits,’ she snarled.

  ‘Well,’ Roobs began, going into foodie mode, ‘what you can do is dunk the rich tea in the orange squash for nine to ten seconds, then suck the juice out of it. Then, once softened, re-dunk for approximately three to four seconds, then eat. It has the same effect as hot tea but with a playful, summery orangey tang.’

  Sonja stared at her. ‘Shuddup, Rhubarb. Anyway, you lot, I fancy that Benji Butler, and I want to go out with him, so if you don’t fix us up I’m going to whack you. Also, I want to be a backing singer in that sO.M.G.!, so fix that for me as well or I’ll whack you again.’

  I did a BIG sigh (which I thought was quite brave). Benji’s flattery had got him EVERYWHERE.

  And Sonja went off over-dunking her rich tea biscuit so it fell in her squash. Myf looked outraged. She considered Benji Butler to be her boyfriend – even though all they ever did was bicker and laugh at each other.

  And I said:

  And Roobs, the voice of reason, said:

  –18–

  In the Soup

  On Saturday, Roobs, Myf and I got to the school hall early to start preparing the meal for the cast and crew. There was only an hour between the matinee and the evening performance, so there wasn’t enough time for everyone to go home to eat. It was our job to feed them all.

  While everyone was preparing to go on for the first performance we were and slaving in the kitchen. We were feeling very left out. Cicily was being very annoying and making everyone stand in a circle and do breathing exercises and Sandy hadn’t glanced towards the kitchen once.

  Myf and I were being bossed about by Roobs who was making us call her ‘Chef’ and treating us like we were on Master Chef (the Complete Amateurs).

  This was Roobs’s menu for the meal:

  Faithful Catering

  Between Shows

  – Menu –

  Wilted Dandelion Leaves

  Sun-blushed Pepper and Crumbly Cheese Quiche, with a hint of Nasturtium and made with Day-Old Budgerigar Eggs.

  Parsnip and Banana Crisps

  (We’ll never poison you.)

  Sandy his head round the door. I couldn’t help noticing that, for a pig, he looked quite attractive in a pair of tights.

  Cicily pulled him out of the kitchen by his puffy velvet sleeve.

  ‘Good luck, Sandy!’ Myf called out. ‘Break both legs, Cicily!’

  Everyone was very before going on and there was quite a big queue of
people for the loo, clutching their stomachs.

  Even Cicily was looking green about the gills, and she got nervous. But the play went well because there was rapturous applause at the interval (annoyingly).

  Roobs was shouting about the carrot soup. ‘Come on, you two – get those carrots chopped and in the blender!’

  ‘My hand’s aching!’ Myf cried.

  ‘Mine too!’

  ‘One minute left!’ Roobs yelled.

  ‘Come on,’ Myf whispered. ‘Let’s just put the carrots in whole, what difference does it make? . . . Yes, Chef!’

  ‘And don’t get any leaves in there – they’re poisonous!’

  ‘We might have got a few leaves in there, Chef . . . !’ I told her.

  ‘A few won’t matter. It’s only poisonous if you eat loads and loads. Right, soup in the vat and on table – ten seconds till serving!’

  ‘Yes, Chef!’

  We heard the even more annoyingly rapturous applause after the final scene of the play and everyone came through to the kitchen laughing and clattering and calling each other ‘darling’.