Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1: School
Chapter 2: School
Chapter 3: Home
Chapter 4: Home
Chapter 5: Work
Chapter 6: Work
Chapter 7: Food
Chapter 8: Food
Chapter 9: Toys and Books
Chapter 10: Toys and Books
Chapter 11: Family
Chapter 12: Family
Chapter 13: Courtship
Chapter 14: Courtship
Chapter 15: Sunday
Chapter 16: Sunday
Chapter 17: Law and Order
Chapter 18: Law and Order
Chapter 19: Sickness
Chapter 20: Sickness
Chapter 21: Seaside
Chapter 22: Seaside
Chapter 23: Christmas
About the Author
Also by Jacqueline Wilson
Copyright
About the Book
I don’t want to do a boring old project. Who wants to be like everyone else? I’m doing a diary . . .’
Charlie (don’t EVER call her Charlotte!) thinks History is boring. That is, until she discovers a photo of a Victorian girl who becomes the inspiration for her creation, Lottie. Lottie is eleven, just like Charlie, but she’s had to leave school to work as a nursery maid. Lottie’s life is really hard – all work work work – but she might just know what to do about Charlie’s mum’s new boyfriend and his annoying little son. Especially since Charlie seems to keep messing things up . . .
For games competitions and more, explore www.jacqulinewilson.co.uk
For Rupa Patel (author of the Jacqueline Wilson Quiz Book) and special thanks to everyone at Burscough Primary School
When my daughter Emma was little she was passionately interested in the Victorians. She begged me to play Victorian imaginary games with her. She always wanted to be the Lady of the House. I was generally the servant girl. I had to curtsy to her and say ‘Yes, my lady,’ and do whatever she commanded. You can see why Emma loved this game!
When she got older I read Victorian books aloud to her while she drew endless pictures of Victorian ladies with bustles and button boots. We wrote a series of letters to each other, pretending to be Victorian schoolgirls. Emma wrote a long family saga herself called The Treadwells. It was much better than anything that I could have written at age nine or ten.
Because of Emma’s enthusiasm for the Victorian age, I’d imagined that most children would find it an interesting period in history. When I’d go into schools to give talks I’d often see pictures of Queen Victoria pinned up on the wall above a special display of Victorian objects, white nighties and long drawers and washboards and blue medicine bottles and jet jewellery.
‘Oh, you’re doing the Victorians this term, you lucky things!’ I’d exclaim.
The children would nearly always wrinkle their noses at me in astonishment.
‘We hate the Victorians. They are sooo boring!’
So I got it into my head to write about a girl who thinks doing her Victorian project is going to be intensely boring. The working title of my story was Doing the Victorians – yuck! I decided that my Charlie would invent a very similar girl to herself living in late Victorian times. This Lottie had to go out to work as a nursery maid – and as Charlie does her research you can compare and contrast their lives.
Most children will read the story to find out more about Charlie and her mum, and see how Charlie copes when Mum gets a new boyfriend. Charlie even gets a kind of boyfriend herself. But it would be wonderful if just a few readers get interested in the Lottie sections and decide that maybe the Victorians aren’t so boring after all!
SCHOOL
I KNEW EXACTLY who I was going to sit next to in class. Easy-peasy, simple-pimple. It was going to be Angela, with Lisa sitting at the nearest table to us. I’m never quite sure if I like Lisa or Angela best, so it’s only fair to take turns.
Jo said what if Angela and Lisa want to sit together with you behind or in front or at the side. I just smiled at her. I don’t want to sound disgustingly boastful but I’m the one Angela and Lisa are desperate to sit next to. Lots of the girls want to be best friends with me, actually. I’m just best friends with Lisa and Angela, but anyone can be in our special Girls’ Gang. Any girl. No boys allowed. That goes without saying. Even though I just did.
But guess what happened that first day of term. We got this new teacher. We knew we wouldn’t be getting Mrs Thomas because when we broke up in the summer her tummy could barely fit behind her desk. Her tummy could barely fit behind her smock. You could see her tummy button through the material, like a giant press fastener.
When I was a very little kid I used to think that’s how babies were born. They grew inside the mother and then when they were ready the mum pressed her tummy button and out they popped. I told Jo how I’d got it all sussed out. Don’t laugh. I was very little. Jo laughed. ‘Dream on, Charlie,’ she said. ‘If only it were that easy.’
That’s my name, Charlie. OK, my full name is Charlotte Alice Katherine Enright, but nobody ever calls me that. Jo and Lisa and Angela and all the kids at school call me Charlie. Some of the boys call me Cake or Carrot Cake or Cakehole, but they’re just morons, though they think they’re dead original. (Note the initials of my name. Got it?) But right since I was born, all the way through nursery and primary, no-one’s ever called me Charlotte. Until this new teacher.
Miss Beckworth. She was new so I thought she’d be young. When you get a new young teacher they’re often ever so strict the first few weeks just to show you who’s boss, and then they relax and get all friendly. Then you can muck about and do whatever you want.
I love mucking about, doing daft things and being a bit cheeky and making everyone laugh. Even the teachers. But the moment I set eyes on Miss Beckworth I knew none of us were going to be laughing. She might be new but she certainly wasn’t young. She had grey hair and grey eyes and a grey and white blouse and a grey skirt and laced-up shoes, with a laced-up expression on her face to match. When she spoke her teeth were quite big and stuck out a bit, but I put all thought of Bugs Bunny imitations right out of my head.
There are some teachers – just a few – who have YOU’D BETTER NOT MESS WITH ME! tattooed right across their foreheads. She frowned at me with this incredibly fierce forehead and said, ‘Good morning. This isn’t a very good start to the new school year.’
I stared at her. What was she on about? Why was she looking at her watch? I wasn’t late. OK, the school bell had gone as I was crossing the playground, but you always get five minutes to get to your classroom.
‘It’s three minutes past nine,’ Miss Beckworth announced. ‘You’re late.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘We’re not counted late until it’s five past.’
I didn’t say it cheekily. I was perfectly polite. I was trying to be helpful, actually.
‘You’re certainly not off to a good start,’ she goes. ‘First you’re late. And then you argue. My name’s Miss Beckworth. What’s your name?’
‘Charlie, Miss Beckworth.’ (See, ever so polite – because I could see I had to proceed d-e-l-i-c-a-t-e-l-y.)
‘Your proper name?’
‘Charlie Enright.’
‘We don’t seem to be connecting correctly, Miss Enright. Charlie isn’t a proper name. It’s a diminutive.’
She was trying to make me look pretty diminutive, obviously. I tried to act cool but I could feel my cheeks flushing. I have this very white skin that can be a real problem when I get mad or embarrassed. When you have a lot of long red hair and you get a red face too you start to look as if someone’s put a match to you.
‘Are you Charles Enright?’
I can’t stand it when teachers go all sarcastic on you. A few of the kids tittered nervously. That posh prat Jamie laughed out loud. Typical. Angela and Lisa were looking all anguished, dying for me.
‘I’m Charlotte Enright, Miss Beckworth. But I’ve never been called Charlotte at this school, only Charlie.’
‘Well, I’m going to call you Charlotte, Charlotte. Because in my class we do things differently,’ said Miss Beckworth.
You’re telling me we do things differently. (Well, I’m telling you, but you know what I mean!) I wasn’t allowed to go and sit with Angela. She’d promised to get to school ever so early to grab the best desk (and the one next to it for Lisa) and she’d done well. The desk right next to the window, with the hot pipe to toast my toes on when it got chilly. But all in vain.
‘No, don’t go and sit down, Charlotte,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘I was just about to explain to the whole class that while we get to know each other I’d like you all to sit in alphabetical order.’
We stared at her, gob-smacked.
Miss Beckworth spoke into the stunned silence, holding her register aloft.
‘So, Anthony Andrews, you come and sit at this desk in the front, with Judith Ashwell beside you, and then—’
‘But Judith’s a girl, Miss!’ Anthony protested in horror.
‘Cleverly observed, Mr Andrews,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘And kindly note, I call you Mr Andrews, not plain Mister. I would prefer you to call me Miss Beckworth. Not Miss.’
‘But boys and girls never sit next to each other, Miss,’ said Anthony. He’s as thick as two short planks – twenty-two – but when Miss Beckworth’s forehead wrinkled he rewound her little speech inside his empty head and took heed. ‘Er, Miss Beckworth, Miss. I don’t want to sit next to Judith!’
‘Well, you needn’t think I want to sit next to you,’ said Judith. ‘Oh Miss Beckworth, that’s not fair!’
Miss Beckworth didn’t care. ‘I said things would be different in my class. I didn’t say they would be fair,’ she said. ‘Now, get yourselves sorted out and stop fussing like a lot of silly babies. Who’s next on the register? Laura Bernard, right, sit at the desk behind Anthony and Judith, and then . . .’
I hovered, signalling wild regret with my eyebrows to Angela, who’d got up half an hour early for nothing. Angela’s surname is Robinson, so obviously we wouldn’t sit together. But Lisa is Lisa Field, right after me on the register, so it looked as if we were OK after all. It wasn’t really fair on poor Angela if I sat next to Lisa two years running, but it couldn’t be helped.
But it didn’t work out like that.
‘James Edwards, you sit at the desk at the back on the left,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘With . . . ah, Charlotte Enright beside you.’
Jamie Edwards! The most revolting stuck-up boring boy in the whole class. The whole year, the whole school, the whole town, county, country, world, universe. I’d sooner squat in the stationery cupboard than sit next to him.
I thought quickly, my brain going whizz, flash, bang. Aha! Sudden inspiration!
‘I’m afraid I can’t see very well, Miss Beckworth,’ I said, squinting up my eyes as if I badly needed glasses. ‘If I sit at the back I won’t be able to see the board. Sometimes I still have problems even at the front – so if Lisa Field can come and sit next to me again, then I’m used to her telling me stuff in case I can’t read it for myself. Isn’t that right, Lisa?’
This was all news to Lisa, but she nodded convincingly.
‘Yes, Miss Beckworth, I always have to help Charlie,’ said Lisa.
But Miss Beckworth wasn’t fooled. ‘I’m not convinced that you’re short-sighted, Charlotte. Quick-witted, certainly. But until you bring me a note from your mother and another from your optician I’d like you to sit at the back beside James.’
That was it. I was doomed. There was no way out. I had to sit next to Jamie Edwards.
He moved his chair right up against the wall and shuddered elaborately as I flopped down furiously beside him.
‘Charlie Cakehole! Yuck!’ he said. But under his breath, because he knew Miss Beckworth was watching.
Jamie Edwards is the smarmiest little swot, and always wants the teachers to have him as their pet. Which he is anyway. Because he’s such an infuriating Clever Clogs, always coming top top top.
Well, who on earth wants to be top of the class?
‘Why can’t you try harder at school, Charlie,’ Jo always says. ‘You’re bright. If you’d only stop messing about and work hard you could do really well. You could come top if you really tried.’
I asked Jo why she always nagged so about my boring old education.
‘Maybe you’re not so bright as I thought you were,’ Jo said. ‘Can’t you work it out for yourself?’
That made me feel bad. But it’s hopeless. Maybe I could do better. I’m not bottom of the class, mind you. Just a nice comfy middle. But I suppose if I worked like stink then I could do better. I can generally beat Lisa and Angela if I want. Maybe I could come top of all the girls. But I couldn’t ever beat Jamie Edwards. And I’d far sooner be bottom than second to Smarty Pants.
So I slid down in my seat and sulked for most of the morning. It was hot but Jamie kept me well-fanned, waving his hand frantically all the time because he kept wanting Miss Beckworth to pick him. Pathetic. I wouldn’t put my hand up even when I knew the answers. Even in English, which is my best subject. I’ve always got ticks and stars and Very Goods all over the place for my stories.
Miss Beckworth started a poetry lesson and it was actually quite interesting and then she read this poem by some dippy American lady and you had to guess what it was about. Like a riddle. And no-one knew. Jamie guessed it might be about a river and Miss Beckworth said it was a very good guess – but it was wrong. Ha. I knew what it was. Easy-peasy, simple-pimple. It was a train. And I sat there with this pleased feeling throbbing through me, though I acted all cool and bored, slumped in my seat, arms folded . . . waiting. Waiting until she was just about to give up and then I was going to put my hand up after all and maybe yawn a bit or fiddle with my hair and then I was going to go ‘It’s a train’ like it must be obvious to everyone. One up to me. And ya boo sucks to Jamie.
‘Think really hard,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘Can’t anyone guess?’
And she looked straight at me, almost as if she could see inside my head and look at the train going puff puff puff round my brain.
I still waited. I waited just a fraction too long. Because she stopped looking at me, and just as I was unfolding my arms ready to put my hand up she said, ‘It’s a train!’
And everyone else said, ‘Oh, a train’, ‘Of course’, ‘I get it’, and Anthony and those of his ilk scratched their heads and said, ‘You what?’ and ‘Why is it a train?’ and ‘I hate this soppy poem stuff.’ I drummed my fingers on the desk in irritation and muttered, ‘I knew it was a train.’
Jamie looked at me with those snooty eyebrows of his disappearing right up under his floppy fringe. ‘Oh, sure,’ he said sarcastically.
Well, I wouldn’t have believed me either. But I did know. So I felt even less like joining in now and I drew trains all over the back of my new school jotter – large looming trains about to mash and mangle small snobby boys tied to the railway tracks.
Then we had to write our own poem about trains. I can usually write poems quite quickly so I did a silly one first on a piece of paper torn out of my jotter.
Puff puff puff
Can’t stand this stuff
All about Trains
It gives me Pains
(Prize Pain to me is Jamie E)
And Miss B is a Bore
Her train theme’s a chore
Want to sit with my friend
I’m going round the bend
I feel so Blue
Choo choo choo!
I folded it up and put TO ANGELA AND LISA – PASS IT ON – and then quickly passed it on myself while Miss Beckworth’s head was turned. It got about halfway across the class. Miss Beckworth looked up at the wrong moment. Uh-oh.
‘Ah!’ said Miss Beckworth, pouncing. ‘Someone has written a poem already, and they’re so proud of it they want to pass it round the whole class.’
She glanced at it. ‘Who is the author of this little rhyme, hmm?’
I put my hand up. I had to. Half the kids were craning round to look at me already.
I thought I might be in dead trouble. Miss Beckworth was such a funny old-fashioned teacher. I didn’t know what she might do to punish you. Maybe she had a cane tucked up her skirt and she’d whip it out and whack me one.
But all she did was crumple up my poem and say, ‘I don’t think this is quite Emily Dickinson standard, Charlotte. Now write me a proper poem please.’
I decided she maybe wasn’t such a bad old stick after all – so I tried hard with my poem. I decided to be a bit different. I chose to write about a tube, because they’re underground trains, aren’t they, and it was all about the dark in the tunnels and how that weird voice that says ‘Mind the gap’ could be the voice of the Tunnel Monster.
Jamie peered rudely over my shoulder. ‘You’re writing rubbish,’ he sneered.
‘Yours is the real rubbish,’ I snapped back, reading his pathetic twee twoddle about the Train going through the Rain, in the Midst of the Storm, the Train will keep you Warm . . . Yuck!
But when Miss Beckworth walked round the class to see what we’d written so far she said he’d made a Good Attempt. And do you know what she said about my poem?
‘Try to stick to the subject, Charlotte.’
That was it!
‘Told you you were writing rubbish,’ said Jamie.
So I put down my pen and didn’t write another word. I had Angela and Lisa and all the other girls in hysterics in the cloakrooms after lunch doing my Miss Beckworth imitation. Even back in class I just had to put my front teeth over my bottom lip to have all the girls in giggles.
‘Settle down, please,’ said Miss Beckworth sharply. ‘Now, History. I thought this term we’d do the Victorians.’
I ask you! Who wants to study the stuffy old Victorians? Well, guess. Jamie Teacher’s Pet Edwards.
Miss Beckworth began telling us about the Victorians, starting off with Queen Victoria herself – that fat little waddly Queen with the pudding face who said, ‘We are not amused.’ Well, I wasn’t amused either, especially when Miss Beckworth started on about the Queen Vic pub down the road and Albert Park and how she lived in these old Victorian mansion flats, and did any of us live in a Victorian home by any chance?
I slumped to one side with the boredom of all this just as Jamie stuck his hand up so violently I very nearly got two fingers impaled up my nostrils.
‘I live in a Victorian house, Miss Beckworth,’ he said, showing off like mad. ‘In Oxford Terrace.’
I sat up straight. I knew he was a right little posh nob – but I had no idea he lived in one of those huge grand houses in Oxford Terrace, all steps and little lion statues and incy-wincy balconies as if the people who live there might come and do a Royal Family and wave down at you.
Oxford Terrace is on our way home from the town. Sometimes when Jo and I are trailing back with our Sainsbury’s bags cutting grooves in our hands we make up stuff and we sometimes play we live in Oxford Terrace and we’re Lady Jo and Lady Charlie and we have champagne for breakfast and we go for a workout in a posh club every day and then we have a light lunch someplace snobby and then we shop until we drop, going flash flash flash with our credit cards, and then we eat out and go dancing in nightclubs and chat up film stars and rock stars and football players but we just tease them and then jump into our personal stretch limousine and whizz home to our five-storey half-million mini-palace in Oxford Terrace.
‘You live in Oxford Terrace???’ I said.
Even Miss Beckworth seemed surprised. ‘Do you live in a flat there, James?’
‘No, we’ve got the whole house,’ said Jamie airily.
‘Well, perhaps you can help us understand what life was like in a big Victorian house, James.’ Miss Beckworth rummaged amongst a whole box of books about the Victorians. She pounced on something about Victorian houses and held up a picture of a Victorian parlour. ‘I don’t suppose your house looks much like this inside, though, James?’
‘Actually my mum and dad have this real thing about the Victorians and they’ve tried to make the house as authentic as possible, so we’ve got stuff like William Morris wallpaper and Arts and Crafts tiles – though we’ve got ordinary modern things like televisions and computers and stuff.’
I felt I was sitting next to Little Lord Fauntleroy. He carried on in this sickening fashion for ages until eventually even Miss Beckworth got tired of it.
‘Thank you very much, James. If anyone wants to know more about Victorian houses then you’re obviously a mine of information. Now, we’ll be studying the Victorians all this term in class, but I want you all to work on your own special project at home too.’
I groaned. I hate home projects. ‘You don’t sound ultra-enthusiastic, Charlotte,’ said Miss Beckworth.
‘Well. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything about the Victorians. Not like some people,’ I said, glaring at Jamie.
‘I’ll copy a whole lot of suggestions for topics on the board. See if you can get your famously defective eyes to focus on them,’ said Miss Beckworth briskly. ‘It might be worth your while. I intend to award a prize for the best project at the end of term.’
So I copied out all her suggestions:
I didn’t fancy any of them.
‘Can we do more than one topic, Miss Beckworth,’ said You-know-who. ‘Can we do them all if we want?’
‘Yes, if you like,’ said Miss Beckworth.
He was quite sickening in his enthusiasm, grabbing all sorts of stuff from the book box, though he’s probably got his own private library in his Victorian mansion.
‘Here, it’s not fair, you’re bagging all the best books,’ I said, trying to snatch at a book on Victorian hospitals that looked as if it might be promisingly gory.
‘OK, OK. Here’s one specially for you,’ said Jamie – and he bungs me this book on Victorian domestic servants! ‘Know your place,’ he goes.
I was about to bash him on his big head with the servant book but Miss Beckworth got narky and told us to settle down and start the research for our projects with the books we had in our hands. So I was stuck with the servant book.
I flipped through it furiously – and then stopped. There was a photo of this girl about my age. She even looked a bit like me, skinny and pale. It was a black-and-white photo so it was hard to make out if her hair was red too. It was long, like mine, but scraped back tight behind her ears, with a little white cap crammed on top. She was surrounded by little kids, but they weren’t her brothers and sisters. She was a nursery maid. She had to look after them. She was their servant.
I was a bit stunned. I didn’t know they used to have children as servants. I read a bit about these nursery maids and kitchen maids and housemaids. They had to work all day and into the evening as well for hardly any money. Girls as young as eleven and twelve. No school. No play. No fun. Just work work work.
I decided I’d do a project on ‘Servants’. I was all set to write quite a bit about it actually. I decided I’d show that Jamie.
But Jo was already at home when I got back from school and she had such terrible scary news I forgot all about my servant project.
I didn’t remember until the next day when everyone was showing off their project books. Jamie had done ten whole pages about ‘School’ and he’d stuck in this old photo of kids in rows in a Victorian classroom and got his mum to do some lines of special copperplate handwriting.
‘I’ve finished my school topic already,’ he boasted.
So I whipped out an old exercise book and scribbled out a page at playtime.
‘I’ve finished my school topic too,’ I said, sticking my tongue out at Jamie.
SCHOOL
MY NAME IS Lottie. I am eleven years old. I left school today.
My teacher, Miss Worthbeck, nearly cried when I told her I could not come back. She thinks the world of me. I am her most talented pupil. I am not being boastful, this is exactly what she said:
‘Dear Lottie, you are the best at English and writing and arithmetic, you know your geography and history perfectly, you play the piano well, you paint beautifully and you sing like a lark.’
There! I am also useful to Miss Worthbeck, because she is the only teacher at our school, and she has to control a class of forty mixed infants and twelve of us older pupils. I am not the eldest by any means. There is one great lad of fourteen, Edward James, but he is very slow. He is a head taller than Miss Worthbeck, and she finds it hard to control this boy. In fact many of the boys are great lummoxes, stupid and surly. Miss Worthbeck has to use her cane on them to keep them in order.
I do not need to resort to the cane when I am left in charge of the boys though I take delight in swishing it in front of them! But I usually instruct the little ones, and they all try hard for me and give me apples and bites of their gingerbread and scratch ‘I love Lottie’ on their slates.
Miss Worthbeck has always said I am a born teacher. She has always wanted me to stay on at the school until fourteen, and then she will give me a position as a pupil-teacher, with a proper wage. But I cannot wait two years. I need to earn a proper wage immediately.
HOME
JO AND I