The Grasshopper's Child (21 page)

‘Yes,' said Challon.

She walked off for the costume change, returned with her Spanish guitar, and did
Changing The World Flamenco
, fiercely, passionately; absolutely amazingly. She was fantastic, the applause was wild, and it wasn't going to change a thing.

‘Next time,' said Missy, sounding gutted. ‘She wasn't quite ready. If we can keep on paying her fees,
next
time she'll get something.'

Down in the depths, Challon changed into her normal clothes. The communal dressing room was very quiet. She wondered where everybody was, and where Mum and Brook and Heidi had got to. She'd have to go and look for them.

There were no buzzing minders around. The basement was echoing empty: the way backstage anywhere can be suddenly, strangely empty, after the rushing about. She had messed up the chance of her life, but she didn't feel too bad; not yet.

As she waited for the lift that would take her back to the Ballroom floor someone came and stood beside her: a man of about forty, in a sheeny dark red suit. He had sleek dark hair to his jaw, with a few strands of silver, and a Celtic tattoo round his left eye. It was one of the judges, still wearing his avatar-mask.

‘You took a fall just now,' he said.

Challon nodded.

‘Any particular reason why?'

‘Not really. Well, okay, I found out my Elder died this morning. She was a really nice old lady, and I wasn't there. It threw me, but it's no excuse.'

The man grinned sympathetically. ‘I know that one. They get under your skin, those old ladies, don't they? What if that had been a real gig?'

‘It would have been nothing,' said Challon, sadly. ‘I'd have bounced off the floor, and s-said
Damn, that went okay in rehearsal!
And begged the mosh to help me out with the lyrics if I'd dried. But you have to be pin-perfect for the
Young Artist
, that's the rules.'

‘Challon, wake up. You're in the real world now. Keep your own rules.'

The lift doors opened. He stepped in. ‘Excuse me, I'm taking this alone. You'd better wait for your friends. I shouldn't do this,' he remarked, as the doors closed. ‘But I'm going to, because you are
good
. And I wasn't here, you never saw me, did you?'

‘No, Sir,' whispered Challon, stunned, to the closed door of the lift. ‘I never saw you.'

Heidi and Brook came charging up. ‘Chall!' shouted Brook. ‘Where have you been? Why have you changed out of your stage clothes? What about the ceremony!'

‘Who was that you were talking to?' demanded Heidi suspiciously.

‘Mr Ax Preston,' said Challon, with a dazed look. ‘You know. The legendary guitar-man king of England, from when we were kids. He was advising me what to do when you crash and burn on stage. He seems like a nice guy.'

‘Oh, right, it was one of the judges. But who was it really, do you know?'

‘
Forget it,
Heidi! Chall
has to be
on stage for the awards. She can't run away!'

‘I wasn't running away. I'm fine. I just lost track for a few minutes.'

Challon was calm about going on stage again. Eleven finalists in their finery, and one dressed-down Challon, endured the fiendish delays, the cruel close-ups, the MC's tantalising banter, and the moments of truth. Third place was predictable. Second place was slightly unexpected, and there were shrieks of joy from the boy's friends in the audience. The runners-up collected their crystal guitars, and waved them at the crowd. First place went to one of the hot favourites, the pre-picked winners. He took his gold guitar, made his too-long speech and wept. And then, unexpectedly, there was a fourth prize, the Wild Card. It didn't get awarded every year. No ceremonial cheque, no trophy: the Wild Card went to Challon Pulak.

Cameras swarmed and flashed, the winners grinned and wept, the losers tried hard to keep their smiles pinned in place. Challon's visit to the podium was almost lost in the excitement.

The top people: the public figures, socialites and successful backers vanished at once, going on to more exclusive events with the winners. The after-party at the Insanitude was mainly for the also-rans, their families and friends and patrons: but it was still very cool. Heidi, her mother's tangerine dream dress whirling, danced for hours in the Ballroom, under the flying DJs' box, with people she'd never meet again. She drank Buck's Fizz made with real champagne (illegally, but nobody was stopping her), and wandered around in the Bow Room on the ground floor, eating canapés from silver trays: some delicious, some
disgusting
. She'd lost sight of Brook and Chall and Missy, but she didn't mind.

Mum, Dad, look at me now.
At the Insanitude, where diamonds fall like rain
. Isn't this wild? But I'd give everything, everything, to be with you guys again, watching this show for a laugh, in front of our old tv screen—

She saw George in the crowd: he seemed to be looking for someone. Taking no chances, Heidi ducked behind the blue velvet curtains at the long windows beside her. Not because she couldn't handle George, of course she could; but because she was crying. She'd been
happy
and
having an amazing time
, without Mum and Dad, and she couldn't bear it. George Carron-Knowells was the last person she wanted to see. One of the long windows was open: she stepped out onto a terrace. The night wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold, and the Insanitude Gardens were magical: lit with fairy up-lights, like showers of stars in the grass.

Unfortunately, George had followed her.

‘Hey, Cinderella Laureate! She
shall
go to the ball! Dig the kooky boots!'

The boots were crackle-gold High Tops, knock-offs that had seemed very dandy when she was fourteen and a half. They were too small, and hurting her feet after all that dancing.

‘Oh, hi George.'

‘Did you hear what Challon's decided?'

‘No, what did she decide? Are we going on somewhere?'

‘She's going to accept the humiliating consolation prize. She's going to tour in Europe with a line-up of scrabbling unwashed Indies, for peanuts. She's too disappointed to think straight. She loves
me
and she owes my dad. She'll see reason.'

‘The Wild Card isn't a consolation prize, George. It's a terrific chance.'

Then George saw the tears. Before she could stop him he had her face cupped between his hands. ‘Ooh! Don't take it like that Heidi. We're still okay. Pwetty lady, pweas don't cwy—'

‘Leave me alone, George. You're drunk.'

But she had to try to escape without a scuffle, because a there was a couple coming towards them, and the woman was Challon. The man was older, a lot older; dressed in black. His pale, commanding face peered sternly out of the night, uplit; almost disembodied. His eyes were pits of shadow, his mouth an angry line —

It was the man who had looked into her room.

‘
Pwetty lady
,' crowed George, alcohol breath in her face, arms all over her. He saw Challon and the face coming up, and jumped in shock. She stamped on his foot. George yelped and backed off, hopping on one leg. Heidi sat on the terrace steps, head in her hands, so shaken she couldn't even pretend she was okay. Challon's arm went round her shoulders.

‘Chall, I'm really sorry. I didn't want that!'

Challon hugged her. ‘I
know
you didn't. I've got eyes. George was being an idiot. I'll make him apologise when he's slept it off.'

‘No, don't bother. I'm just so sorry,' repeated Heidi. ‘Who was that man with you?'

George and the stranger, Heidi's enemy without a body, had both vanished while she was hiding her face—

‘That man?' Challon laughed: a different person from the nervous girl she'd been a few hours ago, cool and confident and in control. ‘
That
was Mr George Carron-Knowells senior! Didn't you recognise him? He's not thrilled, but at least I got an award.'

‘Oh,' said Heidi, slowly. ‘George's dad. Right. So that's who—'

She could say no more. Challon shook her gently. ‘Come on Heidi, wake up, my girl. The champagne party's over. Time to go home.'

18: Wild Garlic

It's normal to lose things. Things Heidi needed had disappeared at home all the time, and turned up in strange places. Or never turned up at all, and it was no use asking Mum or Dad. They both had memories like sieves. When she really couldn't find the Rock Mouse in her room, Heidi searched for him inch by inch, in all the parts of the house she was allowed to enter. Then she gave up, comforting herself with the hope that he might just reappear one day, somewhere totally inexplicable; like a screwdriver in the fridge.

In Mehilhoc, even Tanya had been all set for a victory parade: Chall in an open car with ribbons, having flowers thrown at her; a slap-up party in the Corn Barn. But the award was an anti-climax. No celebrations for the Wild Card, just Challon walking tall and smiling more than usual: and the parcel van stopping at Missy Pulak's with old-fashioned-style 3D mail that
hadn't
been seen first by her backer. The Teens had to wait for the May Picnic for their feast: an annual treat the Carron-Knowells provided after the wild garlic harvest.

Nobody local would touch wild garlic (except Andy's family), but the pungent leaves fetched a high price in the restaurant trade. The Exempt Teens were up at dawn on the appointed day, pulling the tenderest leaf (you weren't allowed to cut it, and you had to take only the best); from woodland edges, from the hazel coppicing, and all along the trails in the Carron-Knowells woods.

When the boxes had been filled to the estate manager's satisfaction and carried off, the horse-drawn carts returned with the picnic, to take the harvesters to the sands of Maymere Haven; the traditional spot. Two assigned Elders came along, as other arrangements hadn't been made. One of them was Andy Mao's pride and joy, Corporal Harris. The other was Brook's mean old Cribbage partner, Eric Dyson, former foreman at the Cement Works. Daffodil Dyson (I'm being awkward, aren't I?) was seeing her new boyfriend, and couldn't possibly look after her dad this afternoon.

The sun was bright, and warm if you were in shelter, but there was a sharp breeze. The drivers unloaded the picnic and left. They'd be back at the end of the day. John, Cyril and Andy immediately flung open the hampers. No child went hungry, under the Empire. All over the Chinese-ruled world, every single child had enough calories and the right nourishment. Which was good to know: but the cost, if you were a growing teen, was hardly ever getting as much as you wanted to eat—

Food, rich and plentiful, was the whole point of this outing.

‘My old dear feeds me,' confessed John, as they greedily surveyed the loot. ‘I get a proper sit down lunch every day. I eat, and I play Mario. It's a terrible burden.'

‘What d'you get?' asked Andy.

‘Elder's allowances, but she only cooks microwave stuff. Kip nuggets, oven chips, vatty burger. Kip tikka masala, baked beans, creamed vat ham and sweet-corn pancakes—'

‘You jammy bugger.
Excellent.'

‘Don't tell my mum, that's all. She'd go nuts.'

Kip
, the ‘government chicken' grown in a vat, tasted just like chicken. Vatty burger tasted nothing like real beef, but to many that wasn't a disadvantage.

Corporal Harris trotted off down the shore, and become a dot in the distance.

‘Will he be okay?' wondered Clancy.

‘He won't go far when there's food,' said Andy. ‘He's always hungry.'

Eric Dyson, confined to his wheelchair, grumbled bitterly about the bumpy shingle. ‘An' I'm
freezing
. I'll catch me death. It's criminal, bringing me outdoors.'

‘Don't blame me,' said Brook. ‘It's not my fault your Daffodil's in love again.'

‘It won't last. Never does. Take off yer hat. Let the sun get to yer baldie head.'