Second Fiddle Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  A False Start

  A Fresh Start

  Gillian

  Note to the Reader

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  Gillian

  Mags

  The Happy Ending

  The Slightly More Muddled and Not Quite so Happy Ending

  Copyright

  To Shannen, Sophie, Shauna, Samantha, and Deirdre, who taught me the importance of finding lost fathers, and to the Cashell family, especially Sophie, who does not remotely resemble any of the characters here.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  If you are wondering what the title of this book means, you will have to read on, and by the end you might understand, though I am not making any promises. The reason it has two titles is so that it can’t possibly be mistaken for any other book of a similar title, though people tell me this is not likely. Also, I like books and stories that have two titles. It gives you a choice, and I am all for choice. It has a democratic feeling to it, don’t you agree?

  Signed: Mags Clarke,

  Author

  A False Start

  This story is mainly about me. It was going to be mainly about Gillian, but I have to admit that, when it comes down to it, I find me more interesting. There is quite a lot about Gillian too—only sometimes I forget and call her Miranda, by the way, which I hope you don’t find too confusing; I’ve tried to get it right most of the time—and without her, there wouldn’t be anything much to tell at all, but still, if I am honest, which I usually am, it is largely about me.

  I have read some fairly hair-raising stories about kids my age, with all sorts of stuff in them like divorce and bullying and drugs and discovering you are gay and cancer and anorexia and puberty and alcohol and all that jazz. These things do happen, of course, and I think it’s a good thing that you can read about them in books, so you will know how you are supposed to react if you ever have to deal with them in real life, only I do think that in some books, an awful lot of dreadful things happen to the same one or two people, which doesn’t seem all that very believable to me, if I am honest, which I am most of the time, but I think I told you that already.

  Just so you know what to expect, there is a little bit of divorce in this book, and one small occurrence of death too, only I don’t really go into the details much, so it’s nothing to be alarmed about. And there are pretty well none of the other things I mentioned that you get in those other realistic novels. I say “other” because this is a realistic novel too: it is about ordinary life and real people, with no ghosts or dwarfs or wicked counts or Gothic castles or anything like that.

  I have heard that it is very important to have an intriguing opening when you are writing a story, so I thought for a long time and I came up with what I think is a fairly intriguing opening to my story, and I will tell you what it is in a minute. But first, here’s a reader warning: I am planning to be a writer when I grow up, and I am going to use this story to practice a few little phrases that might be a bit sophisticated. I promise it won’t get too heavy or bothersome, and anyway you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to (though I hope you do, of course). Also, I do find that people (tiresome people, mainly) say it is good for you to learn new things. Your teacher, for example, would probably say that. Teachers love burrowing in books for long and difficult and especially new words that they can make you look up in the dictionary. All those teachers can’t be wrong, can they, so, I suppose it must be good for you to learn new things. Sometimes teachers don’t even notice the story or the funny bits, they are so busy making you learn new words. I think the best thing is to give them a few new words to keep them quiet while the rest of us get on with enjoying the story, but also I like new words myself, so they aren’t just there to keep the teachers happy, if I am honest, which … oh no, I think you know that bit.

  There may be the odd poetic sentence here and there as well. I don’t put these in to annoy you, but you do need to have a bit of atmosphere in a story, you know. I hope my more discerning readers will put up with the poetic bits and the occasional long word, because if nobody reads my story, I will feel rather bad about that, and I am only twelve after all, so you might have the ordinary decency to read my first stumbling efforts. Twelve is a difficult age for a girl, and I might be scarred for life.

  Anyway, I’ve thought a lot about intriguing openings, and in case anyone reading this is looking for an intriguing way to start a story of their own, I can let you have a few ideas I thought of but didn’t use, so they are to spare. But I won’t bore you with them now. You can send me a letter and ask me if you want. I won’t charge, which is a pretty good deal, because most people these days charge for advice, don’t they? Anyway, this is my intriguing opening, more or less:

  The forest was the last place you’d expect to see such a thing. It—I mean, she—was a strange girl, with a brown cloud of hair, and she was standing right there, apparently suspended in the leafy air, high above the woodland path, practicing. When I squinted, I could make out that she wasn’t suspended in midair after all—

  One reason she was not suspended in midair, by the way, is that that is contrary to the laws of nature and this is not the kind of story where weird stuff happens. This is as weird as it gets, more or less. I myself like books where the laws of nature are broken, it’s just that this isn’t one of them. If that is the kind of book you like best, I can recommend the writings of Ms. JKR. (I can’t say any more, for copyright reasons.) Or if you like truly weird and very funny, there are always the books of Mr. LS (not his real name). But the main reason she was not suspended in midair is that—we’re back in the story now, keep up!—she was standing on something quite solid, and if you read the next chapter, you’ll find out what it was.

  I would like you to know that I have worked very hard to make this opening as intriguing as I could. These things don’t just arrive all by themselves on the page. Somebody has to do a lot of thinking to make things as interesting as possible for the people who are going to be reading the story. Especially in this kind of book, where there is no magic or heroic deeds or flying cars or slaying of dragons or shooting with guns. And by the way, in case any boys are reading this, I should add that there is absolutely no football. There is a boy, but he is nicer than most boys, mainly because he is nearly grown up and consequently not as jumpy as other boys. If you are the kind of boy who is prejudiced against books with girls in them, well I feel sorry for you.

  And finally, you might take note of the fact that I did not begin this book by saying, “My name is Mags Clarke.” A lot of people do that, and it is not very interesting, so if you want a hint about writing, that is my first piece of advice to you: avoid beginning by telling people what your name is. This is also not a very good way to begin a letter, by the way, because of course most people put their name at the bottom of a letter, and any halfway intellige
nt recipient of a letter knows to look there if they want to find out who is writing to them.

  I think I will have to begin again now, because all my explanations have gotten a bit mixed up with the actual story, and you might be confused because you are not as well versed in the story as I am, and you may not be as clever either, but of course I don’t know you, so I could be wrong about that.

  A Fresh Start

  The forest was the last place you’d expect to see such a thing. When I thought about it afterward, trying to remember, there was this dreamy feeling to it, as if maybe I hadn’t seen it after all, but I know I did, because later, I got to talk to it—I mean to her. She was a girl with a brown cloud of hair, and she was standing right there, apparently suspended in the leafy air, high above the woodland path, with her back to me and her elbow out, practicing. An unknown girl playing the fiddle in the forest.

  When I looked again, I could make out that she wasn’t suspended in midair after all, but was standing on something quite solid: the balcony of a tiny wooden hut, which was so well hidden among the trees that I had never noticed its existence before.

  “There worn’t no ’ut ’ere yestern,” I muttered to myself in the special woodland voice I’d invented to go with my new persona as a girl who has made the woods her territory. I shook my head as well, in the sorrowful sort of way that I thought best suited the woodland voice: a slow, shaggy shake that made my hair swing. I was enjoying being a woodlander. (You might have noticed that yourself, but at the beginning of a story, I thought it might be helpful to nudge you along a bit, just till you get used to it.)

  Nobody contradicted my muttered observation, which is the great thing about being alone in the woods—or nearly alone, but of course, the girl with the violin was too far away and too engrossed in her music to hear what I told myself under my breath. We were all alone together in the forest, except for the trees. It made me go all shivery when I thought of it like that. It seemed spookier than being all alone by myself, if you see what I mean.

  “Not ver’ frien’ly, iz she?” I said to myself as I studied the strange girl’s back.

  I could see the creamy top part of her back and the top two or three knobs of her vertebrae because she was wearing one of those boob tube shirts with no shoulders; you know, the kind shaped like a large sock with the foot part cut off, which just goes down over your body and sort of sticks on by itself—elasticated, with no straps or anything to hold it up. Not—I should perhaps make it plain, since of course you don’t know me very well yet—the kind of garment I am given to wearing myself.

  I snorted without really meaning to. It was the elasticated top that did it. It seemed such a silly thing to be wearing in the woods.

  The girl must have heard me, because she suddenly stopped playing.

  I stood absolutely still and concentrated on my head-breathing. In case you don’t know what that is, it’s when you close your mouth tight and breathe very lightly and softly, so that it feels as if your lungs are hardly involved at all, and the spaces in your skull seem to fill silently with air instead.

  Perhaps the girl was only taking a “rest.” That’s what you call it when you don’t play for a note or two. I know that because I was in the choir at my old school, in the second alto line. “Rests” are anything but restful. They just give you time to imagine how dreadful it would sound if you hit a wrong note when it is your turn to start up again.

  The girl with the creamy shoulders seemed to be having an extra-long rest. She stood there, with the violin clamped between her shoulder and her chin, her elbows poised like awkward wings, while I tried to make myself invisible and inaudible and breathe only in my skull, which gets a bit stressful after a time, you may as well know in case you want to try it for yourself. I thought the girl must be listening, because I could see that her head made tiny movements, and I noticed that the movements slunk down the side of her body and came out at her right foot, which tapped out a slow rhythm.

  I watched the silent violinist’s back for maybe half a minute, and then suddenly her elbow started sawing again and she played a final violent burst, leaning dangerously far over on her left side so that it looked as if she might topple over the flimsy wooden railing that ran around the porch. At the last moment she straightened up, flung one arm out from her body, and made a low, sweeping bow to an imaginary audience.

  I laughed, because all I could see of the bow was the girl’s bottom sticking up, gleaming synthetically in tight-fitting Lycra leggings, and the top half of her body disappearing below the rail of the balcony. There she goes, bum in the air, big black shiny peach—if she could see herself from this point of view!

  The girl spun around at the sound of laughter, but I stepped quickly backward into the greenery. I knew that there was nothing to be seen where I had stood, except perhaps the uncanny nodding of the long, protective arms of the brambly brushwood that hid me from view.

  Gillian

  I don’t spook easily, but it was a bit eerie. I could have sworn that someone laughed, and when I turned round, the brushwood was nodding, as if someone had just stepped back into it.

  I told myself it was probably a squirrel making the branches wobble, or a wood pigeon, great big clumsy things. They go plodding around on twigs that are too small to bear their weight. It’s a wonder you don’t find more of them with their necks broken on the forest floor.

  That’s all it was, probably, just the local wildlife getting a bit restless. Maybe they think I am some kind of extraordinary new bird. The fiddler-bird.

  Note to the Reader

  The bits called “Gillian” in this story are where Gillian butts in, but of course, even though she is talking, I have actually written those bits too, because I am the author of the whole story. The thing is, though, I am not Gillian, I am Mags, so I don’t actually know what Gillian was thinking at any point. I do know her side of it, roughly, because she has told me so that I could write it down to make the story, but obviously, I have had to make up her actual thoughts, and don’t for one moment imagine it is easy.

  I have tried to make Gillian sound like herself, which is sort of bossy and remote, and not like me, which is friendly and amusing and clever, but I don’t know if it is working all the time. Sometimes my own voice might slip out, like a ventriloquist having a bad day. But I promise to do my best not only to give her side of the story, to the best of my knowledge, but also to be fair to her. That is not always easy, since she is not as interesting a person as I am, though of course she is very talented in her own way, and most of the time she is perfectly pleasant to be around, though at other times she is insufferable. But I try to paint her in as kindly a light as I can.

  Mags

  “Foresters’ hut,” my grandfather said when I called by his cottage on my way home that evening. He was pouring half a bottle of tonic water into a glass. He always drinks tonic at five o’clock, with a slice of lemon and two ice cubes clinking in it. He calls it his “sundowner.” He smirks when he uses that word, as if he has said something terribly witty. I gave a dutiful grin and said “Sláinte,” which is what you are supposed to say when Grandpa makes his sundowner joke.

  “They keep their tools in it,” he went on. “Their jackets too, and their teapot and gas ring for the cuppa tea in the mornings. You can’t beat a cuppa tea first thing.”

  I was disappointed that Grandpa was so matter-of-fact about my story of the strange girl and the funny little hut that had just seemed to appear out of nowhere. I wasn’t sure exactly what a forester was, beyond a vague idea that it was the modern word for “woodcutter.” In stories, woodcutters tend to be poor men whose wives long to have babies. This didn’t seem right somehow.

  “Could a girl be a forester?” I asked.

  “You could do worse,” said my grandfather, misunderstanding me completely. Typical of adults. “Nowadays, anyone can be anything they like, can’t they? Though I wouldn’t tell your mother, if I were you. She has her heart set on you going to
university.”

  “What heart?” I asked bitterly, kicking the underside of my grandfather’s chair with the toe of my sandal. Sometimes I’m a bit hard on my mother, I suppose, but it works both ways. (By the end of the book, as you will see if you make it that far, we are getting along together much better. I know that is a bit of a cliché, and that in most books people who are at loggerheads at the beginning end up being all pally at the end, but I can’t do anything about that because it’s true; that’s how it turned out. Sometimes life is more like books than you expect it to be.)

  “Ah, Mags! You know your mother loves you.”

  “Only because she has no choice,” I said. “She’d stop if she knew how.”

  “That’s nonsense. She thinks the world of you.”

  It wasn’t nonsense in my view. I hate to have to admit it, but I am a disappointment to my mother. My mother would have preferred a daughter like the girl with the violin, one who’d wear a shirt like a surgical corset, a confident girl with talent and probably friends, who could stand up in front of an audience and who definitely doesn’t spend her time mooching about the woods getting herself muddy. I don’t get myself muddy on purpose to annoy my mother, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just that if you muck about in the woods, mud happens. My mother doesn’t seem to understand that.

  “She’d love me more if I was a Miranda,” I said, polishing an apple I’d filched from the kitchen on the ribbing of my jumper.

  “A Miranda?” said my grandfather. “Who’s Miranda when she’s at home?”

  “Oh, nobody. Just a girl.”

  “Miranda, she’s called?”

  “Naw, that bit’s not true,” I said, biting into my apple with a satisfyingly loud crunch. “The name I made up.”

  “But not the person?”

  I swallowed my bite of apple too quickly and it made cornery progress down my gullet. “Only the name,” I said, swallowing extra saliva to wash the lump of apple down. “I had to make the name up because I don’t know what she’s called. I haven’t met her. I only saw her back.”