I wonder what sort of boys will be at the college? Yeeha! A whole summer of boys. Painting, sculpting, dancing, leaping – leaping like gazelles pretending to be chasing birds. And of course, boys. It’s embarrassing not having ever been involved with, well, rumpty tumpty.
Not ever having had anyone, besides my hamster, actually kiss me on the mouth.
I’m going to take my slippers off and have them in bed for company. Toe-side up, because I don’t want to startle myself if I wake up in the night – and see a couple of tails.
I am feeling nervous about Monday. What if I am so rubbish at everything that I am asked to leave?
If I am asked to leave, I can never go home again. I would have to run away to sea.
Where is the sea?
Am I up or down?
I was lying on my bed waggling my slippers around, preparing to tuck them up in bed with me, when I heard laughter from somewhere outside, nearly below my window, and a sort of shuffling and rustling.
A girl’s voice grumpily said, “Oy Cain, stop it. Are we officially going out or what?”
Then a boy’s voice, quite deep and with a really strong accent, said, “There’s no need to be such a mardy bum. I’m off, see you around.”
The girl said, “When?”
And the boy’s voice said, “I don’t know, tha’s getting on me nerves, I dint realise tha’ were such a quakebottom. Why don’t tha just hang around with the usual garyboys?”
A quakebottom?
Someone had got a trembling bottom?
I must see this.
I got off the bed and crawled to look through the window. It was very dark out there and I couldn’t see much.
I heard the girl say, “Oy Cain, wait for me!”
Then there was a sudden loud fluttering of wings and flash of white and a horrible screech like something had been killed. And illuminated in the moonlight, I saw an eerie snowy barn owl fly up into a tree near my window. It settled on the branch facing me and I could see a mouse. Dangling out of its beak.
The owl looked at me and blinked really slowly. Then it shut its eyes completely. The mouse started disappearing, bit by bit. The owl was swallowing the mouse whole. Head first. And having a little snooze at the same time.
Crikey.
In my study notes it says:
“How any human being could have attempted to write Wuthering Heights without committing suicide before finishing two chapters is a mystery. It is a mixture of vulgar depravity and unnatural horrors.”
Gosh. I am going to write that in my performance art notebook.
I’ve been awake since sunriseBut the sun hasn’t risen
How can it be foggy in July?
Maybe it’s not fog, it’s the mists coming in from the moors. Oooohhhhhh. The moors, the mysterious dark moors of Wuthering Heights. Out of the mist an enormous dog will come lolloping along with fangs and lit up eyes. Followed by a brutishly handsome boy. Heathcliff. His master. And the dog’s master will hurl aside the Dobbins’ protests and come charging up the stairs into my room. All moody in a big coat and galoshes. Underneath you will be able to see boy hair cascading out of his shirt.
And he will say harshly, “Get up, Lullah, I’ve come to get you. Leave your squirrel bed behind, lass, and come and prance around like a barm pot with me on the moors. Come on, you can sing your song.”
“Heathcliff, it’s me, dancin’ around the moors again. I’ve cum a tap, tap, tappin’ at your window pane. Oooooh!”
Then he…
Oh no hang on a minute, there isn’t a dog in Wuthering Heights is there? Well at least not with lit up eyes. I’ve got it mixed up with The Hound of the Baskervilles. It’s more like The Owl of the Baskervilles round here. There was hooting going on all night.
I don’t remember that being mentioned in the extensively illustrated Dother Hall brochure.
I got my brochure out again:
Heckmondwhite has its own ‘zany’ cosmopolitan atmosphere.
Oooh, that sounds good. I’d better get dressed and have a look round Heckmondwhite and check out its ‘zany’ atmosphere. I only saw the village green last night. The high street and Boots must be further on.
I looked in the mirror. Yes, there I am. It’s me again. This northern light certainly makes my eyes look green. Not just a bit light brown like some people have and say they are green.
Is that a good thing?
I’ve got the same colouring as my mum – very dark hair. She says it’s from the Irish side. I asked her which side my knees were from and she said, “the circus side,” which she thought was hilarious.
Why am I on this course heading for the West End? I didn’t really think I would get on it. To be perfectly honest, I’ve only been in a couple of school plays. The last one was my own special version of Alice In Wonderland and I cast myself as a playing card. So if there are any standing-around-stiffly parts going, I’ll be in like a ferret up a trouser leg.
What I must remember, to keep myself cheerful, is that this could be my Summer of Love.
Even though it is foggy.
So far this summer, all that’s happened is that one of Connor’s goofy mates (commonly known as the Idiot Boy) put his hand on my bottom at the bus stop.
When I asked him what he was doing 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