Family Fan Club

“’cos we can’t afford one!”

“It’s like living in a cave,” grumbled Rose. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even got a television!”

Of all of them, Rose was the only one who was technologically minded. It was Rose who discovered how to use the video and Rose who learnt all the programmes on the washing machine. Mum was useless, and Dad hadn’t been much better. Imagine having a dad who didn’t know how to work the video!

Imagine having a dad. Jazz blinked, rapidly, as the tears came to her eyes. Sometimes even now, when she thought about Dad, great waves of misery would wash over her. They had all tried so hard to be brave about it, when the Great Row had happened and Dad had gone storming out. They had heard it from the upstairs landing. One by one, first Jazz, then Laurel, then Rose and Daisy, clutching Tink in her arms for comfort, had come creeping from their rooms and crouched, tense and shivering, at the head of the stairs.

It wasn’t the first time Mum and Dad had shouted at each other. Jazz had always tried explaining it to herself by saying, “Well, they’re actors. Actors are like that. They enjoy making a noise.” But this time she had known, they had all known, that this was the big one. The Great Row.

It was about money, as usual. Before Mum had got into Icing they had rowed about the fact that they hadn’t got any. They had rowed about whether they should both continue to pay their Equity fees and their fees to Spotlight, the actors’ casting directory, or whether only one of them should. They had rowed about whether one of them should give up acting and do something else. Get a proper job. They had rowed because Mum had got her hair done for an audition and Dad had said it was a waste of money, and because Dad had a new publicity photograph taken and Mum had said it wasn’t necessary.

They had rowed because they were worried. Because they couldn’t afford to pay the bills or find a decent place for the family to live.

And then Mum had got into Icing and the money had come rolling in and they still had rows. Still about money. Mum had wanted to do one thing with it, Dad had wanted to do another. And instead of talking it out calmly and sensibly, they had ended up yelling. One time Mum had yelled, “Who’s earning this money, I’d like to know?”

Jazz had thought that was very unfair. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he couldn’t find work; it certainly wasn’t for want of trying.

But then another time Dad had accused Mum of behaving like a prima donna, “Just because you’re in some second-rate soap!” And that wasn’t fair, either. Fame had never gone to Mum’s head; she’d still been the same old Mum.

But perhaps, looking back on it, thought Jazz, Mum hadn’t been as kind to Dad as she might have been. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seeing Mum become a household name while he was still just an out of work actor.

On the other hand, Dad could have tried a little bit harder to be happy for Mum and not to show that he was feeling hard done by.

Maybe Rose was right, thought Jazz, sadly, as she toiled up the attic stairs, clutching Mum’s old childhood copy of Little Women. Maybe actors and actresses oughtn’t to get married to each other.

When I am an actress, she thought, I shall marry someone boring and sensible who works in an office and earns money and won’t be jealous when I am rich and famous. We won’t yell and shout and upset our children by storming out and saying good riddance. (Which was what Mum had screamed when Dad had gone.) We shall stay together always and be a proper family.

By the time she reached the attic, Jazz had difficulty seeing through her tears. She brushed them away, angrily. Jazz didn’t like crying, not even when she was on her own. She certainly wouldn’t do it in front of people. She was the strong one of the family.

But never mind Christmas not being Christmas without any presents, she thought. How could Christmas be Christmas without any dad?

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“It’s so dreadful to be poor,” sighed Laurel, “looking down at her old dr—”

“Stop!” Jazz waved her script, in anguish. “You don’t have to say that bit!”

“What bit?”

“Looking down at her old dress. That’s a stage direction! It’s something you’re supposed to do.”

“Oh. Well, how was I to know?” said Laurel, aggrieved.

“The bits in brackets are what you do. The other bits are what you say. You’d think,” grumbled Jazz, “that you’d know that by now. You’ve seen enough scripts!”

“The scripts I’ve seen never looked like this,” said Laurel.

LivinG Rooom, MARch household

Jazz is lying on; the rug

Jazz Chritsmas wonT be Chritsmas witout any presnets.

MEG (sisghs) Its so daredful to be poor (looking dwon at her old dresss)

“I can’t help it if the typewriter isn’t any good,” said Jazz. “Just get on with it! Rose, say your line.”

“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things and other girls having nothing at all. Well, it isn’t,” said Rose. “But that’s what happens when you live in a capitalist society.”

“Do you mind?” Jazz glared at her sister. “Just say the lines! Don’t add bits.”

“Well, but this Amy person does my head in,” said Rose. “Why do I have to play her?”

“Because I’m the director and that’s who I cast you as!”

“But I’m nothing like her,” said Rose.

“You’re the youngest!”

“So what? It doesn’t make me like her.”

“Look, just shut up!” said Jazz. “You’re supposed to be acting. Injured sniff. Give an injured sniff!”

Rose did so.

“That was good,” said Jazz. “Daisy! Your line.”

“We’ve g–got f–father and m–mother and e–each other,” read Daisy, haltingly, from her script.

“Vomit,” said Rose. “This is really yucky!”

“It’s not, it’s lovely!” said Jazz. “Don’t be so horrid! It was Mum’s favourite book when she was young.”

“I cried buckets when I saw the film,” said Laurel.

“You would.” Rose looked at her eldest sister, pityingly. “The only films you ever like are weepies. And sickies.”

“I don’t like sickies!”

“Yes, you do! You just love it if it’s about someone getting ill and dying. You wallow.”

“Oh. I thought you meant sick like people going round murdering people. I don’t like it when they go round murdering people. I l—”

“Look!” Jazz, impatient, stamped a foot. Daisy jumped. “Are we rehearsing Little Women or are we having a mothers’ meeting?”

“Rehearsing Little Women,” said Daisy.

“Thank you! That is what I thought we were doing. Can we please get on with it? We’ve only got four days!”