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To Lottie Erratt-Rose
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
I never knew until recently that it is a criminal offence to shout “Fire!” in a crowded theatre. Well, or a crowded anywhere, I suppose, if it comes to that. Unless of course there actually is a fire, in which case you should probably shout just as loudly as you possibly can, at the top of your lungs, like, “FIRE!” It’s just if there isn’t one that it’s criminal, I guess because you could cause panic and start a stampede, and people could get trampled on or even crushed to death, and then it would be all your fault and you could be sent to prison.
I was at the dentist when I made this discovery. Sitting there with Mum, reading a magazine and trying to take my mind off the horrors to come. I am a bit of a wimp about the dentist. Mum knows this, so I think she was quite surprised when I gave this little bark of bitter laughter, like, “Huh!”
She said, “And what have you found that’s so amusing?”
Well, obviously it wasn’t the idea of people being crushed to death. But all the same it did strike me as funny, cos quite honestly, with my family, you could bawl through a megaphone at a thousand decibels and it wouldn’t cause panic. Nobody would stampede. They wouldn’t even bother to look up.
I know this, cos I have tried it. Last year, in the Star of Bengal, which is Dad’s favourite Indian restaurant. Saturday evening it was, and we’d all gone out to have a meal. Mum and Dad, my sister Charlotte, my brother Cooper, me and the twins. I was eleven at the time. Charlie was thirteen, Coop fourteen and Fergus and Flora had just had their ninth birthday. They were all sitting there, airing their views and shouting at one another across the table, making a lot of noise, same as they always do. It’s something they can’t seem to help; it is just the way they are.
“Naturally exuberant,” Mum says, with a touch of pride.
They all have these massive great personalities, the sort that come roaring at you like tidal waves, and they all have opinions. Opinions about anything and everything. Sometimes quite violent ones. Even the twins.
“We’re just a very lively bunch,” chortles Mum.
Except for me, who is probably a bit of a disappointment. I do have opinions, but I find I don’t voice them all that often. Not, at any rate, when I’m with the rest of the family. When I’m with the family I mostly just sit quite quietly, like a mouse.
It was what I was doing that evening while the conversation rocketed to and fro, with Dad yelling at Coop, Charlie yelling at Mum, the twins yelling at each other. I expect to outsiders it might have sounded like they were fighting, but they never fight. They are all very good-natured. It is just that yelling happens to be the everyday mode of expression in my family. If there is anything you want to say, you have to join in and start yelling yourself to get their attention.
Which, in the end, is what I did. I would far rather just have gone on quietly sitting there, doing my mouse act, keeping myself to myself, but I knew that the time had come. I had to take action. I had to rise up and shout “Fire!”
Well, to be honest I didn’t actually shout, cos I mean we were sitting in a crowded restaurant and it would have been rude. Unlike the rest of my family, I do try to have some manners. And I didn’t actually use the word fire, for the same reason: crowded restaurant. I wouldn’t have wanted to frighten people. (Or to commit a criminal offence, though I didn’t realise then that it was one.) But the thing that I said – that I tried to say – in this very firm, clear voice, was something Mum and Dad would have found every bit as startling. If they’d stopped yelling long enough to listen.
I got as far as, “Actually—”
And then Mum came crashing in over the top.
“Darling,” she shrieked, “that’s wonderful!”
Needless to say, she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to Charlie.
“It’s one of the main parts,” yelled Charlie.
“Darling, I know!” Mum reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m so proud of you!”
I sank back on my chair. Obviously not the right moment for an earth-shattering announcement.
“Alastair, did you hear that?” cried Mum, leaning forward to rap Dad on the back of the hand with a menu.
“What’s that?” said Dad.
“Your clever daughter’s playing Gwendolen!”
“And your clever son,” said Coop, “is writing the music.”
“Music?” Dad seemed puzzled. “I thought it was a play?”
Mum and Charlie exchanged pitying glances. Coop rolled his eyes.
“Dad,” wailed Charlie, “we already told you… it’s being turned
