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For Rebecca Cross and Amy Saunders, who have been so helpful
I didn’t mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet…
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Also by Jean Ure
Copyright
I didn’t mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet. Not that I’m claiming it was an accident, exactly, though it could have been. Like if I’d tripped over the edge of the bed, for instance, with Dad’s Stanley knife clutched in my hand, the blade might well have gone plunging into the carpet all by itself and carved a huge great chunk out of it. I mean, that is what could quite easily have happened. I’m not saying that it did; just that it could have.
All I’m saying is, I didn’t set out to cut a hole. It wasn’t like I woke up in the morning and thought, “Today I shall cut a hole in my carpet.” It just seemed like a good idea at the time, as things so often do. Then afterwards you wonder why, only by then it’s too late. This is something that happens to me rather a lot. I am quite unfortunate in that way.
What I was doing, in actual fact, wasn’t thinking about cutting holes so much as trying to find a way of fitting my corner cabinet into a corner. Gran had given me the cabinet when she moved out of her house into a flat. It’s really cute! Very small and painted white, with pink and blue flowers all running round the edge, and tiny glass-panelled doors. Gran used to keep china ornaments in there. Shepherdesses and milkmaids and old-fashioned ladies selling balloons. I keep my collection of shells and fossils and interesting stones with holes in them. Gran knew I’d always loved her corner cabinet. I was so excited when she gave it to me! But the thing is, it is a corner cabinet. That is why it is shaped like a triangle. It has to stand in a corner.
I’ve only got two corners in my bedroom. This is because it’s the smallest room in the house, tucked away under the roof, and is shaped like a wedge of cheese. The big front bedroom is Mum and Dad’s; the one at the back is Angel’s; the little one over the garage is Tom’s; and the one the size of a broom cupboard belongs to me. Mum says that when Angel goes to Uni, Tom can have her room and I can have his. And when Tom goes to Uni, I can take my pick. But since Angel is only fifteen, it seems to me I’m going to be stuck in my broom cupboard for years to come.
I don’t really mind; I quite like my little bedroom. It’s cosy, like a nest. And I love the way the roof slopes down, and the way the window is at floor level. The only problem is, the lack of corners! My bed is in one, and my wardrobe in the other. I’d tried fitting Gran’s cabinet into the angle between the roof and the floor, but it was just the tiniest little bit too tall. If I could only slice a couple of centimetres off the bottom of it…
That was when it came to me. If I couldn’t slice anything off Gran’s cabinet, how about cutting a hole in the carpet? It just seemed like the obvious solution. What Dad calls lateral thinking. I reckoned he would be quite pleased with me. He is always telling us to “think outside the box” and “use your imagination”. That was exactly what I was doing!
I left Rags on the bed – Rags is our dog, though mostly he belongs to me – and went rushing downstairs to fetch Dad’s carpet-cutting knife from the kitchen drawer. It was Sunday morning, which meant everyone was at home, but fortunately neither Mum nor Dad seemed to be about. I say fortunately as they both (though ’specially Mum) have this inconvenient habit of demanding to know why you want things. Angel is bad enough. She was in the kitchen eating yoghurt and painting her toenails. She looked at me like I was some kind of criminal.
“What are you doing with that knife?” she said.
I said, “What knife?”
“That knife you’ve put up your sleeve.”
“Oh!” I said. “That.” And I gave this little laugh, to show that I was amused.
“That’s Dad’s Stanley knife, that is. You’re not supposed to play with it.”
“For your information,” I said, loftily, “I am not playing with it.”
“So what d’you want it for?”
“Ha!” I said. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Angel looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You’d better not be getting up to anything,” she said.
I gave this manic laugh. She gets me like that at times. Always so bossy. So interfering. What was it to her, what I got up to?
As I left the kitchen, I bumped into Tom on his way in.
“She’s got Dad’s Stanley knife,” said Angel.
Tom grunted. It is his way of carrying on a “Uh?” conversation.
He has upward grunts, like “Uh.” and downward grunts, like “Uh.”
“I want to cut something,” I said.
Tom said, “Uh.”
I do occasionally wonder whether Tom might be some kind of alien from outer space, but at least he is not bossy and he never, ever interferes. Mum says he is the strong and silent type. I wish my sister was the silent type! She is one of those people, she just can’t stop her tongue from
