Anneli the Art Hater Read online

  Also by Anne Fine

  Bill’s New Frock

  How to Write Really Badly

  Saving Miss Mirabelle

  The Angel of Nitshill Road

  ‘The Chicken Gave it to Me’

  Ivan the Terrible

  Genie, Genie, Genie

  Press Play

  You can visit Anne Fine’s website

  www.annefine.co.uk

  and download free bookplates from

  www.myhomelibrary.org

  First published in Great Britain 1986

  by Methuen Children’s Books

  This edition published 2010

  by Egmont UK Limited

  239 Kensington High Street

  London W8 6SA

  Text copyright © Anne Fine 1986

  Illustrations copyright © Vanessa Julian-Ottie 1986

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 4052 3323 1

  eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1154 8

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Contents

  1 ‘More pink, dear?’

  2 ‘Got an attic!’

  3 ‘What a great fizzing cheat!’

  4 ‘Precious to sell and precious to keep.’

  5 ‘Not painting again!’

  6 ‘My garden and my pool.’

  7 ‘He was forbidden.’

  8 The Running-Away Box

  9 ‘Nonsense!’

  10 ‘A life of crime!’

  11 ‘Only six holly trees!’

  12 Private and pleasant, and long ago

  1

  ‘More pink, dear?’

  ‘More pink, dear, don’t you think?’

  Anneli didn’t, but was too polite to say so.

  Miss Pears dabbed once or twice at Anneli’s painting.

  ‘There! Much, much better. But you’ll need more.’

  Anneli scowled as Miss Pears turned her back and started mixing more pink. Anneli hated painting. She hated anything to do with art. She loathed messing with clay and smudging with pastels. She disliked greasy crayons and tatty scraps of material and dried pasta shells and leftover Christmas wrapping paper.

  And she was bored stiff by all those endless discussions about what everyone was going to do.

  ‘Aliens from Outer Space? What a good idea, Henry! That should get rid of some of this aluminium foil.’

  She hated the chaotic sharing out of all the horrid stuff that they were going to do it with.

  ‘Bags the glue!’

  ‘I asked first!’

  ‘No, you did not!’

  ‘Swap the green lace for half those beads? Please? Pretty, pretty please?’

  ‘He asked first!’

  ‘No, he didn’t!’

  And whatever they chose in the end, Anneli hated doing it. She’d toil away, getting it finished as soon as possible, but she resented all Miss Pears’ encouraging remarks as she made her way round the room, rescuing a warped drawing of a cat for one person, mixing an awkward red-brown colour for another, breaking up fights.

  Afterwards, Anneli hated having to show her work to her friends, especially to Henry. She hated carrying it home and having to stand there while her mother praised it, however awful it was, then stuck it on the fridge door for the whole world to see.

  And after that, Anneli hated having to look at it every morning over her cereal while it got grubbier and grubbier, until the sticky tape at last dried up and mercifully it fell off and slid out of sight under the fridge.

  She hated other people’s art as well. In the school corridors, she turned her eyes away from the bright splashes of colour pinned on the walls. When children’s art was on the television she clutched her belly, pretended to throw up or switched straight off.

  Class trips to the local art gallery made her squirm.

  ‘Look at that!’ Miss Pears would say to them. ‘Isn’t that breath-taking? Have a good peep at the brush work. Don’t we all wish that we could paint like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yuk.’

  ‘Well, she got paid.’

  Yes, Anneli really hated art. Miss Pears turned back with the freshly mixed pink and Anneli wiped the grumpy look from her face; but a scowl still sat in her heart as she dabbed and poked and scraped about with the bald old paintbrush, trying to use up a bit of the extra pink anywhere there was room so as not to seem rude, but longing for the bell to ring and release her.

  Brrrrrrr!

  ‘Heavens!’ Miss Pears was astonished. ‘The bell! We haven’t even begun putting away. Oh, dear me!’

  Anneli sighed. It happened every week. Everyone knew the bell was going to ring, and nobody warned her. They all preferred ten minutes of clearing up the art materials to ten extra minutes of whatever might come after. It was a gamble. You might be lucky and miss maths. But, then again, you might miss wonderful, peaceful, almost-as-good-as-being-back-home silent reading.

  Today Miss Pears waited till they were all tidy again and then she said:

  ‘And now I want to talk to you about raising a little more money for the new Art Room.’

  Anneli groaned. Why did Miss Pears want to go on about that again? Hadn’t they given enough of their pocket money, and wheedled enough out of their parents to build a new Art Room out of gold bricks and equip it with diamond-studded easels and ermine paint-rags?

  Perhaps there were now plans to fill the paint pots with molten silver?

  Anneli came out of her grumbly daydream long enough to hear Miss Pears saying the words ‘need even more money’.

  Oh, no. Not more! They’d reached the class target three times already. But Miss Pears was mad on painting, and clearly wouldn’t stop.

  ‘I don’t want you to go running to your parents, who have enough strains on their purses. Let’s think of things to do ourselves. Can anyone think of any ways of making a little money? No one? Henry?’

  Anneli slumped on her folded arms and shut her eyes. She heard good old Henry droning on about baking cakes to sell in break-time, and being paid to sweep up dead leaves and looking for precious old forgotten things in attics. Then Henry’s drone seemed to turn into the sound of waves lapping a sunlit shore, and she was miles away, knee-deep in salty water, her arms speckled with gritty golden sand, her eyelids spangled with glistening water drops.

  Surina brought her back by asking, ‘What are you going to do, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To make money. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Anneli irritably. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  And think she did, all the way home.

  It wasn’t so easy. After all, if money were so easy to come by, someone smart would already have scooped it up. It was all very well to talk of selling cakes at break-time. But Anneli’s mother came home from work far too worn out to start to bake for other people.

  What about Jodie? Jodie and her little boy Josh lived in the top half of the house, and just as Anneli’s mother looked after Josh whenever Jodie had to work in the evenings, so Jodie was in charge of Anneli when Anneli’s mother was teaching dance classes at the Leisure Centre.

  Would Jodie help her bake cakes?

  Probably she would. But she’d have to let Josh help – she was his mother, after all – and Josh was only two and
a half. He was a messer. He’d drop the egg shells in the cake mixture, and fiddle with the oven dial so the cakes cooked too slowly, or too fast. He’d spoon the runny icing over the tops while the cakes were still too hot, and put the cherry halves on upside down.

  He’d ruin the whole batch. Anneli knew it.

  She reached the corner.

  The great wrought-iron gates guarding the driveway that led up to Carrington Lodge were padlocked shut, as usual. As usual, Anneli stopped, dropped her school bag and clutched the bars, peering inside. The Lodge was now a children’s home, and sometimes, in fine weather, the children could be seen in the gardens, some lying on rugs on the lawns, some rushing around in their wheelchairs, some being carried to and fro by paid helpers like Jodie.

  Anneli liked to wave, if they were there. They always waved back, if they could. They all knew Anneli because Jodie sometimes took her and Josh along.

  Today there was no one in sight. Only the drive and what little could be seen of the long sloping lawns, and the six great holly trees shading the high stone wall behind. No point in hanging about. Anneli picked up her bag and strolled on, into her own street, her thoughts turning back to Henry and his ideas for making money.

  Cake baking might be out, but what about the other two ideas? What were they, now? Oh, yes. Sweeping up leaves. Ridiculous! Anneli hadn’t seen a dead leaf in months.

  And looking for precious things in attics.

  What attics?

  Anneli sighed. Honestly, sometimes Henry was hopeless. She might as well go home and ask her mother’s advice about raising money – yet again.

  As she came up the path between the two houses, Anneli caught sight of Old Mrs Pears’ pale face at one of next-door’s upstairs windows.

  Old Mrs Pears waved.

  Anneli waved back, politely feigning a happy smile. When your own teacher’s grandmother lives next door, you don’t take chances.

  Safe in the porch, her smile dropped away like a discarded mask, and moodily pushing the door open, Anneli walked in.

  2

  ‘Got an attic!’

  Behind the door, Josh was waiting with his thumb in his mouth and the purple velvet cloth he loved clutched in his fist as usual.

  ‘Hello, Josh.’

  ‘’Lo.’

  He followed Anneli along the hall and into the kitchen. Here, Josh’s mother was busy cooking.

  ‘Hi, Jodie.’

  ‘Hello, Anneli. Good day?’

  But Jodie didn’t wait for Anneli to answer because the sharp smell of burn had suddenly risen from the pan and started to fill the kitchen. Hastily Jodie turned her back and started furiously stirring.

  Anneli was curious. ‘Is supper going to be very early?’

  ‘No,’ Jodie told her. ‘It’s just that it’s my turn to cook but I have a most important meeting just before.’

  ‘About Carrington Lodge? And the children?’

  ‘Yes.’ But, though she looked worried, Jodie didn’t go on to explain. In any case, she was busy rattling through the drawer in search of the bread knife. ‘Here, Anneli. Do me a giant favour and make a couple of sandwiches to keep you and Josh alive till supper.’

  Josh stood in the doorway, holding his precious purple cloth to his cheek as he watched Anneli carefully slice the loaf. As she spread peanut butter, she asked Jodie, ‘Will Mum be home soon?’

  ‘Not for another hour. Someone was sick so Helen’s had to stay to teach another class.’

  ‘Oh.’ Anneli’s disappointment was intense. She slipped off the chair. ‘I’ll go and read, then.’

  Jodie looked up from the sauce that was proving so tricky. ‘You couldn’t be an angel and take Josh with you? Keep him happy just for a few minutes, till I get all this lot sorted.’

  Anneli sighed. But still she let Josh follow her along the hall and into the sitting room. It was impossible to read your own book when Josh was about. He always wanted you to read to him instead. So while she was rooting through the bookshelves, looking for something that they both enjoyed, she asked him amiably, ‘So, Josh. What did you do today at playgroup?’

  Josh made a face.

  ‘Had to sing songs.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Anneli told him with feeling. ‘I had to paint.’

  In a surge of sympathy, Josh held out towards her the velvet cloth, spattered with bread crumbs and smeared with peanut butter.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Anneli told him. ‘It’s all over now.’

  Josh finished his sandwich, then started picking up the bits he’d dropped and eating those.

  ‘Want to go and help Mummy?’ Anneli suggested hopefully.

  ‘Help you,’ Josh said firmly.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Anneli said. ‘Help me. Which shall we do first? Sweep up dead leaves, bake cakes to sell, or find an attic full of precious things?’

  Josh looked embarrassed.

  ‘Not got no leaves,’ he said. ‘Can’t cook.’

  ‘Not got no attic, either,’ Anneli said bitterly.

  Henry’s trio of bright ideas had all turned out to be right duds.

  ‘Got an attic,’ said Josh.

  ‘Don’t be silly. We haven’t got an attic.’

  ‘Got an attic.’

  ‘You don’t know what an attic is.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  He stuck his tongue out at her.

  ‘Do.’

  Anneli was irritated.

  ‘All right,’ she challenged him. ‘Show me!’

  Instantly, Josh made for the door.

  Anneli followed. She never thought that Josh had anything at all to show her, but she went with him as he clambered up the stairs, until he reached the door that separated Jodie’s top half of the house.

  Anneli pushed it open. Josh walked past his own little bedroom, barely larger than a cupboard, and through the room in which Jodie kept her books, her sewing machine, the television and the stereo. He threaded his way between the armchairs, and grasped the handle on the door to his mother’s bedroom.

  ‘You’ll catch it,’ Anneli warned. ‘You’re not allowed to play in there.’

  ‘Not playing,’ Josh insisted. ‘Showing.’

  He opened the door.

  Going into Jodie’s room was, Anneli always thought, like stepping in a magical cavern, or going under water suddenly. The glorious silk shawls draped over the window to hide the wall outside made it glow soft and greeny-blue, like living at the bottom of a goldfish bowl. The room smelt of flowers and joss sticks. Plants trailed and climbed all over, even inside the fireplace with its pretty patterned tiles. Little bells hanging by embroidery silks were jingling softly in the breeze from the window. The floor was bright with rugs, and the bedspread a riot of patchwork.

  And scattered all over, on everything, were pretty things: rings that dazzled, bangles that caught the light, earrings that sparkled; small painted jewel boxes, tiny enamelled beads, gleaming glass pots, brass dishes overflowing with strange foreign coins. The walls were bespattered with bright postcards, and a floppy straw hat with scarlet ribbons hung from the bed post.

  Everywhere you looked was something you longed to try on, or touch, or stroke, or take the lid off and peep inside.

  No wonder Josh was forbidden to play here.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Anneli teased him. ‘Show me the attic.’

  To her astonishment, Josh dived under the bed and disappeared behind the hanging folds of patchwork counterpane.

  She heard his muffled voice.

  ‘Come on.’

  Catching her breath, she knelt and followed him.

  Under the bed, it was quite dark and very dusty. Anneli sneezed several times. When she recovered, it was to find that Josh had stuck his purple cloth in her face.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Bless you.’

  Anneli pushed the cloth away.

  ‘Where’s this great attic, then?’ she said a little meanly. After all, her hair was catching in the bedsprings overhead
, and pulling. She was bent double. It was too dark to see a thing, and Josh’s feet were digging in her stomach.

  ‘There,’ Josh proclaimed.

  ‘Where? I can’t see a thing!’

  ‘There!’

  Josh found one of her hands and pulled it over till it touched the wall behind the bed.

  Anneli spread her fingers wide. Strange. Very strange. It didn’t feel like wall. It felt like wooden panelling.

  Anneli put out her other hand. Using her fingertips, she traced on the wall the outline of a tiny door.

  ‘What’s behind there, then?’

  ‘Attic.’

  ‘It’s just the water tank, silly.’

  ‘Attic.’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  Maybe it could, though. Anneli wasn’t certain. It was a door. Surely no one would go to all the trouble of putting it there unless there was something behind.

  It might be just a water tank. But, then again, it might be an attic.

  Only one way of finding out. Anneli made up her mind. There was no point in putting if off. All that would happen was that her imagination would have time to run riot about the dark or the cobwebs or all the awful things the door might hide. If she was ever going to open it and look, it must be now.

  She scrambled out from under the bed. Seizing Josh by a leg, she pulled. He came out sliding on a rug.

  ‘You go on down. I’ll follow you.’

  ‘Tea time?’ asked Josh, ever hungry, ever hopeful.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Anneli vaguely. ‘Tell Jodie I’ll be along in a minute.’

  Josh stayed cross-legged on the rug for a few moments, practising the message.

  ‘Anneli’ long in a minute.’

  Then he got to his feet and pottered off towards the door.

  Before he’d even gone, Anneli had dived beneath the bed again. This time she found the little door without any trouble. Her fingers tightened round the knob. She took the deepest breath.

  ‘Here goes,’ she told herself. ‘Here goes.’

  3

  ‘What a great fizzing cheat!’