I'm Not Wearing That!

I’m Not Wearing That!

Ann Martin

There were a couple of things about Francesca Fudgewick that everybody needed to know.  

  One: she never answered to anything but Frankie.

Two: she was very fussy about what she wore. For somebody only eleven years old, Frankie had an amazing sense of style.

Everything she wore was not so much pre-loved as completely had-it. Charity shop throw-outs, ragbag rejects, total tat, or not interested.

Frankie’s jeans were gone at the knees and threadbare in the behind. Cat hairs, dog slobber and lumps of old chewy were their only decoration. Her tee shirts and jumpers were equally gross and either too big or too small. And while stinky old sneakers were an absolute must, socks were out of the question.

This led to quite a few fights between Frankie and her mother. The biggest and fiercest of the lot was The Battle of Uncle Wayne’s Wedding.

Frankie hadn’t seen her relations in Manchester for nearly five years. But she could vaguely remember Uncle Wayne. He was a skinny, spotty twit that nobody in their right mind would have wanted to marry. Now, it seemed, some girl named Octavia Thripp actually did want to. Mrs Fudgewick explained to Frankie that poor Octavia was an orphan. She had no one in the world but a rather peculiar aunt who was Somewhere in Spain.

“So it’s up to us!” Mrs Fudgewick cried. “We won’t let Octavia down!”

Frankie couldn’t see how any of it was up to her. But then Auntie Olive emailed a picture of the frock. It was a pink frilly bridesmaid’s frock with red rosebuds scattered all over the skirt. And it was for Frankie.

 “I’m not wearing that!” she screeched. “I wouldn’t be seen dead upside down in a dustbin in that!”

Mrs Fudgewick didn’t seem to quite get the message.

“It’ll look gorgeous on you,” she said. “And it’ll make Uncle Wayne very happy.”

“Well let him wear it, then!” scowled Frankie.

The battle was hotting up and Mrs Fudgewick sent for reinforcements.

“Norman,” she begged her husband. “Speak to Francesca, please!”

Mr Fudgewick was watching the soccer semi-finals on TV.

 “Do as you mother tells you, Frankie,” he said, without taking his eyes off the ball.

No way! Frankie was going to have the last word. And she was going to have it now.

“I won’t wear the stupid frock! I won’t go to the stupid wedding!”

Eventually she changed her mind. She was very curious to see what kind of a nutter would marry Uncle Wayne.

Six weeks later she found herself sitting next to her mother on a train bound for Manchester. Unfortunately Mr Fudgewick was going to miss the wedding. He had an important business conference that weekend.

With the wedding only three days away, no one had time to come to the station to meet them. So Frankie and her mother had to take a taxi to Auntie Olive’s house.

As the taxi driver tossed their suitcases onto the pavement, a figure ran wildly from the house.

 “I’m not wearing that!” he screamed. Face to face with Frankie, he stopped for a second. “I’m not wearing it!’ he informed her. Then he hurtled down the street.

This was Bart Blakeney. With name like that he should have been a private detective, but he was Auntie Olive’s youngest home from boarding school for the wedding. Frankie hadn’t seen him since he was three. Now he was almost eight. His hands and face were filthy. He had lumps of something sticky in his hair. And from the look of his grotty jeans, Bart had inherited the same rare Fudgewick Grotty Genes as Frankie.

“Go, Bart!” Frankie grinned as she watched him disappearing down the street. Then she frowned. A strange-looking woman in long, grey robes glided behind a lamp-post. Her face was shrouded in a grey veil, but she was watching them

Frankie gave a shiver. But then Auntie Olive tottered out in her purple pantsuit and yellow high-heels.  “Come back, Bartie-wartie! Mummy wants you!” she wailed.

Next strolled Cousin Candice in a snow-white tennis frock. With her dainty white socks and shiny white shoes, Candice was still the Queen of Clean.

As soon as everyone realised that their guests had arrived, there were hugs and kisses all round. They had cups of tea and soggy fruitcake and then it was on for young and old.

First the Reverend Cardigan arrived, hauling Bart by the scruff of his shirt.

“Found the dear little chap trying to get on a bus to Edinburgh,” the Reverend explained.

Auntie Olive patted Bart on the head and got bubblegum all over her fingers. “Darling boy,” she murmured. Then she beamed at the Reverend. “So glad you called in, Trevor,” she said. We can show you what we’re wearing to the wedding!”

“Sorry, but I’m late for a prayer meeting!” apologised the Reverend and legged it out the door.

Frankie longed to do the same. She glanced towards the window and her heart gave a jump. Just for a second she saw a face peering fuzzily in from behind a long grey veil. Then the face ducked out of sight.

Nobody else seemed to have noticed. But then, they were having trouble with Bart.

“I’m not wearing a skirt!” he whimpered.

“It’s not a skirt, sweetie-pie. It’s a kilt, “Auntie Olive tried to explain.

Frankie thanked her lucky stars that she wasn’t going to be in fancy dress for the wedding.

How wrong can you be? Auntie Olive whipped the lid off a cardboard box and out from among a whole lot of rustling white tissue paper she lifted the frock.... the ghastly, pink frilly bridesmaid’s frock.

Too late Frankie realised that she’d been seriously sucked in! With a scowl and a howl she threw herself once more into battle. This time she had Bart beside her and they put up a gallant fight.

Frankie used her own trusty weapons; the bellow, the jutting chin. Bart preferred the Perpetual Whine. But alas, they were outnumbered. Candice joined the enemy and said she loved her pink frilly frock. And that, it seemed, was that.

   However, with Frankie, that was never that. When everyone else was asleep, she was still awake, listening to Candice’s fairylike snores.

Without a sound Frankie got up and got dressed. She stuffed her twenty pounds holiday money into her jeans. Then flitting down the darkened stairs, she let herself out through the front door.

Nobody could call Frankie a wimp. But there was something dead creepy about Auntie Olive’s garden in the middle of the night. All of a sudden one of the bushes began to rustle. Heart thumping, Frankie tried to remember if Auntie Olive had a dog.

“Pssst!” went the bush. Frankie’s legs turned as soggy as Aunt Olive’s fruitcake. Then the bush spoke. “Hiya, Frankie!” And out crawled Bart.

“How did you know it was me?” Frankie quivered.

“I could smell your sneakers!” said Bart. “Watcher up to?”

So Frankie told him. “I’m running away so I don’t have to wear that frock.”

 “So am I,” grinned Bart. “So I don’t have to wear that skirt.”

 “You can’t run away,” frowned Frankie. “You’re only a little kid.”

 “I already have,” Bart informed her.

 “All right,” she sighed. “But you’d better stick with me!”

Bart was happy to do that, so together they stole out of the gate.

They walked a long way through the empty streets. Every now and then Frankie glanced behind them. She had this feeling that they were being followed.

“It’s ok, Frankie,” Bart suddenly said. “It’s only the Strange Lady in Grey.”

Frankie stared at him. “Who?” But she knew very well who.

“Her with the thingy over her head,” Bart explained. “She’s a ghost, or something. She’s been hanging around for days. But it’s ok, ghosts don’t hurt you.”

Well, that was all right then. Or Frankie hoped it was.

Then Bart piped up with a question. “Are we running away for good?” 

“No,” Frankie replied. They were just staying away until after the wedding.

“Cool!” said Bart. Then, “I’m starving!” he announced.

“Tough!” snapped Frankie. But her own stomach was grumbling emptily.

Then they saw it. In huge, glowing letters a message was written against the sky: BASIL’S BURGERS. OPEN ALL NITE.

“Thank you, Basil!” Frankie grabbed Bart’s hand and hustled him towards the sign.

 It was on top of a burger bar that stood in the middle of an empty car park. There was a glorious fried onion smell in the air and all of a sudden things were looking good.

Frankie and Bart made for the entrance. And that was when they saw the bicycle. It was leaning against the wall and in the light that streamed from the window, it gleamed a vivid turquoise blue. The saddle was pink, the handlebars were mauve. Brilliant flowers were painted all over the frame and a cross-eyed panda sat in a basket on the front.

“Awesome!” exclaimed Bart.

“Very,” agreed Frankie, as she pushed open the glass door.

At first the place seemed to be deserted. But then Basil popped up behind the counter like a puppet in a Punch and Judy show.

“What’ll you have, kids?” he asked with a chuckle that made his cheeks wobble. Frankie ordered two with the lot, plus chips and chocolate milk. Then she sat Bart down at a table and bolted for the door marked LADIES.

Standing at the mirror was an amazing girl, who just had to be the owner of the bike. She was busy with her make-up, covering what looked like tearstains around her eyes. Frankie stood beside her and fiddled with her own corkscrews of hair while she took a closer look at the girl.

Perched on top of her carrot-red head was a purple and yellow velvet hat. It looked like a top hat that had been run over by a bus. Her jacket was also velvet, in rainbow patchwork squares. Underneath that an emerald green skirt flowed down to pink plastic boots. And the whole lot had that glorious, charity shop smell that Frankie loved so well. She smiled at the girl, and the girl gave a watery smile back.

Then Frankie had to dash for the loo. When she came out the girl had gone.

Back at their table the food had arrived. And there was the rainbow velvet girl. She was sitting at the next table gazing sadly at a plate of chips. But that wasn’t what made Frankie stop dead and gulp and stare. In a corner sat the Strange Lady in Grey, daintily sucking coffee through her veil.

“Are you sure she’s a ghost?” whispered Frankie to Bart.

“‘Course she is!” insisted Bart. “I expect ghosts like coffee, same as anybody else.”

 Across the car park came the roar of a powerful motorbike. With a screech and a snarl it stopped outside. Then the biker strode in through the door.

Wisps of grey hair strayed from under her helmet. Goggles half-hid her wrinkly face. And dressed in black leather right down to her boots, she looked at least eighty years old.

Without removing her helmet or goggles, she sat down in a window seat. “I’ll have a nice cup of tea,” she told Basil. “And one of those crumpets.”

Frankie and Bart just stared gobsmacked. But the rainbow girl did more than that. Grabbing her chips, she left her table and slid into a spare seat at theirs.

 “Just act natural,” she hissed. That Little Old Lady in Black, she’s following me!”

“You’re lucky,” said Frankie. “We’ve got her following us.” She rolled her eyes towards the Strange Lady in Grey.

“Just chat,” said the girl urgently. “Pretend we’re together.”

Bart took a huge bite of his burger. “Ok,” he mumbled “I’m Bart and this is Frankie. We’re running away from a wedding. What are you up to?”

“Same as you,” answered the girl. “Running away from a wedding.”

Now there was a coincidence!

“Whose wedding?” asked Frankie.

“Mine,” said the girl. “It’s on Saturday, and I don’t want to be there.”

“It won’t be much of a wedding without you,” Frankie pointed out. “What’s the matter? Don’t you love him?”

“I love him heaps!” said the girl tearfully. “It’s his family I’m running away from. They want to put me in a white satin frock. Can you see me in a white satin frock?”

Frankie couldn’t. Not this fabulous rainbow velvet girl. Then an astonishing thought came to her.

“You’re name’s not Octopus, is it?” she asked.

“No,” said the girl. “It’s Octavia.”

Bart gave a splutter that sprayed them with burger crumbs. “What do you reckon?” he yelled. “It’s your wedding we’re running away from!”

    Basil leaned on the counter picking his teeth. They could almost hear his ears flapping.

But the enthralling conversation was interrupted when yet another customer burst in at the door.

This one looked as though he’d escaped from a particularly rough football match. Wild-eyed, wild-haired and mud-caked, he was still wearing shorts, jersey and boots.

Octavia gave a scream. The footballer gave a hoarse cry.

“Waynie, darling!”

“Ockers, my precious!”

And they fell into each others’ arms.

“Hi, Uncle Wayne!” said Bart.

Frankie gaped. Uncle Wayne? He wasn’t skinny any more. His spots had cleared up. In fact, Uncle Wayne was a gorgeous hunk!

They sat him down at their table. Basil brought coffee without being asked.

“Try to tell us, in your own words, dearest. What’s going on?” Octavia asked.

“I was running away!” Wayne confessed.

He’d been playing goalie in a night-time match. The last before his wedding day. And every time he thought about the wedding, he let a goal go through.

“They want me to wear this suit,” he groaned. “Dark purple with a yellow cummerbund. Ockers, you know I’m not a difficult bloke, but I’d look a right wally in that!”

 After the fifth goal shot through, Wayne had shot straight off the pitch and out of the ground. All night he’d run around in panicking circles; until he stumbled past Basil’s Burger Bar.

“I saw Ockers’ bike outside, he cried. “And I knew I had to come in. It’s not you I’m running away from, my love. Just the wedding, and that suit!”

Well, now the bride, the groom, the bridesmaid and the pageboy had all run away, Frankie began to think that the wedding might be called off.

Then Wayne gave another of his hoarse cries. Through the door teetered a largish woman in bright red shoes. She wore a glittering red frock and a matching red hat the size of a dustbin lid

 “Not the Lady in Red!” moaned Wayne. “She follows me everywhere!”

The Lady in Red sat down and ordered a raspberry ice-cream sundae.

“Don’t you worry about her,” said Bart. “We’re all being followed by Somebody in Something.”

So, as calmly as they could, they tried to work out what they could possibly do about this wedding business.

“Why can’t we be just us?” Octavia asked.

“We could have a ‘just us’ wedding,” suggested Wayne.

“Brilliant!” cried Basil.  “You could have it here!

But then,   “No! No!” cried a sudden voice from the corner. 

Everyone turned and stared at the Strange Lady in Grey. She stood up and swept aside her veil.

“Aunt Aurora!” Octavia gasped. “You’re supposed to be Somewhere in Spain. What are you doing here?”

The Strange Lady in Grey gave a mysterious smile. “Just keeping an eye on things,” she said. “Octavia. I’m always watching over you. And my spies are everywhere.”

The Lady in Black and the Lady in Red beamed and waggled friendly fingers.

“Now Octavia’s getting married.” Aunt Aurora went on. “She’ll be getting a new family. I’ve been checking them out. Just to make sure that they’re good enough for my dear girl.”

“We’re all right,” Frankie assured her. “It’s those others you need to worry about. They want to put me in a pink frilly frock!”

“And me in a skirt!” Bart cried.

“Me in white satin!”

“Me in a purple suit!”

Aunt Aurora threw up her hand . “Families can be a pain,” she agreed. “But most of the things they do, they do out of love.”

And they all had to admit that this was true.

“There’s always an answer,” Aunt Aurora said. “So come and sit down here with me. We’ll put our heads together and come up with something, I’m sure.”

On Saturday the church was full. Friends and relations were there in their dozens.

  The groom stood up at the front dressed in a purple suit. And so what if he also wore muddy socks and a pair of football boots?

The organist struck up I Love You Just the Way You Are and down the aisle came the bride on the arm of Basil the Burger Maestro, who’d been asked to give her away. She was a picture in white satin, right down to her white satin shoes. But perched on her carrot-red head was an amazing velvet hat. It looked like a top hat that had been run over by a bus.

Her page boy looked really sweet in his kilt. But he had the grungiest pair of jeans underneath, and bubble gum in his hair.

The bridesmaids were delightful in their pink frilly frocks. One of them wore pink pumps with rosebuds on top. The other wore smelly old sneakers, without laces or socks.

Then the Reverend Cardigan stepped forward dressed in his splendid robes. The fact that he still had on his bedroom slippers could have been a mistake. But there was a twinkle in his eyes that said it might not.

  Everyone agreed that it was a wonderful wedding. True, there were three rather odd-looking ladies sitting at the back. But if anyone wondered who those ladies were, they were much too polite to ask.