Joy to the world, p.1
Joy to the World, page 1
Copyright © 2020 Jodi Taylor
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
1
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior
permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 7657 5
Cover design © Sophie Ellis
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About the Book
It’s Christmas time again and all is not well at Frogmorton Farm.
Jenny and Russell’s daughter, Joy, is growing up. Not quickly enough as far as she’s concerned, but far too quickly according to Russell.
Father and daughter are at odds and suddenly the outlook is very dark indeed. That is until Thomas comes to the rescue.
Everyone should have their own giant invisible golden horse . . .
About the Author
Jodi Taylor is the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster prone individuals who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel! She is also the author of the Time Police series – a St Mary’s spinoff and gateway into the world of an all-powerful, international organisation who are NOTHING like St Mary’s. Except, when they are.
Alongside these, Jodi is known for her gripping supernatural thrillers featuring Elizabeth Cage, together with the enchanting Frogmorton Farm series – a fairy story for adults.
Born in Bristol and now living in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and write a novel. Nearly twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.
By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline
time police series
doing time
hard time
The Chronicles of St Mary’s series
Just One Damned Thing After Another
A Symphony of Echoes
A Second Chance
A Trail Through Time
No Time Like the Past
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Lies, Damned Lies, and History
And the Rest is History
An Argumentation of Historians
Hope for the Best
plan for the worst
short story collections
The Long and Short of It
Long story Short
The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts
When a Child is Born
Roman Holiday
Christmas Present
Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings
THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING
The Great St Mary’s Day Out
My Name is Markham
A Perfect Storm
Christmas Past
Battersea Barricades
The Steam-Pump Jump
And Now For Something Completely Different
WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR FATHER?
Why is Nothing Ever Simple?
Elizabeth Cage novels
White Silence
Dark Light
Frogmorton Farm Series
The Nothing Girl
The Something Girl
Little Donkey (digital short)
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A Bachelor Establishment
Contents
Title
Copyright
About the Book
About the Author
Also By
Dedication
Joy to the World
Discover more by Jodi Taylor . . .
This story is for Jay.
My name is Joy Rebecca Checkland and I am nearly fourteen years old. Which was what I tried to tell my dad when he grounded me and it so totally wasn’t my fault but he wouldn’t listen. He never listens to me. Mum says he never listens to anyone. Uncle Andrew says it’s because he’s a famous artist and lives in a different world to other people. Auntie Tanya says it’s because he’s an idiot. Auntie Franny says don’t bother me now and what do I think of these shoes?
Nobody ever listens to me.
Except for my friend Tommy. The bright light in the dark hell of my life. Tommy always listens because she totally understands weird parents and how to deal with them although no one’s got worse parents than me. My dad drives me spare and Mum’s so weak. She never stands up to him and he’s always shouting and we live in this stupid big house right in the middle of nowhere so there’s never anyone to talk to and it’s the last stop on the school bus route so I’m all alone at the end of the day and it’s too far for my friends to come and visit. It’s all so unfair.
And Rushford is such a dump. And it’s miles away. And there’s nothing to do when you get there anyway. Dad said that was good because it wouldn’t matter that I was grounded until the end of time then, would it, and I said he couldn’t do that because it wasn’t my fault and Dad said anyone stupid enough to be caught holding the cigarette after everyone else had the sense to run away deserved to be grounded and Mum said no, that wasn’t what your father meant at all and what he meant to say was that smoking was wrong and bad for your health and against school rules and I said it was a stupid school anyway and I wasn’t going back there after Christmas and Dad said I’d do as I was told and Mum said we’d all talk about this when we were calmer and Dad said what was the point, Jenny, we’ve raised an idiot and Mum said he didn’t mean that and he said yes, he did and I said it took one to know one which I thought was pretty clever actually but he just slammed into his studio and I slammed the door into my bedroom and he opened his door and shouted to stop slamming the door because I’d have the roof down if I wasn’t careful and he hadn’t paid for it yet. Then he slammed his own door again – much harder than me – and everything went very quiet after that.
I thought Mum might bring me up a biscuit and a glass of milk before bed because she usually does and she didn’t so then I knew I was in trouble and it was so totally callus of her to abandon me. And anyway, as I had told her, it wasn’t a real suspension because it was only two days to the Christmas holidays anyway and Mum had said a suspension was a suspension no matter how long – or short – and it was probably a subject I should avoid when Dad was around.
So everyone was being so totally unsympathetic and not thinking about how I felt at all. And it wasn’t even as if I’d actually smoked the thing because cigarettes smell and taste horrible and you’d have to be mad to want to smell like a wet ashtray but when Celia Bradshaw – also known as Chief Bitch because she’s pretty and she knows it – had asked if I wanted to come along with them to their hangout behind the bike shed I was pleased because they don’t ask just anyone so I did.
Anyway they were all puffing away and then Miss Woodbridge turned up with her mardy face on and someone said, ‘Hold this,’ and then they all ran away and by the time I realised what was happening it was too late. So totally not my fault but no one listened and I’d miss the school Christmas Party and the presents and the carols and no one cared.
Dad had taken my phone off me so I couldn’t call Childline and report him but he’d forgotten my iPad so I messaged Tommy to tell her all about it and she wasn’t even interested, saying, ‘Never mind all that – you’ll never guess. Billy George is coming to Rushford.’
OMG!! I stared at the screen. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Billy George was born here and the only decent thing ever to come out of Rushford. He’s the lead singer for Noyze. He’s got this huge grin and when he looks at you with his eyes and sings, ‘I will always be yours’ – it’s just . . . WOW!! And he was coming to Rushford. No one ever comes to Rushford. Not once they’ve got out, anyway. This was just AMAZING!!
My iPad pinged again. There was more. ‘There’s a concert in Archdeacon’s Park. Not a big thing. Just an hour or so. Half a dozen songs. But it’s HERE. IN RUSHFORD. We’ve GOT to go.’
I was so excited. Billy George was coming back to Rushford! Then I remembered I was grounded. Isn’t it absolutely typical? One thing – just one thing happens in my life. ONE THING! And I can’t go because I’m sodding grounded.
I stared at the screen and then began to type.
‘Sorry – can’t go.’
The
‘WHAT? What do you mean you can’t go? You have to go. WE have to go. It’s literally the only thing that will ever happen in Rushford in our lifetime. And it’s Billy George. He’s GORGEOUS. We can get his autograph. I’m going to get him to write on my arm and I’ll never wash again as long as I live. He might even ask us up on stage to sing with him. He does that. That’s how that woman on TV got her break. WE HAVE TO GO.’
She followed this up with a string of emojis conveying every emotion under the sun and a few I think she’d invented on the spot.
I had two choices. One – I could ask permission to go and Dad would say no. I knew he would. He wouldn’t care how important it was to me. Perhaps I could offer to serve double time after Christmas as penanse. But I couldn’t see that working either while my parents were being so unreasonable. And once I’d asked and they’d said no – that would be it. I wouldn’t get another chance.
Or I could sneak out. I mean – they’re so old they’ve probably never even heard of Billy George anyway. I could tell them I was going for a walk or something and then come back and they’d never know and if they never knew then they couldn’t get upset about it so really I was doing them a favour.
I clicked on the link Tommy had sent me. The concert was happening on a Saturday afternoon in Archdeacon’s Park. From 3:00 – 4:00 p.m. No tickets required – a goodwill gesture for Christmas although collections would be taken for charity. Christmas spirit and so on. Which meant . . .
I sat back, thinking. There would be no cost involved which was good because I’d spent all my allowance on Christmas presents. Although with parents like mine I’d be so justified in getting my money back. That would serve them right, wouldn’t it?
No, I wouldn’t need much money. Just enough for the bus fare and something for a burger and a drink.
The buses to Rushford run every twenty minutes. Mum and Dad would probably be in Rushford on Saturday afternoon, enjoying themselves while I was all alone at home. Typical parental double standards. I’ll never do that to my kids.
The park isn’t far from the bus station. Town would be packed. It’s the last Saturday before Christmas so people would be carrying on as if the shops will never open again. I know Mum has been stocking up for our Christmas lunch because I’ve had to carry most of it. Lots of people are coming. Lovely Mrs Crisp – or Mrs Bill the Insurance Man, as Dad calls her – and her husband, Uncle Bill.
Auntie Franny was coming – she wasn’t living with Uncle Daniel any longer although I don’t know why because it was making her very bad-tempered – even more than when she did live with him – and Dad had told her she might as well go back to him again because she was just as irrational and bad-tempered as ever and it was getting on his nerves and there had been more slammed doors. She stormed off to her car and he opened a window and shouted to her that it was time she and Daniel were reconciled and put each other out of other people’s misery and Mum had said stop shouting out of the windows, Russell, we’ll have Mrs Balasana round here again. Mrs Balasana is our neighbour. She has a really pretty little house and her donkey is called Jack and she NEVER SHOUTS OUT OF WINDOWS.
And Uncle Andrew was coming as well. To Christmas lunch, I mean. With Auntie Tanya, of course. They’re really nice and I often think they might be my real parents who had to give me up when I was born for reasons they can’t tell me about. They live in a lovely modern flat in town. The roof doesn’t leak and they never shout at each other.
And Uncle Kevin who runs the landscaping place outside Rushford – he was coming with Auntie Sharon who has the cupcake shop and cafe down by the bridge. I always get free cupcakes on my way home and I’m not to tell Mum and Dad.
I wondered whether actually I’d be allowed to be at our Christmas lunch. My dad might make me stay upstairs locked in my room with just a cheese sandwich. Or just the bread. Without the cheese. Or even nothing at all. That would be so typical. They’d all be downstairs having a great time – even Jamie, my brother, and holder of the World’s Most Disgusting Brother title – and I’d be up here in the cold and the dark all on my own.
Right, that settled it. I typed back:
‘Of course I’m going. SEE YOU THERE.’
I left it at that because I thought I could hear Mum coming upstairs with the revolting Jamie. I switched off my iPad and shoved it under my pillow.
Things were no better the next day. Dad gave me a massive long list of jobs I had to do and I said I couldn’t do any of them because I’d planned to spend my time reading and studying and he laughed all over the house.
The list just went on and on. First I had to clear away all the breakfast things. By myself. Then I had to tidy the mudroom and it was so totally gross in there. Then I had to take Marilyn, Boxer and Thomas out of their nice warm stable and into the cold damp field and none of them were very keen on that. The secret is to lead Marilyn to wherever you want them to go and Boxer will follow her. It’s quite funny to see this enormous horse following on behind this tiny, tiny donkey.
You have to watch out for him though because he’s frightened of everything, including the chickens and they know it. I don’t know what he thinks they can possibly do to him – he’s about nine feet high. So we formed the usual parade – Marilyn first, followed by an agitated Boxer, jumping about all over the place, followed by sensible Thomas. A sensible horse for my sensible mother. ’Nuff said, I think.
I shut the gate behind them, went back into the yard, let the chickens out and collected the eggs. People who buy their eggs from the supermarket don’t know how lucky they are. I don’t know why we can’t live in a town like normal people. With shops and cafes and cinemas and no mud. There were four eggs. We have a lot of chickens and not that many eggs. Uncle Andrew says a lot of them are really old and long past laying but Dad can’t bring himself to get rid of them because he’s so soft-hearted, although I notice he doesn’t have any difficulty unjustly grounding his only daughter which is so typical. I put the eggs on the kitchen table and took a moment to play with the kitten.
We used to have a cat. He was old and smelled like a wet carpet but I loved him. He and Dad hated each other. He’d bring in smelly old corpses and leave them on – and sometimes in – Dad’s trainers. He never did it to anyone else – just Dad.
And then, one day, he brought in a tiny kitten. We never found out where he’d got it from. I think it might have been abandoned because it was nearly dead – cold, wet and very muddy. Dad sat up all night with her until finally we knew she was going to live.
The cat died the very next day, quietly, in front of the cooker which was where he spent most of his time. He just fell asleep and never woke up.
Mum cried her eyes out – she’d once saved him from a watery grave and she loved him. Dad patted her for a bit and then disappeared. He came back about ten minutes later, blowing his nose. He’d been looking for something in the barn, he said, and the dust had got up his nose.
We buried the cat under a bush with pretty blue flowers. Dad said he’d probably come back and haunt us but if he has, then I haven’t seen him which I wouldn’t mind at all. My life is SO boring and I think it would be quite exciting to have a ghost.
I fed the kitten – who still doesn’t have a name. Mum says our old cat must have trained her up because she craps in Dad’s slippers and Dad goes mad and there’s a lot of shouting. Mum tells him to buy another pair of slippers and keep them in his bedroom this time because then they won’t get crapped in, will they, Russell?
My friend Tommy doesn’t have this problem. Her parents are super rich. She says they don’t speak to each other much and to her hardly at all. I tell her she’s lucky. She goes to the posh boarding school on the other side of Rushford. And she has ballet lessons, plays the piano and violin and rides a pony named Candy who isn’t frightened of butterflies like Boxer. And they have a villa on Crete. They go there a lot. I’m lucky if I’m able to get into Rushford once a month.
