A.N: Hey all! Here's the next instalment of this crazy saga, hope you like. Thanks must go to those who reviewed: The Angel Of Hope, Spirolizzy, englishchik, freak and proud (They don't know, and email me about the campaign!) and Joshwales.
Also, I must put a dedication on this chapter, To the people who were killed in the car crash on Ryde Rd this afternoon, which I passed on the way home, and also to all those who were affected by the London Terrorist attacks.
Once again, thanks!
The Greatest Summer of All Time,
Chapter 2: Prepare Yourself.
By Starlite1
In her dreams, she saw a planet burning.
In her dreams, she heard the wail of billions dying.
In her dreams, she could do nothing but watch.
She awoke screaming.
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Hands shook her awake, rescuing her from the hell of her subconscious. Gasping for air, she finally managed to focus on the three faces in front of her.
"Are you all right?" Her father asked, worry clear in his face.
"It was… burning!" She exclaimed in between the gulps of air.
Anita rubbed her back, "What was, Josie?"
"Gallifrey!" She answered without considering.
Her mother shot a glance at her father in surprise, "What did you say?"
Realising she had no clue what she had said, she repeated, "Gallifrey. It was burning! There were voices, so many voices! What was it?!?" She demanded, choking back the sobs that had replaced her breathlessness.
Her father sighed, "I'll explain later. Now is definitely not the time. As a matter of fact, Considering the time, and that there is very little chance of any of us getting back to sleep, might I suggest that we all get up, go downstairs and have a cuppa tea. Then we can get into party preparations."
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They came downstairs to find Jackie, Jack and Adrian already sitting bleary-eyed at the table, stemming mugs of tea in front of them.
"Tea's waiting for you in the pot." Jackie mumbled, gingerly sipping the seething beverage.
"Ta, mum." Rose said gratefully, walking over to the cupboard and taking down their mugs. Anita led Josie to her seat, worrying about her in the same fashion as a mother chicken. As she fiddled with the tea, Rose couldn't help but be grateful that her daughter had a best friend like Anita. Then again, she was around so often it was more like she was family then anything else.
As for her mother…
There were many things that could be said about Mrs. Forster, and the most pleasant of them would probably be that she was punctual. Her figure was angular, as pointed as her personality. The sound of hacksaws and rusty razor blades resounded within her voice. Black, floor length dresses, coupled with starched white blouses made up the entirety of her wardrobe. Streaks of grey lined her hair, which was never out of the impeccable bun she imprisoned it within. Her residence was always neat enough to put Vouge to shame, and seemed more like a display house than a home. The mere thought of a woman working in a place other than the home made the blood drain from her already pallid face. Her seven children were dressed in clothing that would have been far better suited to usage as straight jackets in a mental asylum.
Her husband, Mr. Douglas H. Forster was a high ranking barrister who enjoyed commuting into central London in his BMW six mornings a week, seven if he could manage it. His body was a mass of fat and sweat encased in starched Giovanni shirts and suits. Mounds of blubber flowed outward from him, making a bid for freedom from the plain silk ties and pearly cufflinks that adorned his voluptuous neck and forearms. The few remaining wisps of hair were combed and waxed across his scalp, a rather pathetic attempt at vanity. Stubble adorned his cheeks and perspiration poured off him by the litre, causing him to be eternally mopping his forehead with wispy handkerchiefs stiffer than blocks of wood. The sound when he spoke was nasally and raspy, grating on the nerves of all whom heard it
Their general opinion of anyone who was not of a) pure Anglo Saxon descent, b) a bloodline tracing back at least fourteen generations, and c) an anti-progressive mentality was low, to say the least. It meant that on the very few occasions when she had been forced to interact with the pair, she had come away, pride scorned, and her mood tarnished for almost a week afterwards.
Yet their daughter, the fifth out of the seven could not be more different. Rose preferred to believe that she had had a hand in that. Her face was alive with life, graced by a perfect smile and laughing hazel eyes. Her ginger hair was forced into pigtails by a process of brutal wrenching, pulling and tugging by her mother every morning, just as she was forced to wear a slightly modified uniform whenever she was at home. Thus, whenever she was over at the Tyler's, both of these bonds were discarded in favour of ponytails, jeans and tank tops. Within her heart was a great capacity to love, which had somehow survived years of being quashed. Looking at the expression on her face as she fretted over Josie made her wonder how on earth she could be related to the two who were most likely ignoring the cries of their youngest (Marian, 14 mths.) who would have woken just as the pre-dawn light came through her bedroom window, desperate for love that would never come.
With a smile, she brought the tea over to the table, grateful for the wonderful home that she could come home to.
"So…" She began, "Who wants toast?"
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Nearly six hours later, the sun was fully up, and decorations were whizzing left, right and centre. Red, gold, silver and blue streamers adorned every wall, table, seat and vanity. Confetti of the same colours fluttered through the air in tremendous quantities, falling to the ground in a multicoloured array. Balloons proclaiming "Happy Birthday" and other such messages dominated the ceiling, suspended in mid-air like flying saucers. Already the kitchen was bustling with the efforts of Jackie and Adrian, their personal chefs. Heavenly smells wafted from the ovens, carrying the promise of pies, sausage rolls and cakes too innumerable to note.
Mr. Tyler was perched precariously on a chair, attempting to pin up the other end of a holographic banner with Jack making useless comments from his perch on the sofa, where he was inflating the balloons from the helium they had picked up the day before.
Rose, Anita and Josie were putting the final touches onto the table. Bowls full of a variety of candies, not all from earth, were every few feet, with the general celebration paraphernalia at every seat. Finally, as the clock in the hall struck half eleven, the three younger members of the strange family went upstairs to change into their party gear, and the remainder collapsed together onto the couch in utter exhaustion.
They sat in silence for a minute, attempting to recover before they were overrun by hordes of pre-teens.
"Do you think we can pull this off?" Rose finally asked.
Grasping his wife's hand, Mr. Tyler replied, "Y'know, I think we can."
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A.N: So what do you think? Reviews are great, constructive criticism is appreciated but flames are used to cook damper with smarties in it! (Try it sometime!) Until next we meet, I bid thee farewell!