by Debi Gliori
‘It’s a bee or a wasp or something. !’ she gasps, and suddenly I get it. Something’s stinging her.
Vivaldi wails, slapping herself on her stomach. ‘Oooya wee monster!’ Off come the trousers and there, right in the middle of her tummy, is the most enormous wasp I have ever seen, with its stinger buried in Vivaldi’s navel.
Even the Sisters are impressed.
‘A hornet? Boy, that’s really going to hurt. I thought you said only a minor irritation.’ The Nose is taken aback by this dramatic turn of events.
‘Shut UP,’ hisses the Chin. ‘The minor irritation was the midges, you doughball. But now . . . well. Now everything’s changed. Now we have a major problem and a hornet was the only thing I could think of at such short notice. This . . . this Vivaldi child has to be kept away from our Witch Baby.’
‘Dare I ask why, Sister dear?’ says the Nose.
‘No,’ snaps the Chin. ‘Now, out of my way. I have work to do. This is a disaster. There was a one in a million chance that another blue-moon child would come along. One in a million! I thought that meant our secret was safe. Oh, how wrong I was! Now there are two blue-moon children. If they become friends, anything could occur. I can’t believe this is happening. I am sorry to say that the Plan has changed. Everything has changed. Pack your kit, sisters. We’re going in.’
I hardly know Vivaldi, but already I know that I want to be her friend. If I’d had to pull a wasp out of my navel, I’d still be crying, but not Vivaldi. Daisy is crying, so is the little boy on the doorstep, but Vivaldi rubs her eyes and manages a watery smile. There’s a horrible purply-red lump on her tummy.
she says. ‘What an introduction, eh?’
‘Are you OK?’ is all I can think of to say.
‘Are you?’ she replies, and then bursts out laughing. ‘First time you meet me and I begin by tearing off all my clothes. How embarrassing is that?’
I like Vivaldi even more. I like her so much my tongue curls up into a knot and I can’t get a single word out. Great.
I can smile, though, so I smile as hard as possible, hoping that Vivaldi doesn’t think I’m a complete twit.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go now.’
She tosses her head as she speaks and I notice that she’s got really long red hair which she’s tied up into a knot at the back of her neck. The knot is held in place with what looks like a paintbrush. Not the kind of paintbrush for painting walls – the kind for painting pictures.
‘It’s a pain,’ she says, and then explains, ‘My music lesson.’ Toss goes her head again.
Meanwhile, the waily little boy has grown bored and is edging towards the house with a reproachful look in his eyes. From inside, I can hear another small child letting us all know that it is Very Unhappy.
‘So . . .’ sighs Vivaldi, ‘I’m late. But Mum’s in the kitchen feeding Mozart. The door’s open. Just go in,’ and with a little wave, she runs across her garden and disappears, but not before I notice that she’s carrying a big black guitar case.1
So we go in. I have to untie Daisy because I don’t want to bump her pushchair up the steps leading to the doorway of Four Winds. Daisy is delighted to be free and wobbles off happily into the house, cooing to herself. I follow behind, just in time to see her opening a door at the far end of the hall. I try to grab her before she disappears through the door, but Daisy’s surprisingly fast. By the time I catch up with her, she’s halfway across the floor of one of the untidiest rooms I’ve ever seen.
There are toys everywhere. Action Men have camped on top of the refrigerator, a tangle of bare Barbies are bathing in the sink, and the floor is carpeted with a million toy cars. Even the fish tank has a rubber duck floating in it. The only bit of the kitchen that isn’t covered with toys is the ceiling.
Daisy looks as if she’s died and gone to heaven.
she breathes, and then,
For once, I have to agree with her. This kitchen smells delicious. It smells as if someone has been baking. I follow my nose and discover a tray of flapjacks sitting next to the oven.
says Daisy, and then she laughs like a small hyena. ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha WaYWOOF!’
No. Please, no..
I’m hoping that Daisy only said WayWoof because the thought of him just popped into her head in a random sort of way and will now pop straight back out again. I am so hoping that WayWoof isn’t about to materialize in the Four Winds kitchen, with his tongue hanging out and a dreadful smell about to erupt from his tail end.
Oh no.
It would all be so different if WayWoof was a sweet-smelling dog. Here he comes, picking his way through the toy cars, with a huge, wet grin spread across his hairy face like raspberry jam smeared across a dirty rug. He reaches Daisy and throws himself down, rolls on his back and prepares himself for a major tummy rub by licking his bottom. Loudly.
At times like this, I wish he was invisible to me too.
Any minute now, he’s going to erupt. Then the lovely smell in the kitchen will turn into a horrible honk. Then Vivaldi’s mum will appear, sniff the air, and never invite us back ever again. Time to go. I put a party invitation next to the flapjacks and grab Daisy’s hand.
‘Come on, Daisy,’ I say brightly. ‘Let’s hit the road.’
Daisy stares at me as if I’ve said something very rude indeed. Then she heaves a big sigh, as if to say, How very not funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.
See Daisy laugh.
See Daisy roll her eyes.
See Daisy glare at Lily.
‘Not hit load,’ she says and my heart sinks. We’ve got to go. Before WayWoof . . .
‘We have to go home now, Daisy,’ I say. ‘Mum will be wondering where we are.’
‘Not home. Want biccit. Wantit now,’ Daisy says, staring at the flapjacks. She claps her hands and a flapjack levers itself off the baking tray and rises into the air.
‘Daisy?’ I squeak. ‘That’s not your flapjack. Put it back,’ but I might as well save my breath. When Daisy wants a biscuit, she wants it now. WayWoof begins to fade away because Daisy is concentrating on doing magical things to the flapjack and can’t do two magical things at once. I’m concentrating on the flapjack too, because if WayWoof vanishes, then we don’t need to go. At least not immediately. We could stay for a while. Meet Vivaldi’s mum. Maybe she might offer us some fla—
Suddenly WayWoof springs to life. He jumps up, seizes the floating flapjack in his teeth and makes a bolt for freedom.
Daisy’s mouth falls open.
Time to go. I grab Daisy and run.
We’re halfway home when WayWoof catches up with us. I notice he’s got that stolen flapjack tightly jammed between his jaws.
‘Bah dog,’ mutters Daisy, but WayWoof and I know that she doesn’t mean it. Besides, I’m not even sure that’s what she said. WayWoof isn’t the only one to have a mouth full of flapjack.
Bah Daisy. At this rate, how am I ever supposed to make friends with Vivaldi? Hi – I’m Lily, the tongue-tied one. This is my little sister, the Witch Baby, and you probably can’t see him, but this is our invisible dog, the flapjack-bandit.
* * *
1 At least, I assume it’s a guitar and that she hasn’t got a harmonica rattling around in there, all on its ownsome. Or a collapsible harpsichord. Sadly, judging by the shape of her case, she doesn’t play the same deeply embarrassing, loud and weird musical instrument2 that I do. This is a great pity.
2 As I may have said earlier, don’t ask.
Ten:
Tasty tentacle treats
‘I JUST DON’T understand why we have to go away for a while. We’ve never been away before,’ whines the Toad, her warty lips wobbling in dismay.
‘It’s only for a short time,’ hisses the Chin, cramming another pair of black pointy shoes into her suitcase, then forcing its lid shut. Over by the fireplace, the Nose is silently wrestling with the contents of a large rucksack. The rucksack appears to be winning.
‘I don’t believe
you,’ mutters the Toad. ‘If we’re only going away for a short time, then why have you both packed so many clothes? I think there’s something you’re not telling me.’
The Chin ignores this. She is unfolding a map on top of the dining table and propping her reading glasses on the end of her nose. With the tip of one bony finger she slowly traces a path from one side of the map to the other, nodding as she does so.
‘Why am I always the last to know what’s happening round here?’ complains the Toad. ‘Nobody tells me anything. It’s so unfair. I want to know and I want to know now. Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise, stupid,’ hisses the Nose, staggering across the room under the weight of her rucksack. ‘Now shut up and open the front door.’
‘A surprise? Wait a minute. Oooooh, let me guess,’ squeaks the Toad, hopping up and down with excitement. ‘I get it. No, no, no, don’t tell me. We’re going to get our Witch Baby? Is that it? Have I guessed right? Is that the surprise?’
Both the Chin and the Nose ignore her completely.
‘Did you remember to pack the special crisps?’ hisses the Chin.
‘Yes,’ whispers the Nose. ‘I basted them in bacteria last night. If those girls eat so much as one crumb of my crisps, they’ll be so sick they won’t be able to even look at each other again without feeling ill. Plus, the after-effects of eating those crisps usually last three months and will give them breath so rank they’ll smell like a cross between a decomposing seal and an old stinky cheese.’
‘You are a genius, Sister dear,’ says the Chin, shivering at the evil wickedness of their plan, ‘but are you sure our Witch Baby won’t accidentally eat one of the crisps too?’
‘Well . . . I’ll admit my plan isn’t perfect. But, as I may have said before, you can’t make an omelette without breaking some teacups.’ The Nose gives a snicker. ‘Now chill out, Chin. Our baby will be fine, but the girls are going to wish they’d never met.’ She hauls open the front door and braces herself against the wind. ‘Come on, you two. It’s time to go.’
The Toad gulps. ‘That’s really nasty,’ she says, swallowing rapidly. ‘Just thinking about those poor children innocently tucking into your horrible crisps—’ She stops, struck by a sudden thought. ‘What flavour are they?’
‘What? The children?’ snaps the Chin. ‘How should I know?’
‘No,’ groans the Toad. ‘What flavour are the crisps?’
‘I have no idea,’ snorts the Chin, picking up her suitcase and following the Nose out of the front door. ‘D’you think I was stupid enough to try one myself?’
Over the next few days, Mum becomes the Human Blur, whizzing round madly, shopping, sorting, chopping, cooking and muttering to herself. Lists appear all round the Old Station House. Lists of Things To Do. Lists of Food Still To Cook. Lists of People To Phone. Lists of Lists.
One morning at breakfast, I notice that there’s a list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. The list goes:
Get up
Brush teeth
Have a poo
Wash hands
Get dressed
Breathe in, breathe out
. . .
I made that up, but only because this party is driving us all nuts. Dad is the first to crack.
‘MEL!’ he roars, his voice echoing round the bathroom. I’m in the hall cupboard, trying to find a coat in amongst a pile of crates. So far, all I’ve found is Dad’s shoes and coats and boots. Judging by the smell, one of the crates is home to Dad’s stinky old trainers. Holding my nose, I keep looking. The only coat I can find makes me look like a cross between a muffin and a furball. I’m trying hard not to listen to Dad, but he’s roaring like a bull.
‘Oh, for heaven’s SAKE – this has GOT to STOP,’ he continues, stomping out of the bathroom so he can roar even louder down the corridor. Fortunately he can’t see me in the cupboard or he might roar at me too. There’s been a lot of roaring since we moved house. Mum, Dad, Jack, even I roar sometimes. But right now, it’s Dad’s turn.
‘MEL. There’s a vast tray of . . . of SOMETHING in the shower. The bath is FULL of bottles of champagne, the sink’s got LIVE mussels in it, and frankly, sweetheart, I REFUSE to brush my TEETH in the TOILET.’
He’s got a point. How are we supposed to stay clean if every sink, shower and bath in our house is piled high with party food? No one wants to wash along with mussels, we’d rather not brush our teeth down the loo, and when we said we needed a shower, we didn’t mean outside with the garden hose.
Yesterday was far, far worse, though.
Yesterday Mum forgot to tell us that there was a live lobster crawling around the bath.
Yesterday it escaped. My brother Jack may never take a bath ever again.
Did you know lobsters were dark blue? No, neither did Jack. Imagine his horror. He went to take a bath (something he’s not very keen on doing), but because he’s Jack and Jack never goes anywhere without his earbuds , he didn’t hear the scrabbly, clackitty sound that lobster claws make as they skitter across the bath until it was too late.
Poor Jack.
He was too busy drumming on the sink with two toothbrushes to hear the Claws of Doom behind him. First thing Jack knew about the lobster was after he’d taken off most of his clothes and was leaning over the bath to turn on the taps. Waving something extremely sharp towards Jack’s pants was a creature that looked like it had just escaped from the film
None of us had any idea Jack could squeal that high.
The lobster has gone now. Poor lobster. Mum cooked it yesterday. Now it’s in the fridge – along with enough food to feed the Loch Mhaidyn Monster, his Monster wife and all their little Monsters. No matter what else happens at the party tonight, nobody will starve. But even though it seems our house is filled to bursting with food, Mum is still cooking. When is she going to stop? Can’t she see we’ve all had enough? Or, in my case, not nearly enough. I’m ravenous. Everywhere I look, there are tottering piles of food. Food that none of us is allowed to touch till tonight. Dad grabs his toothbrush and storms into the kitchen. I follow close behind.
‘THIS IS RIDICULOUS!’ Dad roars. ‘It’s only a party, for heaven’s sake, but it’s taking over our lives. We don’t even know these people we’ve invited. Probably half of them will be ancient, toothless witches and the rest will be on diets. They won’t be interested in all your mountains of food . . .’
Mum puts down the spoon she was stirring with and turns to face Dad. There’s a look on her face that makes me come out in goose pimples. She puts her hands on her hips and takes a big deep breath. Here comes If I was Dad, I’d start running now. Except he can’t run because I’m the only one who knows where his stinky trainers are, and I’m not going to tell.
In the middle of all Jack and Daisy are ignoring Mum and Dad completely and eating breakfast. This seems like a good idea. I grab the biggest bowl I can find and pour myself some Ricey Krispettes. I check. Mum is still at Dad, so she doesn’t notice as I pour some of her favourite Honey Puff Pillows on top of the Ricey Krispettes. Mmmm. I check again. Dad is at Mum. Quick. I dump the last of Dad’s super-deluxe-eyewateringly-expensive Blueberry and Dark Chocolate Praline Clusters on top of the Honey Puff Pillows and Ricey Krispettes and drown the lot in milk. Yum. YUM YUM. ‘Ooooooooo, Lilililililililily,’ Daisy breathes.
I jump guiltily.
‘Baaaaaadlily. Nottynottynotty,’ mutters Daisy.
Just then, stops. Mum and Dad kiss and make up. Peace at last. And nobody noticed me piling cereals into my bowl. I turn to Daisy and stick my tongue out at her. Daisy thinks this is hysterical and splutters and chokes on her cereal, spraying a mouthful of ToastyOatys straight across the kitchen table and onto Jack’s toast. Being Jack, he doesn’t notice. go his earbuds.
Double
Daisy notices, though. She stares at the blob of breakfast cereal she sprayed onto Jack’s toast and gives a little smile. The breakfast-cereal blob quivers and wobbles as if it’s alive. Oh, no. It is alive. It
sprouts tiny tentacles and waves them cheerily at Jack as if to say, COOOOOEEEE, Jack. Lookeee here. On your TOAST, but Jack doesn’t notice.
Daisy heaves a sigh and narrows her eyes. Now the breakfast-cereal blob is lurching across Jack’s toast, dragging itself along the buttery surface with its tentacles,
I watch as Jack reaches out from behind the music magazine he’s reading, fumbles blindly for his plate, finds his toast and, still without looking, takes a huge bite and puts it back on his plate.
I check. I have to.
Yup. The blob has gone. There’s one leftover tentacle dangling from the side of Jack’s mouth but it doesn’t appear to be moving any more.
I check again.
Nope. Not a flicker. He didn’t notice that there was a Witch Baby Tentacle Treat on his toast.
Wow. Triple
Eleven:
My brother, the hard-boiled egg
MY BEDROOM AT the Old Station House is upstairs, next to Daisy’s. For the second time today, I’m supposed to be changing into something that Mum hopes will make me look like a Proper Girl rather than what she calls a Tomboy. Why does putting on my comfy old jeans turn me into a Tomboy? When Jack puts on his comfy old jeans, nobody calls him a Tomboy. Or even a Tomgirl. No one pays any attention to what Jack wears, but Daisy and I have to look perfect.
