by Grace Dent
We certainly have. I don’t know why Spike sent us four tickets. Maybe he just deals in even numbers. Or maybe he thought the “BDL” had another mystery member.
“Yeah, and we’re selling that extra ticket,” says Fleur. “Five hundred pounds! A hundred and sixty-six pounds each! With my cut I’m buying a leather jacket.” Fleur begins counting off fantasy purchases on her fingers. “And I can get some new modeling shots done and ...”
“Not so fast, Fleur, we might need to keep the ticket ...”
“Why?” asks Fleur.
“... and give it to someone else. Someone who can, er, escort us.”
“Escort us?” says Fleur, almost spluttering out the offending word.
“Escort us?” I repeat. I don’t like the sound of this.
“If we want to go, it might be our only option,” continues Claude.
“You mean like a grown-up?” I say nervously.
“Well, some sort of, er, ‘responsible’ person, anyhow,” says Claude.
At that moment, in my mind’s eye, I’m visualizing Magda Ripperton, in a paisley cheesecloth caftan and sandals, letting wild and loose with free-form frugging, right in front of the Hexagon Main Stage area and a 120,000-strong cheering crowd. “That’s Ronnie Ripperton’s mother!” People are jeering and pointing at me. “That girl with the brown hair over there! She’s here with her mum! Ha ha! What a dweeb!”
Gnngnngngn!!
“I feel a bit sick,” I groan, standing up and pacing about the room, finally slumping on Fleur’s wide window ledge, which looks over Disraeli Road.
“Er ... your dad’s dead into music, er, isn’t he, Ronnie?” mentions Claude ever so casually. “And he can be, sort of, quite a decent laugh ... er sometimes, can’t he?”
I know her game. “Don’t even think of it! What are you trying to do to me?” I shriek. “Stop it now! Not another word!”
Suddenly Fleur sits up straight on her bed, as if she’s got the answer. I find this rather difficult to believe, but I’m up for a surprise.
“Right. I see what you’re saying,” says Fleur. “What we’re looking for is ... and this is strictly if we have to take someone with us ... an individual who is responsible. Well, at least considered responsible by the powers that be, but also someone who can be trusted not to crucify the LBD with embarrassment in a public place and stay out of our faces when we’re having a good time?”
“Yes,” Claude and I both chorus. “Any ideas?”
“Errrrrr ...” Fleur scrunches up her face, applying every single one of her brain cells to the equation. Claude and I wait with bated breath ...
“No,” Fleur says.
“Great,” I sigh.
“Back to the drawing board,” says Claudette glumly.
At that moment, we’re provided welcome distraction by the familiar rumblings of a Swan family argument springing to life in the hallway outside Fleur’s room. The Swans love nothing better than a good argument with each other. I’m surprised any of the doors in the house are still on their hinges. However, this time it sounds like Paddy is embroiled in a furious disagreement with only himself. This is pretty good going, even for him.
“How? How?! How?” Paddy is shouting. “Please tell me how you can get halfway round the bloody world on a rickshaw, dodging killer crocodiles and flash floods, but you still can’t turn a light off when you walk out of a room! How?”
Silence.
“Oh, yes, of course, I know!” continues Paddy. “It’s because it’s my money paying the bills, isn’t it? My money that I slave blood and sweat in the coal mines every day for.”
“Isn’t your dad an investment banker?” whispers Claude.
“Yes,” affirms Fleur. “His office is down a mine shaft, apparently.”
“Because it doesn’t matter if it’s Paddy paying the bills, does it? Yes, you can survive in the Nepalese Khumbu region on two rupees a day, can’t you? But once you’re under my roof, you’re as spendthrift as your mother! Why don’t we just all go out in the garden and burn my money! Burn it all! We could call it Paddy’s Summer Money Barbecue!”
“He’s really making some headway with his anger management course, isn’t he?” I whisper to Fleur.
“He’s the star pupil,” says Fleur witheringly.
“Of course, who would care if I went bankrupt? You’d all soon find another poor cretin to sponge off of,” continues Paddy. “I’m just a walking ATM to all of you. I should have a keypad fitted to my chest!”
The voice begins to feel louder and closer.
“And where’s that other daughter of mine? Is she in or out?”
“She’s in. Her bedroom light is on,” snaps Daphne “Nepal” Swan, finally squeezing an angry word in.
“Pah. That means nothing! I mean, sure, her bedroom light’s on. I can hear the jungle drums. But does that really mean anything ? She probably went out hours ago. You’re all the same!”
“Blah, blah, blah,” says Fleur, yawning widely and miming a big mouth opening and closing with her right hand.
Finally, Daphne begins letting rip: “Oooooh, you make me sooo cross sometimes, you infuriating man!” she screams. “Listen to yourself. Going on and on about lightbulbs. You are so boring! And also totally wrong on every count. I’ll have you know that I’m a very resourceful and sensible person ...”
“Cuh, well ... ,” snortles Paddy.
“... I’m still talking! Yes, where was I? That’s it, I’m a very resourceful young, er, adult. And it’s time you began treating me like that! It’s not my fault if I occasionally forget things like light switches! I’m a free spirit! But I’ll remind you that I managed to trek from Khari Khola right through to Gorak Shep without your constant nagging, thank you very much, Dad, and I can do without it now!”
Slam, crash, thump. It sounds like all areas of the Swan household are involved in the battle.
“Oh, well, congratulations!” scoffs Paddy. “I’m over the moon about your Nepalese shindig! Meanwhile, back in the real world, I was having panic attacks imagining you leaving a curling iron plugged in, draining the Nepalese national power grid and me getting invoiced for the outbreak of civil war!”
I have to smirk at that bit, but Daphne is certainly taking this to heart. “Ooooooooh, gnnngngnn! Right, that’s it! I’m leaving!” bellows Daphne, sounding almost choked. “I can’t wait to get out of this house. And this time I’m going to go even farther away and stay away for even longer! In fact, forever! Just you wait and see!”
“Hoo-hoo! Don’t get me excited!” guffaws Paddy. “What time does your banana boat leave? I’ll help you with your rucksack!”
We don’t call him Evil Paddy for nothing.
“Excellent,” mutters Fleur, filing her nails. “If she’s going for good, I’m definitely getting her room this time.”
“Awww, Fleur!” mutters Claude. “She sounds dead upset.”
“Ooh, you’ll regret saying that when I’m gone,” Daphne warns Paddy.
“No, I won’t,” he says. “I’m not in the slightest alarmed. The more I try to get rid of you bloody people, the more you come back! That brother of yours is the same! Oh, yes, he keeps threatening to leave but oh, no, from the stench of feet and cigarette smoke billowing from under that door, he’s very much still in residence too. Oh, how I long for you all to leave me alone! How I dream of a quiet house where I can sit in peace without you bloody children!”
“You will regret being so mean to me! You huge pig!” Daphne rants. “I’m calling Mother at her Pilates workshop right now to tell her how you’ve chased me away. I’ll tell her I’m going to live in a hostel for vagrants and work in a massage parlor until I can save up for my ticket to remotest Tibet!”
Long silence.
“Seems a bit extreme,” mutters Paddy.
“I feel extreme!” shouts Daphne. “Stop telling me off like a little girl! I’m a twenty-year-old woman. I’m a responsible adult! Why can’t you just admit it!”
“
Well ... hmmm ... that’s as may be,” grunts Paddy.
“Go on, then, say it!” warbles Daphne.
Another long silence.
In Fleur’s bedroom, all three sets of LBD eyes are fixed upon the bedroom door. This is better than Eastenders!
“Okay! Okay!” grumbles Paddy. “You’re a responsible young adult. Now can I go, you annoying woman? I want to watch Robot Wars!”
As Paddy crashes down the stairs into the den, Claudette sits up on the bed with a start, wearing that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look that so often scares the pants off me.
“Noooo!” says Fleur, catching Claude’s drift immediately and springing to life.
“But this could be our only solution!” argues Claude, waving the final ticket at Fleur like a matador.
“Well, he did say she was responsible,” I say.
“Nooooooo!” shrieks Fleur again. “Nooooooo!”
It was a crazy plan, but it might just work.
And just at that instant, something I can’t really explain made me turn my head and look down upon Disraeli Road. Below, in the distance, my heart lurched as I spotted a familiar blond figure, skateboard under his arm, slowly walking away. Baggy jeans, red hoodie, shoulders slumped in a defeated manner. I’d know that silhouette anywhere, although somehow today he seemed different. The cocky swagger had all but gone.
thicker than water
Of course, Fleur kicked up a right fuss about the suggestion of inviting Daphne to Astlebury. She went totally ballistic, ranting that Daphne was a total dweeb (not really true: Daphne’s pretty cool, really, she’s into good music and is never short of a date) and an evil tyrant (also not true: she’s one of the knit-your-own-yogurt hippie-dippie brigade). Fleur also screeched that Daphne was a “proper little Princess Tippytoes,” “totally spoiled” and “always has to get her big schneck into everything.” Claude and I had to try really hard not to smirk at this point because ... oh, well, you know.
At one time, I thought having a big sister would be ace. Just like a best friend who lived with you all the time. And you could spend all your free time either gossiping about snogging or facedown in her vast makeup box or even braiding each other’s hair. Plus you’d have double the supercool wardrobe because you could steal all her hottest clothes.
Yes, I was a real dweeb when I was younger. I got more real after witnessing a row between Daphne and Fleur escalate into the sisters actually rolling around on the carpet, pulling each other’s hair and screeching.
It was over a pair of tweezers worth fifty-nine pence.
“It was the principle of the matter,” Fleur fumed as she was being grounded until just after 2012. “They were my tweezers!”
So anyway, suffice to say Fleur didn’t want Daphne cramping her style when she was on a mission to marry Spike Saunders.
But over Sunday and Monday when the LBD told our parents the stupendous news about the free tickets, it became the final card up our sleeve. Because of course our folks were ecstatic about Spike Saunders sending us tickets. And of course they all knew what a totally fantabulous once-in-a-lifetime happening this was. Of course they didn’t want to stop us having fun. No, no sirree. And of course Magda wanted me to “stop moping around over Prince Retard and enjoy being young.” And of course, Gloria Cassiera wanted to reward Claude for those eight straight A’s she got in her Year 10 exams. And extra specially, of course, Paddy wanted Fleur to stop stalking him around his own home asking him if she could go again and again like a stuck record.
But the bottom line was they just couldn’t let us.
Because we were just too young to go alone.
“We must come clean about that final ticket and invite Daphne,” Claude finally warned me and Fleur that Wednesday night. “Time’s running out. We’ve only got one week left now.”
Fleur fumed for a while, staring at her “Wall of Spike” poster montage, featuring several pictures of Spike Saunders’s naked bum, tattooed intricately with the sun rising from his bum crack. Eventually she turned to us with a pained yet stoic tone: “Okay, let’s just flipping do it then, shall we?”
Daphne and Paddy were summoned into LBD HQ, where we confessed exactly how many tickets Spike had given us. That wasn’t fun: I’ve been telling a lot of lies recently, but it never gets any easier.
Of course, all hell immediately broke loose. Daphne went absolutely wild with excitement. She even offered to drive the LBD the 600 miles round-trip to Marmaduke Orchards, where the festival is held, in her silver Mini Cooper.
“That would be like a proper road trip! Woweeee!” I grinned.
“Oh my God, that would be sooooo great, Daphne!” hooted Claude.
Fleur said nothing.
“Er, excuse me, has someone thrown my invisibility cloak over me again?” shouted Paddy, looking more than a little weary. “Can anyone actually see me here?”
“Oh, sorry, Dad,” said Daphne respectfully. “Of course, I know you’ve still got final say on this. I mean, you’re the head of the house, after all.”
“You total ass kisser,” whispered Fleur.
“Oh, why don’t you just shut your trap, knock knees,” retorted Daphne.
“I’d rather have knock knees than a wonky eye,” said Fleur, crossing her eyes cruelly.
“Shh, Fleur. Daphne’s doing us a favor here!” shouted Claude.
“Oh, go on, take her side!” huffed Fleur, crossing her arms.
And at this point I was just about to get in with my tuppence worth, when I noticed that Paddy’s eyes looked about ready to explode.
“Enoooooooough!” shouted Paddy, clutching his stubbly head. “Enough bickering! You’re all driving me insane!”
Now we’d really blown it. Not only had we lied to Mr. Swan in a bid to go to Astlebury alone, but we’d then added insult to injury by squabbling like kids in front of him. Paddy was staring at the four of us with a look of utter bamboozlement, his eyes had narrowed and his mind seemed to be racing with thoughts.
“Right. I’m going to act swiftly on these new developments,” he announced officiously, slamming the door to Fleur’s bedroom as he left. Paddy did act swiftly. He vanished into his study, plundered his Rolodex and within that very hour telephoned Loz, Magda, and Gloria, inviting them to a meeting at the Swan house the following evening.
“Oh, this will really be a night to remember, believe me!” I heard Paddy ranting down the phone line as I tiptoed to the bathroom. “I’m really ready to let off some steam.”
Back in Fleur’s bedroom, the girls let out a groan when I told them.
You should never make Paddy Swan angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.
“Oi bleugh,” grunts Joshua, stuffing his face with an enormous tortilla chip and mayo sandwich. “If you were a proper sister, you’d give those tickets to me.”
“Oh, go and die, Joshua,” says Fleur crossly as the LBD slump miserably around the Swans’ kitchen table, gathering our nerves to face Parent Inc., who are gathered in the den. “I’d rather drop them down the drain.”
“Oh, well, that’s charming,” says Josh. “That’s the last time I give you lot a lift anywhere.”
“You don’t give us lifts anywhere,” says Fleur.
“Well, that’s because you’re all about ten and you don’t go anywhere,” says Joshua smugly.
Fleur scowls at Josh, clearly wanting to strangle him.
“And from what I gather from Paddy,” Josh smirks, “you especially aren’t going to Astlebury Festival!”
Josh picks bread out of his back teeth, examines it, then eats it.
Yuk. How can he be so vile and still have so many women hanging about him?
“Right, anyway, girlies, can’t waste time gossiping,” Josh says. “I’m off to Wazzle’s house. We’re building a laser. See you later, eh?”
As he reaches the door, he turns and grins. “Oh, and by the way, I won’t be requiring those tickets anyway ... kind of you to offer though.”
“Why’
s that?” sighs Fleur.
“ ’Cos I’m off to Amsterdam next weekend with the lads, remember ? For Fordy’s eighteenth birthday? We’re taking him to a strip joint. It’s gonna be a total riot!”
We all stare at him in varying stages of annoyance or disgust.
“Hey, but before I go,” he smiles, “Ronnie, pull my finger, will you?”
Josh holds out his hand with the little pinkie stuck out.
“Why?” I ask.
“Just pull it,” he says.
I pull the slightly nicotine-stained finger as Fleur looks on in total disbelief.
“Ronnie! Don’t!” she squeals, but it’s too late. Paaaaaaaaaaaaarp goes the unmistakable sound of Joshua’s bum letting rip. A tremendous unholy stench fills the air.
“Gahhhhhh! Josssssssh! You’re vile!” screams Fleur, running for the window.
“See ya!” says Josh, with a huge satisfied grin, exiting stage left.
“Ladies, we’re ready for you now,” announces Mr. Patrick Swan, sticking his head around the door. “Could you all make your way orderly into the interrogation chamber, er ... pardon me, I mean, the den.”
“We’re on our way,” says Fleur in defeated tones.
Paddy looks around the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. “I take it I’ve just missed my son?” he says, flapping his hand around to disperse the acrid bum fumes.
Fleur says nothing. She just scowls.
the crunch
“It was a farce, Patrick, a total farce,” mutters my mother, perched on the Swans’ pale leather sofa. “The police should never have been involved. What a waste of time!”
“Thank you, Magda! Yes, the whole fandango was a diabolical miscarriage of justice,” Paddy fumes from his leather La-Z-Boy chair.
“Everyone at my golf club agrees with me too.”
“Not everyone, darling,” says Saskia Swan, clad in flawless cream silk trousers and an elegant cream cotton blouse. “The judge who cautioned you plays a round or two down at Greenford Drive? He certainly thought you were guilty.”
