CATHY CASSIDY
Daizy Star
Ooh la la!
PUFFIN
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Books for younger readers
SHINE ON, DAIZY STAR
DAIZY STAR AND THE PINK GUITAR
STRIKE A POSE, DAIZY STAR
DAIZY STAR, OOH LA LA!
Books for older readers
DIZZY
DRIFTWOOD
INDIGO BLUE
SCARLETT
SUNDAE GIRL
LUCKY STAR
GINGER SNAPS
ANGEL CAKE
DREAMS AND DOODLES DAYBOOK
LETTERS TO CATHY
Hi …
I’m Daizy Star, and my life is getting kind of crazy. I’m trying to discover my Star Quality, and I don’t have much time because I am getting to the end of Year Six and I really, really need to know what my talent in life will be. I am also trying to learn French, because we are going on the best school trip in the history of the universe … ooh la la!
It is good to be learning a language – it takes my mind off Dad’s new job, which is seriously dodgy. It’s not so much what he is doing – it’s what he WEARS while he’s doing it. Not good. And, if that’s not bad enough, my best friends are growing up way too fast and the idea of secondary school is giving me nightmares …
Love, hugs and custard doughnuts,
Some days are cool, right from the start. It’s Friday and the sun is shining and Murphy Malone, who is one of my best friends ever, has bought a bag of custard doughnuts to share on the walk to school.
My little sister Pixie skips on ahead, kicking through the fallen blossom in the park. What could be more perfect?
Then I remember that our teacher, Miss Moon, has promised us a surprise today.
I frown a little.
‘What do you think the surprise will be?’ I ask Murphy, licking the sugar from my lips. ‘Something to do with secondary school?’
I hope not. We are in our last term at primary now and our first taster day for Brightford Academy is looming. My best friends Beth, Willow and Murphy are taking it in their stride, but it feels slightly scary to me. I don’t like change, and this whole growing-up lark is moving way too fast.
‘Stop worrying,’ Murphy says. ‘We know all about that, so it wouldn’t be a surprise. Maybe it’s about the Year Six trip?’
‘Oh, I hope so!’
The Year Six trip is legendary. Every year, the top class at Stella Street Primary goes away for four whole days of fun. Last year’s class went camping in the Lake District. They kayaked and abseiled and it rained so much that three of the tents collapsed in the middle of the night, but they said they had the best time ever.
We turn into the school gates. Pixie runs off to find her friends, and Murphy and I hook up with Beth and Willow to share out the last of the doughnuts and wonder about Miss Moon’s promised surprise. Then the bell rings and we file into class, and my eyes open wide.
The whole place has turned French overnight! A big map of France, a poster of the Eiffel Tower and a flag striped blue, white and red have been pinned to the wall. One desk is covered with a red-checked tablecloth and piled high with strings of onions, garlic, baguettes and stinky cheese.
Miss Moon comes in with a tray of warm croissants and a jug of hot chocolate, and tells us that the first bit of the lesson is to eat breakfast French-style.
This is a big improvement on the porridge-and-prunes combo Dad has been serving up lately.
Willow puts her hand in the air. ‘Are we doing a project on France, Miss?’ she asks. ‘That would be seriously awesome!’
‘In a way, we are,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Soon, you will be moving up to secondary school, Year Six …’
My heart sinks – the idea of secondary school makes me fizz with excitement one minute and prickle with fear the next.
‘It will be a challenge,’ Miss Moon is saying. ‘There will be new subjects to tackle, and French will be one of them. I thought we would prepare a little. Welcome to French Friday!’
‘Ooh la la,’ Beth says carelessly, as if Brightford Academy holds no fears at all for her. It probably doesn’t – lately, I have been noticing that my friends seem much more confident about the leap to secondary school than I do.
Besides, Beth has actually been to France on a day trip with her mum and dad, which means she is just about fluent in French already. Ooh la la sounds very exotic – Beth says it means ‘wow’.
We spend the whole morning learning French, and it’s fun. We practise buying baguettes and fromage and oignons, using proper euros as currency and dropping in the occasional ooh la la whenever we can. We learn to count to ten and name every fruit, vegetable and animal we can think of.
Ethan Miller, the most annoying boy in the class, even finds out the French for football. ‘Le football,’ he repeats, thoughtfully, which just goes to prove that almost anyone can learn French.
We write our new words down in a special jotter with Le Français written on the cover, which is actually very cool.
‘Très froid,’ I say, testing out the French version of this, and Willow raises an eyebrow.
‘Very cold?’ she asks. ‘What are you talking about, Daizy Star?’
‘It means cool,’ I tell her. ‘Well, sort of. Very cold means cooler than cool, obviously. And I am talking about French Friday. Très, très froid.’
‘Right,’ Willow says.
‘I hope you have enjoyed trying out your new language skills,’ Miss Moon smiles. ‘When you get to secondary school, your French teachers will be very impressed!’
I pull a face. The first taster day for Brightford Academy is a fortnight away, and I am not sure I am ready. Here at Stella Street Primary, we are Year Sixes, the oldest, wisest kids in the school. Once we start at Brightford Academy we will be the bottom of the heap. It’s a scary thought.
‘There is one last thing I’d like to talk to you about,’ Miss Moon tells us. ‘As you know, Year Six always takes a class trip towards the end of term …’
Everyone sits up extra straight. The Year Six trip is the big one, and we have been waiting to see what Miss Moon has planned for us. Going on a school trip with your mates has got to be pretty awesome. I’m not sure I fancy soggy sleeping bags or dangling from a rope in the driving rain, but being with your very best friends, eating custard doughnuts at midnight and vowing to stick together through thick and thin would be the kind of thing you’d never forget.
‘I wonder where we’ll be going this year?’ I whisper to Beth and Willow. ‘I’m not sure if Miss Moon is a tents-and-kayaking kind of teacher …’
An idea begins to unfurl in my brain, a crazy idea, an impossible, wonderful one. French Friday. Supposing it isn’t just about helping us with our secondary school lessons?
No, even Miss Moon couldn’t be quite that amazing. Could she?
‘This year, Class Six, I thought we’d try something different,’ she is saying. ‘Something special. I have talked to Mr Smart, the head teacher, and he is a hundred per cent behind me. He thinks, as I do, that you are a very special year group, and could rise to this challenge very well. You are mature, trustworthy, reliable and eager to learn …’
I glance at Ethan Miller, who has ducked down behind his desk and is se
cretly applying gobbets of shimmery hair gel to his already vertical fringe. He is the kind of boy who likes to think he has whole crowds of girls crushing on him, which just goes to prove that he is actually not very bright.
Although Beth and Willow do seem to think he is cute, that can only mean one thing. They need an urgent trip to the optician.
I am not sure if Ethan is mature, reliable or eager to learn, but I like the fact that Miss Moon can always see the best in people. She has even given Ethan Miller the coveted Star of the Week award once or twice, which is once or twice more than me. Not that I am the kind of person to hold a grudge. Obviously.
‘This year’s trip could be the most exciting ever,’ Miss Moon says. ‘I have checked out prices and travel and places to stay, and drawn up a list of activities. It won’t be much more expensive than the camping trips were, and it would be an amazing opportunity for you all …’
I think I might explode any minute now, unless Miss Moon spills the beans on our Year Six trip.
‘Where are we going, Miss?’ I plead. ‘You have to tell us!’
‘I will, Daizy,’ she smiles. ‘You’ll all be given a letter and some forms to take home to your parents. Thank you for working so hard this morning, and making French Friday so much fun. I hope you’ll keep on working at your French because in June we will be going on the trip of a lifetime … Year Six, I am taking you to Paris!’
Across the table, Beth and Willow meet my gaze, eyes shining, and my best boy-mate, Murphy Malone, is grinning with delight. My heart thumps.
I can picture us now – me, Murphy, Beth and Willow, posing for pictures at the top of the Eiffel Tower. How totally, awesomely cool would that be?
Paris. I am so excited I think I might faint.
‘Ooh la la,’ I whisper.
Paris! I can hardly believe it. I have never been abroad, not ever. Last year we had a day trip to Eastbourne and there have been a few caravan holidays at drizzly British resorts in the past, but money has been so tight lately that treats have been right off-limits.
There is no way we’ll be going anywhere exciting this summer because Dad is having a mid-life crisis and has chucked in his job as a geography teacher to follow his dreams. Mum is working double shifts at the hospital to try and make ends meet, so this trip is my one and only chance to do something cool.
‘Do they have mermaids there?’ Pixie asks as we set the table for tea. ‘French ones?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I frown.
‘You’re so lucky,’ my big sister Becca sighs. ‘Paris is the city of romance.’
‘I am not looking for romance,’ I say firmly. ‘Or mermaids. I am just looking for fun with my friends, and chocolate croissants. And possibly one of those berets everyone seems to wear, because they are très, très froid.’
Dad sets down a pan of lentil stew and Mum pours out juice, and everyone sits down to eat.
‘So,’ I blurt, launching straight into it. ‘Can I go to Paris, please?’
That gets Mum and Dad’s attention. ‘Paris?’ they echo.
‘For the Year Six trip,’ I explain. ‘In June. We had a letter about it today. Miss Moon says it will improve our French and we will learn about culture and art and history. We will get to eat croissants for breakfast. And it’s got to be better than dangling from a rope in torrential rain, right?’
‘Er … right,’ Dad says uncertainly. ‘Lovely, Daizy. But how much is all this going to cost?’
‘Cost?’ I frown. ‘You can’t put a price on learning, Dad! This trip is the chance of a lifetime!’
‘It’s a bargain,’ Mum says, scanning through the letter. ‘The trouble is, Daizy … well, we are seriously short of cash right now. Your dad isn’t working and I’m having to cover the mortgage and the bills on one salary. Becca needs a new coat, Pixie needs shoes and you need a whole new uniform for when you start at Brightford Academy. I’m not sure we can manage an overseas trip at the moment, on top of all that.’
My whole world crumbles. I should have thought of this – I know we don’t have money to spare right now, but I didn’t realize just how bad things were.
Disappointment lies cold and sour in my stomach. Or perhaps that’s just the lentil stew.
‘Please!’ I beg. ‘I have to go! I just have to!’
I have never missed a school trip before. Of course, past trips have usually involved a bus ride to the city farm or a day mooching around a museum full of dusty old relics. I would have missed every single one of them if it meant I could go to Paris.
‘I’m not saying you can’t go, Daizy,’ Mum sighs. ‘I’m just saying that it might be tricky. We’re struggling as it is, and losing the car was the last straw …’
I raise an eyebrow. We didn’t exactly ‘lose’ the car. Dad parked it on a beach a while ago and the tide came in and flooded it with saltwater, seaweed and crabs. Dad bought a rickety old van to replace it, but it’s such a wreck it doesn’t actually work yet.
‘I’ve got seventy-three pence in my piggy bank,’ Pixie says helpfully.
‘It’s not really enough, Pixie,’ Dad sighs. ‘Perhaps if we cut back a bit? Sell something?’
My sister Becca rolls her eyes. ‘What are you going to cut back on?’ she asks. ‘We’re already surviving on lentil stew. What’s next? Are you going to stop my violin lessons or Pixie’s swimming club?’
‘It won’t come to that,’ Dad says. ‘We are just watching the pennies, that’s all. It’s good for our health as well as our finances!’
‘Lentil stew is not good for my health,’ Becca says darkly. ‘Besides, I haven’t noticed you cutting back, Dad. You bought all those horrible bits of engine for the van the other day, and now they are strewn all over the garden because you won’t admit you don’t actually know what to do with them!’
‘I do!’ Dad argues. ‘These things take time, that’s all. I have plans for a brilliant new business, and in a couple of months –’
‘Dad!’ I wail. ‘It has to be now! The forms have to be signed and the money handed in because we are going in June. That’s only six weeks away!’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Daizy, don’t worry … I know how much this trip means to you. I know the last few months haven’t been easy. You’re a good girl – of course you can go on the Year Six trip. I’ll take on some extra shifts at the hospital to cover the costs.’
My heart does a double backflip, then crashes abruptly.
Extra shifts? Mum has already taken on more hours since Dad quit his job. She always looks tired, lately. I am not sure I want her to work more shifts, even if that does mean I can go to Paris. It doesn’t seem right.
I look at Mum and then, slowly, I look at Dad. I notice that Mum, Pixie and Becca are all looking at him too.
‘What?’ he protests. ‘What have I done now?’
‘You packed in your job for no good reason and money has been short ever since,’ Becca says sternly. ‘Mum has been working extra hours for ages now to try and keep us afloat, while you just dream up one crazy idea after another. She can’t do any more, it’s wearing her out as it is! You have to stop this stupid mid-life crisis, Dad. It’s not fair on any of us!’
He looks baffled. ‘I agree that your mum is working hard enough already. But I have big plans! When I get the van fixed up I will launch my new business!’
Outside the window, the van, a rusting heap of metal tied together with string and gaffer tape, is slumped on the driveway in a puddle of engine oil. I try to smile, but I feel like crying.
Unless Dad’s new business is scrap-metal dealing, things are not looking good.
‘I’m going to turn it into a mobile eco-workshop to spread the word about green issues,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll tour local schools and community centres, showing people how to compost and recycle. It could be a real moneymaker!’
‘I seriously doubt it,’ Becca huffs.
‘Mike,’ Mum says patiently. ‘Launching a business takes time. Daizy needs to hand in her forms and
make the first payment next week. Perhaps we could sell the van?’
‘I’d rather not,’ he frowns. ‘Besides, I’m not sure anyone would actually buy it. I reckon that, in time, my business idea will take off …’
Any last fragments of hope that I can go on the school trip begin to wither and die. At this rate, I may still be dreaming of Paris when I’m old and grey.
Mum rolls her eyes, defeated, but my big sister doesn’t give up that easily.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she says. ‘It’s simple, Dad. We’ve had enough of your crazy plans to last a lifetime, and right now, Daizy needs you. Why don’t you just get a JOB?’
Dad looks astonished, as if the thought has never occurred to him before, but he sees my hopeful face and squares his shoulders bravely.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘A job. You know … I might just do that!’
As the week wears on, it is clear that Dad is not planning to dig out his suit and go back to his old job teaching geography at Green Lane Community School. He has other ideas, and they are very, very scary.
‘I can’t expect to pick up a teaching job at the drop of a hat,’ he says, filling out endless application forms. ‘It makes more sense to broaden my scope a little.’
‘You ditched your job at the drop of a hat,’ Becca points out.
‘That was different,’ he huffs. ‘I am looking for new challenges now. Eco-friendly career paths.’
I shuffle through the application letters. ‘Wildflower Meadow Manager?’ I read aloud. ‘Compost Consultant? Yurt-maker?’
‘These are not career paths,’ Becca snorts. ‘They’re dead ends. They won’t make enough money to send Daizy to France. Get real!’
‘Relax,’ Dad says. ‘I will find a job, and Daizy will go to Paris. Trust me!’
The problem is that these days, I’m not sure if I do.
When he is not job-hunting, Dad works on the van. The creaking back doors are patched and oiled and the spluttering exhaust pipe replaced. Sprayed a glossy green, the van looks almost respectable, even if it does stink of chips every time Dad starts it up.
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