Daizy Star, Ooh La La!

by Cathy Cassidy

  When I have checked everything over for the final time, I will have my tea and go to bed early because the sooner morning comes round the better.

  Things do not go according to plan.

  ‘Surprise!’ Mum says, when Pixie and I get home from school. ‘You’re off to France in the morning, so your dad suggested a special treat, a meal out to wish you bon voyage. What do you think?’

  ‘Cool!’ I grin. ‘Pizza? With extra cheese and pineapple and hot chocolate fudge cake and ice cream for afters?’

  Mum looks shifty. ‘Not exactly …’

  ‘Fish and chips?’ I appeal. ‘Ice-cream sundaes?’

  Behind Mum, Becca rolls her eyes. ‘Bean stew and tofu cake, more like,’ she sighs. ‘We are going to the Squirrel & Lentil. Dad has reserved a table for us.’

  The smile slides from my face.

  ‘Do you want to invite Beth and Willow along?’ Mum asks. ‘Or Murphy?’

  ‘No!’ I say, alarmed. ‘They’ll be much too busy. Besides … it’s meant to be a special family meal, right?’

  ‘It’s whatever you want it to be,’ Mum says.

  ‘Let’s make it just us then,’ I say guiltily. ‘That’s what I’d like.’

  It is not what I’d like, exactly, but it’s a million times better than subjecting my friends to a meal of stewed turnip and alfalfa sprouts. And there is just NO WAY in the world I will ever live it down if Beth or Willow catch sight of Dad in his giant squirrel suit.

  The Squirrel & Lentil doesn’t look as bad as I had feared. The tables are draped with red-and-white-checked tablecloths, the walls are painted a cheery yellow and there are some fairly normal people scattered about the place, as well as a few ageing hippies dressed in hand-woven hessian and tasselled velvet flares.

  Then I spot Dad, in his squirrel disguise. I paste a frozen smile on my face as he hands us each a menu.

  ‘What do you think?’ Dad asks, his fluffy tail bobbing dangerously. ‘This café is cool, isn’t it? A great place to hang out and drink a banana smoothie or a soya latte. Now you’ve seen it, you can tell your friends, maybe call in with them now and again after school.’

  ‘Erm …’ I say awkwardly.

  ‘Well …’ Pixie cringes.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Becca snaps. My big sister can be a little blunt at times, but at least she is honest, I guess …

  ‘Let’s just enjoy our meal, shall we?’ Mum sighs. ‘This is Daizy’s bon voyage dinner, so forget the sales pitch. What should we order?’

  We finally settle for tofu burgers with rhubarb crumble and soya custard for afters. The burger is OK, especially when smothered in lots of wholefood tomato sauce, but the rhubarb crumble tastes like sour string and grit served up with yellow wallpaper paste.

  My face is scrunched up with despair after just one bite, and Dad bustles off to the kitchen for date syrup to sweeten the taste before Pixie’s cries of disgust upset the other diners.

  And that is when Ethan Miller walks into the café, carrying a cardboard box of raggedy green leaves.

  ‘Your delivery of farm-fresh wild salad,’ he says cheerily to the girl behind the counter, and she takes the box and hands him a tenner from the till.

  I panic. Ethan Miller must not see me here. He is the most annoying boy in the whole of Stella Street Primary, and he could never, ever be trusted with the secret of the giant red squirrel. I slide off my chair and try to hide under the table behind the red-checked tablecloth before Ethan has a chance to turn round.

  ‘Daizy?’ Mum says, alarmed. ‘What are you doing? Are you all right?’

  ‘I dropped my spoon,’ I whisper. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  I cross my fingers and hope that Ethan vanishes as quickly as he appeared. Why would anyone want to hang around in the Squirrel & Lentil, after all?

  Luck is not on my side.

  ‘Hello, Ethan!’ Pixie pipes up. ‘What are you doing here? Whatever you do, don’t buy the rhubarb crumble because my dad invented it and it tastes absolutely revolting.’

  Ethan laughs, and as I peer out from under the red-checked tablecloth, I see his feet in muddy trainers approaching the table.

  ‘I’m not eating here,’ he says brightly. ‘I’m just making a delivery for my uncle. He’s a goat farmer, as you know, but lately he has been doing a nice sideline in dandelion and sorrel leaves for the Squirrel & Lentil. They’re just weeds, but my uncle says, if people are silly enough to pay good money for them …’

  ‘I expect they are very tasty weeds,’ Mum says politely.

  ‘Is this a family outing then?’ Ethan asks. ‘Where’s Daizy?’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Under the table, looking for a spoon,’ Pixie chirps, and the next thing I know the red-checked tablecloth is lifted up and Ethan’s grinning face appears.

  ‘Daizy,’ he says. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Ethan,’ I growl. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ I crawl out from my hiding place, a little red-faced, while Mum asks Ethan if he is looking forward to the Paris trip.

  ‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘We can’t wait, can we, Daizy? Paris in the spring … ooh la la!’

  My face turns purple with rage, then drains of colour completely as Dad appears from the kitchen in his squirrel finery, brandishing the date syrup. ‘Here we are!’ he calls over. ‘A little swirl of this will soon put the smiles back on your faces!’

  Ethan smirks. ‘Bizarre place, this,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure about the squirrel guy, are you?’

  ‘We have never been sure about the squirrel guy,’ Becca says with a sigh, but Mum just laughs.

  ‘Ethan … this is Daizy’s dad,’ she announces. ‘Mike, this is Daizy’s schoolfriend, Ethan. His uncle supplies your wild salad leaves, isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘Amazing!’ Dad beams, his tufty ears twitching and his tail swaying slightly. ‘Nice to meet you, Ethan!’

  He shakes hands with Ethan and I close my eyes and cover my ears so I do not have to see Ethan’s grin or hear his snorting laugh. It is too, too shameful.

  When I open my eyes again, Ethan is on his way out, waving and winking at me in a way that leaves me certain he will make my life a misery from now on with his squirrelly little secret.

  The next morning, I am up before dawn and dressed soon after in an outfit I bought last weekend from a charity shop in town. I look cool, calm and very, very French in my stripy top, dark shades and black beret – exactly like the cartoon pictures in Miss Moon’s French For Beginners book.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ Becca asks over the breakfast table. ‘Daizy, you cannot go to France looking like that! People will laugh!’

  I tilt my chin in the air. Becca may be the best big sister in the world but she is wrong about this. I am French at heart, I’m certain of it, and I just want to look the part.

  An hour later, I’m feeling less certain. Beth and Willow laughed when they saw my beret, shades and stripy top, and asked me where I’d left my garlic and my baguette. I explained that I would be adding those accessories once I actually got to France, but they just giggled and rolled their eyes, which was not encouraging.

  I thought friends were supposed to be supportive? If Beth and Willow are being this weird about shades, a beret and a stripy top, they definitely cannot find out about Dad’s giant squirrel suit. I’d never hear the last of it. If word got out it would destroy any hope of me settling in well at Brightford Academy. I’d be a laughing stock.

  Still, my secret should be safe in Paris – as long as I can bribe Ethan Miller into silence.

  ‘Does wandering about in fancy dress run in your family?’ he asks brightly, as we climb the steps up into the coach.

  ‘Do not mention the giant red squirrel,’ I hiss under my breath.

  ‘What’s it worth to stay silent?’ Ethan grins, winking horribly.

  I grit my teeth and slip him one of my emergency custard doughnuts. It shuts him up – for now at least. I have a feeling I haven’t heard the last of it, though
.

  ‘Do I look like I’m in fancy dress?’ I appeal to Murphy, as we settle into our seats.

  ‘No-o, not exactly,’ he sighs kindly. ‘You are just pushing back the barriers, making a style statement. If you can’t do that in Paris, then where can you? Paris is the fashion capital of the world!’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I’ll fit in perfectly once I get there, right?’

  Murphy looks uncertain. ‘Maybe,’ he says.

  Miss Moon checks the register one last time and the coach revs and purrs into life. Mum, Dad, Becca and Pixie wave from the playground with all the other families as we move off across the car park and out into the road.

  I feel a stab of sadness as I wave back. Even though Dad has the most embarrassing job in the world, I love him, especially when he is not wearing his dodgy squirrel suit. Mum is the best mum in the universe, and Becca and Pixie are without a doubt the coolest sisters ever. I adjust my dark shades bravely.

  A lot is riding on this trip. It may not have started well, but I know I can turn that around. I need to reconnect with my best friends and find a way to keep us close; and, of course, I must discover my destiny. The final quest for my star quality has begun!

  I stagger off the coach that afternoon, crumpled, tired and slightly travel-sick after a choppy ferry crossing and hours on a French Autoroute. It is a long way from Brightford to Paris, but we are here now, and I can’t stop smiling.

  We pick up our bags and follow Miss Moon to the Hotel Escargot, a small, budget hotel tucked away above a café. The sun is shining and people are sitting at pavement tables, reading French newspapers and sipping café au lait, while a skinny, scruffy white cat slinks along beneath the tables, looking for scraps. It all looks so cool … so French!

  ‘Wow!’ Beth whispers. ‘I can’t believe it! We are in Paris!’

  ‘At last,’ Willow breathes.

  ‘Très, très froid,’ I agree.

  Some of the French people give me funny looks as I follow my friends into the café. I expect this is because I do not look like a British schoolgirl but an actual French girl. I smile sweetly from behind my shades, then bump into one of the café tables. Ethan Miller laughs and tells me I’ll probably break my neck if I insist on wearing sunglasses inside, which totally shows how little he knows about being French.

  A plump, smiley woman called Madame Le Chapeau welcomes us in heavily accented English.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ she says, grinning. ‘You are all most welcome to the Hotel Escargot and to Paris! Please be at home and enjoy it all … let me know if there is anything you need! This is my father, Pierre … he will show you to your rooms, tout de suite!’

  An elderly man with a big white moustache, a blue waistcoat and a real, genuine French beret ambles towards us. I elbow Beth and Willow. ‘See!’ I whisper. ‘They do wear berets! I told you!’

  Pierre picks up a couple of suitcases and leads the way up the winding staircase. The girls are on the first floor, our rooms ranged along the hallway, each with several beds and a shared bathroom. I am sharing with Beth and Willow. Miss Moon and Miss Kelly, the teaching assistant, have a room at the end of the hall, and the boys are on the top floor with Mr March, the football coach, who has been roped in as an extra helper.

  ‘You will be comfortable, I hope,’ Pierre says. ‘Just call me if there is anything you need, oui? I am happy to help!’

  Pierre has the same strong accent as Madame Le Chapeau. He says ‘zee’ instead of ‘the’ and ‘zer’ instead of ‘there’. It is just too exciting for words. We are actually here, in Paris, in FRANCE, with real, live French people!

  If I peer over the edge of the top bunk and squint through the blossom on the trees outside the window, I can actually see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Beth says it is just a very tall electricity pylon, but I disagree. I wish I had thought of bringing binoculars or a telescope, for proof.

  ‘We are actually ’ere,’ I sigh. ‘In zee capital city of art and culture and ’istory. Eet ees so exciting!’

  My friends stare at me, horrified.

  ‘Why are you talking like that?’ Willow asks.

  ‘Everybody talks like zis, ’ere,’ I shrug.

  Willow puts her hands on her hips. ‘That is because they are French people, trying to speak English,’ she says sternly. ‘You actually ARE English, Daizy, so why are you speaking with a funny French accent? They’ll think you are making fun of them!’

  I blink. ‘I’m not!’ I protest, reverting back to my usual accent at once. ‘It’s because I admire them! I want to be just like them!’

  ‘Is that what the stripy T-shirt and the beret and the shades are all about?’ Beth asks. ‘Are you trying to look French? I thought it was some kind of joke!’

  ‘It’s not a joke!’ I say in a small voice. ‘I feel French. Maybe it’s my star quality!’

  ‘Daizy,’ Beth says patiently. ‘Being French is NOT a star quality. It’s just something you are … or not. And you are not!’

  ‘Inside I am!’ I say stubbornly.

  ‘You were born in Brightford!’ Willow points out. ‘So were your parents, and theirs. You’re not French!’

  My shoulders droop. ‘I’d like to be,’ I sigh. In my imagination, the French are everything I want to be: cool, sophisticated, mysterious … and a safe distance from the dangers of giant red squirrels. But the truth is I am not French, and I never will be.

  ‘A star quality is different,’ Beth says. ‘It’s about skill, talent. It could be ballet, like me, or singing, like Willow, or football, like Ethan, or art, like Murphy Malone. You just haven’t found yours yet.’

  ‘I know,’ I say sadly. ‘But I am close. I can sense it, feel it. I will find my star quality in France, I know it!’

  ‘Relax about the star quality thing,’ Willow says, a little irritated. ‘It’s getting to be a bit of an obsession.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s like it’s all you ever think about,’ Beth sighs. ‘All this year. Seriously, Daizy. Forget the star quality. Just be yourself!’

  Hurt stings me, sharp as a slap. Obsessed? The injustice of it curls around my heart. Why can’t Beth and Willow understand? After all, they each have a star quality and I don’t. As for ‘being myself’ – well, who else would I be?

  They drift back to the bathroom to get changed and I am left alone, wondering if the only thing I can actually feel in the air is cheap bodyspray and the faint aroma of coffee wafting up from downstairs.

  It is not enough to look the part, to speak fluent French or eat croissants every day. If ‘being French’ is not my hidden talent, well, I will just have to work out what is …

  The next morning we are up early, eating croissants and sipping hot chocolate in the Hotel Escargot café. Pierre is sitting in the corner, drawing in a big sketchbook, and I sneak over to look. He has drawn a portrait of Ethan Miller eating a croissant, and it is awesome.

  ‘Wow!’ I breathe. ‘Pierre, you are a real, live artist!’

  ‘It’s a hobby of mine,’ he shrugs. ‘Since I’ve retired. It’s my dream – sometimes I go up to Sacré-Coeur and sketch for the tourists, but mostly I’m happy to draw here. I have a little studio, a shed in the yard. I will show you perhaps, while you are here.’

  ‘Please!’ I say. ‘That would be cool. We are going to some art galleries today, and tomorrow we’re doing some drawings of our own.’

  Pierre smiles. ‘All the best artists have lived and worked in Paris. It’s a very inspiring city!’

  ‘I think so too,’ I say. I am wondering if perhaps art might be my star quality, and if Pierre could give me a few tips, when Miss Moon calls me over to join the others. We set off to the Louvre, one of the most famous museums in the world. The little white cat I saw last night follows us all the way to the Métro station.

  ‘D’you think that cat is OK?’ I ask Beth and Willow. ‘It looks a bit lost …’

  But when I look round, the cat has vanished, a
nd Miss Moon ushers us down into the Métro.

  At the Louvre we take a tour of the most famous paintings, which are very old and very serious. I cannot help noticing that some of the people in those pictures have forgotten to put their clothes on, and Ethan Miller notices too and snorts with laughter and says ‘ooh la la!’ over and over until Miss Moon tells him to get a grip.

  ‘Got any more secret custard doughnuts SQUIRRELLED away, Daizy?’ Ethan asks later, smirking, as I sit outside the Louvre in the sunshine eating my packed lunch.

  ‘Shhh!’ I hiss, furious. ‘You said you wouldn’t mention squirrels!’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember that …’

  I fish another smuggled doughnut out of my bag and hand it over. ‘No more squirrel jokes, Ethan,’ I scowl. ‘Deal?’

  ‘Probably,’ he says. ‘Maybe. But … what if I forget?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I hiss. ‘Or I’ll have to find a way of shutting you up!’

  ‘Promises, promises,’ Ethan laughs, and saunters away with doughnut crumbs all over his face.

  We pile on to the Métro to go to our next art gallery, the Centre Pompidou. Murphy sits beside me, his eyes bright.

  ‘Having fun, Daizy?’ he wants to know.

  ‘Paris is amazing,’ I sigh. ‘I could stay here forever! Or … well, until the end of the trip, anyway.’

  ‘I know,’ Murphy grins. ‘Did you like the Louvre? Cool, huh?’

  ‘Sure,’ I agree, although I am actually not very sure at all. ‘It’s just that those pictures were all so … grand. And serious.’

  Murphy frowns. ‘Maybe the Louvre wasn’t quite your style. Wait till you see the stuff at the Centre Pompidou – I’ve been researching it. People don’t always understand modern art, but it’s cutting-edge stuff, worth millions. It’ll blow your socks off, Daizy!’

  I raise an eyebrow. My socks are over-the-knee ones, red with little black spots and tassels dangling from the top. I am not sure anything could blow them off, especially art, but you never know.