Shine On, Daizy Star

by Cathy Cassidy

  Then Dad arrives, his bicycle skidding across the gravel drive. A bottle of wine is poking out from the top of his rucksack, and a carrier bag from the bakery dangles from the bike’s handlebars.

  Dad is a geography teacher at Green Lane Community School, and he cycles to work because he’s kind of obsessive about the environment. He says it keeps him fit and keeps a lid on the stress, but I’m not sure if that’s worked today. He has a strange, wild-eyed look about him. His tie has gone askew in the breeze and thrown itself over one shoulder, and is hanging down behind.

  ‘Everything OK, Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Never better!’ He grins, but the grin is too bright. It’s the way I look when I’m about to go in to see the dentist, but don’t want anyone to know how nervous I’m feeling. Dad strides through to the garden and surveys our picnic table.

  ‘Fantastic idea,’ he says. ‘Today is a day to celebrate!’

  ‘Exactly,’ Becca says, looking up from her maths homework. ‘First day back at school and all that.’

  Dad just laughs, a strange, unsettling laugh, and dumps the bottle of wine and the carrier bag down on the table. Inside it is a box containing a huge, iced cake.

  Something very strange is going on. I lift the cake out on to a plate. It is a carrot cake, but not the loaf-shaped, stodgy kind Dad sometimes makes. This one is topped with buttercream with an icing-sugar carrot on the top. It makes my mouth water.

  By the time Mum’s car pulls into the drive, Dad has showered and changed and slipped his favourite CD into the player. ‘Good day at work, Livvi?’ he asks.

  Mum is a nurse at the big hospital in town. She is always full of stories about the people on the wards, like the sweet old lady who wears a purple wig, the man with the red pyjamas who sings sad ballads in the middle of the night, and the fitness instructor with a broken leg who has a secret stash of Twix bars hidden under his bed.

  Sometimes, though, there aren’t any stories and Mum is tired and stressy and sad. I suppose that looking after people who aren’t well must be hard work.

  ‘I had a good day,’ Mum replies. ‘You?’

  ‘The best!’ Dad laughs again, and it makes me nervous.

  ‘Kids? How was school?’

  ‘Great,’ says Becca. ‘I signed up for orchestra and advanced maths again, and I might even get to be form captain!’

  ‘My day was good too,’ I say. ‘We’ve got this great new teacher, Miss Moon…’

  ‘I made a dinosaur out of papier mâché,’ Pixie chips in. ‘It’s got three heads!’

  ‘Ah,’ Mum says politely, eyeing the cardboard creature dripping glue quietly on to the tablecloth. ‘Fabulous, Pixie!’

  We sit down to eat, and the late-afternoon sun warms our backs and the smell of jasmine wafts down from the trellis, and it’s all just about perfect. Except that today is a day of surprises, and the biggest one of all is yet to come.

  ‘I’m impressed, Mike,’ Mum says, sipping her wine. ‘Wine and cake? You really did have a good day at work, didn’t you? I know you weren’t looking forward to going back, but I told you it’d be fine, didn’t I?’

  Dad’s smile is so wide it looks like it’s fraying around the edges. Can’t Mum see that something is wrong?

  ‘Livvi…’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve quit my job.’

  As surprises go, it’s more of a bombshell.

  Mum chokes on her wine, spattering the tablecloth. Pixie has to pat her on the back.

  Dad sighs. ‘I haven’t been enjoying work lately, as you know. I’m trying my best to teach those kids about the hole in the ozone layer and the melting polar icecap, but all they care about whether they have enough cash to buy a Big Mac after school. And… well, there was a small incident.’

  ‘Incident?’ Mum echoes.

  ‘This afternoon, I was teaching the Year Nines about global warming. You know that big map of the world I’ve got on the wall? Craig Kennedy struck a match and set fire to it,’ Dad says. ‘I had to put it out with the fire extinguisher, but of course, the fire alarms had gone off by then. The whole school had to be evacuated.’

  Mum hides behind her hands, Becca’s eyes widen in horror and Pixie stifles a giggle and has to stuff a slice of quiche into her mouth to muffle the sound. Me, I just feel bad for Dad.

  ‘When all the fuss had died down, I asked Craig why he did it. He said he’d always wanted to set the world on fire,’ Dad goes on. ‘You see what I’m dealing with? Well, this was the last straw.

  ‘I told the Head I’d had enough. He said he’d be very sorry to see me go, but that perhaps a break would help me find my love of teaching again. I don’t even have to work out my notice… they have enough people to cover until a new teacher is appointed.’

  ‘Oh, Mike,’ Mum says. ‘What have you done?’

  I put my hand out across the table to Dad, and he takes it and squeezes it tight, winking at me.

  ‘You can get another job,’ Becca says. ‘You’ll have to, really.’

  ‘I don’t want one,’ Dad says firmly. ‘This is not a disaster – it’s a chance to jump off the treadmill and do something new. For years now, I’ve felt like a hamster in a cage, running faster and faster on my wheel and getting nowhere at all. It’s time to break free. If I don’t, I’ll end up a sad, shrivelled-up old has-been, with nothing left but regrets and broken dreams.’

  I swallow hard. I don’t want my dad to be a sad, shrivelled-up old has-been.

  ‘We can try the things we’ve always wanted to,’ Dad is saying. ‘Live life to the full! I’ve been thinking about this all summer, wishing we could have the chance to follow our dreams…’

  ‘This isn’t a dream, it’s a nightmare,’ Mum says.

  Dad laughs. ‘I know it’s a shock, but trust me, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us. It’s a second chance. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I have a plan…’

  ‘Plan?’ Mum repeats. ‘What plan?’

  Dad drains his wine glass and grins at us each in turn.

  ‘We’re going to sail around the world,’ he says.

  I think if there are any more surprises like this one lurking in the shadows, I will go to my room, curl up under my duvet and stay there forever. Or longer, maybe.

  The place is like a war zone.

  Mum is yelling at Dad. Dad is yelling back, telling Mum to stop being such a scaredy-cat and to grab life with both hands before it’s too late. Becca says there is no way she is going to mess up her studies just because Dad let his Year Nine class set fire to the school, and Pixie just asks if we should start packing yet, and if so, will there be room for her three-headed dinosaur?

  ‘Are you having a mid-life crisis?’ Becca asks. ‘You’ve been acting weird ever since you turned forty, like you’ve just woken up and discovered that life is passing you by. You’re not a kid any more – you’re a middle-aged teacher with a receding hairline.’

  ‘All right,’ Dad says. ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Mum says. ‘It’s quite common. Middle-aged blokes wanting to make their mark on the world before it’s too late.’

  ‘Stacey’s dad had a mid-life crisis,’ Becca continues. ‘He bought a motorbike and started wearing leather trousers. Yuck. But couldn’t you just try that if you want to do something stupid? Because there is just no way I am sailing around the world!’

  ‘I don’t want leather trousers,’ Dad says. ‘I want to build a boat!’

  ‘Build a boat?’ Mum snorts. ‘You can’t even put together a flat-pack bookshelf! Mike, get real!’

  Dad sighs. ‘It’s my dream, Livvi. It was your dream too.’

  This is news to me. I thought my mum dreamt about piles of neatly ironed washing and freshly hoovered carpets. ‘My dream is to have a nice, peaceful, ordinary life,’ Mum huffs.

  See? I was nearly right.

  ‘Mine is to stay on dry land, and be form captain, and have a dad who isn’t trying to wreck everything,’ Becca adds.

&nbs
p; ‘Mine is to be a mermaid,’ Pixie says.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Becca snaps. ‘There’s no such thing as mermaids.’

  ‘There is so!’

  Pixie starts to cry, and Mum puts one arm around her and one around Becca. ‘Now see what you’ve done?’ she asks Dad.

  Dad looks at me. ‘What do you think, Daizy?’ he asks, and somehow I don’t think he’s asking about mermaids.

  I think that my dad has finally flipped.

  I remember when Dad was cool and popular, the kind of teacher who organized end-of-term trips to Alton Towers and often came home with wonky jam tarts or whatever the kids had been making in their home ec. lessons that week. Then he got all fired up about saving the environment, and his sense of humour fizzled away. This year the class trip was to an organic farm, so the kids could learn how to build the perfect compost heap and make nettle soup. That was never really going to compare with Alton Towers, was it?

  I know the shine has gone from teaching for Dad, but ditching your job to sail around the world is kind of drastic. OK, maybe he’d like to travel a bit, see the places he teaches about… sail past the Statue of Liberty at sunset, or moor up on a beach in Zanzibar. I’d like to see the world too – I just don’t want to see it from the deck of a boat. I don’t like boats, and I really hate the water. I went on a pedalo at Center Parcs once, and even that made me seasick.

  ‘What about school?’ I ask in a small voice.

  ‘School?’ Dad scoffs. ‘We’ll take you out of school for a year. Sailing around the world will be the best education ever!’

  Becca looks horrified.

  I look at Dad’s face, all sparkly and bright and full of excitement. I know his idea is a bad one. A very bad one. The problem is, it’s his dream. Only today, Miss Moon was telling the class that you should never let a dream slip through your fingers.

  I do not want to sail around the world in a home-made boat, but I am not going to be the one to trample all over Dad’s dream.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I say bravely.

  Dad grins. ‘That’s my girl!’ he says. ‘I knew you would, Daizy! I’ll be the Captain and you can be First Mate.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Pixie pipes up. ‘Can I be First Mermaid?’

  ‘Whatever you like, Pixie!’ Dad grins.

  Mum sighs heavily. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she says. ‘I’m Galley Slave and Ship’s Medical Officer rolled into one, right?’

  Becca looks at us, eyes wide. ‘Are you crazy?’ she asks. ‘Dad walks out on his job and decides to sail around the world, and you all go along with it like he’s suggested a day at the seaside?’

  Dad just shrugs. ‘Sometimes the craziest ideas are the best ones,’ he says. ‘Give it a go, Becca. You’ll enjoy it, I know you will!’

  ‘It’s not happening,’ Becca says. ‘Mum, tell him!’

  Mum frowns. ‘I’m not saying we should do it,’ she says haltingly. ‘But perhaps we should think about it? It’s something your dad and I used to talk about, years ago, before you girls were born.’

  Becca gathers up her maths homework, lips trembling, her carrot cake untouched. One perfect tear rolls down her cheek. I haven’t seen my big sister cry since the time she came last in the inter-schools spelling tournament four years ago, and even then it didn’t really count because it turned out that she was coming down with chicken pox.

  My big sister does not cry… usually.

  Becca sniffs, and her eyes well with tears again. ‘My life is over,’ she says.

  I can’t sleep. A million things are running through my mind, and they’re not nice things. Pixie’s half-packed suitcase, Becca crying, Mum yelling, Dad’s hopeful grin as he told us about his big dream… the one that turned out to be everyone else’s nightmare.

  It’s the worst idea I have ever heard. Sailing around the world? It’d be like that film Titanic, all icebergs and life jackets and crashing waves, only the boat would be smaller and scabbier and made from splintered old planks, most likely. Why now, when I am just about to start Year Six? Why now, when I have fab friends and the best teacher in the universe? I might never find my star quality, floating around in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  At school I don’t mention Dad’s plan to sail around the world to anyone. If I talk about it, it might start to feel real, and that’s something I’m not ready for right now.

  No, it’s safer to fix a smile on my face and pretend that nothing is wrong. At least at school I can pretend that nothing scary is happening – or nothing involving boats, anyhow. Beth and Willow are a different kind of scary.

  ‘I think I’m in love with Ethan Miller,’ Beth sighs at lunchtime.

  ‘I liked him before you!’ Willow protests. ‘Since Year Three.’

  ‘What, when you called him a horrible pig with a face like a squashed football?’ Beth recalls, raising an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I may have said that, but I meant it in a good way!’

  I can see a fall-out brewing, so I wade in, ready to smooth things out. ‘Don’t fight over Ethan,’ I tell them. ‘He’s not worth it!’

  ‘I may have said that, but I meant it in a good way!’

  I can see a fall-out brewing, so I wade in, ready to smooth things out. ‘Don’t fight over Ethan,’ I tell them. ‘He’s not worth it!’

  The two of them turn on me.

  ‘He is totally worth it!’ Beth insists.

  ‘You don’t get it, Daizy, do you?’ Willow says pityingly. ‘Ethan’s good looks and animal magnetism have no effect on you at all. You’ll understand one day, when you’re a bit more grown up.’

  ‘I’m very grown up!’ I protest, outraged. ‘I just have taste!’

  They shake their heads sadly, as if they know something I don’t, which leaves me feeling all frowny and cross. Ethan Miller has a lot to answer for.

  When the bell rings to signal the end of lunchtime, we troop inside to find sheets of sugar paper and a selection of paints, pastels and inks on each desk. Art!

  ‘Hush, now, class,’ Miss Moon says as we settle down. ‘I have exciting news. Mr Smart wants to create an adventure playground for the little ones this year – and he wants to consult you, the Year Six pupils. After all, you know more about this school than anyone – and you also remember what it was like when you were younger.’

  ‘There wasn’t much to do, back then,’ Freya Jenks recalls. ‘An adventure playground would be great!’

  ‘I think so,’ Miss Moon agrees. ‘And it would be a way for you to leave a lasting impression on Stella Street Primary. Mr Smart wants a design that is creative, challenging and fun. We’ll use our art time to put our thoughts down on paper… I’m sure some of them will have star quality!’

  A shiver of excitement slides down my spine. A castle might be good, with turrets, a drawbridge and a moat with goldfish in… The little kids could play cowboys and Indians, or Lord of the Rings, or pretend to be Rapunzel waiting for the prince. It could be a winning idea, if I’m lucky.

  Miss Moon flicks a switch on her CD player and the room floods with swishy, floaty music. ‘Now, class… close your eyes!’

  Uncertainly, I shut my eyes and hide my face in my hands.

  ‘OK,’ Miss Moon says, her voice soft and soothing. ‘Forget about who argued with who this lunchtime, or whether you got a second helping of sponge pudding and custard… let go of those worries. Empty your mind.’

  This shouldn’t be difficult for Ethan Miller. His mind is usually empty, except for occasional thoughts of football and hair gel.

  ‘Picture yourself as a five-year-old, playing a make-believe game,’ Miss Moon tells us. ‘Where are you? What are you doing? Let your thoughts drift…’

  The room is silent except for the swishy music, and a snuffling, snoring sound, which may mean that Ethan has gone to sleep. I try to imagine castles and unicorns, but instead I see turquoise water, glinting silver in the sun. I am on a raft, floating towards a golden sunset, my hand trailing through warm wave
s.

  ‘Let your imagination run wild!’

  The light fades, and I shiver a little. The sea is darker now, rougher. The raft has become the deck of a huge, rolling ship, and I grip its wheel, wearing orange waterproof trousers. I can feel the steady drip, drip, drip of icy rain down my neck.

  Then I see it – a ship whose sails hang in grey tatters, whose crew laugh as they raise the pirate flag and plough right across our bows. There’s a crunch of splintering wood and a bloodthirsty yell as the pirates swing aboard, swords shining in the moonlight…

  ‘OK, class,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Hold that thought. Open your eyes and use the art materials to capture the dream and turn it into a design for our adventure playground!’

  I pick up a pastel and start to work, using quick, vivid strokes, until my hands are streaked with black and blue and green.

  ‘OK,’ Miss Moon says after a while. ‘Let’s see what you’ve come up with.’

  I sit back and look around me, as if coming out of a trance. Then I take a long, hard look at my drawing, and my heart sinks. I have messed up, majorly. Again.

  Miss Moon collects up the work. I don’t want to hand mine over, but there is no escape. ‘Interesting,’ she says, and begins pinning the pictures to the wall so we can discuss them.

  The designs are cool. There are a few versions of the castle idea I’d been planning – Murphy’s even has the drawbridge and the flag, but not the moat full of goldfish. Beth’s sketch is like the Land of Sweets from that ballet her dance class put on last Christmas, all candy canes and lollipop trees and a gingerbread playhouse with an icing- sugar roof. I’d have loved that, back when I was five. Even Ethan must have woken up in the end because he has painted a huge football-shaped climbing frame.