Darcy Burdock

by Laura Dockrill

  ‘WAAAAAHAHHH!’ Donald snorts. ‘It’s frebbing cold!’ We are laughing even harder now as Donald, all of a sudden, flings into the air, higher than any of us could’ve possibly even ever dreamed of, like a chubby rocket, like a rugby ball – it’s absolutely wonderful. The yellow duck flies out of Donald’s mouth and Donald is soaking wet and screaming, ‘Look, guys! Look at me! I’m a superhero!’

  And just at that moment, Mum steps out into the garden.

  No, MUM, GET BACK IN, GET BACK IN, NOT NOW, NOT NOW, and it’s like time stops. Like it’s actually frozen at the funfair, and then Marnie steps out too. NO! WHY AREN’T YOU AT THE BORING FURNITURE SHOP, MARNIE? WHY ARE YOU BACK SO SOON? WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SEE DONALD LIKE THIS?

  And eventually Donald falls to the ground, immediately completely missing the cushioning of the beanbag and smacks onto the hard cold concrete floor with a walloping whack.

  OH NO.

  It all seems to happen so slowly. The crumpling frowns of Mum and Marnie, sewing their faces together in anger, Poppy, Timothy, Hector and I – gawping. Lamb-Beth stunned. And then, that little weasel brute piece of crud, looks up to his mum and cries, ‘They made me do it! They were playing dungeons and they strapped these goggles to my eyes and tied me up with this skipping rope and rammed a stupid yellow duck in my mouth.’

  HUH?

  He adds, ‘They were being so crazy, they even smashed a plant pot at the wall for no reason.’

  WHAT?

  I cannot believe what I am HEARING. I am so livid and raging and crazy and about to explode absolutely everywhere like some diseased monster. I am TREMBLING. But I have to keep calm, I’m not going to give that blasted beast of a boy the pleasure of seeing me flop at my challenge too.

  ‘LIAR!’ Poppy shouts. ‘You are a liar!’ Awwwright, Poppy! ‘We wasn’t playing dungeons – we were playing funfair. And at the fair you play fair! YOU wanted to go on that ride and you were having FUN at the FAIR, FUN, FAIR!’

  Nice one, Poppy!

  ‘And YOU broke the plant pot.’

  Marnie and Mum don’t know who to believe as they cross their arms and be all so very cross with us. I am keeping my cool. I can’t believe it. I AM SO IMPRESSED WITH MY OWN SELF RIGHT NOW. WHAT IS GOING ON?

  ‘Darcy, you should’ve known better, you’re the big sister. What if Hector had hurt himself?’ Mum spits all cross.

  ‘Yes, but Hector didn’t go on a ride though, did he?’

  ‘Stop answering me back, madam. That’s not the point. Imagine if he stepped on some of the broken pot or Donald fell on top of him?’ OK, she does have a point there. ‘It was irresponsible of you. We are meant to be packing up to move, but I let you have your friends over and play in the sunshine and this is the reward I get?’

  Donald cries, ‘My arm, my arm.’ Fat blubbery, chubbery tears are squeezing out of his porky little eyes and Mum looks at me and shakes her head.

  ‘You should know better, Darcy.’

  I AM SO READY TO VOMIT UP MY ANGROSAURUS ALTER-EGO absolutely EVERYWHERE. I can’t even stand to look ugly pugly hideous Donald in the face for one more second. Am a bottle of fizzy drink ready to explode.

  ‘I just—’ I begin.

  ‘Just go up to your room – go on, get out of my sight,’ Mum says, and I know better than to argue.

  Knock knock . . .

  It’s Mum.

  ‘You OK, bug?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Come in.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Donald has to go to the hospital. They want to check him over. He has two black eyes.’ Mum tries not to laugh at me trying not to laugh. ‘Don’t you dare . . .’ she warns.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I KNEW this idea wouldn’t work!’ Dad grumbles at me. ‘You said you’d have no problem at all piling all your belongings into bin bags!’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I’ve done!’ I argue back. The problem is, they’ve all mostly split. Big black sacks with wormy octopus-like tentacles of colour splurging out of every crack.

  ‘Not like this. Not the night before we MOVE!’ He is really angry. ‘WHAT even is all this stuff?’

  ‘It’s my precious things!’

  ‘This Robin Hood outfit that you wore to a fancy-dress party when you were seven is not a precious thing.’

  ‘Well, maybe I might need to go to a Robin Hood party in the future one day.’

  ‘You won’t fit in this!’

  ‘Maybe I like the memory.’

  ‘BIN IT!’

  ‘All right. Calm down, Dad!’ And they have the nerve to call ME the dramatic one, PLEASE!

  ‘I don’t know why you have all these clothes that you never wear. I can’t remember the last time I saw you in this dress, or these striped leggings or that Santa hat, or this wig.’ He rifles his hands through all my books and old toys and papers and games and blankets and scrap books.

  ‘My new room is much more bigger – you said I will have much more space!’

  ‘Yes, for actual stuff, not for rubbish. When was the last time you used this tangled-up slinky?’ He throws it at the wall where it slides to the floor and wriggles like a multi-coloured ferret. ‘Part of moving house is to begin again.’

  ‘I don’t want to begin again.’ I can’t help it. I turn away into my wardrobe and cry, gently, softly, not dramatic, and all my multi-coloured clothes are the only ones that see me do it. I mustn’t be dramatic. I have to hold it together. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I am in an action film at the breaking point when they are about to die. I whisper, all breathy as if the main camera is zooming in close on me, I have to hold it together. For myself. For my family. For Mrs Hay and my form teacher Mr Yates.

  ‘You know the van’s coming first thing. I just don’t get why all you’ve packed is nonsense and none of your actual stuff. I mean, look at th—’

  BANG. Dad bangs his head on my shelf.

  ‘OW!’ he roars, immediately taking on the character of a scary bear. He knocks a puzzle of ‘the great big jungle’ off the shelf and all the pieces drop to the floor and jumble up. Dad says some bad words.

  ‘Ooh, I’ve been looking for that pu—’ I begin, but Dad is NOT impressed. He rubs his head. He is bright red and livid.

  ‘I can’t do this right now.’ Dad shakes his head. ‘I’m going to finish making dinner.’

  And he walks out. Leaving me like a sad old person that owns a jumble-sale junk shop that nobody wants to come to.

  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? THERE IS STUFF EVERYWHERE. Piles of books, stacks of writing pads, biro-drewed-on Barbies, creased maps and posters where the folds are worn cracks. Tennis rackets, ice skates, roller blades, badge-making kits, paints, sketch books, a guitar, a recorder, a violin that I’ve never even touched. A hula hoop. And it occurs to me. All this stuff that surrounds me are the things I’ve said I’d do that I’ve never done. I’ve never stuck at anything. Ever.

  And I just have to put the radio on, keep my head down and start packing only what I really need to take with me to the new most ugly wretched scary house. And YES, it is scary. Scary, because it’s even more big. And it’s not ours. And I don’t know it. So it’s strange. It’s the unknown. It’s a bit much to ask us to move into somewhere that I’ve never stayed the night in. I haven’t even had a chance to check out their ghosts or whatever. This makes me cry harder. Then I rub my feet on the wall and calm down.

  Knock knock . . .

  ‘Little pig, little pig, let me in.’

  ‘Not by the huge yellow spots on my chin,’ I mumble, wiping my tears away.

  It’s Poppy. She twists the doorknob and lets herself in. ‘How’s the packing going?’ she asks me, and she sits on the bed with amazing gorgeous Lamb-Beth all snoozing on her lap.

  I want to say IT’S THE WORST THING IN THE WORLD, but I’m being very good at not dramatizing anything so I just say, ‘It’s all right. How about you?’

  She looks taken a
back, to be frank. ‘Oh, easy peasy, I did it ages ago.’

  We all know MUM did it for her. But whatever.

  ‘Dad told me to tell you that the jacket potatoes are soonly ready.’

  ‘’K. Coming.’

  If you tasted Dad’s jacket potatoes you would find it hard to believe that he was in a bad mood. They are perfect. Cracky salty skin and fluffy white buttery indoors. Cheese, hot beans, more cheese. Melty, melty comfort. Dad did a very good extra-nice treat and put a spoonful of tuna mayonnaise on the side of the plate. He winks at me. THAT means we are friends again.

  BUT . . .

  AARGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH! THE ROOF OF MY MOUTH. SO BURNT. SO. SO. SO. SO BURNT. PEELS! AGH! IT STINGS AND RINGS AND MONSTER STRINGS OF FLESHY TOP OF MOUTH ARE HANGING DANGLING ALL DOWN. OUCH!

  Toss, toss, hot potato on my tongue, mouth like a chimney for the hot air to hoot toot out of. Steamy, steamy. Act normal BUT don’t spit it out like you usually would. Hide the heat. Through watery eyes I force the hot mouthful of potato down. My nostrils flare as it slides down my neck. Burning. Raw. Ripping.

  ‘You all right, Darcy?’ Mum asks me.

  ‘Yip,’ I croak very undramatically, I truly must say. When I want to bawl my eyes out. And I hop upstairs to continue sellotaping my amazing life into a box.

  After finally my whole entire world is boxed away, I lie flip flop into my bed. My head is spinning. Imagining all my precious belongings and possessions all stacked up, all silently budged on top of one another in silence. My little quiet items, all thinking I’ve left them behind. What about all the things that I’ve thrown away. Cold leftovers with the rain pinging off them.

  I can’t stop imagining my heart out about who will live here after us. What will their lives be like? What kind of people are they? Will they be happy here?

  And then I start to feel so sad to have to say goodbye to this great old house thing that’s kept me happy and safe for all these years. Even when I’ve punched the walls of it and rolled down the stairs of it in a sleeping bag and scribbled bad words on the skirting board, all it’s ever done is be a most loyal friend to me. All it’s ever done is looked after me and my family.

  I begin to write . . .

  Chapter Five

  Why do I only ever want the things that are packed into boxes?

  ‘But, Mum, please, it’s my glittery talcum powder – I know which box it’s in, I’ll get it so quick.’

  ‘No. You don’t need the glittery talcum powder now.’

  She doesn’t know. It could be a matter of life and death. What if I need that or my spirally pen with the fluffy end, or what about my sticker book or goblin mask? I might need these things literally at the drop of a hat.

  But no. Instead Mum makes us sit in the garden with triangle sandwiches and juice out of squeezy boxes to ‘keep out the way’ while her and Dad load the van. I want to load the van. I want to make sure all my precious things get tooked care of properly. I’ve seen these removal people before, you know, and sometimes they don’t think twice about carelessly slinging your objects into the back of a van.

  It’s boiling hot. I feel tired and more thirsty than the amount of juice in the carton I’ve got left. I’ve drained the container so hard the straw is toothy and flattened.

  ‘I BORED,’ Hector says. He lies on the grass and takes the ham out of one of the sandwiches and lies it over his eyes. Gross. ‘Look, ha-ha, hamglasses,’ he laughs. We have to laugh too.

  ‘I don’t want to move house,’ Poppy says. ‘Once uponed a time a girl from even at my school moved house and her house was actually not a house but . . . a . . . a . . . it was actually a . . .’

  Poppy has been lying a lot lately. I am really noticing this. I don’t say anything and let her think this one through.

  ‘But actually it was a school.’

  ‘So she moved into a new house and actually it was a school?’

  ‘Yes. And the teachers were all there, locked in prisons, and she had to do tests and exams when she brushed her teeth to go to bed at night.’

  ‘Really?’ I play the game and pretend. ‘Did they not go to see the house before they bought it?’

  ‘No, because they . . . erm . . . weren’t allowed, and also they won the house as a prize on a TV game show.’

  I roll my eyes. The lies are so boring.

  ‘Stop lying,’ I say.

  ‘I am NOT lying.’

  ‘Yes you are – you keep always doing it these days.’

  ‘NO I DON’T, DARCY!’ she screams, which is obviously a clear fact of evidence that she is lying.

  ‘If you’re gonna lie, at least then make it a good lie, like not some pointless boring lie about nothing.’

  ‘I don’t lie. I’m telling Mum all about you.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Mum will be really mad at you.’

  ‘Mum will be madder at you though, much morer, Poppy, because Mum HATES a tell-tell snitch.’

  ‘Yeah, well. It’s very important not to make lies up about me lying.’

  ‘I SO BORED!’ Hector moans.

  Lamb-Beth is sniffing the grass and looking for any misplaced bits of sandwich crumbs. I feel very sorry for animals. Poor Lamb-Beth has absolutely zero idea that we are moving house today! We watch her in silence. She wees up the fence.

  ‘Why don’t we build her a zoo?’ Hector asks.

  ‘I HATE zoos!’ I shout, all loud.

  ‘Why?’ Poppy asks.

  ‘They are animal prisons.’

  ‘What do you mean, animal prisons?’ Hector whimpers, all shocked.

  ‘Imagine if I said to you, Hector, you’re gonna be locked inside this room all day. For ever. Not with me. Not with Poppy or Mum or Dad or any of your favourite clothes or games or treats to eat.’

  ‘That’s horrible for me!’ Hector cries.

  ‘I used to like zoos,’ Poppy mutters, ‘but since that girl at my school went to live in a zoo in the South Pole I never ever liked them, because she said they never fed them any chocolate cake, only apples and worms.’

  There goes another lie. She looks to the ground.

  ‘Let’s build a den!’ Hector suggests.

  ‘Or the funfair again?’ Poppy offers.

  ‘We can’t, all the bits are packed away.’

  ‘Why don’t we make a present for the new people moving into our house?’

  ‘A present? They are getting OUR house, that’s such a big present!’ Poppy barks.

  ‘We could write them a letter?’ I say.

  ‘Yes . . . all about us!’ Poppy claps her hands.

  ‘And put it in a box and bury it in the ground?’

  ‘Yes! Like a time capsule!’

  ‘I know . . .’ Hector grins. ‘We should trick them!’

  ‘Huh? How?’ Poppy asks.

  ‘Good idea! We could pretend we are from the past, from the Victorian days?’ I shout.

  ‘No, Egypt!’ Poppy argues. ‘And this house is a pyramid.’

  ‘I think they will know they aren’t in Egypt, Poppy.’ Then again, those lies do spread!

  ‘What about the morer future?’ Hector’s eyes light up. ‘We are aliens!’

  ‘You GENIUS!’ I laugh out loud. ‘That will really totally throw them!’ I jump up and down. ‘Poppy, you go in and get paper and pens.’

  ‘Why do I have to?’

  ‘Because you’re cuter.’

  ‘Can’t you ask?’

  ‘No, you ask.’

  ‘Just ask.’

  ‘No, you ask.’

  ‘You just don’t want to cos you’re scared that Mum is gonna shout at you.’

  ‘No I’m not, you’re scared that Mum will shout at YOU, which is why you just said it.’

  ‘No! Not true!’

  We are arguing so much that we completely forget that Hector has his rucksack with him which is full of his boring baby colouring-in books and pens. He is already scribbling away.

  ‘Can I write it out?’ Poppy asks, holdi
ng her hand out for a pen.

  ‘No, me, I want to!’ Hector holds the pen tight to his chest.

  ‘Don’t fight!’ I shout. ‘But we might need to make Poppy write, Hector, if we are going to make up a special alien language.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you and me are the worserest spellers out of the three of us.’

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy nods. ‘I’m a ten-out-of-ten speller, my teacher said so.’

  ‘Why do we need to spell good?’

  ‘Because if we are going to jumble up the language it needs to be the right language to begin with,’ I explain.

  ‘’K.’ Hector hands a pen to Poppy.

  ‘So let’s make like a code then, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘OK!’

  ‘We have to confuse them and make them think that they have to do silly things!’

  We are all laughing as we begin writing the code of our alien language, and then we begin to write . . .

  We read the letter back. We are laughing and sniggering so much.

  ‘Kids!’ Dad calls. ‘You guys ready?’

  ‘Just a minute!’ I shout. ‘Quick, quick, dig a hole . . .’

  ‘But it will get all soily and damp in the ground,’ Poppy says, all worriedly.

  ‘OK . . . push it through the straw hole of the juice carton,’ I suggest.

  ‘It’s all wetted with apple juice and it looks like rubbish – how will they know there’s a letter inside?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. OK . . .’

  What can we put it inside?

  ‘Wrap it the sandwich foil.’