Darcy Burdock

by Laura Dockrill

  There’s this such annoying wasp hanging around pestering me to the absolute most. I just hate wasps – what is the point of them?

  ‘WHAT IS THE POINT OF YOU?’ I scream at the wasp, but it’s too rude to listen. It’s dangling all around the sandwiches and won’t leave us alone. I’m getting all hot and flustered and sweaty because I feel the pressure a bit – this is a lunch I had prepared, so I want Dad to enjoy it because then he might bring me to work more often and Madison and I can be more closer friends – if she manages to forget about my fart – and I can say to Dad that I’ll make his lunch every day and maybe give up school for good because perhaps he will see something in me and I can just be his number-one true real-life apprentice instead of doing this school business any more and we can change the workshop name to Burdock and Daughter and it will be great. But for now . . . I feel sick. The sun on my face and back. Beat. Beat. Beat. The buzzy hissy wasp. Buzz. Hiss. Buzz. The food all trapped. Like I’m a pregnant whale. All stuffed up and beginning to creep up my neck in my throat pipe because there is no more space for any food anyWHERE.

  I put my hand down on the sandwiches to cover over the paper and – BAM! – the wasp stings me.

  ‘AARGH!’

  ‘Darcy, what?’

  ‘The wasp, it—’

  And then I’m sick.

  BLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEUUUUGGGGGGHHH!

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Get a glass of water, Poppy . . . and ask Madison for a towel,’ Dad says in panic. ‘And something for the sting, a first-aid kit or something . . . Darcy, D, you OK, monkey?’

  ‘Aarghhhhhhh, I was sick, I hate being sick.’

  ‘Don’t cry, I know you do, don’t cry.’

  And tears are all running out my eyes and I’m just so upsetted because I was looking SO majorly forward to this day for my whole entire, well . . . yesterday night . . . and now it’s ruined because my hand is throb-a-bob-bobbing, all red and stingy, and the sick is all tasting disgusting and coming out my nose is all little round bullet-shaped naked beans without any sauce. My throat is so sore and itchy and my tummy hurts. Still my ribs are all jammed and tight and my mouth all gooey and watery. And it’s still so hot and I can’t breathe at all really that good, and then I bursted into big more tears. And meaning still not to be dramatic but can’t help it.

  ‘I know, I know, darling, it’s not nice to be sick, is it? Shall we get you out of these dungarees, they look a bit tight?’

  ‘They aren’t dungarees,’ I sob. ‘Dad, they’re overalls.’

  ‘Overalls. Sorry. I meant to say overalls. They look very nice.’

  ‘No they don’t. They look ugly.’

  ‘No they don’t. Look, I have a spare T-shirt upstairs. It will be cool, like a big oversized dress. Shall we change you into that?’

  I nod.

  ‘OK, come on then, sweetheart.’

  My belly flobbers out with a wobbling, almost euphoric sense of RE-LIEF. It has red lines all over it from the press of the evil dungaree material. It feels amazing to have them off. Like a birthday or weeing when you’re desperate or going to sleep when you’re really tired or peeling your boiling hot socks off in the night and releasing the trapped feet.

  I am R-E-A-D-Y for work! All I need is for Dad to teach me how to use this saw and that old drill and this useful power-tool sander thing and I’ll be making garden sheds in no time!

  ‘I think we should go home, girls.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not well, doll, and Mum wants you to come home – she’s worried you might have a virus.’

  ‘A virus? No, Dad, I’m absolutely fine.’ I shake my head. ‘Look at me – I can twirl around and spin about and roly-poly and jump jack!’

  Dad smiles. ‘I know, monkey D, but we never know. We don’t want you to get any worse.’

  ‘I won’t get any worse – look, it was only because my outfit was too small.’

  ‘I told you,’ Poppy remarks.

  ‘Shut up you, Poppy.’

  ‘Come on, girls, in the car,’ says Dad.

  And I can’t even make a fuss. Or be sad. Or be angry because all those things count as being dramatic. I can’t be sick in the school holidays, that really is a liberty. Everyone knows you’re only meant to be sick on an actual school day so you get a day off. A.N.N.O.Y.I.N.G.

  Mum is such an expert at ruining my fun. Could she make it ANY more clearer that I am not her best daughter? How does she manage to ruin my life even from afar?

  Livid.

  I rehearse my normal straight face in the car on the way home. Poppy is so fuming at me because she wasn’t ill or anything and has to come home when she obviously wanted it to just be her and Madison all day, probably wearing BFF necklaces. My wasp sting still pounds and pangs in my hand but I just have to get over that. I JUST hate wasps. Stupid useless things. At least bees make honey and die once they sting you up. What good does a wasp do?

  Nish.

  I charge into the house and ignore Mum.

  ‘Darcy, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  And I shoot up the stairs to my room.

  Moments later and the old witch is back. ‘Sweetie, I’ve run you a nice hot bath.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re sick. Thought it would be nice to get you cleaned up.’

  She is right. I stink like a baby’s nappy.

  ‘And I want to have a look at your sting too.’

  Why is she even bothering? Pretending to care?

  The sucking-up doesn’t really stop there either. It’s warm fluffy towels and a scented candle. It’s one of her bestest unopened packets of stolen hotel slippers, fresh and ready for me to wear for when I get out. Then she’s made me hot tea and a piece of toast and leaves me on the couch all cosied up like a newborn mouse wrapped in felt. Little snoozy Lamb-Beth is curled around my shoulders like a scarf. She dumps the remote control for the TV in my lap and suggests me watching a film while she creams my sting.

  Poppy looks at me from the couch, her face upturned and completely crinkled up in jealous disgust. Oh, sorry about me, Poppy, getting the A-star treatment.

  Who’s the best one now then, eh?

  ‘Mum?’ I ask in a tiny quiet voice. ‘You remember when we broke the wardrobe and Donald ripped your skirt?’

  ‘Err . . . yes . . . how could I ever forget?’

  ‘You heard a bang and you shouted Poppy’s name and not mines or Hector’s – is that because she’s your favourite one?’

  ‘What are you on about?’ She laughs. ‘Is that what this is all about?’ She tuts, kissing my head. ‘Silly billy-goat, no.’ She laughs some more. ‘I shouted Poppy’s name because she is the one that usually does something naughty.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oh. ‘So basically you were telling her off before you’d even seen what happened?’

  ‘Basically, yes,’ she whispers. ‘I do not trust that little menace troublemaker one bit!’ She laughs. ‘But shhhh, don’t tell her that.’

  ‘OK, so who really is your favourite?’

  ‘You don’t have favourites, Darcy. It’s impossible – you are all my babies and I love you all identical to the most anybody could love anything. Three peas in a pod.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s a new day in the endless foreverness of the summer-holiday empty blissness. And thankfully I am feeling much better. The sun is shining and Lamb-Beth is playing very nicely, I must say so myself, in the garden. We have the radio on and Mum has given us a really nice job. It’s a big drawer fulled up to the top with all the house wires and plugs and we have to untangle them all nicely and lay them out. We are not allowed to plug them into anything unless we know EXACTLY what they are for, but still even then not really because Hector’s included and his hands are always soaking in jam or snot or dribble.

  A rap song comes on and we all pretend we know the words, using the wires and plugs like microphones. Taking turns to make the other ones laugh.

  Why
do all rappers have to go on about how good they are the entire time? I’ve learned even from my experience with Mum, that when you downplay yourself and don’t be dramatic, like I am not being this summer, sometimes others warm to you more. I well love rap music but I just wonder a bit why they don’t just chill out a bit . . . be a bit more realistic?

  ‘Pops, quick!’ I leap up. ‘Pass me some paper and a pen, quick!’

  ‘Can’t you just get the paper yourself?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I begin to write, on top of the music playing from the radio, some new lyrics from the character of a rapper, who is a bit more honest, a bit more humble.

  I read it to Hector and Poppy and they laugh their heads off and we speak to Will online and I do it for him. He laughs his head off too and says he wishes he could come home now – he’s had enough, he says, and I play it cool and say nothing but really I’m thinking, I’ve had enough of you being away too. He looks weird and super faraway on the screen: he has freckles all over his face and the sky is all clear there and fantastic. Hector gets over-excited and tries to do a moonie and pull his bum out and Will laughs even harder. Will then shows us where he’s staying at his aunt’s house. The houses in Spain are much more different, all white and stony and the furniture is much more colourful. It’s so holiday-ish you can even smell the sun cream through the screen.

  ‘Have you done your Superman?’

  ‘Oh yeah! I smashed that one on the first day!’ He beams proudly. ‘I’m doing WAY more tricks than that now.’

  WOW. Will’s challenge was to throw his body into the air on a bike and he did it the first day . . . All I had to do was not be dramatic and it’s a daily struggle. HUMPH.

  I don’t want to say goodbye.

  ‘Home soon,’ he says.

  ‘Home soon,’ I say back, smiling. I don’t tell him about the fart in front of Madison or about being sick. I just say, ‘See you soon.’

  And he says, ‘See you soon’ too and then waves at us a big bye.

  We shut the laptop screen.

  Speaking to somebody over the internet is not real life though, and part of me almost thinks it shouldn’t be allowed to be that close to somebody and yet so far – it’s fake, it’s like an evil trick that messes with our brains.

  I feel like Will’s with us right now . . . but he’s not.

  ‘Right, what now?’ Poppy bursts the dream bubble as soon as we’ve ended the call. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘I know, I KNOW . . . let’s persuade Mum to have a barbecue?’

  ‘Yes, ask Mum,’ Poppy squeals.

  ‘You ask her.’

  ‘But she’ll say no.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘You do it, but try a new technique . . . firstly you have to use the word barbie like the grown-ups do. It looks like you know what you’re talking about. And secondly, don’t ask Mum to have a barbie, TELL her to have a barbie.’

  ‘OK. I’ll try.’

  If I’m honest, seeing Will, even if just on the screen, has put a new spring in my step. Here goes nothing.

  ‘Oi, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t oi me,’ Mum snaps back. OOOOOOoooo. SOR-RY. I won’t be telling her anything.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘It’s OK, you’re clearly over-excited about something. What’s going on?’

  ‘So maybe why don’t you have a barbecue tonight and invite all your main friends down?’

  ‘Darcy, you don’t just have a barbecue, it takes planning – you’ve got to get all the bits and pieces.’

  ‘We have all the bits and pieces.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘We have tomato sauce and bread and frozed things that we can warm up.’

  ‘We don’t have cheese squares. I don’t even think we have charcoal for a barbecue.’ Mum stares at me for a second.

  I stare back. With my hugest most puppy-dog eyes. ‘Please?’

  ‘Yuck. Don’t do those eyes with me, they don’t work. I’ll have a think and speak to your dad.’

  That probably means a yes but I don’t know because we don’t very often get what we ask for.

  ‘It could be nice, I suppose, to have a few people over, like a little housewarming?’

  YES! My heart jumps out my rib-cage on a little parachute and dangles into my belly because I ADORE BARBECUES!

  ‘I could always speak to Marnie?’ Mum goes on. She’s folding up Hector’s best T-shirt. It has an ice cream on it with a scary face of a monster popping out of the ice cream and a lizard tail. It’s fun.

  ‘Marnie?’

  ‘About inviting Donald over.’

  NOOOOO! Not Donald. OH NOOOOOO OOO. NO. NO. NO. But I have to hold it together and complete my challenge and NOT be dramatic, just like how Will managed to smash his.

  ‘OK.’ I grumpily let the word spill out.

  ‘You know the poor sausage will just be sitting in on his own playing computer games and being bored out of his brain.’

  ‘He is SUCH a sausage – I dunno about a poor one, but a sausage is a very accurate comparison,’ I say back.

  ‘It won’t hurt to have the poor sausage over for a sausage, will it?’ Mum jokes.

  I’ve started to see how a little less drama from my end certainly makes others respond better to my wishes. I think maybe this no-drama way of life could be a surprisingly positive one.

  ‘Your rap is dumb,’ Donald says with his stupid black eyes. ‘It’s a joke.’ He looks like a panda bear.

  ‘It’s meant to be a joke. It’s hydronic,’ I fire back.

  ‘Are you meaning to say I-RON-IC?’ Donald smarms, all smarmy lip-balmy.

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Hydronic is a new word for when you are being funny and hyper and hysterical and clever too, mixed in with science at the same time,’ I bark back.

  ‘Yeah, well it seems like perhaps you could be telling porkies to me because I’ve never heard of that word and I go to a really expensive school for child geniuses.’

  ‘I wasn’t telling porkies because if I was you’d probably eat them all up with bread and ketchup before I could tell them, you big fatso watso.’

  ‘You called me fat! I’m telling Mum.’

  ‘You called my lyrics dumb so what do you think about that?’

  ‘DUMB. Did you not listen?’ He puts a finger to his head and twists it.

  ‘Guys, guys.’ Timothy tries to quiet us down. His mum has dumped him on us too. Honestly, it’s like our house is the crèche or something.

  ‘Darcy, I’d be careful if I was you. Everybody knows you have a moustache.’

  ‘No, I do absolutely not. I WISH I had one!’

  ‘You do! And a beard is beginning to grow too!’

  ‘Stop fighting!’ Poppy screams.

  ‘I wasn’t fighting.’

  ‘Darcy started it.’

  ‘Oh, you liar.’

  ‘Hey, shall we make some menus for the barbecue?’ Poppy suggests to change the subject.

  Mum stopped buying us all craft-box things or anything like that because we can’t keep all the things nice and tidy inside and it goes everywhere, but Poppy always secretly asks for that sort of stuff for her birthday and keeps it all good and neat and nicely.

  ‘I’ll get my good bits if you stop fighting.’

  ‘OK, fine.’ That’s a fair swap.

  Donald, the panda sausage, stares at me all evil eyes. OH, GO AWAY, BEAR HEAD.

  Poppy comes back with a big plastic carrier fulled with pens and felts and glitter and glue to make the menus for the barbecue. ‘OK, no losing anything, don’t rub the glue too much,’ she worries, ‘and put the right lid on the right pen.’ She is trying to not be stressed about it but she can’t help it. ‘You see, that noise that just camed out when you press the felt down, that means because you’re pressing too hard, and on the pencil – look, you’ll break the lead if you push down like that, you have to shade more to the side,’ she bosses. ‘Don’t blend the yellow felt on the black – look, you’ll mak
e all black get on the nib.’

  I look round and Hector’s just had enough of being obedient and has glued himself and Lamb-Beth up like glittery clouds. They both look too cute and amazing for me to tell them off.

  ‘I don’t know what to write – what’s even on the menu?’ Timothy asks.

  ‘That’s a point,’ I agree.

  ‘Shall we just write normal barbecue things?’ Poppy suggests. ‘Burgers. Kebabs.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds good.’

  ‘We can make the prices funny things instead of money?’ Hector offers. ‘Like a funny face for a hot dog?’

  ‘Ha-ha! Good idea!’ I laugh. ‘A song for a corn on the cob?’

  ‘That will be me with all the corn then!’ Donald snorts. ‘I’ll have the stuff growing out of my ears!’

  ‘Huh? How come?’ Timothy challenges him.

  ‘Err . . . because I’m a gifted singer.’

  I can’t hold my laughter in, I snort a rude childish dribble. ‘Can you actually sing, Donald?’

  ‘You bet I jolly well can! My mum says I have the voice of an angel.’

  We all look at each other. Trying to hold our opinions in. Because if it’s one thing we know, it’s that Marnie says A LOT of things.

  I wish Will was here. He would be so fun to have here right now and would be making me laugh so much. I can’t wait for him to come back from his holiday – it feels like he has been gonned for roughly one hundred years. It really, truly does.

  The sky begins to skulk and slip away, the bright orange button of sun is dipping down and a cool stream of evening creeps out over the garden.

  The other adults pour in. Marnie, John and Dad. Even Timothy’s mum stops by for a burger.

  And just as I hoped, the warm smoky clouds of hot coals begin to float in the air, whipping the sky up and making the belly rumble and the neighbours jealous. There’s bowls of salad and multi-coloured rainbow vegetables and fruits piled high into gorgeous bowls with creamy coleslaw and lashings of chivey peppered potato salad and every condiment and shiny glazed bread rolls and toasty pittas and delicious warm baguettes. There are crispy good jacket potatoes with yellow squares of melty butter and salty crystals and towers of plump corn on the cobs and kebabs made with peppers and halloumi, the most blessed plastic salty rubber magic cheese in the world.