Dad turns burgers with a flip of the tongs, happy, with a beer in his hand.
I overhear Marnie chewing Timothy’s mum’s ear off about Timothy’s performing arts weekend school thing.
‘My boy Donald is stunning at performance,’ I hear Marnie saying to her. ‘He did a school play last year – he played a frog. His ribbit was so authentic, you know, so realistic I thought there was an actual real-life frog in the school hall. I kid you not. Absolutely amazing,’ she says, absolutely so chuffed with herself and her little glass of pink fizz. ‘And he’s never even met a frog properly, has he, John?’ she says to Donald’s dad, John, and he nods while biting into his cheeseburger.
‘Donald dear, why don’t you show us some of your drama? Or your musical theatre . . . or . . . I mean . . . he might be too shy . . . but Donald dear, why don’t you show the gang your singing?’
Oh, here we go. Please, no.
‘Mother!’ he shrieks. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Oh, go on, Donald, it would be selfish of me to keep my son’s angelic talents to himself.’ She slurps her drink and a kiss of coral lipstick smears the side of the glass. ‘I’ll buy you a treat tomorrow.’
‘Swear?’ Donald warns.
‘Swear,’ Marnie replies.
And Donald takes a big deep breath in . . . closes his eyes and tips his pig snout back. And what can only be described as opera came out from that barrel of a boy. He sang in a language I didn’t understand which made the moment even more magical and surreal. It was beautiful, cinematic, emotional, a choirboy song that was everything Donald was not. Gentle, touching, powerful, stunning.
Wow.
His arms and fingers moved so softly in the time, like he was a feather, falling so gracefully. We were all transfixed.
‘Whoa,’ Timothy mumbled in our ears. ‘That boy can SANG!’
And he really most truly could. And when he finished we didn’t even really clap at first. We was all just mostly simply blown away. Completely grateful for what we had just witnessed. When Donald finished he shook his head and shrugged.
‘Sorry,’ he grunted, as though what he’d just done was an accident.
And we all clapped him. Hard.
I think it could possibly be my all-time favourite thing when somebody is so good at something you just don’t expect of them. It really is wonderful. I can’t help but think Donald might be a bit secretly cool now. WOW.
We go to bed with fulled-up tummies to the absolute brim. I am bursting with delicious flavours. Poppy and Hector are both in my double bed again but I don’t mind one tiny bit. Lamb-Beth is sleeping on the landing because unfortunately she still can’t climb up the stairs and Dad says he doesn’t want us carrying her up because it’s not fair to take an animal up somewhere where they can’t get back down again.
I hear Poppy’s little breathing and Hector’s little dreaming.
The night sky is clear and navy and the orange gems of the streetlamps are bleeding gold into the sky. And I feel happy in this lovely new house of ours.
Chapter Sixteen
It’s Dad’s day of treating us to some fun activities. He has taken the day off and EVERYTHING! WHOOOP! We are so excited. We’ve been guessing all morning about where he’s gonna take us. Theme park, build-a-bear workshop, the circus, a comic convention, chocolate factory . . . maybe an all-youcan-eat Chinese buffet perhaps? But right now . . . he’s still asleep.
Come on, WAKE UP, DAD!
‘Just five more minutes . . .’ he mumbles, his face pressed all deep hard into the pillow, but I know that five minutes in sleep land rushes past as quick as a not stopping train.
At first we don’t mind so much.
‘Why don’t we snuggle back into bed and you can read us one of your stories to pass the time until he wakes up?’ Poppy asks.
‘OK. I don’t mind.’
‘Bring Lamb-Beth up,’ says Poppy.
‘We aren’t meant to.’ Hector shakes his head. ‘’member?’
‘Yeah, well, Dad isn’t meant to be sleeping in on our FUN day.’
That’s a true point. We scoop Lamb-Beth up and she silently flops into our arms and lets us carry her upstairs to my hot attic.
I open up the windows all big and the summer morning leaps in with the sound of singing birds and street sweepers. I am ready to read my story . . .
‘All geva,’ Hector says, squeezing into the middle of us, resting his head on my shoulder. ‘An eldest one, an in-between one and a youngest one.’
Ha-ha. Poppy’s the in-between one! I laugh at Hector’s funny brain.
‘Yes.’ I grin. ‘All together in Darcy’s secret Angrosaurus rex dungeon.’
‘It isn’t a dungeon up here,’ Hector disagrees. ‘It’s like a secret treehouse.’
This makes me laugh . . . and be happy. ‘It IS like a secret treehouse.’ Immediately it makes me love my room morer.
‘You are still an Angrosaurus rex though!’ Hector screams and giggles, hiding under the blankets because he knows I will pinch and tickle him until his skin crawls and we all bundle up in my bed and play-fight, laughing and squealing.
‘Hey.’ Hector stops, panting, out of breath. ‘But wait a sec, yeah?’
‘Yeah?’ I say.
‘Why don’t you ever writted a story about us three, me and you and Poppy?’
‘My name is actually Madison,’ Poppy corrects, but she needs to know this name really isn’t sticking. ‘Because anyway Darcy doesn’t need write a story about us, we are a story already. The best story in the whole world!’ she screeches, arms in the sky, in her pink nightie, before she crashes onto our heads.
She is so right. We are a story.
‘We can make one up now . . .?’ I offer.
‘About a treehouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the all three of us?’ Hector asks.
‘Yes.’
‘OK, let me . . .’ Hector begins. ‘Once uponed a timed . . .’ He pauses and looks at me. ‘Darcy, aren’t you going to writted this down?’
‘Oh, sorry, of course.’ I quickly grab a pen, trying not to laugh, and he closes his eyes and says, ‘There were three children – all of them were best friends and peas in pods and brothers and sisters and they always beed all ageva in the loveliest attic treehouse telling stories and being so much friends as well with a lamb.’
‘That’s lovely, Hector!’ I smile.
‘My turn . . . my turn . . .’ Poppy butts in. ‘Once upon a time there was an attic in the heart of Miami and it looked like a treehouse and this really cool like amazing girl called . . . erm . . . Sydney Ray Melanie Summer opened up a hairdresser’s salon and also a dance school inside the att—’
‘NO!’ Hector screams. ‘Not always a Barbie story.’
‘That’s not a BARBIE, you really stupid boy!’ Poppy yells back.
‘Don’t call me so stupid! It was a Barbie story and I EVEN know because you did it in an American accent and moved your hand all like that.’ Hector bats his lashes and moves his hand all fast like a TV presenter.
‘Like WHAT?’
‘Like THISED!’ He does it again, this time even more, and he does have a point. All Poppy’s make-believe games are always set in the ‘heart of Miami’ and ALWAYS feature a Sydney or a Megan or a Summer. It does get rather tiresome.
‘Well, YOUR story was all lovey-dovey brothers and sisters.’
‘Well, I changing mine story NOW!’ Hector yells. ‘Darcy, write this, OK . . . Once uponed a timed there was a horrible scary UGLY witch girl living in a haunted treehouse even ALL BY HER OWN SELF and she had to eat slugs and worms and poo chocolate bars and the only smell was farts and it was always raining and her name was POPPY!’
‘I’m telling!’ Poppy roars in Hector’s face.
‘OK, OK, calm down . . . calm down . . . I’m going to tell a story . . .’ I say. ‘It’s OK . . . my turn . . .’
‘But she was really a mean girl to me.’ Hector dribbles and crocodile tear
s.
‘WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, YOU ABSOLUTE BRATTY MUSHROOM CRAB? You are the horrid one that made up a mean spiteful story about me!’
It’s no use, I just begin . . .
While I read, Poppy gets out her little ‘friendship bracelets’ craft box and begins plaiting . . .
‘Wait . . . why didn’t they have a home?’ Poppy interjects.
‘I’m just about to tell you if you wait,’ I say, but really I hadn’t thought of the reason, but now I have so the story may continue . . . ‘I’ll start again.’
‘You’re the best, Darcy.’ Poppy links my arm.
‘No,’ I say, ‘you two are.’
‘No, we ALLED are. Three birds,’ Hector says.
‘That’s it.’ I couldn’t agree more. ‘Three birds.’
And then Poppy hands us each a little friendship bracelet she made us. She blushes when she hands them to us. They are rainbow-coloured with a little bead attached to them. It’s SO cool. Poppy NEVER does no-reason presents like this. We both put the bracelets on, admiring them on our arms.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ she jokes. ‘I can take these away just as quickly as I gave them out.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Dad’s STILL not wide awake even yet!’ Poppy rolls her eyes.
We then trot downstairs and make some scrummy crumpets although we ran out of butter so our only spread option was peanut butter. We aren’t stupid, we know if we bring Dad a coffee in bed it’s a double bonus because you are not only waking Dad up but he can’t be mad at you either because you’ve made him a coffee so if anything you’re in his extra excellent books. But this is the THIRD coffee we’ve taken in and the other ones have gone all cold and ugly-looking. We don’t make him any crumpets because we want them all for our own self. I stomp in loud this time, and Poppy and I are nudging each other, whispering, ‘You wake him up.’ ‘No, you do it.’ ‘I did it last time.’ ‘You.’ ‘You.’ Snore, snore, bore.
Fine.
I know as I am the oldest it is YET again down to me to create our own fun.
‘Shall we go and make a fun brilliant cake?’
‘Yes!’ Poppy says. ‘Then we can wake Dad up, naturally, with the great smell of cake.’
‘OK. Good idea.’
‘Wait, first I need a wee.’
‘Me too.’
‘Can’t you wait?’
‘You go in the bin.’
‘I can’t, it’s made of straw.’
‘Oh, it’s fine, it will collect all the wee, no problem.’
‘OK, if you’re sure.’
It doesn’t collect all the wee at all. Poppy’s wee drizzles absolutely everywhere. We have to use toilet roll to clean it up, but somehow the toilet roll breaks and we use more and more. We decide to do one last check on Dad’s waking up.
‘Pssst. Dad. Dad. Wake up and take us to Pizza Hut.’
‘I’m not asleep, I’m just resting my eyes.’
‘Well, can you stop? You did say you would treat us today.’
‘It’s my day off, Darcy, I’m allowed a lie-in.’
‘Hm. It might be your day off but it’s our day on.’
‘What time is it?’
I look at the clock behind him. It’s 6.02 a.m. I didn’t realize it was quite that early. What can I say? We were excited.
‘It’s seven thirty,’ I lie.
‘What? Darcy, at least let me sleep until eight! Nowhere will even be open. Have some breakfast.’
‘We already did!’
‘OK. I’ll get up in a minute.’
For a sec the bed looks so cosy and I think about getting deep inside the blankets with the sleeping bears that are Mum and Dad, but can I be bothered with Mum’s sour sweaty armpit smell and Dad’s hideous pooey morning breath? Probs not.
Anyway. We’ve got work to do. We’re going to make a cake.
‘Poppy,’ I announce in the living room, ‘we have to turn forward all the clocks and make them look like they are all seven thirty a.m.’ Lamb-Beth looks at me like I’m mad and closes her eyes back to sleep. Probably a good idea.
‘Huh? Why?’
‘Becaused I lied to Dad and told him it was seven thirty when it’s actually six a.m. in the morning.’
‘Six?’
‘We’ve been awake for ages, that means.’
‘It’s because it’s so sunny outside and the birds and everything.’
And before I can even turn round Hector smashes a pillow into my face. ‘WAR!’ he cries.
AARGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
And Poppy jumps on my back and starts beating me over the head with Hector’s teddy bear.
‘Traitor!’ I squeal, and begin fighting them both, whipping a giant cushion over their heads. They laugh and fight back. Poppy then pulls out the sofa seats and uses the arm of the sofa like a launch pad surfboard, sailing into the sky. She lands, clattering, against the TV, which wobbles and nearly knocks over but doesn’t smash, thankfully. Hector then picks up the other sofa seat bit, which covers his whole body – he can barely even wrap his tiny hands around the edges. He looks like a massive walking slice of toast, and like a shield he rams towards us. Toppling me over backwards. We rip all the cushions off all the chairs, laughing so hard we can barely contain ourselves. Snig. Snig. Hee. Hee. Ha. Ha. Hoo. Sh . . . Ha! And then we remember that one of the sofas is a sofa bed!
OOOOHHHHHHHH YES!
A new game is, naturally, instantly invented. We take turns to lie down on the sofa and be rolled inside the sofa bed. The metal frame is squashed around our bodies but it doesn’t hurt because the mattress soft bit cosies you all up like a Swiss-roll cake. Then the other two have to squish down with all their might to try and roll you into the sofa. The aim is that you’ll be able to feel the feeling of being completely immersed and flattened into the sofa bed like a panini being cooked in a toastie maker. Perhaps we will get so skilled at it that one day we can fold in, have the whole family sit on top of us like an actual real-life sofa and then spring out all by our own selves like surprising human jack-in-a-boxes!
That would be great.
But then, just exactly like every game we play:
‘MUM!’ Hector screams. ‘MUM!’ He’s trapped his finger in the metal bracket hinge bit.
‘Shhhhh!’ I say. ‘Be quiet.’
‘MUM!’ he roars again. ‘MUM!’
‘Hector, shhh. You’ll wake them up.’
‘My finger though, my finger.’
‘It’s fine. Look, do you want to put a chocolate bar in the microwave?’
Tears immediately dry up.
‘Yeah. OK.’ He nods. Stupid crocodile-tear baby.
We don’t have ANY chocolate bars.
‘We don’t have any chocolate bars, Hector.’
‘You said we were making a brilliant cake.’ Oh yeah. Oh yeah. OK.
I even drag a chair to the top cupboard and look inside there for a secret stash of chocolate as Mum sometimes has to hide the confectionery to keep it away from us crazy Gremlin monster children.
‘We don’t have any chocolate.’
‘But you said.’
‘Well, if I said we were going up in space tomorrow would you believe me?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Idiot.’
‘OK, what do we need for a cake? Flour.’
‘Is it self-raising?’
‘I don’t know. Cakes raise, so that one, I guess.’
‘Eggs.’
‘We don’t have any eggs – will . . . cream cheese do?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘You need butter. This pack is covered in bits of toast.’
‘Scrape them off.’
‘I don’t think there’s enough.’
I think we need to forget about a cake.
‘What about this?’ Poppy pulls out an almost antique-looking packet of orange jelly. There is dust all wrapped around it, it’s fluffy.
‘Yes! Jelly!’ I clap.
‘Jelly! I
love jelly!’ Hector claps too, the gaps in his teeth give him a lisp. It’s too late, now he’s seen it, he will HAVE to have it.
‘Where did you find that, Poppy?’ I ask.
‘Up here.’
‘Oh, gross, do you think that was left from the people that lived here before?’
‘Must be. It’s out of date, I think.’
‘Surely jelly can’t go OFF, it’s jelly. It’s the next thing to plastic.’
There was me NOT wanting to find anything left over from the previous people that lived here before us, and now I am SO grateful!
‘What are the instructions?’
‘Can’t read them, they’re all covered in fur and gunk.’
‘’K, well, it defo needs to melt, so just throw it in the microwave. The microwave can cook even anything.’
‘All right then.’
We unwrap the jelly, peeling it out of its crackling casing. We stare at it. Prod it. Lick it. It’s soft and hard and bright orange like a traffic light.
‘Wait, we need the bit that makes it into a shape – the mould thingy.’
‘What thing?’
‘You know, the plastic rabbit-shaped thing that the jelly goes into?’
‘Oh yes, the yellow plastic thing.’
‘Yes, it’s what makes the jelly into a rabbit shape. Once it’s melted you put it in the fridge to chill and it comes out in a rabbit shape.’
‘Yes. Must be up here with all the cake tins.’
‘’K, have a look.’
‘Hold my legs then so I don’t wobble off.’
‘I am.’
Darcy Burdock Page 10
