Darcy Burdock, Book 2 Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Ten-year-old Darcy sees the extraordinary in the everyday and the wonder in the world around her. This second book sees Darcy move-up to Big School – and all of a sudden EVERYTHING changes. Her best friend Will isn’t sure he should talk to girls anymore, her new teacher may in actual fact be a cauldron-bubbling witch and, horror of horrors, her precious pet Lamb-Beth goes missing. Can Darcy face these challenges head-on, armed only with her curious, whip-smart mind and eye for a story?

  For the dazzling summer that is Angelo

  AND

  For my granddad Ken Green, it has been an absolute wonder getting to know you better, I really like you. LOADS. I always wanted a granddad like you and now I have one. You have always dedicated your own books to others and now you have one for you.

  Chapter One

  Oh, and hi so much. I can’t believe I have not even started this book and I am already in trouble.

  I am in trouble for the most ridiculous reason of all the reasons that ever existed and what is to blame is one answer and one answer only.

  MY

  BIG

  FAT

  MOUTH

  This is what happened.

  My sister Poppy decided that the name of our across-the-road neighbour, Cyril, sounded like ‘Cereal’. Which it does. That was funny. We were laughing. What was not funny, apparently, was us calling Cyril ‘Cereal’ over and over again, to his very own face, and annoying and winding him up so much that he fell backwards into his house and broke an arm.

  Mum is this – L.I.V.I.D.

  So this is me – making a card.

  What do you draw on the front of somebody’s Get Well card that you helped make un-well? I can only think of drawing Cyril himself with a big plaster cast on, which maybe is naughty but I am not a magician and can in no way tell my brain what to be thinking.

  Erm . . . a catapult?

  A basketball?

  A kite?

  I like a catapult best but I can’t exactly remember how they look, so I ask Mum.

  ‘Mum, what do catapults look like?’

  ‘Why?’ she says. ‘You’re not making one, are you? Then it will be us in hospital with you with a sore eye.’ I quite enjoy the fact that Mum thinks that I am capable of creating a catapult.

  ‘No, I’m drawing one,’ I sing.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Cyril’s card.’

  Dad cackles, and then Mum gives him the looming stare of death and he pretends to read the Chinese takeaway menu. We are having noodles, you see.

  ‘Darcy! Drawing a catapult on the front of somebody’s Get Well card who has broken their arm because of something you did is not appropriate!’ Her words feel like they get screechier and screechier, but I didn’t have a Screech-o-mum-meter on me at the time so I can’t be sure exactly.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  ‘Because you are the reason why he broke his arm.’

  ‘Mollie!’ Dad tuts. ‘Don’t say that.’ Thank goodness for Dad.

  ‘Sorry, monkey,’ Mum says. ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, just draw something . . . Look, you’re a very good drawer and you have a gorgeous imagination. Draw something . . . happy and positive, like some . . . I don’t know? Ducks?’

  Ducks? Quack. Boring.

  Cyril only broked his arm for spaghetti’s sake; my caretaker from school broked his back diving into a swimming pool when the water was too shallow, so a broked arm is nothing. So he should be grateful. And we all know the only reason he is staying at the hospital is because he wants cuddles from the nurses and loads of grapes, since Mrs Cyril ranned away with a man on the back of a motorcycle. Probably.

  Mum is even more cross at me now because she says I should be feeling sorry for Cyril, not being angry at him, but I can’t help it. It’s not my fault his mum named him something that sounds so much like something you eat for breakfast or that he is clearly the most clumsiest person in the universe.

  After a few moments of scribbly crayon and scrunched-up balls of twisty wasted paper I delegate the job of card makerer to Poppy.

  ‘Me?’ she says. ‘But you NEVER give me the job of card makerer.’ She grins in pleasant, warming surprise, knowing I must be in a real struggle.

  ‘Yes, I know, but today is different.’

  ‘What shall I draw?’

  ‘Mum says ducks.’

  ‘OK. Cool.’ Poppy is a bit too excited for my liking, nudging me out of the chair and squeezing all comfily in herself, fiddling her tiny hands through the colours. So smug.

  ‘Can you even draw ducks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you actually ever tried?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ she lies. I know she is lying because I ALWAYS know.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I was five.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  It turns out Poppy can’t draw ducks. Just as I inspected. Or is it suspected . . . or detected? And then when she realizes that we caused bone-breaking from name-calling, she gets really upset . . .

  ‘We are terrible bullies!’ she cries. ‘Why us, Darcy? Of all the sisters in the whole entirety of the world, why did somebody get taken to hospital because of something we did?’ She flops her head into her hands. I spot she has my glitter love-heart nail varnish on but I don’t think this is a time for war.

  I quickly remind myself of all the famous scenes I’ve watched and read and heard about, scenes where girls look after each other. Little Women, A Little Princess, the ones where they have to live in attics and wear those long gross nighties for bed. I do a bit of acting.

  ‘There, there, hush now, precious one.’ The words roll off my tongue effortlessly like I was created for this role. ‘We are never alone in this . . . harsh . . .’ – harsh was a good word – ‘harsh, harsh, cold world, so long as we have each other.’ And then I stroke her hair and go in for a good old embrace.

  Poppy’s tears turned into laughter, a deep wobbly belly roll that first I must say I did take offence to, but it was better than her crying.

  ‘You’re stupid.’ She smiles.

  ‘Come on then, let’s make this card.’ And I reach for the most orange bright paper I can find and Poppy sharpens the yellow pencil.

  Making art with somebody else is very weird and very strange: it is like being a synchronized swimmer but more harderer because at least they get to practise and plus they get to wear fun swimming costumes. But we are just drawing and painting and scribbling and making and splodging without talking or sharing ideas and just hoping for the best, and I’ve made a sunflower and carefully painted on each petal by dipping my finger in yellow and printing it round and round in a circle shape. Poppy says I am clever for making petals from fingerprints and I say, ‘Don’t be silly.’ But really I’m thinking, Thanks, and also, Yes, I am. I say, ‘That’s amazing, Pops!’ about this incredible burst of orange and red dots that she’s gone and made and then, ‘What is it?’

  She replies, ‘I
t’s the sunshine, helping make the flower grow more.’

  And I feel a bit gulpy and say, ‘Let’s make the flower and the sunshine touch. So you add the lines of the sunshine ray into my petals and I’ll move the fingerprint petals into the sun more.’

  ‘Why, Darcy?’ Poppy asks as if I’ve lost my mind.

  ‘To show they are working together.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Do we have have have to?’ Poppy is saying as we reach the hospital doors. I don’t really want want want to but I am curiously excited by the hospital, plus I need a wee.

  ‘Yes, Poppy, we have been through this,’ Mum whispers sternly as though the pavement has ears.

  I know it’s bad but I really hope I see lots of blood today. It is after all my last week of holiday before I start Big really scary big School and get promoted to being a high mature mighty queen, so I do technically deserve to get to see some blood or at least a rolling eyeball in the corridor.

  The doors are automatic and open as soon as our foot gets nearerer. The bushes rattle in applause, it’s like they never get over the doors’ performance and award a cheer every time.

  I can’t help thinking about Dad and Hector, at home with Lamb-Beth, all cosied up, probably watching amazing snowy nature programmes about polar bears and penguins and ice. Sometimes I don’t like watching these animal nature programmes because often an animal might die from starvation and the camera crew never help the animal. Can’t they just take the animals home with them and keep them and be their adopted parents . . .? A snow leopard would be a siiiiiiiccccckkkk pet. Dad says it’s called the ‘food chain’ but if you ask me it’s just plain cold-blooded murder.

  The smell of the hospital is all sugary and plasticky like Play-Doh and our feet squeak on the floor. It is the same sound as we make going around the supermarket but without the possibility of visiting the cake aisle. I know what it also sounds like . . . you know the trainers or ‘sneakers’ of basketball players when they are ‘shooting hoops’ on a court? Just like that. (Oh, sorry about me and my b-ball terminology, it’s like I get more cleverer by the second.)

  Did you know that lurgies are invisible until they are noticed by somebody with invisibility vision and then they are black slugs with sharp yellow teeth that carry absolutely disgusting diseases like belly aches and snotty noses. So that’s why you don’t eat anything old or not cooked or bite your nails, and why you must wash your hands when you have been for a wee, and you don’t eat crisps after being on the bus, and why you don’t hold hands with boys and all that. Hospitals are lurgy dungeons.

  The receptionist teeths us a rotten-lipstick-smothered grin but it looks as though she has been drinking beetroots through a straw for far too long as her lips are all sewn tight together with smudgy purple colour all round them. Perhaps she’s a vampire and a hospital is the best place for her to work and she’s just come off her lunch break of severed leg?

  Mum does all the talking stuff and says we are here to see ‘Cyril Flakes’.

  Cyril Flakes. Cyril Flakes? Are you joking me – can his surname really be FLAKES? I never heard of anything so hilarious before but I must not laugh on pain of Mum’s looming stare of death. Poppy frowns at me holding my collected smiles in.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ says Poppy. ‘Flakes?’

  ‘Say both names together . . .’ I whisper-instruct so Mum doesn’t hear and shout at us.

  ‘Cyril Flakes,’ she tries, confused.

  ‘No, no, say it like . . . OK . . . say cereal.’

  ‘Cereal?’ she says. ‘But Darcy, we are not allowed to, remember?’

  ‘What, so you think we’re never allowed to say the word cereal ever again?’ I say with sarcasm.

  Poppy shakes her head doubtfully. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘What do we say then?’ I tease her.

  ‘Erm . . . mini . . . biscuit . . . bites . . . with milk?’

  I quite like the sound of this actually. Mum gives us that look. She can be a real creaturette. We get a move on.

  I know I am not fifteen, but I am certainly extremely not a baby. Maybe the nurse was drunk when she took Poppy and me to this baby room to wait because it was ‘quiet’ – apparently we are ‘lucky’ because there are ‘books to read’ and ‘toys to play with’. Oh yes, absolutely plenty of books if we are referring to the bashed-up copy of Where the Wild Things Are with the faces ripped out and the squiggly lines all over it that made me want to lose my mind. Or perhaps when she meant ‘toys’ she was referring to the marvellous raggedy doll with the biro scrawled all over her head? It was just insulting, to be honest.

  And I wasn’t going to be drinking that overly watered orange squash either. I said, ‘I’ll have a coffee please,’ to the nurse and Poppy gazed at me, like, WOW, MY BIG SISTER IS A NEARLY WOMAN. I regretted this immensely, obviously, as coffee is monster poo blended up, and told Poppy I would give her my furry leopard-printy slippers if she let me have four sips of her squash. This was a ridiculous swap, I know that now, but I was desperate.

  Cyril cries when he sees us.

  Have you ever seen a man cry? It is like watching a car in reverse. You know it can happen but it sort of still looks weird.

  ‘Girls, can you wait outside please?’ Mum suggests, but Cyril refuses.

  ‘No, no, please, let them stay . . . please.’

  We are surprised but quite haps to not be kicked out because being kicked out is horrible, it makes you feel like old flowers or yesterday’s newspapers. Poppy hands over our card and I quickly grip the corners too, real fast, to show I made it as well. Cyril does more of that nearly-about-to-cry stuff. Awkward.

  ‘Girls, your card is the most wonderful card I’ve ever seen.’ He looks over it a bajillion times as if his eyes are about to close for ever and he will never get a chance to look at anything again.

  I know the card is a stunning bit of work, but perhaps not good enough to receive this praise, but then I remembered: to Cyril, Poppy and I are geniuses. We see ourselves every day so sometimes we don’t appreciate that. It makes me sad and happy mixed in together and mostly proud. Mum takes off her glasses and wipes away the steam with her jumper. I can’t believe we are not even properly into this book yet and already we are crying. Absolutely X-Zausting! (Do you see what I did there? I used the letter X for ‘ex’ – if you are feeling cool one day you could try that for yourself. But not in school – school don’t like you breaking the rules.)

  As we leave Cyril’s ward I see a man lying down with a bandage over his eye and he is watching the news with the other one open. I put one hand over my eye to see what it must be like seeing your life through only one eye instead of two. I walk through the corridors with only one eye, peeping around and shyly turning my head to try and get a good look at everything. A girl stares at me with my hand over my eye and makes me feel stupid, so I stop and try and calculate how many footsteps it will take until we are freed from this place.

  Ten

  Nine

  Eight

  Seven . . .

  That plant needs watering.

  Six

  Five

  Four

  Three

  Two . . .

  Can’t believe I didn’t even get to see any blood.

  Two and a half

  One

  Out.

  In the car I am feeling one bajillion per cent scared about starting school. I don’t want everything to change or to be any type of fish in any type of pond. What if I hate my pond? What if I am like Henrietta’s fishes in her pond that all ate each other? What then?

  Mum says, ‘You OK, monkey?’ to me and I nod but I am not, I don’t think.

  When we get home Dad is watching football and Hector is sleeping with Lamb-Beth curled up. We are starving hungry but Mum says she forgot to get dinner. Good one, Mum. Not.

  ‘It’s beans on toast then, kids,’ Mum says as she roots through the cupboards. I do love beans so I’m not worried but Poppy hates them so she a
lways has melty cheese instead.

  ‘We could always make THE MIGHTY SANDWICH!’ Dad puts on a Frankenstein voice to say that and Mum giggles. I have never eaten a Mighty Sandwich before but it was clear Mum and Dad had. I couldn’t even begin to think what was in it.

  ‘What’s in it?’ Poppy asks. Good question, Poppy.

  ‘Everything,’ Dad says. ‘Well, whatever you want. We’ve got bread, we’ve got’ – he runs over to the fridge and starts rummaging through it, all excited like he’s winning a raffle or something – ‘butter, cheese, pickle, ham, leftover mash potato, leftover curry.’ In a sandwich? ‘Pesto, chocolate buttons, yoghurt, gherkins.’ Hmmm . . .

  THE

  MIGHTY

  SANDWICH

  Ingredients . . .

  You will need:

  5 slices of bread (3 white and 2 brown)

  Lots of butter

  4 fish fingers (cooked, of course)

  A sprinkle of oven chips (cooked, of course, as well)

  1 pot of chocolate mousse

  A handful of Hundreds and Thousands

  A packet of cheese doritos

  A teaspoon of Marmite

  A teaspoon of peanut butter

  A teaspoon of jam

  A spoonful of baked beans

  A splodge of tomato sauce

  A handful of Rice Crispies

  A dash of peanuts (not necessary, but Hector threw them in with the intention of ruining my game plan and I wanted to keep a polka-dot face so I kept them in – they sort of merge with the peanut butter.)

  A fried egg with wobbly gooey yellow middle.

  Hi, it’s me, your favourite chef who isn’t allowed to even use an oven. Yes, you’ve guessed it, Darcy Burdock. Welcome to my cookbook.

  First get your five pieces of bread; you can toast them (optional) if you wish or if your bread is a bit stale. Luckily for me, my bread is not that stale so I’m going with not toasting.