Darcy Burdock, Book 2 Page 13

  And finally he says, ‘No going in the fridge without asking. It causes an avalanche.’ And I say OK. And think about all the other treats inside the fridge and I feel exactly so much like Aladdin at the pantomime and how he wanted to badly get inside the cave to get to the treasure. Still, at least crisps don’t live in the fridge.

  I insist on only listening to extra-cheesy wheezy Christmassy music blaring at volcanic volume out of every speaker in the house and so that’s what’s happening, of course, because nobody can tell you off for having happy cheery spirit and Poppy is dancing with Lamb-Beth who obviously has reindeer horns on but looks way better than stupid dumpy dumb Donald does on that Christmas card.

  The door knocks and it’s . . . the Pinchers. Sigh. Speak of the devil (as Grandma would say even though I don’t know what that means).

  ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS!’ Marnie wails. I say wails, I mean screams, and totters in wearing stupid too-high-for-real-life heels. She is dressed in that same gross sexy-ish elf outfit with fishnet tights. Her eyes are all red and drowsy like she’s been sipping on the old whisky. She has lipstick on her teeth.

  Donald tramples in right after her, playing his handheld PlayStation business without lifting his head up even once, not even to say hello, which if I’m lucky will result in a good old trip-up and teeth-smashing-out experience. And then John stands at the door, leans back, all proud and pleased, props a Santa hat on his head and with a big bin bag of presents in his grip roars, ‘HO! HO! HO!’

  We got some quite good presents from the Pinchers. Dad and Hector both got remote-control helicopters which light up, which Dad seems to be more into than Hector. Hector’s mostly interested in the box that it came in. Mum got what Marnie calls ‘smellies’ which means all stuff for the bath and annoying candles and soap and stuff but I think the word ‘smellies’ makes it sound like it is a basket of potions or a heap of smelly socks and is quite misleading. Marnie says, ‘Can never have too many smellies, can you, Mollie?’ to Mum way too many times, and I can tell it’s annoying Mum same as me because you obviously could have too many. You can have too much of anything . . . except chips probably.

  Lamb-Beth gets these chocolate buttons that are even safe for animals to eat and we all try one and it’s OK and smells chocolaty but tastes not sugary one bit. I can see them coming in useful in case of emergency (i.e. the biscuit tin being all emptied out). Poppy got a karaoke DVD and microphone which is really pretty siiiiiiiiicccccckkkk and I’ll really look forward to that later when nobody is around, and I get this really cool bead necklace and bracelet kit that means I can make my own jewellery. I’m already one step ahead and think I could really just start a quite profitable business – make the jewellery – sell it – complete excellent profit basically. They even got Grandma some expensive fudge, but to be honest that’s insensitive if you ask me because her teeth might fall out so it’s probably best if I eat it.

  After burning my mouth on loads of Mum’s home-made sausage rolls and devouring so much chocolate that there are tiny coloured wrappers all on the floor like little bits of chopped-up stained-glass window, we all watch a bit of TV and I look through the planner and it’s really fun because all the best films are on that remind you of being smallerer and ones that Hector hasn’t seen yet that I can’t wait to show him, and Donald is doing a really good job of not saying ‘this is so dumb’ or ‘how babyish’ at everything. When they leave we say goodnight and Marnie falls over on the doorstep and scratches her kneebows a bit, but laughs it off probably because it’s Christmas tomorrow. We wave goodbye to them and close the door.

  ‘Phew, right, that’s that then.’ Mum flops onto the sofa and then Dad sits next to her and says something containing a big swear word which obviously I’m not allowed to write here but basically means ‘I’m glad they are gone’. Mixed with relief.

  Dad puts Hector on his shoulders and I get on his back and Poppy leaps on his feets and holds his hands and we walk to the kitchen like a crazy wobbly new zombie hunchback creature-zoid we have created. Dad plays up to it, groaning and moaning and making gravelly husky noises with his throat and murmuring and he slumps up to Mum and says, ‘What a pretty lady.’ And she screams and laughs and then says, ‘OK, enough now, Mary Berry’s on TV’ (who is this gentle baker lady), so Dad takes us into the kitchen, still being a zombie monster, and we are all laughing but Hector is screeching at a high enormous pitch because it’s his thing. And then Dad peels us off like PVA when it gets stuck to your hands and sits us on the counter.

  ‘Right, kids,’ he announces, ‘we have to leave out Santa’s goodies so he has something to eat when he drops the presents off.’

  ‘Not without me!’ Mum shouts from the other room and then runs in like a small child, carrying Lamb-Beth in her arms, wiggling her bum and waggling her tongue. Mum is still such an excellent child.

  We leave out eight carrots for the reindeers that Dad says we don’t have to peel because the deer like the skin, a mince pie for Santa and a glass of milk and a can of beer. It’s all just too exciting that it’s Christmas the next day so we all want to go to sleep as quickly as can be. So Hector, Poppy and I run upstairs, brush our teeth, wee and get into our new pyjamas and lie in our rooms – blinking and crinkling our eyes pretend shut but we’re too excited and so I run round to Poppy’s room, peeping my head round the door only to find her head peeping round her own door waiting for me to come. After a big bit of giggling we then decide to drag my mattress into Poppy’s room which is loads of effort plus more because we have a laughing fit the whole time and Dad tells us to be quiet and then Mum says that we are a hassle and: ‘Father Christmas won’t like this very much.’

  And then by accident I tell Mum to GO AWAY and I’m in trouble and Dad takes me downstairs and gives me a pointy finger chat that makes tears bubble in my eyes like deep wells for a second but then we cuddle and it’s OK-ish and Christmas is nearly on the edge of being ‘cancelled’, I think, but when I get back upstairs Mum has helped Poppy put my mattress on the floor and so Hector and Lamb-Beth sleep there and Poppy and I sleep head to toe in her bed.

  I say sorry and even the love word to Mum and she says it’s all right and she understands. For ages Poppy and I keep kicking each other and being sweaty and laughing and try to go ‘OK, let’s sleep now, goodnight’ and be silent for one moment before bursting out into laughter again and in the end it’s Hector that screams ‘GO TO SLEEP!’ which is a first for him and we are a bit stunned but it works.

  We wake up at 5 a.m. Too early to even be alive and once we’re awake it’s just too hard to go back to sleep because the Christmas feeling just hangs in the air like twinkly LAAAAAAAAAAAA.

  I listen to hear if Grandma has woked up as she obviously wakes up at zero o’clock but she was up late last night and I can’t hear her, and Mum especially warned me NOT to wake ANYBODY up under ANY ENTIRE circumstance. We are struggling to think of what to do – we can’t get up yet because it’s way too early and we will get into trouble and they will be in a bad mood and no amount of coffee and smoked salmon will solve that.

  So Hector pulls out his dinosaur sticker book and we do that for a bit. I absolutely love dinosaurs and this book, because it tells you exactly how to say each dinosaur’s name in broken down bits, for example Tyrannosaurus rex will say TIE-RAN-NO-SAW-RUS-REX so you can say it like a true expert. We start to get hungry and our bellies are rippling and rumbling and grumpyling like huge moody beasts that need feeding, but after being told off for spilling the cream and ruining the fridge layout I just know we are not allowed.

  ‘But we’re soooooooooooooooo hungry,’ Poppy moans, rubbing her tummy. ‘Can’t we just mouse-step down and get a few bits and bobs?’

  ‘Or even a glass of tap juice?’ Hector adds; his eyes look desperate and dehydrated like he could do with a few more blinks.

  We probably could, but I just know Mum and Dad don’t trust us to not go into the living room before they wake up in case we sneak-peep at our presents,
plus I got in trouble before bed too and Christmas could still maybe even get cancelled.

  I take out my writing book and write in massive letters:

  BANG. WALLOP. PLOP. POOF. PUFF. GLONG. BONG.

  And then, big enough for everybody to see, the word:

  OUCH.

  ‘What you doing?’ Poppy asks, and climbs off her bed and into our mattress floor bed. I was feeling a bit inspired by the fairy wings hanging off the back of Poppy’s door.

  ‘I need a name, a name for a girl fairy – who can think of one?’ I ask.

  ‘KARATE!’ Hector shouts.

  ‘OK, good. I like it, Karate.’ I smile and write KARATE down. Poppy looks upsetted. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I want her to be called Petal.’

  ‘NO!’ Hector protests. ‘That’s an ugly name.’

  I let them squabble whilst I wrote, then began to read the beginnings of a special Christmas story:

  ‘Karate-Petal had fallen out of her tree house. She was not supposed to be falling out of anything, let alone the tree house. Especially not in the daytime. She had broken the fairy rules. Big time. Which wasn’t surprising as she was pretty much the most naughtiest fairy of all time. She dusted down her mucky murky grey skirt which, for a fairy of any kind, was fairly dirty, but for a newly sparkled indoor fairy was an absolute no-go. Nah-ah, nah, darling, negative.’

  ‘I love it!’ Poppy says.

  ‘Can she maybe broked a wing?’ Hector asks. Good idea.

  ‘And when she stood, ouch, she realized she had broked a wing. Its glassy hinge collapsed and tilted to the left, like a bent-back kite swaying in the breeze and the net was torn and frayed. She scrunched her face up, used her core strength and tried to buzz herself up to a height, except the great force of the smashed wing just allowed her to bump along at an angle, like she was sleepy or drunk.’

  ‘And there was blood everywhere!’ Hector cooks up, his eyebrows wriggle.

  ‘Yuck! Hector, it’s Christmas Day. You horrible.’ Poppy pokes her tongue out.

  ‘OK, a little bit of blood, but it’s all right because fairy blood is . . . wait for it, Poppy . . . sparkly like our nail varnish!’ I say and carry on writing. Poppy nods in approval.

  ‘Karate-Petal looked up to her tree house, at its dizzy height and tried first of all to use the weeds and twigs to begin scrambling up the tree to safety, but she was useless at climbing as she hadn’t yet had her outdoor induction day. She hit the ground with a frustrated bump. She tried calling up, shouting the many names of her brothers and sisters, but her voice was as tiny as the sound of an apple growing. Her curiosity had got the better of her for the last time.

  ‘Then what happens?’ I ask them both.

  They stare at me blankly.

  ‘What can happen?’ Poppy asks, terrified of the pressure.

  ‘Anything.’ I nod. ‘That’s why I write because you can make anything happen.’

  Poppy sucks on the thought like a boiled sweetie.

  ‘A monster comes!’ Hector growls, his eyes popping out of his head.

  ‘Good!’ I announce and write some more, reading it out as I write it down.

  ‘Karate-Petal began to cry until she heard its unmistakable stomps, its churning, furious, roary, gritty, growly noise.

  ‘What shall we call the monster?’ I ask.

  ‘Ummm . . . Ripper . . . no . . . Roarer . . . no . . . Ruiner . . . no . . .’ Hector is really into this. His brain is a practical joke.

  ‘The Ripper-Roarer-Ruiner-Beast!’ I whisper-shout and write it down: ‘The scariest most vicious creature that roared the land. Karate-Petal panicked and yelped her tiny head off, trying now much more frantically to scamper back up the tree to safety but she couldn’t and the Ripper-Roarer-Ruiner-Beast was coming closer and slobbering and its sharp yellow eyes were squinting and its teeth were sharp and its claws were thick and pointy and in one swoop it swallowed Karate-Petal.’

  ‘NO!’ Poppy screams. ‘Why?’

  ‘Wait!’ I whisper, trying to bring her voice down so she doesn’t wake Mum and Dad. I continue . . . ‘But he didn’t eat Karate-Petal. He carried her in his mouth through to the kitchen where he lived. He was a family dog and his name was actually Cookie and he was harmless, but of course the fairies only knew of him as the scary Ripper-Roarer-Ruiner-Beast that dug up the garden and ripped up the rubbish bags and weed all over the place. They were tincy and tiny and helpless compared to him.’

  Poppy strokes Lamb-Beth, happier with how the story was going. I start again.

  ‘And then Cookie fell to sleep. Of course Karate-Petal was still terrified. She couldn’t believe her heart was still beating and the inside of the Ripper’s mouth was disgusting. BIG yellow teeth and a FAT red tongue and his breath STANK of meat and dirt and poo. But she was grateful; covered in slobber, but still grateful to be alive. She tiptoed down the tongue, carefully holding her broken wing close so it didn’t scratch his cheek and wake up the beast. And then she opened up his jaw with all her might, like the boot of a car, and broke free. Where was she? What was she to do?’

  ‘I know! I know!’ Poppy shouts. ‘She sees the giantest most best Igloo Palace, but really it’s just the fridge, fulled of all foods like our one at Christmas and Karate-Petal has been told about all the wonderfullest things inside and has seen drawings and pictures of it in her tree house and she wants to get inside!’

  I give Poppy my pen. She looks surprised and stunned.

  ‘Write it down,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t. I don’t know how to spell.’ She bites her lip.

  ‘Me neither.’ I shrug.

  ‘Yes you do, you’re always writing.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I can spell,’ I reassure her.

  ‘But I’m not even good.’

  ‘Can you talk?’ I ask.

  Poppy nods and crinkles her nose a bit.

  ‘Then you can write.’ I smile.

  ‘But my handwriting isn’t even neaterer.’

  ‘Look at mine.’ I show Poppy all the pages and pages of my writing book, sprawling in inky mess, like a spider that has found itself drowning in a pot of ink and has helplessly clawed across the page in preserving agony to get to safety mixed in with a waiter from the Chinese restaurant.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she says and holds the pen.

  ‘One hundred per cent sure.’

  Poppy writes and then hands the book back to me: her handwriting is so much neater than mine. Don’t know what all the fuss was about, to be honest. I carry on.

  ‘But how to get up? Her wing was broked and she wasn’t good at climbing – she had just found that out. She needed to think of something. She tried jumping and sliding and shimmying but the walls of the Igloo Palace were so shiny she just kept sliding back down again and hitting the ground with a bump. This was horrible and pathetic and she was tired and homesick and everything was so wrong. And she began to cry. Little tiny fairy sniffles.’

  ‘Oh, poor Karate-Petal,’ Poppy sniffed.

  ‘I know, I know . . .’ Hector cries. I give Hector the pen to write what happens next and he is completely confident and has no trouble writing exactly what he wants to say. I think he thinks his writing makes sense, but luckily for us he speaks every word out loud because mostly his words look like flattened Frisbees and we would have zero idea what he was on about. This is what he says out loud:

  ‘BBBBBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. BUZZZZ. BUZZZZ. Karate-Petal looks up to see a huge fly flying all around the window. And they were friends and then the fly takes Karate-Petal up onto the top of his body because Karate-Petal has even a poorly sawed and broked wing but it’s OK because they zoooom up over to the fridge – yeah, Igloo Palace.’

  Poppy starts, ‘Yes, and the fly spoke in lots of ZZZZZZZZZ’s.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s good,’ I zay. (See what I did there, I put a Z instead of an S for fly language.) I took the pen.

  ‘They waited until a human opened the door to the Igloo Palace and then they would le
ap in and visit this magical incredible land.

  ‘They waited.

  ‘And waited.

  ‘And waited.

  ‘Meanwhile, the fairies in the tree house had noticed that Karate-Petal was missing and they were deva-stated and so worried and couldn’t find her anywhere.’

  ‘We know how it feels to have something you love losted as well, don’t we, Darcy?’ Hector asks, and yes, he is talking about Lamb-Beth, and that means yes, we do know how that feels. The worst.

  Poppy steals the pen from my hands, not meanly, more over-excited. ‘They searched everywhere and when Cobweb, Karate-Petal’s little sister, poked her nose out of the tree-house window, she saw the great door to the Igloo Palace open and her big sister fly inside. “SHE’S IN! SHE’S IN THE IGLOO PALACE!” she cried, and everybody panicked – they all knew they had to ride Cookie and to get him to take them to the Igloo Palace, which was fulled to the brim with such most delicious Christmas treats. And they were not never even scared of the dog any more. OK, Darcy?’