Darcy Burdock Book 3 Page 6

  I’ve got the copy of Sleeping Beauty in my bag, the one Grandma gave me. I take it out and flick through it. The pictures are so beautiful and look like somebody worked really extra hard on them. I touch them with my hands. I pretend my finger is a paintbrush and go all around the outside of the lines with it. That same musty, dusty, musky, dusky smell powders all over my desk in clouds and some of my classmates look at me disgusted for bringing an old book into school. But I think they are disgusting for not respecting my old book.

  After reading a bit more I feel inspired – it makes me want to write a story of my own. So I do, because writing is like catching a fish, you always have to have your net at the ready. I want to write my very own Sleeping Beauty, a fairy tale to read before bed.

  ‘Pens down, class, nice work,’ Mr Yates says, and the bell rings, meaning it is lunch time. I look around at all my classmates; surely one of them will come over and congratulate me for sharing my Pork story in class, or ask me if I want to walk around the field together. Or something. But no. Everybody walks past me and all I can do is pretend to rub some ink off my hand that wasn’t even really there and feel angry at Will for not being at school and leaving me to fend for myself.

  This is the second day that Will hasn’t been in. I can’t think of anything to do, so I decide to go and see Mavis in Reception. Even if she has no good news about Will she might have shortbread and would certainly have that gorgeous Scottish voice to soothe me with. The moment I leave Mr Yates’s classroom I see Koala Nicola in the hallway, bawling her eyes out and being consoled by a couple of older girls in her year, and so I quickly sneak back into my classroom until they pass. I cannot be dealing with her drama right now. I slip up against the wall like a shadow and hold my breath. Her howls snake down the corridor, heavy and deep and heartbroken. Yuck. I get down the stairs towards Reception and out of absolutely nowhere I hear a horribly recognizable voice say:

  ‘Wassup?’

  Which is a phrase I never know how to reply to. It’s Olly Supperidge, obviously exercising his newly-learned-from-Clementine Americanisms.

  ‘Erm. I’m just going to see Mavis at Reception.’

  ‘Why? She’s so annoying!’ Olly says, smirking.

  ‘I don’t think she is actually.’ I feel like defending Mavis.

  ‘She’s like really nosy.’

  ‘Nosy?’

  ‘Yeah. Well irritating. My dad calls people like her a sticky beak.’

  ‘A sticky beak?’ I ask, as a picture pops into my head of Mavis with a big beak with loads of glue and fluff attached to it, squawking in a Scottish accent.

  ‘Yeah, sticky beak means nosy parker. That’s what Mavis is.’

  ‘I like her,’ I say defiantly.

  ‘You would. Anyway, how’s your writing coming along?’

  ‘Erm. Fine, I guess. Why?’

  ‘Think you’ll have some stuff for us at the school mag to read soon?’

  I am not really sure how to answer that. Us? Who does he mean by US? Please don’t tell me Clementine is involved in the school magazine now? ‘Er . . .’ I start.

  ‘Get cracking then, Burdock, bucko, we really want to publish a great story by you in this edition.’ I see he still hasn’t managed to stop speaking like a 1930s boy at a posh boarding school.

  ‘OK . . .’ I say.

  ‘Less time with Granny Mavis then! Ha! More time writing?’ Olly smirks, and this really annoys me. Don’t tell me what to do! How about less time being such a wretched disease, Olly Supperidge – how about that, eh?

  ‘I’ll write at home,’ I say, mostly to make him leave me alone. I could already see the clock chewing up the minutes in lunch break which always ticks by fast anyway. Weird, because the rest of the day runs at a tortoise pace.

  ‘Great. Well, catch you later.’ He waves and slopes off.

  ‘See ya.’

  YA? YA? Did I really just say ya? Oh, help me. I hate him even more now that he was nasty about Mavis. If it weren’t for Mavis I would never have got to sit backstage in the Reception desk area. I am a true VIP because of that. I am starting to realize that without Will I don’t really have too many friends at school . . . hmmm.

  ‘Hello, Mavis,’ I say as I go up to her desk. She moves the glass shutter back and her face lifts.

  ‘Bad thunder and lightning last night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Really bad.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘No, not really, I quite like it.’

  ‘You’re braver than me then!’ She chuckles warmly. How dare Olly say Mavis isn’t lovely?

  ‘Have you heard from Will or his sister Annie?’ I ask. My finger is drawing shapes on the wall.

  ‘I only heard from his sister Annie to say he won’t be in today. But that’s all, I’m afraid. Perhaps give him a call when you get home this evening?’

  My heart sinks slowly to my stomach. I feel absolutely friendless like an only lonely child with nobody to talk to. Why did I have to put all my eggs in one friendship basket?

  ‘Thanks.’ I slowly walk away. What do I do with myself now?

  ‘Darcy?’ Mavis calls, her face shining brightly. ‘Go and get yourself a wee sarnie and you can come and eat your lunch back here, with me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Positive.’

  The idea of spending lunch in the warm cosy hutch of Mavis’s desk is appealing and something that cheers me up. The idea of a wee sandwich not so much. Oh yes, she means LITTLE, remember.

  I choose a cheese and pickle sandwich on brown bread; just because I’ve eaten meat a couple of times doesn’t mean I can go around doing it constantly. I choose brown bread because it’s healthier than white bread, and white bread is for when you’re sick or when you’ve had to do your shopping at the newsagent. Also I just want to show off to Mavis and look like I pick brown bread out of choice.

  We don’t talk much because Mavis says she doesn’t really get a lunch break and has lots of work to do, but I sit and eat my sandwich and get back to writing my story. I see Will’s school bag in the corner, all crumpled like a sack of potatoes that have gone off. It looks so pathetic without him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mavis asks. Uh-oh, maybe this is the beginning of her sticky beaking. I hope not.

  ‘A story I’m writing.’

  ‘Wow, what happens?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I never know – that’s why I like to write because I never know what’s going to happen next.’

  ‘Wonderful. I don’t know how you do it! Ah, I am in awe of writers. Creativity is such a special thing.’ There is a strong difference between nosiness and showing an interest, why can’t people see that?

  ‘What does “orrr” mean, Mavis? Is it a Scottish word?’

  ‘I don’t think so; it’s like to have respect for something or somebody, admiration . . . to look up to. Different to oar spelled O A R, which is for boats.’

  ‘Oh yes, like paddles.’

  ‘Exactly. This awe is spelled A W E.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘So one of your characters might be in awe of another.’

  ‘Not at the moment, but maybe, if I choose. At the moment this strange sleep healer lady has just knocked on the front door of the King’s palace.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mavis laughs, and her grandma-like boobies bounce. ‘What an imagination. A sleep healer! I need one of those for all the snoring my husband does, he wakes me up every night!’

  I laugh.

  ‘What’s her name? This sleep healer?’

  ‘I don’t know actually. I want her to have a magical name, something unusual and not obvious.’

  ‘Hmm . . . let’s see . . .’ Mavis starts fiddling with her computer. ‘Maybe I could type in the search bar . . . sleep fairy . . . let’s see if any names come up when I search that . . .’

  ‘Or goddess . . . is there a sleep god?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Mavis nods. Some of the other staff in the room are huffing and tuttin
g and sighing at their desks and furiously eating their silly Lamb-Beth lunches of salad and carrot sticks.

  ‘Here we go, look at this. Morpheus.’

  I look at the screen and see a very artistic and naked illustration of a god, and I briskly get a bit shy and blushy.

  ‘He looks handsome,’ Mavis adds.

  ‘Yuck, it’s a painting. You can’t have a crush on a painting.’ I poke my tongue out in disgust.

  ‘Oh, shush you; I can have a blimmin’ crush on a slice of cheesecake if I want to. Speaking of which, pass the shortbread, will you? Top drawer.’ I reach for the shortbread in its tartan tin. She takes the lid off and it’s clear that since yesterday, a LOT of it has been devoured. ‘What?’ Mavis looks at me blankly as she catches my jaw drop at the nearly empty tin. ‘These hips don’t grow themselves!’

  We laugh, and she begins to crunch on the shortbread. I make sure to take one for after lunch before she devours them all. ‘The thing is, your character is a woman, so why don’t you call her . . . say . . . ooo . . . Morphina?’

  ‘Morphina?’ I say out loud, nibbling on the sandwich crust. Morphina. I like that. ‘Yes. I like that. I’ll call her Morphina.’

  ‘See.’ Mavis slurps on her tea. ‘Knew there was a reason we had to have lunch together.’

  ‘There goes the dreaded bell, I’m afraid, hen.’ Mavis is genuinely looking disappointed that I have to stop writing and leave. ‘Did you get some good writing done? I don’t know how you do it, sit there and just write like that. Doesn’t your mind wander off?’

  ‘Of course, but that’s why I like it. I do it so my mind can wander off.’

  ‘Well, you must be Wander Woman . . .’ Mavis laughs, then she wipes her eyes with her finger. I laugh too, collecting my things.

  ‘Work on your story tomorrow, and will you read it to me tomorrow lunch time?’

  ‘Course I will.’ I wave goodbye, even to the moody other ladies eating their boring diet lunches and I realize that hanging out with Mavis at lunch time is not bad at all.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘AHHHHHHH! Darcy! Darcy! Quick!’ It’s Poppy, of course, making a racket as usual. ‘GET YOUR FAT BUM IN HERE NOW!’ She is so excited her voice sounds like it’s climbing up a mountain.

  It’s really special to be greeted in this way by an overexcited sister but I’m feeling that horrid thing where you’re not entirely sure whether you want to be fun right now. Perhaps I just want to wallow and be a lump of grump.

  ‘DARCY! DARCY!’ she calls again. I kick my dompy shoes off and they hit the ground like a boulder dropping onto tarmac. I follow the sounds of Hector and Timothy’s (Poppy’s tutu-wearing ballerina best friend) laughter to the living room. Pork is sitting in a pink babygro and bonnet, in a pram, purring.

  ‘Poppy! You can’t do that, that’s naughty,’ I say and go right over to Pork to undress him.

  ‘No, he hisses if you take him out of it, he likes it. He TOLD me.’ Poppy is missing a few teeth at the moment and it’s making her look like she is a boxer after a big fight, or possibly a grandma and so you can’t really take her seriously.

  ‘Honestly,’ she says. ‘He actually chose the outfit. He went over to the doll wearing this babygro and pointed at it and whispered, I want to look like that. He picked it out, like how Mum does with the models in magazines.’

  It’s hard to digest, but Poppy is the cat whisperer, after all. Pork is purring and Timothy is snapping away furiously with his posh camera, taking photographs of Pork. ‘I want to put this online, could you imagine? He will be a viral sensation overnight!’

  ‘He does love it,’ Hector adds, and takes out a packet of fruit pastilles from his pocket.

  ‘Oi!’ I bark, holding my hand out. ‘Pay the tax woman.’ He huffs but he knows he has to pay up and unwraps the top. The next one in line is a yellow one. He grins a bit and places the little sugar sunshine in my palm. I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so . . . do you?’ He sighs again and eats the yellow one. Next in line is a green one. I cough and pretend to be disinterested, my patience is being tested. He puts that one on the side for later and then winds the packet down again until a ruby-red glittery sugar-covered pellet of goo shows its face and OBVIOUSLY this is the chosen one for me.

  Dad is in the kitchen doing some accounts on his laptop and Lamb-Beth is sprawled across his lap. ‘Hi, Dad.’ I kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Hi, poodle.’ He smiles, then looks at Lamb-Beth. ‘We’re protesting, aren’t we?’ Lamb-Beth opens one eye from her snoozing and grunts in my face.

  ‘About Pork?’

  Dad nods. ‘All the slobby thing does is sleep and eat and stare. I was trimming my beard in the bathroom mirror this morning and got the fright of my life to see Pork propped up on top of the toilet seat glaring at me, right in the face, with that miserable frown.’

  I laugh and go to the toaster. It really is Marmite-on-toast time now. I make some for Poppy, Timothy, Hector, Dad and even Lamb-Beth too. Mum doesn’t want any, because toast is ‘too addictive’, she says. She is too busy upstairs anyway, rolling Hector’s socks into balls. She does have a point. I could bathe in Marmite. In our house we ALL love Marmite.

  I think about giving Pork some ham, because all cats like ham, but then there’s a battle going on in my head that it feels weird giving something called Pork some ham. I see an old tired mushroom in the fruit and veg bowl and think I might see if he wants to eat that. He can be veggie like me.

  ‘So has Pork caught any mice yet?’ I ask Dad whilst buttering the hot toast. I like my toast nearly on the verge of burning so that the Marmite steams out of the top of it. Mum comes into the kitchen wearing a big smile.

  ‘What do you think?’ Dad mutters with sarcasm and rubs his head with his hands. Mum begins to chop carrots. The tops of them sit like little gentleman heads wearing top hats.

  ‘Have you seen Hector?’ she whispers.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Timothy and Poppy have dressed him up as a princess!’ Mum snorts, which she always does when she is trying not to laugh.

  I shriek in excitement. I can’t wait to see this. I grab the plate of toast off the side and run in to see Hector AND Timothy dressed as princesses with Poppy pretending to scrub their feet and fan them. Pork is still in the pram. Hector for a second looks at me a bit like I have let him down, and freezes as if he’s been caught out, but I throw him a massive reassuring smile. I am NEVER letting him forget this one.

  ‘Darcy, meet our servant!’ Timothy is delighted with himself.

  ‘Yes, I am the servant and these are the mean princess sisters,’ Poppy adds. Never have I seen such a happy servant. She is beaming cheek to cheek. Poppy does more scrubbing and fanning, and then pretends to shhhh the baby (Pork). I am laughing really hard now. Wish Will was here to see this.

  ‘I’ve got toast here, it’s hot.’

  ‘I don’t eat bread,’ Timothy mutters. ‘It’s utter sewage for the physique. I only eat sushi and fruit and green tea.’ We all look at him absolutely shocked. ‘As if!’ he cracks up, rolling around, and then his face pours into a smile. ‘Darling please.’ Relieved, I leave the plate with them and go to eat my toast in the kitchen.

  Mum’s already started eating mine!

  ‘MUM!’ I shout.

  ‘Oh, yum!’ She licks her lips; she looks about five years old.

  ‘Here!’ I’m angry and slam the lid of the Marmite onto the jar. ‘HAVE it.’

  I decide to ring Will. I know his number off by heart but I still pretend to look it up on the little laminated sheet that Mum made that has all our important phone numbers on it.

  It rings. And rings. And rings. I can hear the wails of laughter from Timothy and Poppy from the other room. And then Annie’s voice comes onto the phone:

  ‘It’s Annie and Will,

  Leave a message after the beep

  And one of us will remind the other one

  To call you back but most probably will just forget.

  T
hanks.

  Oh, unless you’re Chad, then STOP calling.

  Byeeeeeeee.’

  Then there’s loads of really loud giggling from both Annie and Will – it’s that kind of laughter where you can’t get your breath back, and it makes me laugh too just listening to it. Then it hangs up. Chad is Annie’s ex-boyfriend who it is illegal not to hate. And I don’t like breaking the law.

  I don’t leave a message.

  When I put the (Marmite fingerprinted) phone down, I see Mum in the reflection of the mirror. ‘No answer?’ she asks softly, and I shake my head. ‘Try again later?’

  Pork is now out of his babywear. Dad said he thought it was ‘humiliating for the cat’. Apparently ‘cats are very proud’. But to be honest I think he just wanted to ruin everybody’s fun because he wasn’t dressed up as a princess too.

  Then Dad leaves for football, which he plays in the park with loads of other dads who are all a bit slow and chubby and bald. We wave him off and he acts like he is off to climb a mountain, so dramatic.

  Poppy says Pork was probably a prince or some kind of ‘Royal Child’ in another life and so has to be treated like one. She feeds him slightly warmed milk in a teacup. Lamb-Beth rolls her eyes at this. Poppy then reports that Pork said he would be really cross at her if she didn’t get to invite her friends over for a sleepover as he’s desperate to meet them all. She also said he fancied a Chinese takeaway for dinner tomorrow night. He didn’t actually say those things, did he? And both Lamb-Beth and I know it. We are on to her.

  Later we eat Mum’s chicken stew and carrots and Mum says, ‘Why not invite Will over tomorrow? I’m sure he will be back in school then.’ Dad’s home now and is soaking his feet after football in the washing-up bowl AGAIN. He is really sweaty, but Mum says it’s good for Dad to ‘let off some steam’. As if Dad’s a giant kettle. Mum does this thing where she puts a tincy tiny pin in the bottom of the washing-up bowl and Dad has to gently move his feet around and relax and watch the TV, and when he least expects it the pin will burst all his blisters.