Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (6 page)

He hands me a leaflet, flicks back his green-tinted fringe and slopes off along the corridor.

‘Daizy Star?’ a voice calls out, and I wave at Spike’s retreating back and walk into the studio.

Guitars and amps of all shapes and sizes are piled up in corners, and tangled loops of wire snake their way across the room. Piles of papers with mysterious-looking coded messages on them are scattered about on the lino floor.

Mr Tingley himself looks almost as old as my grandad, but he couldn’t be more different. He has long dark hair, flecked with grey, parted in the middle and pulled back into a ponytail.

He is wearing faded bootleg jeans and tan-coloured cowboy boots and a faded T-shirt that says
Thin Lizzy.

It’s probably some really ancient band because Mr Tingley is actually
not
very thin. And I really, really hope his first name isn’t Lizzy.

‘So, Daizy,’ he says. ‘You can call me Ted …’

Phew. I was worried there, for a moment.

‘Your mum wants me to show you a few basic guitar chords,’ he says. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I have worked with the stars. Ozzy Osbourne, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain …’

I have never heard of these people, but I am guessing they could be rock stars from way back in the mists of time because Ted Tingley is looking very proud. I try to look impressed.

‘I’d like to be in a band too,’ I tell him shyly. ‘Maybe. One day.’

‘Ah!’ he grins. ‘Interesting. What kind of a band?’

The kind of band that includes Beth, Willow and Murphy, really. I haven’t got much further than that in my daydreams, although I want it to be cool and quirky and sell shedloads of CDs, obviously. Something like Miley Cyrus crossed with Pink and Taylor Swift, only without the cheesy American accents.

‘A thrash-metal-punk band,’ I say, then close my mouth fast before anything else scary and insane can leak out. Where did that come from? Like I said, disaster follows me like my own personal raincloud.

But Ted Tingley looks pleased.

‘As I thought!’ he declares. ‘You are not the average eleven-year-old girl! You are different … daring … a girl with big dreams!’

‘I am!’ I agree. ‘Very big dreams! I am looking for my star quality, and I thought … well, I wondered … if it might be playing the guitar?’

Ted Tingley narrows his eyes. ‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘If you have star quality, I will find it!’

Looks like I came to the right place after all.

An hour later, I am not so sure. I have learnt my first guitar tune – well, almost. I am not quite perfect yet. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ is actually a lot more complicated than you might think.

Ted Tingley is not looking quite as pleased as he was to begin with. His face has taken on a slightly pained expression, and he keeps checking his watch. I am not taking this personally, of course. Perhaps Ted has an important appointment with an ageing rock star, or a nettle and kidney-bean casserole in the oven.

I hope that’s it, anyway.

‘OK, OK, that’s enough for today,’ he says, even though we still have ten minutes of lesson time left. ‘That was … really very interesting. Unexpected. Keep on practising, Daizy. I will teach you the chords for “Baa Baa Black Sheep”, next week. And don’t worry, everyone struggles a bit to start with.’

‘Do you think I have talent?’ I ask him eagerly.

Ted Tingley looks shifty, and he can’t quite meet my eye. My heart sinks, but his words are surprisingly hopeful.

‘Um … well … yes, of course you have talent, Daizy,’ he says. ‘Absolutely. Hidden talent, maybe. Very, very hidden. Untapped as yet … but never fear, I can uncover it. And you may be right about the thrash-metal-punk idea because you do seem to have a very special skill for chaos and discord.’

‘I do?’ I grin.

‘You do,’ Ted Tingley insists. ‘I have never heard quite so much chaos from a beginner in all my years as a guitar guru.’

I knew it. I just knew it! I can’t stop smiling all the way home. I have begun to uncover my star quality and made a start on my rock princess career. It is very exciting.

There’s a cold breeze blowing. I push my hands into my pockets and my fingers curl round a crumpled slip of paper. I pull out the leaflet for Spike’s Battle of the Bands competition and scan it carelessly.

I read the leaflet once, twice, three times. Young bands. New talent. Rising stars … and
£500
!

With £500, you could do a lot. You could hire a pink limo and ride around town with your friends, or buy an Xbox or go on holiday to Disneyland. You could splash out on new clothes and funky haircuts and designer shoes, and watch a new DVD every day.

Or you could dig a well, kit out a clinic with medicine, buy school books … and probably a whole herd of goats as well. £500 could go a long, long way in a village in Malawi.

And maybe then Dad wouldn’t feel like he had to fix all the worries of the world himself. We wouldn’t have to go and live in Malawi, and Mum would stop being all frowny and cross, and Becca’s life would not be ruined and Pixie could just look after her one existing pet, Nigel, the speckled newt Spike gave her for her birthday, instead of dreaming of lion cubs and pet giraffes and tame antelopes. As for me, I wouldn’t have to leave my school, my friends or my star quality behind, just as I’ve finally found it.

£500 might just be the answer to all my problems. I am young, I have talent, and I might even be a rising star. I just need to get Beth, Willow and Murphy on board. Battle of the Bands, here we come …

Demo version limitation

W
hen Pixie and I get home from school, the house is in uproar. Mum, still in her nurse’s uniform, is yelling at Dad, who is trying to show her some glossy leaflets about voluntary work in Malawi.

‘You said we needed to do more research,’ Dad says. ‘And I agreed. It’s all arranged. I have signed up for a three-week stint with a project in northern Malawi … just me. They needed someone fast because one of their volunteers has just dropped out. The flights were booked already, and they changed the details this afternoon so I can use the tickets. It’s perfect!’

‘You’re going to Malawi?’ Mum asks icily. She is not yelling now, and that’s scarier, somehow. ‘Alone?’

‘I thought you’d be pleased!’

‘Pleased?’ Mum barks.
‘Pleased?
Mike, are you completely mad?’