Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (7 page)

Dad blinks. ‘But it’s all organized now! It was a great opportunity. I had to act quickly or I might have missed it! I will be able to see what the place is like, work out where we can live, how we can fit in. I know you need a little more time to come to terms with the idea, Livvi. This will give you that time. I thought that’s what you wanted!’

‘I want you to stop this stupid idea, Mike!’ Mum yells, and her eyes brim with tears. ‘I do
not
want you to go off on your own to the other side of the world without us! It’s … it’s … ridiculous!’

Then she catches sight of me, with Pixie cowering behind. She slaps a hand over her mouth.

‘Oh, Daizy, Pixie, I didn’t see you there,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry.’

My heart is thumping, and there is a sick, empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.

‘Is Dad going to Malawi?’ I ask, and my voice sounds wobbly, even to me. ‘Without us?’

‘Dad’s leaving?’ Pixie wails.

Dad scoops the two of us up in a big bear hug.

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am going to Malawi, but just for three weeks, to help with the project in Tatu Mtengo. We’ll be building a school and digging a well. I want to see what it’s really like out there, work out how best we can help …’

‘It’s just for a little while,’ Mum says, wiping her eyes. ‘Nothing is settled yet. Your dad will be back before you know it.’

But this is not a holiday we are talking about, it’s a trip to Africa. Without us. My stomach churns.

‘When are you going, Dad?’ I whisper.

‘Not yet,’ he says, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Not for another week.’

And that’s when I start to panic because this nightmare is happening. And it’s happening now.

It goes from bad to worse. Becca gets home and tells Dad she’s glad he’s going.

‘Go by yourself,’ she tells him coldly. ‘See if I care! I’m not coming, that’s for sure. And besides, it might be a bit saner around this place without you!’

Dad looks dismayed, but what did he expect? That we’d be jumping for joy at the idea? He takes himself off for a run to escape the frosty atmosphere.

Becca, Pixie and Mum curl up on the sofa with a huge bar of chocolate and Pixie’s
Little Mermaid
DVD. We have all seen that film so many times we know it off by heart. Watching it again is like settling down and wrapping yourself up in a soft, warm blanket – comforting and familiar and somehow calming. The chocolate helps too, but big, fat tears keep rolling down Mum’s cheeks, and Becca mutters
‘He is ruining my life!’
under her breath every now and again. All in all, it’s kind of depressing.

‘Aren’t you watching?’ Pixie asks me, with a quivering lip. ‘It might be the last time we ever see it!’ I doubt that, somehow.

I would love to curl up, eat chocolate and watch mermaids, lobsters and talking fish frolicking about on film, but sadly, that won’t change anything. And I know something that just might …

I call an emergency band meeting.

‘What band?’ Murphy has the cheek to say when I phone him, but as soon as I tell him my life is in tatters and my dad has booked his ticket to Africa, he snaps to attention pretty quick. Soon, he, Beth and Willow are holed up in my bedroom.

‘Things are desperate,’ I tell them truthfully. ‘We need to get this band idea moving – now. It’s the only thing that can save me! What if Dad decides to stay in Malawi?’ I wail. ‘What if he just rings and tells us to pack our bags and come out to join him? It just feels so real now!’

‘Doesn’t sound as though your mum is too keen,’ Beth points out. ‘She looked like she’d been crying when she answered the door.’

‘She had,’ I say gloomily. ‘Crying and yelling. And the other night, she and Dad were arguing until way past midnight. I don’t know what feels scarier – the idea of going to live in Malawi, or … or …’

There is a lump in my throat the size of a small grapefruit.

I can’t say it, not out loud. I can’t say that I’m scared my mum and dad might split up over this.

Beth and Willow seem to sense my distress, though, because they each put an arm round me and hug me tight. By the time I pull away there is a damp patch on Beth’s shoulder, and Willow is holding my hand so tightly it hurts. It seems impossible that anything bad could happen to me when I have such cool friends, but something bad is happening. Something very, very bad. My dad is leaving us to live in sub-Saharan Africa. He couldn’t get further away if he tried. And what if he doesn’t come back? Last year, Kelly Munroe’s dad ran off with the woman from the chip shop on the corner, but they only went as far as Bridge Street. At least Kelly gets to see her dad on weekends, and she gets free chips whenever she wants them.

I can’t see myself nipping over to Tatu Mtengo for visits, or not very often, anyway. And I bet they don’t have chips there.

Murphy takes a bag of custard doughnuts from under his jacket and offers me one. ‘Good for pain,’ he says wisely. ‘And they taste better than medicine.’

He’s right about that, of course.

‘So,’ I snuffle, in between mouthfuls, ‘it’s serious. Winning the Battle of the Bands is my last hope. Dad should be home from Malawi by then, and if he sees us up on stage – sees how amazing we are – well, he’ll come to his senses and realize he cannot take me away from all this. From my friends, my school, my star quality …’

‘Custard doughnuts,’ Murphy muses.

‘Yes, them too,’ I agree. ‘He will see the error of his ways. He will be proud of me, and he will turn to Mum and look at her, and everything will go all mushy and kind of soft focus like it does in the films, and they will fall in love all over again.’

‘I hope so,’ Beth sighs.

‘And then I will hand over our cheque for five hundred pounds, and we can really help the children of Tatu Mtengo, and all my troubles will be over!’

‘Ri-ight,’ Willow frowns. ‘I hope so too.’

‘What kind of a band did you say we were?’ Murphy asks.

‘Thrash-metal-punk,’ I explain. ‘Ted Tingley, my guitar guru, suggested it. And Spike. It is all about destruction and disaster and you don’t even have to be any good at your instruments!’

‘Well, that’s
something,
I guess,’ Beth frowns. ‘But, Daizy … we don’t actually have any instruments!’

‘My dad has an old bass guitar in the attic,’ Murphy offers. ‘I’ll dig it out.’

‘Brilliant,’ I grin. ‘I’ve got the pink guitar, obviously, and we can practise with the school drum kit too. You could be the drummer, Beth, and Willow can sing!’

‘We don’t have any songs, either,’ Willow argues.

‘I’m on to it,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve been writing stuff myself. I have two songs already! “Malawi Madness” and “My Dad’s Mid-life Crisis”. What do you think?’

‘They sound … interesting,’ Willow says doubtfully.

Murphy sighs. ‘I’m not really sure about this, Daizy Star,’ he says. ‘But if you think it will help, I’ll give it a go.’

‘We can do it!’ I tell him. ‘I know we can!’

‘I’m in too,’ Beth sighs. ‘Does it have to be the drums, though? Couldn’t I play the triangle or something?’

‘They do not have triangle players in a thrash-metal-punk band,’ I tell her firmly.

‘I suppose I’m in too,’ Willow shrugs. ‘Who knows, it might even be fun!’

A thrash-metal-punk band is not supposed to be fun, of course, but I decide to keep quiet about that.

‘That’s settled then!’ I grin. ‘Thank you, Beth, Willow, Murphy. You are the best friends ever, in the whole entire universe.’

I fling my arms round them in a group hug. I knew they wouldn’t let me down! We pull apart, laughing.

‘What about a name for the band?’ Murphy asks. ‘How about The Custard Doughnuts?’

‘The Pink Guitars?’ Willow offers.

‘I like it,’ I say, ‘but we need something dark and sinister. We are a thrash-metal-punk band, remember? How about The Mouldy Meatballs?’

‘Or something really gross, like The Festering Scabs!’ Beth chips in, and we all turn and look at her.

‘What?’ she says. ‘I like it!’

‘It might be a little bit
too
gross,’ Willow says faintly.

We’ll find a name, though. And we’ll practise like crazy, and get really, really good. And then we will win the Battle of the Bands – and stop my family from falling apart. Sorted!

Demo version limitation

D
ad is packing his suitcase for Malawi. He puts in lots of shirts with short sleeves and hideous flowery patterns, those awful shorts he wore in Eastbourne in the summer and a pair of big flat leather sandals that show his pale, hairy toes. There is a floppy straw hat too, slightly frayed round the edges because Dad said there is no point in investing in a new sunhat when the old one is perfectly good. Perfectly hideous, more like.