Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (8 page)

BOOK: Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar
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My dad is going to look like a madman when he gets to Malawi.

‘I’ll miss you!’ I tell him. ‘Do you
have
to go?’

Dad looks serious. ‘It’s been a dream of mine ever since I was a student, Daizy,’ he says. ‘I want to travel, but it’s more than that – I want to give something back, make a difference.’

‘I wish you could just make a difference from here,’ I sigh. ‘I do understand why you want to help … I do too. I’ve sorted out some of my best books for you to take over. You said the kids out there don’t have very much.’

Dad’s face lights up.

‘Daizy, that’s wonderful!’ he says. ‘These will be so welcome!’

‘There’s this old football and some kit and boots to go with it,’ I add, handing over Ethan Miller’s offering. ‘This yucky boy at school brought them in for you to take.’

Then Pixie hands over an old rag doll and Becca donates a pair of pink fingerless gloves, and Dad smiles and says he is proud to have such thoughtful, generous daughters.

‘You will come back, won’t you?’ I ask.

‘Daizy!’ Dad exclaims. ‘Of course I will! I want us all to be together – you know that!’

The trouble is, Dad wants us all to be together in
Malawi,
and everyone else wants us all to be together here.

At least I hope everyone else wants us all to be together. Mum is still tight-lipped and quiet. There have been no more big rows, but I can tell she is not happy about any of this. Maybe she is actually quite glad to be shot of Dad for a while?

‘What if you
don’t
come back, though?’ Pixie pipes up anxiously. ‘What if you get eaten by a leopard or savaged by a ferocious honey badger?’

‘What if you get malaria?’ I chip in. ‘Or typhoid fever?’

‘Not going to happen,’ Dad sighs. ‘Don’t worry, girls, I’ll be fine!”

‘Better take some suncream,’ Mum says crisply. ‘You know how you turn beetroot in the sun and peel like a sheet of flaky pastry.’

Dad huffs. ‘I have done my research, thank you, Livvi,’ he says curtly. ‘It is actually the rainy season in Malawi right now. I shall be packing an umbrella, not suncream, thank you very much.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Mum snaps.

If only we could go back to how life was before Dad packed his job in and got a mid-life crisis. I don’t like the way things are now, not one little bit.

We go to the airport to say goodbye, of course. We line up in the check-in hall while Dad books in his suitcase and then we have milkshakes and muffins in one of the cafes, and even Dad has a strawberry smoothie and a triple choc chip muffin because muffins are probably very rare indeed in Malawi and he may not get the chance to taste one again for quite a while.

Then we trail along to customs, and that is where we have to say goodbye. It’s kind of upsetting. Pixie starts sobbing and begging Dad not to get himself trampled by a herd of hippos, and I fling my arms round his neck and hang on so tightly I don’t think I will ever let go. Even Becca hugs Dad quickly and tells him things won’t be the same without him.

  

Well, they won’t. Who will make us beansprout crumble and fig and beetroot upside-down cake now that Dad is going away?

Hmm – no more disgustingly healthy dinners! I suppose every cloud has a silver lining.

‘Well, then,’ Mum says gruffly. ‘Take care, Mike. Keep in touch.’

Dad just nods and turns towards customs, but right at the last minute he turns back and lifts Mum up in a big bear hug. When they finally pull apart, I notice that Mum is dabbing at her eyes, which has to be a good sign, surely?

It means she’s going to miss him.

And then he’s gone, stepping through the magnetic archway and being frisked by uniformed guards before disappearing towards the departure lounge.

‘Oh, Mike,’ Mum whispers. ‘You silly, silly man.’

We head for home.

Demo version limitation

S
chool is just about the only thing that keeps me sane, but it is not easy to care very much about long division and spelling tests when everything else is falling to bits. And no, I am not talking about the kitchen cupboard door.

Miss Moon calls me over to her desk one lunchtime as everyone else is filing out towards the canteen.

‘Daizy,’ she says, her green eyes sparkly and kind, ‘is there anything worrying you?’

I blink.

Where do I start? I am worried because Dad has been gone for thirteen days now, and we haven’t heard from him for well over a week. I am worried he has forgotten us, or fallen down the well he is digging and drowned. I am worried he has been killed by a python or trampled by an elephant or stung by a deadly mosquito. Even now, he could be lying in a hut made from dusty red bricks, burning up with a fever, delirious, dying. It could happen. He could die without ever knowing that I have discovered my star quality.

‘Why do you ask?’ I say, stalling for time.

Miss Moon opens my English jotter. Earlier on, we were asked to write a poem about how we were feeling today. Maybe I was a bit too honest?

Sick And Tired

  

I’m sick and tired of French and maths,

Sick and tired of playground laughs,

I’m sick and tired of science and art,

Cos my whole life is falling apart.

In Malawi life is tough,

  

Life is hard and life is rough.

A mosquito with a nasty bite

Might come and get you in the night,

And then you will be really sick,

No medicine to do the trick.

I’m sick and tired of all the lies,

Sick and tired of hungry cries.

Sometimes it’s too hard to bear,

Why can life be so UNFAIR?

Miss Moon looks at me, obviously concerned. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned Malawi at school,’ she says. ‘You haven’t been your usual bouncy self just lately, Daizy Star. And then there are the band practices. I can’t help noticing it all sounds very … um … loud and … well, angry.’

‘Has Mr Bleecher been complaining?’ I ask.

‘Not just Mr Bleecher,’ Miss Moon admits. ‘Several of the teachers have commented. I am all for you and your friends practising your music, Daizy, but as your teacher I am just a little bit concerned.’

‘Are you going to stop us from practising?’ I ask, alarmed.

‘No, no, of course not!’ she says. ‘I have defended you in the staffroom. This band is obviously very important to you.’

‘It is! And besides, we are a thrash-metal-punk band. We are supposed to sound loud and angry!’

‘I see,’ she sighs. ‘But, Daizy … I have to ask … is something on your mind?’

So many things are on my mind, it’s like wearing a concrete sunhat. It weighs me down … and it seems to get heavier every day.

I bite my lip. ‘I just don’t see why we should have so much when the people in Malawi have so little!’ I blurt out. ‘It’s not fair!’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Miss Moon agrees. ‘You’re right. Life can be very unfair indeed.’

‘I think about it all the time,’ I admit. ‘It makes me sad. And angry.’

‘I can see that,’ Miss Moon nods. ‘But … there is a lot of poverty and hardship in the world. Why are you worrying about Malawi in particular?’

I sigh. ‘My dad has gone to do some voluntary work there,’ I explain. ‘He is digging a well and helping to build a school for a village called Tatu Mtengo. He’s been gone for thirteen whole days, and we haven’t heard anything since last Tuesday! It’s very worrying! What if something has happened to him?’

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Miss Moon says kindly. ‘It’s probably very difficult to communicate from somewhere like Malawi, but if anything were wrong, you’d know. But of course, I can see that the band is clearly helping you to express your mixed-up feelings about it all.’

‘It’s not just that, Miss,’ I confide. ‘We are entering the Battle of the Bands, and we are going to win. We have to, because the prize is five hundred pounds and that money could buy a herd of goats and build a new clinic and supply school books and medicine for a place like Tatu Mtengo!’

BOOK: Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar
11.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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