by Charlotte Lo
Kai slowed down and looked at his pedals. “Well, it was a bit hard for him to keep on top of it after he died.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”
“Dad loved that island, and now you’re going to build things on it and ruin it all,” he said.
“I’m not!” I replied. “I need the pallets to build a stage for a festival, so I can raise money to open a donkey sanctuary. I love the island, and the bats, and the plants. I don’t want to ruin them.”
Kai stopped pedalling and stared hard at me, as if trying to decide whether I was telling the truth. Now it all made sense. The reason Kai had been so unfriendly was that the island reminded him of his dad. Maybe he was worried that we’d change it from the place his dad had loved. After Granny died, the council had said we had to clear out her flat so somebody else could live there. The place looked so different afterwards, like she’d never even existed. I guessed Kai felt the same way about the island.
“My granny died a few months ago, and my dad started acting really differently afterwards,” I said. “He just lies in bed and sleeps all day. We thought having a festival might give him something to smile about.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him all of this. It felt good to talk to somebody other than Margot and Fabien about it, but embarrassing too.
Kai turned away from me, scuffed the ground with his shoe and then pulled back his shoulders. “We’d better get going, before Farmer McAndrew burns all the wood.”
I looked back to the smoke-filled sky, and pedalled towards it in a panic. A huge bonfire danced in the middle of a gravel courtyard, its flames orange and fierce. Beside it, a man in a tweed jacket threw something into the flames. The fire crackled hungrily and the smoke thickened. I guessed the man was Farmer McAndrew.
We screeched to a halt in front of him, and Kai handed him his newspaper.
“This is Luna,” said Kai, gesturing to me. “She’s after some old pallets for a project.”
“There’s half a dozen or so behind the cowshed,” said Farmer McAndrew. “Help yourself, just don’t disturb my girls.”
“Girls?” I whispered, but Kai was already halfway across the courtyard.
I cycled after him to a field full of large tan-coloured cows. They didn’t look anything like the cute spotty ones I was used to seeing in milk adverts. These were dumb and angry looking, and smelled like the inside of a train-station toilet.
“Not scared, are you?” asked Kai.
“Of course not!” I lied.
“Good. Come on then,” he said.
I took a deep breath, and followed Kai through the gate. My wheels clicked over the grass, and all the cows stopped chewing and glared up at me. It was as if they could smell my fear.
They’re just like donkeys; they’re just like donkeys, I said to myself, but didn’t feel any calmer.
I skirted past the cows, and cycled as fast as I could to the other side of the field. Kai stopped at the shed, and laughed over his shoulder at me. He was about to say something, but then suddenly his face turned pale and his eyes widened. I skidded to a halt, and tried to spot what he was looking at.
“The gate!” he yelled.
“What gate?” I asked.
“The gate!” he repeated.
I looked back at the gate to the field, and saw it swing open in the breeze. The cows stampeded towards it, tails swishing. Hot panic filled me. I must have forgotten to close it when I’d followed Kai through.
“Quick, we’ve got to stop them!” he said.
My wheels spun as I pedalled back across the field. Mud splattered my back and my wheels tore up the grass. It was too late. The entire herd was loose.
I watched in horror as the cows almost crashed into Farmer McAndrew, veered left and ploughed through his vegetable patch. Cabbage leaves and cucumbers flew through the air, and an onion landed on the garage roof. One of the cows collided with a watering can and got its foot stuck inside. It clattered around like a one-cow band, and water sloshed out of the top.
“We need to stop them before they leave the farm!” yelled Kai.
I forced myself to cycle faster. The cows crashed through a plastic washing line, sending a pair of blanket-sized knickers into the air. I watched the knickers parachute down and land on one of the cows’ head, covering its eyes. The cow mooed loudly, and fell into a pile of manure. I choked on the smell.
Kai got in front of the cows and waved his arms at them. They stampeded towards him without blinking. My breath caught in my chest. Kai was going to be flattened.
“Moo at them!” he yelled.
“Are you mad?” I asked.
“Do you want me to be roadkill?” he said.
Before I could properly think about it, I sucked in a deep breath and let out an almighty moo. The cows screeched to a halt and stared at me. I gripped my handlebars and stared back. Nobody moved. It was like a standoff in an old Western.
Farmer McAndrew ran past me and shook a bucket of food at the cows. They blinked, mooed and trotted after it. My heart drummed in my ears. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Kai.
“But what about my stage?” I asked.
“Hang around here and it won’t just be wood that Farmer McAndrew’s burning,” he said.
I glanced back at the pallets, and then cycled away as if my life depended on it. We didn’t stop until we reached The Wig and Pen. I clambered off the bike, and wheeled it over to Kai. He grabbed the handlebars without scowling at me, and I wondered if maybe we were friends now. It would be nice to know somebody other than Margot and Fabien.
“Do you want a can of pop?” he asked.
That was definitely the type of question you’d ask a friend, I thought. “Yes, please,” I smiled.
I followed Kai inside. Mum was still sitting at the computer. I went over to see what she was doing, while Kai fetched the drinks. On the computer screen was a website, with a photo of our beach at the top, and random people doing yoga poses below.
“What do you think?” asked Mum.
“It’s very good,” I replied, surprised.
“Heidi helped me a bit,” said Mum.
Just then, Kai came over and handed me a can of lemonade. “What’s that?” he asked.
Mum explained all about her yoga retreat idea. “Hopefully we’ll be able to save up enough money to renovate the house, if the business takes off. I might even be able to build a yoga studio so I can teach classes during winter, and maybe some log cabins so we can have even more guests.”
“You mean like a holiday park?” asked Kai.
“Well … yes, I suppose a bit like that,” said Mum.
I had a bad feeling about where this chat was heading. Kai’s face had gone hard and stormy. It was like he was trying to kill me with his glare.
“You liar,” he said to me.
“I’m not a liar!” I said.
“You said you weren’t going to build on the island!” he said.
“We’re not!” I replied but, before I could say anything else, Kai stomped off upstairs.
I sank into the chair next to Mum and groaned. So much for Kai and I being friends. Now he really didn’t like us.
“Oh, dear… Did I cause that?” asked Mum.
“You’re not really going to build all that stuff, are you? It’ll ruin the island,” I said, thinking mostly about my donkey sanctuary. There’d be no room for it if Mum covered the island with log cabins. The yoga people would scare all the animals away, including my donkeys.
“It was just an idea,” said Mum. “I doubt we’d actually be able to afford it, and I suppose it would be a lot of work. Maybe you’re right and it would spoil things. I was just thinking aloud.”
I sipped my lemonade with relief. My donkey sanctuary was still safe then. Now all I had to worry about was Kai. I couldn’t believe I’d told him about the festival. What if he tried to ruin it, or told Mum about it? Margot
and Fabien were going to kill me.
The next morning, Fabien handed me a leaflet. It was an advert for this year’s festival in Itchbottom, which he’d picked up from The Wig and Pen before the Cakeathon incident. According to the dates, the festival was that day.
“We could ask to borrow their stage,” said Fabien, who was sitting on the floor, trying to find the town on a map.
“I doubt they’ll lend it to us,” I said, throwing my head into my hands mournfully.
“Can’t we go anyway? I want to see the sheep,” said Fabien.
Margot nodded. “It’d be good research at least.”
I got up and accidentally stood on the top of Scotland, but Fabien shooed me off so he could highlight the roads to Itchbottom. The town didn’t look very far from our island, just a couple of centimetres. I wondered if the map was to scale.
“You get Mum and Dad, and I’ll get my costume,” said Fabien, bouncing up from the sofa.
Margot shook her head frantically. “No! You can’t go to a sheep show dressed as a sheep!”
“Why not?” asked Fabien.
“Because it’s like going to a music festival dressed as a trombone!” she said.
“That would be funny,” giggled Fabien, and went to fetch his costume regardless.
Margot breathed a long, deep, pitiful sigh.
I told Mum about the Itchbottom festival over a breakfast of burnt eels, while Fabien groomed his coat. She was so surprised that we’d managed to read a map that she barely protested at the idea of going, although Dad was harder to convince. We had to drag the covers off him and pull a jumper over his head before he’d even sit up. Eventually we managed to cajole him into Lady Agatha, where he sat quietly in the corner.
Itchbottom was twenty miles and two bus rides away. I sat by the window of each one and kept watch for our stop. The journey took less than an hour, but it felt like days. I fidgeted in my seat, and wiggled my thumbs impatiently.
“How much further?” asked Fabien.
“Not far,” I said.
“I’m hungry,” he replied.
I tossed him a satsuma. “We can eat when we get there.”
The bus wobbled around a bend, and we passed a sign saying Welcome to Itchbottom. Twinned with Scratchbottom in Memphis. Ahead was a bus stop covered in posters. I tried to read them, but couldn’t make out the writing. One had a drawing of a sheep on it.
“Let’s get off here,” I said.
The bus doors swooshed open. I stepped outside and smelled fried onions and burgers. There was a cheer in the distance, and the muffled sound of a megaphone.
Fabien screamed, “THE SHEEP PAGEANT IS HAPPENING IN TEN MINUTES!”
“What?” we all asked him.
He pointed to a poster plastered to the bus shelter. According to the schedule, Itchbottom’s Most Glamorous Sheep Pageant was due to start at midday, directly followed by a special appearance from Carlos, the multi-prizewinning, internationally renowned Rasa Aragonesa sheep.
Before I had even finished reading the rest of the line-up, a girl ran past us with a lamb in her arms. Fabien’s eyes bulged and he nearly toppled over with excitement. I reached out to grab him, but he darted after the lamb in a trembling blur.
Margot shook her head. “I really wish he wasn’t wearing that outfit.”
We caught up with Fabien at the gates of a park. Hundreds of people were on the other side, and in the middle of them was a show ring. Margot and I each grabbed one of Fabien’s arms, and held on to him tightly. He was so excited, I thought he might faint.
Fabien struggled against us. “Come on! I need to get a good spot.”
We pushed our way to the front of the show ring, where the rams were already warming up. I stared at them and burst out laughing. Some were in waistcoats, and others little jumpers. A couple had ribbons twined in their fur, two had flowers on their heads and one was wearing a giant sombrero.
“They’re so handsome!” cried Fabien.
A lady inside the show ring spotted us and grinned. She had a clipboard and looked very official.
“Are you entering your ram into the contest?” she said, winking at Fabien.
It was obviously a joke, but Fabien twisted away from us and ran into the ring. Margot and I exchanged horrified glances. Behind us, Mum made a squeaking noise. I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or proud.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” said the woman, who I now realised was the judge.
I shuffled my feet uncomfortably as the contest started. Fabien lined up with the real sheep, and they took it in turns to prance around the ring. The crowd cheered loudly as the first started its lap. It trotted around gracefully, and then pulled free of its handler and jumped out of the ring. I gasped as it collided with a candyfloss stall, and a nest of pink sugar fluttered on to its head. The crowd erupted into fits of hysterical laughter.
Fabien was the last “sheep” to move. He skipped around the ring, baaing, and waved at the audience. Beside me, Margot lowered her head in shame.
The judge signalled for silence, and chewed her pen as she considered the motley line-up. A drum roll sounded. I closed my eyes and prayed that the grass would swallow me up.
Please don’t let it be Fabien; please don’t let it be Fabien, I thought.
“And the winner is…”
There was a dramatic pause, punctuated only by a chorus of baas.
“Mr Blanket!” she announced.
The crowd cheered, and Mr Blanket, the winning sheep, did a victory prance around the ring.
“And this year, we’re giving an honourable mention to young Fabien,” continued the judge, sticking a rosette on his forehead.
I groaned. My brother had actually just won a prize in a sheep beauty pageant. It was possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Margot turned to me. “We can never tell anyone about this.”
“Agreed,” I replied.
We slipped away from the crowd and did a circuit of the festival, while Fabien basked in the glow of his achievement. Mum and Dad sat on a bench, sipping lemonade. Dad gave me a small wave, and tapped his finger against his glass in time to the music as the band started to play. It was the most alive I’d seen him look in weeks. I squeezed Margot’s hand. Our dad was still in there somewhere.
Fabien danced past me. I buried my embarrassed face in a notebook, and scribbled down everything I could see. There was a vegetarian burger van, a hot-dog stand, a doughnut vendor and a candyfloss stall. Behind the show ring was a stage with two large speakers and coloured disco balls. It looked much fancier than the one I’d found instructions to build. There was a microphone and everything.
Dozens of stalls were scattered around the festival field, their tables piled with things to buy. There were woven bracelets, colourful hats and temporary tattoos. A lady sat on the floor with a palette of face paints, and another was braiding people’s hair.
I swallowed hard. The festival was much bigger than I’d expected. I wondered how Margot and I would ever be able to organise our own.
Margot’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she leapt into the air with shocked excitement. I didn’t recognise the number on the screen. Margot answered anyway.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, as whoever was calling said something to her, and then she nodded down the phone. “Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow at 3 p.m. then.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“That was a band wanting to audition for our festival,” she replied. “I put up an advert in the window of The Wig and Pen the other day.”
“But what if Mum sees it?” I asked.
“There’s no way she’ll know it’s our advert. I didn’t mention the island; I just said it was a local festival,” said Margot.
“Oh, OK then,” I replied. Margot was quite good at all this covert stuff. “What’s the band like?”
Margot shrugged. “No idea, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
The garage
next to The Wig and Pen was also its function room. It was just big enough to squeeze me, Margot, Fabien and a three-piece band inside. Heidi had let us use it in return for cleaning her windows while Mum was visiting the mobile bank and Dad was in his usual spot under the duvet.
I sat down next to Fabien, who appraised the band. They shuffled uncomfortably under his gaze, and I heard one of their backs creak.
“Just how old are you exactly?” asked Fabien.
“Fabien!” hissed Margot.
The leader of the band chuckled. “I’m Frank, seventy-six, Joe here is eighty, and Gwen is a mere sixty-three.”
“Wow,” I mouthed. They weren’t exactly what I’d imagined for our festival. I wondered if Dad would like them.
“And do you play anything besides the trumpet?” asked Fabien.
“Trombone,” corrected Frank. “And, yes, I also play the guitar.”
“Good. Can we hear that instead?” asked Fabien.
Frank put down his trombone, picked up a guitar from the corner and counted the others in. Joe dragged his fingers across his washboard, and Gwen pursed her lips on her flute. The weirdest version I’d ever heard of “We Will Rock You” filled the garage.
My foot tapped along as The Rocking Pensioners played. It was kind of good in a weird way. They had my vote.
Fabien raised his hand. “I think we need something for the younger audience.”
“Who are you?” asked Margot, blinking at our brother.
“I’m being Simon Cowell,” he said. “Do you want to swap for a bit?”
Margot scraped her chair over to me and whispered, “Do you think people will pay to listen to them?”
“We’ve still got another band to audition after this,” I said. “These could be the warm-up act.”
Fabien Cowell nodded. “They could be good with some work.”
“OK, you’re hired,” I told them.
“Figuratively speaking,” said Margot. “We can’t actually pay you.”
“We don’t want your money, dear,” said Gwen. “We play because we have rock ‘n’ roll in our soul.”
“Yes, and it keeps our joints from seizing up,” added Frank.