Strike a Pose, Daizy Star

by Cathy Cassidy

  I have a plan.

  I nip to Tesco and buy six free-range eggs. Back at the chicken run, I dust one of the eggs with soil, stick a feather to it with mud, then hide it just inside Buttercup’s shed.

  I think about hiding all six, so that I know the chickens are definitely safe, but I decide to take this slowly. I can hide another egg tomorrow, and more later in the week. Hopefully, by then, they’ll be laying their own.

  I wander back inside, trying to act naturally. Dad is at the cooker making a vat of nettle soup.

  ‘Have you checked for eggs today?’ I ask casually.

  ‘Yes,’ Dad says with a sigh. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘They might have laid something now … you could check again.’

  ‘I’ll try tomorrow,’ Dad shrugs.

  I sigh. Patience has never been my strong point. ‘Please, Dad,’ I say. ‘You never know. And I would really like a boiled egg!’

  ‘I’m busy, Daizy,’ Dad says. ‘You go and have a look, if you like.’

  ‘But I want you to go!’ I beg. ‘Please! I was so, so sure that today would be the day …’

  Dad puts the lid on the soup pan. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I wanted to check on Buttercup, so perhaps I will take a little look while I’m out there.’

  Two minutes later, Dad is back in the kitchen, yelping with glee, holding the egg aloft.

  ‘You were right, Daizy!’ he announces. ‘They’ve done it! They’ve finally done it! There will be no stopping them now!’

  I go a little bit pink, but nobody notices. Dad hard-boils the egg and divides it up between the five of us, along with some dandelion leaves he has made into a salad.

  ‘A celebration dinner!’ he announces, as we sit round the table. ‘This is all our own produce!’

  ‘Woop-de-doo,’ Becca says, raising an eyebrow.

  The thrill of keeping the chickens safe a little longer begins to fade as I realize that the celebration dinner is actually very, very small.

  ‘There’s not much of it,’ Pixie comments, looking at her plate in dismay.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘No, no, there’s the nettle soup too!’ Dad beams.

  I am not sure a garden full of dandelions and nettles is much to be proud of, but Dad’s potato crop has not shown any signs of life, and nor have the vegetables he planted in the back garden. The window sill is full of apple seedlings in little pots, because he is planning an orchard, but judging by the weedy seedlings it could be twenty years before they are ready to fruit. That is a very long time to wait for a pudding.

  ‘I might go over to Kirsty’s house after tea,’ Pixie decides. ‘They’re having pizza, with chocolate pudding and ice cream.’

  Mum puts down her fork and pushes her plate away.

  ‘Mike,’ she says, in the kind of tone you might use when talking to a very small child. ‘One egg, divided between five people, and a heap of dandelion leaves … are you serious?’

  ‘It’s free-range!’ Dad says proudly. ‘From our very own hens! And the salad leaves are organic!’

  ‘I’m putting some burgers in the microwave,’ Mum says. ‘OK?’

  ‘What about the nettle soup?’ Dad protests, but Mum puts the burgers in, gets rolls from the bread bin and roots in the cupboard until she finds Jaffa Cakes too.

  ‘Egg salad is all very well,’ Mum says. ‘But we are not quite ready to be self-sufficient yet, Mike … not on one solitary egg and a handful of weeds. The children are growing. You can’t expect them to survive on dandelion leaves and nettle soup.’

  I think that some supermodels eat mainly soup and salad, but I have to admit that burgers and Jaffa Cakes are more my kind of thing.

  ‘There will be more eggs soon,’ Dad promises. ‘And potatoes, beans, turnips, courgettes, carrots, leeks, lettuce … apples from our own trees … and goat’s milk and cheese too, once Buttercup is a little bit older!’

  ‘Goat’s cheese?’ Becca echoes, going a funny shade of green.

  ‘No,’ Mum interrupts. ‘This little farming project has been very … erm … interesting, but I think we have to accept that keeping hens and a goat in the middle of a town is not working out. Admit it, Mike – this particular dream is over.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘It’s over, Mike,’ Mum says firmly. ‘Promise me! Tearing up the garden for non-existent potatoes, chickens flapping about in the supermarket and frightening the customers. This has gone far enough!’

  ‘OK, Livvi,’ Dad says solemnly. ‘Fair enough. I’ll sort it, I promise.’

  Just then, the lights flicker and go out, leaving us huddled in the dark.

  ‘Power cut?’ Dad wonders out loud. ‘Fuse?’

  Becca finds a torch and we shine it into the living room. In the yellow spotlight, we can see that the room has been ransacked, as if by a gang of vandals. Books, bags and cushions have been strewn across the carpet, cups have been overturned and the waste-paper basket has been emptied and chewed until it looks more like a mangled straw hat.

  In the middle of it all, Buttercup is lounging across the sofa, munching on the table lamp. She has already gnawed right through the electric cord and looks up, a picture of innocence, as she delicately crunches the lampshade.

  Oops.

  It has been Beth’s turn to hold a sleepover for a while now, but nothing has been said.

  ‘It’s ages since we’ve had a proper get-together outside of school,’ I hint, as we work on our fashion creations in class one afternoon. ‘Shall we do something this weekend?’

  Beth looks up from her shredded-paper tutu, which is starting to look pretty cool. ‘It’s my turn, but I’m not allowed a sleepover at my place just at the moment,’ she says. ‘Dad says he’s got too much on his plate already.’

  ‘What kind of things has he got on his plate?’ I frown.

  If he is anything like my dad, it will be stewed dandelions and raw beetroot, but I’m not sure this is quite what Beth means. I think she means that her dad is worrying about something.

  ‘Oh, just stuff,’ Beth says vaguely. ‘You know.’

  I actually do not know, but I don’t suppose it can be all that serious or Beth would tell us about it. Wouldn’t she?

  ‘Come to my place instead,’ I say. ‘I can show you the chickens, and we can practise for the fashion show and try out hair and make-up ideas.’

  ‘I am not wearing any make-up,’ Murphy Malone growls. ‘And I don’t think any of the other boys will, either.’

  ‘Boys are so dull,’ I shrug. ‘You never want to try anything new.’

  This is not strictly fair, as the boys in Year Six are looking less dull by the minute, and it is mainly down to Murphy Malone. He has got the whole class fired up for this fashion show – even Ethan Miller, who is making an armoured vest by slicing up old fizzy-drink cans, flattening the foil and linking the bits together with wire. I think he is only interested because he gets to wear protective gloves and use tin snips, but still, with Murphy’s help, the Coke-can vest might just work out.

  Willow looks up from her bubble-wrap ballgown. ‘A sleepover sounds cool,’ she says. ‘Count me in.’

  ‘Me too,’ Murphy shrugs. ‘I won’t stay over – I don’t want to spoil your girlie fun – but I’ll come for a while. And I’ll bring custard doughnuts.’

  ‘OK,’ I grin. ‘Beth?’

  ‘Um … I’m not sure,’ she says quietly. ‘I am not really in the mood for a sleepover … and I’m not exactly mad about this fashion show, either.’

  ‘But you have to be!’ I say, alarmed. ‘You have never missed a sleepover before. It wouldn’t be the same without you! And the fashion show will be awesome! I have some really cool ideas!’

  Beth sighs. ‘OK, Daizy,’ she says, ‘I’ll be there.’

  On Saturday night, the sleepover is in full swing. We have cuddled the chickens, taken Buttercup for a walk in the park, eaten custard doughnuts and talked non-stop about the fashion show. Well, I have talked non-stop about it,
anyway.

  Now we are all dressed up in our fashion-show costumes, which is slightly bizarre, but also quite cool, and I am showing Beth, Willow and Murphy my best catwalk wiggle.

  ‘I am not doing that,’ Murphy says. ‘No way.’

  ‘You have to,’ I tell him. ‘It’s what models do!’

  I have already painted stripes of purple eyeshadow across his cheeks, warpaint-style, and gelled his hair into a towering quiff copied from one of Willow’s teen mags, but Murphy has had enough.

  ‘Don’t get carried away, Daizy,’ he says. ‘It’s not like a real fashion show!’

  ‘It could be!’ I say. ‘We could get the papers along, and invite a few of those talent scouts from the model agencies that Willow was telling me about. Maybe they could put it on the local TV news! We could all be famous!’

  I pause for breath, quite pleased with my little speech, but I am not sure the others are convinced. There is a silence, and then Beth laughs, a harsh, mocking sound.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she snaps. ‘It’s just a stupid school project, Daizy. Nobody’s going to put it on the news, and nobody’s going to be famous.’

  A dark blush begins to seep across my cheeks, and my heart thumps. I open my mouth to argue, but nothing at all comes out. Beth is one of my best friends in the whole world, and she just made me feel as rubbish as the junk we have been making our costumes from.

  Beth seems to be feeling pretty rubbish too, because she tears off the shredded-paper skirt she has been wearing over her jeans, and storms off to the bathroom, locking herself in.

  ‘What did I say?’ I whisper, shell-shocked.

  ‘Nothing, Daizy,’ Willow sighs. ‘Nothing bad, anyway. You were just going on a bit about the fashion show, and … well, I don’t think Beth is that into it.’

  ‘But it’s exciting!’ I protest. ‘One of us could get spotted by a model scout and end up on the cover of Vogue, right? Just like you said!’

  ‘It’s not very likely,’ Murphy says.

  ‘It might be,’ I argue. ‘I have been practising for weeks now. I have been studying my sister’s fashion mags and researching on the Internet, and I am pretty sure I’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘What it takes to do what?’ Willow asks, puzzled.

  ‘To be the world’s first pre-teen supermodel,’ I explain.

  ‘Is this about finding your Star Quality?’ Murphy wants to know.

  ‘It might be,’ I huff. ‘It’s all right for you, Murphy. Everyone knows that you are going to be a fashion designer one day. And Willow will be a pop singer with a string of hit albums, and Beth will be a prima ballerina … but I will still be looking for my Star Quality when I am old and grey, unless I do something now! The fashion show could be my big break!’

  ‘Er … maybe,’ Murphy says.

  This isn’t quite the response I was hoping for, but then Willow puts an arm round my shoulder. ‘Of course it could,’ she says kindly.

  ‘I’d better go and talk to Beth,’ I say.

  ‘Are you in there?’ I call, knocking gently on the bathroom door. ‘We’re going to watch a film before Murphy goes home. OK?’

  The door opens slightly, and Beth emerges, her eyes a little red and damp-looking. ‘Have you been crying?’ I ask, alarmed.

  ‘No! I just had something in my eye!’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I was going on a bit about the fashion show,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to get on your nerves.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ Beth sighs. ‘It’s me. I’ve got a few things on my mind, that’s all. I didn’t mean to be so grumpy!’

  ‘It’s just that I was hoping that modelling might be my Star Quality,’ I explain.

  ‘Why not?’ Beth shrugs, and hope unfurls inside me again.

  Then I remember what she said about having things on her mind, and I frown. ‘Beth, is something worrying you? Is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No, no,’ she says, brushing my concerns aside. ‘I’m fine. Let’s watch the film, OK?’

  We go back through to the bedroom and snuggle down to watch the movie, and it’s only much later, after Murphy has gone home and the rest of us are sleeping, that I know for sure that Beth is not fine. In the darkness, I’m almost certain I can hear her crying, curled up under a borrowed duvet.

  But when I ask her what’s wrong, she just rolls over and pretends to be asleep.

  I try to ask about the crying the next day, but Beth tells me I was imagining it and makes me promise not to say anything to the others.

  ‘I’m OK,’ is all she will say, but I know that Beth is not OK at all. I just don’t know what to do about it.

  It’s after school on Monday, and I am trying to take my mind off all of this by practising my supermodel walk. Becca and Pixie are making me walk up and down the living room with a big pile of books balanced on my head, and trust me, it is not easy. They are library books Dad has borrowed to brush up on potato farming and chicken keeping, and they weigh a ton, and I am wearing recycled platform shoes I have made myself from old cardboard and garden twine. They are not easy to stand up in, let alone walk.

  ‘Come on, Daizy,’ Becca sighs. ‘Stand up straight! You need to move with elegance and grace!’

  ‘I can’t move at all!’ I protest, as the books crash down to the carpet. ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘Try again,’ Pixie says. ‘I thought you wanted to be the first pre-teen supermodel?’

  Two hours and lots of falling over later, we are finally making progress. Becca has resorted to hitting my shoulders with a rolled-up newspaper if I slouch and Pixie is dangling a custard doughnut under my nose. She says I can eat it once I manage a whole ten steps without dropping a book. There is nothing like the promise of a custard doughnut to focus the mind.

  I try to forget that half a library is perched on my head and step out bravely. One step. Two. Three, four, five … and suddenly I know I can do it, and I am strutting my stuff, my head held high and just the tiniest hint of a wiggle in my walk. The books stay put at last, like a very heavy and slightly unlikely hat. I make it to the other side of the room and Becca cheers as I lunge for the doughnut and allow the books to clatter down at my feet. I can do it! I really can!

  ‘Finally,’ Pixie sighs.

  ‘I’m a natural, right?’ I grin.

  ‘Er … probably,’ Becca says. ‘I mean … definitely. Maybe.’

  I dip down to collect up the fallen library books, my mouth full of sugar, and then I blink and my mouth goes dry, in spite of the custard doughnut.

  One book, The Complete Home Farmer, has fallen open on a page I really, really wish I had not seen – a page about how to kill a chicken. There are diagrams on how to wring the chicken’s neck, then pluck it and take out its insides ready for the oven.

  There is even a recipe for chicken pie.

  Becca is helping me pick up the books, and she sees it too. ‘Look,’ I hiss. ‘Dad wouldn’t do that … would he?’

  ‘Nah,’ Becca whispers. ‘It’s just what farmers do when their chickens aren’t laying any eggs …’

  ‘What do they do?’ Pixie asks brightly.

  ‘Nothing!’ I say, snapping the book shut.

  Pixie’s eyes narrow. ‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘Tell me the truth. What do farmers do?’

  I swallow hard.

  ‘The thing is, Pixie … well, farmers have chickens for two reasons.’ I feel like the meanest big sister in the world, like I am about to tell her that mermaids don’t exist. Not that she’d believe me, of course.

  ‘Some chickens are for laying eggs …’ Becca says carefully.

  ‘That’s right!’ Pixie agrees. ‘And what are the others for? Is it something to do with feathers?’

  ‘No,’ I sigh. ‘You know when we have roast chicken on a Sunday? Or chicken nuggets and chips? Or chicken soup?’

  Pixie’s eyebrows slide into a frown. ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Well,’ I tell her, ‘that’s the other thing chickens are
farmed for. We eat them.’

  I guess I should have seen it coming. Pixie dissolves into tears, sobbing hysterically, and grabs the book from behind my back. It falls open at the gruesome chicken-pie page.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Pixie wails. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that chicken was made out of chickens? It’s not fair! No, no, no, NOOOO!’

  ‘Look,’ Becca says. ‘It’s OK, because our chickens are laying eggs! One the other day, one yesterday, and two this morning! Stop worrying, both of you!’

  I bite my lip. ‘Actually, they haven’t,’ I confess. ‘I’ve been putting the eggs there. I bought them from Tesco.’

  Becca rolls her eyes. ‘Oh dear. Those chickens really are useless. Still, that doesn’t mean Dad would ever turn them into chicken pie. You know that, don’t you?’

  Becca wipes Pixie’s eyes and calms her down again. ‘Trust me,’ she tells us. ‘He wouldn’t. Look, let’s go get a hot chocolate.’

  We pile through to the kitchen, where Dad is standing at the cooker looking smiley as he stirs a big pan of soup.

  ‘Hey,’ Becca says brightly, mixing up three hot chocolates. ‘Something smells good, Dad! I bet that’s not nettle soup!’

  Dad grins. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s chicken!’

  But before I can say anything, Pixie unleashes a blood-curdling scream.

  ‘MURDERER!’ she yells. ‘Chicken-killer!’

  Dad looks horrified. He stands and watches, speechless, as Pixie sprints out of the back door, sobbing, and Becca and I run after her. We peer into the chicken run. Luckily, for once, all three hens are present and correct. Pixie is hugging them each in turn, telling them we will protect them.

  Dad follows us out, looking baffled.

  ‘All I did was make chicken soup!’ he sighs. ‘It used to be your favourite.’

  ‘Pixie thought you’d used one of our hens,’ Becca says. ‘Honestly, leaving that awful book around where she could see it … you know she has a very vivid imagination!’