Strike a Pose, Daizy Star

by Cathy Cassidy

  I glare at Dad. He is the only person I know who can even swallow nettle stew, let alone prefer it to oven chips.

  ‘What about you, Mrs Star?’ an elderly lady dressed in tweed enquires. ‘Is this what you want too?’

  ‘It could be,’ Mum replies carefully. ‘We are looking for a challenge. Something new. To be a part of a real community – find a slower pace of life.’

  ‘You think life is easy here?’ the elderly lady frowns.

  ‘No!’ Mum says quickly. ‘That’s not what I meant. We just want to step out of the rat race and find a place we can belong.’

  The committee members nod and smile and shuffle their papers.

  ‘How about you youngsters?’ Hamish asks. ‘What are you looking for from life on Muck?’

  ‘I’m looking for mermaids,’ Pixie says firmly. ‘I wouldn’t mind a dolphin or two, but it’s mermaids, mainly.’

  ‘Er … of course,’ Hamish nods. He looks at Becca.

  ‘I’m looking for rain,’ my big sister says. ‘And solitude. And time to heal my broken heart.’

  Hamish looks nervous. ‘Lovely,’ he says, then fixes his gaze on me. ‘What about you, dear? What are you hoping to get from life on Muck?’

  For a moment, I panic. There is nothing I want from this place, except perhaps a return trip to the mainland, but I don’t want to be rude. Even tonight, in the dark, in the middle of a downpour, sitting in a draughty hall, I can see that the Isle of Muck is probably OK, in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. If I was the kind of girl who wanted to go sailing or fishing or pony riding, I might even like it. If I could picture a future of nettle-picking and chicken-feeding and goat-grooming, then maybe this would be the perfect place to do it. But I can’t.

  I am never going to be the kind of girl who is happy in wellies and raincoat, collecting seaweed from the beach for Dad’s latest revolting soup.

  ‘Actually, I am planning to be the first pre-teen supermodel,’ I say with confidence. ‘I will travel the world and be on the cover of all the coolest magazines. I expect I will be spotted by a model scout any day now, so don’t worry, I won’t actually be here much. I might come back to visit occasionally, when I am not in London or Paris or New York. For birthdays and Christmas, perhaps.’

  The islanders are staring at me open-mouthed, as if they have never seen a pre-teen supermodel before. Well, they probably haven’t. Hamish snorts with laughter, but I don’t care – what would he know about fashion, anyway?

  Mum, Dad, Becca and Pixie are gawping a little too, but it is best that they know the truth about my plans for the future. They may need some time to adjust, but they’ll be glad in the end when I am rich and famous and able to buy them a big mansion with its very own nettle farm attached.

  ‘Daizy has a very vivid imagination,’ Dad says smoothly. ‘She will be an asset to the island, I promise you. Do tell me about the schools; the girls are so looking forward to meeting their new classmates!’

  I glare at Dad. I already have the best classmates ever, and the most amazing teacher. I do not care a bit about the schools on Muck.

  ‘We have a thriving primary school,’ Hamish says proudly. ‘There are eight pupils at the moment. Pixie and Daizy would bring the numbers up to ten!’

  ‘Ten in the whole school?’ I gasp.

  ‘Older children, like Becca here, go to school on the mainland.’

  ‘The mainland?’ Mum echoes. ‘You mean she’d have to catch a ferry over every morning and one back at night? It’s a two-hour journey!’

  ‘Indeed,’ Hamish says. ‘That would never work. No, high-school students board on the mainland during term time. Much more sensible.’

  ‘Board?’ Becca says slowly. ‘As in … boarding school?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Great,’ Becca says flatly.

  The committee look pleased – I don’t think they have come across my big sister’s sarcasm before.

  ‘So,’ Hamish says. ‘I think that’s all we need for now. Time for a bowl of warm soup, a wee cup of tea and some homemade shortbread. Listen to Angus on the bagpipes, perhaps!’

  ‘Thank you, all of you,’ Dad grins, shaking hands with Hamish and the other islanders. ‘You’ve made us feel very welcome!’

  I sigh. They have made us feel welcome, I suppose. Maybe I need to give this whole island thing a chance, if only for the sake of Buttercup, Attila the Hen, Esmerelda and Cleopatra. At least I know they’d have a better life here.

  Hamish hands me a bowl of grey, steaming soup.

  ‘Um … what kind of soup is it?’ I ask politely.

  ‘Chicken,’ he tells me. ‘One of my own hens, fresh in the pot today!’

  I drop my bowl on to the cold stone floor, and it shatters into about a million little pieces, spattering soup everywhere.

  I lie awake all night in the guest room I am sharing with my sisters, picturing my life as a nettle-farmer’s daughter.

  When I finally do get to sleep, I have nightmares of my supermodel debut, prancing along a catwalk that soars like a cliff above a treacherous sea, wearing a dress made of nettles and towering shoes made of fishbones. I wake up in a twist of duvet, breathless, heart pounding.

  It is late morning and pale golden sunshine floods in through the curtains. We get dressed, eat a big family breakfast of porridge and cream and scrambled egg, and wrap up warm to walk over to look at the cottage again.

  In the daylight, it seems brighter, prettier, more like the picture Mum and Dad fell in love with.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Dad sighs. ‘I know we can be happy here!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mum says. ‘Are you sure this is what you want, Mike?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Dad says, and my heart sinks as I watch my own hopes and dreams crumble away.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be starting for the mainland, Dad?’ I plead, trying to drag them back to reality. ‘We have such a long drive home. Don’t forget that the fashion show at the Twilight Years Rest Home is tomorrow afternoon. I will need my beauty sleep if I am going to be spotted as the first pre-teen supermodel.’

  ‘Ha, ha, Daizy,’ Dad says. ‘You have a great sense of humour!’

  ‘I am deadly serious,’ I say coldly.

  ‘You are?’ he gulps. ‘Er … of course you are. Look, Hamish will take us back to the mainland as soon as we are ready. Just be patient a bit longer, while we look around in the daylight.’

  ‘It’s our future,’ Mum says, and I bite my tongue because it is not the future I had in mind, not at all.

  I look out across the beach at the silver-blue ocean that stretches on forever, and I think of Beth and Willow and Murphy Malone, and Miss Moon, and even stupid Ethan Miller. My eyes blur with tears.

  When we finally do leave, it takes hours for Hamish to run us back to the mainland in his motor boat, and there is lots of chat about solar panels and windmills and ferries and which kids go to high school on the mainland. Through it all, Becca stares out to sea, her eyes wide and tragic, while Pixie scans the surf for signs of mermaids.

  ‘Look at that amazing sunset, kids!’ Dad sighs, but all I can think of is the long drive home and how wrecked I will be feeling for the fashion show tomorrow. I will try to remember to put a couple of cucumber slices over my eyes when I finally do crawl into bed, to make sure I wake up feeling bright-eyed and sparkly.

  Hamish delivers us safely to the quayside and shakes everybody’s hand. He says it was a pleasure to have us on Muck and that the Island Committee will be in touch in a few days to tell us whether we will be chosen to join the community. ‘We still have one more family left to interview, but we should have a decision soon. I’m hoping it will be good news for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hamish,’ Dad grins.

  Hamish waves and motors back out into the velvet darkness, and we walk along towards the shingle beach where we parked the car.

  ‘Isn’t the sea a bit higher than yesterday?’ Mum asks. ‘I can’t quite see the car …’

  Dad frowns. ‘I
t just looks a little different in the dark. Don’t worry, I know exactly where we are. See this big rock? We are parked just down from it.’

  Dad points into the darkness.

  ‘I still can’t see it,’ Mum says, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘Pixie, where’s that torch?’

  Pixie shines her torch out over the dunes. The beach and the shingle have vanished … there is nothing to be seen but a shimmering expanse of ink-black sea.

  And then we spot the little red saloon car sticking up out of the water, the surf lapping at the windows.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Becca says, smirking.

  It is the first time I’ve seen her smile in weeks.

  It is not easy to explain to the local policeman that our car is underwater, but Dad manages it somehow.

  ‘Och, that old abandoned car?’ he says. ‘It was reported this morning. Old Tam is bringing his tractor up to tow it away.’

  ‘It’s not abandoned,’ Dad argues. ‘I just parked it on the beach!’

  ‘Whatever for?’ the policeman sighs. ‘We have a car park!’

  ‘The fishermen told me to,’ Dad mutters. ‘At least, I thought they did. It’s a very strong accent.’

  The policeman shakes his head.

  By the time Old Tam appears with his tractor, the high tide has receded and the car sits dripping on the shingle, a few lengths of seaweed dangling from the wipers. Old Tam tows it up on to the road, but things are looking bad. I fight back the tears. My chances of getting back to Brightford in time for the fashion show are somewhere around zero … or possibly less.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I whisper.

  ‘We’re in the AA,’ Dad says, still hopeful. ‘Let’s give them a call. We might still make it back in time.’

  But not even the AA man can rescue our car, although he does poke about under the bonnet with his flashlight and rescue a large brown crab, still wriggling. He shakes his head despairingly, and announces that the car is well and truly dead. I start to panic about the fashion show, but luckily the AA man arranges a replacement car for Dad to drive us home. After yet more waiting, we finally start the long drive home at two o’clock in the morning. Could this trip have been more of a disaster?

  It’s eleven the next morning by the time we finally get back home. I feel terrible – I’ve hardly slept and I keep thinking about the awful life that looms ahead of me on Muck … but I have to make the fashion show. I have just over an hour to get ready and get to school before the class are due to leave to set things up at the Twilight Years Rest Home.

  ‘I feel like death,’ Becca says. ‘I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘You can’t! You are supposed to be playing the violin this afternoon for the oldies at the Twilight Years Rest Home!’

  ‘Daizy, you can’t seriously expect –’

  ‘I do seriously expect,’ I snap. ‘You have to be there, Becca. The oldies need you. I need you! You promised!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But nothing!’ I say. ‘A promise is a promise. The show must go on!’

  ‘Daizy,’ Becca says, her voice concerned. ‘You’re not still hoping to be spotted by a model scout, are you? Because I don’t want to spoil your dreams, and you know I think you are the coolest, cutest little sister in the world, apart from Pixie here, who is just as gorgeous, but I really don’t think you should get your hopes up. Modelling is a tough career to break into …’

  I slam my hands over my ears.

  Lots of top models probably have this trouble – people doubting their Star Quality. Becca doesn’t mean any harm – she is tired and fed up and sad about Spike, and she is only worrying in the first place because she cares about me. I refuse to be discouraged.

  Then I look in the living-room mirror. My hair is sticking up in three or four different directions and there are dark smudges under my eyes. This is not good.

  ‘It’s not about me,’ I tell Becca, and this is news even to me. ‘I don’t care about the modelling thing, not really. I just can’t let Beth down!’

  Becca raises an eyebrow.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she groans. ‘I understand. It’s a friendship thing, right? Well … fine. Let’s do this. Go and shower, Daizy Star!’

  I leg it up the stairs, jump in the shower and let the warm water wash all traces of Muck away, then I pull on clean clothes, drag a comb through my hair. There is no time to spare. I need to get to school now.

  When I gallop down the stairs again, Mum and Dad have crashed out on the sofa and Pixie is asleep in an armchair, but Becca is ironing her uniform for the violin recital later on. She may be a gloomy, heart-broken Goth, who hasn’t slept for twenty-four hours, but I know I can count on her.

  ‘I wrote you a note,’ she whispers. ‘So you don’t get into trouble with Miss Moon.’

  I wonder what Becca actually wrote.

  ‘We were meant to bring in cakes for the tea dance,’ I whisper back. ‘I forgot, but –’

  ‘Sorted,’ she says, handing me a foil-wrapped package. ‘Dad’s nettle flapjacks. They didn’t go down too well on Muck – there are quite a lot left.’

  ‘Er … thanks, Becca.’ I give my big sister a hug.

  ‘Can you feed the animals on your way out?’ she asks. ‘Bert and Margie were looking after them, but they expected us back last night. I don’t think they’ve been fed today. See you at Twilight Towers, OK?’

  I hurry over to the chicken run.

  ‘You needn’t look so pleased with yourself,’ I say to Attila as I scatter the food. ‘There is no Tesco on the Isle of Muck, and I have seen exactly what happens to hens who don’t lay eggs …’

  Attila blinks and ruffles her wings, as if she is the cleverest hen in the universe and not a possible candidate for homemade chicken soup.

  The last forty-eight hours have been the worst of my whole, entire life … and now I have to go into school and pretend that everything is fine. I want the day to go well for the old people at the Twilight Years Rest Home. I want them to enjoy the fashion show and I want them to enjoy their tea and cakes and get all misty-eyed at the dance display and the live orchestra. I even picture one or two of them getting up to join in, waltzing creakily round the room while dreaming of happy days gone by.

  Mostly, though, I want today to be a success for Beth. I want her to stop worrying about her gran, to make her see that the Twilight Years Rest Home can be a lively, happy place.

  I would like to be a pre-teen supermodel, sure, and I wouldn’t mind a Star of the Week award, but more than any of that, I want to do something good for Beth – perhaps for the very last time.

  ‘Hey,’ I tell Buttercup. ‘This time next month, you might be my only friend.’ The trip to Muck was a bit of a disaster, but Dad was still talking all the way home about island life. And Mum was joining in. The future is not looking good.

  Buttercup has stopped nuzzling my neck and started trying to get my school bag open. I think she has caught a whiff of the nettle flapjacks, so I give her one of them on the basis that the oldies are probably not going to miss it. I ruffle her ears and pull the chicken-run gate closed behind me.

  I head off to school, half running. All the way, I have an uneasy feeling that I am being followed, but every time I look back over my shoulder, there is nobody to be seen. There is one reason why someone might follow me, of course. It is unlikely, but Willow did say that model scouts were everywhere and that often they just spot people in the street.

  It could happen.

  Maybe I don’t even have to change into my potato-netting-and-feed-sack party dress to show my potential. Perhaps my Star Quality just shines through? I find myself walking extra tall, flicking my hair and adding the faintest wiggle as I sashay along the pavement.

  I am getting a crick in my neck, but I don’t care because I am almost certain now that I am being watched. I look back again, just in time to see something dart out of sight behind a hedge. I fix a dazzling smile on my face and strut towards the school gates.
/>   Maybe – just maybe – someone will call my name and I will be saved from a life of nettle stew and tartan vests on the Isle of Muck. My future will roll out before me like a red carpet, and I will step up to the challenge and stride out in my cardboard wedge heels, or possibly something slightly lower and not made out of string and old boxes.

  Just as I get to the school gates, somebody nudges my elbow gently, and my heart thuds. I look round, and the last shreds of dream fall away.

  ‘Meeehhhh …’

  Buttercup the goat butts her head in under the flap of my school bag and gulps down a couple of nettle flapjacks, still wrapped in silver foil.

  ‘Nooo! Buttercup, what are you doing here?!’ I exclaim.

  Just then the bell rings out for the end of morning lessons, and in the distance I can see the dinner hall filling up with noisy, hungry pupils. There is no time now to take Buttercup home again – we are supposed to be setting off for the Twilight Years Rest Home as soon as everyone finishes eating.

  ‘Bad girl,’ I tell her. ‘You could get me into all kinds of trouble!’

  I blink. It is clearly a day for trouble, because Ethan Miller is sauntering across the empty playground, a football under his arm. I drag Buttercup out of sight behind the school bins.

  ‘Hey!’ he yells. ‘What are you doing, Daizy Star?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Shouldn’t you be in the dinner hall?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’ he counters. ‘I was looking for my football. I’ve missed about a minute of lunchtime; you missed a whole morning’s lessons.’

  ‘Go away, Ethan!’

  But Ethan is not the kind of boy who can take a hint. He walks over, grinning broadly. ‘It’s your big day today, right?’ he says. ‘Your special show for the vampire OAPs.’

  ‘Don’t call them that!’ I huff.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Ethan says. ‘It’s a joke, Daizy. You are doing a really good thing for the oldies – you’ve really made me think.’