‘I have?’
‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘All those poor old guys who can’t kick a ball around any more. Tragic.’
You have a one-track mind, Ethan Miller,’ I snap. ‘Football, football, football.’
‘What else is there?’ he laughs. ‘So, Daizy … why are you hiding behind the bins?’
‘I am not hiding!’ I bluff, nudging Buttercup out of sight. ‘I am just … looking for something.’
Ethan tilts his head to one side. ‘Is it … a goat?’ he asks brightly. ‘Because you may not have noticed, but there is actually one just behind you, with its nose in your school bag.’
‘Buttercup!’ I hiss. ‘Stop it! Those flapjacks are for the old folks!’
‘Are goats allowed at school?’ Ethan wonders.
‘No!’ I huff. ‘And it is your fault, Ethan Miller. You gave me the stupid thing. She is very cute, but very naughty, and she is obsessed with nettle flapjacks. What am I going to do?’
Ethan is a bit of a goat expert, actually. His uncle has a goat farm and that’s how come Ethan thought he would give me a goat for Christmas. It was supposed to be part of my fundraising project for Malawi, except that you cannot really parcel up a goat and send it to Africa, can you? Especially a goat like Buttercup, because she would chew through the wrapping paper in ten seconds flat. So Buttercup stayed with me, and she is probably the reason Dad hatched his crazy plan to be a farmer.
Ethan Miller has ruined my life, and he doesn’t even know it.
‘I need to take her home, but we’re supposed to set off for the rest home right after lunch.’
‘Yup,’ Ethan says. ‘You won’t have time. We could just take her with us – it’s only a little way along the road, right? We can hide her for now in the caretaker’s shed, then I’ll double back and fetch her and tie her to a tree in the grounds. Their gardens are a jungle of grass and weeds and stuff. She’ll love it, and she’d be doing them a favour!’
‘Isn’t that kind of risky?’
Ethan squares his shoulders and grins. ‘Obviously,’ he says. ‘But for you, Daizy … I’ll do it.’
‘Er … thank you,’ I say. ‘I think.’
‘Daizy!’ Miss Moon exclaims. ‘You’re here! We were so worried you would miss the show, and after all the hard work you’ve put in!’
She reads the note Becca scribbled for me, but wisely, does not ask for details. Willow, Beth and Murphy swarm round me, asking about the Isle of Muck. I fix a grin on to my face. ‘It was grim, but let’s not talk about it right now. C’mon – we have a show to put on!’
We gather up costumes and props and boxes of home-baked scones and prettily iced cupcakes, and set off along Stella Street to the Twilight Years Rest Home. Ethan walks beside Miss Moon, then drops behind, waving and winking at me in a very scary way.
‘Ooh!’ Willow shrieks. ‘Did you see that? Ethan Miller winked at me!’
‘It was me he was winking at,’ Beth sighs. ‘Anyone could see that.’
‘I think he had something in his eye,’ Murphy says.
‘Let’s ask him,’ Willow insists. ‘Oh. Where has he gone? He was here a minute ago!’
But Ethan has vanished, hopefully back to school to rescue Buttercup. He is still missing as the matron from Twilight Years shows us to the big hall where the fashion show will take place, but I’m not sure if anyone has noticed except me. Staging blocks from the school have been delivered to build the catwalk, and tables, chairs and boxes of crockery huddle round the edges waiting to be unpacked and arranged.
‘Year Six,’ Miss Moon says briskly. ‘Let’s get to work!’
Soon the hall is all ready and Luka has his soundtrack of 50s and 60s tunes playing. Bert and Margie from next door have arrived, Margie in a startling lime-green sequinned dress.
‘I won the Brightford Foxtrot Trophy in this frock in nineteen sixty-two,’ she tells us, doing a little twirl. ‘I thought it would liven things up!’
Margie tries to whirl me round the floor in a waltz, but I have tied on my cardboard platforms and I can barely stand, let alone dance.
We are putting the final touches to our own costumes when Ethan appears, with twigs in his hair and a big roll of paper under his arm.
‘Mission accomplished,’ he says.
‘What mission?’ Miss Moon asks. ‘Where have you been, Ethan?’
Ethan grins. ‘I forgot something, Miss,’ he says. ‘Had to go back for it.’
‘What did you forget?’ Miss Moon frowns.
Please, please, do not let him tell her it was a runaway goat.
Ethan grins and takes out the roll of paper from under his arm. ‘I made a table football game for all the old blokes who can’t get out on to a football pitch any more!’
He unrolls the paper to reveal a huge picture of a football pitch, complete with stands filled with painted supporters in old-fashioned hats and scarves. Ethan unpacks the players, two teams of cardboard cut-out figures dressed in baggy shorts and stripy tops, plus a couple of dice and a tennis ball painted to look like a football.
‘Ethan!’ Miss Moon breathes. ‘This is amazing! You should have asked before going back to the school to fetch it – you can’t just run around the streets on your own – but, well, I can see why you did it. You have put a lot of thought and effort into this. Very well done!’
‘It was nothing,’ Ethan says modestly. ‘I know how I would feel if I was too old and creaky to kick a ball around any more. It was something Daizy said that got me thinking, and I decided to make a game the oldies really could play.’
Just then there’s a murmur of chatter and the squeak of wheelchairs and Zimmer frames, and Miss Moon herds us all out of a side door as the old folks come in and take their seats.
‘Did you get Buttercup?’ I whisper.
‘Tied to a tree,’ Ethan says, wriggling into his cola-can vest. ‘I used a double knot. She’s happy. Trust me.’
Hmmm. I am not sure that trusting Ethan Miller could ever be a good plan, but right now I have no choice.
Ali dims the lights and Miss Moon ushers us all into a line, ready to step up on to the catwalk. The fashion show – take two – is ready to roll.
‘Shouldn’t you be out front, Daizy?’ Miss Moon whispers. ‘You did get your speech ready, didn’t you? Explaining about the fashion show?’
My cheeks flush scarlet and I go cold all over. With all the chaos and drama of the weekend, I completely forgot to write a speech. Now, put on the spot, my mind is a blank. My tummy flips over with fear.
‘I … I forgot,’ I whisper, mortified.
Miss Moon sighs. ‘Well, never mind. We’ll do without. No time to worry about it now – I’m sure it will all be fine.’
She nods to Luka, who launches into his soundtrack, and my classmates step out through the door and on to the catwalk, one by one.
Peering through into the hall, though, I can see that we needed that intro speech. The old folks seem a little confused. They frown at Willow’s bubble-wrap ballgown and Beth’s shredded-paper tutu, and look slightly shocked at Murphy’s sweet-paper jeans and newspaper tailcoat. One old lady jumps back and drops her knitting at the sight of Ian Knox in his flashing bicycle-wheel hat.
I look down at my orange potato-netting top, woven with hay and dandelions and feathers from Attila the Hen. I look at the feed-sack skirt that is really just printed paper pleated into a packing-tape waistband, and the towering shoes made of string and cardboard, and I know that they will hate it. A feeling of dread rises inside me as I listen for my cue.
‘Go, Daizy!’ Miss Moon says, and I am through the door, tottering up the steps and on to the catwalk, wobbling slightly on my platform shoes.
Beth’s gran is sitting right in the middle of the front row, looking totally confused. One old man has fallen asleep and is snoring softly, and the care assistants look slightly bored.
It’s all my fault. This fashion show was never going to appeal to a bunch of oldies, especially when they hav
en’t got a clue what’s going on. If I could just think of something to say – something to explain it all, make the oldies smile – I could still save the day. But I’m too tired from the all-night drive. My mind is dull, my tongue is tied. I cannot think of a single thing.
Three figures appear in the open doorway at the back of the hall – Becca and two of her friends from orchestra. My big sister grins and gives me a silent thumbs up, then moves quietly to the side of the hall.
That’s when it all goes wrong. Another familiar face appears in the doorway – a long, sad-eyed face with a beard and horns.
Buttercup trots down the aisle, bleating plaintively and trailing a frayed rope. She leaps up on to the catwalk and skids right to my side, and I have no choice but to grab her rope and step out bravely as though I planned to strut along with a goat at my side the whole time.
I have the attention of the audience now, all right.
I hold my head high, keeping in time to the music, but just as I approach the end of the catwalk I hear a sickening rip. A rush of cool air hits me and a gasp of horror rises from the audience.
Buttercup has torn a huge mouthful out of my pleated feed-sack skirt and is chewing it with enthusiasm. I am sashaying along the catwalk with my knickers on show, and of course, they are the faded pink polka dot frilly ones I have had since I was seven years old.
Panic grips me. I am trapped in the spotlight, unable to move, my mouth frozen into an icy grin.
What would Kate Moss do? I know the answer to that, of course. She would carry on, smiling and tossing her hair. I take a deep breath and vow to do the same. All I have to do is twirl, turn and totter my way back to the end of the catwalk, but it feels impossible.
I sway on my stupid cardboard platform shoes, stumble and promptly fall over, right in front of Beth’s gran. Buttercup takes another big bite out of my skirt, clearly tasting goat feed on the paper sacking.
I look up into the spotlight and tears mist my eyes. I have fallen flat on my face on the catwalk in front of thirty elderly people who can see my knickers and, oh yes, there is a goat eating my dress.
Suddenly, I am aware that three figures are standing behind me in the spotlight: Willow, Beth and Murphy.
‘We have brought the earth to her knees!’ Murphy declares in a loud, clear voice. ‘Our greed is eating her away! We have made the earth cry with our greed and destruction!’
I look at Murphy. I have no idea what he is talking about, but it sounds good. He is making it look as though the whole falling-over thing was meant to happen, as though Buttercup’s attack on the feed-sack skirt was planned.
‘It is time we looked after the earth,’ Murphy goes on. ‘Time we stopped wasting her resources. We need to recycle, reuse, rediscover what life is all about.’
Willow and Beth lean down and untie my shoes, helping me to my feet. Murphy takes Buttercup by the collar, and Beth’s gran leans up and hands me a crochet shawl to use as a skirt.
‘We need to learn to share,’ Murphy says. ‘We need to treat the earth gently, tread softly, support each other, join hands and walk together into the future.’
Beth and Willow lead me away along the catwalk, hobbling slightly. A few of the old people in the audience clap uncertainly, but my face burns with shame. The fashion show is a disaster, and I am the biggest flop of all.
Right now, life as a hermit on the Isle of Muck is looking pretty good.
I would like to die of shame, but there is no time to waste on self-pity. I struggle backinto my school uniform and Beth andWillow drag me into the fray to help pour tea and serve cupcakes to the oldies.
‘Get over it,’ Becca tells me harshly, tuning up her violin ready for the dance demonstration. ‘Nobody ever died of embarrassment, Daizy. Most of the old folks are pretty short-sighted – I bet they didn’t see your knickers at all.’
‘Oh, we did, dear,’ an old lady giggles. ‘Pink with frills and polka dots, weren’t they? Wouldn’t mind a pair of those myself!’
I cringe.
‘See?’ I hiss. ‘I will never get over this, Becca. At least nobody turned up from the newspaper. It is a good job we are going to live on an island in the middle of nowhere soon, because I will never be able to show my face around here again.’
‘Maybe it is all for the best,’ Becca agrees. ‘There is nothing here for me now, either. Not since Spike cast me off like a worn-out shoe and left me heartbroken and alone.’
‘Men are nothing but trouble,’ one of the old ladies nearby chips in. ‘You’re better off without them, dear.’
‘Nonsense,’ a man with a white handlebar moustache chimes in. ‘Not all men are rotters, you know!’
‘Young people today have no sense of romance,’ another oldie adds. ‘If he really loved you, he would find a way of telling you.’
As if by magic, right at that moment, the doors at the back of the hall swing open and Spike walks in carrying his cello, his long black coat flapping around him. I answered the phone the last time he called and I just happened to mention about the show at the Twilight Years Rest Home, and how Becca would be playing the violin …
‘Spike!’ Becca says, her eyes filling with tears. ‘What are you doing here?’
The old ladies nudge each other, scandalized. Spike’s green fringe and pierced lip can be a little alarming, until you get used to them.
‘That’s him!’ they whisper. ‘The rotter!’
Spike pulls out a huge bunch of velvety-red roses and offers them to Becca.
‘I have come to take you away from all this,’ he says. ‘Run away with me to Paris, or Berlin, or New York, Becca. I am sorry. I was wrong and you were right – we have to be together, even if it means living in a cardboard box under the Eiffel Tower.’
‘Ooooh!’ the old ladies coo. ‘This is better than Eastenders!’
‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ Becca protests. ‘I could never have left Mum and Dad and Daizy and Pixie; it was a crazy idea. But when you said that … well, I thought you didn’t want to be with me any more!’
‘Of course I do!’ Spike says. ‘If you go to live on the Isle of Muck, I will phone you every day and send text messages and emails and I will come up to visit every other weekend, even if it means getting a rowing boat for my birthday. Nothing can keep us apart, Becca!’
‘Oh, Spike!’ my sister breathes.
‘Oh, Becca!’
‘Oh, yuck,’ I whisper under my breath as they fall into each other’s arms and make soppy, sighing, kissy noises. Becca’s orchestra friends strike up a slushy tune and the oldies start to clap and cheer, and I realize that this little slice of real-life romance has cheered them up far more than our bungled fashion show.
I guess I will have to accept that I may not be the world’s first pre-teen supermodel after all. I am clumsy and accident-prone with a sense of style only my best friends could ever understand. As for being pretty, I think it is safe to say that my only true admirer is Buttercup. Sadly, goats do not buy magazines or clothes, so my modelling future could be bleak. I sigh and pick up a cupcake to console myself.
Ethan sidles up to the cake table and says into my ear, ‘Cheer up, Daizy. Buttercup is safe now. I found a new bit of rope and tied her to a tree, and Beth’s grandad showed me a special knot so I am pretty sure she won’t escape this time.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I huff. ‘I have never been so embarrassed, EVER!’
He laughs. ‘Oh, yes, I meant to say … cool knickers, Daizy!’
I glare at him, and the smile slides from his face.
‘That was my big moment, Ethan,’ I snap. ‘It is all ruined now, and all because of you!’
‘Me?’ Ethan frowns.
‘Well, you didn’t tie Buttercup up properly before. And you gave her to me in the first place, and that’s what got Dad thinking, and now we are going to live on the Isle of Muck to make nettle flapjacks, and I will never see my friends again!’
‘Seriously?’ Ethan says.
‘Seriously.’<
br />
‘I’ll miss you, Daizy,’ he says, going a little bit pink.
‘Well, I won’t miss you!’
I turn my back – I’ve had enough of Ethan Miller. Luckily, at that moment, Becca and Spike and their friends start playing, and Bert and Margie begin their dance display. It is even better than I imagined, because a couple of the oldies really do join in, and everyone is smiling and sipping tea and swaying in time with the music.
Afterwards, we all get chatting, the oldies and the schoolkids, the teachers and the care assistants, Bert and Margie, Beth’s grandad, everyone.
I talk to Beth’s gran about making apple pies and growing sunflowers, and she says that if I come back another day she will teach me to knit, and I say I will. Knitting might be a very useful skill to have on the Isle of Muck.
Even though she doesn’t remember who I am, I can see she is happy, and Beth’s grandad is happy too. He is telling the Twilight Years matron that he would like to clear the grounds up a bit and make a nice garden round the house for the oldies to enjoy.
‘I used to have an allotment,’ he explains. ‘We worked on it together, Edie and me. I thought, well, what if I do some gardening with Edie right here? And the other residents too? Grow some flowers and vegetables? They might like that!’
‘They might!’ the matron agrees. ‘I haven’t been here long, but I can see the grounds have been badly neglected. Any help would be wonderful!’
Over in the corner, Ethan is showing a group of elderly men how to play his table football game, and there are lots of cheers and clinking of teacups whenever a goal is scored. I have to admit that Ethan’s idea seems to be a hit.
By the end of the afternoon, a whole lot of plans have been made. Becca is going to get the orchestra to come in and play now and again, and Bert and Margie have agreed to run dance classes on a Monday afternoon for residents who are mobile enough to take part, and Margie is talking about a weekly bingo evening too.
Miss Moon is going to arrange for a group of children to come in every week to read and chat and talk to the oldies about the past, and there will be occasional classes on knitting, baking and jam making too, with everyone learning from each other.
Strike a Pose, Daizy Star Page 8