Nobody asks me to put on another fashion show, but I try not to mind about that. And I try not to mind that very probably I won’t be here to help with any of it; I will be miles away, tending my nettles on a windswept rock.
‘I can’t thank you enough for what you have done today,’ the matron says as we are leaving. ‘You have done more to liven up the residents in one afternoon than we can do in months. You’ve been like a breath of fresh air.’
Miss Moon smiles. ‘Well, Beth’s gran is living here now,’ she explains. ‘The whole idea came about when Beth’s friend Daizy found that out. So, we have Daizy Star to thank for all of this!’
My cheeks burn, but I cannot stop smiling as the matron shakes my hand.
‘Thank you, Daizy,’ she says. ‘You are a very caring, thoughtful girl. You have given us some good ideas too – there will be one or two changes from now on at the Twilight Years Rest Home!’
The whole afternoon has been a big success, even if I did mess up a little. My best friends were there for me when I needed them, which makes me feel very happy inside.
‘Beth, Willow,’ I say. ‘You are the best mates ever, I swear. Murphy Malone, you are the coolest. Your speech saved my bacon back there.’
I won’t find friends like them on the Isle of Muck.
Five days later, a brown envelope with an Isle of Muck postmark comes flopping through the letterbox. Dad shouts for everyone to gather round, and I see his hands are shaking as he holds the envelope.
‘Our future lies within,’ he says, his eyes shining, and I know that he wants to live on a far-flung island and be an organic nettle farmer very much indeed. ‘Wide open spaces, sandy beaches, perfect sunsets …’
‘Torrential rain,’ Becca says. ‘Tartan scarves and bagpipe music. Haggis. Boarding school. No more custard doughnuts.’
I think my big sister has gone off the idea of living on Muck, now she and Spike are back together.
‘Open it, Mike,’ Mum says. ‘Put us out of our misery.’
Dad tears open the envelope and takes out the letter.
‘ “Thoroughly enjoyed meeting your delightful family …” ’ he reads out. ‘ “Would be an asset to the island …” ’
Then his face falls. ‘ “However” ’ he continues, ‘ “we were not convinced that nettle farming is a viable project … some concerns that you were a little idealistic about island life … sadly, on this occasion, we have decided to offer the smallholding to another family …” ’
He blinks. ‘I don’t believe it! We were meant for that cottage! We were meant for Muck!’
‘Seemingly not,’ Mum says gently.
‘I didn’t like it, anyway,’ Becca shrugs.
‘It rained a lot,’ Pixie chips in. ‘I think that might have put off the mermaids.’
‘It’s probably freezing in winter,’ I say. ‘Too cold for nettles.’
Dad just shakes his head.
‘Well,’ he sighs. ‘Looks like we are going to be stuck in the town for a little while yet.’
‘Yay!!!’ Becca squeals, and Pixie joins in, and Mum sighs and says she is secretly very relieved.
Me, I just hug Dad hard, because I know what it is like to have your hopes and dreams smashed to little pieces. It happens to me all the time.
Slowly, life gets back to normal.
Dad has joined Beth’s grandad and Bert from next door in creating a garden from the jungly grounds of the Twilight Years Rest Home. There will be a veggie garden big enough for all of them to take whatever they need, and plenty left over for the Twilight Years kitchens, as well as pretty flower borders where the oldies can sit out and enjoy the sunshine once the weather warms up.
It will be a Community Garden, shared between old and young alike.
Miss Moon has organized squads of pupil volunteers to go in after school and help with the digging, but the real hero has been Buttercup. She has chewed, munched and gnawed her way through a jungle of weeds and brambles, clearing the ground better than any strimmer could.
The oldies have grown very fond of Buttercup. Most of them treat her as if she is an overgrown dog, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
‘If you ever need a good home for her, she would be very welcome here,’ the matron tells Dad.
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘We are trying to be self-sufficient, you see. When Buttercup is old enough, she will give us milk and cheese!’
‘Pigs might fly,’ one of the old ladies giggles. Pigs? I think she is getting her animals mixed up a little bit.
‘Doris!’ the matron says. ‘That’s not very nice! Whatever do you mean?’
‘I mean there will be no milk or cheese,’ Doris smirks, leaning on her Zimmer frame. ‘I used to keep goats during the war, and I can tell you now that Buttercup is a billy goat. To put it bluntly, she is a HE.’
Dad’s shoulders sag, and shortly afterwards Buttercup the billy goat moves into new, high-security quarters in the grounds of the Twilight Years Rest Home.
‘How about fresh, free-range eggs for the residents too?’ Dad says, as he settles Buttercup into his new quarters. ‘One goat and three hens – I can’t separate them.’
So Attila, Cleopatra and Esmerelda move in too, and Pixie and I visit them every day on our way home from school. I worry that there will be no eggs, because I cannot really sneak into the grounds of the rest home every morning to hide my shop-bought ones, and I worry that the whole gang of them will escape and terrorize Stella Street.
I imagine the Twilight Years cook making a huge goat-and-chicken pie. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
However, it seems that Beth’s grandad and Bert from next door can build much better chicken runs than Dad can, because there are no more escapes. Nobody complains about the lack of eggs, and when a group of us from school go in one day after class to learn how to bake fairy cakes with some of the old ladies, the cook tells us that they are getting three eggs a day, every day, without fail.
It looks like Buttercup and the chickens are happy at last, and I am glad about that.
As for the Star of the Week award, Miss Moon gives it to Murphy for his quick thinking during the fashion show; his on-the-spot speech may not have made much sense, but it made me look a lot less stupid. Well, a bit.
The week after, Beth and Willow get the award jointly, for helping in the fashion-show rescue and being such supportive friends; and the week after that Ethan Miller gets the award for making the table football game, which apparently is still a big hit with the oldies.
I cannot really complain, I suppose.
For once, I actually did something good. Beth is back to her usual chirpy self. Her grandad is happily growing cabbages and dahlias, just like he always did, only in the grounds of the Twilight Years Rest Home. Beth’s gran comes out to flirt with him every day, which is very sweet considering she can’t actually remember that they have been married for almost fifty years.
Besides, I get my moment of fame in the end. The Evening News finally do send a photographer down to the Twilight Years Rest Home, to do a double-page spread on its new links with Stella Street Primary. There is a nice picture of Dad and Bert digging the new veggie garden, a shot of Ethan playing table footy with the oldies and one of Beth, Willow and some of the old ladies knitting.
The biggest picture of all, though, is one of me – in pink wellies and a rainhat, with a chicken under each arm and mud smeared right across my nose. Predictably, Buttercup is at my side, chewing a mouthful of my skirt.
It is not exactly the cover of Vogue magazine, but I am quite glad about that.
I can see now that I am not model material, not one little bit. I am more rolling around in the mud material. Perhaps I would have fitted in on the Isle of Muck after all! Pixie, Murphy and me buy the paper on the way home from school, scanning through the feature as we walk.
‘ “Strong links have been forged between the pupils of Stella Street Primary and the Twilight Years Rest Home,” ’
Murphy reads aloud,
biting into a custard doughnut.
‘ “Shared football, reading, bingo, knitting and cookery groups now run weekly, and residents are enjoying the new Community Garden, pet chickens and goat …” ’
‘Who knew so much would come of one little idea?’ I say.
‘Listen to this bit,’ Murphy says. ‘ “The project was the idea of Year Six student Daizy Star. Miss Moon, project co-ordinator and Year Six teacher, told our reporter: ‘Daizy is full of good ideas and always keen to help others. She really is a model pupil.’ ” ’
Murphy and Pixie laugh so hard they just about choke on their doughnuts, but my cheeks flush pink at the compliment and I stand a little taller. I am a model pupil after all – it is almost better than getting a Star of the Week award.
All’s well that ends well … isn’t it?
We turn the corner into Silver Street and a strange, sickly smell hits us. This has happened before. I get a bad, bad feeling.
Dad wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Could he?
‘It’s not manure,’ Pixie whispers. ‘Is it?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Murphy frowns. ‘It smells more like … rancid chip fat!’
‘It’s getting stronger,’ Pixie whimpers. ‘I don’t like it, Daizy!’
I don’t like it, either. And I don’t like the huge, rusting van parked up outside our house, engine shuddering, either. The bumper seems to be held on with string and parcel tape, and there is no doubt about it – the sickly, chippy stink is coming from the exhaust pipe.
The engine splutters and dies, and Dad gets down from the cab.
‘So!’ he beams. ‘How do you like our new transport? It’s lean, clean and totally green! It’s a triumph of recycling. Can you believe it? The engine actually runs on old chip fat!’
‘I can believe it,’ I say, holding my nose. ‘Dad, please tell me this heap of junk isn’t our new car?’
‘It is,’ he says proudly. ‘But it’s much, much more than just a car, Daizy.’
There is a heavy, sinking feeling in my stomach, as if I have eaten one too many nettle flapjacks.
Dad grins.
‘I’ve just had the most amazing idea …’
Strike a Pose, Daizy Star Page 9