And it looked like I was going to make a mess of this trick too.
Slowly, I read the 14 diagrams that showed me how to wrap a piece of rope in an intricate pattern around my fingers. Then – hey presto! – with one tug, the rope was supposed to slip away, knot-free!
Knot likely
When I gave a tug on the end of the rope, instead of gasping as it fell easily away, my dad, Dylan and Fiona started giggling so much they could hardly breathe, while I stuggled to untangle my knotted-up fingers. GOOD GRIEF. I was rotten at hair-wrapping, I sucked at guessing star signs, I was terrible at talking to animals, I’d never make it in advertising and now I was minging at magic.
“Oh, Indie!” gasped Dad, laughing so much he was crying. “Thank you, honey – you really cheered me up today!”
Even if I was a bit embarrassed at being so awful, I was still pretty glad that being bad at doing magic tricks had put my dad in a better mood. But being bad wasn’t a talent, was it…?
Ding dong!
As soon as the doorbell rang, the pets went mental, just like they always do. George was jumping around the hall like a puppy on a pogo stick, Kenneth was meeeee-hoooow-ling for all he was worth, and Smudge the cat had woken up and then gone straight back to sleep again, doing her cushion impersonation.
“Can you get that, Indie?” Mum called from the kitchen, where she was mixing up milky gloop for the hedgehogs’ tea.
“Yep – no problem!” I called back, while trying to shush Kenneth and get George far enough away from the door so I could open it.
“What’s that?” asked Dylan, standing halfway down our path when I finally managed to pull the front door open.
I figured out what he was looking at.
“A baby hedgehog,” I grinned, holding out my cupped hand. “Want to see?”
“No, better not,” he said, taking an allergic step backward.
“So what’s that?” I asked him in turn, nodding down at the gift-wrapped box he must have dumped on the doorstep just now. (George and Kenneth were sniffing at it madly.)
“It’s for you!” Dylan shrugged, backing away some more.
“What is it?” I asked him, just as I spotted Fiona, who was smiling and waving from the safety of her car.
“Mum thought you’d like it!” said Dylan, easing his way out of our gate, and away from the general allergic-ness of our house. “Got to go – got my maths club!”
And so ten seconds later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, pulling open the parcel with a mildly curious Mum peering over my shoulder.
“A badge-making kit?” Mum frowned, while feeding the first of the hedgehogs with a dripper full of vitamin-spiked milk. “That’s very sweet of Fiona to give that to you. But what’s it for? Is it a late birthday present or something?”
“She says…” I mumbled, while reading the note that came with it,
Sorry the magic tricks didn't work out but saw this in the shops today and thought it might be the perfect talent for you!
Fiona xxx
I felt a bit mushy inside – that was really, really nice of Fiona. She wasn’t bad for a step-mum, even if she did think pets were poisonous.
“Hey, that looks like a lot of fun!” Mum smiled, as I pulled out the badge-making machine and started fiddling with it. But Mum was wrong.
’Cause twenty minutes and a bit of badge-making later, I was in hospital…
“How did you manage to do this, then, Indie?” the nurse asked, as she gently tried to unpin the badge from my finger.
I couldn’t exactly answer – I was gritting my teeth too hard.
“She had an idea about helping to find a home for a dog at the animal rescue centre I work at,” Mum explained, tucking something she thought was a hair behind her ear (I think it was actually a bit of hedgehog bedding).
“Must be a special dog!” the nurse said to me. “And how was the badge supposed to help it find a home?”
I dared to sneak a peek at what she was doing, and saw that I wasn’t wearing the badge on my finger any more (phew). The nurse was now wiping my finger with cold, wet cotton wool that smelled strong and chemical-y.
“I thought I’d make up a whole load of badges,” I began to babble. “I was going to put a picture of the DIB – that‘s what the dog’s called – on them, and print the phone number for the rescue centre and everything. I was going to hand them out to people on the street!”
“Well, nice idea, but I think you’d better stay away from badges from now on!” grinned the nurse.
“Doesn’t look like badge-making will be your new talent after all!” Mum smiled ruefully at me.
“A talent? You mean a hobby, don’t you?” asked the nurse, as she put a fancy plaster around my finger.
“You could say that,” Mum said to the nurse, while giving my knee a squeeze. “She’s on the hunt for something to be good at.”
The nurse looked at me and did that smiling/frowning thing where it’s hard to know if someone’s being nice to you or trying to let you know they think you’re an idiot (or both).
“Maybe you should try origami,” she said. “That could be a good talent to have – it’s a lot less dangerous than playing around with sharp pins!”
Perhaps the nurse was right.
Perhaps origami would be the perfect talent for me.
I’d just have to look it up in the dictionary or ask Fee what it meant first…
I didn’t know that the answer was a) till Mum explained on the way home. (“It’s like making a paper plane,” she’d said, “only fancier!”)
“Origami! I’ve got a magazine all about that!” said Mrs O’Neill. “Stay right there, Indie, and I’ll get it for you!”
Mrs O’Neill had been out dusting her hedge (ie looking for someone to talk to) when Mum and I got back from the hospital.
And as soon as we’d mentioned what had happened, she wanted to hear every single detail, which was when I told her about the nurse suggesting I tried origami as my talent.
So me and Mum waited, and waited, and waited some more, till Mrs O’Neill rushed back out with some old magazines in her arms.
“Now, which one is it…” Mrs O’Neill muttered, rifling through the pile of old magazines that she was now balancing on top of her wheelie bin. “Ah, no, this one’s HOW TO MAKE A MACRAMÉ OWL…”
I didn’t know what macramé meant (made out of crumbs?), but I didn’t think I’d ask – we’d been chatting to Mrs O’Neill for ages now and, nice as she was, I really did want to go home at some point this week.
“Ah! Here it is!” she called out, pulling out and passing me the right magazine at last. “Now look – there’s where it tells you how to make a paper swan!”
“Thank you,” I said, wondering how on earth anyone could make a flat piece of paper look anything like the complicated picture in the magazine.
“Thank you, Mrs O’Neill,” Mum smiled, while nudging me to start moving. “Well, we’d better get Indie home, after her eventful day!”
“Oh, already?” said Mrs O’Neill, looking disappointed.
“’Fraid so!” Mum smiled kindly at her. “And we really must get back and feed all the animals!”
“Ah, pets … they’re wonderful things – you’re never without a friend when there’s a pet in the house!” nodded Mrs O’Neill, getting back to dusting her hedge…
An hour later, after we’d fed George, Kenneth, Smudge, the fish, the hedgehogs, Caitlin and us, I should have been sitting down to do my CV, just in case Miss Levy’s cold had got better and she was back at school tomorrow, expecting me to hand
But instead, I was practising my origami. “Ouch!” I gasped, as yet another paper cut pinched at my fingers.
I gingerly picked up my handiwork and decided to go through to the kitchen and ask Mum’s opinion of it. And ask her where the plasters were…
“…hmm, I suppose,” Mum was muttering into the phone that was tucked in between her ear and her shoulder, as she mixed up a batch of he
dgehog gloop in a bowl for the night feeds. “But he’s only been with us for just over a week. Should we be this quick to judge?”
Who is she talking about?
I wondered, my fingers nipping.
“OK.” Mum nodded at whoever was on the other end of the phone. “Let’s talk in the morning. Bye.”
Mum looked very serious all of a sudden. I felt a bit stupid holding up my squashed paper splodge for her to admire.
“What’s up?” I asked, pulling out a stool, and checking it for snoozing cats before I sat down.
“Oh, it’s just my boss.” Mum shrugged. “He says he’s heard there’s a spare place come up at a kennels in the north. He thinks we should send the DIB there this weekend.”
“What sort of kennels?” I asked warily, clocking how much Mum was frowning.
“Well, it’s a wonderful place,” said Mum, with an expression on her face that was anything but wonderful. “It’s a long-term home for dogs that are too wild, or too institutionalized to go into a normal home.”
“What does ‘insti…’, ‘insti-wotsit’ mean?”
“Dogs that have lived in rescue centres like ours for too long. They just forget how to behave in a normal house, and can’t go back into one,” said Mum sadly. “I had hoped it might not be too late for the DIB, but I suppose my boss does have a point, and if there is a place for him…”
Mum’s voice tapered off, and mine wouldn’t even start up.
How could the rescue centre even think of giving up on the DIB already? Of course he could fit into a home – sitting by someone’s fire, getting his u head rubbed, making hisfunny humming sound and thudda-dudding his tail … he’d be in heaven! “So … what’s that supposed to be?” Mum asked me out of the blue, as my brain whirred madly and miserably.
“A swan,” I mumbled, holding up my scrunched-paper splodge.
“Ah, yes of course!” Mum laughed. “I can see that now – if I cross my eyes!”
“I don’t think I’m very good at origami,” I sighed, aiming my crumpled something at the bin, and picturing the DIB’s dumb, squashy face.
“Still, it was very sweet of Mrs O’Neill to look out that magazine for you. And I really like the way you take time to talk to her, Indie – she’s lonely, and does appreciate the company.”
That was the sound of an idea darting into my head faster than a paper swan flapping its wings at high speed.
And that idea was black and blob-shaped. Oh, yes; the amazing idea I’d just had might mean that the DIB didn’t have to go into the Home For Wild Or Insti-wotsit Dogs.
And it could mean that he and Mrs O’Neill need never be lonely again… !
Hurray! That was the end-of-day bell, and I couldn’t wait to rush round to Mrs O’Neill’s and see how she was getting on with the DIB.
(Mrs O’Neill had taken a bit of persuading. So had Mum. But last night, the two of them had had a chat on their own and agreed that a trial visit from the DIB was worth a go. And that trial visit was happening TODAY!)
“Indie! Can I have a quick word please?”
Drat, I was in for another telling-off.
“Yes, Miss Levy?” I blinked, feeling myself go pink.
Soph and Fee threw me sympathetic glances as they filed out of the room with the rest of the class.
“Indie, you’re normally a very good pupil, which is why I’m going to give you one last chance to do the CV exercise I set you,” said Miss Levy. “It’s Thursday now, so I’m going to let you have another whole weekend to do it. All right?”
Miss Levy looked very stern, but it was kind of hard to take her seriously, since her nose was red as a beetroot ’cause of her cold.
“Yes,” I said, nodding frantically. “But I have been trying really hard to find talents!”
“Indie, I don’t think you need to find them. I’m sure you’ve got plenty already!” sighed Miss Levy, putting her hands on her hips.
OK, so now I was pinker still, thanks to her compliment.
Before I could mumble to her that I didn’t think so, she had a sneezing fit. So I took the opportunity to say, “OKthankyouMissLevy-bye!!” very quickly and ran out of the classroom, past a waving Soph and Fee, and all the way home, till I had to slow down in our road ’cause I was so out of breath.
Wonder if they’ve made friends yet? Wonder if Mrs O’Neill’s heard the DIB doing that humming thing? I thought to myself, as I saw Mrs O’Neill’s house come into view.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
And the sound of that was drifting out of Mrs O’Neill’s open living-room window…
“Put it down ! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! This is terrible !”
Pulling my heavy school bag up onto my shoulders, I hurried across to see what terrible things were going on at my neighbour’s house…
“So … he ate the whole bag of toffees?” Mum asked.
Mum was on the phone – I’d called her at the rescue centre, as soon as I took the DIB out of Mrs O’Neill’s house and brought him round to ours.
“He ate the whole bag.” I nodded, though Mum couldn’t see that. “AND he ate a fruit basket that Mrs O’Neill had made out of ice-lolly sticks AND her copy of the Radio Times.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mum.
“I know,” I mumbled.
Mrs O’Neill hadn’t taken to the DIB one little bit – in fact, Mrs O’Neill had begged me to take him away.
“So what’s he doing now?” Mum asked.
“Nothing much,” I told her, gazing down at him.
The DIB had his fat face in my lap. He was staring up at me with soppy (crossed) brown eyes. His tail was thudda-dudda.-dudda.-ing on the kitchen floor. He was making a funny hiccupping breathing sound.
I think he was trying to pant, but couldn’t because his teeth were still welded together with toffee.
“I wonder why he acted so badly?” said Mum.
“I think it’s ’cause the first thing Mrs O’Neill did was take his blankie and put it in the bin.”
Mum just sighed again, I was sure, but I couldn’t quite hear that because of all the tail xnudda-dudda-dudda-ing going on.
And that wasn’t the only noise; Kenneth had curled himself up right next to the DIB and started purring!
“Is he behaving himself now? He’s not upsetting the dogs or Smudge, is he?” Mum asked (which was easier to hear than sighing).
“He’s fine,” I told her, scratching the top of the DIB’s ugly head. “They’re all fine.”
Smudge hadn’t batted a catty eyelid when he walked up to her on the sofa and gave her a sniff. Speaking of sniffs, George and the DIB had sniffed each other’s bum hello, and made friends straight away. And Kenneth seemed purrily happy to have him around.
“Well, if he’s behaving himself at the moment, then we might as well let him stay the night. I’ll take him back to the rescue centre tomorrow, and then see if that place is still free at the special long-term kennels.”
The kennels where dogs would never know the feeling of carpet under their paws.
The kennels where dogs would never amble under the kitchen table to be fed titbits when parents (hopefully) weren’t looking.
The kennels where dogs could never sneak up on your bed and go to sleep on your duvet, with their snores vibrating on your knees…
The DIB suddenly started to make that cute, hurra-hurra-hurrrumph humming noise and he was drooling onto my jeans with happiness.
This dog can’t go to the special kennels! I found myself thinking, in a sudden panic.
He’s got to stay here!
“Mum!”
A pair of loving, dopey eyes were fixed on mine.
“What?”
“You know how you forgot my birthday last week?”
“Oh, Indie – I felt terrible about that, you know that!” Mum apologised. “I only forgot because I was worried about the hedgehogs, and promise I’ll never do it again!”
“But you can! You can forget all my birthdays from n
ow on, Mum! I just want one present now, and I don’t EVER want another one!”
There was just a second’s pause from Mum, and I suddenly wondered if she was panicking that I was about to ask for her and Dad to get back together or something just as impossible.
“What is it, Indie?”
“I want the DIB! I mean, I want the DIB to come and live with us and Caitlin and George and Kenneth and Smudge and the fish!”
“Oh! Is that all? Oh, OK! Fine! Why not?”
Mum sounded so enthusiastic that I KNEW she was well relieved that I didn’t want her and Dad to get back together again.
Thudda-dudda-dudda…!
And I couldn’t believe I was so mad about a darling, dumb dog that looked like a cross between a pot-bellied pig and a bin bag. “Hear that? You’re going to live with us!!” I smiled at the DIB, ruffling his furry head.
The DIB tried to bark, but his jaws were still stuck together with toffee.
“Poo … what’s smelling in here?” asked Caitlin, ambling into the kitchen for a cup of tea.
OK, the DIB could stay, but that blankie had GOT to go…
It was Saturday morning and Soph and Fee had come round to mine to watch TV, eat crisps and pat my pets.
Ding dong!!!
Smudge had mistaken my lap for a very
comfy bed, and when the doorbell rang she
wasn’t too thrilled at being poured onto the
sofa, next to Soph, so I could go to answer it.
"Mee-hooooow! Mee-hoooooow…!"
“Shush, Kenneth!” I heard Fee try to calm him down, as I struggled to get to the front door past a bouncing George.
“Look! You’re in the local paper!” said Dylan, from halfway down the path.
I felt a fluttering in my tummy, like a whole bunch of butterflies was as excited as I was.
How to Be Good(ish) Page 4