Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Daizy!’ Dad exclaims. ‘Of course I will! I want us all to be together – you know that!’

  The trouble is, Dad wants us all to be together in Malawi, and everyone else wants us all to be together here.

  At least I hope everyone else wants us all to be together. Mum is still tight-lipped and quiet. There have been no more big rows, but I can tell she is not happy about any of this. Maybe she is actually quite glad to be shot of Dad for a while?

  ‘What if you don’t come back, though?’ Pixie pipes up anxiously. ‘What if you get eaten by a leopard or savaged by a ferocious honey badger?’

  ‘What if you get malaria?’ I chip in. ‘Or typhoid fever?’

  ‘Not going to happen,’ Dad sighs. ‘Don’t worry, girls, I’ll be fine!”

  ‘Better take some suncream,’ Mum says crisply. ‘You know how you turn beetroot in the sun and peel like a sheet of flaky pastry.’

  Dad huffs. ‘I have done my research, thank you, Livvi,’ he says curtly. ‘It is actually the rainy season in Malawi right now. I shall be packing an umbrella, not suncream, thank you very much.’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Mum snaps.

  If only we could go back to how life was before Dad packed his job in and got a mid-life crisis. I don’t like the way things are now, not one little bit.

  We go to the airport to say goodbye, of course. We line up in the check-in hall while Dad books in his suitcase and then we have milkshakes and muffins in one of the cafes, and even Dad has a strawberry smoothie and a triple choc chip muffin because muffins are probably very rare indeed in Malawi and he may not get the chance to taste one again for quite a while.

  Then we trail along to customs, and that is where we have to say goodbye. It’s kind of upsetting. Pixie starts sobbing and begging Dad not to get himself trampled by a herd of hippos, and I fling my arms round his neck and hang on so tightly I don’t think I will ever let go. Even Becca hugs Dad quickly and tells him things won’t be the same without him.

  Well, they won’t. Who will make us beansprout crumble and fig and beetroot upside-down cake now that Dad is going away?

  Hmm – no more disgustingly healthy dinners! I suppose every cloud has a silver lining.

  ‘Well, then,’ Mum says gruffly. ‘Take care, Mike. Keep in touch.’

  Dad just nods and turns towards customs, but right at the last minute he turns back and lifts Mum up in a big bear hug. When they finally pull apart, I notice that Mum is dabbing at her eyes, which has to be a good sign, surely?

  It means she’s going to miss him.

  And then he’s gone, stepping through the magnetic archway and being frisked by uniformed guards before disappearing towards the departure lounge.

  ‘Oh, Mike,’ Mum whispers. ‘You silly, silly man.’

  We head for home.

  Demo version limitation

  School is just about the only thing that keeps me sane, but it is not easy to care very much about long division and spelling tests when everything else is falling to bits. And no, I am not talking about the kitchen cupboard door.

  Miss Moon calls me over to her desk one lunchtime as everyone else is filing out towards the canteen.

  ‘Daizy,’ she says, her green eyes sparkly and kind, ‘is there anything worrying you?’

  I blink.

  Where do I start? I am worried because Dad has been gone for thirteen days now, and we haven’t heard from him for well over a week. I am worried he has forgotten us, or fallen down the well he is digging and drowned. I am worried he has been killed by a python or trampled by an elephant or stung by a deadly mosquito. Even now, he could be lying in a hut made from dusty red bricks, burning up with a fever, delirious, dying. It could happen. He could die without ever knowing that I have discovered my star quality.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ I say, stalling for time.

  Miss Moon opens my English jotter. Earlier on, we were asked to write a poem about how we were feeling today. Maybe I was a bit too honest?

  Sick And Tired

  I’m sick and tired of French and maths,

  Sick and tired of playground laughs,

  I’m sick and tired of science and art,

  Cos my whole life is falling apart.

  In Malawi life is tough,

  Life is hard and life is rough.

  A mosquito with a nasty bite

  Might come and get you in the night,

  And then you will be really sick,

  No medicine to do the trick.

  I’m sick and tired of all the lies,

  Sick and tired of hungry cries.

  Sometimes it’s too hard to bear,

  Why can life be so UNFAIR?

  Miss Moon looks at me, obviously concerned. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned Malawi at school,’ she says. ‘You haven’t been your usual bouncy self just lately, Daizy Star. And then there are the band practices. I can’t help noticing it all sounds very … um … loud and … well, angry.’

  ‘Has Mr Bleecher been complaining?’ I ask.

  ‘Not just Mr Bleecher,’ Miss Moon admits. ‘Several of the teachers have commented. I am all for you and your friends practising your music, Daizy, but as your teacher I am just a little bit concerned.’

  ‘Are you going to stop us from practising?’ I ask, alarmed.

  ‘No, no, of course not!’ she says. ‘I have defended you in the staffroom. This band is obviously very important to you.’

  ‘It is! And besides, we are a thrash-metal-punk band. We are supposed to sound loud and angry!’

  ‘I see,’ she sighs. ‘But, Daizy … I have to ask … is something on your mind?’

  So many things are on my mind, it’s like wearing a concrete sunhat. It weighs me down … and it seems to get heavier every day.

  I bite my lip. ‘I just don’t see why we should have so much when the people in Malawi have so little!’ I blurt out. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Miss Moon agrees. ‘You’re right. Life can be very unfair indeed.’

  ‘I think about it all the time,’ I admit. ‘It makes me sad. And angry.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Miss Moon nods. ‘But … there is a lot of poverty and hardship in the world. Why are you worrying about Malawi in particular?’

  I sigh. ‘My dad has gone to do some voluntary work there,’ I explain. ‘He is digging a well and helping to build a school for a village called Tatu Mtengo. He’s been gone for thirteen whole days, and we haven’t heard anything since last Tuesday! It’s very worrying! What if something has happened to him?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Miss Moon says kindly. ‘It’s probably very difficult to communicate from somewhere like Malawi, but if anything were wrong, you’d know. But of course, I can see that the band is clearly helping you to express your mixed-up feelings about it all.’

  ‘It’s not just that, Miss,’ I confide. ‘We are entering the Battle of the Bands, and we are going to win. We have to, because the prize is five hundred pounds and that money could buy a herd of goats and build a new clinic and supply school books and medicine for a place like Tatu Mtengo!’

  Miss Moon looks doubtful. ‘I see,’ she says, but I’m not sure she can really see at all, and that makes me sad.

  ‘Daizy …’ Miss Moon says, as I turn to go. ‘Don’t be too disappointed if you don’t win the Battle of the Bands. I know you have been practising hard, and I know how much it means to you, but … well, some bands try for years and years before they manage to break through to the big time. I don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.’

  I won’t be disappointed, of course, because losing is not an option. The Honey Badgers are going to win … and my dad will come home safely and remember that he loves me, Becca, Pixie and Mum far too much to be separated from us ever again. He will not be tempted to run off with anybody from the chip shop, or get huffy because the shop has run out of milk and demand an instant divorce.

  No way.

 
The forms have been filled in and sent away. The songs have been polished, the set has been practised until it is just about perfect. Mr Bleecher has taken to wearing earmuffs for the whole of the lunch hour, and muttering darkly whenever he sees us.

  Ted Tingley, my guitar guru, says I am a remarkable student. He says I am breaking down walls and barriers, taking thrash-metal-punk guitar to frightening new heights. Or maybe it was depths, I can’t remember.

  ‘I have never had a pupil quite like you, Daizy Star,’ he says. He says it every week, and he shakes his head sadly. I expect he is remembering his own youth and wishing he’d had the ability to turn ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ into a thrash-metal-punk classic.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Daizy?’ he asked, when I told him I’d posted off The Honey Badgers’ entry for the Battle of the Bands. ‘Are you sure the world is ready for your … um … unique guitar style?’

  I am not sure, but I hope the world is ready. They have to be, really, because I have something to say and let’s face it, the world needs to hear it. And if they don’t hear that message when Willow is yelling it out at 3,000 decibels over the sound of mangled guitar bass and drums, then they will never, ever hear it.

  We are going to turn our amps up to the max. We are going to put our hearts and souls into the performance, and also our blood, our sweat and our tears.

  We are going to win the Battle of the Bands, and the £500, and if we are lucky, one of Miss Moon’s Star of the Week awards each as well.

  Why not?

  After all, this week Andy Hines got a Star of the Week award for having his tonsils out. And he got ice cream and jelly after the operation too.

  Spike brought us some posters for the Battle of the Bands, and we have pinned them up at school. Beth has used her special calligraphy skills to write out invites for our parents and friends. There is an invite for Miss Moon and, unfortunately, one for Ethan Miller too.

  ‘Why?’ I huff. ‘Why ask him? He is just not a thrash-metal-punk kind of boy. He wouldn’t come, anyway.’

  ‘He might,’ Beth shrugs. ‘And besides, I am not really a thrash-metal-punk kind of girl. I think Ethan would come and see us. He’s really sensitive.’

  I choke on my strawberry smoothie. Trust me, Ethan Miller is about as sensitive as a herd of rhinos, only not quite as good looking.

  ‘He did give you that football for Malawi,’ Willow chips in. ‘He’s very caring.’

  ‘Very annoying, more like,’ I frown. ‘Still, I suppose it won’t hurt to give him an invite. It’s not like he’ll actually turn up.’

  ‘He might,’ Beth says dreamily. ‘To see me play the drums!’

  ‘To hear me sing,’ Willow corrects her. ‘To see me in the spotlight, lead singer of a thrash-metal-punk band!’

  I narrow my eyes. It occurs to me that Beth and Willow may not be taking The Honey Badgers as seriously as I’d like. For them, the band may not be a matter of life or death, more a matter of getting Ethan’s attention.

  Still, if it keeps my friends keen, I suppose it is OK.

  They give Ethan an invite, and he grins and says he will definitely be there. Miss Moon promises to come along, and Ted Tingley says he wouldn’t miss my debut for the world, and besides, as an internationally famous guitar guru, he is on the panel of judges.

  ‘You’re a judge?’ I ask him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Well … yes!’ he admits. ‘Like I just said!’

  It has to be a sign. My very own guitar guru will be helping to choose the winners. I already know how much Ted Tingley loves my music. He has taught me everything I know. The Honey Badgers may still be a little rough around the edges, but surely, with Ted on our side, we cannot fail?

  ‘You must be fair about it,’ I tell him. ‘Give the other bands a chance.’

  Ted Tingley gives me a funny look. ‘Er … right,’ he says, looking shifty. I expect he won’t be able to help himself.

  And now the costumes are almost done.

  I have fabric paint in my hair, fabric paint on my nose and chin, fabric paint on my shoes and all over my art shirt. Luckily, some of it actually made it on to the T-shirts too. They look seriously cool.

  Murphy decided that flicking the paint on instead of using a brush was the best idea to get a totally random and chaotic effect. It’s a good job we covered the kitchen table with newspaper first, and covered up our clothes with our school art shirts. You can get kind of carried away designing thrash-metal-punk T-shirts.

  Willow has been making black fur-fabric ears attached to headbands, to give us that edgy honey-badger look, and Becca has tested out a few weird Goth hairdos and make-up looks on us. We are cool, we are sussed, we are ready to win the Battle of the Bands.

  At least, I hope we are.

  We hang the finished T-shirts over the clothes rack to dry, clear up the newspaper and wash the brushes.

  ‘Feeling OK?’ Murphy checks.

  ‘Feeling great!’ I tell him. ‘One more practice at school tomorrow, then it’s really happening. At last! The Battle of the Bands! Fame and fortune are at our feet. And all our troubles will be over!’

  Murphy frowns. ‘I hope so,’ he says.

  ‘I know so,’ I grin. ‘Dad will be back from Malawi tomorrow. We still haven’t heard from him, but Mum rang the charity a few days ago, and they said everything is fine. He just can’t call from where he is now, that’s all. He will be on the plane home tomorrow morning, as planned … Mum’s taking the day off work to meet him at the airport. Boy, will he be surprised when he finds out about The Honey Badgers!’

  ‘Yeah …’ Murphy says.

  ‘And then, when we win …’

  Murphy rakes a hand through his long fringe and fixes me with a serious look. ‘Daizy,’ he says carefully, ‘have you thought about what might happen if we don’t win?’

  I blink. Not win? But we have to win, Murphy knows that. Without that prize money, we are lost. This is not just about mosquito nets and medicine and school books. It’s about stopping my family from falling apart.

  ‘Of course we’ll win,’ I shrug. ‘Obviously. We have worked so hard! We’ve practised every day! We have original material, a unique style and a sound that could turn the rock world upside down, everybody says so!’

  ‘Daizy …’ Murphy looks troubled. ‘Not everybody says so. What about Mr Bleecher and his earmuffs?’

  ‘Mr Bleecher is ancient!’ I argue. ‘What would he know about music? He probably listens to Cliff Richard! We are breaking down barriers, pushing the boundaries –’

  ‘But … those other bands might be doing that too!’ Murphy protests. ‘They might be brilliant! And all of them will be older than us. What about Spike’s band, The Smashed Bananas? They play gigs and everything. They even got a CD played on Radio Basingstoke last week. They might be quite hard to beat!’

  Radio Basingstoke? Becca must have kept pretty quiet about that. Still, that doesn’t mean anything, surely?

  ‘Forget Radio Basingstoke, we’ll be on MTV this time next week!’ I bluff. ‘The youngest thrash-metal-punk band to go straight into the charts at number one!’

  Murphy just sighs.

  ‘We have to believe,’ I tell him. ‘We have to be confident!’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I am. It’s just … well, I don’t want to be too confident. And, Daizy … I just don’t want you to be too disappointed if things don’t work out.’

  I just laugh.

  ‘I won’t be disappointed,’ I promise, as Murphy slopes off across the street. ‘And trust me – we can’t lose!’

  Last-minute nerves, that’s all it is, I decide, watching Murphy slouch along the street beneath the streetlights. Everybody has those … right?

  When the phone rings a few minutes later, I assume it is Murphy, still worried about the gig tomorrow. Becca takes the call … and it is definitely not Murphy.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ my big sister asks carelessly. ‘Dad? I don’t think so. We don’t have a dad any more. He r
an away to Africa and never bothered to call. We think he may have been eaten by a lion, or crushed by a herd of elephants, and that means you are an imposter!’

  Becca hands the phone to Pixie, smirking.

  ‘Have you got me a honey badger?’ my little sister demands. ‘I’ve been building a hutch for one in the back garden. Do you think that I could feed it on hamster mix? Or would dog food be better?’

  I grab the phone.

  ‘Dad!’ I squeal. ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘Definitely,’ Dad says, but his voice sounds very crackly and far away. ‘I am at Lilongwe Airport, ready to catch my flight home!’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ I tell him. ‘We’ve been so worried! We thought you’d fallen down a well or died of malaria! Why didn’t you ring?’

  ‘My mobile ran out of battery and I’d forgotten to bring spares,’ he explains. ‘There was no electricity in the village to use a charger.’

  ‘That’s what Mum said,’ I tell him.

  She also said he was an irresponsible idiot living in a fantasy world, but I decide not to mention that bit.

  ‘I have a lot to tell you,’ I say brightly. ‘I am a thrash-metal-punk guitarist now, and also a honey badger, but not the African kind, obviously. A different kind. You can come and see me tomorrow night at the Battle of the Bands and you’ll see. I really think I have found my star quality this time, Dad!’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he laughs. ‘You know what? I have missed you, Daizy Star!’

  I feel a little catch in my throat. ‘I’ve missed you too, Dad!’ I say, but my voice comes out all snuffly and one perfect tear rolls down my cheek.

  Mum takes the phone and starts talking briskly about flight times and pick-up arrangements. She could at least try to seem a little bit pleased.

  I try to picture their reunion at the airport. Their eyes will meet across a crowded arrivals lounge, and they will realize how much they have missed each other and run into each other’s arms, and everything will be sorted.