by Maggi Gibson
‘Don’t get upset, Tiny Pip,’ Cordelia says, ‘you know how bad stress is for… your condition…’
A crowd has formed around us now, all concerned faces and disgusted muttering. Bill, the security guard, looks to the Customer Care lady, unsure what to do. A couple of people have taken out their mobile phones and have started videoing what’s going on.
‘The girl with the curly hair’s blind,’ I hear one woman tell a man who’s just come over. ‘They’re trying to throw her out because of her guide dog.’
I stare straight ahead, glad I’ve got Cordelia’s sunglasses on. My heart starts racing and my mouth goes dry. What if someone from school recognizes me? What if they shout, Hey, Sassy, what are you doing pretending to be blind?
‘So maybe you could just give me my money back and we’ll get back to the Home?’ Mum says to the manager, who’s just arrived, sweating heavily.
‘After all,’ Megan pipes up. ‘I’m sure Paradiso’s don’t want to be known as the store that threw the blind kid out!’
The muttering from the crowd increases and the manager sweats even more.
Then Taslima takes me firmly by the arm and guides me towards the exit. And all the time I’m trying to stare straight ahead, and my pulse is racing because I’m sure that impersonating a blind person is a really despicable thing to do and if I’m caught I’ll probably be put on the Delinquent Child Register, and forever people will point at me and whisper, yes, that’s her …
Taslima is guiding me through the sliding doors when Brewster almost ruins everything by trying to snaffle an ice lolly from a little kid.
‘We’re still training him,’ Megan smiles at the child’s mother as Taslima pushes me forward. Then we walk in a silent, dignified huddle until we get into the van, where the others burst into giggles on the floor.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ I say. ‘I’m traumatized. I’ll probably need months of therapy to recover.’
Minutes later, Mum climbs in. ‘There you go,’ she grins, chucking a big bag of crisps and juice and choccy bars over to us. ‘Customer Care wants to apologize – and give the Sick Kids a treat. Now let’s get out of here!’
With a jingle of her hippy bracelets she revs the van into life, and we go chugging off, on our way at last to the Wiccaman festival!
The first part of the journey is all motorway. Pip sits up front beside Mum15 and after a while we all play a crazy version of I SPY to keep her amused. We’ve brought CDs with us for the journey, so Pip takes charge of the music. We each get to choose three tracks at a time, and can you believe it, Megan chooses the same Phoenix Macleod track every time! In the end we threaten to stop the van and put her out if she doesn’t choose something else. (I have to admit, though, he’s pretty awesome.)
At last Mum turns off from the motorway and we bounce our way through rolling countryside. The camper’s getting hotter and hotter but when we try to open the windows all but one is jammed shut. To cool us down, Taslima dives over the back and tugs out the picnic bag filled with cartons of juice and we all slurp them noisily. Then we raid the bag of goodies from Paradiso’s and I chomp my way happily through a bumper bag of Wiggly Worms.
The festival’s being held on a farm beside the sea. With only a few miles to go we start seeing more and more signs for it. When we see the first poster advertising Phoenix Macleod, Megan screams and Mum nearly crashes into a tree.
Then everyone starts chattering at once about how exciting it all is. Megan says, ‘Oh, I envy you so much, Sassy! You’re actually really going to be on stage with Phoenix! Omigod! You’re such a lucky duck!’
And I know I’m a lucky duck. But the closer we get to the festival, and the more everyone chatters about how great it’s all going to be, the more I realize that I’m going to have to get up on stage in front of hundreds of people. And that’s when I start getting this weird tummy ache.
‘No wonder your tummy’s upset,’ Mum says when I complain. ‘You’ve just eaten a full pack of Wiggly Worms!’
‘Or maybe it’s that tummy bug,’ Taslima frowns. ‘The one Miss Peabody had.’
‘Oh, I hope it’s not a tummy bug!’ Mum exclaims. ‘Or Sassy certainly won’t be performing tomorrow night.’
Just then we pass another big Phoenix Macleod poster and Cordelia clasps a hand over Megan’s mouth. ‘In the interests of Road Safety,’ Cordelia grins as Megan squeaks through her clamped fingers.
The poster’s huge, with Phoenix smiling cheekily, his dark curls falling down over his coal-black eyes, and across the top it says in huge letters: PHOENIX MACLEOD WICCAMAN FESTIVAL SATURDAY MAIN STAGE 7.30 p.m.
‘Huh!’ Pip puffs indignantly. ‘Sassy’s name’s not even on it!’
‘Yeah,’ says Megan, pushing Cordelia’s hand away good-naturedly. ‘But just wait! When Y-Gen sign Sassy her name will be right up there, at the top –’
‘And I’ll be able to go around saying, Oh yes, Sassy Wilde? That’s my daughter! ’ Mum says in a silly posh proud-mother voice.
‘And we’ll be able to say, Oh yes, we used to know her! ’ Cordelia teases.
‘Before she became too famous for the likes of us! ’ Taslima adds.
Everyone’s giggling. Having fun. But I’m not laughing. For the first time it’s beginning to dawn on me just how much is riding on this gig. If I fail, I won’t just be letting myself down. I’ll be letting everyone else down too. Suddenly my tummy starts churning like a cement mixer. And I don’t think it’s got anything to do with tummy bugs. Or Wiggly Worms. It’s nerves!
Pip looks over her shoulder at me. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she smiles. ‘I know being a star won’t change you at all. You’ll always be my horrible big sister!’
Just then an alarm sounds and the engine chugs dramatically. Mum swerves on to the grass verge as a puff of green smoke billows out from under the bonnet.
‘Oh dear!’ Quickly, she switches the engine off. With a dramatic wail the high-pitched screech of the alarm eventually fades into silence. ‘Cathy said there might be some problem with the bio-fuel,’ Mum mutters apologetically. ‘I guess this is what she meant. She said to wait ten minutes till it cools down.’
We sit in silence, watching the van’s little clock tick-tock slowly forward. Mum says we have to stay in the van because of all the traffic whizzing past, so we sweat it out, the sun cooking us pink, till the engine’s temperature cools.
‘Does anyone smell fish?’ Taslima screws her nose up as Mum starts the engine again.
‘The bio-fuel’s made from seaweed,’ Mum explains. My tummy lurches alarmingly. Cordelia, psychic as always, shoves me towards the open window. Gratefully, I stick my head out and gulp in big lungfuls of country air.
‘I guess this is what a sardine feels like,’ Taslima yawns, as we trundle the last few miles. ‘You know, locked inside a tin stinking of fish.’
By the time we get to the Wiccaman farm we’re all hot and bothered. Mum follows the little signposts till we find the ‘Yurt Village’ on the edge of a small wood.
‘I think this is us, girls!’ Mum announces as we at last pull up at Yurt No. 3.
We all cheer and tumble out.
Cordelia and Pip and Megan and Taslima go dashing straight into the yurt to give it the once-over. Mum sticks her head under the bonnet and peers helplessly at the green smoke which is once again pouring from Cathy’s bio-ethanol engine.
And me? I make a dash for the nearest toilet, hoping that it really is just the Wiggly Worms that have upset my tummy.
The yurt is brilliant!
It’s like this mad sort of tent thing. But though it’s covered in canvas it’s got a real wooden door, and inside there are brightly patterned woven rugs on the floor and all these lovely low sofas with throws over them, and huge embroidered cushions in dark greens and rich blues and deep blood reds.
‘It’s like something from the Arabian Nights!’ Taslima sighs happily as she drapes herself across one of the sofas, her dark skin and huge brow
n eyes making her look like an exotic Eastern princess. ‘Bring me my Turkish Delight!’ she purrs sexily, and we all giggle. It is such a non-Taslima thing to do!
‘The sofas double as beds,’ Megan reads from the Advice to First-Time Yurters booklet she’s picked up off the coffee table. ‘And you can roll up the canvas sides to let more light and air in.’
So we set about rolling the sides up. And that’s when I see Mum. And she’s not alone. There’s a man looking under her bonnet!
I zoom outside.
‘I’ve never seen one of these before,’ the man’s saying in a deep gravelly voice. ‘I’m more a bike man myself.’ He nods his mop of greying hair at a huge shiny motorbike sitting in the sunshine, gleaming, outside one of the other yurts. ‘But I’ll take a look at it if you want, er…’
Mum flashes him a huge smile. ‘Heather,’ she says.
‘Heather,’ the biker repeats like he’s never heard the name before. ‘Heather.’ And he stands staring at Mum like some kind of lovesick puppy!
Something has to be done! I’ve seen enough soaps to know that my mother’s at a very dangerous age. And she’s just finished her Release Your Inner Wild Woman self-help book. I grab Brewster’s dog basket from the back of the van.
‘Mum!’ I say sharply. ‘Where should I put this?’
‘On the floor, honey?’ Mum says with a dreamy shake of her copper curls.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, pushing the Lovesick Biker aside and plonking the dog basket where he was standing moments before. ‘Busy, busy, busy!’
‘Sassy!’ Mum exclaims. ‘I meant INSIDE the yurt! Can’t you see I’m talking to… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’ She holds out her hand in a jingle of bracelets.
‘Kris,’ he says, taking her hand and holding it for what, I feel, is longer than is strictly necessary. ‘Kris with a K.’
And I’m just thinking about slamming the bonnet of the van down on Kris-with-a-K’s other hand – even though I feel it would be an act of violence and I am not a violent person – when there’s a blood-curdling yowl from inside our yurt and Pip comes running out.
‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full,’ Kris-with-a-K grins. ‘Maybe we could have a drink when the kids are in bed.’
‘She doesn’t drink,’ I say quietly to Kris-with-a-K as Mum makes off with Pip clamped to her leg. ‘My father forbids it.’
Kris-with-a-K raises an eyebrow.
‘It doesn’t agree with her medication,’ I continue. ‘She’s not long out of rehab.’
‘Thanks for letting me know, kid,’ Kris-with-a-K says, looking at Mum with what I like to think is a fresh perspective, as Pip drags her into the yurt. ‘Poor woman. I’ll see if I can fix her engine anyway.’
Happy that I have cooled his ardour towards my mother and saved my parents’ marriage, I carry Brewster’s basket into the yurt and plonk it down.
‘We can’t stay here!’ Pip is whining. ‘I can’t find a mirror. Anywhere! And there’s no bathroom scales!’
‘Pip!’ Mum scolds. ‘This is a yurt. It’s like camping. If you must have a mirror, you can use the little one in the van. And what on earth do you need bathroom scales for?’
‘In case I put weight on,’ Pip says, pouting.
‘That’s so ridiculous, Pip!’ I exclaim. ‘You are such a skinny little minny. You NEED to put weight on!’
‘You’re perfect as you are, sweetie,’ Mum says, giving her a hug. ‘So no more of this fretting about how you look. You’re nine years old. You should be running about enjoying yourself.’
Just then Megan, Cordelia and Taslima come running in. Like nine-year-olds.
‘We found the beach!’ Cordelia whoops. ‘The water looks gorgeous! Can we go swimming, please, Heather?’ She turns her wide green eyes on Mum.
‘That’s a great idea!’ Mum smiles. ‘Go and cool down after that long hot drive. It will give me a chance to get this place organized. But first, Sassy, you have to take Brewster for a walk.’
‘Why me?’ I protest.
‘Because it will keep you grounded.’ Mum answers. ‘We don’t want you getting above yourself, do we? None of this star nonsense. Anyway, I’m worried about Brewster. I think the journey in the van’s upset his digestive system. You know how delicate he is.’
‘What about my digestive system?’ I mutter. Honestly, my mum worries more about the dog than me!
‘He’s not performed all day,’ Mum continues, totally ignoring me. She clips on Brewster’s lead and thrusts a poop-scoop bag into my hand. ‘So don’t come back till he’s done.’
I do wish Mum could find a different verb to describe Brewster’s toilet needs. I like to think of ‘performing’ as a high art, something of merit, something we ‘performers’ do.
‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘Come on, boy. There’s a lovely wood behind the yurt. Lots of trees. You’ll have a ball.’
‘We’ll come with you if you want,’ Taslima says kindly. But Megan and Cordelia are already halfway into their swimming togs.
I shake my head. ‘No, it’s fine. You go ahead. I’ll meet you down there.’
‘Are you sure?’ Megan asks. ‘Because we could get dressed again and come with you.’ And I don’t know why, but when Megan says something kind and considerate I’m still not convinced she’s sincere. Maybe it’s me that’s the problem. Maybe I just find it difficult to trust her cos she used to tell such whopping great lies.
‘Thanks, Megan,’ I say quickly. ‘That’s really kind. But I’ll be fine. Honest.’
And then my buds head off in a colourful rush of flapping towels and high-pitched giggling. The yurt falls silent and Brewster looks at me with sad, unseeing eyes. The thing is, Brewster’s pretty old. Fifteen, in fact. Which in Doggy Years makes him one hundred and five, so I’m not surprised his digestive system’s been traumatized by a long journey in a van stinking of fish and full of over-excited girls.
‘Don’t come back until he’s done something!’ Mum warns as she shoos me out of the door and gives a little wave to Kris-with-a-K who’s got half the camper van engine strewn about the grass now.
I wander aimlessly through the sun-dappled wood. I look up through the branches at the green and blue mosaic of tree and sky. Woods make me think of Twig. Right at this moment I’d give anything to be hit on the head by a nut. (As long as Twig was chucking it, of course.)
At first Brewster sniffs every tree we pass. He tries to raise his leg from time to time, but keeps falling over.16 As we wander through the sun-dappled shadows I send him thought waves to try to make his digestive system work faster, but all he does is tug at some grass and chew it.
By the time we reach the other side of the wood he still hasn’t, errr… performed. From here I can see the stage and I watch, fascinated, as the techies and roadies get everything ready. One guy with dreadlocks, perched on the light rigging high above the stage, clips spotlights under its curved roof. Another, a tall skinny fellow in tight black jeans, fiddles with a mike. Every so often he says ONE TWO ONE TWO. His voice booms and screeches as a totally bald guy adjusts the settings at a soundboard at the side of the stage.
I watch, mesmerized. Am I really going to go out there tomorrow night, just me and my guitar?
I try to imagine what it will be like when the whole field is filled with people, all looking towards the stage, and I feel my blood pressure shoot up as fast as Swotty Sewell’s hand in chemistry. Suddenly all these nightmare scenarios start racing through my head, like what if all my guitar strings break at once, or I lose my voice, or the mike explodes! I’m so caught up in my own private bubble of terror it takes me a few minutes to realize Brewster is tugging on the lead. And then, right there, in front of the main stage, he squats!
I wait for him to finish, trying to pretend he’s not with me. Pretty stupid, I know, given I’m holding his lead. At last he stands up and kicks at the grass with his hind legs. What he has deposited is not a pretty sight. And the pong is totally disgusting. His tummy certainly has be
en unsettled by the journey! I whip the poop-scoop bag from my pocket and, trying not to gag, do my best to scoop the poop.
And that’s when I realize I’m not alone. There’s a boy watching me. On the grass by the edge of the stage. My heart sinks. Because it’s not just any boy. It’s Phoenix Macleod.
Quickly, I shove my hand with the poop bag behind my back, then tug Brewster’s lead to drag him away from the scene of his crime. But what does the daft mutt do? Only plops his backside down on the grass and starts bottom-walking! You know that thing dogs do when they’ve got an… em… personal itch.
‘How old is he?’ Phoenix asks, walking towards me. I stare at him. He’s even better-looking than in his photos! His eyes are dark and thick-lashed, his black hair falls in glossy curls over his forehead. ‘Your dog?’ Phoenix prompts, bending down and tickling Brewster’s ears. ‘How old is he?’
‘Oh, he’s fifteen,’ I stammer, desperately trying to keep the poop bag hidden.
Phoenix smiles up at me. ‘Same as me,’ he says.
Just then one of the roadies waves to Phoenix that he’s needed up on stage.
‘Looks like I’ll have to go,’ he grins. ‘See you around!’ With that he wanders over to the stage and I’m left gripping my bag of stinky poo, staring at the most stunning chico I have ever seen in my entire life!
By the time I drag Brewster back to the yurt, and wash my hands, and get changed into my bikini, and find a decent towel, Ben and Zing have arrived.
‘Enjoying the beach, then?’ Ben asks when he sees me in my swim-things. ‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it? We went for a dip earlier.’
Before I can say that I’ve not actually got as far as the beach yet, Zing pulls a sheet of paper from her bag and hands it to me. ‘This will only take a few minutes,’ she grins. ‘Then your time’s your own.’