How To Get What You Want by Peony Pinker

by Jenny Alexander

  ‘I want to stop being Daphne,’ said Dad. ‘But that would mean she’d have to come back and we still don’t even know where she’s gone.’

  Mr Kaminski said Dad should write his wish down too. Then he asked me. I thought I had better not say what I wanted. ‘I want to be an only child’ might not go down well at a family meal.

  ‘It’s obvious what Peony wants,’ said Primrose. ‘She wants a dog. She’s always wanted a dog. Like she’s ever going to get one!’

  Mum and Dad looked as if they were suddenly going off this whole idea, but Mr Kaminski ignored them and made me write it down. Then he asked Primrose what she wanted.

  ‘She wants to be a pop star,’ I said, getting my own back.

  ‘No I don’t, stupid!’

  ‘Yes you do. I’ve heard you and Bianca talking about it.’

  She gave me a poisonous look.

  ‘If I want anything,’ she said haughtily, ‘I want to stop being called Primrose. It’s a silly name. All my friends call me Annabel!’

  While Mum and Dad and me picked our chins up off the table, Mr Kaminski got her to write it down. He said that if we thought about what we wanted and really believed we could have it, then practical ideas about how we could go about getting it would just naturally occur to us.

  ‘Although sometimes,’ he said, ‘a wish will come true without you needing to do anything. Is like magic!’

  Mum asked Mr Kaminski what he wanted for himself. I thought he would probably want the rest of his quiche to disappear. Unless he had seen that it was Mum’s famous gooseberry crumble for pudding. Whoever decided that gooseberries were edible? ‘It’s sour enough to take the top off your tongue and it’s covered with bristles – hmm… let’s call it a fruit!’

  Mr Kaminski said he was too old to dream. He took life as it came, these days. Not much bothered him, he said. Then he ate two helpings of crumble, which kind of proved his point.

  After he had gone, Mum said we shouldn’t take what he had said too literally. He hadn’t really meant to suggest, for example, that I might get an actual dog. He had meant something similar to having a dog might happen, something like my work at the kennels.

  ‘Or he might have meant you could get a pet similar to a dog. A goldfish, maybe,’ said Dad. ‘Would you like a goldfish, Peony?’

  Primrose laughed.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Annabel!’ said Dad.

  Chapter 8

  Mr Plant-poisoner Pryce and the pencil-tin

  When I got home from school the next day, Bianca and Primrose were out in the yard. It looked a lot bigger now it wasn’t full of half-dead plants. They had changed out of their school uniform and were cooking marshmallows on wooden skewers over a disposable barbecue. They must have bunked off early and walked home via the shops in the Parade.

  ‘None for you, Peony Podge!’ said Bianca. ‘You already look like jelly on legs.’

  Primrose laughed. Bianca pulled the marshmallow off her skewer and popped it into her mouth. ‘Mmm… gorgeous!’ she said, licking her fingers. She glanced back at me. ‘Are you still there? Goodbye!’

  I ran up to my room. I could hear them laughing and larking about. If I went to the window, I would be able to see them, but then they might see me too. I hated them. I wished they could both vanish into thin air and never come back. Then I would have the whole yard to myself, to cook marshmallows and do anything I liked.

  But when I imagined that, it felt quite lonely. Did I really want them both to disappear forever? I realised in a flash that I had not been clear about what I wanted at all – I had not been exact!

  I had made a ‘Free to anyone who will have her’ poster about Primrose, I had wished I could be an only child and then I had wished that Primrose and Bianca could both vanish into thin air. But none of those things were exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I wanted was to get rid of Bianca and have the old Primrose back.

  OK, the old Primrose wasn’t perfect. Before she turned into a Pit Bull I used to think that if she was a dog she would be a Pekinese. I had a picture of one on my wall. It had a shaggy fringe tied with a pink ribbon and it seemed to be looking down its nose at everyone – which was quite an achievement as it had hardly any nose to look down.

  It can be a pain living with a Pekinese. The Bumper Book of Dogs says they can be ‘wilful and difficult to train’. But they’re playful too. They’re ‘friendly and fun’. That’s what Primrose used to be like, sometimes annoying and sometimes amazing, before she turned full-time snarly.

  I found a piece of paper and wrote:

  I want to get rid of Bianca and have the old Primrose back.

  Looking at it in this way changed everything.

  Now that I knew exactly what I wanted, I suddenly knew exactly what I should say to Mum and Dad. It was like Mr Kaminski had said – when you knew exactly what you wanted then you started to see what you had to do to make it happen.

  I wouldn’t say ‘Primrose and Bianca are being horrible to me’ like the first time I told – parents never listen when you tell on your sisters and brothers anyway, that’s a well-known fact. I would say ‘Bianca is being mean and Primrose isn’t sticking up for me.’ They would believe that. They knew what Primrose was like.

  The thing about Primrose is she always changes to be the same as whoever she’s hanging out with. When it was Josie she was a sports fiend and all she talked about was fitness training and high-energy drinks. When it was Mushy Marcus she was into lovey-dovey DVDs and gooey looks – cringe central, but a trillion times better than how she was now, with Bianca.

  I waited impatiently for Mum to come home but when she did she was in a real state. I asked her what the matter was. But she just said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Dad tried when he came home, and even Primrose had a go after Bianca had left, but no-one could find out what was wrong. Mum didn’t say anything all the way through tea. Then she gave a great sigh and it all came out.

  ‘That slip of paper – the one I wrote my wish down on – well, I forgot it was in my pocket. I pulled out my tissue to blow my nose and it flew out and landed at Mr Pryce’s feet.’

  We all looked at each other. This didn’t sound good.

  ‘He read it and then he said, “So you don’t like working for Mr Plant-poisoner Pryce! Well, I think you had better leave.” Just like that!’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Dad.

  ‘What could I say? He had given me the sack.’

  ‘Looking on the bright side,’ Primrose said, ‘at least this means you won’t be bringing sick plants home any more. Mr Kaminski’s greenhouse is full, and it’s nice not living in a jungle.’

  Dad glared at her. She ignored him.

  ‘And less plants means more room for Peony’s new dog to run around in!’

  All of us glared at her.

  ‘I was only saying!’ she said.

  ‘Well, don’t,’ snapped Mum.

  I didn’t care. ‘I want a dog’ was just something they made me write down. I never seriously thought it could happen. My real wish was the secret one that was lying on my desk upstairs.

  Dad tried to make Mum feel better.

  ‘Everything will be all right,’ he said.

  ‘Yes? And how are we going to pay the bills, tell me that!’

  He muttered something about a nice cup of tea and got up to put the kettle on. I had a feeling even tea wasn’t going to work its mysterious magic this time.

  ‘Actually,’ said Dad, hovering at a safe distance by the kettle, ‘when you think about it, this is the first part of your wish. You said you wanted to stop working at the Green Fingers Garden Centre – and now it’s come true!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Mum. Her chair scraped across the floor as she stood up. ‘I need some air.’

  With that she disappeared out into the yard and we were left looking at each other like lemons. Dad shrugged. ‘Would either of you girls like a cup of tea?’

>   I ran upstairs while he was pouring. I grabbed the piece of paper off my desk and looked around for somewhere to hide it. After what happened to Mum, I didn’t want anyone to find out about my secret wish.

  My pencil tin! Primrose had been known to help herself to pens or pencils in the past but she would never look in there these days because she had completely stopped doing homework. I folded the paper and put I want to get rid of Bianca and have the old Primrose back safely in the tin.

  Primrose and me helped Dad to tidy up the tea things without arguing. When we had just about finished, Mum came back indoors. She had been talking to Mr Kaminski over the fence. ‘The weirdest thing just happened,’ she said. ‘He’s offered me a job!’

  Mr Kaminski had decided it was time he did something about his garden. He asked Mum if she knew any good gardeners. Mum told him she didn’t. She said she would have asked around at the Green Fingers Garden Centre but, as of today, she didn’t work there any more.

  ‘Is perfect!’ Mr Kaminski said. ‘I need gardener, you need job. And I will pay, of course!’

  Mum stood there grinning. This was an unexpected turn of events and the rest of us needed a moment to take it in.

  ‘Say something!’ she said.

  ‘That’s the second part of your wish,’ Dad exclaimed. ‘Well, knock me down and call me Susan!’

  It was what all of us were thinking, except the Susan bit. I really don’t know where that came from.

  Chapter 9

  Ditching Daphne and don’t talk about the dog

  Dad was so fired up by the surprise success of Mum’s exact wish, it got him thinking about his own, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. Just because Daphne had ignored all Ed’s calls to her mobile, that didn’t mean she would necessarily refuse to speak to Dad.

  ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’ – that’s another thing Dad likes to say, so long as it’s someone else doing the venturing, of course.

  Anyway, instead of hitting sofa+remote as usual, Dad picked up the phone. He got Daphne’s number from Ed, then dialled and waited, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table.

  ‘I don’t suppose she’ll… Oh, Daphne! I-it’s Dave.’

  She didn’t seem to know who he was because the next thing he said was, ‘From work. The sports reporter.’

  If she had known it was someone from the paper ringing, maybe she wouldn’t have picked up. If he had known she was going to pick up, maybe he would have planned what he was going to say before he dialled.

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked desperately at Mum.

  ‘“We’re worried about you,”’ she hissed. ‘“We just want to know you’re all right.”’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Just say it!’

  Dad put on his best care-y-share-y face in the hope that his voice would come out right. It didn’t. I thought we were all going to drown in treacle.

  ‘Everyone at the Three Towns Gazette is really worried about you, Daphne,’ he said. Mum rolled her eyes. He ignored her and ploughed on. ‘We don’t even know where you are!’

  The second bit came out more whiny than care-y-share-y, so he gave up trying to do it Mum’s way and walked over to the window, turning his back as if to say, ‘I don’t need your help any more – I can take it from here!’

  Daphne said something and then Dad blurted out, ‘You’re on the island of Capri? … Oh, right… I see. I didn’t even know you were engaged!’

  There was a wail from the other end so loud we could all hear it. Dad held the phone away from his ear. When she stopped wailing, he put it back.

  ‘You were meant to be getting married on the beach?’ he said. ‘Your fiancé didn’t show up? Um…’

  He looked as dithery as a dog that’s cornered a hedgehog.

  ‘D-did you at least get a good swim?’ he asked.

  Daphne let out another long wail. Dad knew he had said the wrong thing, but then his face lit up as it dawned on him what would have been the right thing to say.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world, Daphne – there are plenty more fish in the sea!’

  Mum dropped her head in her hands.

  ‘What?’ said Dad, covering the mouthpiece again. ‘He’s already left her and I’m trying to cheer her up. You said that was all right. Make your mind up!’

  He decided to cut to the chase.

  ‘The thing is, Daphne – we miss you in the office. We need you. When are you coming back?’

  Her answer sent Dad into a flat spin.

  ‘You can’t mean that!’ he cried. ‘Never say never, that’s what you tell the readers. Ed’s making me write your page. I can’t do it, Daphne. What? No, I’m not just being lazy! How could she say that to me?’ Dad asked us, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. Nobody met his eye.

  Dad explained to Daphne that it wasn’t the extra work he was worried about – he was just really bad at giving advice. He appealed on behalf of all the good people of the Three Towns who had problems and needed her wonderful words of wisdom. He pleaded and grovelled. When that didn’t work, he tried threats.

  ‘Ed isn’t going to keep your job open forever you know. If you don’t hurry up and get back here you might find someone else – not me, someone proper – sitting behind the Dear Daphne desk!’

  That’s when she hung up on him.

  ‘Can you believe that?’ goes Dad.

  Mum put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You tried,’ she said, soothingly.

  True to his motto of ‘If at first you don’t succeed, give up,’ Dad went straight from fired-up and hopeful to down in the dumps. He said that Mum getting what she wanted must have been a fluke and come to think of it, doing Mr Kaminski’s garden wasn’t really a proper job anyway, was it?

  Mum got up and grabbed her gardening gloves.

  ‘I can’t sit around here all evening,’ she said. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  Dad didn’t even seem to notice he’d offended her. He opened his briefcase and took out the pile of letters and emails again. They were getting a bit tatty round the edges. He shuffled through them half-heartedly.

  ‘I haven’t been this stuck since History GCSE,’ he said, gloomily. ‘Only that was just one exam and this could go on forever.’

  ‘Well, until Friday, anyway,’ goes Primrose, helpfully. ‘I mean, that’s your deadline, isn’t it?

  ‘That’s this week’s deadline,’ goes Dad. ‘What if Daphne never comes back? What if Ed refuses to get someone else in to do her work? What if I have to face this torture every single week?’

  I couldn’t resist. ‘That’s a lot of “what ifs”, Dad,’ I said.

  Well, Friday came and he still hadn’t done it. He had skimmed some of Daphne’s books and was starting to talk like her, but he hadn’t come up with any answers.

  ‘This is very bad for my self-esteem,’ he complained, sprawling on the sofa among his dogeared letters and emails. Mum ignored him. She was trying to watch The Victorian Kitchen Garden, which is hard to concentrate on at the best of times. Being ignored probably wasn’t very good for Dad’s self-esteem either.

  Primrose was hanging around, waiting for Bianca to arrive. They were having a sleep-over. The only thing keeping me going was the fact that it would soon be Saturday.

  Dad read Sad Soprano’s letter for the umpteenth time, just loud enough to be annoying. ‘So she hasn’t had the breaks,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Is that my fault? No! So how come I’ve got to sort it out for her?’

  I could see he was driving Mum nuts and she was seriously about to scream at him. It was almost a relief when Bianca walked in.

  ‘Whassup?’ she said.

  ‘Save yourself while you still can,’ mumbled Mum.

  But it was too late. Dad launched into the whole sorry story of how his editor had rejected his first Dear Daphne page even though he had tried his hardest and given very sensible advice, and how now he was completely stumped. She humoured him. Well, she would, what with being such a suck-u
p and all.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ she said, reading through his first Dear Daphne. ‘Sad Soprano needs to get herself on The X Factor. You’re never too old these days.’

  ‘What if she sounds like a cat in a mangle?’ goes Dad.

  ‘Not your problem,’ said Bianca.

  Dad seemed to consider this. He liked Bianca’s approach. ‘What about Frustrated Fan?’ he said. ‘Any ideas?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘Chocs and wine,’ she said. ‘When his girlfriend comes round and he’s got the tennis on, he wants to lay on lots of chocs and wine. Then she’ll associate watching tennis with nice things. That’s science.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Dad.

  They rattled through the other problems with Bianca telling Dad what to write and him jotting things down.

  ‘This is great!’ he kept saying. ‘This is brilliant!’

  ‘You know, Annabel and me could do this for you every week if you like, until the real Daphne comes back,’ said Bianca. What a weasel! ‘We read all the problem pages, don’t we, Annabel?’

  Primrose didn’t look especially keen. Mum dragged herself away from The Victorian Kitchen Garden long enough to remark that Dad couldn’t expect a couple of fifteen-year-olds to write a column in a respected newspaper and besides, weren’t people’s problems supposed to be confidential?

  ‘I don’t have to show them the actual letters,’ said Dad. ‘I could just ask them in theory, what would you advise this or that person to do. You’ve got to admit they’re good. They’re better than me!’

  Mum didn’t argue with that. She shrugged and went back to her programme. It had just hit a particularly riveting bit about how to prune fruit trees.

  ‘This is my wish come true!’ Dad suddenly exclaimed. ‘I thought the only way I could get out of being Daphne was if I could persuade her to come back, but finding someone else to think of what to write – that works just as well! Thank you, Bianca, and thank you… Annabel.’

  It made me sick the way he pandered to Primrose over this silly name business. Ever since she had told us she wanted to be called Annabel he hadn’t called her Primrose once.