Darcy Burdock

by Laura Dockrill

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Mum taunts me.

  ‘Oh, yes we will.’

  ‘Darcy, please . . .’ Marnie twiddles the lolly stick skeleton around in her fingers, chewing on the end. ‘You couldn’t even do an hour without making a drama out of something.’

  Oh, how I would love to choke her with that lolly stick. Annoying wicked witch from nosy land.

  ‘Well then, I bet I CAN at LEAST do the whole entire six-week summer holidays. Without making one bit of drama about ANYTHING!’

  And then they both laugh. Right hard. In my face. Giggling. Slapping the ground. Oo-ha-ha-hardy-ha-haheee-oooo-my life-wow-oooo-heee-teee-hoooo-ahhhhhh-hhhaaa-that’s funny-haaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-I can’t breathe-I can’t breathe-stop it-stop it-too funny.

  And I’m just there. Watching them. Unimpressed. Thinking, Just you two IDIOT hags wait.

  S-L-O-W B-L-I-N-K.

  Donald, the blustering great mammoth, stomps over. ‘What’s so funny?’ he says, drying his nipples off with the towel. Mubble wubble.

  ‘Darcy reckons she can do the whole summer holidays without making a drama about anything,’ Marnie says, and then Mum begins to laugh again. More laughter. In harmony with the annoying cackles of Marnie and stupid Donald.

  And all I want to do is lose my absolute temper and go ballistic and crazy in their faces, but I can’t because that counts as drama. I just have to get on with it. Like the dot of an ant that is carrying a bit of pink wafer towards his little hole of a home in the ground. Oh, I get it, so that ungrateful ant didn’t want the crumb I blew him earlier but NOW wants this bit of pink wafer. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers.

  So I fake-smile really hard instead, squinting my eyes really tight shut and say, ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have writing to be getting on with.’

  ‘Eugh!’ Donald interrupted. ‘Darcy’s picking her nose.’

  ‘Am not!’

  ‘Yes you were, your finger was right up there, dragging down all the goodies.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was imagining how an ant could climb up there and steal a bogey out of your nose.’

  ‘Weird. Why would you want to be doing that?’

  ‘We don’t all eat our bogeys, Donald.’

  ‘Be careful, Darcy – seems to me that somebody’s getting a little bit too over-dramatic . . .’

  I finish writing. Next time I see an ant I’ll think of Dot. And Spot and Speckle. And next time a baby wipes a bogey on my back – IF there is a next time – I’ll think of a Hujiwama.

  My elbows have all sore red marks in them from where I’ve been leaning. Ouch. I do feel calmer and happier though. Writing is like that. It mellows you down, cos writing lives somewhere in between daydreaming and wishful thinking.

  I hear him before I see him. Stomping over. His scream. His crying. His moaning scrunched-up face. It’s Hector. Apparently Poppy won’t let him join in with the game that her and her brand-new best friend (that she only met like four seconds ago which she ALWAYS does every time we go ANYWHERE) made up. He is dripping wet. And freezing cold.

  ‘All right, all right.’ Mum calms him down. ‘You’re just tired and hungry.’ She picks up a towel, scoops him up in it and folds him onto her lap like a small prawn. ‘There we go.’ She kisses his head. ‘Let’s make a move. Darcy, go and get Poppy, it’s time to go home. Get your things together.’

  And that is when I notice that my story has blown away with the breeze, just like Dot, face down in the water of the paddling pool. Ink washed off, the pages weeping.

  My story is drenched. Completely ruined.

  WAAHHHHHHHH! I spent absolutely ages on that! I want to shout at Hector for crying and being a baby winge-head, and at Poppy for leaving Hector out in the firstest place and making him cry.

  But just when I’m about to yell my head off I spy all eyes on me. Waiting for me to lose my temper. I just have to calmly begin getting dressed as though nothing ever happened, to look as undramatic as humanly possible.

  ‘Never mind.’ I shrug.

  Chapter Three

  It even LOOKS ridiculous. Dad reads it and chuckles over my shoulder. ‘Brilliant,’ he snorts. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’ He tuts his head as he picks up his sandwiches and heads out the door for work.

  HA-HA. NOT FUNNY.

  My stupid ant story is drying on the stupid washing line with clothes pegs holding it up. I absolutely hate myself for putting myself in this undramatic padlock challenge.

  It is a brand-new spanking day and this day is a house day, I think. Mum keeps telling us to go and play in the sunshine because it’s a ‘lovely day’, but that means GET OUT OF MY HAIR SO I CAN PACK THE BOXES UP.

  Poppy’s friend Timothy has come over to play. He has bought a bag of yummy chocolate-covered animal-shaped biscuits with him and a collection of elastic bands. ‘I collect them,’ he says about the bands.

  ‘OK. Cool.’ I shrug.

  Lamb-Beth is springing about like she’s all new borned, munching on the grass and lazing in the sunshine. SHE’S SO CUTE I COULD EAT HER UP (but in a vegetarian way). Hector is driving his toy cars up and down her back.

  ‘What do you want to do then?’ Poppy asks us both, hands on hips.

  ‘Collect some more elastic bands.’ Timothy begins running around the garden, as if there will be elastic bands growing like flowers. What’s wrong with him? Why’s he so obsessed?

  ‘Why don’t we pling them over the garden fence?’ Poppy suggests. ‘Could be fun?’

  ‘No, because then we will lose them.’

  ‘We can just go and knock on their door if we lose them.’

  ‘What if they’re not in?’

  ‘They probably might even be in, actually,’ Poppy argues. ‘Look at my mum, she’s always in.’

  We all look at Mum trying to pack up boxes all by her owned self. I feel a bit bad on Mum because she’s sort of become that parent that other parents just dump their kids on because she’s always in and Dad works long hours. It’s because Mum is a self-employed art person that people think is just always hanging around.

  ‘Mum is so lucky. She gets to never be by herself.’ Poppy is thrilled with her sentence. Mum overhears and rolls her eyes. I don’t think she is quite as lucky as we think.

  ‘There’s a funfair near where my mum works,’ says Timothy. ‘It has a big wheel and a roller coaster and even a ghost train.’

  ‘Cool,’ Poppy says. ‘I love the funfair.’

  ‘I wish we could go to the fair now,’ Timothy says wistfully, ‘but my cousin got trapped on a roller coaster upside down for fifteen weeks. All his hair and body grew the other way. That’s why he’s so tall like a giant and has an afro up to HERE!’ Timothy points to the sky.

  ‘Yeah, well one time I went to the fair and I went on this big such scary ride that said you had to be twelve and as tall as a dad to go on it, and guess what?’ Poppy leaves Timothy in suspense for a few seconds. ‘I. Went. On. It.’

  ‘You said that at the start,’ I mumble.

  ‘And’ – I can tell Poppy is about to lie because she is panicking that her story wasn’t interesting enough – ‘I nearly fell out and my shoes fell off and they landed on an old dog’s head.’ She doesn’t make eye contact at this point. ‘No, no, actually, they landed on his ears, one shoe on one dog ear and one another shoe on the other ear.’

  I don’t bait Poppy up. But I don’t agree with her either. I just let her lie sit there. Like an awkward chair stuck to the ground that nobody can get round. Then I think of something. ‘Hey, why don’t we make a funfair?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We can make one in the garden – look, using this swing, this can be a . . . look, if we tie this to here and wrap that around that . . . Poppy, go and get the big beanbag.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Poppy darts off into the house.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hear Mum ask from indoors, but Poppy knows that it’s probably best to ignore that probing nosy question. So I don’t go in the house to avoid confrontation.<
br />
  ‘Darcy!’ Timothy says. ‘This can be another ride. Jump from stone to stone without holding onto anything.’

  ‘Yes, that’s good. I’ll get some pens and paper and make signs. We need prices too. I’ll get some buttons to be the tokens to get on the ride.’

  ‘What about this too?’ Timothy is so excited his eyes are going to bulge out of his head. ‘You dangle like a monkey over the washing line . . . no . . . no . . . like a zip wire, oh my days! Like a zip wire!’ He giggles uncontrollably, his voice goes all squeezy. ‘I’ve always wanted to go on one. What we need is a tyre or a coat hanger.’

  ‘OK! Yes!’ I begin to rummage about for the necessary equipment. ‘Good idea, Timothy.’

  ‘I’m back, look!’ Poppy squeals. ‘I got the big beanbag and all these other cushions too. I found a rubber duck. I thought that could be in the fair too.’

  ‘Yes, like those things you catch on hooks! We need prizes.’

  ‘And candyfloss!’

  ‘And Lamb-Beth can be a ride aswil!’ Hector excitedly suggests sitting on my lamb’s back, but I shout at him NO so he changes his mind, thank goodness.

  ‘If only we were at my other cousins’, they have a basketball hoop in their garden.’ Thanks, Timothy, for that POINTLESS unhelpful comment.

  ‘But what about this? This can be a basketball hoop.’ Poppy, not wanting to let Timothy down and wanting our house to be just as appealing as his cousins’, just picks up a flowerpot, tips it upside down, shaking the soil and plant out. It thuds to the ground. Poppy realizes immediately that it’s naughty but she was overexcited and quickly just scoops and scrambles up the dirt and plant and places it nicely in the corner. ‘Here, if we leave this here in the tree it can be a basketball hoop. And here’s a ball.’

  ‘Wait. Who is that?’ Who do I see with my own eyes trampling through the house making his way into the garden?

  DONALD PINCHER!

  Oh, what’s he doing here? Just coming to completely ruin everything ever. WHO invited him? MUM, I’m betting.

  ‘Hi, guys!’

  ‘Hi, Donald.’

  ‘Look how cool this is.’ He swipes a plastic grey thing in the air. ‘It’s a sword. And look here’ – he whips out more grey plastic from behind his back – ‘a shield. And look at these . . .’ He reveals some packets out of both pockets. ‘Stickers.’

  ‘Cool!’ Hector claps. ‘What stickers are they?’

  ‘Stickers not for sticking.’

  ‘He only asked,’ I bite back. ‘Why are you here anyway? Your mum doesn’t work.’

  ‘My mum’s going furniture shopping or something.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with her? I love furniture shopping.’

  ‘Because once I pooed in the fake model toilet at the house shop.’

  ‘Oh no! That’s a bad mistake!’ Poppy laughed.

  ‘It was no mistake.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So I’m not allowed to go with her, but to sweeten the deal Mum got me this sick sword and this shield and these stickers. And guess what also . . .?’ He lets the question hang but looks so smug so I can tell it’s gonna be something amazing. ‘I might need braces too.’

  ‘Braces?’ That’s it. I am DEAD with jealousy.

  ‘Yeah, Mum says right now I’m pretty much a handsome nine-out-of-ten stud but I need to get the braces to make me a ten-out-of-ten stud.’ Donald then begins thundering around the garden, flashing his sword about in his imaginary universe that nobody else is invited to.

  ‘Metal all on your teeth for ever?’ Poppy asks innocently.

  ‘Maybe so. Cool though, huh?’ Donald swaggers about. ‘All the rappers have them.’

  I think Donald is ridiculous.

  ‘So what are you goats doing then? What’s all this stuff ?’

  ‘We’re making a funfair.’

  ‘Kinda cool. OK.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A plant pot slash basketball hoop, isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Decent. Gimme a ball then.’

  Donald lifts the football up in the air and lobs it at the plant pot. It skittles nicely into the pot. ‘Sweet!’ And then the pot falls off the tree, topples to the ground and smashes into pieces.

  ‘Donald!’ I scream.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Donald chugs, as if it’s somehow MY bad luck that HE broke the thing. GGRRRRRR. HEART BEATING. Stay calm. Stay calm. I wrap my fists into balls. I can’t make a fuss because I promised, promised I wouldn’t be dramatic. AND I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that we’ve broken a plant pot or Mum will get stressed and cancel our fun game. Poppy looks to me to see if I’m about to blow up but I keep my cool, chill, cold. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just some pot,’ I say. ‘No need to bother Mum with it.’ Poppy looks relieved.

  ‘We can try and maybe play this game too,’ Timothy says. ‘Finding the elastic bands.’ What is it with Timothy and these stupid elastic bands?

  ‘There’s no elastic bands here, Timothy,’ Donald sneers, ‘although we can try playing this game.’ He picks up an elastic band and pings it at me.

  ‘Oi!’ Timothy shrieks.

  ‘Ouch!’ I squeal. ‘Donald, don’t, they are Timothy’s elastic bands. He collects them.’

  ‘What for? Who even needs this many elastic bands?’

  ‘NONE of your business. IF Timothy wants to collect elastic bands, well then, he just CAN and it has nothing to do with YOU!’ I a bit shout.

  ‘I’ll just do it again. Look. See?’ Donald then takes another one of Timothy’s precious bands and flicks it at me again. It hits my cheek.

  ‘Donald, stop it NOW!’

  ‘You’re just a scaredy cat. It’s such a boring game anyway. Find the elastic bands, please. It’s like something my grandad would have played when he was like five.’

  ‘I like it,’ Timothy mumbles.

  ‘Yeah,’ Poppy adds. ‘None of us ask you why you got that sword for.’

  ‘Poppy, the sword speaks for itself.’

  ‘It says . . . MY NAME IS DONALD AND I AM SO ANNOYING.’

  ‘Errr. No it does not, Darcy. Nice try.’

  ‘Try out one of rides – here, sit here, Donald.’ Poppy ushers him to the swing, patting the seat.

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘You have to sit down first. Here, give me your sword and your shield.’

  ‘No way, only a fool lowers their weapon,’ Donald says in his stupid lispy voice, knowing all words like weapons at the tip of their tongues.

  ‘Sit then.’

  Donald sits on the swing. We hadn’t exactly talked through how the ride was going to work but I was quite happy watching Poppy improvise the components of the ride on the spot but then Donald takes over, like he does with EVERYTHING.

  ‘I know,’ he interrupts. ‘I’ll hug my arms close to my chest, like a vampire.’

  ‘Yes, cross them over your heart.’

  ‘That’s how extreme sport types do free-falling activities,’ Donald informs us. ‘I mean, if you want your funfair to be half decent you have to know these types of things.’ He drops his sword and shield in his excitement and rocks his body backwards and forwards, his fat tummy poking out of his shirt. ‘And what do you have in terms of seat belts?’

  ‘Err . . .’

  ‘Timothy, would you please mind passing me the skipping rope?’

  Timothy comes close with it. ‘You’re not going to strangle me, are you?’

  Donald snorts. ‘Pass it here.’ He begins wrapping the rope around his bulk. ‘This will make for a much more convincing real ride.’ Donald, as if he’s a rock climber preparing to abseil down a cliff face, checks the sturdiness of the rope. It is looking morer like a real ride.

  ‘OK, now, Poppy, perhaps wrap me up a bit tighter?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  Poppy, with the skipping rope, wraps Donald up so much like a cowboy would a villain with a lasso. He is completely tight like a worm in bandages.

  ‘I can’t move,’ he
wimps.

  ‘Good. That’s like a real ride.’

  ‘Yes, good work!’ Donald praises.

  Poppy moves the beanbag and the other cushions to the other end of the garden.

  ‘Get those swimming goggles!’ Donald cries.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Stop asking questions! Just wrap them over my eyes!’

  Poppy, snorting with laughter, does as Donald says and wraps the goggles over his eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to be so rough! The rubber is pulling on my eyebrow hairs – ouch, watch it!’

  ‘I’m trying! If you weren’t so sweaty it wouldn’t be so hard.’

  ‘That’s my skin you’ve got there – aargh, Poppy, can’t you be a bit more gentle— Ow-ow.’

  ‘OK, they’re on. Great! Let the ride begin!’

  ‘What about this?’ Poppy then offers him the rubber duck.

  ‘No, we have no purpose for that in th—’

  And Poppy shoves the duck in Donald’s mouth.

  Timothy, Hector and I are crying our eyes out with laughter. Tears are streaming down our cheeks watching Donald wrapped up as a worm with swimming goggles and a plastic duck shoved in his mouth swinging on the swing. Donald begins to laugh furiously too now at the whole thing. Poppy can barely begin the ride we are all laughing so much.

  ‘DOH LIT LEN!’ he mouths in nonsense.

  ‘I think he means do it then, Pops!’ I say, and so Poppy begins to push. Donald is quite a heifer so Timothy and I join in, pushing and swinging and pushing and swinging and pushing and swinging and pushing and swinging, and Donald is WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGG AND WOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOIIINNNGGG AND AHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHAAAAAAAIIIIINNNGGG! And the swing is lifting and throwing so much with the momentum of the backwardsing forwardsing that the back legs of the metal frame are tipping and lifting out of the ground, springing up and down. Then, suddenly, Timothy just begins to freely ping elastic bands at Donald, catapulting them so hard it’s like he just wants this one free moment to get his own back on Donald for being totally vile about his bands. And Poppy spontaneously reaches for the hose and squeaks the tap on. Lamb-Beth ducks for cover as Poppy gushes water at Donald too. Spraying a fountain of water all over him.