Darcy Burdock

by Laura Dockrill

  We have been in our house for exactly one week and it is week three of the holidays! Mum said that now things have settled after ‘living under a rock’ for a bit and ‘everything being everywhere’ we are allowed to choose something fun to do today.

  YES!

  It’s narrowed down to a list like this:

  But every time I’m trying to show Mum the list she seems to be busy now.

  ‘Mum, Mum, I’ve thought about it, I’ve thought about what I’d like to do today.’

  ‘Hang on a moment, chicken monkey.’

  Grrrrrrr.

  ‘Mum, but you said to think about what to do today and I thought about it.’

  ‘What about Poppy and Hector?’

  ‘They are happy with the list too.’

  ‘Pass it here.’ She quickly skates her eyes across the letters. ‘OK, so you expect me to believe that Hector would like to dye his hair and that Poppy would like to meet a sick snake . . . whatever that is?’

  ‘Mum, you’ve been ages at the computer now, come on.’

  ‘Can’t you guys just play amongst yourselves for a bit while I do these last few bits.’

  ‘You said that ages ago.’

  ‘Darcy!’ she snaps.

  ‘You said.’

  Great.

  I guess as I’m the most olderest one it’s up to me to think of an activity.

  ‘Right,’ I say to Poppy and Hector as I proudly enter the living room, ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

  ‘OK, what is it?’

  ‘We are going to make a bath in the shower.’

  ‘Huh?’

  We never had a proper shower in the old house. Not one with a door like a cubicle. I was thinking about it while I was weeing the other day. I looked at the cubicle and I thought, It must be possible to make that into a swimming pool. I have a clear vision of us floating at the top, the depth of the whole shower being one long cylinder of water! We could put bubbles in and pretend to be scuba divers!

  In our swimsuits we all pile into the shower. I turn the shower on and freezing cold water splashes out.

  ‘Quick, quick, move to the wall,’ Poppy orders the team, squealing.

  ‘It’s going to warm up in a sec,’ I reassure them.

  ‘Aargh, that’s more betterer,’ Hector giggles.

  ‘OK, what now?’ Poppy asks.

  ‘Is the shower door properly shut?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Eugh, did you just wee down my leg?’ I ask Poppy.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Keep your wee over to that side.’

  ‘Water is just going all down the plug hole, why won’t it just stay?’ Hector asks, disappointed.

  ‘Block the drain, we need a plug,’ says Poppy in a fluster.

  ‘The shower doesn’t have a plug,’ says me, obvs, cos I am the oldest and know that, duh.

  ‘OK, pass the plug from the sink,’ Poppy says to Hector.

  Hector leaps out all wet and reaches into the sink on his tiptoes. ‘It has a beady necklace thing on it.’

  ‘Break it off,’ Poppy says.

  ‘That’s naughtily.’ Hector blushes, his eyes all wide.

  ‘Mum told us to make our own fun, so that’s what we’re doing, don’t be boring,’ I reassure him.

  ‘Ouch, I just nearly slipped.’ Hector judders forward.

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Let me.’ Poppy gets out, all wet, and goes to help him with the sink plug. The warm spray of the shower is galloping all over my back.

  ‘You’re getting splashes all everywhere,’ I say as I watch them.

  ‘You do it then if you think you’re so good,’ Poppy bites back. ‘The plug necklace won’t come off the sink.’

  ‘Pull harder,’ I offer.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Oh. Let me try. Pass it here.’

  Chink.

  ‘There we go.’ I hold the plug up.

  ‘YES!’

  ‘Looks too small,’ Poppy says after all the hard effort.

  ‘Let’s try it.’

  ‘Move your feet, Hector.’

  ‘You’re bad.’ Hector bites his lip, concerned that we are going to go to prison for this.

  ‘It’s too small.’

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Let me try and—’

  ‘No, that won’t stay. Pass me that cup,’ I say, engineering a new plug.

  ‘That’s my cup,’ Hector cries back.

  ‘Shut up.’ Poppy taps his arm.

  ‘Pass the sponge, then.’

  ‘Maybe we can . . . does that look covered?’

  ‘I think, yes.’ Hector gets excited again and claps his hands. ‘Is the water filling up?’

  ‘Dunno, close the door more tight. Block the bottom bit.’

  ‘With what?’ Poppy looks around, the water still drumming onto our heads.

  ‘Your fingers,’ I order.

  ‘Oh, look, Darcy, it’s filling up!’ Poppy squeals.

  ‘Aargh, it’s gonna be so tall!’ Hector jumps up, elated.

  ‘And deep!’ Poppy adds. ‘Like a fish tank!’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘It’s going all downed the plughole again.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It doesn’t work.’

  ‘And we broked the sink chain.’ Hector looks down and whispers to himself.

  ‘Let’s get out.’ Poppy already leaves the shower, trying to pretend she wasn’t involved at all.

  ‘Did you bring in a towel?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Did you?’

  ‘OK, quick then, you get out of the way then and I’ll go and get one,’ I offer.

  ‘Can’t we all go?’

  Blip. Blop. Drip. Drop. Splish. Splosh. Splash. Wet Darcy, Poppy and Hector footprint shapes are marked all the way around the landing.

  After we dry off we have to think of something else to do next, to not let boredom interfere our lives and ruin us.

  ‘I know,’ Hector says, ‘let’s make a secret den.’

  ‘They never work good.’ Poppy shakes her head.

  ‘OK. I know,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s jump off the wardrobe?’ I suggest.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Land on Mum’s bed!’

  ‘OK!’

  ‘And when you land you have to say something!’

  ‘OK, and when you get to the top of the wardrobe you have to say something too!’ Poppy says with a naughty face on.

  ‘Like . . . a swear word?’ Hector shows his teeth.

  ‘No! Not a swear word, you’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘Like BUM BUM!’ Hector screams. ‘BUMS AWAY!’

  ‘KIDS!’ Mum shouts. ‘Kids! Stop making a racket.’

  ‘Shh.’ Poppy puts her finger over her mouth.

  ‘You shhh.’ Hector puts his own finger over Poppy’s mouth.

  ‘Can’t you ask Mum’s permission to jump?’ Poppy asks me.

  ‘You ask,’ I snap back.

  ‘No, you ask.’

  ‘Why can’t you just ask?’

  ‘I know. Why don’t we go down the stairs with Mum’s skirt on – because look, it’s so shiny, this one will just shimmy down so smoothly, won’t it?’ Poppy raids Mum’s wardrobe.

  ‘Yes, I can wear this one – look, it’s velvet, so soft. I’ll put this one on.’ Hector picks out a skirt while picking his own nose.

  ‘Don’t make a mess, she will see we’ve been through her things,’ I say as I see a crispy bogey of his already nestling on the fabric.

  ‘I’m not making a— Look at this.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s so smooth.’

  ‘There’s no more silky skirts – what can I wear?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmmm . . . has Dad got a thing you can wear?’ Poppy suggests as she wriggles into Mum’s posh skirt. ‘What about the guitar case?’

  ‘HA! Yes, it’s all floppy and leathery, like a mermaid tail.’

  ‘Yes. You can tuck your
legs in!’

  ‘Like a seal!’

  ‘Ha!’

  Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Waddle. Waddle. Waddle. Hop. Hop. Hop.

  ‘’K, Hector go first,’ Poppy bosses.

  ‘Ouch, you’re on my skirt!’ Hector shrieks.

  ‘Hector loves that skirt.’

  ‘No I don’t!’

  ‘OK, go!’

  ‘Poppy said I love that skirt.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘Just go now.’

  ‘Say sorry.’

  ‘No, there’s no real need to say sorry. It was a joke. You need to learn to take a joke.’ Poppy clamps her arms around Hector’s tummy.

  ‘Oh, Hector, stop being silly and just slide down the stairs.’ I rub his shoulder.

  ‘Not until Poppy says sorry.’

  ‘I’m not saying sorry, Hector, because I said nothing wrong.’

  ‘SAY IT!’ Hector roars.

  ‘Poppy, just say sorry,’ I usher, nudging her stubbornness.

  ‘No, I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘Come on, this is getting long now.’

  ‘Fine, sorry.’ Poppy rolls her eyes. ‘There, said it, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Hector reluctantly accepts.

  ‘Not really. Now go!’ Poppy howls, and she pushes Hector down the stairs in the skirt.

  ‘AARGH!’ he cries.

  ‘Poppy!’ I scold.

  ‘You shoved me,’ Hector whimpers.

  ‘Cos you’re holding us up!’

  ‘I wasn’t ready.’

  Bunk. Plunk. Bunk. Plunk. Klunk. Jabbbbbbbberrrr. Jabbbbbbberrrrrr. AARGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

  ‘Move! Move! I’m right behind you!’

  Bunk. Plunk. Bunk. Plunk. Klunk. Jabbbb-bbb-beblump. BASH. CRASH. BUMP.

  ‘MOVE! YOU TWO! OUT THE WAY!’

  Blump. Blump. Thump. Bash. Bish. Thump.

  ‘Ow! My head.’

  ‘My finger bent back, got stuck in this stupid anorak toggle hanging on the banister.’

  ‘Let’s do it again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘OK, this time Darcy go first, so if there’s a pile-up, at least she is biggest and we can use her like a crash pad,’ Poppy bosses us about some more.

  ‘’K. Get up then,’ I agree, trying not to be offended by the idea of being a human crash pad.

  ‘Jeez, this skirt is so long it’s all getting wrapped up around my feet and you’re stepping on it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Lift up your foot, lift— No, not that one.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That one.’

  RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. TEAR. BURST. RIP. CRISSSSSSSSSSSSH.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mum’s skirt. It’s ripped.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tored.’ Hector points.

  ‘Poppy!’

  ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ Poppy defends herself, as usual. ‘You stepped on it,’ she blames. ‘Quick . . .’ She has an idea.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hide it upstairs.’

  ‘Where?’ I ask.

  ‘Back of her wardrobe.’

  ‘We can’t do that.’ I chew the inside of my mouth. I know how much Mum loves that skirt, it’s a special precious-occasion one.

  ‘Shove it in the bin,’ Poppy says.

  ‘We can’t. It’s a posh Mum skirt.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Poppy,’ says Hector.

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘Try and sew it back.’ I rub her shoulder in support but in a I’m so glad this is you and not me position.

  ‘I can’t sew.’

  ‘We don’t have any skills.’

  ‘I hate this about us.’

  ‘Buy a new one.’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of this design.’ Poppy collapses onto the ground.

  ‘And we have no money.’

  ‘Call Dad.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That we are sorry but we broke Mum’s skirt.’

  ‘Mum will hear.’

  ‘Hide it in the washing basket. Wipe poo on it and say she did it,’ Hector offers.

  ‘I think she would know if she pooed on her skirt and threw it in the washing basket.’

  ‘I know . . .’ Poppy gets new energy: she has thought of something else.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We will play shops, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Invite Mum to look around the shop, and then when she picks up her skirt, pretend to fall over and say MUM! YOU RIPPED IT!’

  ‘That’s very bad.’ Hector shakes his head.

  ‘Blame Lamb-Beth,’ Poppy tries again.

  ‘No, not blame Lamb-Beth,’ I argue. ‘She’s a very good girl.’

  ‘Somebody has to be blamed for this.’

  ‘Yeah, but who?’

  And then we hear the door knock and the familiar screechy voice of Marnie Pincher: ‘COOOO-EEE!’

  ‘KIDS!’ Mum shouts. ‘Guess who’s popped over?’

  And we can’t help but smile. The afternoon is about to get better . . .

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I want to see the money before I do it.’

  ‘A dare doesn’t work like that, Donald,’ I argue.

  ‘Why do you always love money so much anyway?’ Poppy rightly snubs.

  ‘Money represents trust! My dad told me so!’ EYEBALL-ROLL TO THAT. He continues, ‘How do I know to trust you? I wouldn’t trust me after I lied about you guys in the garden.’

  ‘THAT was a very long time ago now, Donald. We are willing to forget.’

  ‘OK, so all I have to do is put the skirt on and jump off the wardrobe?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I say, as though it’s just a bit of harmless fun.

  ‘And shout something when you do it!’ Poppy instructs, which isn’t actually necessary but I guess makes it seem less like organized crime.

  ‘Shout something like what?’ Donald asks with his no-imagination mind.

  ‘Dunno. Something, anything, whatever.’

  ‘OK. Why do I have to wear the skirt?’ he asks innocently. I’d ask the same question.

  ‘It’s part of the dare.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m sure you three freaks have your reasons.’

  ‘It matches your black eyes, Donald,’ I joke.

  ‘No thanks to you.’

  ‘You’re the clumsy one,’ I reply.

  ‘Which reminds me, has this thing been tested for injury? It’s quite a drop.’

  ‘Yes, we jump off it all the time.’ Poppy brushes it off.

  ‘I don’t believe you – look at the distance from the wardrobe to the bed.’

  ‘I show you.’ Hector nods and clambers up the chair, onto the bookcase and up on top of the wardrobe. When he reaches the top, he spreads his legs apart and screams, ‘BUMS AWAY!’

  Crash-landing in the softness of Mum and Dad’s bed.

  We all laugh. Especially Donald.

  ‘That was great! OK, my turn!’ Donald, giggling in snorts, squeezes Mum’s skirt up his eggy-shaped body, yanking it up himself. I look to Poppy because that is just perfect. We need Mum’s skirt to squeeze around him. The rip is clear for all to see but Donald is too excited to notice. HA! We’ve stitched him up PROPER!

  Now, excitedly, holding Mum’s ripped skirt all bunched in his hands, Donald begins to crawl up the chair. He looks like a baby in a nappy. He drags himself up the bookcase, which wobbles, a few books tumble off. ‘Whoopsy daisy, hold yer horsies, don’t want to lose my footing.’

  We try not to laugh as he treads carefully over to the wardrobe. It quivers under the weight of him as Donald tries to find his balance. Sticking his arms out he shouts, ‘SOMETIMES I STILL WET THE BED BECAUSE I CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO GO TO THE TOILET!’

  And we all laugh so hard, so hard that Donald doesn’t jump because he’s laughing that hard. Snort. Snort. Like a big pig. Snout. Snort. Dribble. Snot pours out of his nose and we laugh har
der. All of us. At Donald laughing and snotting with green dribble bubbling out of his nose, with two black eyes and Mum’s skirt on, standing on top of the wardrobe shouting about how he sometimes wets the bed! Howl. Howl. Hooo. Hooo. Ha-ah-ha.

  And then . . .

  Three. Two. One . . .

  The unexpected, worse detected thing happens that could’ve happened.

  The wardrobe breaks. Completely collapses right underneath Donald.

  AARGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  CRASH. BANG. BAM. BOOF. CRACK. CREAK. SPLIT. WHACK!

  It all happens so quickly. There’s the pile of broken wardrobe. The clothes all in piles. Crushed fabric and hangers, like a car-crash tangle of wood and material.

  I laugh a bit more. From shock. Then I feel sick. So sick. Because I know what’s coming.

  Mum’s footsteps are banging up the stairs.

  ‘POPPY!’ she screams. ‘Poppy!’

  Huh? Why is she so bothered about Poppy right now?

  Mum is not gonna care one bit about her skirt now that her wardrobe is smashed. We are all gonna get so told off about everything. No more jumping off the wardrobe. No more playing. No more fun.

  She runs into her bedroom just exactly as Donald emerges, his fat thumb-shaped head sticking up from the rubble.

  ‘HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! What a blast!’ He dribbles dizzily and we want to laugh more but that just isn’t an option right now as Mum spins into the room.

  ‘What THE—’

  I guess it is a lot to take in.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she asks. Staring at us in a gawp, waiting for an answer. Marnie, obviously, has to pop her head round the door too now. Obviously it would be just TOO much to ask to not have her sticking her nosy beak in.

  ‘I do NOT believe what I am seeing!’ she crows like the nosy wosy parker she is. Her stiff little plucked eyebrows like two sleeping rats growl into a frown.