Suzy P and the Trouble with Three

by Karen Saunders

  Flame? Is she planning on giving birth to an American wrestler?

  “No?” Amber says, crunching disappointedly when nobody responds. “None of them?”

  “Any thoughts on what to have for dinner?” Mum asks, diplomatically changing the subject.

  “Not yet,” Clare says. “We didn’t know what time you’d be back, and we didn’t have anything to eat with, or off…”

  “Let’s build a fire and cook something on it,” Dad says. “If we start now, we should have a good blaze going for an hour or so when it’s dinner time. Did you bring burgers and sausages?”

  “I did,” Mum says. “And we’ve got burger buns, and some salad, and now we’ve even got plastic plates to eat them off…”

  “Pah, salad,” Dad scoffs. “Who needs lettuce when we’ve got meat? Right, now we need to gather some wood. Girls, it’s stopped raining, so why don’t you go out and get some?”

  “Er, we’ve got a perfectly good gas cooker in the caravan,” I point out. “We can do the burgers and sausages under the grill in super quick time. What do we need firewood for?”

  “Suzy, Suzy, Suzy,” Dad says. “We are camping. We can cook on gas at home. But here, under the instruction of your mother, we are getting back to nature, and embracing the elements. Therefore, we will cook on fire. For which we need wood.”

  “Give us some money, then,” I say. “They sell it by the entrance.”

  “Buy it?” Dad says. “We’re surrounded by trees. Why would we pay for wood?”

  “Um, because the signs all over the place say you’re not to collect firewood?” Isabella says.

  “And Devon told us not to?” I add.

  “Of course he did,” Dad says. “But that’s because he’s onto a nice little earner, isn’t he, getting people to buy sticks from him.”

  “Actually, I think it’s something to do with making sure the wood’s safe to burn, and maintaining the local ecosystem,” Clare tells him.

  Dad waves his hand dismissively. “Where do you think Devon gets his wood from, for goodness sake? Man has been collecting wood since time began. That’s what trees are there for. Burning.”

  We all look at him incredulously.

  “Well, that and the oxygenating of the planet, or whatever it is those greenies bang on about,” Dad says. “Now look. It’s getting cold, and I want a campfire and something to eat later. Off you go, girls.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Isabella. “I painted my nails earlier. I’m going to read my magazine.”

  And with that she disappears into her tent, leaving Millie and me staring after her enviously.

  “I was about to paint my nails as well,” Millie says quickly.

  “Yeah, me too,” I add.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Mum says.

  “I still reckon we should go and buy the wood,” Clare says apprehensively. “I’ve got some cash in my purse.”

  “Since when have you been such a goody two-shoes?” Dad grins, knowing that’s exactly the thing to rile Clare.

  “Just go, please, girls,” Mum says, as Clare and Dad continue their bickering. “Take Harry with you. And Murphy.”

  When we pass the marquee there’s a hideous noise coming from inside – a couple of guitars and what sounds like a trumpet, accompanied by a strange wailing sound.

  Millie and I make faces at each other as Murphy starts to howl in accompaniment. They must be the warm-up act.

  “Come on, Murph,” Millie says, tugging him towards the woods. “I can’t believe Isabella got out of this. I don’t think she’s having much fun, do you?”

  “Nuh-uh,” I say.

  “She’s really nice, isn’t she?” Millie says, as Murphy stops to pee all over a log I’d been about to pick up.

  I’ll be leaving that one there, then.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. I mean, sure, she’s okay. But really nice is pushing it, in my opinion. She’s still hardly talking to me. I just don’t think she wants to be here.

  “Here’s some wood,” Harry yells from up ahead.

  “She’s so generous, isn’t she?” Millie continues, as Murphy hauls us off in Harry’s direction. “She said she’d lend me her clothes. I can’t wait to get my hands on her wardrobe.”

  “Great,” I say, still sounding stupidly unenthusiastic even to my own ears.

  Does Millie want someone to talk about fashion with? She loves clothes and style, and all that stuff. She gets out of bed twenty minutes early most days to plan her outfits. Whereas I tumble out of bed at the last possible minute and grab whatever’s nearest or clean.

  Is Isabella the kind of mate Millie wants?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We quickly gather up as much wood as we can lift. Even Murphy helps, carrying a mouthful of sticks. We should have brought something to put the logs in because they’re damp and disgusting and making us filthy. Millie’s seriously unimpressed that she’s got a moss skidmark down her top. Plus it’s starting to get dark, and the woods are kind of creepy.

  We dump the logs into the fire pit by the caravan as Dad comes outside.

  “What kept you?” Dad asks.

  His only reply is three fierce scowls.

  “Well, that’ll do for starters. Now let’s get this fire going,” Dad says, ignoring our glares. He then proceeds to try to light the fire, but fails dismally. “Paper. I need some paper. Has anyone got any?”

  “Amber bought tons of magazines with her,” Harry says.

  “Fantastic,” Dad says. “She’s in the shower, although Lord knows how she’s managed to fit. Go and fetch one, would you, please?”

  He enthusiastically rips up the magazine Harry returns with and scrumples it up into balls, then spends forever building a kind of wooden tepee over the pile of paper.

  “I’m starving,” I say. “Are we going to be eating anytime soon?”

  “Shhh,” he says, flapping a hand at me. He lights the paper, which flares into life, burns brightly for a few moments, and then goes out again, leaving the wood unscathed.

  “Okay. Let’s try that again…” Dad says.

  He repeats this process over and over again, until eventually the fire starts to burn brightly. “We’ll wait for the flames to die down to embers, then we’ll put the meat on,” Dad says.

  “Erm, it’s kind of smoky, isn’t it?” I say, as plumes of black smoke start billowing upwards.

  “It’s fine,” Dad says. “I was a champion boy scout. Legendary fire-building skills. It’ll stop in a minute, you’ll see.”

  But it doesn’t. The smoke gets worse, thicker and blacker, and is making us cough. The wind is blowing plumes of smoke all over the campsite.

  “Devon seems to be coming this way,” Isabella says, pointing at the campsite owner, who’s striding across the field towards us.

  “Maybe we should put the fire out,” Clare says.

  “Out?” Dad says. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just getting going. Evening, Devon,” he calls cheerily, straightening up.

  “I see you’ve got quite a blaze going there,” Devon says, nodding at the flames.

  “Absolutely,” Dad says. “About to cook supper.”

  “Can I ask what wood you’re using?” Devon asks.

  “We collected some from the forest,” Dad says.

  “One of the camp rules is to only use wood you can buy from our shop,” Devon says. “The wood from the trees around us isn’t treated, so it’s very smoky, as you can see. The dampness doesn’t help, either. I’m sure you forgot, but I’d appreciate it if you could extinguish your fire immediately,”

  “Extinguish it?” Dad says. “But we haven’t eaten yet.”

  “It’s the rules,” Devon says firmly. “Please put out the fire, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  As he turns and walks away, Dad grabs a saucepan of water and extinguishes the fire, muttering darkly as even more smoke billows up and makes him cough furiously. He stares despondently at
the plates of raw meat next to him.

  “I’ll grill those, then, shall I?” Mum asks.

  “Anybody want to see this entertainment?” Dad asks, after we’ve finished tea and we’re lolling around the caravan, being bored and refusing Mum’s offer of an ultimate champion Uno match.

  Millie and I exchange a glance. “We heard them earlier. They sound terrible,” she says. “I think I might go to bed.”

  “Me too,” says Amber, opening her eyes. She’s been dozing in her deckchair for the last half hour.

  “Ugh, well if you’re all going,” Isabella says. She glances at her watch. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to bed this early before in my life. Especially not on holiday. Often we stay out all night and don’t come home until it’s light.”

  “Wow, that sounds amazing,” Millie says.

  Millie’s asking loads of questions about Isabella’s life in Italy, which Isabella’s happily answering, while Amber grabs her enormous sponge bag and goes into the tiny toilet cubicle in the caravan first. She’s in there for ages. Then in goes Isabella, who takes nearly as long. She’s followed by Harry. And Millie. Then it’s my turn, at which point Dad gets huffy.

  “Enough!” he says. “I’m not going through this every night. I want to get in and brush my teeth but you lot are taking forever. As of now, you can use the toilet block for teeth-cleaning and whatever other nonsense you do before you go to bed. And I’m not having you lot traipsing in and out of here all day and night to use the toilet. The toilet is only to be used at night by residents of the caravan.”

  “Whaaaat?” I say. “You are kidding, right? The toilet is right there.” I point at the cubicle. “Why should we have to walk for miles? And it’s raining again now – we’ll get soaked.”

  “I don’t want you lot waking me up all night long. It’s bad enough with Amber peeing every two minutes,” Dad says. “Use the toilet block, all right? You can come in and brush your teeth and whatnot now, but after that, none of you lot can use it again. You’re barred.”

  As Millie and Isabella disappear off to their tent, I watch them enviously. A late night chat with Millie sounds really good fun, like having a week-long sleepover. Plus I bet she’s bought good snacks and tons of sweets with her. We could eat those and gossip for hours…

  But no. Instead I’m stuck in the awning, with my horrible sister and her flipping rat.

  And an hour later, I’m still wide awake.

  I’m lying here in the pitch black, listening to the rain hammer down on the awning roof.

  Next to me, Harry’s making snuffly noises in her sleep.

  It’s pouring out there. Properly pouring.

  And all the rain is really making me want to pee.

  Really, really badly.

  But I don’t really want to have to go all the way across the field to use those disgusting toilets. I’ll get soaked.

  I could sneak into the caravan, I suppose.

  Yeah, I’ll do that; even though Dad will go nuts if he catches me.

  Oh. He’s locked us out. Well, that’s charming.

  I unzip the awning a smidge and peer outside. Uurrrrgh. It’s raining SO hard. And the toilet block is miles away. If I go out there my pyjamas will be drenched in seconds, then getting back into bed will be all kinds of gross. And cold. What to do, what to do…

  I’m never going to get back to sleep when I need to go so badly.

  I could grab the umbrella and pee round the side of the caravan.

  I’m just saying, I could. Not that I will.

  Because I know that’s pretty gross.

  And I should go over to the toilet block.

  But it’s so far. And the rain…

  Oooh, I really do need to go. There’s no way I’ll hold it until morning and this rain is showing no sign of stopping.

  It’s dark. It’s late. Nobody’s going to see me. I’m going to do it. I’ll pop round the side of the caravan, wee, and be back in bed within two minutes.

  I’ll use the proper facilities next time. Promise.

  I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and unzip the awning as quietly as I can, so as not to disturb Harry. She snorts a bit, rolls onto her back and starts snoring at top volume. Nice.

  Mum’s umbrella is leaning up against the side of the awning, so I put it up and venture out into the darkness. It’s seriously wet out here. More like autumn than summer.

  I scuttle round to the side of the caravan, and look around furtively. There’s nobody to be seen. Somehow I manage to pull down my pyjama bottoms one-handed, and squat down with the umbrella protecting me from most of the rain.

  As I start to pee, the relief is immense.

  Ahhhh…

  And now I’m done. I feel so much better and am heading straight back to bed.

  Although… what’s that noise? I can hear a rustling. Oh God. What is it? What if it’s a bear? No. That’s stupid. We don’t have wild bears in this country. Or a wolf? I’m sure I heard something about wolves being introduced back into the wild in the UK… Has it happened yet? And was it Wales… or Scotland? I can’t remember.

  I jump out of my skin as I see a torch coming towards me. A murderer! It’s a murderer!

  “Hello?” a voice calls softly.

  Eeeeeee! My heart’s pounding so hard I’m sure everyone in a mile radius must be able to hear it.

  If I stay really still, maybe they won’t see me. I creep nearer to the caravan wall, intending to press myself up against it and hope for invisibility… but then the torch beam swings onto me. Busted.

  So long, cruel world, it’s been a blast. Figures I’d spend my last days at this sucky campsite.

  I’m about to scream for help, but as I blink, and my eyes adjust to the light, I suddenly realise it’s Devon.

  I’m pretty sure he’s no axe murderer.

  He’s almost certainly a vegan, for a start.

  “Should you be wandering around at night on your own?” Devon says. “It’s very late.”

  “Um, yeah, I’m going back to bed. I needed to go to the— Erm… I needed to stretch my legs,” I improvise.

  “But it’s pouring,” Devon says. “I don’t want to be too personal, but you weren’t going to the toilet, were you? I’ve caught several people out over the years doing that, because the toilet block is apparently that little bit too far away.”

  “Ummm…”

  “I thought so. There are very strict regulations concerning toilet use,” Devon says. “I’m going to have to talk to your parents about this in the morning. In the meantime, please use the appropriate facilities. Good night.”

  I stare after him until his weedy grey ponytail disappears into the dark.

  I bet Isabella wouldn’t be caught dead peeing in a field in the middle of the night.

  It’s just not a Mulberry girl thing.

  Sigh. I’m going back to bed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I wake up to a deafening scream. As everyone rushes outside to see what’s happened, Millie races past us, still in her pyjamas.

  “Oh God, Murphy, what are you doing?” I hear her wail as she hurtles by.

  “He broke into someone’s tent and was trying to get into their sleeping bag,” Millie explains, when she returns, covered in dew and dragging a sheepish Murphy behind her. “Scared the living daylights out of them.”

  “Millie, you really have to keep a closer eye on him,” Clare says.

  “I was asleep!” Millie protests.

  “Which I’d still like to be right now,” Isabella says.

  “How did he get out, anyway?” Mum asks.

  “I’d left the zip open at the top to get some air,” Millie explains. “Murphy must have stuck his head through the hole and forced it down. Smarter than he looks, obviously.”

  Hmm. I remain unconvinced about Murphy’s intelligence.

  “Can we go back to bed now?” Amber says.

  Everyone agrees that’s a good idea. After a quick snack – I’m always so hungry when
I wake up in the morning – I’m cosying up in my sleeping bag and desperately trying to nod off when I feel something on my head.

  Something moving.

  Huh? What’s that?

  Admittedly my hair has been getting madder by the day, but this is new…

  I gingerly raise my hand to my head where it touches something wet.

  And slimy.

  Oh my good God. What the flipping flip is that?

  I pluck the thing from my hair, then fling it across the tent with a screech when I see what it is.

  SLUG! It’s a slug! There has been an actual slug in my hair while I was sleeping.

  Then I see Harry videoing me from the corner of the tent, absolutely cracking up.

  “Gotcha,” she sniggers.

  I storm over and snatch the phone from her hands, deleting the film.

  “Suzy, keep the noise down.” Dad’s irritated voice comes from inside the caravan.

  “But Dad, Harry—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Go back to sleep.”

  Gnargh. This is so unfair! Smirking, Harry pokes out her tongue at me, while I disappear back into my sleeping bag and pull it right over my head.

  After such an eventful morning, we’re only just getting up when Devon appears at the front of the caravan. “Knock, knock,” he says, sticking his head through the door.

  Oh God. I hoped he wouldn’t come. That he’d forgotten, or something.

  “Morning,” Mum says.

  “Cup of tea?” Clare offers.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you. Um, I’m afraid I need to talk to you about a rather, ahem, delicate situation,” Devon says.

  “Is this about the fire?” Dad says. “I did put it out, like you asked.”

  “No, it’s not about the fire,” Devon says.

  “Is everything okay?” Mum asks. “Come in, please.”

  “Um, this is a bit awkward. But I was out and about in the field last night, checking there were no foxes on the site, when I met with your daughter in the field. I believe she’d been going to the bathroom behind your caravan,” Devon explains.

  Oh good Lord. The humiliation.

  I sink down into my seat, my face burning.