Strike a Pose, Daizy Star Read online

  So I am not really paying attention as I walk along Silver Street with Murphy and Pixie.

  And then, suddenly, the smell hits us. A putrid stench rises up from nowhere and has us coughing and gagging.

  ‘What is that?’ Murphy chokes. ‘They must be working on the drains!’

  ‘Or the sewers,’ I groan, wrinkling my nose.

  ‘Smells like a farmyard,’ Pixie says.

  A feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. A farmyard. Surely this can’t have anything to do with Dad …?

  We reach the gate of number seventeen and I forget about the stink for a whole split second. My front garden looks like a bomb has hit it. Dad is standing in the middle of what was once the lawn, digging trenches and shovelling dark, stinky soil around.

  ‘Nooooo!’ I wail. ‘What have you done? Does Mum know about this?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dad beams. ‘But I know she’ll be impressed!’

  I seriously doubt that. Horrified is more the word that springs to mind.

  ‘Um … what about the grass?’ Murphy asks. ‘And the flower beds?’

  ‘Oh, that won’t matter,’ Dad assures us. ‘Grass and flowers are just for decoration. Potatoes are a crop!’

  He reaches into a sack made from orange nylon netting and holds up a shrivelled, scabby-looking potato with pale beansprouty shoots all over it. ‘See?’

  It is not a pretty sight. Pixie takes a step back. ‘Urghhh!’ she shrieks. ‘It’s disgusting! And what’s that awful stink, anyway?’

  ‘My farmer friend has delivered a trailerload of well-rotted manure,’ Dad explains. ‘To make the potatoes grow faster!’

  ‘It smells like poo,’ Pixie says.

  ‘It is poo,’ I tell her, through gritted teeth. ‘That’s what manure is. Farm-animal poo.’

  ‘Exactly, Daizy,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll make a farmer of you yet!’

  ‘Er, no, thank you,’ I say politely.

  ‘Those potatoes look yucky,’ Pixie frowns. ‘I’m not eating them. Not after they’ve been in the ground. With the poo.’

  ‘Now, now, Pixie,’ Dad grins. ‘Of course you will eat the potatoes, when they are ready. That’s where potatoes grow – in the ground! And these lovely seed potatoes haven’t been sprayed with nasty chemicals, either. They’re organic!’

  Pixie’s lower lip trembles.

  ‘I don’t like potatoes any more,’ she whimpers. ‘I’m going to show Murphy the chickens.’

  Dad sighs. ‘No problem, Pixie,’ he says. ‘I’ve made them a beautiful chicken run to live in. I think they’re going to like living here. They will be laying eggs soon!’

  No eggs yet then. No cupcakes for after tea.

  Pixie leads Murphy through to the back garden, while Dad examines the shrivelled potato a little sadly.

  ‘Will she really refuse to eat them, do you think?’ he frowns.

  ‘Probably not,’ I say. ‘It won’t be these spuds, anyway, will it? These are just the seeds. Don’t worry about it, Dad.’

  ‘I am a bit anxious,’ he admits. ‘Bert from next door looked over the fence and asked what I was doing earlier. He said that nobody plants spuds in February.’

  Bert next door is an expert gardener who wins prizes for his roses and keeps half the neighbourhood supplied with carrots and onions from his allotment.

  ‘I might be a little bit early with my crop, but that’s why I am adding lots of manure,’ Dad explains.

  ‘It’s going to look a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ I sigh.

  Dad frowns. ‘Bert said that,’ he admits. ‘Perhaps I should have used the back garden, Daizy, but I have plans for that. Beans, turnips, courgettes, carrots, leeks, lettuce …’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Maybe we should tidy it up a bit before Mum gets back?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Dad agrees. He chucks in the last few spuds, buries them in manure and rakes the soil, but it still looks as though a small bulldozer has gone crazy in there.

  As for the manure heap, it’s as high as the window sill, and it really, really pongs.

  Dad doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘There,’ he says, looking around proudly. ‘That’s much better! Wait till your mother sees all this!’

  I blink. I think I might try making myself scarce before then.

  A bloodcurdling scream comes from the back garden. ‘Da-aad!’ Pixie screeches. ‘Dai-zeee! Help!’

  Oh dear.

  We run through to the back garden, with its newly customized goatshed and chicken-wire enclosure. Inside it, Buttercup the goat is grazing peacefully. She looks up, all sweet and innocent, as if she would never even think of chewing a school tie or a pair of running shorts.

  Pixie’s eyes are brimming with tears.

  ‘It’s the chickens!’ she blurts out. ‘They’ve gone!’

  Murphy frowns, peering into the shed. ‘I think there might be one left in there.’

  ‘They’re all in there,’ Dad says confidently. ‘They’ll be lying low, just getting used to it. They can’t possibly have escaped, because I built this run myself and it’s totally, one hundred per cent escape-proof …’

  At that exact moment, a little, brown hen emerges from the shed, squeezes through a small gap beneath the wire and sprints for the bottom of the garden. We watch, stunned, as she flaps up on to the fence, looks around briefly, clucking, and vanishes from sight on the other side.

  A rabble of barking starts up somewhere nearby and Pixie’s eyes grow round with terror.

  ‘We’d better try and catch them,’ I tell Murphy. ‘Before it gets dark.’

  ‘I had names for them and everything!’ Pixie wails. ‘Cleopatra and Esmerelda and Attila!’

  Wasn’t Attila some kind of crazy tyrant from history?’ Murphy asks. ‘He went around terrorizing people. Attila the Hun.’

  ‘Attila the Hen,’ Pixie says, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘She was my favourite.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘They all look the same, Pixie,’ I tell her gently. ‘You haven’t really had time to decide on a favourite.’

  ‘She was the brown one,’ Pixie insists. ‘With the really pointy beak.’

  We cannot find the chickens anywhere. We look under the shed, in the garage, in next-door’s garden and right along the street, peering under every single car. Where could they have gone?

  We search on until after dark, when Murphy goes in for his tea and Mum arrives home. Guess what? She is not impressed.

  ‘Mike!’ Mum says, through gritted teeth. ‘I have had a seriously stressful day. I was looking forward to relaxing with my family, not chasing about the streets hunting for lost chickens. And as for the front garden … you agreed not to do anything drastic without asking us first!’

  Dad looks a little guilty. ‘I just wanted to make a start on being self-sufficient!’

  ‘You promised, Mike,’ Mum says. ‘This was just a hobby, you said! The place looks like a bomb site!’

  ‘I can fix the garden!’ Dad argues. ‘And the girls will find the chickens. I really want this to work – we had such big dreams, once. Living in the country, living close to nature! Give this project a chance, Livvi, please!’

  ‘One chance,’ Mum agrees. ‘You’ve got a couple of weeks, Mike, to show me this can work – and if it doesn’t, we forget about it. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Dad says. ‘I promise!’

  We have a makeshift supper of toast and jam and go to bed early, but it feels like my head has barely hit the pillow before I am wide awake again. The thin, dawn light is filtering through the curtains, and Pixie is jumping up and down on my bed, laughing.

  ‘They’re home! The hens are home!’ she says. ‘Look!’

  I crawl to the window, lift the curtain and peer down into the garden. Three brown hens are sitting neatly on top of the shed, huddled together in the dawn chill.

  As we watch, the biggest hen – Attila – stands up, stretches and struts a little before unleashing a bloodcurdling early-morning alarm cro
w.

  Cock-a-doooodle-doooo!

  I grit my teeth. Great … a hen that thinks it’s a cockerel. Mum is just going to love that …

  In class, the Great Green Fashion Show is taking shape. A mountain of rubbish appears in the library corner, the raw materials for our designs. There is cardboard, newspaper, bubble wrap, scrunched-up wrapping paper, tin foil, sweet wrappers, crisp packets, bottle tops and shiny CDs – a treasure trove of junk.

  Perhaps this project could be a chance for me to find my Star Quality at last? I could be a fashion designer! I sneak a look across the table to where Murphy is sketching out ideas in the middle of his spelling-test book. It’s an arty, elegant design … the kind of thing you might see on the catwalk, worn by one of those very cool boy-models.

  My dreams fizzle and die. Who am I kidding? Murphy Malone is the designer here. With his dipping fringe, studded belt and chequerboard Vans, he is just too cool for school.

  This project is made for him. After years of bending the school uniform rules, he finally has a free rein to be as wild and wacky as he likes.

  In case you are wondering, that is pretty wild and wacky. When Murphy starts rummaging through the waste paper and junk and sketching out cool, crazy ideas, other kids begin to do the same. The classroom is buzzing – and things are looking good.

  Only Beth is stuck for ideas. She is still very quiet and listless, which is a little bit worrying. I think of my theory that she is pining for Ethan Miller, but I can’t help wondering if something else is wrong.

  ‘Are you OK, Beth?’ I ask. ‘You seem a bit down this week.’

  ‘Not really,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t think of anything for this project. And things are just …’ I wait for her to say more, but instead she frowns, and I see a glimmer of tears in her bright blue eyes. ‘Oh, look, it’s nothing, Daizy,’ she says. ‘Just me being silly. I’ll tell you about it another time, right?’

  She turns to the rubbish pile and picks up a handful of shredded office paper. I’m about to ask her again when Murphy comes over and interrupts us.

  ‘Hey, Beth,’ he says. ‘You do ballet, don’t you? You should design a tutu!’

  ‘Maybe …’

  ‘Use the shredded paper for the skirt!’ he suggests. ‘With some of this old crumpled tissue paper underneath. That would look cool!’

  Beth holds a froth of crumpled tissue and shredded paper against her waist. She twirls a little and the flicker of a smile appears.

  ‘Thanks, Murphy,’ she says.

  ‘Your tutu is going to be brilliant,’ I say encouragingly.

  Me, I am aiming for a kind of urban farmgirl look. I have made a top from orange nylon potato netting, weaving in chicken feathers, goat hair, potato peelings and bits of chewed-up old cushions for texture and variety. I will add a skirt created from brown-paper goat-feed sacks, and wear a garland of garlic on my hair like a tiara.

  ‘Interesting,’ Miss Moon says when she sees my design.

  She can’t say any more, of course, but I can’t help thinking it might just put me in the running for the Star of the Week award.

  But after Friday, when Sheena McMaster gets the Star of the Week award for making earrings and a necklace from ring pulls, polystyrene and scrunched-up sweet wrapper foil, I decide that maybe designing is not my Star Quality. All the same, making fashion out of a load of old rubbish is risky, daring – you would need someone confident, stylish and elegant to wear it. Someone young and quirky, cool and cutting edge.

  Someone like me!

  My Star Quality is staring me in the face – I could be a model! I have experience – I have been wearing clothes all my life. And after all, how hard can it be?

  Willow reads a lot of teen mags … she might know more.

  ‘Willow,’ I say during class on Friday afternoon. ‘How do models get discovered? Do you have to go to college or something, or can anyone learn?’

  ‘I don’t think you go to college,’ she frowns. ‘I think that anyone can be discovered and shoot to stardom. There are these people called model scouts, and their job is to look out for young people with potential. Models can get spotted anywhere. At the hairdresser, in Topshop, in the street … it’s kind of random.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Willow nods. ‘Model scouts can be anywhere. They spot you and they sign you up for their model agency, and the next thing you know you’re flying to Paris to appear on the cover of Vogue!’

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe.

  My heart starts beating faster. My Star Quality is much more dramatic than fashion design – it’s something that will put me centre stage, that will put my name in lights.

  I am going to be the world’s first pre-teen supermodel.

  How cool is that?

  I don’t suppose there are many pre-teen supermodels who have to live on a farm, though – even if it is a small, garden-sized one. I expect that most supermodels live in exotic places like Paris or New York, and they probably do not have to share a space with an eccentric dad, an exhausted mum, a Goth big sister and a little sister who thinks she is a mermaid. And that’s not mentioning the goat or the three badly behaved hens, obviously.

  Still, I am doing my best.

  I have read every fashion mag I can get my hands on and tried to find out all about famous models like Lily Cole and Kate Moss.

  And now Becca is showing me how to get the catwalk strut, which involves wiggling your bottom and taking very long strides wearing a pair of Mum’s high-heeled party shoes. Seriously, it is harder than it looks.

  ‘I’m not sure about this,’ I say, but Becca waves my protests away.

  ‘Models have to wear high shoes,’ she insists. ‘It gives them a long, lean outline that shows the clothes off to best advantage. Models have to be tall, Daizy, and let’s face it, without the shoes you are just a titch.’

  I ignore the pain and the sudden fear of heights and shake off Becca’s arm. I wiggle my bum and tilt my chin up towards the ceiling, which means I cannot see very much at all. It probably looks quite elegant, though.

  I manage three shaky steps across the bedroom floor before I trip on the edge of the bedspread and crash into the dressing table, ending up in a heap on the floor with the bedclothes tangled round me. Mum and Dad run upstairs to see what the racket is.

  ‘I’m practising to be a pre-teen supermodel,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘But I might start without the shoes. Sorry!’

  ‘It’s OK, Daizy,’ Mum sighs. ‘I thought it was that wretched goat again!’

  I am not too pleased at being mistaken for a goat, but I decide to let it pass. Mum’s not too pleased, either, not after what happened earlier this week …

  Twice lately, Buttercup has managed to chew through the fence and make a break for it. Only yesterday, we found her upstairs in Becca’s bedroom, eating a maths text book. I think it gave her indigestion.

  The trouble is that when Buttercup escapes, the chickens follow, and those chickens have a talent for trouble.

  Three days ago Margie Brown from next door opened up her shopping basket in the middle of Tesco and found Attila the Hen inside, nesting peacefully among the paper tissues and old shopping lists. Mrs Brown screamed and Attila flapped out and made off down the aisle, squawking loudly and terrorizing the customers.

  Dad had to go along to rescue Attila, who was flapping about in the aisle that sells frozen chicken.

  I think she was probably staging some kind of protest.

  The Brightford News was full of the story that evening. Tesco Chicken Rises From Dead in Frozen Food Aisle! the headline shrieked, and there was a photograph of Attila fluttering about next to a freezer full of chicken drumsticks.

  ‘If I’d known she was asleep in my shopping bag, I’d never have taken it,’ Mrs Brown explained. ‘I got such a shock … but I wish I hadn’t screamed!’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Margie,’ Mum said later on the phone. ‘I don’t blame you for screaming. I’d have done the same.
It won’t happen again. If it does, those chickens are history!’

  I bite my lip at the memory.

  The trouble is, I have got quite attached to Buttercup and the chickens – I don’t want Mum to give them away now. Who would want them, anyhow? No farmer would touch them with a bargepole … no egg farmer, at any rate. There are other kinds of farmer, of course. The kind who supply the frozen chicken aisle in Tesco, for example … it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  So I decide not to say anything about the goat comment. Instead, I tidy up the bedroom carnage, put Mum’s party shoes away and slip outside for a quiet chat with the chickens. Within seconds, I spot Buttercup trying to unlatch the gate of the enclosure with her teeth. I can tell that she is missing the days when she had the freedom of the house. I expect she is pining for a mouthful of fluffy cushion or one of Dad’s slippers to chew. I let myself into the run and bat her gently away from the gate.

  ‘Listen,’ I whisper urgently. ‘Things are getting serious. You have to stop escaping, all of you. No more eating Becca’s maths books. No more nipping down to Tesco. You have enough to eat, you have a warm shed and a big run … you need to stop escaping!’

  Buttercup blinks and bites a chunk out of my school skirt. ‘No!’ I sigh, exasperated. ‘You have to cooperate! Buttercup, you have to grow up a bit so you can start producing milk. And the rest of you … well, lay some eggs! Is that so difficult?’

  The hens look up at me, baffled, as if I have asked them to start speaking French, and my heart sinks. Unless they stop escaping and produce some eggs, their days here are numbered. They are not pet material, and they’re not farmyard material, either. If they don’t change their ways pretty fast, they are more chicken-nugget material than anything else.

  I can see I will have to take things into my own hands.

  I check through my pockets and find a handful of loose change and a piece of string. I let myself out of the gate, tying the latch up with string behind me.