Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar Page 3

  Spike laughs. ‘That won’t happen,’ he says.

  ‘I hope not,’ I tell him. ‘Becca says that if Dad doesn’t shut up about it, she will run off with you to join the circus.’

  ‘Hmmm, she did mention something about learning to ride a unicycle,’ Spike grins. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it, Daizy. Really.’

  ‘But Mum and Dad are arguing all the time,’ I blurt. ‘It’s horrible. And Becca might run away and Pixie just wants a pet lion cub, and Jojo Tan-Sikorski got made Star of the Week at school for passing her Grade One piano exam. It’s not fair. Nobody understands how I am feeling, nobody at all!’

  Spike sighs. ‘It sounds pretty awful,’ he says kindly. ‘D’you know what I do when I’m feeling really fed up? I write about it. You know, songs and stuff. And I play my guitar and pour all my worries out into the music, and then it all feels better, somehow. You should try it.’

  ‘I might,’ I say.

  I can’t help thinking that Spike must have a lot of very worrying things on his mind, after listening to the racket he was making in Mr Tingley’s studio. All the same, it could be a good idea.

  ‘Anyway,’ Spike says, ‘come along to the Battle of the Bands, right? Bring some friends. And cheer up, Daizy – things are never as bad as you think.’

  Actually, they may be worse, but I don’t say that because Spike is only trying to be kind.

  He hands me a leaflet, flicks back his green-tinted fringe and slopes off along the corridor.

  ‘Daizy Star?’ a voice calls out, and I wave at Spike’s retreating back and walk into the studio.

  Guitars and amps of all shapes and sizes are piled up in corners, and tangled loops of wire snake their way across the room. Piles of papers with mysterious-looking coded messages on them are scattered about on the lino floor.

  Mr Tingley himself looks almost as old as my grandad, but he couldn’t be more different. He has long dark hair, flecked with grey, parted in the middle and pulled back into a ponytail.

  He is wearing faded bootleg jeans and tan-coloured cowboy boots and a faded T-shirt that says Thin Lizzy.

  It’s probably some really ancient band because Mr Tingley is actually not very thin. And I really, really hope his first name isn’t Lizzy.

  ‘So, Daizy,’ he says. ‘You can call me Ted …’

  Phew. I was worried there, for a moment.

  ‘Your mum wants me to show you a few basic guitar chords,’ he says. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I have worked with the stars. Ozzy Osbourne, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain …’

  I have never heard of these people, but I am guessing they could be rock stars from way back in the mists of time because Ted Tingley is looking very proud. I try to look impressed.

  ‘I’d like to be in a band too,’ I tell him shyly. ‘Maybe. One day.’

  ‘Ah!’ he grins. ‘Interesting. What kind of a band?’

  The kind of band that includes Beth, Willow and Murphy, really. I haven’t got much further than that in my daydreams, although I want it to be cool and quirky and sell shedloads of CDs, obviously. Something like Miley Cyrus crossed with Pink and Taylor Swift, only without the cheesy American accents.

  ‘A thrash-metal-punk band,’ I say, then close my mouth fast before anything else scary and insane can leak out. Where did that come from? Like I said, disaster follows me like my own personal raincloud.

  But Ted Tingley looks pleased.

  ‘As I thought!’ he declares. ‘You are not the average eleven-year-old girl! You are different … daring … a girl with big dreams!’

  ‘I am!’ I agree. ‘Very big dreams! I am looking for my star quality, and I thought … well, I wondered … if it might be playing the guitar?’

  Ted Tingley narrows his eyes. ‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘If you have star quality, I will find it!’

  Looks like I came to the right place after all.

  An hour later, I am not so sure. I have learnt my first guitar tune – well, almost. I am not quite perfect yet. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ is actually a lot more complicated than you might think.

  Ted Tingley is not looking quite as pleased as he was to begin with. His face has taken on a slightly pained expression, and he keeps checking his watch. I am not taking this personally, of course. Perhaps Ted has an important appointment with an ageing rock star, or a nettle and kidney-bean casserole in the oven.

  I hope that’s it, anyway.

  ‘OK, OK, that’s enough for today,’ he says, even though we still have ten minutes of lesson time left. ‘That was … really very interesting. Unexpected. Keep on practising, Daizy. I will teach you the chords for “Baa Baa Black Sheep”, next week. And don’t worry, everyone struggles a bit to start with.’

  ‘Do you think I have talent?’ I ask him eagerly.

  Ted Tingley looks shifty, and he can’t quite meet my eye. My heart sinks, but his words are surprisingly hopeful.

  ‘Um … well … yes, of course you have talent, Daizy,’ he says. ‘Absolutely. Hidden talent, maybe. Very, very hidden. Untapped as yet … but never fear, I can uncover it. And you may be right about the thrash-metal-punk idea because you do seem to have a very special skill for chaos and discord.’

  ‘I do?’ I grin.

  ‘You do,’ Ted Tingley insists. ‘I have never heard quite so much chaos from a beginner in all my years as a guitar guru.’

  I knew it. I just knew it! I can’t stop smiling all the way home. I have begun to uncover my star quality and made a start on my rock princess career. It is very exciting.

  There’s a cold breeze blowing. I push my hands into my pockets and my fingers curl round a crumpled slip of paper. I pull out the leaflet for Spike’s Battle of the Bands competition and scan it carelessly.

  I read the leaflet once, twice, three times. Young bands. New talent. Rising stars … and £500!

  With £500, you could do a lot. You could hire a pink limo and ride around town with your friends, or buy an Xbox or go on holiday to Disneyland. You could splash out on new clothes and funky haircuts and designer shoes, and watch a new DVD every day.

  Or you could dig a well, kit out a clinic with medicine, buy school books … and probably a whole herd of goats as well. £500 could go a long, long way in a village in Malawi.

  And maybe then Dad wouldn’t feel like he had to fix all the worries of the world himself. We wouldn’t have to go and live in Malawi, and Mum would stop being all frowny and cross, and Becca’s life would not be ruined and Pixie could just look after her one existing pet, Nigel, the speckled newt Spike gave her for her birthday, instead of dreaming of lion cubs and pet giraffes and tame antelopes. As for me, I wouldn’t have to leave my school, my friends or my star quality behind, just as I’ve finally found it.

  £500 might just be the answer to all my problems. I am young, I have talent, and I might even be a rising star. I just need to get Beth, Willow and Murphy on board. Battle of the Bands, here we come …

  Demo version limitation

  When Pixie and I get home from school, the house is in uproar. Mum, still in her nurse’s uniform, is yelling at Dad, who is trying to show her some glossy leaflets about voluntary work in Malawi.

  ‘You said we needed to do more research,’ Dad says. ‘And I agreed. It’s all arranged. I have signed up for a three-week stint with a project in northern Malawi … just me. They needed someone fast because one of their volunteers has just dropped out. The flights were booked already, and they changed the details this afternoon so I can use the tickets. It’s perfect!’

  ‘You’re going to Malawi?’ Mum asks icily. She is not yelling now, and that’s scarier, somehow. ‘Alone?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased!’

  ‘Pleased?’ Mum barks. ‘Pleased? Mike, are you completely mad?’

  Dad blinks. ‘But it’s all organized now! It was a great opportunity. I had to act quickly or I might have missed it! I will be able to see what the place is like, work out where we can live, how we can fit in.
I know you need a little more time to come to terms with the idea, Livvi. This will give you that time. I thought that’s what you wanted!’

  ‘I want you to stop this stupid idea, Mike!’ Mum yells, and her eyes brim with tears. ‘I do not want you to go off on your own to the other side of the world without us! It’s … it’s … ridiculous!’

  Then she catches sight of me, with Pixie cowering behind. She slaps a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Oh, Daizy, Pixie, I didn’t see you there,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  My heart is thumping, and there is a sick, empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.

  ‘Is Dad going to Malawi?’ I ask, and my voice sounds wobbly, even to me. ‘Without us?’

  ‘Dad’s leaving?’ Pixie wails.

  Dad scoops the two of us up in a big bear hug.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am going to Malawi, but just for three weeks, to help with the project in Tatu Mtengo. We’ll be building a school and digging a well. I want to see what it’s really like out there, work out how best we can help …’

  ‘It’s just for a little while,’ Mum says, wiping her eyes. ‘Nothing is settled yet. Your dad will be back before you know it.’

  But this is not a holiday we are talking about, it’s a trip to Africa. Without us. My stomach churns.

  ‘When are you going, Dad?’ I whisper.

  ‘Not yet,’ he says, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Not for another week.’

  And that’s when I start to panic because this nightmare is happening. And it’s happening now.

  It goes from bad to worse. Becca gets home and tells Dad she’s glad he’s going.

  ‘Go by yourself,’ she tells him coldly. ‘See if I care! I’m not coming, that’s for sure. And besides, it might be a bit saner around this place without you!’

  Dad looks dismayed, but what did he expect? That we’d be jumping for joy at the idea? He takes himself off for a run to escape the frosty atmosphere.

  Becca, Pixie and Mum curl up on the sofa with a huge bar of chocolate and Pixie’s Little Mermaid DVD. We have all seen that film so many times we know it off by heart. Watching it again is like settling down and wrapping yourself up in a soft, warm blanket – comforting and familiar and somehow calming. The chocolate helps too, but big, fat tears keep rolling down Mum’s cheeks, and Becca mutters ‘He is ruining my life!’ under her breath every now and again. All in all, it’s kind of depressing.

  ‘Aren’t you watching?’ Pixie asks me, with a quivering lip. ‘It might be the last time we ever see it!’ I doubt that, somehow.

  I would love to curl up, eat chocolate and watch mermaids, lobsters and talking fish frolicking about on film, but sadly, that won’t change anything. And I know something that just might …

  I call an emergency band meeting.

  ‘What band?’ Murphy has the cheek to say when I phone him, but as soon as I tell him my life is in tatters and my dad has booked his ticket to Africa, he snaps to attention pretty quick. Soon, he, Beth and Willow are holed up in my bedroom.

  ‘Things are desperate,’ I tell them truthfully. ‘We need to get this band idea moving – now. It’s the only thing that can save me! What if Dad decides to stay in Malawi?’ I wail. ‘What if he just rings and tells us to pack our bags and come out to join him? It just feels so real now!’

  ‘Doesn’t sound as though your mum is too keen,’ Beth points out. ‘She looked like she’d been crying when she answered the door.’

  ‘She had,’ I say gloomily. ‘Crying and yelling. And the other night, she and Dad were arguing until way past midnight. I don’t know what feels scarier – the idea of going to live in Malawi, or … or …’

  There is a lump in my throat the size of a small grapefruit.

  I can’t say it, not out loud. I can’t say that I’m scared my mum and dad might split up over this.

  Beth and Willow seem to sense my distress, though, because they each put an arm round me and hug me tight. By the time I pull away there is a damp patch on Beth’s shoulder, and Willow is holding my hand so tightly it hurts. It seems impossible that anything bad could happen to me when I have such cool friends, but something bad is happening. Something very, very bad. My dad is leaving us to live in sub-Saharan Africa. He couldn’t get further away if he tried. And what if he doesn’t come back? Last year, Kelly Munroe’s dad ran off with the woman from the chip shop on the corner, but they only went as far as Bridge Street. At least Kelly gets to see her dad on weekends, and she gets free chips whenever she wants them.

  I can’t see myself nipping over to Tatu Mtengo for visits, or not very often, anyway. And I bet they don’t have chips there.

  Murphy takes a bag of custard doughnuts from under his jacket and offers me one. ‘Good for pain,’ he says wisely. ‘And they taste better than medicine.’

  He’s right about that, of course.

  ‘So,’ I snuffle, in between mouthfuls, ‘it’s serious. Winning the Battle of the Bands is my last hope. Dad should be home from Malawi by then, and if he sees us up on stage – sees how amazing we are – well, he’ll come to his senses and realize he cannot take me away from all this. From my friends, my school, my star quality …’

  ‘Custard doughnuts,’ Murphy muses.

  ‘Yes, them too,’ I agree. ‘He will see the error of his ways. He will be proud of me, and he will turn to Mum and look at her, and everything will go all mushy and kind of soft focus like it does in the films, and they will fall in love all over again.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Beth sighs.

  ‘And then I will hand over our cheque for five hundred pounds, and we can really help the children of Tatu Mtengo, and all my troubles will be over!’

  ‘Ri-ight,’ Willow frowns. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘What kind of a band did you say we were?’ Murphy asks.

  ‘Thrash-metal-punk,’ I explain. ‘Ted Tingley, my guitar guru, suggested it. And Spike. It is all about destruction and disaster and you don’t even have to be any good at your instruments!’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I guess,’ Beth frowns. ‘But, Daizy … we don’t actually have any instruments!’

  ‘My dad has an old bass guitar in the attic,’ Murphy offers. ‘I’ll dig it out.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I grin. ‘I’ve got the pink guitar, obviously, and we can practise with the school drum kit too. You could be the drummer, Beth, and Willow can sing!’

  ‘We don’t have any songs, either,’ Willow argues.

  ‘I’m on to it,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve been writing stuff myself. I have two songs already! “Malawi Madness” and “My Dad’s Mid-life Crisis”. What do you think?’

  ‘They sound … interesting,’ Willow says doubtfully.

  Murphy sighs. ‘I’m not really sure about this, Daizy Star,’ he says. ‘But if you think it will help, I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘We can do it!’ I tell him. ‘I know we can!’

  ‘I’m in too,’ Beth sighs. ‘Does it have to be the drums, though? Couldn’t I play the triangle or something?’

  ‘They do not have triangle players in a thrash-metal-punk band,’ I tell her firmly.

  ‘I suppose I’m in too,’ Willow shrugs. ‘Who knows, it might even be fun!’

  A thrash-metal-punk band is not supposed to be fun, of course, but I decide to keep quiet about that.

  ‘That’s settled then!’ I grin. ‘Thank you, Beth, Willow, Murphy. You are the best friends ever, in the whole entire universe.’

  I fling my arms round them in a group hug. I knew they wouldn’t let me down! We pull apart, laughing.

  ‘What about a name for the band?’ Murphy asks. ‘How about The Custard Doughnuts?’

  ‘The Pink Guitars?’ Willow offers.

  ‘I like it,’ I say, ‘but we need something dark and sinister. We are a thrash-metal-punk band, remember? How about The Mouldy Meatballs?’

  ‘Or something really gross, like The Festering Scabs!’ Beth
chips in, and we all turn and look at her.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘I like it!’

  ‘It might be a little bit too gross,’ Willow says faintly.

  We’ll find a name, though. And we’ll practise like crazy, and get really, really good. And then we will win the Battle of the Bands – and stop my family from falling apart. Sorted!

  Demo version limitation

  Dad is packing his suitcase for Malawi. He puts in lots of shirts with short sleeves and hideous flowery patterns, those awful shorts he wore in Eastbourne in the summer and a pair of big flat leather sandals that show his pale, hairy toes. There is a floppy straw hat too, slightly frayed round the edges because Dad said there is no point in investing in a new sunhat when the old one is perfectly good. Perfectly hideous, more like.

  My dad is going to look like a madman when he gets to Malawi.

  ‘I’ll miss you!’ I tell him. ‘Do you have to go?’

  Dad looks serious. ‘It’s been a dream of mine ever since I was a student, Daizy,’ he says. ‘I want to travel, but it’s more than that – I want to give something back, make a difference.’

  ‘I wish you could just make a difference from here,’ I sigh. ‘I do understand why you want to help … I do too. I’ve sorted out some of my best books for you to take over. You said the kids out there don’t have very much.’

  Dad’s face lights up.

  ‘Daizy, that’s wonderful!’ he says. ‘These will be so welcome!’

  ‘There’s this old football and some kit and boots to go with it,’ I add, handing over Ethan Miller’s offering. ‘This yucky boy at school brought them in for you to take.’

  Then Pixie hands over an old rag doll and Becca donates a pair of pink fingerless gloves, and Dad smiles and says he is proud to have such thoughtful, generous daughters.

  ‘You will come back, won’t you?’ I ask.