Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (5 page)

‘We’ve been planning it,’ she says. ‘We will be the first Goth trapeze artistes ever. Or maybe we will do a high-wire act, or ride unicycles. But we will definitely do it, Dad, unless you come to your senses.’

Dad fishes the maths book out of the bin, brushing off a couple of beansprouts, but Becca says she won’t need to know about advanced geometry when she is in the circus.

Mum sighs. ‘Don’t worry, Becca. Nobody is going to Malawi.’

‘Don’t worry, Becca,’ Dad echoes. ‘You’ll love Africa. We all will. Just give this idea a chance!’

The door slams so hard it makes the floor shake. I am used to seeing Becca flounce off to her room, but this time it isn’t Becca.

It’s Mum.

If there is one thing worse than living in a tin hut in Malawi with a herd of goats for company, it is watching my parents row. It is not nice. It makes my tummy churn with worry, and my mouth turn down at the sides.

I would rather pack my bag tomorrow and head for Africa than listen to any more slamming doors and huffy arguments.

Luckily, I have the pink guitar to focus on. I took it to school yesterday, to show Miss Moon. I had been hoping she might ask me to do a guitar solo in front of the whole class, and then give me her special Star of the Week award for being a musical genius, but sadly, no. Tom Taylor got the Star of the Week award, for building a model of the Eiffel Tower out of matchsticks. It was pretty amazing.

Miss Moon did say my guitar was lovely, and told me I was a very lucky girl. Then she suggested we put it in her stock cupboard for safekeeping. I guess my plans to wow the school with my rock princess performance will have to wait.

On Friday, Mum announces that she has signed me up for a course of guitar lessons with a famous guitar guru called Mr Tingley.

I practically jump up and down with excitement.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, Livvi?’ Dad asks. ‘There’s not much point in Daizy starting guitar lessons now. We might not be here for much longer.’

My heart sinks. ‘I’d really like lessons,’ I say in a very small voice. ‘Please?’

‘You won’t
need
an electric guitar in Malawi,’ Dad says.

‘I will!’ I protest. ‘I will need it wherever I go! What if I get inspired and need to write a song?’

‘Of course she will need her guitar!’ Becca defends me. ‘Get real, Dad. Don’t you even
care
that you are turning our lives upside down?’

‘Try to see it as an adventure,’ Dad grins. ‘Most of the schemes I’m looking at are just for a year. We can all manage for a year without guitars and TV and hot and cold running water, right? One year, that’s all I ask!’

‘But a year is like forever!’ Becca argues.

‘Just give it a chance,’ Dad insists. ‘We would never regret it! The chance to give something back, to change things for the better, to leave the world a better place than we found it …’

‘Leave the world?’ I repeat, horrified. ‘You mean we could DIE?’

‘No, no, that’s not what I mean at all!’ Dad huffs. ‘I just mean –’

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Mum says firmly. ‘OK, Mike? About the health and safety aspects, and education, and the culture shock, and whether it would be the best thing for us all, as a family. Calm down, everybody. It is most unlikely we are going anywhere, OK?’

I stare at Mum, wide-eyed. She is not the kind of mum who yells and argues and gets stroppy. She is gentle and kind and easy-going. Last time Dad had a crazy idea, she complained a bit, but mostly she just went along with it until he realized it was a bad, bad plan.

This time around, though, she looks very grumpy and cross. She doesn’t want to go to Malawi any more than we do – and she is making sure Dad knows it.

‘As for Daizy, of course she should have guitar lessons,’ she says. ‘It’s all arranged. OK?’

‘OK,’ I say in a small voice. ‘Thanks.’

Later, much later, when I’m lying in bed with the stars shining in through the gap in my curtains, I hear Mum and Dad downstairs, arguing. Their raised voices drift up through the darkness, spiky, grating, awkward. I pull the duvet over my head, but still those voices worm their way in. They get inside my head. They make my eyes mist with tears and my tummy ache.

Mum and Dad never used to argue.

What if Mum decides she has had enough of Dad’s crazy plans? What if my family falls to pieces?

I can’t even bear to think about it. Anything would be better than that.

Even Malawi.

A
week later I am sitting in the waiting room of Mr Tingley’s Guitar Studio, cradling the pink guitar and waiting for my first lesson. I am nervous, but in a good way. It is like being at the start of a very exciting journey that could end with fame, fortune or, at the very least, a Star of the Week award.

Mr Tingley will spot my raw talent and train me to become a rock legend.

Well, maybe.

Spotting talent may not be his strong point.

Right now, the sound of screeching guitar strings booms through the studio door, making my ears hurt. The racket builds into a frenzy of strangled, mangled chords before ending with a series of slamming
thuds
that sounds like guitars and amps being smashed to bits. This is a bit worrying. Have I come to the right place?

The studio door opens and a tall, black-clad Goth boy slouches out, lugging a guitar. His lippiercing glints in the light, and he peers menacingly from behind a dipping, green-dyed fringe as he looms over me.

I blink.

‘Hello, Daizy,’ he says.

‘Hello, Spike! I didn’t know you had guitar lessons with Mr Tingley!’

My sister’s boyfriend Spike looks very, very scary, but actually, he is quite sweet. His real name is Sebastian Pike and he plays the cello.

He and Becca met in the school orchestra and bonded over their love of backcombed hair and smudgy eyeliner.

‘Yeah, Mr Tingley is cool,’ Spike says gruffly. ‘He’s helping me explore my musical dark side.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m in a band,’ he explains. ‘The Smashed Bananas. We’re a thrash-metal-punk band. Our sound is all about chaos and destruction.’

‘Oh,’ I say again. ‘That’s … um … cool! I might start a band, once I can play a bit better.’

‘Well, you don’t actually
need
to be able to play guitar to be in a thrash-metal-punk band,’ Spike explains. ‘You just need a feeling for discord and disaster.’

‘Oh,’ I echo. I have never heard of thrash-metal-punk before, but it doesn’t sound difficult exactly, if the racket coming from the studio a few minutes ago is anything to go by. As for the discord and disaster, I am surrounded by it. My life is one big disaster, pretty much.

Sounds like thrash-metal-punk could be perfect for me.

‘We’re going to enter the Battle of the Bands next month,’ Spike says. ‘Get some of your friends together and come and watch!’

‘Maybe,’ I sigh. ‘If I am not in Malawi by then, tending to my herd of goats.’

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.