‘Wow,’ I said.
Skippy smiled. Mum smiled. Mick smiled. And I smiled too. Then we all ran hand in hand down down down the hill, ready for our picnic.
I’M THE ODD one out in the family. There are a lot of us. OK, here goes. There’s my mum and my stepdad Graham and my big brother Mark and my big sister Ginnie and my little sister Jess and my big stepbrother Jon and my big stepsister Alice, and then there’s my little half-sister Cherry and my baby half-brother Rupert. And me, Laura. Not to mention my real dad’s new baby and his girlfriend Gina’s twins, but they live in Cornwall now so I only see them for holidays. Long holidays, like summer and sometimes Christmas and Easter. Not short bank holidays, like today. It’s a bank holiday and that means an Outing.
I hate Outings. I like Innings. My idea of bliss would be to read my book in bed with a packet of Pop Tarts for breakfast, get up late and draw or colour or write stories, have bacon sandwiches and crisps and a big cream cake or two for lunch, read all afternoon, have a whole chocolate Swiss roll for tea in front of the telly, draw or colour or write more stories, and then pizza for supper.
I’ve never enjoyed a day like that. It wouldn’t work anyway because there are far too many of us if we all stay indoors, and the big ones hog the sofa and the comfy chairs, and the little ones are always dashing around and yelling and grabbing my felt tips. And Mum is always trying to stop me eating all the food I like best, pretending that a plate of lettuce and carrots and celery is just as yummy as pizza(!), and Graham is always suggesting I might like to get on this bike he bought me and go for a ride.
I wish he’d get on his bike. And take the whole family with him. And most of mine. Imagine if it was just Mum and me …
We had to do a piece of autobiographical writing at school last week on ‘My Family’. I pondered for a bit. Just writing down the names of my family would take up half the page. I wanted to write a proper story, not an autobiographical list. So I had an imaginary cull of my entire family apart from Mum, and wrote about our life together as a teeny-weeny two-people family. I went into painstaking detail, writing about birthdays and Christmas and how my mum sometimes produced presents that had Love from Daddy or Best Wishes from Auntie Kylie in Australia – although I knew she’d really bought them herself. I even pretended that Mum sometimes played at being my gran or even grandpa and I played at being her son or her little baby. I wrote that although we played these games it was just for fun. We weren’t lonely at all. We positively loved being such a small family.
Mrs Mann positively loved my effort too! This was a surprise because Mrs Mann is very, very strict. She’s the oldest teacher at school and she can be really scary and sarcastic. You can’t mess around in Mrs Mann’s class. She wears these neat grey suits that match her grey hair, and white blouses with tidily tied bows, and a pearl brooch precisely centred on her lapel. You can tell just by looking at her that she’s a stickler for punctuation and spelling and paragraphing and all those other boring, boring, boring things that stop you getting on with the story. My piece had its fair share of mistakes ringed in Mrs Mann’s red rollerball, but she still gave me a ten out of ten because she said it was such a vivid, truthful piece of heartfelt writing.
I felt a little fidgety about this. Vivid it might be, but truthful it isn’t. When Mrs Mann was talking about my small family, my friends Amy and Kate stared at me open-mouthed because I’m always whining on to them about my big family. Luckily they’re not tell-tales.
Sometimes I get on better with all my Steps. My big stepbrother Jon likes art too, and he always says sweet things about my drawings. My big stepsister Alice isn’t bad either. One day when we were all bored she did my hair in these cool little plaits with beads and ribbons, and made up my face so I looked almost grown up. Yes, I like Jon and Alice, but they’re much older than me so they don’t really want me hanging out with them.
The Halfies aren’t bad either. I quite like sitting Cherry on my lap and reading her Where the Wild Things Are. She always squeals when I roar their terrible roars right in her ear and Mum gets cross, but Cherry likes it. Rupert isn’t into books yet – in fact I was a bit miffed when I showed him my old nursery-rhyme book and he bit it, like he thought it was a big bright sandwich. He’s not really fun to play with yet because he’s too little.
That’s the trouble. Mark and Ginnie and Jon and Alice are too big. Jess and Cherry and Rupert are too little. I’m the Piggy in the Middle.
Hmm. My unpleasant brother Mark frequently makes grunting snorty noises at me and calls me Fatty Pigling.
I have highly inventive nicknames for Mark – indeed, for all my family (apart from Mum) – but I’d better not write them down or you’ll be shocked.
I said a few very rude words to myself when Mum and Graham said we were going for a l-o-n-g walk along the river for our bank holiday outing. It’s OK for Rupert. He goes in the buggy. It’s OK for Cherry and Jess. They get piggyback rides the minute they start whining. It’s OK for Mark and Ginnie and Jon and Alice. They stride ahead in a little gang (or lag behind, whatever), and they talk about music and football and s-e-x, and whenever I edge up to them they say, ‘Push off, Pigling,’ if they’re Mark or Ginnie, or, ‘Hi, Laura, off you go now,’ if they’re Jon or Alice.
I’d love it if it could just be Mum and me going on a walk together. But Graham is always around and he makes silly jokes or slaps me on the back or bosses me about. Sometimes I get really narked and tell him he’s not my dad so he can’t tell me what to do. Other times I just look at him. Looks can be very effective.
My face was contorted in a dark scowl all the long, long, long trudge along the river. It was so incredibly boring. I am past the age of going ‘Duck duck duck’ whenever a bird with wings flies past. I am not yet of the age to collapse into giggles when some male language students with shades say hello in sexy foreign accents (Ginnie and Alice), and I don’t stare gape-mouthed when a pretty girl in a bikini waves from a boat (Mark and Jon).
I just stomped around wearily, surreptitiously eating a Galaxy … and then a Kit Kat … and a couple of Rolos. I handed the rest round to the family like a good generous girl. That’s another huge disadvantage of large families. Offer your packet of Rolos round once and they’re nearly all gone in one fell swoop.
We went to this pub garden for lunch and I golloped down a couple of cheese toasties and two packets of crisps and two Cokes – all this fresh air had made me peckish – and I had to stoke myself up for the long trail back home along the river.
‘Oh, we thought we’d go via the Green Fields,’ said Graham.
I groaned. ‘Graham! It’s miles! And I’ve got serious blisters already.’
‘I think you might like the Green Fields this particular Monday,’ said Mum.
She and Graham smiled.
I didn’t smile back. I don’t like the Green Fields. They are just what their name implies. Two big green fields joined by a line of poplar trees. They don’t even have a playground with swings. There isn’t even an ice-cream van. There’s just a lot of grass.
But guess what, guess what! When we got nearer the Green Fields I heard this buzz and clatter and music and laughter. And then I smelled wonderful mouth-watering fried onions. We turned the corner – and the Green Fields were so full you couldn’t see a glimpse of grass! There was a fair there for the bank holiday.
I gave a whoop. Mark and Ginnie and Jon and Alice gave a whoop too, though they were half mocking me. Jess and Cherry gave great big whoops. Baby Rupert whooped too. He couldn’t see the fair down at kneecap level in his buggy but he didn’t want to be left out.
Mum and Graham smiled smugly.
Of course, the fair meant different things to all of us. Jon and Mark – and Graham – wanted to go straight on the dodgems. Ginnie and Alice and I went too, while Mum minded the littlies. She bought them all whippy ice creams with chocolate flakes. I wailed, saying I’d much much much sooner have an ice cream than get in a dodgem car. Mum sighed and bought me a
n ice cream too. But as soon as it was in my hand I decided it might be fun to go on the dodgems too, so I jumped in beside Jon.
Big mistake. Mark drove straight into us, wham-bam, and then splat, the chocolate flake went right up my nostril and my ice cream went all over my face.
Mum mopped me up with one of Rupert’s wet wipes, and Jon bought me another ice cream to console me. I licked this in peace while Jess and Cherry and baby Rupert sat in a kiddies’ roundabout and slowly and solemnly revolved in giant teacups.
‘I wonder if they’ve got a proper roundabout,’ said Mum. ‘I used to love those ones with the horses and the twisty gilt rails and the special music. I want to go on a real old-fashioned carousel.’
‘Oh, Mum, you don’t get those any more,’ said Ginnie – but she was wrong.
We went on all sorts of new-fashioned rides first. We were all hurtled round and round and upside down until even I started wondering if that extra ice cream had been a good idea. Then, as we staggered queasily to the other side of the field, we heard old organ music. Mum lifted her head, listening intently.
‘Is it?’ she said.
It was. We pushed through the crowd and suddenly it was just like stepping back a hundred years. There was the most beautiful old roundabout with galloping horses with grinning mouths and flaring nostrils and scarlet saddles, some shiny black, some chocolate brown, some dappled grey. There was also one odd pink ostrich with crimson feathers and an orange beak.
‘Why is that big bird there, Mum?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, Laura. I think they always have one odd one. Maybe it’s a tradition.’
‘I’m going to go on the bird,’ I said.
The roundabout was slowing down. Mum had little Rupert unbuckled from his buggy so he could ride too. Graham had Cherry in his arms. Mark and Jon said the roundabout was just for kids, but when Graham asked one of them to look after Jess they both offered eagerly. Ginnie and Alice had an argument over who was going to ride on a black horse with ROBBIE on his nameplate (they both have a thing about Robbie Williams) so eventually they squeezed on together.
I rushed for the ostrich. I didn’t need to. No one else wanted it. Well, I did. I clambered on and stroked its crimson feathers. Ostriches are definitely the odd ones out of the bird family. They can’t fly. They’re too heavy for their own wings.
I’m definitely the odd one out of my family – and I frequently feel too heavy for my own legs. I sat gripping the ostrich with my knees, waiting for the music to start and the roundabout to start revolving. People were still scrabbling onto the few remaining horses. A middle-aged lady in much-too-tight jeans was hauling this little toddler up onto the platform. I put out my hand to help – and then stopped, astonished. I couldn’t have been more amazed if my ostrich had opened its beak and bitten me. It wasn’t any old middle-aged lady bursting out of her jeans. It was Mrs Mann!
I stared at her – and she stared at me.
‘Hello, Laura,’ she said. ‘This is my little granddaughter, Rosie.’
I made appropriate remarks to Rosie while Mrs Mann struggled to get them both up onto the ordinary brown horse beside my splendid ostrich. Mrs Mann couldn’t help showing rather a lot of her vast blue-denimed bottom. I had to struggle to keep a straight face.
‘Are you with your mother, Laura?’ said Mrs Mann.
Oh help! Mum was in front of me with Rupert. I had written Mrs Mann that long essay about Mum and me just living together. I hadn’t mentioned any babies whatsoever.
‘I’m here … on my own,’ I mumbled.
At that exact moment Mum turned round and waved at me. ‘Are you all right, Laura?’ she called. She nodded at Mrs Mann.
Mum and Mrs Mann looked at me, waiting for me to introduce them. I stayed silent as the music started up. Go, go, go, I urged inside my head. But we didn’t go soon enough.
‘I’m Laura’s mum,’ said Mum.
‘I’m Laura’s teacher,’ said Mrs Mann. ‘And this is Rosie.’
Rosie waved coyly to Rupert.
‘This is my baby Rupert,’ said Mum.
Mrs Mann looked surprised.
‘And that’s Cherry over there with my partner Graham, and Jess with my son Mark, and that’s my stepson Jon, and then that’s Alice and Ginnie over there, waving at those boys, the naughty girls. Sorry! We’re such a big family now that it’s a bit hard for anyone to take in,’ said Mum, because Mrs Mann was looking so stunned.
The horses started to edge forward very very slowly, u-u-u-u-p and d-o-w-n. My tummy went up and down too as Mrs Mann looked at me.
‘So you’re part of a very big family, Laura?’ she said.
‘Yes, Mrs Mann,’ I said, in a very small voice.
‘Well, you do surprise me,’ she said.
‘Nana, Nana!’ said Rosie, taking hold of Mrs Mann’s nose and wiggling it backward and forward affectionately. Mrs Mann simply chuckled. I wondered how she’d react if any of our class tweaked her nose!
‘We seem to be surprising each other,’ shouted Mrs Mann, as the music got louder as the roundabout revved up. ‘Well, Laura, judging by your long and utterly convincing autobiographical essay, you are obviously either a pathological liar – or a born writer. We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You have the most vivid imagination of any child I’ve ever taught. You will obviously go far.’
And then the music was too loud for talking and the horses whirled round and round and round. I sat tight on my ostrich, and it spread its crimson wings and we flew far over the fair, all the way up and over the moon.
‘HEY, YOU TWO. Rise and shine,’ said Dad, putting his head round our bedroom door. ‘It’s Saturday, and we’re going up to London for a special treat.’
My big sister Melissa merely grunted and burrowed further under her pink flowery duvet in the bottom bunk bed. I sat bolt upright, still wrapped like a cocoon in my Wilma the Whale duvet. I have a pink flowery one too, to match Melissa’s, but I always kick it right off my bunk bed. I hate pink and I hate flowery. I love whales, especially Wilma. I don’t have favourites out of all my pretend pets, but if I did, it would definitely be Wilma. I also have Jumper, a black and white Dalmatian dog (Dad won him for me at a fair), Basil the boa constrictor (I made him out of Mum’s old tights), Polly the Parrot (she’s cardboard and getting a bit bent now), Percy the Porcupine (though he’s lost his hairbrush prickles) and a whole stable of plastic ponies.
Melissa thinks I’m seriously weird having all these toy animals. Mum thinks so too. I think even Dad does. But I don’t think I’m one bit weird. If I can’t have a real pet, then pretend ones are the next best thing.
‘Where are we going for our treat, Dad?’ I said, disentangling Wilma so I could bounce up and down on my bunk bed.
We don’t often go on days out up to London on account of the fact we haven’t got much money.
‘Hey, can we go to the zoo?’ I asked. ‘Oh, please, I want to see what a real porcupine looks like. Or perhaps we could go to the aquarium? Maybe they’ve got real whales?’
‘You are so mad, Marty,’ Melissa muttered, even though she hadn’t surfaced yet. ‘How could you possibly fit a whale inside an aquarium? Dad, can we go shopping? We could go along Oxford Street – or I’ve always wanted to go to Camden Market. Oh, please, let’s go there, it would be so cool.’
‘Sorry, girls. We’re not going to the zoo or the aquarium or Oxford Street or Camden Market – thank goodness! We’re going to a special show at Olympia.’
‘A show!’ we said in unison.
‘Like a pop concert?’ Melissa asked, poking her head out at last. ‘Can we go and see Lady Gaga?’
‘You’re the one who’s ga-ga. I want to see a musical, with a proper story, like Wicked or The Wizard of Oz. My friend Jaydene’s been to both and she says they’re brilliant,’ I said.
‘No concert, no musical. This is a special animal show,’ said Dad.
‘Real animals?’ I gasped.
‘I think so. Cats, dogs, rabb
its, mice, snakes—’
‘Oh, wow!’ I said, hurtling down the bunk-bed ladder and dancing around in my Spider-man pyjamas. ‘Will there be boa constrictors?’
‘I doubt it. It’s a show for people wanting pets. Mum and I thought it would be a good idea to take you girls and then maybe we could all agree on a good family pet.’
‘Oh, double, triple wow! But Mum’s always said we can’t have pets because of the mess and the fuss!’ I said.
‘Yes, I know, but Mum’s allowed to change her mind sometimes,’ said Dad, grinning.
‘I bet you changed it for her! You’re the best dad in the whole world,’ I said, giving him a big hug.
‘Is this pet going to just be for Marty?’ Melissa asked. ‘Because that’s not the slightest bit fair.’
‘It’s going to be a pet for all of us,’ said Dad. ‘Now, get ready, girls. Breakfast in ten minutes, OK?’
‘I can’t believe Mum’s weakened at long long last!’ I said as we got ready.
‘I think it’s because they’re worried about you,’ said Melissa, giving me a poke. ‘Because you play with those tatty old toy animals all the time. They’ve probably consulted a child psychologist because you’re so deluded.’
‘Cheek! I’m not the one who’s written To my darling Melissa, I love you so much, love from Justin Bieber all over that tatty photo you cut out of a magazine. That’s deluded,’ I said. ‘Anyway, who cares why Mum’s changed her mind? What kind of pet shall we have?’
‘I think a little cat would be lovely,’ said Melissa, brushing her hair. It always annoys her that her hair is brown and straight, whereas mine is blonde and curly, even though she’s the girlie girl and I’m the tomboy.