Fruit and Nutcase (3 page)

After we’ve listened politely to old Misery and meekly promised to mend our ways, we go upstairs and have a cup of something and a giggle before getting the tea ready for Dad. Me and Mum do a lot of giggling. We’re like sisters, sometimes, the two of us.

Dad comes in at five o’clock and I always go rushing to meet him. Sometimes, if old Misery’s caught him, he’ll be in a right grumpy mood. And when Dad’s in a grumpy mood, BEWARE! Mum gets flustered, and that’s when things start to go wrong – specially if she’s done something daft and ruined his tea.

But if he’s in a good mood, then whoopee! We have fun. Maybe he’ll sing some Elvis, or we’ll play a game of cards, or just settle down to watch the telly like any other family. If it’s summer I might perhaps go into my room to do some more wall-painting. I aim to get the walls filled up by the time I’m eleven! Then it’s the ceiling. After that, who knows? The floor???

Nan thinks it’s terrible I’m allowed to paint on the walls, but Dad says it’s my room, so why shouldn’t I? He says, “Other kids get to play with their computers: Mandy gets to paint her bedroom.”

That is one of the very
best
things about my dad. He always, always sticks up for me!

I’m not really actually writing this. I am saying it into a tape machine!

It was Cat’s idea. Cat is the person who comes into school every week to help people like me and Oliver with our reading. She is my friend. And it’s all right for me to call her Cat and not Miss Daley; she said that I could. She didn’t say that Oliver could. Just me. Because we’re friends.

Cat knows I’m not very good at writing. But I’m ace at talking! Usually. It all depends who I’m with; I don’t just talk to anyone. My nan complains I never stop but that’s not true. Sometimes I don’t say a word for minutes on end. And when I’m at school I don’t hardly talk at all, except just sometimes to Oliver, ’cos of feeling sorry for him. If I didn’t talk to him, nobody would. So we talk about a few things, but nothing important.

Cat is the only person I
really
talk to. I can talk about anything to Cat! What I usually do, I
tell her the latest joke I’ve heard or something funny about old Misery Guts and we have a bit of a laugh. I don’t tell her about hating school or Miss Foster having a go at me or anything like that. That would be whingeing and I hate people that whinge. But I
could
tell her. If I wanted. And I know that she’d listen ’cos she’s that sort of person. She’s not just my friend, she’s my
special
friend; and that’s why I’m doing this book. Because she asked me.

When I’ve filled up the tape, or done as much as I can, Cat’s mum is going to type it out on her word processor and then Cat is going to get it printed. It will all be spelt right, with lots of commas and full stops and little squiggly bits like: and; and ! so that it looks like a real book.

I am going to do the drawings! Lots of them. I like books with drawings. Sometimes I think it would be better if books didn’t have anything
but
drawings. No words. Cat doesn’t agree; she says you need both. I don’t see why but, anyway I am going to do drawings instead of draggy descriptions that go on for ever and make you lose interest.

Like, for instance, I
could
say that Cat is …

Very tall and thin with lots of bony bits and that she has:

a round jolly face

a wide mouth

sticky-out teeth

a blobby nose – and that she wears:

eee-normous glasses

tight sweaters

short
skirts

black tights

and long boots.

But I think that would make people go “Yawn!” and not read any more. It’s ever so much more fun to draw!

I hope she doesn’t mind me drawing her! I
can only do funny drawings. Even when I draw me I make me look funny. This is me:

All the drawings that I do, I’m putting with the tape so that Cat’s mum knows where to leave a space when she does the typing. Then I will stick them on!

I still can’t really understand why Cat wants me to record all this stuff. All about me and my boring life. When I asked her she said, “Well, look at it this way. It’s not everyone can say they’ve written a book. Think what an achievement it would be!”

I said, “But nothing’s ever happened to me.” Meaning, I’ve never been kidnapped,

or lost at sea

or rescued anyone from drowning

or been in a plane that’s been hijacked.

I have never been on a plane full stop. A BIG full stop.

I’ve never been abroad, I’ve never been on a boat, I’ve only been to the seaside once and that was two years ago
when Nan gave us the money to go to Clacton and stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Even then it rained all the time. And Mum put some clothes to dry on the heater and the clothes caught fire while we were out and set light to the curtains and Dad got in a hump and spent all our money playing the fruit machines down the pub which meant we had to come home three days early and the bed-and-breakfast lady kept sending threatening letters about her curtains!

Nan and Crandy had to pay her in the end, to buy some new ones. Nan was ever so horrid about it. She said that Mum was like a child and that Dad was irresponsible and we didn’t deserve to have holidays. So we’ve never had one since and now I don’t suppose we’ll ever have one again. See if I care!

That Tracey Bigg, she goes off all over the place. Places like Florida and Gran Canaria (wherever that is). She’s always boasting about it. I haven’t got anything to boast about. I just don’t see what Cat wants me to say into this tape machine she’s given me.

I said this to Cat and she chirruped, “Oh, Mandy, you’ve got all sorts of things!” Cat’s always chirruping and chirping. She’s ever such a
cheerful person. So am I, I suppose, really. On the whole. Maybe that’s why we’re friends. She told me that things didn’t have to be big and dramatic to be put into books.

“Just ordinary everyday happenings. That’s what interests people.”

Does she mean that other people are going to read about me???

I could be famous! I could be rich! They could make a film about me!

Yes, and if they do I know one person that’s not going to be in it, and that’s Tracey Bigg. If anyone gets to play her it’ll be some ugly, cross-eyed, po-faced
tub.

Serve her right! I can’t stand that girl.

This is her.

Tracey Bigg. She’s always picking on me, just because she’s Bigg and I’m Small. Which we really are.
Unfortunately.

She’s horrible! I hate her. She says these really mean and spiteful things just to try and hurt people. Like at the beginning of term when Miss Foster said we’d all got to read as many books as we could and get people to sponsor us, and the money we raised was going to go to charity, and Tracey Bigg sniggered and said, “What happens if we can’t read, Miss?” and everyone knew she was talking about me.

Me and Oliver Pratt. Not that I cared, I don’t care what anyone says, but Oliver went red as radishes and I felt really sorry for him. I mean, for all Tracey Bigg knows we’ve got that thing
where you muddle your letters,
^*
which is a sort of illness and nothing to do with being lazy or stupid. It’s like being handicapped and people mocking at you.