My Family and Other Freaks (7 page)

No school for six weeks. I could live like this forever.

Bored, bored, bored. I can't LIVE like this. No one can be expected to live like this. I could almost clean out Deirdre's cage, but I'm not quite that bored. This is what it must be like being Simon, sitting around the house all day but without even being able to text his doggy friends.

It's my 13th birthday tomorrow, not that you'd notice, thanks very much. Here's a tip: never be born in August because there's no school so everyone's away on holiday and forgets about your birthday, even though you've attended their boring parties all year round AND given them presents. If you're unlucky enough to be born in August AND be a beta child—well, your life's
basically a nonevent. I'd better get the iPod I asked for, that's all I can say.

I'm officially a teenager! Perhaps my parents will finally start taking me seriously and treating me like the intelligent young woman I am.

Go downstairs to the kitchen. Mom throws her arms around me.

“Happy birthday, my lovely little Danni-bear!” she says, thrusting a package into my hand. It is a pair of slippers in the shape of giant Dalmatian dog heads. This better be a joke.

“Pongo! Perdita!” says Phoebe, rubbing the footwear tenderly against her cheek.

“Awww, don't you like them, love?” says Dad, ruffling my hair. Thank God. Behind his back I can see a smaller parcel. I tear off the gold wrapping
paper. Oh. It's an MP4 player. Not quite the Apple one I was hoping for, which costs considerably more. Oh, well. At least it's pink and quite a good one. I'll just have to hope Treasure doesn't mock it. I smile and say, “Thank you! It's almost exactly what I wanted.”

“I can't believe it was only 13 years ago today that I was pushing you out!” says Mom. “I've never known agony like it.” Oh, for God's sake, Mother.

Phoebe climbs on my knee. She has made me a card which features a picture of me (looking very fat, actually), Phoebe (like a beautiful princess, obviously) and Simon, all inside a big love heart. Bless her. She hands me a badly wrapped parcel. It contains a plastic Toy Story side plate (used) and a Jaffa cake.

Mom says she'll make me whatever I want for breakfast. “Crunchy Nut Cornflakes,” I say.

“Ah, sorry—we've run out,” replies Mother dear.

Gran arrives. I open her present, which is the
same thing I get every year—£10 in a card and a Terry's Chocolate Orange. “Oh, I don't envy you lot being young today,” she says. “You couldn't pay me to go through all that again, with all life's pain and heartache ahead.” Oh, happy birthday to you, Danielle.

Rick, naturally, hasn't got up yet, but Mom says I can open his card. It's got “To a great sister” on the front and, more importantly, a £15 Topshop voucher inside.

“Isn't that thoughtful of him?” says Mom.

“Mother—you bought the card and the voucher for him, didn't you?” I ask.

“Well, yes,” she says, “but, look—he signed it!”

Oh, yes—I'm welling up here. But the good news is I get £20 from my Aunty Karen and another £20 from my godmother who lives in Wales. Result.

My parents are still being mysterious though—and today of all days. I heard Mom whispering to Gran before, saying something
about appointments and how she and Dad will have to go off in the car later while Gran babysits Phoebe.

Maybe we ARE moving to Scotland. Well, I'm not going. Rick has said he won't go either because Fast Track needs him, and anyway he's 16 next birthday. We'll both have to live with Gran and spend 24 hours a day discussing our bowels.

Because I'm not having a party—not enough people around—Dad has also given me £30 to take Amber and Megan for a pizza in town. Meet them under the big clock in the precinct. Amber has bought me two goats for some African village (sigh), but also some lovely bubble bath and soaps. Megan has bought me HMV vouchers and a lip gloss like the one I'm always borrowing from her. Hooray.

Even though it's MY birthday, Megan says she
wants to get a new skirt. I don't mind shopping: I do need a “sizzling summer look” as it says in Mom's magazine, in case I bump into Damian at any point.

We decide to play our occasional game of trying on the most frumpy clothes we can find in Debenhams.

I pick a hideous flowery dress with an A-line skirt and Megan goes for some green old-lady cords. Then we see Amber looking a bit weird and we both suddenly remember that she wears green cords almost exactly like that, so Megan shoves them back quickly and picks some brown slacks instead. Amber has selected a grotesque long tulle dress like a demented Disney princess might wear.

We stand squashed together in the changing rooms. Megan looks like a fat farmer's wife in her slacks and Amber looks—well, quite nice actually. Bizarre.

I look brilliantly like an old biddy in my dress—in fact just like Miss Pye, our sourpuss deputy head who's about 90. So I do an impression, stooping a bit: “Girls must NOT hitch their school skirts up to their thighs! It is vulgar and UNLADYLIKE. Anyone whose skirt is more than ONE INCH above the knee will be sent home. IS THAT CLEAR??” Amber and Meg are crying with laughter.

Suddenly the curtain is pulled back. “How are we getting on in here?” says the changing-room assistant, a bit suspiciously.

“Great!” we say.

“Are you going to BUY any of these clothes, because if not can I remind you that there is a line for these changing rooms?”

“
Heil
, Hitler,” I whisper. Amber and Megan snort again and so we're asked to leave. Where is the joy in life, eh?

Buy a new bag from Topshop but can't find anything “hot” or “sizzling” to wear, so go to Pizza
Hut instead. Afterward we're still hungry so buy some fries which we eat in the precinct. It's been quite a nice day all in all.

Amber and Megan are coming back for a birthday sleepover. Gran is making our tea: sausage and fries for everyone else, but veggie sausage (ugh) and fries for me and Amber. Is it illegal to have fries twice in one day?

Mom and Dad are still out. Phoebe has stolen one of Dad's work ties and is using it as reins as she rides around on Simon's back saying, “Giddy up, Samson.” (Samson is the prince's horse in
Sleeping Beauty
). Rick is hogging the computer, probably uploading yet more pictures of himself on Facebook.

I say, “Thanks for the Topshop voucher.”

He looks at me with not a clue what I'm talking about.

Amber and Megan go to my room and I slip into the kitchen for a quiet word with Gran.

“Gran, what's going on with Mom and Dad? They keep whispering and Mom's looking, well, quite ugly.”

Gran's face goes pinched. “That's a terrible thing to say about your own mother! But, yes, I know what you mean. Anyway, it's nothing for you to worry about,” she says.

“Aha! So you do know then,” I say, pointing my finger in her face.

“You know me,” she says. “See all, hear all, say nowt.”

You couldn't say “nowt” if your life depended on it, I want to say, but instead bleat, with a tremble in my voice, “Well, if we're moving to Scotland, I'm not going. I'm going to move in with you.”

She looks surprised. “Scotland? Where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, OK, well, is Dad having an affair, then? Are they getting divorced?”

Gran puts her arms around me. “Where do you get these ideas at your age?” she says. Then she looks all worried again. “You'll find out soon enough—there's nothing you can do about it, put it that way.”

Oh yes, very reassuring, Grandmama dear.

We are playing my new not-an-iPod. The phone rings downstairs. Gran answers. When she replaces the receiver she informs us that Mom and Dad have gone to the cinema for some “quality time” together. That's lovely on your daughter's birthday!

Rick lifts his head up from the computer and shouts: “It's a make-or-break date to save their marriage.” He's been reading Mom's
Closer
magazine again.

We are watching TV in the living room when Gran gears up for her main inquiry. She asks after our packets. About time too. Amber and Megan are trying to stop themselves laughing but they're making snorty noises instead. Rick and I grunt that our packets are just fine. She also asks Rick whether he has a girlfriend yet. He tells her to shut up. That'll be a no then.

Oh, deck the halls with boughs of holly. It seems that we are going en famille to Gran's camper in Wales tomorrow for a couple of days. So just to recap: Treasure is in Italy, Damian is in Bordeaux and I am going to a campsite where they still use Izal bog roll.

Amber says it'll be better for our carbon footprint than a holiday to Spain. She'll get
my footprint up her bum if she doesn't shut it.

Two hours trapped in a crap car listening to
Charlie and Lola's Favorite and Best Music Record
while Simon makes record-breakingly pungent fart-smells in the hatchback. Ah, this is the life. Rick zones out with his headphones on.

“That dog stinks,” says Dad, opening a window. He can talk. Anyway, Simon's only rolled in one dead bird and some fox poo since his last bath.

Drinking a rubbish cup of tea in the camper's “living room” area while Phoebe unpacks her miniature Dalmatians suitcase into the kitchen cupboards. Gran has the smallest camper ever. It's
ridiculous, designed for Oompa-Loompas. Rick nudges me. Mom and Dad are having a hushed row in the “bedroom” area. They are doing that “whisper shout” thing, but there's really no point since the walls are as thin as the Izal paper I'll no doubt be wiping my bum on later.

I'm sure I just heard Mom hiss, “I just think they should know, Dave.”

“What did she say?” says Rick. “Shhh,” I say. “Listen.”

“Not yet,” says Dad. “We don't know if it's going to work out yet, do we?”

“We can HEAR you,” shouts Rick.

Dad pokes his head around the door and smiles. “Hear what? We're just discussing where to go tonight. Now—who's up for Bobby Beachball's?”

I'm getting bored with this guessing game now.

Bobby Beachball's is the dismal campsite “family-entertainment nightspot.” In other words, it's a pub where grown-ups can take their children
to watch rubbish acts while they get drunk. Me and Rick groan. Dad promises Rick a “strong lager shandy” and this actually seems to cheer him up. God, his life must be even emptier than mine.

Dad is tipsy. He has put his name down for the karaoke. Mom, because she has no shame, seems OK with this, but his three children, the fruit of his loins, are not. Phoebe is whining, “Please no, Daddy,” while Rick and I are just disgusted. But it's too late. He's going up to the stage to do “Let Me Entertain You.” This is a man who's 45, with the beginnings of a bald patch, who genuinely thinks he can pass for Robbie Williams.

Everyone's cheering, but his three children are, as ever, stony-faced.

When I get married to Damian we are never ever coming to a campground for our holidays.

There is a vile child about five years old in next door's camper. He's called Jake and keeps coming over to Simon to hit him with a stick while saying, “Bad doggy.”

What I'd like to do is strangle the little brat, but instead I say, “Don't hit doggy. Doggy might get cross and bite.”

“Yes!” says Phoebe, delighted to have an older kid to tell off. “Bite your HEAD OFF.”

Jake stares at us, then runs away, but he's back two minutes later with a fishing net on a pole which he uses to poke Simon in the eyes. Simon yelps, then, quite understandably, growls.

“Do NOT hurt the doggy, you little horror,” I say angrily, snatching the fishing rod and “accidentally” snapping it in two over my knee.
The horror screams. His mother, who's got tattoos on her arms and is a bit scary tbh, comes over.

“Wassgoinon?” she says.

“Shebustedmaaaaane-e-e-t,” wails the hell-child, pointing at the broken net. People in this family clearly cannot separate their words.

“It, er, snapped,” I say as casually as I can manage. “He was hurting the dog.”

The woman gives me evils and leads her vile brat away.

Mom calls me and Phoebe in to help get the lunch plates out. Do you note the sexism here? She asks us, her daughters, not darling son Rick. As I'm wiping the ants off the side plates there's a huge scream.

Outside, Devil Boy is holding up his arm and crying while Simon has slunk under the camper with his ears down. “HE BITTED ME!” he's shrieking.

Then, as if in slow motion, all hell breaks loose. Devil Boy's parents are running over, Mom
is shouting, “He's bleeding! Has he had his tetanus injection?,” Devil Boy screams even louder at the sight of his own blood trickling down his chubby arm, and I go wading in saying, “It was his own fault. The little brat was poking Simon in the eyes!”