Suzy P and the Trouble with Three (9 page)

I wake up
to a deafening scream. As everyone rushes outside to see what’s happened, Millie races past us, still in her pyjamas.

“Oh God, Murphy, what are you doing?” I hear her wail as she hurtles by.

“He broke into someone’s tent and was trying to get into their sleeping bag,” Millie explains, when she returns, covered in dew and dragging a sheepish Murphy behind her. “Scared the living daylights out of them.”

“Millie, you really have to keep a closer eye on him,” Clare says.

“I was asleep!” Millie protests.

“Which I’d still like to be right now,” Isabella says.

“How did he get out, anyway?” Mum asks.

“I’d left the zip open at the top to get some air,” Millie explains. “Murphy must have stuck his head through the hole and forced it down. Smarter than he looks, obviously.”

Hmm. I remain unconvinced about Murphy’s intelligence.

“Can we go back to bed now?” Amber says.

Everyone agrees that’s a good idea. After a quick snack – I’m always so hungry when I wake up in the morning – I’m cosying up in my sleeping bag and desperately trying to nod off when I feel something on my head.

Something moving.

Huh? What’s that?

Admittedly my hair has been getting madder by the day, but this is new…

I gingerly raise my hand to my head where it touches something wet.

And slimy.

Oh my good God. What the flipping flip is that?

I pluck the thing from my hair, then fling it across the tent with a screech when I see what it is.

SLUG! It’s a slug! There has been an
actual slug
in my hair while I was sleeping.

Then I see Harry videoing me from the corner of the tent, absolutely cracking up.

“Gotcha,” she sniggers.

I storm over and snatch the phone from her hands, deleting the film.

“Suzy, keep the noise down.” Dad’s irritated voice comes from inside the caravan.

“But Dad, Harry—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Go back to sleep.”

Gnargh. This is so unfair! Smirking, Harry pokes out her tongue at me, while I disappear back into my sleeping bag and pull it right over my head.

After such an eventful morning, we’re only just getting up when Devon appears at the front of the caravan. “Knock, knock,” he says, sticking his head through the door.

Oh God. I hoped he wouldn’t come. That he’d forgotten, or something.

“Morning,” Mum says.

“Cup of tea?” Clare offers.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. Um, I’m afraid I need to talk to you about a rather, ahem, delicate situation,” Devon says.

“Is this about the fire?” Dad says. “I did put it out, like you asked.”

“No, it’s not about the fire,” Devon says.

“Is everything okay?” Mum asks. “Come in, please.”

“Um, this is a bit awkward. But I was out and about in the field last night, checking there were no foxes on the site, when I met with your daughter in the field. I believe she’d been going to the bathroom behind your caravan,” Devon explains.

Oh good Lord. The humiliation.

I sink down into my seat, my face burning.

“Harry,” Mum explodes. “What did you think you were doing? There are perfectly good toilets here. What did you do that for?”

“I didn’t,” Harry says, looking confused.

“Um, it was that girl, there,” Devon says, pointing at me.

“Suzy!” Mum exclaims. “What on earth were you thinking?”

I can feel my cheeks burning as everyone stares at me. Isabella’s giving me this look like I’m some dog poo she found on the bottom of her shoe. At least Millie seems to think it’s funny; she’s chewing on her lip and trying not to laugh. Mustn’t catch her eye, then, otherwise we’ll end up in fits of giggles and that won’t help anything.

“It was raining,” I mumble. “I didn’t want to get wet traipsing all the way across the field. The toilets are gross. I didn’t think it would matter. It’s Dad’s fault, anyway, for not letting us into the caravan.”

“It’s very unhygienic to use the field as a latrine,” Devon says, seriously. “It will attract rats. And our toilets are not ‘gross’. They are eco-compost toilets, which are a better option for the environment. Please don’t allow your daughter to foul our field again, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Devon tells Mum and Dad.

“She won’t,” Mum says.

“Sorry,” I say.

Devon carries on. “While I’m here I also wanted to talk to you about your dog… Not that one,” he says, as Amber hugs Crystal protectively to her chest. “The other one. The big one. We’ve received a few, erm, comments from the other campers. Please see that you keep your dog under control.”

“I will. I’m really sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again,” Millie says. “He’ll be good, I promise.”

“Good. Now, you’re staying over the weekend, aren’t you? Will you be joining us for our Saturday night talent show?”

“Talent show?” Dad says.

“Oh yes,” Devon says. “It’s a monthly thing. We invite everyone staying with us to come and showcase any talents they might have in our marquee. It’s a great evening, tons of fun. We always have a fantastic time. You wouldn’t believe the skills some people have. We had a fire-eater win last month, and a saxophonist before that.”

“Mum, I could do some of my magic,” Harry says, excitedly.

“Ah, a magician. We’ve not seen any magic yet,” Devon says.

“I’ll show you,” Harry says, running off and returning with a coin, bottle and her wand. “I’m going to magic this coin into this bottle,” she announces. “As you can see, the bottle neck is too thin for the coin to fit down…”

She taps the bottle with her wand, covers the bottle with a tea towel, then removes it with a flourish. The coin is still outside the bottle.

“Oh,” she says, frowning. “Let’s try that again…”

She tries again. And again. But the coin doesn’t go in. “I don’t understand why it’s not working…”

“Keep practising for the big night,” Devon says kindly. “What about the rest of you?”

There’s deadly silence as we all stare around the caravan, desperately trying not to meet Devon’s eye.

“Come on,” Devon insists. “You seem a talented bunch to me and we’d love to get you involved. What about you, what can you do?” he asks Isabella.

“Usually, my talent is avoiding holidays like this,” Isabella says cuttingly.

Ouch!

“Isabella, that’s rude,” Mum says.

“There are some fantastic prizes to be won,” Devon says temptingly. “Worth hundreds of pounds…”

Mum’s face lights up at the mention of prizes. “If there are prizes to be won, that’s a whole different ball
game. Everyone’s going to enter. No arguments,” she says, when she sees I’m about to protest, “we need the money.”

“I have a talent,” Dad says. “Remember, Jen? That bit I used to do at university.”

“That? Really?” says Mum, looking alarmed.

“Well, don’t leave us in the dark,” says Devon. “What is it?”

“Oh, I don’t think I can tell you,” Dad replies, his eyes twinkling, “but it was cracking. I raised a ton of money for rag week. Although I’m going to need my props.”

“Chris, it’s been years,” Mum says. “You’ll do yourself a mischief trying that kind of thing at your age.”

“Well, it certainly sounds intriguing,” Devon says.

I shudder silently. I hope everyone forgets all about the talent show and it’s never spoken of again. I can’t think of anything worse. And as for this secret ‘talent’ of Dad’s from about a hundred years ago… well, the mind boggles.

“Don’t forget to come and see the musicians tonight at the marquee,” Devon adds, as he gets up to leave.

“Is anyone playing that we’d have heard of?” Mum asks.

“Only if you’re a regular in Canterbury, where they busk,” Devon says. “It’s a great duo – a saxophonist
accompanied by a singer who performs in Turkish. It’s very unusual and rather haunting.”

“Buskers?” I say. “I thought the musicians here were professional?”

Devon laughs. “Well, we’re not talking chart success here, you know,” he says. “But they are professional in terms of earning money for doing what they do.”

You are
kidding me
. Any fool can go out and busk on the street. Marcus Fletcher from school was on the high street during the Easter holidays showcasing his Grade One violin skills but that doesn’t make him a blimmin’ pro.

“So, none of them are professional?” I ask again, to be sure. “The Drifting aren’t coming, or anything like that?”

Dad snorts. “Dream on.”

Devon’s confused. “I don’t know who The Drifting are, but the people we showcase are mainly street performers. They’re very good, though. Diverse. None of that commercial nonsense. Come and see for yourselves later. Now, remember what I said about the toilet blocks, young lady.” He mock sternly wags his finger at me, making me blush all over again.

Yes, yes, all right, all right, I get it. How many times?

“And you keep that dog under control,” he says to Millie as he leaves.

“Wait a minute, Devon,” Amber calls, hoisting herself up from her seat and ejecting Crystal into an unimpressed Dad’s lap. “I’ll walk with you. It’s time to ring Markymoo again. I miss him so much, Devon, I can’t begin to tell you how hard it is for me being here…”

Devon doesn’t seem exactly pleased, but there’s nothing he can do as he prepares to have his ear bent about Mark all the way back across the site.

“You told me the musicians were professional,” I say to Harry, indignantly.

“I lied,” she replies. “Sucker.”

“Ugh, it’s so
boring here,” Isabella moans the next morning as we sit around the awning. “Nothing happens. Every day is the same. Uno. Rain. Yawn, yawn, yawn. There’s not even anyone else to hang around with. I really want to meet some boys. It’s all right for you, you’ve got boyfriends, but I seriously need some holiday romance.”

Mum pokes her head out of the caravan. “We’re going to the beach,” she says cheerily.

“Um, it’s pouring,” Isabella says, looking at Mum like she’s a complete imbecile.

“I know, but we should get out,” Mum says. “We’ve all been stuck here too long and I refuse to have another day like yesterday where we all sat around driving each other mad. It’ll do us good to have a change of scene.”

“I want to ring Mark before we go anywhere,” Amber says.

“Of course you do,” Dad sighs. “Do you know what this place needs? A TV.”

“I miss TV,” Harry says.

“Stop it, you two,” Mum says. “We don’t need a TV, I’ve got a lovely day planned for us when Amber gets back. And even if we don’t make it onto the beach itself, I’m sure it’ll be clearer down by the coast. There’s a lighthouse we can go and look at.”

“Oooh, how exciting, a lighthouse,” I mutter sarcastically. I’ve woken up in a very bad mood again. Partly because I was freezing cold in the night. Partly because as I was falling asleep, I could hear Millie and Isabella, talking and laughing away in their tent without me. And partly because my hair has hit new levels of insanity. This weather is doing it no favours, and it’s sticking out randomly – a curly, frantic mass of frizz. The longer we stay here, the worse it’s getting. I’m spending most of my time smoothing it with my hands, trying to calm it down. My serum isn’t working. My leave-in conditioner isn’t working. Nothing is working. My hair has an unruly force that’s too strong to be tamed.

“What is going on with your hair?” Isabella asks me, her delicately plucked brows furrowing.

“Don’t ask,” I sigh. “It’s the damp. Makes it take on a life of its own.”

“And it’s always like that?” Isabella says, flicking her smooth, ruler-straight hair over her shoulder.

I seethe with the unfairness of it all. Damn her and her perfect genes.

“Uh huh,” I say gloomily.

“Would a hat help?” Isabella asks, a mischievous smile playing around her lips. “Or maybe a balaclava?”

Millie cracks up.

Ouch.

Although I try to smile, I’m kind of hurt Millie’s giggling. She knows what a nightmare my hair is.

We pick up Amber by the shop on our way out. Isabella’s worked it so she’s with Millie again, while I sit in the car with my family and sulk.

“Mum, the fog’s not clearing,” Harry says, after we’ve been driving for twenty minutes.

“It’ll be better near the coast,” Mum says.

But the fog gets thicker. And thicker. And when we pull into the car park, we can hear the sea, but there’s nothing to be seen apart from the thick white fog.

“The book says there’s a lighthouse around here, somewhere…” Mum says.

We make our way along the coastal path. It’s freezing, and everyone’s shivering. Even the dogs.

“There it is!” Mum says, pointing at a concrete lump
in the fog. We can’t see the top; it’s too foggy. We’ve driven for forty-five minutes to come and see the base of a lighthouse.

“Can we go up it?” Isabella asks.

“Oh no,” Mum says. “It’s a historic landmark.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to see anything on a day like today, anyway,” Dad says.

“So what was the point in coming?” Isabella asks. I’m not sure if she’s being rude or if she’s genuinely confused.

Nobody answers.

“I know, let’s go to the café and have a nice cuppa,” Mum says. “Back along the path, everyone. Mind yourselves, it’s very slippery.”

As we make our way back, I hear Mum talking to Clare.

“Have you heard from Martin since you’ve been here? How are things going at work?”

“I’m leaving him to it,” Clare replies.

Behind me, I hear Millie sigh heavily. I turn to look at her, but she’s gazing off out to sea.

Or at least, where the sea would be if it was visible.

“What do we think about Pocahontas and Mulan for the babies?” Amber asks, looking up from her celebrity magazine.

“No!” everyone choruses together.

We’re squished into the awning eating crisps and rejecting Mum’s attempts to play some more Uno.

Déjà vu, much?

“You lot are so hard to please,” Amber says, getting up to put the kettle on.

“Suggest something normal, then,” Harry says.

“I’ve been thinking about that talent show Devon mentioned,” Clare says, diplomatically changing the subject.

“We’re all entering,” Mum says.

“It could be fun,” Clare encourages us. “And it’ll give us something to do, especially if this rain continues.”

“We could always go home early instead?” I offer hopefully.

“I’m happy to enter,” Amber says. “I’m going to sing.”

“You’re singing?” Mum bursts out before she can stop herself. She and Dad exchange panicked looks. Amber’s singing is appalling.

“Well, I can’t do much else, can I?” Amber says, rubbing her tummy with one hand and stroking Crystal Fairybelle with the other. The dog gives her chin a sympathetic lick. “I’d love to do my street dance routine, but I’m way too big. I’m going to sing a ballad and dedicate it to Mark, so he knows how much I miss him.”

“But he won’t be here, will he?” Dad says, looking confused.

“No,” Amber says, her eyes brimming with tears. “But he’ll feel it in his heart. I know he will. Our love knows no boundaries.”

“Right. Well, we’ll look forward to hearing that,” Mum says. “What about you lot?”

“Street magic!” Harry says, pulling a ten pence piece out from behind her ear with a flourish.

“Hey, very good,” says Clare. “You’re getting better.”

I wonder if I should tell Clare that I saw Harry stick the coin there earlier using a piece of chewing gum.

“And what about you girls?” Mum asks, looking over at us.

We’ve totally avoided discussing the subject. I think we’re all hoping that if we don’t mention it, it’ll go away.

“We’re undecided,” I say.

“Well, I’d like you to decide,” Mum says.

“We’ll think about it,” I mutter. There’s got to be a way to get out of this.

“Everyone needs to enter,” Mum reiterates. “You heard Devon, there are prizes up for grabs that are worth hundreds of pounds, and we need all the chances we can get to win them.”

“But you don’t know what the prizes are,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mum says. “We’re winning them.”

“And we’re Puttocks,” Dad chips in. “Puttocks do not fail when they put their minds to something. A Puttock always succeeds!”

“I’m not a Puttock,” Millie says.

“Or me,” Isabella adds.

“And I just wish I wasn’t,” I mutter.

“You’re honorary Puttocks,” Dad says.

“You’re busy nagging us, Mum, but what about you?” I say. “What’s going to be your contribution to this?”

Clare and Mum look at each other and start to laugh. “We thought it might be fun to do something together… We’re considering doing a routine with the dogs.”

“With the
dogs
?” I ask in amazement. “As in Crystal and Murphy? What kind of routine? Are you
mad
?”

“You know how you see those dancing dogs, who move around with their handlers?” Clare says. “That kind of thing. It can’t be that hard, can it?”

“Not if you’ve got a properly trained dog in the first place,” I say.

“Hey!” Millie says indignantly. “Murphy is well trained. He just forgets himself sometimes. He’s very excitable. And he’d love to perform with you.”

“Are you honestly expecting Murphy to dance?” Isabella asks Clare, as Murphy buries his head in his paws and lets out a whimper.

Clare snorts with laughter. “Well, no. Not properly. But we can have a go, can’t we?”

“So we’ve got singing, dog dancing and magic, plus as-yet-to-be-decided acts from the girls,” Mum says. “That sounds pretty good to me.”

“Let’s not forget about me,” Dad says.

“Chris, you’re not going to do that thing you did at university,” Mum says. “You were twenty years younger then. Besides, you haven’t got your—”

“Shhhh!” Dad says, holding up his hand. “Don’t give the game away and tell them what it is. I don’t have my props, but that’s okay. I know exactly where they are in the loft at home. I’ll go back and get them.”

“You’re going to drive all the way home to get your—”

“Sssshhh!” Dad says again. “My
props
. Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Mum says. “It’s a six-hour round trip. At least. And this isn’t a proper talent show. Not like on the TV or anything like that. You do know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Dad says. “But six hours of peace in the car sounds like heaven right now. Besides, I’ve never shown the girls what I can do. I’m sure they’d love to see it, wouldn’t you?”

“I think you’re going to be great,” Harry says. “I can’t wait to see your act.”

“You see?” Dad says, proudly. “It’ll be the experience of a lifetime.”

I very much doubt that, but no matter. If I think too much about it I’ll only start to freak out as to what he could be up to.

“Shall we go and hang out in your tent for a bit?” I ask Millie.

“Good thinking,” Millie says.

As we scramble into the tent, Murphy follows after us, and settles himself lying horizontally across the two airbeds, taking up all of the room.

“How do you put up with this dog?” Isabella asks, wrinkling her nose. “He stinks.”

“It’s only because it’s wet,” Millie protests, reaching over to give Murphy a hug. “He’s gorgeous, and doesn’t normally smell, does he, Suze?”

“Um, no,” I lie. Because Murphy honks. Permanently. He’s usually been off rolling in fox poo, or some other horrific substance, and his breath is terrible too. But Millie will never forgive me if I say that.

Isabella fiddles with her phone and soon music’s filling the tent. It’s not stuff I’ve heard before, the lyrics are in a foreign language.

“What band is this?” I ask, as I grab a magazine, and shake my head at Millie’s offer of a jelly baby.

“Ezra. They’re Italian,” Isabella says.

“Got any English stuff on there?” I ask. “We love The Drifting, don’t we, Mills?”

Isabella sniffs dismissively. “I prefer more unusual stuff. Give this a while. You’ll get into it.”

I doubt that. I don’t have a blinking idea what this singer’s on about. He could be singing about cat poo, for all I know.

“So what are we going to do for this talent show?” Millie asks.

“Nothing,” Isabella says, pulling out a mirror and checking her reflection. She carefully starts to touch up her eyeliner.

“Aw, come on,” Millie wheedles. “Mrs P says we have to. And it could be fun, you know.”

That’s so Millie. Only she could think this ridiculous camping talent show could be fun.

“Besides, it’ll be something to do,” Millie continues. “It’s not like we’ve got much else on, stuck here in the rain.”

“Maybe,” I say, dubiously.

“I’m not doing it,” Isabella says. “No way. Nuh-uh.”

“Okay, then,” Millie sighs. “Suzy, you’ll do something with me, won’t you? You mentioning The Drifting made me think about our old routines…”

She stares at me, all wide-eyed and hopeful, and my heart sinks into my shoes.

When we were really little (like, about nine, practically babies) we were obsessed with making up dance routines to songs. And when I say obsessed, I mean ob. Sessed. We’d dance every break and lunch, and spend hours after school making up new moves and practising over and over again. Millie was always loads better than I was, obviously, because I’ve got two left feet and fell over a lot. I used to do a lot of standing still while
hip-wiggling
and clapping as she did the complicated stuff around me.

But to do it all again, now? In public? We’re teenagers. This could be mortification to the max.

And that’s coming from me, no stranger to embarrasmentitis.

“It’s going to be so lame,” I protest, although I know there’s no point arguing with Millie once she’s got an idea into her head. If she wants us to do this, I know it’s going to happen.

“C’mon, it’s not like anyone knows us here,” Millie says. “Please? Pretty please?”

“Oh, okay,” I agree reluctantly. “But don’t make it too complicated.”

“I’ll be your choreographer,” Isabella says. “I’ve got loads
of dance experience. I was the under-fifteens freestyle champion last year.”

Of
course
she was.

“Fantastic,” Millie squeals. “You’ll be able to make it really good.”

Brilliant, that’s all I need. Isabella bossing me around and telling me how rubbish I am at dancing.

Millie flings one arm around me and another around Isabella, pulling us closer for a group hug. I notice that Isabella seems to be going out of her way to avoid any contact with me.

It’s then that Murphy releases a deafening fart. In seconds the tent is filled with stinking, toxic gas that leaves us coughing and flapping our hands in front of our faces in disgust.

“Oh God, oh God, I’m going to die,” Isabella chokes, scrambling past me with one hand clamped over her nose, and the other wrestling with the tent zipper. “I need to get out, I need to get out…”

I follow and soon we’re all standing outside the tent, gasping in huge breaths of fresh air.

“That dog is disgusting,” Isabella says.

“He’s…” Millie begins to protest, but then starts giggling. “Yeah, who am I kidding? When he does things like that he is totally rank. Hey, it’s stopped
raining out here. We could go and start practising.”

“Let’s do that,” Isabella says. She glances at me. “Something tells me we’re going to need all the time we can get.”