Fruit and Nutcase (5 page)

“That Misery Guts,” panted Mum, as we pounded up the stairs to our own floor. “A pity it couldn’t have blown up when she was in there!”

“In the bath,” I said. “All naked.”

Sometimes old Misery Guts makes Mum’s life a real pain, but we just laughed about her that day. Mum was in a really giggly sort of mood. She turned the oven on, to heat it up for Dad’s pie, and we had a cup of tea and watched a bit of telly, and then Mum put the pie in and I laid the table and we got the bread out for toasting.

“Let’s do some thing special,” said Mum. “Let’s cut the toast into funny shapes. We’ll cut one into a Misery Guts shape and see if your dad can guess who it is!”

So that was what we did. We made a Misery Guts shape and an old Sourpuss shape, and Mum made Nan and Grandy shapes, and I made Tracey Bigg and Miss Foster shapes, and then we just went mad and made any old shapes that took our fancy. Shapes with big heads, and shapes with big feet, and shapes with big bums. Fat shapes, skinny shapes. Tall shapes, short shapes. Shapes of all kinds!

We ended up with way too much toast!

“We’ve used up the whole loaf!” said Mum.

But we just giggled about it, ‘cos that was the sort of mood we were in.

Dad got in at five o’clock. He swung me up in his arms and said, “And how’s our Mand?”

“We’ve been making toasted teachers,” I said.

“That sounds a bit dodgy,” said Dad. “I hope they’re not for my tea?”

“Only for starters,” said Mum, proudly. She
was really chuffed with her posh starters. Paté and toast! That’s what the nobs have.

“So what’s for enders?” said Dad.

“Enders is trifle,” I said. We’d bought some little pots of it at the supermarket.

“And middles?”

“Middles—”

“Oh!”
Mum clapped her hand to her mouth. I ran for the oven. Too late! Dad’s beautiful pie was ruined. We’d been so busy making toast shapes that Mum had forgotten to turn the oven down. The pie had burnt to a cinder!

I looked anxiously at Dad.

Dad said, “What’s this supposed to be, then? My tea?”

Mum, all tearful, said, “There’s always baked beans.”

“Baked beans?”
roared Dad. “I don’t want baked beans!’ He banged with his fist on the table. “I want a man’s meal, darling!”

I could see that any minute Mum was going to burst into tears, and I knew if she did that it would
only get Dad even madder. So I rushed to put all the toast shapes on the table and said, “We could have baked beans on toasted teacher! Look, this one’s Mr Phillpots, with his big bum! And this fat one is Mrs Duckworth. Or you could have beans on Misery Guts. This one’s Misery Guts. See? Mum made her. ‘Cos she moaned about the bathroom, so I reckon she deserves to get eaten. I think you should eat her and Mum should eat old Sourpuss. You could start with the head and work down. Or start at the feet and work up. Yum yum! Lovely bum!”

I’d picked out old Misery Guts and was pushing her at Dad and by this time he was laughing, and Mum was smiling a little tearful smile, so I knew that I could relax. Everything was going to be all right.

“Honest to God,” said Dad, wiping his eyes, “I don’t know where we’d be without you, Mand!”

My mum and dad really do
need
me.

I’m really enjoying telling my life story! I didn’t think I would, I thought it would be a real drag. The only bit I was looking forward to was the drawings. But now I have discovered that I can put on different voices. Like for instance when I’m being Dad I put on this voice that is very grrrrrruff and

And when I’m being Mum I speak very high and light like soap bubbles.

Old Misery Guts, she’s got a voice like a rusty tin full of nails. And when she speaks, her mouth goes like a prune.

So that’s what I make my mouth go like when I’m being her.

Cat has a really
nice
voice. All warm and round and bubbly, like honey glugging out of a jar.

And she has this north country accent, which is fun.

If I’d have known I could do all these voices and act out being different people I could have been in our Christmas play. I could have played the lead instead of—guess who?

You’ve got it! Tracey Bigg. Aimee Wilcox said she was picked because she speaks nice. But I can speak nice! If I want to. I don’t always want to. Anyway, I bet it wasn’t ‘cos she speaks nice, I bet it was ’cos she speaks LOUD. I can speak loud.

Not that Miss Foster would pick me. She wouldn’t ever. She reckons I’m useless and that my mum and dad are useless and that we’re all a bunch of no-hopers. She won’t half be surprised when my book’s published!

Dad said the other day, “So! We’re going to have a famous writer in the family, are we?”

I have thought about this, but while I would quite like to become famous (just to show Tracey Bigg and Miss Foster, and also, of course, to earn a lot of money) I don’t think that I shall become famous by writing books. For one thing, I don’t expect that Cat’s mum would want to keep on typing them out for me. And for another, what would I write about??? Once I have told my life story, what is there left?

Maybe I will become a famous actress! Or a funny person on the telly, pretending to be well-known people. Taking them off. I bet I could do that! It would be a bit like Dad being Elvis. I could be … Madonna!

I could be a Spice girl!