Just Peachy (2 page)

I’m always surprised that people don’t get angry and ask us to be quiet, but they never seem to. I suspect it’s cos of Dad being on the radio, and sometimes on TV, which makes him a sort of mini celeb. Celebs can get away with anything. I bet if ordinary people were to start singing and shouting and making a noise, Raj would say something quickly enough, but he was smiling happily as he brought the champagne. Of course, Dad spends a
lot
of money in his restaurant. I expect that helps.

“Someone’s birthday?” said Raj, as he popped the cork.

“Celebration,” said Dad. “Double whammy.”

Mum explained about Charlie and Coop and the twins.

“All reaching for the stars!”

This time, Raj really did wink at me. It gave me this little glow of happiness. It made me feel that he was on my side. Everybody, but everybody, loves Mum and Dad, cos they are funny and warm and they make people laugh. But maybe Raj understood how it was, being me. Just Peachy, the mouse in the middle.

“Righty-o!” Dad raised his glass. “Let us have a toast… the McBrides!”

When we’d toasted the whole family together we toasted Charlie and Coop, and after that we toasted the twins. And then Mum said, “To Peachy!” and they all drank a toast to me. And then the food came and everyone immediately fell on it in a kind of mad feeding frenzy, like in those wildlife films where they show bunches of jackals tearing some poor dead thing to shreds. You have to eat really, really fast if you want to keep up. Sometimes I manage it OK, but sometimes I am a bit slow. What made me slow that particular evening was worrying about how and when I was going to break my earth-shattering news to Mum and Dad and how they were going to react. They were not going to be happy.

“Peachy,” said Mum, “stop messing your food about.”

“What’s the matter?” said Dad. “Don’t you want it?” He leaned across and dug his fork into a piece of chicken. The very piece I’d been about to dig my fork into.

“Oh, well, if she’s not going to eat it,” said Mum, and she leaned across and dug her fork in too.

“Really,” said Dad, “I don’t know why you order things if you don’t like them.”

“If you’d have preferred something else,” said Mum, “you only had to say.”

“No need to be scared.” Dad helped himself to more chicken. “Just sing right out!”

“She can’t sing,” said Flora.

I said, “I can so! Shows how much you know.”

Complacently, chewing chicken, Dad said, “All the McBrides can sing. Even Peachy.”

Tomorrow I would
definitely
tell them.

Usually on a Sunday morning I stay curled up under the duvet for as long as I possibly can. All the family does, except for Mum. Mum is always the first up. She says she likes to have the house to herself for half an hour before the rest of us appear and start banging and clattering.

“A little bit of peace and quiet, that’s all I ask.”

Hah! That is a joke. Even when she does have the house to herself Mum isn’t quiet.
Or
peaceful. I could hear her, that Sunday, down in the kitchen bawling at the radio. I knew I had to make an effort. Catch her on her own.

Blearily, I forced my eyes open and with one hand threw off the duvet. The hand immediately fell back with a heavy
flump
on to the bed. It felt like a bag of wet cement. My eyes started to close again. It was a great temptation just to let them. I
so
didn’t want to have to drop my bombshell!

An angry bellow from the kitchen jerked me back into wakefulness. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, groped my way into jeans and T-shirt, wobbled out on to the landing and staggered downstairs and along the hall.

Mum was sitting with her feet on the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and shouting at the radio. Everyone in my family always shouts at the radio. They can’t ever listen to anything without joining in. What Mum was listening to were the Sunday-morning highlights of Dad’s weekday breakfast show, when Dad gives his opinion about what is happening in the world and the public call in and give theirs, and they have a conversation about it. Well, sometimes they do. Sometimes Dad decides that people are idiots and cuts them off. Sometimes they decide that Dad is an idiot and cut themselves off. Sometimes some of them are bonkers. Like this one woman, Monica, that calls in practically every day. She was on there now, her words splattering round the kitchen like machine-gun fire.

“If-you-ask-me-they-should-all-be-made-to-run-naked-through-the-streets-and-have-raw-sewage-thrown-at-them.”

I giggled. I loved Monica! “What’s she talking about?”

“Politicians,” said Mum. “Oh, listen to her, listen to her! That is too much. She is completely mad! JUST BE QUIET, WOMAN, AND GO AWAY! Honestly, I don’t know why your dad puts up with it.”

“He probably agrees with her,” I said. “He probably thinks it’s a good idea.”

“What? Naked politicians running through the streets?” Mum rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid! They’re quite bad enough with their clothes
on
, thank you very much. What are you doing up so bright and early?”

This was it. The moment I was dreading. I sank down on to a chair opposite her.

“Mum,” I said, “there’s something I w—”

“Omigod, there she goes again! Get rid of her, get rid of her!”

“OK.” I leaned over and switched the radio off. Mum gave a shriek.

“What are you doing?”

“You said to get rid of her.”

“I was talking to your dad! I didn’t mean – oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. I lose all patience with that woman. Did you want to say something?”

She’d noticed. At last! I braced myself against the table.

“You know last night,” I said, “when you were saying how there’d be five of us at Summerfield?”

“Yes! Great fun. But I definitely intend to ask about a reduction.”

“The thing is,” I said, “I—” I stopped. I couldn’t get it out!

“You what?” said Mum.

I gulped. “I don’t want to go there!”

My voice came out in a pathetic squeak. Mum stared, like I had suddenly gone green or turned into some weird kind of
thing
from outer space.

“You don’t want to go to Summerfield?”

I hung my head.

“You’re not serious?” said Mum. “Please! Tell me you’re not serious?”

I took a deep, trembling breath.

“Omigod,” cried Mum, “you are!”

There was a silence. Long, and awkward. Mum ran a despairing hand through her hair. Mum’s hair is very thick and springy. It was already sticking up from where she’d been sleeping on it. Now she’d made it look like a bird’s nest.

“I’m really sorry,” I whispered.

This was turning out even worse than I’d thought. I had never, ever known Mum be at a loss for words before. She was shaking her head, like she had earwigs crawling in her ears. She seemed totally bewildered.

“Darling,” she said, “what on earth are you talking about? Of course you’re going there! The McBrides always go to Summerfield. It’s all arranged!”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“Coop and Charlie couldn’t be happier. They love it!”

“Yes,” I said. “I know they do.”

“It’s not like you’ll be on your own. They’ll be there to keep an eye on you.”

I stared down at the table.

“And the twins,” said Mum. “They can’t wait to get there!”

I mumbled again that I was sorry.

“Is it something someone’s said? Something that’s put you off?”

I assured her that it wasn’t.

“So… what is it?” said Mum. “I don’t understand! Why all of a sudden don’t you want to go?”

“I just don’t!”

The squeak had turned into a kind of desperate wail. Please don’t keep asking me! Because how could I explain? How could I tell Mum the reason I didn’t want to go to Summerfield was that I needed to be on my own? To be somewhere I could just be
me
,
safely anonymous, without everyone knowing my dad was on the radio and who my brothers and sisters were. I loved my family, I truly did, but sometimes they made me wonder whether I actually really existed or whether I was just this empty space in their midst.

“Darling?” A new idea had obviously struck Mum. She studied me anxiously. “It’s not
because
of them, is it? Charlie and Coop? Because they’re both doing so well? It’s not that that’s bothering you? Because it really shouldn’t! I mean, Coop and his music… we can’t any of us compete with Coop. Not even your dad. As for Charlie – well! She’s just being Charlie. Centre of attention. That’s her thing, it’s what she does. Not everyone can be like Charlie. We’re all different! And just as well, if you ask me. The world would be a very boring place if we were all the same, don’t you think?”

Mum gave me this bright, hopeful smile, like begging me to agree with her. I smiled rather tremulously back, but was saved from having to say anything by the whirlwind arrival of Dad, who came crashing noisily through the door. Dad is quite a
large
person; he does a lot of crashing.

Mum said, “Alastair, we need to t—”

She never got to finish the sentence. With a howl, Dad lunged at the radio.

“Why isn’t this on? Why aren’t we listening to my highlights?”

“I was,” said Mum. “Peachy turned it off. We n—”

But Dad had already switched the radio back on. His rich fruity tones came booming out across the kitchen.

“Hah!” he said. “I knew they’d play this bit!”

Mum pulled a face. I sort of sympathised with her. Dad does tend to drown people out. But then Mum does a fair bit of drowning herself.

“This next guy was a right plonker,” said Dad. “How about mad Monica? Did they play her?”

“Never mind mad Monica,” said Mum rather grimly. “We have a problem on our hands.”

“Really?” Dad helped himself to a cup of coffee. “What’s that?”

“Just Peachy,” said Mum. “She doesn’t want to go to Summerfield.”

“
What?
”

“You heard me,” said Mum. “She doesn’t want to go to—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” yelled Dad, “kill that damn radio!”

For the second time, I leaned across and turned it off.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t want to go to Summerfield?”

“What I said. She doesn’t want to go there.”

If I’d thought Mum’s reaction was bad, Dad’s was a thousand times worse. It was like his mouth opened and a bomb exploded, shooting words all over the kitchen. They bounced off the walls, banged against the windows. Mum waited patiently, drinking her coffee. I sat hunched on my chair, feet on the rung, elbows on table, chin propped in hands, my face covered. You can’t interrupt Dad when he is in full flow; you just have to take shelter until the storm has passed. As soon as it has, Dad becomes calm again. His temper is massive, but it usually dies down as quickly as it flares up.

Mum said, “Right! Can we talk now?”

“We’d better,” said Dad.

“If you’ll just stop moving about and sit yourself down.”

“I am sitting down,” said Dad. He pulled out a chair. “I’m in a state of shock. What is all this nonsense?”

Mum said that unfortunately she didn’t think it was nonsense. “I think she’s serious… she doesn’t want to go there.”

“I got that bit,” said Dad. “What I want to know is why?”

“I think,” said Mum, “it’s because she feels scared of being overshadowed by Charlie and Coop. What with Charlie hogging all the limelight and Coop being some kind of prodigy – and then, of course, there’s the twins, when they come along. They’re not exactly shrinking violets, bless them!”

Dad said, “You can say that again.” He gave one of his throaty chuckles. “Talk about a double act!”

“Exactly,” said Mum. “You can understand if she feels a bit overwhelmed.”

They were going on about me like I was deaf, or in another room. They did that sometimes. Just stopped noticing that I was there.

“I don’t think we should push her, if she really doesn’t want to. I would hate her to end up with some kind of complex.”

“It is the curse of coming from a gifted family,” agreed Dad. “There’s bound to be a bit of…” He waved a hand. “Well! A bit of… you know. Difficulty.”

“Although she does have her own thing. Just because it’s not showy doesn’t mean it’s not as valid.”

“All the same.” Dad slurped his coffee. “Hard act to follow.”

“Very hard,” said Mum.

“So! What do we do?”

There was a pause. I waited for Mum to say something but she just sat there, munching her top lip.

“
Well?
” Dad was getting worked up again. He slapped his hand on the table. “Say something!”

Since it seemed that Mum wasn’t going to, I thought that perhaps I should.

“You could always send me somewhere else,” I said.

Their heads snapped round, like,
Ooh, she’s there! She’s been there all the time!

“We could.” Mum said it slowly, considering the idea. “But where would we send you?”

“That,” said Dad, “is the question.”

Eagerly I leaned forward. I’d been doing a lot of thinking about where I’d like to go. “What about Winterbourne?” I said.

“Oh, darling, no!” Mum gave a little shudder. “Not Winterbourne! You’d be completely lost. You’d never survive! It’s far too big. And anyway, it doesn’t have a good reputation at all.”

I didn’t care that it was big. I didn’t care about its reputation. All that interested me was that Winterbourne High was just about as far as you could possibly get from somewhere like Summerfield. Nobody would know me. Nobody would know my family. I could just be
me.

“It’s only down the road,” I pleaded. “I could walk there!”

“But why would you want to?” said Dad. He seemed genuinely puzzled. Why would anyone in their right senses choose Winterbourne High over Summerfield? “Give me one good reason!”

“You wouldn’t have to pay for me?” I suggested.

Dad gave an angry roar. “Don’t you try pulling that one, my girl! There’s a little thing called equality in this house, yes? If we pay for the others, we pay for you. You’ll have to come up with something a bit better than that!”

“I like the uniform?” I said.

“Darling, it’s
grey
,” said Mum. Summerfield’s is bright red. Far more to Mum’s taste.

I said, “I like grey.”

“Nonsense!” said Mum.

“Rubbish!” said Dad.

“It wouldn’t suit you at
all
,” said Mum. “You need a bit of colour. Something bright. Put you in grey, you’d just fade into the background.”

“Not,” said Dad, “that one chooses a school by its uniform.”

“Well, no, of course. Absolutely not! But I don’t think it helps if it makes one look a total fright. And you know, darling, you do need all the help you can get. You don’t want to
fade.
How about Sacred Heart? That’s a nice school!”

“They wear kilts,” I said.

“I know. So sweet! That blue would really suit you. Bring out the colour of your eyes. Of course – ” a note of doubt crept into Mum’s voice – “it is all girls. I’m never too sure about that. On the other hand, you do have brothers, so maybe it wouldn’t matter too much.” Mum turned enthusiastically to Dad. “Do you know, I really think Sacred Heart would be a good choice!”

“Bring out the colour of her eyes,” said Dad sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t be silly! That’s neither here nor there,” said Mum. “I was just thinking how it was exactly the sort of school that would suit her… small classes, no pressure… no one to compete with. And all those lovely nuns! Let’s check out their website.”

It seemed that my fate was sealed.

“We are assuming,” said Dad, “that they can take her.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” said Mum.

Mum is always sure about everything, and it has to be said, she is usually right. She has this gift of bending people to her will.