Jean Ure - Just Peachy

“Five, all at once!”

“I don’t—”

“Five’s not the record,” said Dad. “When I was a boy, there were six of us at one time. Your Uncle Daniel – ” he nodded at us as he ticked names off on his fingers – “your Aunt Helen, me, plus three cousins: Will, Shula, Rory. All there at the same time!”

Mum said, “Yes, but this will be five from just one family. I bet that’s never happened before! We ought to ask for reduced rates.”

My heart began hammering. This was it! I had to get it out. Now. Before they went rushing off to demand reductions.

I took another breath. Deeper this time.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I don’t really—”

“Bubbly!” Dad thumped again, on the table. “A bottle of bubbly. That’s what we need!”

“Don’t really w—”

“McBrides United!”

“—really want to go to Summerfield!”

I might just as well not have bothered. Nobody was listening.

“What a team, eh?” Dad winked at Mum.

“We are doing rather well,” agreed Mum.

“Yeah, cos me and Flora – ” Fergus bounced boastfully on his chair – “we didn’t even have to take auditions! Everybody else did, but not us.”

“That’s right.” Flora nodded. “Miss Marshall said she knew what we were capable of.”

“Well, of course she did,” said Dad. “Chips off the old block, the pair of you!”

I think what he meant was, they took after him. Well, and after Mum too, if it comes to that. Mum might not be on the radio, but she is every bit as theatrical as Dad. So are all the others. They are all chips off the old block. Except for me. I am like the cuckoo in the nest. The odd one out. It wouldn’t ever have occurred to Miss Marshall to say she knew what I was capable of. She didn’t even suggest I took the audition, even though I can sing in tune. Of course I could have asked her, if I’d really wanted. But I kept thinking how she’d look at me, with this air of doubt.

“You, Peaches? I thought you’d be helping out backstage?”

What I would have liked was for her to ask me. But even if she had I probably wouldn’t have been given anything, and then the twins would have told Mum, and Mum would have made a big fuss and hugged me and cried, “Oh, darling, don’t think you have to compete! You have your own thing.”

It was like a sort of family myth, me having my own thing. Nobody ever said what it was, and I never quite liked to ask. It was just something Mum used to say to try and make me feel good.

“I’ll tell you what!” Mum’s voice rang out, very clear and bell-like. Heads at the next table turned to stare. “If I hadn’t had you lot, I might have gone onstage myself.”

Dad at once started to sing. He has a deep dark baritone. Very loud.

“Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington—”

Mum slapped at him. “I could have done!”

“Of course you could, my angel.” Dad blew her a kiss across the table. “You could have done anything you wanted.”

“Instead of which, I had this lot.”

“Ah, but think how proud they’re going to make you!”

“What I should like to think,” said Mum, “is that we could get a reduction in school fees. Dog breeders get reductions. Why can’t we? I mean, let’s face it, sending five of them…”

I think at this point I must have made a little squeak of protest without realising it. Mum broke off and looked at me.

“Did you say something, darling?”

I opened my mouth. I don’t want to go to Summerfield! I’d been trying to say it for the last fifteen minutes. And now, just as I was on the point of actually doing so, Dad gave a joyful cry – “Here’s Raj!” – and Mum snatched up a menu and instructed everyone to order. The moment had passed.

“What’ll we have? Who wants what?”

“Poppadoms, anyone? Who’s for poppadoms?”

And then they all started shouting at once.

“Chicken tikka!”

“Prawn masala!”

“Lamb biryani!”

Raj, who was used to us, stood calmly in the midst of it all writing things down.

“Everyone ordered?” said Mum brightly.

“Yes, yes.” Dad, impatient, gathered up the menus. “Don’t forget the bubbly!”

It was Raj who noticed I hadn’t ordered anything.

“And for the young lady?” he said.

“Young lady?” said Mum. “Which young lady?”

“Just Peachy,” said Coop.

“What? She hasn’t ordered?”

I’m not absolutely positive, but I think Raj may have winked at me. Sort of like showing sympathy. My family!

“So what are you going to have?” said Mum. “If you had the chicken korma, we could mix and match.”

“Yes, all right,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. Raj stood gravely, his pen poised.

“She’ll have the chicken korma,” said Mum. “Honestly, darling, you really must learn to speak up!”

“Like on stage,” said Flora. “If you don’t SPEAK UP – ” her voice rose to a shriek – “no one’ll be able to hear you.”

“Well, they’ll certainly be able to hear you, all right,” said Mum.

Flora gave this little complacent smirk. “That’s why Miss Marshall chose us, cos we have these really BIG voices. There’s this one girl in our class – Alisha Briggs? She really fancies herself, she thinks she’s going to get to play the lead, but she won’t cos she has this silly little squeaky voice like an ant. Squeaky squeaky!”

“Ants don’t squeak,” I said.

“They do so,” said Flora. “You just can’t hear them. Like you can’t hear Alisha. Plus she can’t even sing in tune. She goes like this: doh, re, mi-i-i-…”

Flora’s voice rose, shrill and quavery. One of the ladies at the next table placed a hand over her ear.

“I’m going to be singing,” said Charlie. “Coop’s already written one of my songs for me. Haven’t you?”

“Right,” said Coop. “Wanna give them a taste of it?”

Charlie never needs a second invitation. To be fair she does actually have a good voice. Very high and silvery. Not always quite in tune, but who cares?

“Lovely, lovely!” cried Mum, when we’d listened to three full verses plus the chorus. Everyone clapped, madly. Dad even shouted, “Bravo!” I was a bit embarrassed so I just tapped my hands together without making any sound, but some people in the restaurant actually turned in their seats and joined in. Even the lady at the next table, the one who’d put her hand over her ear.

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.