Butterfly Beach Page 3

  ‘OK, I promise, but that fair girl threw hers first!’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ve had a little word with her and her friend. They came back along the beach while I was packing up the barbecue. I told them how silly it was to throw stones too. Then I suggested we all be friends, and invited them to come to a barbecue with us tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Are they coming?’

  ‘I don’t think so – but I’m pretty sure we won’t have any more trouble with them.’

  I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t feel like arguing with him now.

  Then we had this reading time. Phil and Maddie and Tina took it in turns to read aloud from a silly picture book about three little pigs. I wrinkled my nose and looked sideways at them.

  ‘OK, I know it’s babyish, but it’s our favourite,’ said Phil. ‘I do the voice for Peter Pig.’

  ‘We always read it. Have done for ages,’ said Maddie. ‘I do Percy Pig.’

  ‘And I’m the baby, Pompom Pig. He has this funny little squeaky voice. You can say it with me, Selma,’ said Tina.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, go on. You have to join in too. Please. I know it’s silly, but it’s fun,’ she pleaded.

  I had to join in because Tina is my best friend for ever and that’s what you have to do. But it wasn’t fun. It was very, very silly. Every time one of the pigs spoke, Phil or Maddie or Tina made these little snorty noises. Then they all laughed, each and every time. The first time I tried to laugh, just to be polite, but I couldn’t keep it up. Even my stupid brother Sam wouldn’t have found it funny.

  I couldn’t wait for the story to be over. But after that it got even worse. First of all Phil and Maddie started talking about all the things that had happened last summer. I tried talking to Tina about our butterfly garden – about the planting we could do next year – but I could tell she wasn’t really listening. When I was talking, she suddenly giggled and said, ‘Do you remember the time Mum fell asleep on the lilo while we were all swimming and the tide came in and her sandals floated away!’

  They all spluttered with laughter.

  ‘That’s not the slightest bit funny,’ I said.

  That only made them laugh harder. Nothing is more annoying than being with three girls who’ve got the giggles when you don’t feel remotely amused. I was glad when their mum called from the next room, ‘Lights out now, girls. Settle down.’

  They turned off the light, but they didn’t settle down. They had this whole mad routine, saying goodnight to each other.

  ‘Night-night, Phil. You are brill,’ Tina and Maddie chanted.

  ‘Night-night, Maddie. You’re a baddie,’ Tina and Phil chanted.

  ‘Night-night, Tina. You’re a runner bean-a,’ Phil and Maddie chanted.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Let’s make up a night-night for Selma,’ said Tina. ‘What rhymes with Selma?’

  They couldn’t think of anything. Tina kept trying, muttering, ‘Belma, Celma, Delma, Elma, Felma …’ without any luck.

  ‘I don’t want a silly name,’ I said.

  I was getting sick to death of all their little rituals. I wished Tina was an only child. It would be such fun with just the two of us in the caravan. I’d have the top bunk and Tina would be safe in the bottom bunk, and we’d tell our own stories and make up our own funny rhymes. I felt like the odd one out now, as if Tina wasn’t my best friend any more. She was a triplet, one of three. I was one all by myself.

  I put the pillow over my head and pretended to go to sleep. When Tina whispered my name, I didn’t answer. She tried again and then gave up. I felt she could have tried a bit harder. Soon I heard little snores coming from Phil’s bunk, and Maddie started rootling round in hers. They really were like little pigs.

  I started to wish I was back in my bed at home. My eyes felt hot, and then suddenly they were wet. I blotted them hard with my pillow. I never, ever cried. I was Selma, the girl who was too tough for tears. But I didn’t feel like big, tough Selma here, where they wouldn’t even let me chuck a stone at a girl who’d thrown one at me. They were all stupid, even Tina.

  I reached for my phone and started texting my mum under the covers.

  Can u come and fetch me? Don’t like it here.

  But what if they’d really gone to Disneyland? And even if they were still at home, how would they fetch me? Jason was banned from driving and the car was all smashed up anyway. And he’d go on and on about it, saying stuff about Tina and her family, making out they’d got fed up with me.

  He’d be right. They didn’t really want me here. Tina’s mum had said so. Phil and Maddie didn’t like me – any fool could tell that. Tina’s dad was nice to me, but then he was nice to everyone. And Tina? Of course she liked me because she was my best friend – so why didn’t she tell her stupid sisters to shut up? Why did we have to be stuck with them all the time? Why couldn’t we go off by ourselves and have fun?

  By the time I finally got to sleep my pillow was wetter than ever. But when I woke up early the next morning, Tina was gently tickling my neck.

  ‘Shh! The others are all asleep! I thought we could creep out and go to the beach all by ourselves,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, wow! Yes!’ I said.

  It took us two minutes to rush in and out of the toilet and shove on shorts and T-shirts. I put my phone in my pocket, of course. We crept about in an exaggerated manner, pointing to our lips and making shushing noises. It made us get the giggles, so then we had to put our hands over our mouths and noses, though we couldn’t stop a few snorty noises escaping.

  When we got safely out of the caravan without anyone waking up, it was such a relief we practically exploded. We ran down the path between the neat rows of caravans, shrieking with laughter. I think I shrieked much louder than Tina because I was so happy that she wanted to just be with me. Several curtains twitched as we ran past. One man actually put his head out of the door and hissed, ‘Pipe down, you two!’ That made us laugh even more, because he looked so funny in his pyjamas, with his hair sticking straight up. I badly wanted to take a photo of him, but I knew it wouldn’t be wise.

  Right at the end of the row, two girls peered sleepily out of the caravan window. They looked familiar. One was fair. One was dark.

  ‘It’s them!’ I told Tina.

  They didn’t look friendly, for all Tina’s dad’s peacemaking. One of them mouthed a very rude word at us.

  ‘Um!’ said Tina. ‘Come on, Selma, run! I don’t like those girls.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ I stayed just long enough to mouth the word back at them, and then shot off, pulling Tina along behind me.

  We ran out of the gate, down the zigzag path, all the way to the beach. Then we charged across the sand, waving our arms.

  ‘Look, I’m like a butterfly!’ said Tina. She peered down at her bright blue T-shirt and denim shorts. ‘Hey, I’m an Adonis blue!’

  I looked at my new green T-shirt. ‘And I’m a green hairstreak!’

  We laughed, proud of ourselves for knowing so much about butterflies now.

  ‘Maybe we could make a sand butterfly,’ I suggested. ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘Great idea!’ said Tina. But then she wrinkled her nose. ‘We haven’t got any spades with us, though. Shall we go back to the caravan and fetch them?’

  ‘No, we might wake someone up,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm. Tell you what, I could draw a butterfly,’ she said.

  She searched around and found an ice-lolly stick, then ran back to the damp sand near the sea, where she crouched down and started drawing a big butterfly shape. I took a photo of her. Then I found a proper twiggy stick.

  ‘Here, draw with this instead, Tina – that way you won’t have to bend down so much,’ I suggested.

  ‘Thanks!’ she said gratefully.

  I went on searching for useful things. Then I found a black pebble with a streak of white down it, rather like an eye. ‘Hey, look,’ I said, holding it out. ‘What’s that bu
tterfly that has spots like eyes, one on each wing?’

  ‘A meadow brown,’ said Tina, who is the world expert on butterflies. ‘Oh, you’re so brilliant!’ She took the stone and placed it carefully on the top right wing.

  I grinned. I loved being called brilliant.

  ‘Find another one to go on the other wing then!’ Tina commanded.

  I did my best. I offered her several dark pebbles, but she shook her head, saying she didn’t think they were a proper match. I even found another black one with a white streak, but Tina still shook her head.

  ‘It’s not big enough. The poor butterfly would look all wonky. Can’t you find one exactly the same?’ she said.

  ‘Why do you have to be so flipping fussy?’ I said, but I went searching all over the beach to try and please her.

  Then, at long last, I found another black stone with a white streak that looked exactly the right size, and went haring back to her. She’d made the butterfly body and head out of little round black pebbles and pulled two bits off my twiggy stick to make beautiful antennae.

  ‘Wow! It looks fantastic, Tina,’ I said. ‘Here – how about this stone?’

  I put my new find in her hand.

  ‘Yay!’ she cried, and set it in the left wing.

  ‘There, it’s perfect. Let’s take a photo of it,’ I said.

  ‘No, wait. It’s still not the right colour,’ said Tina. ‘It’s a meadow brown.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you can’t paint it!’ I protested.

  ‘We just need something to drape round inside the wing. Something brown and sort of ruffly at the edges to make the back wings look curvy,’ said Tina thoughtfully. She looked towards the sea. ‘Something brown and ruffly like … seaweed!’

  ‘No way!’ I said. ‘If you want seaweed, you’re fetching it yourself!’

  ‘Please, Selma. I just need to make a few finishing touches,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be able to scoop up more than me.’

  ‘I’m not touching it,’ I insisted.

  ‘Selma, you’re not really scared of seaweed, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I lied. ‘But I’m not your dogsbody. If you want it, you can get it yourself.’

  ‘Meanie!’ said Tina.

  ‘How can you say that when I found you a proper stick and sorted through thousands and thousands of pebbles to find the exact right one for Miss Picky Knickers?’ I protested.

  Tina sighed. ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point. OK, I’ll go and get the seaweed.’

  It took her four or five trips down to the sea to get enough. By this time she was sounding a bit gaspy. I started to feel worried. I knew she wasn’t very strong. I should be helping her, but I couldn’t stand the thought of scooping that horrid slimy stuff up with my bare hands.

  I was relieved when Tina started draping the seaweed inside her outline, repositioning the eye pebbles on top. She was right: it did look extra specially effective with the lower wings frilly at the edges. In fact, when she was finished, it looked a work of true genius.

  ‘You’re the one who’s brilliant, Tina. It’s even more of a shame it will all be gone when the tide comes in,’ I said. ‘But I’ll record it, OK?’

  I took photos of the butterfly from every angle, and then I took more of Tina squatting proudly beside it.

  ‘Let me take one of you with the butterfly. I couldn’t have made it without you,’ said Tina.

  I knelt down beside it, pointing proudly at the pebble eye spots, while Tina faffed around with my phone.

  ‘The other way round, silly!’ I said. She might have been a genius at art, but she was useless at anything practical.

  She stood up, then crouched down, trying to get me and the sand butterfly into focus. She climbed onto a little rock so that she was at the right height. And then I saw two girls suddenly jumping up onto the rock beside her. One fair, one dark. With menacing looks.

  ‘Watch out, Tina!’ I cried.

  She swung round, one hand up, holding my phone.

  ‘You giving it to me?’ the fair girl said, trying to snatch it. ‘Thanks!’

  Tina held onto my phone valiantly, but the dark girl gave her a push. It wasn’t much of a push, but Tina’s little and she fell off the rock onto the sand.

  ‘How dare you!’ I screamed, and seized an eye-spot pebble.

  Promise you’ll never, ever throw stones again, Selma!

  It was a big stone. It could do a lot of damage … but I had to defend Tina. There was no other way. I had to break my promise. Unless …

  The two girls were running now. I took a deep breath, scooped up two huge handfuls of disgusting slimy seaweed from the butterfly’s wings, ran after them and took aim.

  Splodge! I got the fair girl right on the head.

  I threw another lump. I missed the dark girl’s head, but the seaweed slithered all down her back.

  They shrieked and shuddered wonderfully.

  ‘Amazing!’ gasped Tina, picking herself up. ‘And I’ve still got your phone safe. I didn’t get it sandy – look!’

  ‘Give it here a second,’ I said.

  I switched it to video and captured the girls sobbing and screaming, still covered in seaweed.

  ‘There! I’ve recorded you two, and if you don’t leave us alone now, I’ll put it on YouTube and I bet it will go viral and you’ll both end up laughing stocks!’ I said. ‘You can’t get the better of me. I’m Selma, and I’m the meanest girl ever, and everyone’s scared of me!’

  ‘Except me,’ said Tina.

  The girls turned and ran off!

  ‘Oh, wow, Selma, they really are scared now,’ Tina laughed.

  ‘They make out they’re so tough, but they’re total wimps, scared of a few bits of seaweed!’ I said, though I was busy burying my hands in the soft sand further up the beach, desperate to get rid of that horrible slimy, slippery feel.

  Tina was looking sadly at her butterfly. ‘It’s a shame it’s spoiled now, without its brown wings,’ she said. ‘Shall we make it again?’

  I looked at the time on my phone. ‘Actually, I think we’d better get back. Won’t your mum and dad be up by now?’

  ‘OK. But let’s sneak out again early tomorrow and make another butterfly,’ said Tina. ‘Just you and me.’

  So we did. I even fetched some seaweed myself, though I did use Tina’s mum’s Marigold gloves. She got a bit narked when she found out. Still, for the rest of the holiday she didn’t nag me too much. And Tina’s dad was lovely to me.

  ‘Strange how those girls didn’t come round for our barbecue, though,’ he said. ‘They seem to be keeping well away. Still, it shows that talking things through nearly always stops people doing silly things.’

  ‘Nearly always,’ I agreed, and Tina winked at me.

  We didn’t tell Tina’s dad or mum about the seaweed incident, of course. But Tina told Phil and Maddie, and I showed them my video clip. We all laughed and laughed. Phil and Maddie aren’t too bad, actually. Sometimes it was fun, all of us playing together.

  But the best parts of all were when it was just Tina and me.

  PEA STEPPED GINGERLY around the porridge, and peered out of the window.

  The other side of their half-a-house had a garden like the twin of their own, except with neat grass, a climbing frame with monkey bars, and a vegetable patch instead of lumpy paving and a shed. You could see over the wall between the two quite clearly from Clover’s orange-and-silver bedroom. And in the garden, beside the faded red-and-blue football, was a person sitting on the grass reading a book. It looked about Pea’s age, the person. It had floppy brown hair, and she couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl.

  Pea waved her arm, and knocked on the window.

  The person looked up, scanning the sky with a frown. Then the person – it really was impossible to tell if it was a girl or a boy – saw her, smiled widely, and waved too: a proper, excited, pleased-to-meet-you sort of wave.

  That was definitely FRIENDLY.

  Pea s
pun about, knocked the porridge bowl so that it splattered up Clover’s ankles, hissed ‘Sorry!’ to her, and hurried back down to the garden.

  But it was starting to rain, and though she called ‘Hello?’ there was no answer. By the time she’d raced back upstairs to Clover’s room (where she was not at all welcome), the next-door garden was empty, and fat raindrops were splashing against the windowpane.

  All the same, Pea was thrilled. There was a potential new Dot next door, and it had been reading. Pea mentally ticked off ‘Imaginative (likes books)’ on her ‘Best Friend Requirements’ list at once.

  The next day there was a large sign on Clover’s bedroom door, with in scrolly writing on it. Pea was only allowed in to hover hopefully at Clover’s window as long as she agreed to let Clover paint a stinky yellow mixture onto her head.

  ‘Apparently, the very best thing for hair is a sort of apricot that only grows in India,’ Clover said, wiping off a dribble that was running down Pea’s neck. ‘But the astringent qualities of vinegar and conditioning properties of egg yolks are a good substitute. It said so in my leaflet.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Pea, holding her nose, and noting that Clover hadn’t put any eggs or vinegar on her own hair.

  By the time the person arrived in the garden, Pea’s head had dried hard and shiny, like a shell.

  Pea waved frantically – but the floppy-haired person didn’t even look up. She or he half-heartedly kicked the tatty red-and-blue football around, looking bored.

  ‘You can’t go outside like that!’ said Clover, rapping on Pea’s shiny eggy head as she tried to run out to the garden to shout over the wall.

  It took for ever to wash all the egg out, and by the time Pea’s hair was clean(ish), the floppy-haired person had gone.

  The next day, when Pea sneaked into Clover’s room to wait, and then to frantically wave (Clover was in the bath, doing something with orange peel), the person gave her a severe and ominous glare, then went straight back indoors.