Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar Read Free Page B

doesn’t seem to be working.
    ‘Isn’t it what everybody wants in life?’ he says. ‘To say they have made a difference? Changed things for the better? Helped other people?’
    ‘You don’t have to go to Malawi to do that,’ Mum huffs. ‘I do those things every day, at work. It’s what a nurse does.’
    Well, I suppose so. I can see it is not quite what Dad has in mind, though. Mum has just been telling us about one of her patients, who managed to nick a wheelchair and make a break for freedom, returning half an hour later with fish, chips and chocolate bars for the whole ward.
    ‘You can’t blame him,’ Mum had said. ‘Hospital food is not the best.’
    ‘Livvi, I know you love your job,’ Dad says. ‘But I want to do something to make a difference too.’
    ‘You did, when you were teaching,’ Mum says.
    ‘The children at Green Lane Community School did not want to be changed,’ Dad grumbles. ‘They just wanted to send text messages under the desk and read copies of Hello magazine whenever my back was turned. They were beyond help.’
    ‘Nobody is beyond help,’ Mum tells him, but I think she could be wrong. I think that Dad might be.
    ‘Malawi needs us,’ he says with passion, and Becca throws her maths homework in the bin and says that if Dad doesn’t give up on the whole idea, she is going to run off with her boyfriend Spike and join the circus.
    ‘We’ve been planning it,’ she says. ‘We will be the first Goth trapeze artistes ever. Or maybe we will do a high-wire act, or ride unicycles. But we will definitely do it, Dad, unless you come to your senses.’
    Dad fishes the maths book out of the bin, brushing off a couple of beansprouts, but Becca says she won’t need to know about advanced geometry when she is in the circus.
    Mum sighs. ‘Don’t worry, Becca. Nobody is going to Malawi.’
    ‘Don’t worry, Becca,’ Dad echoes. ‘You’ll love Africa. We all will. Just give this idea a chance!’
    The door slams so hard it makes the floor shake. I am used to seeing Becca flounce off to her room, but this time it isn’t Becca.
    It’s Mum.
    If there is one thing worse than living in a tin hut in Malawi with a herd of goats for company, it is watching my parents row. It is not nice. It makes my tummy churn with worry, and my mouth turn down at the sides.
    I would rather pack my bag tomorrow and head for Africa than listen to any more slamming doors and huffy arguments.
      
    Luckily, I have the pink guitar to focus on. I took it to school yesterday, to show Miss Moon. I had been hoping she might ask me to do a guitar solo in front of the whole class, and then give me her special Star of the Week award for being a musical genius, but sadly, no. Tom Taylor got the Star of the Week award, for building a model of the Eiffel Tower out of matchsticks. It was pretty amazing.
    Miss Moon did say my guitar was lovely, and told me I was a very lucky girl. Then she suggested we put it in her stock cupboard for safekeeping. I guess my plans to wow the school with my rock princess performance will have to wait.

    On Friday, Mum announces that she has signed me up for a course of guitar lessons with a famous guitar guru called Mr Tingley.
    I practically jump up and down with excitement.
    ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, Livvi?’ Dad asks. ‘There’s not much point in Daizy starting guitar lessons now. We might not be here for much longer.’
    My heart sinks. ‘I’d really like lessons,’ I say in a very small voice. ‘Please?’
    ‘You won’t need an electric guitar in Malawi,’ Dad says.
    ‘I will!’ I protest. ‘I will need it wherever I go! What if I get inspired and need to write a song?’
    ‘Of course she will need her guitar!’ Becca defends me. ‘Get real, Dad. Don’t you even care that you are turning our lives upside down?’
    ‘Try to see it as an adventure,’ Dad grins. ‘Most of the schemes I’m looking at are just for a year. We can all manage for a year without