Hazel Wood Girl Read online

  She walks like a cat or a film star, and has very short fair hair and the greenest green eyes. I wish my eyes were a real colour like blue or green or brown and not just the colour of beer, as Adam so kindly puts it. Dad tried to make me feel better by correcting Adam and saying my eyes were in fact the colour of barley, but beer is made from barley so he just confirmed it really.

  DAY TEN

  Breakfast is made more bearable by Mum’s new passion for baking muffins. She thinks it makes her creative, but it doesn’t, it just proves she can tell a blueberry from a banana. Dad let slip that Adam is going out on a date with some teacher from our school. I hope she dumps him quickly so he doesn’t get round to talking about me. Adam is ancient in every way, so either the teacher is desperate, or is Miss Abingdale (forty-ish maths teacher) or both. Dad thinks it’s hilarious and Mum thinks it’s sweet, and I think it’s a bit sick. For God’s sake, he doesn’t even eat most supermarket or restaurant food without asking loads of questions. Where will he take her to dinner? The carrot and parsnip furrow in our kitchen garden maybe?

  I must make something happen. Life is not made up of muffins and sheep. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

  Now that I know how to dress in French, and tell the time in French (as long as it is something past something and not something to something), I feel more than ready to leave the farm. Twitchy, even.

  I phoned Michelle to see if I could come and visit. It’s weird seeing someone every day since you were four and then just not seeing them again. Her dad answered and told me she was away at ballet camp, which I knew but forgot.

  My next plan was to phone Mindy and get her to casually ask Mum and Dad to let me join her at French summer camp, and hope that they were feeling unnaturally optimistic at that moment. But she said she didn’t want the extra responsibility of having to look after me. She is such a pain, she has never had to look after me, even when we were little I always took care of myself. She thinks because she is two years older than me that she’s a million times better than me. Only her hair and boyfriends make her a bit better than me, the rest is about even. I didn’t argue with her because I never do because there’s no point.

  Plan C was to eat, and that was successful because it didn’t require anyone being not at ballet camp, or being not annoying. There was some butternut squash soup and I took a mug of it out to my greenhouse to write this.

  Just now I saw one of the new little boys from the house across the way, standing stock-still in the summer cattle field. He looks about eight years old and has really black hair and dark-brown eyes. He doesn’t seem like someone who would wreck your greenhouse on you, in fact I felt a bit bad for him, just standing there staring into space. I remember how I did that when we first moved. Like if I stood there long enough it would all disappear and go back to being the old place.

  DAY ELEVEN

  I saw the strange little boy again this morning. He just stands there, gazing out with those big brown eyes, like he’s sleepwalking or something. I think it was the same little boy, but it might have been his brother. If I see him again I might say hello.

  Adam is smiling way too much. Not happy about that, and still no more clues. It might even be Miss Jenkins in which case I might have got Adam all wrong.

  Today I decided I would be an intrepid adventurer and fully explore the farm, all around the edge of it. It doesn’t take much to be intrepid around here, just way too much time and a bottle of orange juice in your pocket and maybe a banana muffin. I was careful not to go by the big stone barn because that’s right beside the Egg Farm and I didn’t fancy the Grangers having a go at me again.

  I always thought there was nothing but roughland between the sheep field and the falling-down cottage, but in that bit where it dips and curves around the corner, there’s a little wood-type place in the hollow. There’s only about forty little trees, which are really huge big bushes I guess. They are hazel trees, and it’s meant to be called a coppice. I found out when I got back and looked it up in Dad’s tree book. I am still going to call it a wood because it is one really. I like the idea of having my own magic Hazel Wood.

  Adam said that if I had found the hazel coppice in the spring I would have seen all the lambs’ tails hanging there, which are like furry bits that hang off the ends of the twigs. Not real lambs’ tails obviously, because that would be more than a big bit weird. He told me they used to use the wood from hazel to make fencing and baskets when he was little. I pretended to be surprised that baskets had already been invented back then.

  Today wasn’t even worth writing about.

  I hope I am not getting ruined for life by all this.

  DAY TWELVE

  It was hot today so I had my peanut-butter toast-sandwich and blueberry muffin outside, sitting on the drystone wall beside the Hazel Wood and the old, ruined cottage. I don’t know why I like it there so much, I suppose because it’s sort of off-to-the-side and ignored, and I can relate.

  I spent the whole morning there, daydreaming about having a boyfriend and walking past Barbara with my boyfriend’s arm around me (and the rest of him attached to his arm, obviously).

  Whenever I feel really alone, I always imagine JL, the boy from my old class in the city. In the real world JL is probably spending the summer at the youth club like last year. He used to play table tennis with Mindy and her best friend. If I’d had any clue then that I’d be leaving in six months I would have definitely talked to him, definitely.

  Someone I did talk to today was the little boy who was in our farmyard. Well, I said ‘hello’ and he sort of stared more. What is wrong with everybody that no one can say hello to me? Anyway, Mum says that his mother is sick and that their dad left them when the youngest son was born, so it’s got to be tough.

  They call him Sammy-boy (sounds like an old American cowboy name!) and his brother is Christophe, but Christophe must be even shyer because I haven’t even seen him about at all.

  DAY THIRTEEN

  Mum sent me over to the new lady’s house with a welcome gift of oatcakes, goose eggs and fruit and things, while she went to yoga.

  I figured as long as they weren’t as nasty as the Grangers I’d be fine.

  The Hoopers (that’s their name) have been so creative with the house and it looks like something you’d see in an expensive magazine. Mrs Hooper is really gentle and interesting and doesn’t look sick, but Mum says that’s because it’s a condition that comes and goes, worse some days and better others. She invited me to drop in any time and hang out with Sammy-boy and Christophe. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m certain that hanging out with a fourteen-year-old girl would be last thing on earth eight- and ten-year-old boys would want.

  On the way back through the summer cattle-field one of the cows tried to butt me, so I called it a Sunday Roast and told it where to go. I thought I heard someone laughing, but maybe I am just a bit paranoid after all that’s been going on.

  I then did something that is so stupid that the word ‘stupid’ doesn’t even cover it. I found JL’s number from directory inquiries and called his house. He answered and I hung up. I would so not be good as a spy.

  By that stage I was determined to do something positive. Anything to not have it be another wasted day. I read somewhere that rinsing your hair in beer makes it shiny, so I took a bottle from the fridge and Dad caught me going upstairs with it and now he and Mum want to have a chat with me. It’s funny really, I’m probably the last person to drink beer and now I have to have a heavy full-on conversation. It’s typical, I never do anything wrong and things always go bad.

  Something good has to happen soon. Has to.

  DAY FOURTEEN

  Broccoli does not by rights belong in a muffin. You would think that would be obvious.

  I think they believe me about the beer being for my hair, but I’m not certain. Still they told me that it’s a very busy time, their first year at the farm, and they need me to keep out of trouble.

  I was in a full-on strop af
ter that, but I smiled and didn’t let them see. I’m sick to death of being nice no matter what, so I stayed away all day, with a serious amount of cheese crackers in one pocket and some grapes in the other.

  I headed straight for the Hazel Wood and it was so weird, there was this note hanging from one of the branches of the first big tree. It said ‘To the Hazel Wood Girl’, and I wanted so badly to have a look inside, but was afraid that the Hazel Wood Girl would catch me at it and be angry, so I just left it and went back to ….

  OH MY GOD! I am such an idiot. It might be for me! There are no other girls around now that Mindy’s away and we own the wood, so it must mean me. I’m big-time ridiculous, I’m so slow, just like when they called me ‘The Farmer’, only this is better if it is me. It’s only just getting dark so I’m going to run out and see if it’s still there. Why am I still here writing this? Oh my God!!!

  It was still there!! It says,

  Please don’t be so sad, Hazel Wood Girl, there are lots of good things around you. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to 1) find the newest animal in the farmyard 2) find the strangest-looking creature on the farm 3) find one thing that reminds you most of when you were really happy.

  I’d think Mrs Hooper left it, except that from the handwriting it seems to be from a teenager. It’s no one’s handwriting from our house and it can’t be the Grangers on the Egg Farm because they are biologically incapable of being nice or interesting, and if they did send a note it would be to yell at you on paper.

  I just showed the envelope to Mum and she said that seeing as it was in our bit of woodland that it must be for me and that we know everyone in the area so it must be a friend of the family. Of course she thinks it’s Barbara, not knowing that she’s left already. I’m glad Mum wasn’t that interested as it still feels like my own secret. I’m psyched now about getting up and finding out those bits of info asked in the note. It’s not the most thrilling thing to do when you compare it to what Mindy and Barbara are up to, but hey, at least it’s something.

  DAY FIFTEEN

  All morning I snooped round the farmyard and the farm (getting under people’s feet apparently, even if they were yards away). By lunchtime I was sure of the answers and ran down to the Hazel Wood. My note read,

  1) The newest animal is a black calf that was born a month ago. I think there might also be some baby mice in the tool shed in the kitchen garden because I heard tiny, tiny squeaking, but couldn’t see them. 2) The strangest-looking creature on the farm is dad’s Cousin Adam, no contest. 3) I haven’t found anything that reminds me of when I was happy because anything we brought with us makes me feel sad. Sorry if I failed the last part of the mission.

  I left it on the tree where I found the original and put ‘To The Watcher’ on the envelope, as I guess they must have been watching me hang out in the wood. I have been forcing myself not to go back and look again until tomorrow.

  Adam was getting dressed up all fancy again (which for him means no welly-boots) so I just asked him,

  ‘Which teacher are you going out with?’

  He said, ‘Liza’ as he walked out the door, which is no help at all seeing as I don’t know any of the teachers’ first names.

  Mum is annoyed because the geese are not laying so many eggs this week. Dad pissed her off more when he said he’d have a word with them about it. Then he made her a coffee and she calmed down. I wish my life was that easily fixed.

  DAY SIXTEEN

  I saw Barbara’s ridiculously beautiful friend Emma-Jo in town again today.

  She was talking to this cute guy with dark eyes and dark hair who is really tall and a bit gangly, like he hasn’t quite grown into himself, and wears a leather jacket and nods a lot when he listens. He has this amazing smile, which I know sounds like a cliché, but he really does. Emma-Jo was so into him, talking his ear off about God knows what. I’m just jealous that it was her talking to a guy, and that she could think of things to say. I would have just stood there like a lemon. Which reminds me, I put the lemon in my hair yesterday and it has sort of worked a bit, but not so as you’d notice.

  Dad said we had to get rid of the rabbit as it ate all the carrots in the kitchen garden. I told him we didn’t have a rabbit and he was all surprised. Dads are not good about pets, ages, clothes, birthdays or friends’ names. I suggested that maybe Adam was giving bunches of carrots to his new girlfriend instead of bunches of flowers.

  I found out that it’s Miss Dobbs the supply teacher he’s seeing, so it’s almost like she’s not really a teacher at my school because she was only there for two weeks this term, and then was at other schools further away when their versions of Mr Hackett the history teacher got their versions of ulcerated hernias.

  I have been writing this to stop myself running down to the Hazel Wood in case there is no note for me and I’ll be all disappointed like some starving puppy with a rubber bone. But now if I wait any longer I will rupture my head, so I have to go see.

  ***

  Cool, brilliant and excellent, and not necessarily in that order. There was a note and it said that I carried out the mission admirably. I like that. My new task is 1) make something for someone, 2) have a conversation with someone new, 3) fix something I have broken.

  I am going to make a welcome card for Mrs Hooper, talk to little Sammy-boy (who is now hanging out around the farm every day), and maybe fix the handle back on the mug I broke when I tried to make gravy in it on Mum’s birthday.

  I called JL again and hung up again. One more time and I’m on track for a criminal record.

  DAY SEVENTEEN

  Drawing’s not my thing, but Mrs Hooper loved her welcome-to-the neighbourhood card. Sammy-boy was actually there in the kitchen with his mum so I had a quick chat, where I just asked him a bunch of questions and he said yes or no or mumbled. That took care of the ‘conversation with someone new’ bit of it.

  I fixed the mug too, but I don’t really think that’s what the note meant. So I phoned Mindy and asked her did she want me to look after anything of hers while she was away, like water her plant or wash some clothes. She was really surprised and said ‘no thanks’, and then she had to go kayaking. But I know I wasn’t very nice to her the last time we spoke, so now I feel like I fixed that. I will now write it all up and run down to the Hazel Wood.

  DAY EIGHTEEN

  On the way back through the town from fetching the cattle-feed in the jeep with Dad, I saw that tall, smiley, dark-haired guy again, this time on his own. I know he doesn’t go to our school so maybe he is just here visiting relatives for a week. Hopefully he has nothing to do with the Grangers on the Egg Farm. Even driving past the Egg Farm makes me feel like I’ve caught something; it’s so manky, with rubbish everywhere. The poor hens must be miserable!

  Going with Dad meant I didn’t get to the Hazel Wood until the afternoon, which was good because I wasn’t hanging out for it like a spare.

  Today’s note from The Watcher reads,

  Great job, Hazel Wood Girl.

  Today’s mission is as follows: 1) Tell me a joke 2) Who do you think I am? 3) Do something outrageous.

  From,

  The Watcher

  OK, I can tell the joke about ‘What’s brown and sticky? – A stick’, because it’s the only one I can ever remember. I’m thinking now that maybe Dad is The Watcher, but I’m not certain. I know Dad would only be trying to cheer me up, but that would be a major downer. No, I have a strong feeling it’s someone more on my wavelength, an actual friend.

  As for the ‘outrageous’ thing, I’m not exactly the outrageous kind. The worst I’ve ever done is say that I don’t like cheesecake when it’s supposed to be everyone’s favourite. Or maybe bunking off school that day I found out that they call me The Farmer.

  Anyway it says, ‘Do something outrageous,’ which means something new.

  Mrs Hooper came around to our house tonight and was talking away to Mum in the kitchen for ages. Mum said,

  ‘Of course, you’
ve met Poppy, our quiet one.’ They both said I should go around and keep Christophe company. Yeah, like I’d be up for playing computer games and talking about skateboards or whatever little boys are into. That’s the worst thing about living out here, your choice of people to hang out with is very limited. Especially when none of the hopefuls will look your way. I am going to write a letter to JL just for the hell of it and to stop me phoning.

  DAY NINETEEN

  I wrote a letter to JL, but I will never send it. In fact I burned it already in the bathroom sink and the burning smell stuck around. Now Mum and Dad think I am smoking and we have to have another conversation tonight.

  I asked Adam did he know any jokes and he said none that my Dad would forgive him for telling me. So, I guess it’s the sticky stick joke then. Can’t think of anything outrageous to do.

  DAY TWENTY

  I spent the afternoon sitting in the only café in town where you don’t have to order food, and have drunk so much orange juice that I’m safe from colds or flu for the next ten years.

  I really miss my old café in the city beside the art gallery, the one that changed its name and menu every six months. And the way I could go to see a movie, or shop, or all those basic things, every day if I wanted. Now even getting a decent haircut involves a military-style plan and three week’s notice. What’s the point of living far away from the things that you need to have a life?