Chapter One
âFRANKIE FOSTER!â My sisterâs voice came shrilling down the stairs. âWas this you?â
Uh-oh. Trouble!
Guardedly, I said, âDepends what youâre talking about.â
âThis. This is what Iâm talking about!â
She stood, quivering with rage, on the top step, waving a bit of rag. Well, at first glance it looked like a bit of rag. At second glance I could see that it was in fact her pink-and-white stripy shirt that I had kindly ironed for her just the other day. Unfortunately, there had been a slight problem with the iron; it had got too hot, or something. Obviously faulty. I find that a lot of the things I have to deal with turn out to be faulty. It is somewhat discouraging.
âWell?â Angel thumped impatiently on the banister rail.
I said, âWellââ
âI know it was you, so donât bother trying to deny it!â
I hadnât been going to deny it. I suppose I have my failings, same as anyone else, but I do try to be truthful whenever I can.
âThereâs something wrong with the iron,â I said.
âThereâs nothing wrong with the iron, you idiot!â
âThere must be,â I said. âIt didnât do that to the other things. It was only when I got to your shirt it went funny.â
âOh, for Godâs sake!â She was shrieking now. She does a lot of shrieking. âEleven years old and you havenât even learnt how to use an iron properly!â
I resented that, considering Iâd done a whole load of sheets and pillowcases without so much as a single wrinkle. I was proud of my ironing!
âMaybe,â I said, âitâs something to do with your shirt.â
âYes, youâre supposed to use the iron on cool, you moron!â
I said, âOh.â And then, âHow was I to know?â
âIt says it right here, on the label, if youâd just bothered to look!â
âYou donât have to yell,â I said.
âI do have to yell! Yellingâs the only thing that keeps me sane. Itâs the only thing that stops me putting my hands round your throat and throttling you! Itâsââ She stopped. âWhat are you pushing for?â
âExcuse me,â said Tom. âIâm just trying to get down the stairs.â
âThereâs no need to push. As for you, Frankie Fââ
âWhatâs going on up there?â Mum had come out of the kitchen, accompanied by Rags. Rags is our dog; he loves a bit of excitement. âWhatâs all the shouting about?â
âItâs them,â said Tom. âTheyâre at it again.â
âIâm not at it,â I said. âSheâs the one making the noise.â
âYouâre lucky thatâs all Iâm doing!â
âOh, for heavenâs sake,â said Mum. âWhatâs the problem?â
âShe is!â shrieked Angel. âLook what sheâs done!â
She hurled her shirt viciously down the stairs in a scrunched-up heap. What dog could resist? Rags was on it in an instant. Angel let out one of her ear-splitting screeches.
âStop him!â
I made a grab, but Rags was too quick. He capered off joyously down the hall, shaking the shirt from side to side like it was a rat. Angel screeched again. Dad says when she does that it is like a car alarm going off inside your head.
âRags!â Mum cornered him at the end of the hall. âDrop! Bad boy!â
He wasnât a bad boy, he just thought it was a game. Any dog would have thought it was a game. But he always obeys Mum, I donât know why. He doesnât take any notice when I tell him to do things. I think itâs because weâre mates, while Mum is an authority figure. She can be really stern when she wants. Which, now I come to think of it, is quite often.
âRight. Now!â Mum held up the shirt. âWhatâs the matter with it?â
âSheâs gone and shrivelled it,â wailed Angel.
âOnly a little bit,â I said. âIf you tucked it in, nobodyâd ever notice.â
âI donât want to tuck it in! That was my favourite shirt, I was going to wear it on Saturday. Mum, itâs not fair! She shouldnât be allowed to touch my things.â