Fruit and Nutcase

Fruit and Nutcase
Jean Ure

One of the brilliant titles in Jean Ure’s acclaimed series of humorous, delightful and poignant stories written in the form of diaries and letters which make them immediately accessible to children.This is the story of how Mandy learns to cope with her untidy life and finally emerges triumphant.Mandy Small has trouble writing so Cat, her teacher, suggests that she tells her life story into a tape recorder. So begins Mandy’s funny and sometimes sad story of life with her loving but chaotic parents – Dad, the Elvis look-alike, and Mum, whose idea of a special meal is burnt toast!Then there’s school, where the horrible Tracey Bigg picks on Mandy and her timid friend, Oliver, not to mention Old Misery Guts, the landlady and Nan, who thinks that Mandy’s parents aren’t fit to look after her. With so many things to worry about, Mandy begins to think that she’s in danger of turning into a real Fruit and Nutcase!Mandy’s story, told in the form of diary into a tape recorder, is a funny and often moving account of a child’s everyday life, with all its difficulties. Hilariously illustrated by Mick Brownfield.

For my very own Fruit & Nut Case … and for Sydenham High School who gave me such a warm welcome

Contents

Cover (#uedc28189-711c-5146-a211-4994e6df16e5)

Title Page (#u985543ac-a1c7-54ed-b674-95116c53cac5)

Chapter One (#ub848e25c-81f2-5410-9b3b-cabed86c9854)

Chapter Two (#u0b314910-ba0b-5d04-838c-b8f59cd537cd)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jean Ure (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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My dad’s an Elvis Presley look-alike. He’s got a white suit just like Elvis had, and a guitar, and he sings all the songs that Elvis sang. Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, Love me Tender, Love me True. He knows them all!

I’ve drawn a picture of my dad being Elvis on my bedroom wall. I’ll draw it again, now.

I’m always drawing on my bedroom wall. When I’ve filled up all the space I’m going to start on the ceiling. I’ll be taller by then. I’ll stand on a stepladder and I’ll be able to reach.

This is how one bit of my bedroom wall looks.

It’s instead of having a garden. As a matter of fact there is a garden at the back of this house, but it belongs to old Misery Guts that lives downstairs and she won’t let me play in it. It’s only a bit of moth-eaten grass and dustbins, anyhow. If I had a garden I would grow all flowers in it.

My garden wall is right opposite my bed where I can see it when I wake up in the morning. My people wall is by the windows.

Unfortunately, that is all the wall there is as the room is not very big and there is a huge great enormous old-fashioned wardrobe just inside the door, taking up loads of valuable space.

The wardrobe used to belong to my nan. I hate it! When I was little, like four or five, I used to think fierce monsters lived in it. I don’t now, of course; now that I’m older. But I still hate it because it is ugly. I hate things that are ugly!

Dad is always promising that he will chop it up and make me a shelf out of it, but so far he hasn’t. He’s better at being Elvis than at D.I.Y.

Sometimes, like if we’re having a bit of a party, Dad will put on his Elvis suit and sing Love me Tender specially for Mum. Love me Tender is her favourite. She goes really gooey over that one!

In case there is anybody who has just dropped by from another planet and is thinking “Who is this Elvis person?” I maybe ought to explain that Elvis Presley was a very famous singer way back in my nan’s time. Mum says he was called Elvis-the-Pelvis because he used to wiggle his hips around as he sang, but Dad says he was the King of Rock, and that is what some people still call him, “the King”.

My dad is a dead ringer for the King! He looks really great when he brushes his hair back and puts gel on it so that it puffs up in front, the way the King’s did. And he wears his white suit and his high-heeled boots and he sings all these old songs. OK, and Mum loves it.

They get all moony and swoony the pair of them. It’s like they’re teenagers again, before I was born.

Once upon a time, Dad used to do Elvis gigs in the local clubs but he hasn’t done one for a while now. Last time he did one he had a bit of an accident. He tripped over his guitar lead and fell off the stage and busted his ankle.

astrophe!

Dad’s always doing things to himself.

He’s a real disaster area!

My mum’s not much better. She does the daftest things!

Honestly, my parents! They’re going to turn me into a right fruit and nut case, I know they are.

I try to look after them, but I can’t have my eye on them all of the time.

Dad gets ever so impatient when Mum messes up the dinner or burns his shirts. But she can’t help it! It’s just the way she is.

Like Dad flying off the handle. He can’t help it, either; he’s just a live wire. He doesn’t mean anything by it. But it gets Mum all flustered and nervous and I have to go jumping in really fast and make them laugh. I can always make them laugh! Usually.

When we’re having fun together, like when Dad’s being Elvis singing his songs, and Mum’s dancing along to them, life’s absolutely brilliant. I think they’re the best mum and dad in the world and I don’t care a row of pins that we haven’t any money and have to live in the upstairs part of a rotten crumbly old house with Misery Guts lurking like some horrible evil spider waiting to catch us in her web. It just doesn’t bother me in the slightest little bit. It doesn’t bother me where I live so long as I’m with my mum and dad.

It’s when Mum does something daft and Dad flies off the handle and makes her cry that I get a bit fussed. What scares me is in case they stop loving each other and Dad goes off to live somewhere else, so that we’re not a family any more. That is the ONLY THING in the universe that I am scared of. I’m not scared of climbing trees right to the very top, I’m not scared of big fierce dogs that run barking at you, I’m not scared of Tracey Bigg and her gang of stupid bullies, no way! I could bash Tracey Bigg to a pulp any time I want. But I don’t think I could bear it if my mum and dad split up.

Every night before I go to sleep I say this special prayer. I haven’t ever let on to anyone about my prayer before, not a single living soul, but Cat told me I’d got to be honest.

Cat’s the one who said I ought to write a book. She said, “I just know that you can do it, Mandy!” I said, “You mean, like … a book about me?” and Cat said, “Well, and why not?” So then I didn’t know what I would have to write about, or what sort of things she’d want me to put, and she said, “It’ll be a true story, right? Your story. So just tell it like it really is.”

All this stuff about myself. I dunno! It seems weird. But if it’s what Cat wants.

So, all right! I’m being honest. I AM BEING HONEST! Watch my lips.

I don’t know—honestly—whether I really believe in God, but that doesn’t stop me saying my prayer. This is what I pray:

Actually, I don’t do that. Kneel, I mean. I sort of put my hands together, but I do it under the duvet when I’m lying in bed. I’ve been doing it for almost two years, now.

Two years is a long time to keep on saying the same prayer. But it’s worked, so far! Even if Dad does sometimes fly off the handle. Even if Mum does do the daftest things. We’re still all together! I wouldn’t ever dream of going to sleep without saying my prayer.

“Please, God, don’t let Mum and Dad get divorced. Please, God! Let them be together for ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, amen.”