Jenny Valentine
Iggy & Me
ON HOLIDAY
Illustrated by Joe Berger
Contents
It was the end of term for me and my little sister, Iggy.
Iggy didn’t want it to be. We were eating our breakfast and she was quite worried.
“Who will look after the hamsters and the guinea pigs?” she said.
“Someone will take the hamsters and the guinea pigs home,” said Mum.
“What will all the teachers do?”
“Someone will take the teachers home too,” Dad said. “The teachers will get some peace and quiet.”
“What about us?” Iggy said. “What will we do?”
“Oh peace and quiet will be off the menu here,” Dad said, “that’s for sure.”
“We’ll have fun,” I said.
“Flo,” Iggy said, like I was being silly. “School is fun.”
“Holidays are fun too,” Mum said. “We’ll have a holiday.”
“Will we?” said Dad.
“What will we do on holiday?” Iggy said, and she pulled her shoulders up high and her bottom lip down low.
“We’ll put you in a dark box and let you out again when school starts,” Dad said.
“I don’t think so,” said Iggy, and she scowled at him.
“We’ll get up when we want,” I said. “We’ll watch telly and wear our pyjamas all day.”
“Oh no you won’t,” said Mum, and Dad said, “Sounds like heaven.”
“We’ll go out on our bikes,” I said, “and have picnics and go to the playground and eat ice cream.”
“OK,” Iggy said. “That sounds good.”
Dad was making coffee and Mum had tea. I ate my toast and Iggy listened to her cereal popping.
“How long is our holiday?” Iggy said.
“Six weeks,” Mum said, and Iggy’s mouth fell open like a trap door.
“Six weeks,” she said. “That is forever.”
“No it’s not,” Mum said. “It’s a month and a half.”
“It’s forty two days,” Dad said, and he looked at us and then at Mum.
“That is a long time,” Mum said.
“We’ll have a nice long holiday,” I told Iggy. “You’ll see.”
On the way to school, Iggy walked extra fast because she wanted to get there early.
“Hurry up,” she said to me and to Mum. “There’s only one day left, and it’s now.”
Her extra fast walking made her whole body wiggle and she looked very funny from behind. It made us laugh. But Iggy wasn’t laughing. She turned to us and pointed. Iggy only points when she is cross.
“Hurry,” she said, pointing, “Up.”
So we did.
We got to school very early. I took Iggy to her classroom. We were the first people there apart from Rwaida, her teacher. Rwaida was sharpening pencils.
“Did you know?” Iggy said, “That this was the last day of school?”
“Yes I did,” Rwaida said and she looked happy about it until she saw Iggy’s face.
“What will we do for forty-two days and six weeks?” Iggy said.
Rwaida smiled. “We’ll think of something,” she said, and she dropped the sharpened pencils into a cup with a clatter.
“I hope so,” Iggy said. “I hope we do.”
It was a good last day of school. We had lessons in the morning like normal. At lunchtime we had foods of the world. We ate things from India and Morocco and France and Somalia and Poland and Bosnia. Most of them were very tasty.
Then we had Golden Time, which is the same as extra play but with a special name. We could choose football, or aerobics, or making things. I chose making things and so did Iggy. There were jigsaw puzzles and arts and crafts and decorating biscuits. Iggy decorated biscuits. I made a picture for Mum and Dad. I made a beach with blue sea and blue sky, and real sand poured onto glue, and the four of us cut out and stuck there, on holiday.
While I was drawing and cutting and sticking, Iggy came to see what I had made. She had biscuit dust all round her mouth and icing on the ends of her fingers.
“What are you doing?” she said, spraying biscuit dust around.
“I’m making a holiday picture.”
“Who’s that?” she said, and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
“That’s you and me and Mum and Dad,” I said. “Being on holiday at the seaside.”
“What, swimming in the sea and getting shells and making sandcastles?” she said.
“Yep.”
“Ooh, I think I like doing that,” Iggy said.
“Me too,” I said, and we looked at the picture together for a bit longer.
I said, “I’ll draw some shells and sandcastles in a minute.”
“And starfish,” Iggy said. “Draw some starfish and a mermaid.”
Mermaids