Pumpkin Pie - Jean Ure

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didn’t bother me so much being called Pumpkin when I was little, but it is not such fun when you are twelve years old. It is not dignified. It brings to mind a great round orange thing. Mum says it is a term of endearment and nothing whatsoever to do with great round orange things. Huh! I wonder how she would like it?

      At school, thank goodness, I am usually just Jenny, or Jen. Nobody knows that at home I am Pumpkin. Only my best friend, Saffy, and she would never tell. We are hugely loyal to each other. Saffy is the only person in the entire world that I would tell my secrets to, because I know she can be trusted and would never betray me. Needless to say, I would never betray her, either, except maybe under torture, as I am not very brave. If people started pulling out my toenails with red hot pincers, or trying to drown me in buckets of water, I have this horrid feeling that I might perhaps talk. But not otherwise! Like the time in Juniors when she confided to me this big fear she had that she was not normal. She’d heard her mum telling someone how she’d been born in an incubator. Saffy, that is.

      “I think I may have developed in a test tube… I could be an alien life form!”

      Well, we were only nine; what did we know? Poor Saffy was convinced she was going to start sprouting wings or turning green. Later on, of course, she discovered that she had been born too early and had been put in an incubator, so then she stopped worrying about being an alien and got a bit boastful.

      “I was a premature baby!”

      Like it was something clever. If ever she starts to get above herself I remind her of the time she thought she was an alien, but I have never told a living soul about it and I never will. Her secret is safe with me! Because that is how it is with me and Saffy.

      Maybe because of being premature, Saffy is incredibly dainty. She is not terribly pretty, as her nose is a bit pointy and her mouth is rather on the small side, but she is very sweet and delicate-looking. She has green eyes, like a cat – she really ought to be called Emerald, not Sapphire! – and feathery red-gold hair. Oh, and she has freckles, which she hates, but which personally I think are really cool. I would like to have freckles! I once tried painting some on out a rather horrible boy in our class yelled “Spotty!” at me, so I didn’t do it any more.

      Alone of all us three pennies, I take after Dad. Mum is slim and graceful: Dad is tubby. He is also a bit thin on top, which I am not! I have fair hair, like Petal – quite thick. But whereas Petal’s is thick and straight, mine unfortunately is thick and curly. Ugh! I hate curls. Another thing I once tried, I spread my hair on the ironing board and ironed it, to get the kinks out, but instead I just went and frizzed it up into a mad mess like a Brillo pad. I didn’t try that again! Saffy suggested I should hang heavy weights off it, which seemed like it might work. So I collected up all these big stones from the garden and spent hours in my bedroom sewing little sacks for the stones to go in, I even stitched ribbons on to them – pink, ‘cos I wanted them to look nice in case anyone saw me – and I tied them on to my hair and went to bed all clunking and clanking in the hope that I would wake up in the morning with my hair as blissfully straight as Petal’s.

      Well. Huh! What a brilliant idea that turned out to be. First off, I had to sleep on my front with my nose pressed into the pillow, as a result of which I nearly suffocated. Second, every time I moved a stone would go clonk! into my face. Third, I woke up with a headache; and fourth, it had no effect whatsoever on my hair. All that hard work and suffering for absolutely nothing!

      I should have learnt my lesson. I should have learnt that it is foolish and futile to put yourself through agonies of pain in a vain attempt to be beautiful. But of course I didn’t. Saffy says, “Does one ever?” I would like to think so. I would like to think you reach a stage where you are content to be just the way you are, without all this stress about freckles and hair and body shape; but somehow, watching Mum put on her make-up every morning, watching her carefully select what clothes to wear (like when she has a client she specially wants to impress) Somehow I doubt it. I feel that we are doomed to hanker after unattainable perfection. Until, in the end, we get old and past it, which surely must be a great comfort?

      Although in my plumpness I take after Dad, I think that in many other ways I take after Mum. I am for instance quite ambitious. Far more so than Petal, though not as much as my little boffin brother, who will probably end up as a nuclear physicist or at the very least a brain surgeon. But I wouldn’t mind being a high flyer, like Mum – if only I could make up my mind what to fly at. Sometimes I think one thing, sometimes another. Over the years I have been going to be: a tour guide (because I would like to travel); an air hostess (for the same reason); something in the army (ditto); a children’s nanny (I would go to America!); or a car mechanic.

      It is so difficult to decide. I once tried speaking to Dad about it, because I did think, at the age of twelve, I ought to be making plans. Dad said, “Rubbish! You’re far too young to bother your head about that sort of thing. Just take life as it comes, that’s my motto.”

      “But I want to know what to aim at,” I said.

      Dad suggested that maybe I could follow in his footsteps and be a chef. He was all eager for me to start straight away. I know he would like nothing better than to teach me how to cook, but I feel I am already into food quite enough as it is. I don’t need encouragement! I’ve seen Dad in the kitchen. I’ve seen the way he picks at things. He just can’t resist nibbling! Sometimes when he cooks Sunday lunch Mum tells one of us to go and stand over him while he is dishing up.

      “Otherwise we’ll be lucky if there’s anything left!”

      She is only partly joking. Dad did once demolish practically a whole plateful of roast potatoes before they could reach the table. He doesn’t mean to; he does it without realising. I can understand how it happens, because I would be the same unless I exercised the most enormous willpower. I think food is such a comfort!

      I could see that Dad was a bit upset when I showed so little enthusiasm for the idea of becoming a chef. He said, “Don’t let me down, Plumpkin! Us foodies have got to stick together.”

      I thought, Plumpkin? I looked at Dad, reproachfully, wondering whether I had heard him right. You couldn’t go round calling people Plumpkin! It was like calling them fatty, or baldy, or midget. It wasn’t PC. It was insulting!

      “Eh? Plumpkin?”

      He’d said it again! My own dad!

      “It’s up to us,” said Dad, “to keep the flag flying. Beachballs versus stick insects! There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know, in having a healthy appetite.”

      Saffy has a healthy appetite. She eats just about anything and everything and never even puts on a gram. Life is very unfair, I sometimes think.

      I managed to get Mum by herself one day, for about two seconds, and said, straight out, “Mum, do you think I’m fat?”

      She was whizzing to and fro at the time, getting ready for work.

      “Fat?” she cried, over her shoulder, as she flew past. “Of course you’re not fat!”

      “I feel fat,” I said.

      “Well, you’re not,” said Mum, snatching up a pile of papers. “Don’t be so silly!” She crammed the papers into her briefcase. “I don’t want you starting on that,” she said.

      “But Dad called me Plumpkin,” I wailed.

      “Oh, poppet!” Mum paused just long enough to give me a quick hug before racing across the room to grab her mobile. “He doesn’t mean anything by it! It’s just a term of endearment.”

      “He

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