Caramel Hearts (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Shame Hangs Over Me Like a Cloud

On Friday at three o'clock, I hand over the list of ingredients to Mrs Snelling, having spent ages copying them from the recipe book. The kitchen machinery hums as she reads the list slowly, nodding as she goes. I cross and uncross my legs on the high stool, my back as straight as I can muster under the embarrassing circumstances. Mrs Snelling gets so far down the list, then stops and frowns.

“There's quite a bit here – don't you have any of it?” she asks.

Mortified, I shake my head.

“Well, I have most of it,” she says. “But sugared violet petals? We don't have any of those here. Too expensive.”

“Don't worry about them – I'll do without,” I say.

“Improvisation. The sign of a great cook.”

As she winks, I give her a big grin, thinking what a dead nice mam she must be. Her kids are lucky.

Mrs Snelling disappears off into a huge cupboard in the back, and I spin on my chair, taking in the kitchen's shiny surfaces and industrial appliances. It would be impossible to set this place on fire! When Mrs Snelling returns, she has a small carrier bag of ingredients for me, which she hands over with a smile. I stuff it inside my rucksack, and get ready to leave.

“I'm glad I could help,” she says. “But have you thought about how you'll get stuff in future?”

I had been hoping to ask her, but I guess that's not an option.

“Mam will be able to help me next time. Things were a bit tight this week,” I lie.

Out of nowhere, anger bubbles up inside me and I clench my fists and jaw to hide it. I'm angry at Mam, at Hatty; I'm furious with my dad, who wouldn't even recognize me in the street. I shouldn't have to be begging for oats and honey. We're not living in the dark ages. A pitying look creeps over Mrs Snelling's face, and the room suddenly feels too noisy and too hot. Thank goodness it's the weekend, so I don't have to face her tomorrow. I jump to my feet and edge my way to the door as Mrs Snelling starts chatting about edible flowers and how they shouldn't be so pricey. I wait as long as I can, but not until she's finished, before calling out “Thanks for these,” and rushing off.

* * *

I don't return to class – there's no point with just a few minutes to go till the bell rings. Instead, I go outside and gulp the fresh air, resting against the wall so the cold bricks penetrate my clothes and cool my skin. I should be delighted – I've got what I wanted – but a sense of shame hangs over me. I close my eyes, let the gentle sunlight warm my eyelids for a moment. The bell screams out and footsteps pass by as other pupils start streaming out of the building, chattering
excitedly about their weekend. I try to concentrate on my breathing, let their voices merge and wash over me. I'm dreading the weekend. We have to go see Mam on Sunday.

The chatter passes me by and I'm just starting to relax, with spots of green appearing behind my eyelids, when a voice rings out – too loud and too close.

“What on earth are you doing? You get weirder every day, Liv.”

It's Maddy. I open my eyes and leap away from the wall. She's with her cronies. Emma, a tall thin girl with cat-like green eyes and a frizzy black Afro; Zadie, an African girl who was picked on for years in our primary school but is now almost six feet tall, the perfect height for exacting revenge on the world; and Lorna, one of the school's top athletes, who is built like a shot putter but blessed with gorgeous brown curls. They're all there, watching.

“You wanna hang out with us?” asks Maddy.

I should go meet Sarah and walk home. Getting mixed up with this crowd is never a good idea. But it's ages since Maddy asked me to hang out with a group, so I can't help being tempted.

“Where are you going?”

“To the cemmy. Getting some cider. It'll be a laugh.”

“I don't know…” I say.

Then Jack and Chris turn up.

“You hanging out?” asks Jack.

“Nah. She's being boring,” says Zadie.

I swallow, and look out towards our usual meeting spot to see if Sarah's waiting. Of course she's there. I see her leaning on the fence, checking her watch. A few
more minutes and she'll leave. Maddy follows my gaze, and a small smile plays on her lips as she hooks her arm into mine.

“You leave Liv alone,” she says, and Zadie's face drops. “We've been friends since primary school.”

She starts walking us away from Sarah, towards the direction of the cemetery, and I cross my fingers, hoping Sarah won't notice. It can't harm hanging out with Maddy; if I get back in with her, maybe I can convince her and her friends to leave Sarah alone.

I check behind me and see Sarah fidgeting. She checks her watch one last time and is just about to give up on me when Maddy calls out, “Have a nice weekend, Sarah.”

Spinning on her heels, Sarah's eyes meet mine and my heart sinks into my stomach. I try to give her a smile but she's already turned her back and is heading towards home, her head held high but her steps slow and measured.

“Can't we ask Sarah too?” I say.

“No way! That stutter m-makes me s-s-sick,” says Maddy, and everyone laughs. Even me, though I don't know why.

* * *

I can't text Sarah or Hatty because my battery is dead. I should probably go home, but when Jack offers me some cider, I take it. I know I shouldn't, but it's not like I have any better plans. Every time Jack looks over from the group of lads he's sitting with – Chris, and some guy called Macca who hasn't even acknowledged me – I take another slug.

It turns out Maddy and the girls aren't as bad as Sarah makes out; they're actually quite nice when you spend time with them. They do their best to include me at first, but after a while, they fall into their usual conversations and in-jokes; when Maddy, Zadie and Emma start talking about some new perfume I'll never be able to afford, I leave them to it and find myself a quiet spot, equidistant from the lads and the lasses. The last thing I expect is for Jack to notice and follow me.

“So, what's your mam like?” asks Jack.

He's a little bit wasted by now, and his voice slurs.

“Dunno,” I say.

He laughs, globs of spit escaping his mouth. It doesn't even make me feel sick. It could be the cider, or it could be the fact that he's gorgeous and I've got him all to myself.

“I used to sound like you. Don't be embarrassed – my dad was a raging alky. Used to beat up my mam and stuff. It was a nightmare.”

He shakes his head. The cider has made me brave – I wouldn't dare sit and chat with him like this usually – and I wonder if this is the feeling Mam looks for when she drinks.

“I used to dread him coming home,” continues Jack. “Now, I wish he would.”

“Your dad's not around?”

“No. Remember when I was getting into trouble all the time and being a complete idiot?” I nod. That's when he started hanging around with Maddy. That's when he suddenly got taller and his voice got deeper, and I really noticed him. “Mum booted him out. He kicked the booze, but there are some things you can't make up for.”

“I had no idea. Sorry…”

I feel like reaching out, stroking Jack's hand or face, but of course I don't. This isn't some romcom, this is real life. He'd probably push me away, disgusted.

“It's OK. Mum didn't deserve the beatings, and I couldn't do anything to help her at the time, so it's only right I should support her now. Your dad's not around either, right?”

“Right,” I say, spotting Maddy on her way over, and hoping that'll end the conversation.

“You might not talk much, but you're a dead good listener, Liv. Thanks,” says Jack.

His words hang in the air. I shrug and take another swig, accidentally inhaling it so I start choking on the cider just as Maddy arrives.

“What are we talking about?” asks Maddy, narrowing her eyes at me.

She sits next to Jack, making sure her leg touches against his. He doesn't move away.

“Absentee fathers and pissheads,” says Jack, and falls about with laughter.

Maddy looks at him for a second, then starts falling about with laughter too. I have no choice but to join in.

“We can all relate to that,” says Maddy, and she takes Jack's drink from him and has a big gulp, staring at me as she does so. “I thought we might be talking about how come Liv's suddenly drinking. Wouldn't take a drop off me the other night.”

I feel my insides tremble and my stomach lurches. The cemetery turns wobbly, like the gravestones are ready to topple. I take a deep breath, but that just makes me feel even more sick.

Jack laughs. “I guess I'm better company.”

I try to protest, but before I know what's happening, the cider is rushing back up my throat and out of my mouth. Projectile vomit spurts towards Jack and Maddy pulls him out of the way, into her arms, just in time.

“Urgh! Disgusting! Everyone, Liv's chucking up.”

I heave and heave, the stream of acidic liquid seemingly never-ending, and I make these embarrassing retching noises that sound like a goat being strangled. Zadie, Emma, Chris and some other lad that's joined us; they all come to watch. Chris pats my back.

“Get it out, lass,” he says, making me throw up once more, much to everyone's amusement.

When I stop retching, everyone claps and cheers, then they return to their own drinking. I try to get to my feet, but it's like my legs are disconnected from the rest of me. Thankfully, Maddy leans in and hooks my arm.

“I saw Jack first, so he's out of bounds. NFDN, remember?” she hisses in my ear, then adds loudly to the group, “Jack, darling, get the other side.”

Jack does as Maddy asks, and the two of them walk me around the cemetery several times until I'm feeling better. Emma brings me some water, and then we do one last lap of the leafy grounds. I could easily walk without help by now, but Maddy seems intent on making a good impression by playing mother hen. Something tells me it's not for my benefit.

The sky is getting dark and it's time to leave. Hatty will be worried if I'm much later, especially seeing as I didn't send her a text. But how do you leave when there's a big gang of you and you've a lonely night ahead? Lorna is getting off with Macca, and I fidget awkwardly, trying not
to watch, waiting for a break in the conversation of the others. As soon as there's a breather, I jump in.

“Right, I'm off,” I say, hoping Jack will come too.

“Bye,” says Maddy, her voice cold and unfriendly.

The other girls pick up on it straight away.

“Yeah, see ya,” they say in unison.

As I start walking away, Jack shouts after me.

“Want me to walk you home?”

“No, I'll be fine,” I say.

“You sure?”

“She'll be fine,” says Maddy.

As I make my way home, the road sways and I realize I'm not as sober as I thought. It may be wobbly, but the ground feels like air. I just spent my evening talking to Jack Whitman! When I get in, there's a crack of light showing under the living room door.

“I'm home,” I shout, and go straight up the stairs.

That's the last I remember. Next thing I know, it's morning, and I'm sweating in bed, fully dressed, with only my shoes missing.

Chapter Eleven

Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain

I stay in bed to avoid Hatty for as long as I can, in case she could tell I came home drunk. My head feels thick and sludgy, and my limbs aren't quite connected to my brain. My stomach is so empty it groans, but I daren't eat anything – huge waves of nausea keep flowing over me, and I feel like I'm going to chuck up at any minute. After a while, I brave some cornflakes.

“Morning, sleepy head,” says Hatty.

“Morning,” I say, hardly opening my mouth.

I've brushed my teeth three times already, and my breath still stinks. My tongue feels like a piece of sandpaper that's been used to scrub a toilet.

“You OK?” asks Hatty, scrunching up her face.

“Yeah, just dreading The Visit.”

“I know. Me too,” she says. “Right, I'm off for a walk. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks,” I say, fighting the nausea. “I'm going to do some baking.”

“You got the stuff?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “How?”

“The cook at school.”

Hatty taps her forehead with a finger. “Smart thinking,” she says. “But not until I get back, you're not.”

* * *

I wait for Harriet to return before braving the kitchen. Almost a week has passed since I set the kitchen on fire, and Harriet's doing her best not to interfere, but she keeps making excuses to come into the kitchen.

I prop
Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom
on top of the toaster and prepare all the ingredients. The flapjack recipe promises to bring out rainbows in grey skies and, despite my great evening, I could do with some rainbows right now; I have a banging headache and I'm due at Sarah's this afternoon, but I'm not sure whether she'll be mad at me. Taking out the mixing bowl and wooden spoon, I already feel a little better. By the time I'm melting butter, sugar and honey together, inhaling the rich aromas, my heart feels lighter and I'm hardly thinking about Sarah at all. A twinge of guilt sneaks in as I add the porridge oats – I should at least have spoken to Sarah before I went off with Maddy – but it quickly disappears. The mixture, golden like the barley fields you see on documentaries, draws me in. No wonder Mam sounds so happy in her recipes. Baking really can make the skies blue again. By the time I add the colourful bits, I'm in a dream world. It's like I really could be adding real pieces of rainbow.

It's the old mnemonic that does it. Mam taught me it in primary school – Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain – to help me remember the colours of the rainbow. It's the first concrete sign of a mam I recognize. The mnemonic earned me first prize in a school fundraising quiz. The “colours of the rainbow” was the tiebreaker question and I won a giant box of Belgian chocolates and a ten-pound
book voucher. I used the voucher in the sales to get a book each for Mam and me. We read on the sofa, toes touching, chomping on the delicious chocolates for the whole weekend.

“Things weren't always bad,” I say aloud, to make it more real. I drop sour cherries into the mixture from a height, watching the fragments glow for an instant as they catch the sun.

When it comes to mixing, I realize I've taken the dream world too far and haven't been paying attention to the measurements. The mixture is thick and difficult to stir so I try blending an extra slab of butter before turning it out onto the greased baking tray and quickly shoving it in the cleaned-out oven. I set the alarm on my mobile for fifteen minutes and sit at the kitchen table, chin in hand.

Time drags and I start thinking about tomorrow's visit to Ashgrove House. I try to keep my attention on baking, but I can't stop my mind from wandering to those echoing corridors, the bright orange walls and fake flowers, the overpowering smell of air freshener. Hatty returns to the kitchen so I snatch up the cookbook and double-check the timings, then stuff it violently into my bag. I'm not ready to share it yet, and I wish she'd just let me get on with things in peace. Settling back in my chair, I wait, arms folded. As soon as Harriet opens her mouth to say something, I jump in before she can.

“Before you start, no I haven't set anything on fire. All right?”

When Harriet doesn't respond, I look up and realize she's been crying. Her eyelids are swollen and her eyelashes look sticky. She glances at the mass of dirty pots and sighs.

“Just make sure you clean that mess up.”

I want to ask her what's wrong, but the potential answers scare me. Instead, I say, “I will. I'm not totally useless.”

“I never said you were. And don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I expected more lectures, perhaps some tantrums. A slanging match, at least.

“What are you making, anyway?” Harriet sniffs, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.

“Flapjacks. I thought I'd take some round to Sarah's later.”

Harriet nods, a distant look in her eyes that reminds me of Mam. Panic flutters in my stomach. I've never seen my sister like this.

“There's some for you, too. They'll be ready in… five minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Harriet pours herself a glass of cold water. She downs it in one go, pours another, and joins me at the kitchen table. It's months since we sat here together; we usually eat in our rooms or in front of the TV.

Last time, we'd been discussing what we'd do if Mam went into residential care again. Visits to Alcoholics Anonymous and outreach support had failed and we knew what was coming. When the social worker started hinting, we weighed up our options: either I went into care or Harriet took a year out of uni. Harriet cried back then as well. I should be grateful, really, that she's looking over my shoulder. At least she cares.

“So, what's going on with all this cooking, then?” asks Harriet.

I shrug. I'm more interested in what's wrong with her, but I don't know how to ask. She's in charge. Things feel different since she starting playing Mam, despite all the “sisters together” chats. I consider sharing the cookbook with her to see if it brings us closer again, but it's nice to have something that's just mine.

“I like it, that's all.”

“Mam used to bake, you know.”

My mouth falls open. Hatty's never mentioned this before and I can't remember Mam baking. Ever.

“Mam doesn't eat, never mind cook!”

“I'm serious!”

“What did she make?”

“Cakes, mostly. I used to love the smell. It was like…”

She sniffs at the air.

“Like mine?”

“Actually, yes.”

I smile to myself as I wipe the side down.

“Did you help her?”

“I was too young. She had a friend, Rosa, who used to come over and bake with her. There was talk of opening a café at one point.”

“What sort of café?”

“A cake café, I guess.”

The recipe book; it must have been for the café! It all falls into place. It's not just a book of cakes and biscuits, it's a book of Mam's dreams.

“I was only a kid,” continues Harriet. “So I was more interested in my toys, but I would listen to them fooling around as they worked. When you came along, they used
to sit you next to the counter in your high chair. You didn't make a peep. It was like you were taking it all in. Maybe that's why you're a natural?”

I beam with pride. I know it's sad, but I can't help it. But then I think of what I missed out on and the smile disappears. Why couldn't Dad have stuck around longer, so I'd have some nice memories too?

“So what happened?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I don't know for definite… Rosa just stopped coming. Not long after that, we moved here. But it wasn't always bad.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Don't say that! There are people much worse off than us. At least we've got each other, right?”

I pull a face, but really I'm surprised how comforting her words feel. As the warm smell of melting honey fills the kitchen, I close my eyes and try to imagine Mam and Dad here too.

“Hmm, that smells so good,” says Harriet, reaching over and giving me a gentle shove. “Better than last time, hey?”

Despite my embarrassment, I manage to keep my temper.

“I cleaned the oven while you were out.”

Harriet exaggerates wiping her brow in relief, then gives me this weird, intense stare.

“Listen, Liv, you'll get outta here too, you know. Just hold in there. OK?”

I nod, confused. It's Harriet that's crying. Harriet that's falling apart. But what does she mean by
too
? Is she leaving again? Has she finally given up on me?

“Hatty, are you all right?”

The words come out shaky and slow. Before Harriet can answer, the alarm on my phone sounds, making us both jump.

“Saved by the bell,” says Harriet, smiling sadly. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just tired. Stuff's getting on top of me.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“No, not you. Mam, late assignments… that stupid job interview. I'm missing my mates and trying to deal with stuff on my own. But forget it. Let's try these flapjacks instead!”

As soon as she finishes speaking, Harriet's hand shoots out and grabs a steaming biscuit. I copy and we giggle loudly as we shove hot chunks of flapjack into our mouths like pigs.