Toffee

by Sarah Crossan

and watched Strictly,

  phoned up to vote for our favourites,

  watched the best bits

  again on iPlayer.

  Once we pretended to tango,

  bodies pressed close,

  arms outstretched,

  strutting from one end of the room

  to the other

  and back again.

  Dad finished early that evening,

  was watching us ages before

  we noticed him

  there

  by the sideboard,

  recording us with his phone.

  Oh, don’t stop on my account, he said.

  But we did.

  We stepped away from one another,

  ashamed of our friendship,

  ashamed of the fun.

  We were just messing about, Kelly-Anne said.

  Dad pinched the end of his nose.

  Must be nice to have time for that.

  I turned off the TV and went to the kitchen

  to make Dad’s dinner.

  He followed me in.

  Someone’s been sick in the car.

  You’ll have to clean it.

  I nodded and found the rubber gloves.

  Kelly-Anne and I didn’t dance again.

  The Hunt

  When I know Marla is asleep,

  I hunt for traces of Toffee,

  rummage through drawers, cupboards,

  tip shoeboxes on to my lap and

  scan black and white photographs,

  newspaper cuttings for clues.

  In the darkness,

  I search through pieces of the past

  to find a way to jigsaw Toffee together again,

  make myself a girl who was.

  Instead I find Marla –

  in hats and ruffles,

  hair puffed up like a well-baked sponge.

  Marla with long, slim legs,

  eyes bright,

  mouth curled at the corners

  as though suppressing laughter when the

  camera

  clicked.

  But then one picture makes me

  pause,

  stare into history:

  Marla is arm-linked to another girl,

  both in mini-dresses,

  hair to their hips,

  and this girl,

  Toffee it must be,

  this girl,

  she is me.

  Toffee

  A scar on her face like a stubborn stain,

  eyes peering into the lens,

  pleading

  pleading

  pleading

  with someone,

  with anyone,

  with a girl from the future,

  to see her.

  Scars

  Was Toffee’s stain

  something assigned to her from Day One,

  a birthmark she had owned for life

  and learned not to see

  when she looked at herself?

  Or, like me,

  did someone give her that scar,

  change her face from ordinary to ugly

  with one strong swing?

  When Toffee looked at herself

  did she see the scar,

  a girl,

  or the person hurting her?

  Out

  OUT! she screams.

  I am washing-up.

  I wipe my wet hands on my jeans.

  What’s happened, Marla?

  The house had been quiet,

  only the extractor fan

  above the hob

  whirring.

  She points and spits

  like a rabid dog.

  Out! Out! Out! Out!

  For the first time

  I am afraid of her,

  of what she could do.

  I’m leaving.

  OUT!

  I’m leaving.

  OUT! OUT!

  I push past her,

  kick a chair,

  which topples.

  Have fun alone, I murmur.

  What did you say? she hisses.

  It isn’t like you’re inundated with visitors,

  is it?

  My voice is louder than I want it to be,

  louder than I would have raised it with Dad,

  and it’s pointless because she

  can’t help it.

  Who are you? She is genuinely puzzled,

  an old woman with an intruder in her home

  simply trying to protect herself.

  I have no idea, I tell her.

  OUT! she shouts. OUT!

  Fictional

  I stop at a chip shop,

  buy a battered cod.

  A group of girls comes in,

  pushing each other,

  screeching.

  I can’t believe he replied, says one.

  I know. What a knob, says another.

  Pushing. Screeching.

  You getting a pie? says one.

  Can’t I share yours? says another.

  I pay for my fish and am eating at a window seat

  when Lucy comes in with the dog.

  The girls call her over.

  Nick is so rude!

  But she liked it anyway.

  Lucy, you going to Kate’s place Sunday?

  Kate’s a bitch, Lucy says.

  She is, they all reply.

  Lucy spots me. Says nothing. Goes to the counter.

  Keep your number private if you don’t

  wanna get messaged, she says to the girls

  and orders a bag of chips.

  Nick’s a total stalker.

  Kate’s so getting dumped.

  They make sounds of approval.

  I leave half the food on the plate

  and pull on my coat.

  I am almost at the corner when she catches up.

  You didn’t have to go, she says.

  I was finished, I tell her.

  No, I mean from the hut the other day.

  We could have …

  I don’t know …

  You could have told me your name

  before you ran off.

  Bit abnormal, wasn’t it?

  But maybe you are abnormal.

  Most people are bonkers.

  I am. But in a good way.

  Healthy levels of weird right here.

  What’s your name then?

  I blink and think.

  My name?

  Am I Allison or Toffee?

  And what about this girl with Lucy?

  Who is she?

  I could take a name from history –

  a woman who stepped into herself

  without asking permission.

  I could be Coco Chanel or Rosa Parkes.

  I could be my mother,

  Davina Daniels.

  But all these people are dead

  and I usually want to be alive.

  I try to imagine a living woman –

  someone strong –

  but my mind is a blank,

  filled only with pictures of

  people running away

  or struggling to stay put.

  Juliet, I tell her,

  deciding on someone fictional,

  dead because her dad was an arsehole.

  The Labrador is pulling at the lead,

  tugging on Lucy’s arm.

  She doesn’t resist.

  Soon she is far ahead.

  Juliet! she shouts.

  Like from Macbeth?

  I laugh,

  though I can’t be sure she is joking.

  Research

  I find the thinnest of books,

  sit with it in a corner,

  hunched over the pages,

  ignoring the rhyme-time-baby-cry-zone

  happening at the library’s opposite end.

  Before I’m even halfway through the book

  I’m pretty sure it’s dementia Marla’s got.

  So I need to be calm.

  I need to smile, expla
in things,

  say her name when we speak

  and

  stop,

  focus on her with my full attention.

  If I want to find a way to stay put

  for a while,

  I’ll need to understand the illness –

  understand her.

  And although some part of my brain

  tells me I could be there to help Marla,

  I know I am only helping myself,

  there for Allison’s sake

  alone.

  A Range Rover in the car park

  makes sloppy attempts

  to fit into a too-small space.

  I leave the book on the window sill

  and leave the library.

  Good Girl

  I didn’t know when I was little

  that what went on at home was a

  secret.

  I didn’t know I shouldn’t

  tell tales to teachers.

  Instead I babbled

  and a social worker came

  to our house

  dressed in baggy clothes

  and covered in cat hair.

  She looked at my bedroom.

  Dad had changed the sheets

  and hoovered the rug.

  She saw the house was tidy,

  the fridge full,

  and I had no bruises.

  She talked to Dad

  in a soft voice

  and was satisfied:

  the shouting

  I’d tattled about was normal,

  the smacking was hasty and would

  stop

  now Dad knew the rules.

  Keep these buttoned, Dad said

  when she left,

  pinching my lips between his fingers.

  Yes, Daddy.

  Good girl, he said, and smiled.

  I liked it when he did that,

  when he smiled

  because of me.

  How Long?

  How long will the school hold off

  before pestering Dad about my absence?

  Will they call the police if he shuffles, stammers,

  says he isn’t sure where I am?

  And how will Dad prove to anyone

  I left willingly

  and am not

  buried in the garden?

  Perhaps he is searching the streets

  trying to find me,

  reach me,

  bring me back.

  I don’t want him to discover me here

  but I want him to try –

  to be sad

  he has lost me.

  Yet.

  Sometimes I think,

  if only

  he had just buried me in the garden.

  Everything would be easier.

  And How Long?

  How many times has Kelly-Anne tried to call?

  And how many more times will she do the same?

  I’ve made her worry

  when she has worries enough.

  So how long before she gives up?

  How long before Kelly-Anne washes her hands

  of everything she made herself be to me?

  How long before she forgets me entirely?

  And how long before I stop wanting her?

  Transparent

  Every drawer Marla opens makes her grunt.

  Every cupboard makes her scream.

  Every chair, shove,

  every door, elbow.

  Can I help? I ask.

  Where are the tea bags? she shouts.

  I go to the counter,

  open a ceramic pot,

  blackberries painted on the side,

  and hold up what she’s looking for.

  Makes no sense.

  That’s fruit.

  That should have fruit in it.

  And she’s right.

  The coffee container has gooseberries on the side,

  the sugar container, pears.

  Makes no sense, she repeats.

  I find tall glass tumblers above the sink,

  fill three with

  tea, coffee, sugar,

  and pop them on the countertop.

  You’ll know where they are now.

  Marla grins

  with as little of her mouth as possible.

  Smart arse. Boil the kettle then.

  OK So

  I have nothing to wear so search Marla’s

  wardrobe for something that doesn’t

  seem utterly ridiculous.

  Downstairs in her cream blouse

  and mustard-coloured cardigan

  I wait for her to say something –

  accuse me or at the very least

  laugh.

  She looks me up and down.

  Smirks.

  Well, OK so, is all she says.

  OK so.

  Miscalculations

  Lucy is crouching beside her

  Ribena-coloured beach hut,

  scribbling something on to the concrete

  with a piece of chalk.

  Her dog bounds from the hut,

  licks my knee.

  Lucy stands.

  The skin on her lips is dry;

  a vertical crack on the bottom lip bleeds a little.

  You’re back.

  She points to the ground –

  a scrawl of numbers and letters

  under her feet.

  It’s algebra. Also known as

  complete and utter crap.

  Got about four hundred

  equations to get done.

  You can’t hand that in.

  She finds her phone and snaps some photos.

  Actually, I believe in impermanence.

  I’m well into philosophy.

  Right.

  I stare down at a miscalculated equation,

  wondering whether to swipe the chalk, correct her.

  I’m bullshitting.

  I just like pissing off my maths teacher.

  He’s a twat. And he’s shagging the deputy.

  I scuff at her scrawl with the toe of my trainer.

  Her dog sniffs my feet.

  I’ve got a load of history to do too

  but I’ll wait and write that up on my laptop

  like a normal person.

  She pauses.

  Your face looks well sore.

  I’m fine.

  I paste my hair

  across my cheek

  to cover it.

  Do you wanna go somewhere?

  I clutch the coins in my pocket,

  my last four quid.

  If we can walk then yeah.

  Cool. I know a great place for kissing.

  I stare.

  It’s a joke. Relax.

  It’s a joke.

  A Great Place for Kissing

  The lighthouse really would be the perfect place

  if you had someone to kiss:

  candy-cane column

  wedged into craggy rocks,

  tall waves growling

  then backing off

  when the reply

  is solid and silent.

  Lolly loves it here.

  Lucy ruffles the dog’s fur.

  Her arms are goosebumpy.

  The sky is overcast,

  rumbling in argument with itself.

  Feels like you could get eaten alive,

  swallowed up, I say.

  A seagull squawks

  and inches towards the ocean.

  I will the water to cover me,

  take me to the sea

  and hold me down until

  everything is silent.

  Until time has mended the world.

  My boyfriend broke up with me, Lucy says suddenly.

  Went off with my best mate Kate.

  I already guessed.

  Found her bus pass in his coat. Slag.

  Oh. I’m sorry. Do you miss him?

  She laughs.

  Nah.

  He looks like a ferret.


  It’s my mate I lost.

  She stares at her hands,

  pauses and shouts, Lolly!

  In seconds the dog is beside us –

  wet and gasping.

  You stink. She reattaches his lead.

  Did you talk to your boyfriend like that? I ask.

  Cos if you did, maybe he was right to

  run off with someone else.

  She side-eyes me

  and I realise she isn’t Sophie or Jacq,

  who could take any joke

  you hurled at them.

  I better go. She stands.

  I’m at the beach hut a lot

  after school

  if you wanna come over.

  You not got anywhere to be? she asks.

  The tide is rising.

  I’m a siren, I say. I’ve got sailors to drown.

  I sit by the lighthouse for a long time,

  allow the water to drench me.

  I am cold.

  I am alone.

  I am unkissed.

  Unkissed

  I have never been kissed.

  Not on the mouth

  or cheek or

  top of the head

  I don’t think.

  Dad patted me, never pecked,

  when I’d been good as a kid.

  And by the time

  Kelly-Anne appeared

  I was too old for her

  lips