My teacher at school was worried about me. Obviously she knew I’d lost my dad but when I started showing up in dirty clothes, hair unwashed, smelling, she realised things weren’t right at home. I’d tried my best to keep it all going but I was still too young to properly look after myself. My teacher arranged for some social workers to visit. They saw the state of the house and the state of Mum and, next thing I knew, I was whisked away for emergency foster care. I’m sure it wasn’t that straightforward or quick, but it felt that way to me at the time.
My first foster home was with a lovely widow in her fifties who’d been unable to have children of her own. She told me that she and her husband had provided a home for more than fifty kids over the years, and she’d continued the amazing work on her own after he died. Two months after I moved in, she found a lump in her breast so I couldn’t stay. The next couple – Mr and Mrs Ashwell – had also been unable to have children so had adopted two and would foster between four and six at a time. After eight months with them, they had to move to Florida for Mr Ashwell’s job and could foster no more.
I longed to return to Mum but my social worker would look at me with sad eyes and say, ‘Your mum isn’t well enough to look after you, Tamara. I’m really sorry.’ Not well enough to look after me but also not well enough to see me. I didn’t see her at all while I was on my first foster placement and I only saw her for an hour when I was with the Ashwells; an hour in which all she did was hold me and sob and apologise that the black cloak was getting heavier and heavier. That was the last time I ever saw her.
After the Ashwells, I had a few weeks here and there before they found me another ‘long-term opportunity’ with the appropriately named Foster family. I liked it there too but it only lasted five months. I can’t even remember why I had to leave but I do remember Mrs Foster sobbing so much when she tried to break the news that Mr Foster had to do it instead. I didn’t cry. I was so used to that conversation that I’d known it was coming, probably before they had. We played ‘the glad game’. Mr Foster said that he would have fond memories of when Pollyanna came to stay because he had two wonderful sons but had always wanted a daughter too. Mrs Foster agreed, through lots of tears and snot, and said that meeting someone who ‘sees the rainbows even through the torrential rain’ would have a positive impact on her outlook forever.
For me, it was yet another lovely family to walk away from, but there were always positives. I was glad to have met them all.
I was approaching eleven and being constantly on the move and away from my mum had started to dampen my positivity. It wasn’t just changing family all the time. It was changing schools. Changing friends. Changing my life constantly. Packing, unpacking, packing again. Never really belonging. But then I was placed with the Sandersons and, finally, I found my long-term home.
Right from the very start, Kirsten and Tim Sanderson treated me like their own child and their daughter, Leanne, was like the big sister I’d always longed for. I’d struck gold, almost literally. The Sandersons were absolutely loaded. Tim was a director for an investment bank in the city and Kirsten owned Vanilla Pod, a successful chain of bistros across South London. They had an enormous four-storey townhouse called ‘The Larches’ in Kensington and, on my first day there, they said there were five spare bedrooms and I could choose the one I wanted. Five! I remember staring at them, wide-eyed, wondering if I’d misheard. I’d been used to the box room in all my foster homes and I’d been used to sharing too. When I made my decision, they asked me about my favourite colours and my hobbies, then commissioned a designer to create the bedroom of my dreams. I’d finally had some good luck.
Their daughter, Leanne, was seventeen when I turned up. When she came home from college on my first day, she squealed with excitement, hugged me tightly and told me how thrilled she was to have a baby sister.
I’d only been with the Sandersons for a few months when Kirsten picked me up from school early, her eyes red, her face grim, and I knew the day that I’d always dreaded had arrived. Standing in the church at Mum’s funeral a week later, clutching tightly to Kirsten’s hand, I played ‘the glad game’. I was glad that Mum was no longer strangled by that cloak most days and I was glad she’d been reunited with my dad. I missed them both so much. I clung onto every single memory from too few years together, replaying each one over and over so I’d never forget and never let go.
Mum had intermittently kept diaries over the years which came into my possession after she died. From them I discovered she was bipolar and had battled depression and anxiety since her early teens. Dad was always so supportive and without him, she fell deeper into despair. My Pollyanna approach to life had been a blessing but wasn’t enough to pull her out of the darkness. A couple of nights after I left, she’d taken an overdose and only survived because a neighbour found her. It turned out it wasn’t her first attempt and Dad had covered up others. Three years and several failed attempts later, on what would have been Dad’s birthday, she took a way out that couldn’t fail – a tumble off a passenger bridge in front of a speeding train. That damn black cloak of hers had a hell of a lot to answer for and, ever since, I’d tried not to wear black. I needed my world splashed with colour.
Back in The Chocolate Pot, I looked up at Carly with tears clouding my eyes. ‘So at age eleven, I was an orphan. Losing Mum was painful but I’d really lost her the day Dad died and I’d grieved for them both then. Despite such pain, I focused on my promise to Dad to always be his positive Pollyanna. I believed I was the luckiest girl on the planet with so much to be glad about when I was placed with the Sandersons. I’d been given a second chance to be a permanent part of a loving family and, as well as two wonderful parents, I had this amazing big sister to look up to. And Leanne wasn’t just a sister. She was a role model and a friend. Or so I thought.’ I shook my head. ‘What Leanne did… What she put me through…’ I paused as my heart raced and I felt quite nauseous. I couldn’t do it. After all these years, I still wasn’t ready to talk about it. Guilt? Shame? Both?
‘Are you okay?’ Carly asked, her voice and expression full of concern.
I hadn’t talked about my parents or my time in foster care to anyone and I felt peculiar, as though I was on a precipice somewhere between laughing hysterically and sobbing uncontrollably. It genuinely could go either way.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, wearily, ‘but I can’t tell you the rest. Not tonight.’
Carly reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘You look exhausted. Do you want me to go?’
I nodded slowly.
‘I’m so sorry about everything.’
We stood up and I picked up both mugs. ‘You understand why I haven’t talked about them before?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry for quizzing you. I shouldn’t have asked.’ Carly looked genuinely mortified.
‘I like that you care enough to ask. And, if I hadn’t wanted to tell you, I wouldn’t have. I’d have remained an enigma.’ I gave her a half-smile, hoping it was enough to convey that I wasn’t upset with her.
‘I absolutely promise I won’t push you about Garth or what happened with your foster sister,’ she said as we headed towards the front door. ‘But I’m here when and if you’re ready.’
I thanked her as she stepped out into the rain, but I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be ready. Talking about my parents and time in foster care had been hard enough, but talking about Garth and Leanne was on another level.
6
I cut off the thread, placed my needle safely in my pin cushion, turned the miniature bobble hat the right way round and added it to the basket of colourful hats and scarves I’d spent the day knitting. Christmas might be over for one year but it was never too early to start making decorations for the next one.
‘Sorry, Hercules, but I’m going to have to move you.’ He was partially draped across my knee, doing a great impression of a hot water bottle. Reluctantly, I lifted him up and placed him back on the armchair, stroking his ears. ‘I’ll get changed
, then I’m going downstairs to relieve the team. I won’t be long, though.’
Pulling off my snuggly clothes, I changed into my jeans and a purple T-shirt, pulled my long, curly hair back into a knot, then made my way down to the ground floor. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused and listened at the door. Loud music signalled to me that all the customers had gone and the team were cleaning, which wasn’t really a surprise considering it was New Year’s Eve.
Unlocking the door, I stepped into the café and smiled. The chairs were stacked on the tables and two of my other student part-timers, Nathan and Molly, were diligently mopping the floor. I loved that standards never slipped when I wasn’t working and I had Maria to thank for that. Like me, she ran a tight ship.
I greeted Molly and Nathan and asked them to put their mops down and follow me to the front of the café by the serving counter. Maria was busy cashing up, counting a bundle of notes from the till. She smiled at me and indicated with a raise of her finger that she was nearly done.
‘Can you grab Sheila and Brandon from the kitchen?’ I asked Molly.
She nodded and made her way behind the counter and past Maria.
Sheila had been with me for a little over a year. Now in her late fifties, she had run her own café in Hull before semi-retiring to Whitsborough Bay. A gifted chef, she was content to spend most of her time in the kitchen and I was more than happy to use her talents that way. Brandon was another of my part-time students.
Maria lifted the tray out of the till and placed it on the counter with the printed sales report for the day. ‘You’re going to be dead chuffed when you look at the figures for today.’
‘It’s been busy, then?’
‘Busy? Oh my goodness, it’s barely stopped all day. Then, poof, they all disappeared. Anyone would think they had somewhere better to be. The last half hour was dead so we’re nearly cleaned up already, the cakes and leftovers are packaged up ready for The Hope Centre, and there’s a plate of quiche and salad for your dinner tonight.’
‘Thank you so much. Super-efficient as always.’
A few minutes later, Molly emerged from the kitchen, followed by Sheila and Brandon. ‘Gather round,’ I said. ‘Firstly, thanks for today. Maria tells me you’ve been busy.’
There were murmurs about it being ‘packed’, ‘heaving’ and ‘never-ending’ but it was all good-natured. They weren’t scared of hard work and I knew they all preferred to be kept busy as it made the shift go faster.
‘And thank you for everything you’ve done this year,’ I continued. ‘I’m very proud of you all.’ I looked round the smiling group. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m sure you have somewhere else you’d rather be right now so you’re welcome to head home and I’ll finish off.’
Chattering excitedly, they headed upstairs to retrieve their belongings from the staff room.
‘Have I told you lately that you’re the best boss ever?’ Maria said.
‘Get away with you. It’s New Year’s Eve. Anyone would do the same.’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind about seeing in the New Year with us?’
I grimaced. ‘Thanks but I prefer to stay in for New Year. Have a good time, though.’
‘We’ll try. What are your plans, then?’
‘I’ll drop off the food at The Hope Centre and then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s no different from any other Sunday night. I’ll have my tea, watch TV or read, then go to bed.’
‘You will stay up past midnight to see the New Year in?’
I shrugged. ‘Probably. Too many fireworks going off round town to make it worth trying to sleep.’
‘I’ve got your stuff.’ Sheila handed Maria her bag, coat, and scarf. ‘Thanks for the early finish, Tara.’
‘Happy New Year, everyone,’ I said, opening the door to let them out. ‘Have a great evening, whatever you’re doing, and I’ll see you next year.’
Wishing me all the best, they bundled out of The Chocolate Pot and set off in different directions along the cobbles of Castle Street. I stepped outside, watching them for a moment, before looking up at the fairy lights strung between the shops and cafés like a ribbon of stars connecting the buildings. Another week and they’d stop being illuminated at night. Another week or so after that and they’d be gone for another year. It was always a sad day when the cherry picker appeared and the lights were taken down. I might not celebrate on Christmas Day but even I felt like there was something magical about Christmas on Castle Street. Each business took pride in creating enticing window displays and the whole street looked and felt so warm and inviting.
I pulled the door closed behind me and moved towards the middle of the cobbles. Standing under the white lights, I gazed up to the starry sky as I often did on an evening, wondering if my parents were up there somewhere looking down on me. Were they proud of me? Had I turned out how they’d hoped, despite everything? Glancing up and down the street at the fairy lights in the various shop windows, I felt alive and, for a brief moment, I was Pollyanna again, believing in everyone and everything.
A very brief moment.
‘That’s enough of that,’ I muttered to myself. Stepping back into the café, I locked the door, then made my way to the counter and reached for my yellow mug. Hot chocolate time.
While my gingerbread hot chocolate cooled, I put the till tray away in the safe, finished mopping the floor, and emptied the buckets. Switching off all the lights except those at the very back of the café, I took my mug and the sales report to one of the high-backed leather armchairs. Glancing down the sales figures, I smiled. Maria was right – very impressive. They must have worked their socks off.
A knock on the door made me jump.
‘It’s only me,’ shouted a woman through the letterbox.
I smiled as I recognised Carly’s voice.
‘Have you been busy?’ she asked when I let her in.
‘Maria said they never stopped. What about you?’
‘Same. It’s all good, though.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ I hoped she’d say no. The sooner I could get to The Hope Centre – a local charity for the homeless and vulnerable – the sooner I could be back upstairs with Hercules, shutting out the world and ignoring the fact that it was New Year’s Eve. Christmas Day was bad but New Year’s Eve was even worse. It held too many memories and too many regrets.
‘I’ve just had one, thanks,’ Carly said. ‘I came to do you a favour. Liam’s loading some cupcakes into my car for The Hope Centre. We wondered if we could take your donations and save you the trip.’
‘Really? That would be brilliant. Thank you.’ Relief flowed through me. I’d never have been able to drop-and-run. They’d have insisted on inviting me in and making me a drink and I’d be asked how I was seeing the New Year in, followed by the curious expressions when I revealed I’d be doing nothing.
‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ Carly asked.
‘No. It’s all bagged up ready to go. Give me two minutes and I’ll be out.’
‘I’m freezing,’ Liam said after we’d loaded up the car. ‘I’m going upstairs to grab a hoodie.’ He disappeared into Carly’s shop.
‘Are you sure you won’t join us tonight?’ Carly asked, closing the boot.
Why did people keep asking me that? I shook my head. ‘I haven’t celebrated New Year’s Eve since my wed—’ I stopped but I was too late. I’d already said half the word.
‘You got married on New Year’s Eve.’ Carly looked at me with big, sad eyes. ‘That’s why you don’t celebrate it.’
What was going on? Why did I keep revealing information?
‘I met Garth on New Year’s Eve,’ I muttered. ‘He proposed the same day two years later and we married exactly a year after that. I’ll regret the day I met him forever so, thanks to him, I hate New Year’s Eve with a passion.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Carly said. ‘I’m not pushing, either. I’d never have mentioned it if you hadn’t nearly sai
d “wedding”. The offer’s still on the table. I’m here if and when you’re ready for the next part of your story.’
Liam stepped out of Carly’s Cupcakes, pulling a hoodie over his head. ‘That’s better. Are we all set?’
Thanking them both for taking the food to The Hope Centre, I wished them a Happy New Year, then headed back into The Chocolate Pot, shoulders drooped. So Carly knew a bit more. That tower was going to keep crumbling, wasn’t it? I should never have let my guard down with her. I should have kept it strictly about business but it had got harder and harder to keep Carly at arm’s length. She was so warm and friendly and she made me laugh. I missed having a friend in my life who could do that. Although the last person who’d done that had been Leanne and look how that turned out. Better to keep a distance. Safer.
‘Hercules?’ I called, returning to the flat. I placed my plate of tea in the fridge and the sales report on the worktop. ‘Where’s that gorgeous bunny rabbit?’
Hercules came bounding towards me, his nose twitching. Bending down, I scooped him up into my arms, kissed his head, and stroked his ears. When I’d researched how to care for house rabbits, I’d read that they didn’t particularly like being handled and that had been true for Titch and Dinks. Not Hercules, though. He was the most adorable, affectionate, snuggly bunny in the world. Animals. Better than humans any day. Always there for you with unconditional love and hugs.
‘Let’s get you some food,’ I said, putting him back down. Obedient as always, he followed me to his feeding station in the kitchen where I put some fresh water in his bowl, topped up his food pellets and added a handful of chopped cabbage and kale into his third bowl.
Starry Skies Over the Chocolate Pot Cafe Page 3
