by Karen Clarke
‘Didn’t your granddad order these, but you refused to wear one?’
How the hell had she remembered that? ‘Well, now I want to,’ I said, slipping it over my head and fastening it tightly. For a second, it felt like he was giving me a hug.
Mum did the same, with an obvious air of reluctance. ‘Good old Dad,’ she murmured, a smile curving her lips. ‘He just wanted a peaceful life.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I surprised myself by saying. ‘He loved this place, and the shop, and had a lot to be proud of.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart.’ Mum leaned forward and tonged a chunk of coconut ice into her mouth.
‘Don’t eat the stock,’ I said, swiping at her hand.
‘But it’th tho good.’ She picked up another and squeezed it between my lips.
Several cups of tea later, the pavement in front of our table was jostling with people keen to try our sweets.
‘Only one each,’ I improvised, realising belatedly that I hadn’t factored in running out by midday. There were more in the fridge, but once they were gone that was it.
‘We should have charged fifty pence each,’ Mum murmured at one point. ‘Might have deterred the freeloaders.’
She looked in her element, at one point coyly refusing to reveal what made the marzipan crunch (pistachios). ‘It’s a family secret,’ she said with a wink, when asked by a crop-haired woman with a vegan vibe.
‘I think you’ll find it’s in the public interest to display the ingredients, especially when the goods are homemade,’ the woman said sternly, before striding away without trying anything.
‘Shit,’ I muttered. I went back to the board and wrote
All ingredients organic, including eggs, flour and beetroot powder where used. Sugar alternatives are medjool dates, rice and maple syrup, and stevia.
It didn’t sound very sexy, but then I wasn’t penning the next Fifty Shades. Should I include almonds? Could people be allergic to almonds, or just peanuts? Oh god, the peanut brittle.
Let us know if you have a peanut allergy
I added. There was hardly any room left on the board.
‘Talk about a buzzkill,’ Mum said.
‘Better than actually killing someone.’
‘Ew beetroot,’ said a little boy with a head of tight curls, from his pushchair. Surely he wasn’t old enough to read? ‘I don’t want a horrid sweet, Mummy, I want a real one.’
‘Who the hell’s Stevia?’ said someone else.
‘I think I know his cousin.’
I rubbed out what I’d written with the hem of my apron. ‘We’ll just tell people when they ask,’ I said to Mum. ‘That way, we can make them sound more appealing.’
She nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Some of the older regulars eyed my efforts with suspicion, as if they were deep-fried sheep’s testicles.
‘I’ve managed all these years without sugar alternatives, and I prefer my beetroot pickled and in a jar,’ said the butcher, who closed his shop on a bank holiday, and was dressed for a day on the beach in sunhat, shades and sandals. ‘I think I’ll stick with my usual.’
At least people were buying from the shop, its fresh new appearance drawing favourable comments.
‘About time you did away with that turgid brown,’ said Mr Flannery, emerging with a bulging bag. He must have been dying of curiosity as he rarely left the newsagent’s, and saw me as competition. ‘I’ll have some of that peanut brittle, it looks nicer than the stuff in there.’
A compliment indeed. I’d used my little hammer to smash it up earlier, and placed a generous sliver in his outstretched hand.
‘I’ll have some too,’ said someone else, and suddenly there was a sea of waggling hands, and the peanut brittle had gone.
‘I’ll fetch the rest,’ Mum said, and slipped into the shop.
The street was crowded now, and it seemed everyone wanted to try a handmade sweet.
Comments varied from ‘Surprisingly nice, considering how horrible it looks’ to ‘Are you going to sell these regularly, they’re yummy?’ and ‘Never thought sucking on a ginger ball would be the highlight of my day!’
And there was still no sign of Isabel.
‘Mum, I could use my award money to refit the kitchen and make the sweets on the premises,’ I said when she came back, getting carried away, in spite of a little voice in my head, reminding me I was going to Thailand soon.
‘That’s a brilliant idea.’ She sounded just as enthused. ‘They’re a real hit, Marnie, I’m proud of you.’
‘Aw, thanks, Mum.’
I was half-expecting to see Phoebe, but when I checked my phone, there was a message. There’d been an emergency at the restaurant, and she’d had to rush back. I smiled. She’d find it harder to escape than she imagined – if she even wanted to, deep down.
Every now and then I scanned the sea of faces, looking for Alex. His dad was probably firing up the barbecue under the gazebo, while Bobbi-Jo entertained them with tales of all the lives she’d saved during her nursing career.
And where was Josh? He’d seemed determined to win back my trust, and although I couldn’t blame him for not showing up, I’d been certain he would.
‘Only one,’ I said, to a stout woman with reddening freckled shoulders, reaching for her third piece of Turkish delight. I was wondering whether to ask Mum to nip back to Celia’s and make some more when I became aware of a commotion.
‘I feel so sick,’ said a woman, with more rolls of fat than the Michelin man. She was clutching her stomach, looking green around the gills, and staggered across to the gutter where she began to retch.
There was a sudden sense of danger in the air.
‘How do we know this stuff’s fresh?’ The crop-haired vegan woman was back, pushing her way to the table. ‘You could have poisoned these people.’
A terrible hush fell, apart from the sound of a child sobbing, and a flare of hip-hop from a passing car. People were drifting over from the beach to see what was happening, and an opportunistic seagull dive-bombed the sweets and took off with some marzipan crunch.
‘Should I call for help?’ I said, as the fat woman retched again.
‘There’s the St John’s ambulance over there.’ Mum pointed it out. ‘They always turn up when it’s busy in case someone drowns or gets sunstroke.’
‘It’s coming over,’ said an onlooker.
‘Shit,’ Mum murmured. ‘This isn’t good.’
Vegan-woman leant on the table, bringing her cabbage-breath to my face. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
Before I could reply, a News South-West van pulled up, and Sandi Brent stepped into the chaos, brandishing a microphone.
Thirty
‘Looks like things aren’t quite going according to plan.’ Sandi’s trauma-nurse expression didn’t fool me for a second. She was clearly in her element. ‘Would you care to tell viewers what’s going on?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Mum stepped over to stand between Sandi and me. ‘My daughter’s sweets have been a great success.’ She gestured at the almost empty table behind her. ‘As you can see, nearly everything has been eaten.’
‘And is currently being regurgitated,’ Sandi said silkily, keeping her eyes averted. She looked poised and polished in a simple, beige silk dress and flat jewelled pumps. ‘Kyle!’ She turned to the cameraman, who’d been focusing on Mum’s delicately flushed face, and he swung the camera to where the vomiting lady was slumped on the kerb, hands pressed to her stomach.
‘Uuuurghhh!’ she groaned, pushing her face between her legs. Her skirt rode up to reveal vast thighs and a glimpse of gusset.
Kyle swiftly lowered the camera.
‘It’s not appropriate to be interviewing me,’ I said shakily. Although the woman had stopped being sick, I wanted to check she was OK. ‘Excuse me.’
But before I could move, a high-pitched voice streamed out above the gathering. ‘Was there peanuts in them sweets?’
I revolved
to see a lanky teenager clutching his throat, lurching towards me like a drunk.
‘Dear god, what now?’ Mum muttered.
‘What now, indeed?’ Sandi echoed with thinly disguised glee, angling her microphone for maximum effect.
‘The peanut brittle,’ I croaked, unpeeling my T-shirt from my back where I’d started sweating. ‘It’s the peanut brittle.’
‘But surely it was obvious what it was?’ said Mum, exasperated. ‘It’s in the name: peanut brittle.’
‘Exactly.’ My eyes swept around, but no one would meet my gaze. All eyes were on the staggering boy, and several people were filming his swaying progress on their phones.
‘Irresponsible attitudes get people killed.’
I should have known Chris Weatherby would be there, talking in bloody headlines.
‘Someone get the paramedic,’ I called, and word passed down the group like Chinese whispers.
Chris snapped a photo of me grabbing the boy as he stumbled into me.
‘Do you have one of those pens?’ I said urgently, lowering him to the ground. He was gasping, trying to pull air into his lungs. ‘Oh god,’ I whimpered. ‘Somebody help.’
‘I can do a tracheotomy,’ announced Celia, appearing as though teleported. ‘I’ll need a straw and a biro.’
‘No one uses pens any more,’ someone said.
‘Are you a nurse?’ Vegan-woman asked Celia.
‘No, but I’ve done one before, on a Maltese.’ Misinterpreting the silence, she explained impatiently, ‘It’s a toy dog, like a feather duster with eyes.’
‘Why would you perform a tracheotomy on a toy dog?’ Vegan-woman looked understandably confused.
‘Not that sort of toy,’ scoffed Celia, rolling up her sleeves, but I was spared having to rush inside to hunt down either a straw or a biro as a paramedic appeared and dropped to her knees beside us.
She pulled out an epi-pen and efficiently jabbed the boy in the thigh.
‘OW!’ he howled, glaring as if she’d shot him with a bow and arrow. His colour faded from puce to vanilla and he scrambled to his feet, dusting his hands on his shorts.
Chris Weatherby sprang towards him. Freed from its pony-tail, his middle-parted hair draped untidily around his face. ‘What do you have to say to Ms Appleton?’ he asked, in a provocative manner, giving me a sideways look.
‘Who?’ Confusion crossed the boy’s face.
‘She made these so-called sweets.’
As Sandi Brent and Kyle closed in to record his answer, he puffed up with self-importance.
‘Well, I fort it might be good to have more ’elfy sweets, but it shows they can be just as dangerous in the wrong hands.’ As his thick brows beetled in my direction, everyone turned to stare.
I fanned my burning face with the hem of my apron.
‘Sounds like he’s been coached to say that,’ muttered Mum. Half her hair had come loose, and there was a smear of chocolate on her cheek. I shoved my hairband up off my eyebrows, trying to look concerned but in control.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But look how everyone’s lapping it up.’
‘You should be thanking that paramedic for saving your life, you ungrateful sod,’ shouted Celia. There was a swell of agreement, then everyone began clapping and the mood shifted slightly.
Not in my favour.
‘I warned you earlier,’ said Vegan-woman, who I was beginning to hate with a passion. ‘You should have listened.’
‘What was that?’ Sandi Brent pounced. ‘Are you saying Ms Appleton didn’t make clear the ingredients in her sweets?’
‘IT SAID PEANUT BRITTLE ON THE LABEL!’ Mum yelled, and I jumped about a foot in the air. I’d never heard her raise her voice. ‘People can read, can’t they?’ She suddenly looked like Angelina Jolie in Changeling and I heard the whirr of the camera zooming in. ‘People do have to take some responsibility for their health and safety,’ she went on, waving the little card as proof. ‘My daughter is a responsible and caring member of this community.’
‘Good girl,’ approved Celia, rolling her sleeves down. ‘About time she made a stand about something important.’
‘Who is that?’ Chris Weatherby asked no one in particular.
‘My mum,’ I said, proudly.
His eyes flicked from her to me, as if seeking a likeness, and finding none, looked suspicious.
The teenager was refusing to give his name. ‘I’m supposed to be studying for exams and my mum thinks I’m in my room,’ he said, looking shifty. ‘I can’t be on telly, but you can put me in the paper as long as I stay ’nonymous.’
‘Well now that’s a shame, as these dramatic events will make a great piece on this evening’s news,’ gushed Sandi Brent, frowning as a gust of wind pushed a strand of hair across her face. ‘And you come across so well on camera,’ she lied, peeling hair off her lipstick.
I could see the boy was torn.
‘Nah, gotta go,’ he said at last and strutted off, clearly revelling in the many back-claps and cries of ‘Take care son’ that followed his departure.
‘I’m so glad you’re OK,’ I called, marvelling that minutes ago he’d been at death’s door, and now seemed so thoroughly alive. Thank god for the St John’s ambulance.
Aware Sandi was searching for a new victim to interview, I was tempted to slip away. I glanced through the shop window to where Agnieszka was still serving customers, as though there wasn’t a real-life episode of Casualty unfolding outside, and behind my reflection saw a familiar SUV screech to a halt by the kerb.
Isabel dismounted in a hurry, and dragged a placard from the back seat, almost braining her husband who was driving.
‘Go and fetch Fitzy from the babysitter and then come back,’ she ordered, before careering round the back of the TV van to artfully tousle her hair with her fingers, and adjust her cream, off-the-shoulder dress, so it was mostly off.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re still here,’ she cried, sashaying through the still gossiping crowd, to where Sandi and Chris were attempting to talk to the vomiting woman being examined by the paramedic. ‘I’ve been so busy with my publisher this morning, I almost didn’t get here,’ Isabel continued loudly.
‘Rubbish,’ spluttered Celia. ‘There was no publisher, I was there.’
Isabel wagged her ‘SUGAR IS POISON’ placard, to which she’d added a photo of the shop, struck through with a crude red cross. ‘I was determined to make the most of this opportunity to …’
‘ … promote yourself,’ said Celia, frowning heavily.
‘ … express my dismay that sweet shops continue to thrive in this day and age,’ Isabel went on, flashing her luminous eyes to full effect. The sun glanced off her exposed tanned shoulder, and turned her dress almost invisible.
‘I can see her nipples,’ Mum whispered.
‘How did she even get out?’ said Celia, at the same time as I said,
‘She used to be a model.’
‘But why is she doing this?’ Mum enquired.
Isabel began handing out flyers again, stepping about delicately in strappy gold sandals that made the most of her gym-toned calves.
‘There’s more information on my blog,’ she was saying, aiming her words at Chris Weatherby, who was photographing her at an angle, like Mario Testino. She did an automatic supermodel pose, shoulders jutting forward, before remembering where she was. ‘I’m asking people to sign a petition to close down sweet shops everywhere.’
‘What do you mean, how did she get out?’ I whipped round to face Celia. ‘What did you do?’
Isabel suddenly spotted us, lurking by the shop doorway, and hurried over with Chris’s gaze fixed to her swaying backside.
‘I know what you did,’ she hissed, her eyes slitty. ‘And it didn’t work.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Celia assumed an innocent expression that fooled no one.
‘She knew Gerry wasn’t home, and somehow trained Pollywollydoodle to guard the door so I couldn’t get out.’<
br />
‘Gran!’
‘Mum!’
Under the weight of our glares, Gran straightened the collar of her blouse.
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘And if the dog was guarding the door, at least you were in the kitchen.’ She fixed Isabel with an icy stare. ‘You didn’t have the child there, and had access to food and water,’ she said. ‘You were hardly in mortal danger.’
‘I had to climb out of the window, which is tiny,’ Isabel blasted. ‘Luckily, I’m very flexible, but I’ve a good mind to report you.’
‘You should stop interfering in matters that don’t concern you.’
‘Health is a matter that concerns us all,’ said Isabel in righteous tones, and there was a ripple of agreement from those eavesdropping closest to us.
‘I am concerned about health,’ I started to say, but she hadn’t finished.
‘I’m hoping to raise awareness with my book.’
‘Say what?’ Sandi Brent bounded over. ‘Hey, you’re the campaigner from Morning, Sunshine! Imogen …?’
‘Isabel Sinclair,’ said Isabel, turning on a sickly-sweet smile. ‘And I’m pleased to see that even the handmade sweets didn’t meet with the public’s approval.’
How the hell did she know that, when she’d only just turned up? Probably the sick in the gutter.
Suddenly, it was all too much. All I wanted was to run inside, lock the shop and never come out. Or, failing that, run all the way back to Celia’s and get into bed, or time-travel to Thailand. But escaping wasn’t an option, and Sandi Brent wasn’t done. Clearly hungry for more drama – or perhaps not wanting to be seen on screen with someone not only more attractive than her, but better at applying flicky eyeliner – she turned to face the goggling crowd.
‘Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to support this campaign, especially in light of today’s near miss with the supposedly healthier sweets?’
‘Yes,’ said a voice I recognised.
I stopped trying to edge inside the shop as Beth materialised, cradling a swaddled bundle. She radiated regal vibes in a sky-blue dress that swept the ground, and her curls were heaped up in a bun. Far from giving birth, she looked like she’d been on a retreat where she’d been taught how to meditate.
