Cookie

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Oh,’ I said, drooping.

  ‘Yes. I do a great fish pie. Fancy trying it, you two?’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to intrude, not if you’re having your friends round,’ said Mum.

  Mike looked at me. I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Mum! I think we’re the friends,’ I said.

  So we had supper with Mike. We did wonder if he’d invited any of the other guests, but the two walking couples drove off to some gourmet pub and the family went to try the evening meal at the hotel.

  ‘So it’s just us,’ I said, smiling. ‘Mum, can I wear my grey dress and pinafore and my new boots?’

  ‘Oh, Beauty! It’s just supper. Just pop a clean T-shirt on and wear it with your jeans.’

  ‘No, I want to look lovely. Well, I know I look total rubbish no matter what, but I feel lovely in my grey dress.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. You don’t look the slightest bit rubbish. But OK, you wear your grey outfit if you like. I’m not going to make a big effort though.’

  Mum wore her jeans – but she changed into her little pink clingy top with pearl buttons and she wore her pink strappy high heels. She even bothered to paint new nail varnish on her toes.

  We went downstairs at seven as Mike had suggested but the breakfast room was empty, all the tables set ready for the morning.

  ‘Oh goodness, maybe he’s changed his mind,’ Mum whispered.

  But Mike came into the breakfast room, beaming at us.

  ‘Through here, ladies. I thought we’d be cosier in the kitchen, and it won’t give any of the other guests ideas if they come back early.’

  Mike had on his stripy apron, but underneath he was wearing a big blue flowery shirt and clean jeans without a single paint smear, and his big baseball boots shone scarlet. He had obviously made a big effort.

  ‘Oh, Beauty! Is it you, Beauty?’ he said. ‘You look so grown up. And you look even younger, Dilly. You’re just like sisters.’

  We were used to people saying this but it was still good to hear. We followed him into the kitchen. I’d expected it to be a big formal stainless-steel working kitchen, but it was a glorious colourful old-fashioned room with a great wooden dresser hung with willow-pattern plates. Old toby jugs jostled each other on the windowsill and there were big blue lustre vases on the wooden table, containing red asters, white daisies, yellow lilies and pink rosebuds. The cooker itself was a big green Aga that spread a cosy glow throughout the kitchen. There was a red and yellow and blue rag rug on the tiled floor with a black cat stretched out, comfortably dozing.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a cat, Mike!’ I said, squatting down beside it and stroking its sleek head.

  ‘I don’t. It’s next door’s, but she’s got a sixth sense whenever I make fish pie. She comes on the scrounge for the scraps,’ said Mike. ‘Right, sit yourself down, girls. What would you like to drink? White wine, Dilly? And I thought you’d like a special red wine, Beauty.’ He grinned and poured us each a glass. Mine was the most beautiful deep red. I knew it couldn’t really be wine but I felt wickedly grown up sipping it all the same.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ I said. ‘What kind of wine is this, Mike?’

  ‘Oh, the very best. Vintage pomegranate,’ said Mike. ‘Now, you ladies talk among yourselves while I do the finishing touches to the meal.’

  He popped some runner beans and asparagus into a pan of boiling water and then had a peer at the fish pie. It was golden brown and smelled wonderful. The cat raised her head from the mat and looked hopeful again.

  ‘No, you’ve had your share, greedy-guts,’ said Mike. ‘It’s our turn now.’

  It truly was delicious – soft creamy mashed potato with a crispy cheese topping and large chunks of haddock and cod and curly pink prawns. I ate my entire plateful and then had a second helping. Mike didn’t frown at me and make comments about my weight. He seemed delighted that I appreciated his pie and congratulated me on my appetite. Mum couldn’t quite clear her plateful because she’s got the appetite of a bird at the best of times, but she told Mike he was a brilliant cook.

  ‘I’m not much cop when it comes to puds, I’m afraid,’ he said, producing a bowl of red apples, some purple grapes and an orange cheese. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got any sweet nibbles for you, Beauty. There might be a biscuit or two in that tartan tin.’

  ‘Are they home-made?’ I asked.

  ‘Beauty!’ said Mum.

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t do that sort of baking,’ said Mike.

  ‘Mum does,’ I said proudly. ‘She makes the most fantastic cookies, all different sorts, iced and chocolate chip and cherry and oatmeal-and-raisin.’

  ‘Mm! So you’re a good cook, are you, Dilly?’

  ‘No! I’ve just got a very sweet daughter,’ said Mum. ‘I can’t cook for toffee, apart from cookies. I can make good cookies though.’

  ‘What about breakfasts?’ said Mike. ‘I’m going to need a hand in the kitchen now the summer season’s starting up, and I usually employ a student to come in and do chambermaiding. It’s a bit of a boring job but you’d be finished and free by lunch time. You don’t fancy trying it for a few weeks?’

  Mum looked stunned. She just stared at Mike, not saying a word. So I answered for her.

  ‘Yes, please!’ I said.

  ‘No, no, hang on, Beauty. Mike’s just being kind, trying to be helpful,’ Mum muttered.

  ‘No, I need help. It’s a bit of a rubbish job and I can’t pay much, but it’ll give you time to think out what you really want to do. The only trouble is I can’t let you keep the first-floor double, not if you’re here as staff. If I have a live-in girl she usually sleeps up in the attic, but it’s a bit basic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The attic!’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Oh, can we see? I’ve always wanted to live in an old house with a proper attic.’

  So Mike led us up the three flights of stairs to his attic. It was a dark narrow little room with just one very small window, but it was still beautiful. The small bed had a navy patchwork quilt with silver stars and moons appliquéd all over it. There was a squashy ruby velvet armchair with a matching footstool and a red-and-blue tapestry curtain hiding a clothes rail.

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t think it’s anywhere near big enough for you,’ said Mike worriedly.

  ‘We can easily scrunch up together. It’s great!’ I said.

  I ran to the window, rested my elbows on the sill, and looked out over the red tile rooftops to the sea. ‘I feel just like Sara Crewe in A Little Princess. She lived in an attic!’

  I knelt down, examining the wainscoting.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, Beauty? Get up!’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m just seeing if there are any little rat holes,’ I said.

  ‘What? There are absolutely no rats in this house, I promise,’ said Mike. You won’t find so much as a mouse’s whisker!’

  ‘Oh, I’d love my own pet rat like Sara’s Melchisedec,’ I said.

  ‘You might, Beauty, but I definitely wouldn’t,’ said Mum. She smiled at Mike. ‘We’ll be great here, Mike, Beauty and me. I’ll bring our stuff up here and start work in the morning, how about that?’

  ‘No, no, you must have your little holiday first.’

  ‘Please. I’d like to get stuck in straight away. Shall we shake on it?’

  Mum stuck out her hand and they shook, sealing the deal.

  Sixteen

  Mum was up extra early next morning, wearing her checked shirt and jeans, her hair scraped back into a ponytail.

  ‘Do I look like a breakfast chef?’ she asked me anxiously.

  ‘No, you need checked trousers and one of those big floppy white hats,’ I said, laughing at her.

  ‘Don’t, Beauty! I’m so scared. I’m sure I’m going to mess up royally. Your dad always says I can’t even boil an egg and I can’t – they always come out rock hard or so soft they ooze everywhere. Mike’s being so kind but he’ll so regret it when I muck everything up for him.’

  ‘Mum, you can c
ook.’

  ‘I can’t give folk a plate of cookies for their blooming breakfast!’

  ‘I don’t know, oatmeal-and-raisin cookies might be just the ticket.’

  I went down with Mum to the kitchen, though she told me not to.

  ‘I’m like the kitchen maid. I promise I’ll be useful and not get in the way,’ I said to Mike.

  ‘You’re child labour and I’ll get sent to jail for exploiting you,’ said Mike, but he patted me on the head and told me to stay.

  He sent Mum into the dining room to take the breakfast orders. She got in a terrible fluster at first and couldn’t remember which walkers wanted veggie sausages and which black pudding, and whether they wanted tea or coffee, but I’d been lurking in the doorway and knew exactly. Mike asked Mum to keep an eye on the sausages and bacon while he made some porridge for a new pair of old ladies. Mum’s hand shook as she tried to turn the sausages so that three of them shot straight out of the pan and skidded across the floor.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ she said, nearly in tears.

  ‘They can be your breakfast, Dilly!’ said Mike cheerily. ‘Never mind, shove some more under the grill, there’s a dear.’

  He didn’t get the slightest bit cross, dancing around the kitchen, laughing and joking. Mum was soon laughing and joking back. She had to serve up the little boys’ breakfasts and she made them each a face on a plate: a sausage cut in two for the eyes, a tomato nose and a bacon-rasher mouth, which they both loved. She made a smiley golden syrup face in both bowls of porridge too and the old ladies clapped their little claw hands in delight.

  Mike seemed pleased when we all had breakfast together – but Mum and I really came into our own when it came to making the beds and doing the cleaning. We were used to living in a home where everything had to be pin-neat perfect. I’d followed Mum around when I was a toddler, doing my own ‘dusting’ with a hankie and riding on the vacuum cleaner. Now I could tackle housework properly myself. We worked together in each room, making beds, cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming the carpet.

  We were astonished at everyone’s untidiness. We didn’t like to tidy things up too thoroughly in case people thought we were meddling with their things, but we couldn’t help playing little games. The walkers had left big woolly socks strewn all over the floor so we hung them in a row at the foot of the bed like Christmas stockings. The little boys had thrown their teddies everywhere so I collected them up and tucked them all into the cot, the covers pulled up tight to their button noses.

  Mike did a tiny tactful inspection in our wake and grinned appreciatively.

  ‘I’ve got two girls for the price of one – and you’ve both done an excellent job. I knew it was my lucky day when I spotted you on the beach.’

  ‘Our lucky day,’ I said happily. ‘Can we do some more painting together this afternoon, Mike?’

  ‘You bet we can,’ said Mike.

  Mum and I went up to our little attic room to gather our things together for the beach. We were running out of clean clothes now but Mike said we could use his washing machine.

  ‘I wish I’d packed more sensibly,’ said Mum. ‘I filled half my suitcase with your baby photos and all the pictures you’ve ever drawn for me – and yet I forgot my nightie and my good knickers and I didn’t even think to take any tights. Oh well, I can always buy some more when I get my first wages. Unless we ask your dad if we can go back to collect some more stuff ? No, maybe not.’

  ‘Definitely not!’

  ‘We’ll have to phone him though.’ Mum took a deep breath. ‘Now!’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to. It’s only fair and responsible.’

  ‘But he’ll spoil it all.’

  ‘Beauty, he’s your father.’

  ‘Yes, but I wish he wasn’t.’

  ‘Now don’t be silly.’

  ‘He wishes I wasn’t his daughter.’

  ‘Now that’s totally out of order. Your dad thinks the world of you.’

  ‘He’s ashamed of me. He’d swap me for Skye quick as a wink.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Mum, but she was nibbling her lip, not looking me in the eye. ‘You mustn’t ever think that, babes.’

  ‘I don’t just think it, Mum, I know it.’

  ‘And I know you’re just nattering away so I’ll lose my bottle and put off phoning your dad. But I’m not going to!’ Mum’s fingers darted over the phone keypad and she pressed the green button before I could stop her.

  ‘You’re through to the desk of Gerry Cookson,’ said Dad in his brightest and best Happy Homes tone.

  Mum and I stared at each other. He sounded so cheerily normal, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘He’s fine, Mum! Switch off now!’ I hissed – but Mum had already started talking.

  ‘Hello, Gerry darling,’ she said, and then pulled a face. The ‘darling’ had obviously slipped out from force of habit.

  ‘Dilly? Dilly, what the hell are you playing at?’ Dad’s voice revved up. I could hear him; Mike all the way downstairs could hear him; even kids down on the beach could hear him.

  ‘I’m not playing, Gerry. This isn’t a game,’ said Mum.

  ‘You’ve been gone three days. You’ve made your point. Now pack your gear and get yourself home, pronto.’

  ‘We’re not actually coming home,’ said Mum.

  ‘What? Don’t talk such total bilge. Of course you are. What sort of a mother are you, flouncing out of your lovely home and dragging poor little Beauty with you?’

  I tried to take the phone to stick up for Mum but she wouldn’t let me.

  ‘You were the one who told us to get out, Gerry,’ Mum said.

  ‘Because you were bang out of order, you jumped-up little tart,’ Dad bellowed.

  ‘Well, nice to know what you think of me,’ said Mum. ‘Now listen, Gerry, I’m trying to be as responsible as possible. I know you need to know where Beauty is—’

  ‘No! No! NO!’ I said, jumping up and down.

  ‘We’re staying at a little spot on the coast called Rabbit Cove. It’s lovely here. I promise you Beauty’s very happy.’

  ‘Stop burbling this nonsense! Now come back home this instant!’

  ‘We’re going to stay here for a while, Gerry, at least for the summer season.’

  ‘And what exactly are you going to live on, you little fool? You needn’t think I’m sending any money for you and the kid.’

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ said Mum proudly.

  ‘You’ve got a job?’ Dad said. ‘What is it? The Useless Ageing Dumb Blonde Page Three Pin-Up job?’

  Mum took the phone away from her ear, stared at it a moment, and then terminated the call.

  ‘About time,’ I said.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Mum, starting to shake.

  ‘I told you so,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t, Beauty,’ said Mum, and her eyes went watery.

  ‘I’m sorry. I hate people who say I told you so. I didn’t really mean it,’ I said, giving her a hug.

  We stayed hugging hard, glancing anxiously at the phone. It started ringing again almost immediately. Mum switched it off quickly, keeping the phone at arm’s length as if Dad could wriggle right out of it and grab her.

  ‘OK, babes, let’s go on the beach,’ said Mum.

  We left the phone shut up in our dressing-table drawer and went down to the sands. We were both hot and flushed. We longed to cool down by going in for a swim. We hadn’t packed swimming costumes but Mum felt I’d look perfectly decent in my T-shirt and knickers.

  ‘I can’t go swimming in my knickers!’

  ‘You wore them with your T-shirt on the beach the other day.’

  ‘Yes, sitting down. I can’t go gallivanting into the sea dressed like that. Everyone will stare at me and laugh.’

  ‘No they won’t! Don’t be so daft. Look, I’ll go in wearing my underwear. I’ve got my old red bra and knickers on. They look kind of like a bikini. OK, ready steady strip!’

  Mu
m ripped her top and jeans off. I gaped at her – and then pulled my own jeans off. We went charging into the sea. It was incredibly cold but we didn’t hang around shrieking. We plunged straight in and splashed around like crazy.

  We saw Mike setting up his easel by the wall and called to him to come and join us. He was an old spoilsport and wouldn’t even come in paddling. He painted us instead, bobbing about in the sea, Mum in her red ‘bikini’ and me in my big T-shirt.

  When I’d dried off I went to paint with him too. I did another Sam and Lily portrait: Sam was sunbathing in a funny long stripy costume and Lily was hunched up on a deckchair, licking a carrot-flavoured ice lolly, with sunglasses hooked onto her ears. I sang the Rabbit Hutch song under my breath as I painted, and I made Sam say, ‘Hey there,’ to me.

  ‘Hey there,’ said Mike, thinking I was talking to him.

  ‘Hey,’ I said again, giggling.

  Mum put her clothes back on when she’d sunbathed herself dry. She gathered up our beach stuff and came to join us up on the wall.

  ‘Do you want to do some painting too, Dilly?’ Mike asked.

  ‘You have to be joking!’ said Mum. ‘No, I’m going to nip back to Lily Cottage if that’s OK. I’m planning a little surprise.’

  I had an idea what Mum’s surprise would be. Sure enough, when Mike and I went back to the guest house with our finished canvases there was a wonderful warm sweet cookie smell the moment we opened the door. Mike breathed in deeply.

  ‘What’s your mum been up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Cookies!’

  They were the most amazing ice-cream cookies: sugar cookies for the cones with different coloured frostings on each one, white, pink and pale brown.

  ‘Oh Mum, ice-cream cookies!’ I said. ‘How did you cut them all into such neat shapes?’

  ‘There was this funny little sandcastle-making kit in the beach shop and they had three different cutters, starfish, mermaids and ice-cream cones!’ said Mum. ‘It was only one pound fifty so I thought I’d treat us. And I bought the flour and sugar and eggs myself, Mike. I wanted to give you this little present to say thank you for being so kind to us.’

  ‘That’s truly lovely of you, Dilly! They look wonderful. Gosh, you’ve done masses!’