Sundae Girl

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Nice,’ Mr Latimer comments, taking a look. ‘Very abstract.’ He tells Carter that his sketch looks like a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.

  ‘He likes it really,’ Carter grins. ‘So. If I was in hospital, would you visit? You could feed me grapes and chocolates.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, in my dreams. Not the skate park, then – how about a meal out?’

  ‘Don’t tell me – the hospital canteen?’

  Carter looks hurt. ‘I was thinking of the chippy,’ he says. ‘They do deep-fried Mars bars, you know. What are you doing after school?’

  ‘Piano lesson.’

  ‘Another one?’ Carter looks horrified. ‘Nah. Are you sure you’re not meeting some sixth-former with a leather jacket and a motorbike?’

  ‘I have a piano exam coming up, I told you,’ I huff. ‘I need to practise. Look, Carter, this conversation is going nowhere. Forget it.’

  ‘You’re not talking to me?’

  I add a few areas of random tone and texture to my drawing, pretending to be fascinated by the rusty bike wheels.

  ‘Seriously?’ Carter demands. ‘You’re blanking me? No way! Jude? Speak to me, please! We were planning our first date. You can’t just leave it there!’

  I use a corner of my tissue to do some careful smudging, then blow off the chalk dust and call it a day.

  ‘Jude?’

  I’m just flicking through my music theory notebook when a tiny paper plane lands in my lap. I brush it off on to the floor, but within seconds it’s back again. It makes a series of unplanned landings, on my drawing, in my rucksack, on my music theory book.

  ‘Open it,’ Carter hisses. ‘It’s really important.’ I open it out carefully, smoothing the creases, to see the message inside. Do you prefer mushy peas or curry sauce? it says. I try to keep my face grim and forbidding, but a bubble of laughter escapes from my mouth before I can stop it. Carter is looking at me, grinning. I try to hide behind my hand, but more giggles leak out until I’m laughing and laughing. Every time I try to stop, I catch Carter’s eye and we fall apart all over again, until my eyes are damp with tears and my lips ache from grinning.

  ‘Look at the lovebirds,’ Kristina Kowalski calls over. ‘What’s the joke, you two? Oh sorry, I forgot. You are!’

  ‘Definitely jealous,’ Carter says.

  ‘No, definitely curry sauce.’

  Later, when the bell has gone and we’ve packed up and everyone is heading for the door in a big messy scrum, Carter leans over, scarily close.

  ‘I won’t give up,’ he whispers, and this time I smile.

  Mum has been different all week. She isn’t going out, she isn’t acting mean, and she doesn’t seem to be drinking or smoking as much. A couple of times before, she’s pulled herself back from the edge, cleaned up her act, got sober. Giovanni was the one who helped her then, driving her to AA meetings and talking her through the bad times, whatever the time of day or night.

  ‘You can do it,’ he used to tell her. ‘Do it for me.’

  Right now, though, he’s not picking up her calls, not answering her messages. She knows he’s mad at her, but she doesn’t realize she’s been dumped. I’m not going to be the one to tell her.

  On Thursday, when I come downstairs, Mum’s already in the kitchen. She looks neat and chirpy, her hair still damp from the shower.

  ‘OΚ, Jude?’ she says, and you could almost kid yourself she was a normal mum. She sets two plates of scrambled eggs down on the table, pours out orange juice.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I ask.

  ‘No occasion,’ she says. ‘Do I need an excuse to have breakfast with my lovely daughter?’

  ‘Suppose not,’ I grin. ‘Thanks, Mum!’ I scoop up a forkful of buttery eggs and take a bite of toast. ‘I could get used to this!’

  ‘I’m not a bad cook, when I try,’ Mum admits. ‘Maybe I should open a cafe? Or write cookery books! Not the fancy kind, just good, basic recipes for good, ordinary families!’

  ‘Great.’ I nod, although I’m pretty sure that what Mum knows about good, ordinary families would fit on the back of a postage stamp. ‘Go for it, Mum. You’re looking much better. Happier. Not so … well, you know.’

  Mum frowns and sips her orange juice. ‘I’m going to get healthy,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve probably been overdoing it a bit lately, but that … that misunderstanding in town really made me see sense. I made you a promise, didn’t I Jude? I haven’t forgotten. I won’t let you down.’

  Hope rises inside me again, and I find myself believing that, somehow, things can still be OK. Maybe.

  Miss Lloyd, my piano teacher, receives a letter telling her that my Grade Four piano exam has been scheduled for 5.10 p.m. on Friday 31 March.

  ‘You’re ready,’ she tells me. ‘Your pieces are beautiful, and you know your scales, arpeggios and broken chords. Just stay calm on the day and you’ll do well.’

  ‘I can’t!’ I protest. ‘I won’t be here. I’ll be in Gretna Green, for my dad’s wedding!’

  ‘He’s getting married on 31 March?’ Miss Lloyd frowns.

  ‘Well, no, the wedding is the next morning,’ I admit. ‘But I’m driving up to Scotland on the Friday, with Dad and Victoria.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Lloyd says. ‘These things can be difficult to rearrange, and you’ve worked so hard! Is there no other way?’

  I play a couple of scales, trying to get my head straight.

  ‘I could go by train,’ I say, uncertainly. ‘Dad and Victoria could meet me at the station.’

  ‘Do you think so, dear?’ Miss Lloyd asks. ‘Do you want me to give them a call and explain what’s happened?’

  She does, and after my lesson I walk round to the house to see them. Dad and Victoria are upset I can’t travel up to Scotland with them in the pink Cadillac, but they agree I can’t miss my piano exam.

  ‘I wish we hadn’t arranged the Elvis karaoke for Friday night,’ Dad huffs. ‘It’s a kind of pre-wedding party, instead of a stag and hen do. Just about everyone’s said they’ll be there – people have booked their hotel rooms already. We can’t really change it now.’

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ I tell him. ‘It’s your special night! It’s OK. I’ll get the train.’

  ‘Maybe Andy and Lori could give you a lift on Saturday?’ he muses. ‘No, they’re already bringing Jeff, Jane and Lindsey. Everyone else is coming the day before, or else coming from different places.’

  ‘The train will be fine,’ I say.

  Victoria makes some phone calls and orders me a return ticket for the 18.23 train. I have to change at Birmingham and Carlisle to arrive in Gretna some time after eleven. Victoria has reserved a seat for me in the Quiet Carriage on the main Carlisle train.

  ‘It’s very late for a thirteen-year-old to be out by herself,’ she says. ‘Train stations can be funny places. Let’s forget the change at Carlisle – I’ll slip away from the karaoke and meet you at Carlisle.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Dad says. ‘We both will. How’s that?’

  I don’t want to drag Dad and Victoria away from their party, but being met at Carlisle sounds way better than wandering around a strange railway station at night, trying to find my connecting train.

  ‘Thanks.’ I grin. ‘That’d be brilliant.’

  ‘So that’s only one change you have to manage,’ Victoria says. ‘The trouble is, Birmingham is such a big, busy station. I wonder …’

  ‘I’ll give your grandad a quick ring,’ Dad says, and five minutes later it’s all arranged; Grandad will come on the train with me to Birmingham, see me on to the connecting train, and then travel back to Coventry.

  ‘Honestly, I’m not a kid,’ I tell them. ‘I could easily manage.’ But secretly, I’m glad I don’t have to. Victoria picks up the phone again and orders a return ticket to Birmingham for Grandad.

  ‘There,’ says Dad. ‘Sorted! And you still get to travel in the pink Cadillac!’

  I catch Victoria’s eye and
pull a face, making sure Dad can’t see.

  ‘Lucky me,’ I say.

  Giovanni still isn’t answering Mum’s calls.

  ‘I’m worried about him,’ she says. ‘Perhaps he’s lost his phone, or broken it or something? I’ve left him lots of messages, but now when I call, it just says the number is unobtainable.’

  I shrug. Maybe he’s lost his phone, maybe he’s leaving it switched off, or maybe he’s just blacklisted Mum’s number so his mobile won’t accept her calls?

  We’re at the kitchen table, Mum sipping black coffee and painting her nails, me struggling through history homework. Gran, Grandad and Toto are huddled in the living room, watching some prehistoric black-and-white film.

  ‘I just want to tell him how grateful I am for everything he did the other day,’ Mum is saying. ‘It gave me a real scare, Jude. It was the most humiliating, horrible experience. The more I tried to tell them they were making a mistake, the worse it got. You can’t imagine it, really you can’t.’

  I can. Really, I can.

  ‘And Giovanni rescued me,’ Mum goes on. ‘I was tired and upset and angry, and perhaps I wasn’t as grateful as I should have been …’

  ‘You threw a shoe at him,’ I point out.

  ‘Did I?’ Mum asks. ‘Well, he can be such a nag, always telling me what to do, how to live my life. But I know all that is because he loves me, Jude. It’s because he cares.’

  ‘Right,’ I say carefully, keeping my head bent low over my homework. I bet Queen Elizabeth I didn’t have all this trouble with her family. Of course, they were all dead or locked up in the Tower of London, so perhaps that’s why.

  ‘So I like a drink,’ Mum says, sadly. ‘So do lots of people. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s not good to overdo it,’ I say carefully.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Mum agrees. ‘And I have been overdoing it, I know. That’s not a good thing, I can see that. I know you’ve all been worried about me, but there’s no need – I’ve got my act together now, haven’t I? I’m making a fresh start, I promise. No more late nights, no more ciggies, no more drink.’

  I look up, eyes wide.

  ‘You’re giving up? Completely?’ I ask, heart thumping.

  ‘I said so, didn’t I? It’s not like I have a problem, not really. I just like the stuff, that’s all! I can give it up if I want to.’

  ‘You could go to those AA meetings for help and support,’ I suggest. ‘You said that helped, last time.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I just said that to please Giovanni,’ she explains. ‘AΑ meetings aren’t for me. I mean – Alcoholics Anonymous – well, I’m not an alcoholic, am I?’

  I can’t meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.

  ‘Oh, Jude, of course I’m not,’ Mum laughs, and the way she says it I almost believe her. ‘I decided to give up and I’ve done it. I don’t need doctors or counsellors or anyone else to tell me what to do – I’m doing it for me. Me and you, Jude.’

  I’m grinning all over my face, and my eyes mist with tears. What does it matter which label you stick on a problem? It’s fixing it that counts. It’s going to be all right, I know it is.

  ‘I’ve changed, Jude,’ Mum tells me. ‘I’m going to be a better mum, truly. And I want Giovanni to know that I’ve changed. I’ve listened to his advice, taken control of my life. I just want him to know that. I want him to be proud of me.’

  ‘He will be,’ I argue. I hope that’s true.

  Mum grins, draining her coffee. ‘So, come on!’ she tells me. ‘Let’s go and tell him! He works evenings at the restaurant, but I bet he could take a night off to take his two favourite girls out for a pizza! Come on!’

  We’re laughing like a couple of kids, grabbing our coats, shouting goodbye to Gran and Grandad, tumbling out on to the pavement. Mum links my arm and strides along, so fast I’m half running, trying to keep up. ‘He’s OK, Giovanni,’ she tells me. ‘He doesn’t have much of a head for business, but he’s kind. Sometimes, Jude, all you want in life is someone who’s there for you, someone who cares.’

  ‘I care,’ I reply.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Mum laughs. ‘I know that. Your gran and grandad care too. But that’s because you have to, isn’t it? You’re my daughter, they’re my parents. You’re supposed to care.’

  I don’t love my mum because I’m ‘supposed’ to, I love her because she’s crazy and quirky and caring and fun, and that somehow balances out the bad stuff. I love her because I can’t help it, she’s a part of me, and she always will be. I try to tell her this, but she’s not listening.

  ‘Boyfriends are different,’ she tells me. ‘You’ll understand when you’re older. They look at you and they see something special, and even though they don’t know you, not really, they want to. That kind of love is special. It’s like an unexpected gift, a parcel left on the doorstep in the middle of the night when it’s not your birthday or Christmas or anything.’

  I think about Carter, and I smile into the darkness.

  ‘Of course,’ Mum is saying, ‘it’s not always forever. Sometimes, men let you down. Your dad did, and Tom did. Giovanni, though, he’s different. He won’t let me down.’

  I remember Giovanni’s serious face, the things he said the day he dropped Mum home from the police station. A needle of doubt pierces my happiness.

  ‘We’d be a good team, Giovanni and I,’ Mum rushes on. ‘He’s wasted with that silly ice-cream van, and I’m not going to throw my life away doing shampoo-and-sets for little old ladies in Sue’s dreary old salon. No, Giovanni and I could go into business together – open an Italian ice-cream parlour!’

  This image is so enticing, it chases away my anxieties. ‘I could make Banana Splits!’ I suggest.

  ‘And Knickerbocker Glories,’ Mum adds. ‘We’d have decadent ice-cream sundaes in tall, cut-glass dishes and low-fat frozen yoghurts piled high with fresh fruit … Oh, it could be the new trend! They have chains of coffee shops, soup bars, juice bars … why not this?’

  ‘Why not?’

  We’re still laughing when we burst in through the front door of Mario’s Italian restaurant, and our voices seem too loud, too raucous above the soft music. Diners look up at us across the candlelit tables, wondering what the commotion is, and a white-shirted waiter glides towards us quickly, his face disapproving.

  ‘We have no tables free, Madame, I am sorry,’ he says, but Mum tells him we’re not here to eat, we want to see Giovanni, can we just go through? The waiter says it is not really permitted to speak to staff when they’re on duty, but Mum just laughs and strides past him, pulling me along behind.

  When we walk through the swing door into the kitchen, things get even frostier. ‘What the hell …?’ the chef wants to know, but Giovanni rushes forward, full of apologies.

  ‘Five minutes?’ he appeals, and the chef nods tightly, his face like thunder. Giovanni herds us through the tiny scullery at the back of the kitchen where he washes the pans and loads the dishwasher, out into a small yard lit only by a pool of light from inside.

  ‘Rosa, what are you doing here?’ he demands. ‘I’m working! You will get me into trouble!’

  ‘I thought you could take the night off and take us out for a meal,’ Mum falters. ‘I wanted to thank you for the other day …’

  ‘Rosa, no,’ he says, exasperated. I can see he is angry, not amused, and I know he hasn’t changed his mind about Mum.

  ‘I didn’t tell her,’ I whisper to him. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘No, Jude, it was wrong of me not to do it,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Mum demands. ‘What’s the big secret?’

  ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, Rosa,’ Giovanni says, and Mum’s face falls and she starts talking fast, so fast Giovanni can’t get a word in edgeways.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry we argued,’ she begins. ‘I was tired and upset and I really didn’t mean those things I said, I didn’t, Giovanni, really. I know you only w
ant what’s best for me. I’ve cleaned up my act, I’ve changed, done everything you asked me to. You tell him, Jude. Tell him!’

  ‘She has,’ I say, helplessly. ‘Honest.’

  ‘You are going to AA?’ he asks, chewing his lip.

  ‘No, not that,’ Mum admits. ‘Not that, but everything else. I called Sue and she says I can start back next week. I’ve stopped smoking and I’m not drinking. Seriously, I haven’t touched a single drop since that day …’

  ‘You’ve stopped drinking?’ Giovanni says. ‘Truly Rosa?’

  ‘Truly,’ Mum says. They look at each other so hard, so long, that even though it’s dark out here, I feel like I shouldn’t be watching. The moment is too special, too private. Slowly, I see the cold mask drop away from Giovanni’s face. He holds out his hands and Mum takes them, and he pulls her close, close enough to kiss.

  I wish I was somewhere else, anywhere else, but I’m not, I’m here. I turn my face away.

  ‘No!’ Giovanni shouts suddenly, pushing Mum to arm’s length. ‘No, Rosa, you are not sober. Why do you lie to me?’

  Right there in the dark, everything falls to bits, and I know I’ll never believe in promises again, because they don’t mean anything, not anything at all.

  ‘No, no,’ Mum protests. ‘I’m not lying! I haven’t touched a drop since that day, I swear it!’

  ‘Liar!’ he snaps. ‘Liar! I can smell it on your breath – and the cigarettes too! D’you think I am stupid?’

  ‘Giovanni, no, it was just a tiny sip, the littlest bit to give me the courage to come and see you!’ Mum argues. ‘Can’t you understand that? Can’t you forgive that? OK, so I’m not perfect, but I’m trying, Giovanni, I am!’

  He wipes a hand over his eyes, and in the darkness it looks like he’s crying, but that could be a trick of the light.

  ‘It’s over,’ he says, flatly ‘I’m sorry, Rosa.’

  Mum pulls her shoulders back, holds her head high.

  ‘Well, maybe it is over, Giovanni,’ she agrees. ‘Maybe so. But it’s over because I say so, you loser. Because I say so, OK?’