‘It seems right, somehow,’ Charlotte says. ‘Cherry sleeping under the cherry trees!’
That’s when I look up through the dappled branches and see that the trees that arch above the gypsy caravan are laden with dark, glossy crimson cherries. My heart flips over. Real cherries, growing on real cherry trees … that’s something you don’t see very much in Glasgow.
Dad puts the stepladder against a tree and picks me a bowlful of cherries, and I sit on the caravan steps in the sunshine, letting the little bursts of sweetness explode on my tongue.
I remember eating cherries once with Mrs Mackie from next door, and she showed me a rhyme where you count the cherry pits and look into the future to foresee who your true love might be. I line up the cherry pits carefully and recite the rhyme she taught me. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief …
It comes out as thief, which either means Shay Fletcher, who has stolen my heart, or possibly that I will fall in love with a no-good waster. Shay Fletcher again, obviously.
Except that I won’t. He may have fooled me for a minute or two, but Shay Fletcher is bad news. He was out of bounds the whole time, yet he flirted with me and then had the cheek to tell Honey it was the other way round. I chuck a bunch of cherry pits into the long grass and count again. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor …
I should be safe enough with that. Sailors are kind of thin on the ground these days. Maybe the whole cherry-pit rhyme needs updating?
‘Been playing house?’ Honey comments, as I walk back up to the house for tea, but I just smile to myself and pretend she doesn’t exist.
After we’ve eaten, Summer, Skye and Coco walk me down to the caravan with tin mugs of cold, fizzy Irn-Bru. We sit on the caravan steps, with Fred curled beneath us on the grass, and sip our drinks and talk about how weird it will be to be stepsisters.
‘Are you missing your friends?’ Coco wants to know. ‘It must be hard, moving to the other end of the country and leaving them all behind. I wouldn’t like it.’
‘Um … well, I’m trying to see it as an adventure,’ I say. ‘But I am missing my friends, of course …’
What friends? I close my mouth before any more lies can seep out. Telling stories has only ever landed me in trouble, but at least this one sounds plausible. Most people have friends, right? It’s just me who doesn’t.
‘You can keep in touch,’ Summer suggests helpfully. ‘There’s always texts and email and MSN. And I suppose your very best friends could always come down and visit you …’
‘Yeah … I’m sure they will …’ I trail away into silence. ‘We had lots of plans …’
Like that is ever going to happen.
‘I’m more worried about making new friends, really,’ I say, and that much, at least, is true.
‘Oh, that’ll be easy,’ Skye says dismissively. ‘Everyone will like you, don’t worry!’
‘Honey doesn’t,’ I hear myself say.
‘Don’t worry about Honey,’ Coco tells me. ‘She’ll get used to it in the end.’
‘I hope so,’ Summer sighs. ‘I hate it when she’s all moody and stroppy.’
‘I know,’ Skye says. ‘I can understand her being upset when Dad left – we all were. Then there was the divorce, and that wasn’t easy, I suppose. It was the end of things. But seriously, when she heard about you and Paddy –’
‘Shhh,’ Coco says, and Summer and Skye look slightly shifty.
‘I suppose we were all a bit wary,’ Summer admits. ‘We’d met Paddy, and we knew we liked him, but a new sister …’
‘We weren’t sure what you’d be like …’ Skye ventures.
‘We didn’t know if we’d get on with you!’ Coco admits.
My fingers tremble, curled round the tin mug, and the sweet Irn-Bru tastes sour on my tongue.
Then Skye reaches out and tugs at my hair, grinning, and the fear falls away again. ‘But we do like you,’ she tells me. ‘You’re … well, really different! Really cool! Honey said you might be pushy and moody, and try to take over … but you’re not like that at all. And I actually think it’s a good thing you’re here, whatever Honey says, because she will have to wake up now and let go of the past, move on. Things are changing, and I think that’s a good thing!’
‘D’you think so?’ I ask.
‘Definitely,’ Skye nods.
‘Me too,’ Summer says.
‘And me,’ Coco chips in. ‘So … do you think they’re going to get married? Paddy and Mum?’
I almost choke on a mouthful of Irn-Bru.
Marriage? It’s not that I haven’t imagined that for Dad, but things are moving so fast right now I am not sure I am ready to think about it happening for real. Dreams and reality are very different things, as I’m finding out. I have dreamed of having a mum for the longest time, but I never imagined having to share one with four other daughters, and I definitely never thought about the fact I’d have to share Dad.
I imagine a pretty, country church and Charlotte in a white dress and Dad in a suit that doesn’t quite fit. I imagine squirming in a flouncy frock in icing-sugar shades, alongside Skye, Summer and Coco, the four of us smiling for the camera behind our posies of flowers. Then I picture Honey, and the image shatters abruptly.
Skye and Summer exchange glances.
‘Get married …’ Skye says carefully. ‘That’s a big step … I don’t think Mum’s planning to do anything in a hurry. I think she just wants to see how this goes, first … if things work out.’
‘They will, though,’ Coco insists. ‘Won’t they? I think it’d be great to have a dad again. Paddy could teach me the violin –’
‘No, he couldn’t!’ Summer yelps. ‘It was bad enough when you were learning to play the recorder! Honestly!’
Coco rolls her eyes, impatiently.
‘Well, I think it’d be cool,’ she huffs. ‘We’d be proper stepsisters then.’
‘But … Dad and Charlotte have both been married already,’ I explain. ‘To other people. They probably want to take things slowly. Make sure everything’s right …’
I don’t say it, but I’m not sure if Dad and Charlotte are the ones who need time to adjust. I think it’s us who need time to adapt. A wedding? I don’t think I can see that happening, not for a while.
‘It might be cool,’ Summer says apologetically.
‘Definitely,’ Skye agrees. ‘But not yet. Let’s just wait and see.’
‘Let’s just get to know each other, first,’ I chip in, and Coco sighs.
Later, Dad and Charlotte come down with logs from the woodpile, and Dad builds a little bonfire and we sit around it on the grass. Dad plays his fiddle in the fading light.
Above us the trees rustle gently in the breeze, and the stars come out in a velvet sky.
9
Next morning, Fred wakes me up with a frenzy of barking and tail wagging. I pull back the curtain and peer through the caravan window, and there is Dad looking bright and smiley, picking his way across the grass with a tray laden with breakfast treats. He is wearing a blue collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up, along with his charity-shop skinny jeans, and his hair is sticking up a little as if he has not long stepped out of the shower.
We have only been in Somerset a couple of days, but already Dad looks younger, more relaxed than I have seen him in years. I open the door and sit down on the step with the quilt wrapped round me, and Fred streaks past me, jumping up at Dad, his tail waving madly.
Dad laughs and swats Fred away. ‘No sausages, silly dog …’ he tells him. ‘Did you sleep OK, Cherry? Were you warm enough?’
‘I slept fine,’ I say. ‘I was really toasty, and Fred curled up on the end of the bed like a big fluffy hot-water bottle.’
Dad sets the tray down on the dew-damp grass and spreads a picnic blanket, and after a few curious sniffs to make sure there are no sausages to be had, Fred abandons u
s and trots off up to the house in search of breakfast. His loss. The tray is loaded up with orange juice and yoghurt and hot chocolate, and Dad hands me a plate laden with fresh pancakes and maple syrup, possibly the best breakfast ever invented.
‘Don’t be getting ideas,’ Dad tells me. ‘This won’t happen every day, but I thought, just this once … to celebrate your first night in the caravan. Besides, I wanted to show Charlotte my pancake skills. I think she is impressed!’
A smile tugs at my lips. ‘Of course she is,’ I tell him. ‘You are the pancake king of Glasgow. Well, of Kitnor, now!’
‘My fry-up skills are pretty legendary too,’ Dad says. ‘Charlotte says I can have a try at doing the guest breakfasts without her tomorrow … with Skye and Summer to help out, just until I get the hang of it …’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll be brilliant. Just stay calm and if anything goes wrong, add on a side order of pancakes. They’ll be eating out of your hand!’
‘I wish,’ Dad says. ‘With some people, it takes a bit more than pancakes …’
He sighs and takes a slurp of hot chocolate, and I wonder if he was really fooled by Honey’s Little Miss Innocent act yesterday.
‘It’s all a bit frantic, isn’t it?’ he goes on. ‘And the guests are the least of it! I feel like I haven’t had a chance to talk to you properly since we got here, and I wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘I’m OK,’ I promise. ‘It’s a bit like being thrown in at the deep end, but … Skye and Summer and Coco are really nice … and Charlotte is lovely, obviously, but …’
‘… but?’ Dad echoes.
I sigh. ‘Well, I’m not sure Honey is mad about having us here,’ I say carefully. ‘She seems a bit … prickly?’
Dad nods. ‘Just a bit. I had an idea that something wasn’t right, yesterday, but I didn’t want to make a big scene, for Charlotte’s sake … I think we will have to tread carefully with Honey.’
I sigh. Tread carefully is right … I have a feeling that life with Honey will be like picking your way through a minefield. There could be explosions at any minute.
‘She’s not a happy girl,’ he says. ‘Charlotte knows she’s struggling, but she’s turned a blind eye for a while, thinking it would help. I guess she’s been hoping Honey will snap out of it, put the past behind her … Well, maybe she will …’
Dad frowns, looking into the distance, as if at something just out of reach.
‘I suppose I’m saying that I know Honey might try to make things difficult,’ he says. ‘Just be careful, and try to remember she’s not quite as tough as she seems. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘It’s going to be fine, Cherry,’ Dad grins. ‘This is such a huge change, for both of us, and for Charlotte and the girls too. I’m not saying it will be easy, but I know we can make this work. I never imagined I’d get another chance to be happy … well, you know, the way I was happy with your mum. I’ve always wanted to be able to give you a proper family, and now I think maybe I can …
‘I want you to be as happy here as I am,’ he goes on. ‘It’s the start of something wonderful, I know it is. Charlotte and I … we’ve been friends for a long time, so we know each other well. To find each other again, to fall in love … it’s more than I could have hoped for. We share so many dreams, so many interests. We can work together, not just on the B&B, but on the chocolate business too.
‘I’ve done a lot of research and I’m certain we can make it work. Charlotte’s going to design a website, put together an image, and once I have all my facts and figures sorted I’ll put together a proposal for the bank, see if we can get a business loan. It’s exciting!’
Dad looks so happy, so hopeful, that I fling my arms round him and hug him tight, so tight I can smell pancakes and maple syrup on his breath, and the gentle waft of lime-scented shower gel.
There is nobody in the world I love more than my dad. I want him to be happy, because he deserves to be, after years of slogging away on the production line at the McBean’s Chocolate Factory, years of making the best of things, of eating misshapen Taystee Bars and beans on toast, of watching MTV with me while the world passed him by. Well, not any more.
‘It’s time to live the dream,’ Dad says. ‘It’s not easy to join together two families, but it can be done, and I think it will be worth all the effort. Charlotte and I so want it to work …’
‘I know,’ I say, and I can’t keep the smile from my voice. I want to be a part of this family too. Charlotte … the Tanberry sisters … Tanglewood House … all of them are a million times more amazing than anything I ever dreamed of, because they’re real. I never imagined someone like Honey in the picture, of course, but in the bright light of morning I wonder if I am worrying too much about her. She saw me talking to Shay, and if he told her I’d been flirting with him – well, no wonder she got the wrong end of the stick.
Shay is probably the kind of fickle, flirty boy who chats up any female between the ages of five and fifty. That would be enough to make anyone mad, but I am not interested in Shay Fletcher, not one bit. I expect he is the kind of boy who likes to keep a whole bunch of girls dangling, his own personal fan club. I for one do not want to be a part of it.
Honey will see that, and slowly she will realize that I am not a bad person, and that Dad is cool and kind and good stepdad material. We can make the jigsaw pieces fit after all … maybe.
‘I want it to work too,’ I whisper. ‘More than anything …’
‘Well then,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll have to make it, won’t we?’
It feels like a pact, a promise.
10
The week unfolds, and slowly I get used to the caravan, used to Tanglewood. I wake early, when the sun streams through the red-and-white checked curtains, and read or draw or dream.
By nine I am usually up at the house, washed and dressed and eating a DIY breakfast of toast and marmalade with Skye, Summer and Coco, while Dad and Charlotte run around frying bacon and poaching eggs for the guests. It is always kind of frantic, and one of the sisters is always pressed into service as waitress, taking trays of eggs Benedict or grilled kippers to the holidaymakers eating in the big, airy conservatory dining room.
Honey never appears for breakfast, which suits me just fine, and for the first few days I just hang around Tanglewood with Skye and Summer and Coco. We help Charlotte make beds and hoover and clean the guest bedrooms, and it’s fun because we are all doing it together, dancing around to the radio and chasing each other with feather dusters.
Later, we laze in the garden, sunbathing, reading, talking, and again, Honey never joins us. Sometimes she goes out to see friends in the village, but mostly she stays in her room.
Often, when I look up at the turret room, the little arched window is open, and I can just see Honey, sitting on the window seat with a sketchbook on her lap, her long hair lifting softly on the breeze. Sometimes she wears it braided into a thick, long plait, like Rapunzel from the big book of fairy tales Mrs Mackie gave me once for Christmas.
Charlotte finds a hammock in the attic while she’s sorting out a space for Dad’s stuff, and we string it up between two trees and take it in turns lying in the shade, trailing a hand through the grass. Coco introduces me to the ducks, three oil-black runners who are tall and elegant and upright, as if someone has stretched them out of shape somehow. We feed them cornmeal and watch them splash and swim on the pond in their enclosure.
‘Your fish might like it in there,’ Coco suggests. ‘More room.’
‘Noooo – the ducks might eat him,’ I tell her. ‘Rover is fine where he is, really.’
‘I’d like some fish,’ Coco says thoughtfully. ‘And a llama and a donkey and a parrot, of course. Mum says we can’t afford more pets, but I’m going to be a vet one day, so I could look after them all.’
‘I think you’d make a great vet,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s n
ot definite yet,’ she frowns. ‘I might decide to work for Greenpeace instead, and go all around the world in that boat they have with the rainbow on, and save the whales and the rainforest and stuff …’
‘Sounds good,’ I tell her. ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’
Coco looks up at me through a tangle of tawny, bird’s-nest hair. ‘Nobody else believes me,’ she says, and her blue eyes are serious. ‘But I am going to do something amazing, one day. I know I am!’
‘I believe you,’ I say.
Coco grins. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says, and I’m glad too.
Midweek, Skye takes me on a guided tour of Kitnor. We walk down from the house, along the twisty, narrow lane that winds through the wooded hillside and dips down at last towards the village. It is the kind of village I didn’t think existed outside storybooks, with an old-fashioned baker’s shop and a butcher’s and a deli and a greengrocer’s, as well as a supermarket and a newsagent and a whole bunch of cafes, pubs and B&Bs.
‘It’s a real tourist place,’ Skye explains. ‘But it’s cool too.’
Skye is still wearing her velvet hat, and yet another jumble-sale dress, but nobody gives her a second glance, so I am guessing this is her usual style.
‘That’s the bookshop,’ Skye chats on. ‘And that’s the hardware store – the old guy who runs it still sells tin buckets and fly papers and brushes to sweep a chimney with. It’s really mad. And that’s the post office, if you want to get some postcards for your friends.’
‘Oh … maybe,’ I say. ‘I’ve been meaning to do that …’
Inside, I grab a couple of postcards of thatched cottages, to keep Skye quiet. I can send one to Mrs Mackie, at least.
Chocolate Box Girls Page 5
