The Ice Cream Girls

by Dorothy Koomson

  Daily News Chronicle, October 1989

  poppy

  The sky isn’t a square of patchwork quilt. Sometimes with two or three black bars running down it, sometimes with wire mesh upon it. The sky is vast and deep and capable of smothering me.

  For a very long time I thought the sky was that square of patchwork quilt because it was all I could see from most of the prison cells I’ve lived in.

  Even when I went outside for exercise periods, to go from one part of the prison to another, to go to court for appeals, I would stop just to look up, and I would see how big it was. But at the same time, I would know it was just an illusion, a trick my mind was playing on me because I was allowed outside and everything had to look bigger because it seemed so small in the confines of my room.

  Now, now the sky is a canopy that stops the planet falling against the sun and the moon. Now, today, I know the sky is immense and colossal, and I could drown in it. I’d forgotten how big the world is. And how blue the sky is. And how bright the daytime is.

  I take my first steps outside Portslade station, on the outskirts of Brighton, and marvel at how crowded the world is. Titanic sky, gigantic world, dazzling daylight, swarming streets.

  No one else notices these things of course, it is all absolutely normal to them.

  ‘You’re going to find it strange out there,’ my parole officer had said. ‘You haven’t been to an open prison and had the chance to get out for a little while, like most people in your situation, so it’s . . . it’s going to be tough.’ He was a surprisingly pleasant man – in his early fifties with a kindly nature. What he was saying without uttering the exact words was, ‘Everyone is surprised that you, Poppy Carlisle, are getting out.’ I would not admit my crime because I did not do it, I would not show remorse because I did not do it, and I would not beg any longer for someone to believe me. But, for whatever reason, they agreed my parole at the last minute, so the prison did not have time to put me through the usual procedures. I would be released into the big wide world as I was – unprepared and unaware. ‘Here’s my card, call me – any time – if you need help with finding work, or need a reference, or even if you’re struggling. Any time,’ he said. ‘Any time.’ He believed I was innocent, I was sure of it, but he couldn’t say so officially, so he was trying to help in any way he could. Nice, but ultimately pointless.

  Where have all these people come from? I ask myself as I wander past the level crossing beside the station and head for the sea. I’d love to head down to the beach, dip my toes in the water, feel the pebbles under my feet, but I need to do this other thing now. Any longer, any delays, and I might bottle it.

  People think that prisons are overcrowded, but this is overcrowded. This is like being trapped inside a swarm of insects. Everyone so close and big and moving, moving, moving. When you’re banged up, you expect to feel as if there are too many people encroaching on your space and you accept that you have no choice in the matter. Out here, people have chosen this. They’ve chosen this life.

  ‘Sorry,’ a woman says as she bumps into me. Immediately my hackles rise and I curl a fist, just in case . . . ‘Really sorry,’ she adds absently then rushes on without a second glance.

  The house I’m looking for is quite near the station and even though I haven’t been there for nearly two decades, I could find it with my eyes closed. Well, I thought I could. This street, Boundary Road, was here, but most of the shops weren’t back then. There certainly wasn’t a computer games shop, nor an organic bakery-slash-café. Nor all these people. At the bottom of the high street, I turn towards Brighton, towards Hove. It seems weird, being surrounded by all these buildings and cars and pavements. I’ve seen them all on the telly, of course, but they’re different in the flesh. Bigger, smaller, more solid, less real – all of those things, all at once.

  A woman my age, or thereabouts, walks towards me. She has the same mud-black hair as me, and hers is a crop like mine; she is my height and about my weight. She even has similar soft features to me. She is the real-life version of the reflection I saw in the train window every time we went through a tunnel. I watch her come towards me, and then pass me without even noticing me. I, on the other hand, stop on the pavement to turn to watch her.

  I bet she chose her crop because she liked it, not because her life didn’t allow her to shampoo, condition and look after long, shoulder-length locks. I bet her make-up came from a shop where the assistant helped her choose the right shade for her colouring – it probably didn’t arrive in a clear plastic bag that was embossed with HMP Trembry Hall and also contained cigarettes, stamps and phonecards. I bet she’s that thin because she’s chosen it, not because years of prison food have drastically cut her weight. I bet that flimsy pink jacket she’s wearing was chosen because it’s pretty and suits her, not because it has to last several years and it’s one of the limited number of outfits she’s allowed. I bet those black shiny shoes with heels like spikes pinch her feet and make her miserable, but she wears them because they’re gorgeous and she can – she isn’t forbidden them because they’re impractical and could be turned into a weapon.

  I do not belong in this world any more, I realise as I stop staring at the woman who could be me in another life, and start to walk on. I do not know how to be here, with all these things. All these things that were like science fiction on TV are now real and life-like. And unsettling.

  I make my way up to Surry Hills Street, and suddenly the nerves are at me again. They nibbled at me all last night as I waited for morning, and they started to take bigger bites at my last breakfast (which prison folklore said I had to choke down to make sure I never went back). As I took my first steps into the outside world the nerves sank their teeth right into my core and began ripping at my chest and stomach. I’d had to stand very still and let them feast on me as I looked around, at the grey-yellow bricks behind me, the steady grey road ahead of me, wondering if I should turn around and knock on the gate and ask them to let me back in.

  Once I decided there was no going back I’d wrestled the nerves into submission, then concentrated on getting myself across London and down to the coast.

  Now that I am here, my mission has been achieved, the nerves are back, jabbing and biting into every square inch of my body.

  I stop outside number thirty-four, stare at the sage-green door with its shiny brass knocker and black and white rectangular doorbell.

  I am terrified of what is behind the green door. About what will happen when I knock and the door is opened. I am terrified, but I have to do this.

  There are thirteen steps from the pavement to the door.

  I raise the knocker and hit it.

  It takes sixty-seven seconds for the door to be answered.

  And it takes one second for the look of recognition to appear.

  ‘Poppy,’ she says.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ I reply.

  serena

  Everyone gasps when I push aside the pink velvet curtain and step out into the viewing area.

  Everyone – the saleswoman, her assistant and a couple of other brides-to-be – except Verity, who wouldn’t dare be that expressive. She simply glances down after studying me for a few seconds, but I spotted the pride and delight in her eyes. She can’t hide those sorts of things from me – from everyone else, maybe, but not me.

  ‘You look . . .’ The saleswoman’s voice fades away. ‘There aren’t words,’ she finishes. Then, somehow, finds them: ‘White is so gorgeous against dark skin, don’t you think?’

  Her assistant nods in agreement. Although still looking down, I see Verity’s fresh, young face scrunch up as she goes, ‘Huh?!’ in her head. She’s so young, I remind myself. She does not know that people say that sort of thing all the time. I like that she’s innocent, untouched and still able to be surprised by the world at large. I’d like my thirteen-year-old to stay that way for as long as possible, if I’m honest. Book smart, street stupid. But then, being street stupid is how people are able to take advan
tage of you.

  She’s come round to the idea of us getting ‘married’ again: after a few days of sulking she decided that it wasn’t so bad, especially since she could choose her own dress.

  In the wall of mirrors in the bridalwear boutique, I am reflected back at myself ten times – 360 degrees of me. I’ve never seen myself so completely before. No matter where I look, there I am. My tall, slenderish frame, my straight black hair pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of my neck, my make-up-free face. There I am. It’s unnerving. Especially as I can also see the blood on my hands. It’s dripping off my hands, off my fingers on to the beautiful top layer of satin silk. Everywhere it drips it leaves a little rosette of red, creating more and more flowers, until the slim-fitting skirt that is gathered at the back is like a field of snow, topped with poppies. Each one is a pure and unrelenting red; each one a stain on my soul. Poppies are the sign of remembrance, aren’t they? And this blood on my hands is saying that: remember me. It’s as if he is standing beside me, dripping his blood on to my hands so it trickles on to the dress, while his deep, slightly gravelly voice is whispering through the smile on his face, ‘Never forget, Serena. Always remember me.’

  I wonder if the saleswoman will mind if I rip this thing to shreds to get it off me? I wonder if Evan will mind if I say I don’t want to jinx my life any more by getting married again?

  June, 1992

  For nearly two years Evan and I were on nodding terms after he threw his drink on me. We’d see each other in the bar on Friday nights, in the corridors, in the pubs in town, sometimes just in the street. We’d nod and mutter, ‘All right?’ at each other as we passed, never finding the need to stop and talk. Then, one day, he stopped when we passed each other on the high street.

  ‘I’m leaving in a couple of days,’ he said at me to get me to stop.

  ‘Leaving?’ I replied, surprised that he’d initiated conversation.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve finished college. I’m going to medical school in London.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We stood in an awkward silence for a few seconds. He hadn’t thought it through when he spoke to me, hadn’t formulated an escape plan when he opened his mouth and now we were both stuck, like flies on flypaper – desperate to get away but unable to free ourselves.

  ‘So . . .’ he said.

  ‘So . . .’ I said.

  I linked my hands together and started to pick at my left thumbnail with my right thumbnail. ‘Just walk away,’ a voice inside my head said. ‘I can’t,’ another voice replied. ‘That would be rude.’

  ‘So’s murder,’ the first voice said.

  My head snapped up to look at him, our gazes collided and a spark ignited between us.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to work out for ages if I fancy you or not.’

  ‘Right,’ I replied.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, thinking, That’s a good thing, because as sure as eggs is eggs I don’t fancy you. Apart from a minute ago.

  ‘Shame really,’ he said. ‘Because I think we’d really get on if we got together.’

  ‘OK. How do you know that, then?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just get that feeling. You seem like the sort of girl I could take home to meet my mother.’

  ‘Why does that sound like an insult?’ I said.

  ‘It’s not. You just seem nice, that’s all. Bit of a laugh, good personality, nothing offensive about you. My parents would love you.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know – some random boy’s parents would love me. I can rest really easy now that I know that.’

  He smiled and something lust-like somersaulted in my stomach, then danced lightly up and down my spine.

  ‘Do you want to give it a try?’ he asked me.

  ‘What, meeting your parents? No thank you. I’m sure they’re perfectly lovely, but blind parent-dates really aren’t my thing.’

  ‘I meant going out together. Do you want to give going out with me a go?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I replied.

  Evan looked taken aback, and marginally offended. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just not that interested in going out with anyone.’

  ‘Bad break-up?’

  ‘Probably the worst break-up of all time,’ I said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I’m sort of staying away from all that for a while. A long, long while.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And, just so you know for the next girl you ask out, saying that you’re not sure if you fancy her and then saying you think your parents would like her probably won’t pass for sweet talk. Some women might like it, but most of them would be offended.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But you’re sure I can’t change your mind? Not even for the sake of my poor parents who think I’m never going to make them grandparents?’

  I laughed as I shook my head. ‘Especially not for them.’

  ‘OK, well, if you change your mind, you can always . . .’

  ‘Knock on the door of every medical school in London and ask for Evan?’

  He laughed, a smooth, throaty laugh that sent the whooooohooooo feeling up and down my spine again. ‘I’ll see you, Serena,’ he said, a smile still on his face.

  ‘I’ll see ya.’

  ‘And every time I think about missed opportunities, I’ll think of you.’

  ‘OK,’ I replied and, this time, I had no problems walking away.

  ‘Why are you getting married again, Mum?’ Verity asks as we head back home in the car. She is sitting up front and could easily pass for being my younger sister she is that grown-up looking. Often, I try to remember what it was like to be thirteen, to try to tap into what she might be feeling and thinking, but my memory – fuzzy and haphazard at the best of times – lets me down, it blurs itself into a haze of waving my older sisters – Medina and Faye – off to uni, watching The A-Team and doing a paper round. I cannot remember how I felt about anything, how I felt about my parents, what big secrets I was determined to hide. I remember what it was like to be an older teenager, though, and sometimes I have to stop myself from tarring Verity with the brush of those experiences.

  But then, aren’t most teenagers more grown-up more quickly these days? Shouldn’t I be extra vigilant now because she might fast forward to being me a little bit earlier? This is the battle I have with myself, trying to balance protecting her as a mother should, and protecting her as this mother knows from experience she should.

  I take time to consider her question as I pull out of the roundabout on to the A26, the road back from Uckfield to Brighton. Why are we getting married again? ‘Because we can, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t most people just renew their vows and have a party? Why are you almost pretending that you’re not even married?’

  ‘Because we’re not,’ I say jokingly.

  I feel Verity’s eyes widen, I hear her heart almost leap out of her chest as she gasps. ‘You’re lying!’ she screeches, almost bursting an eardrum. Somewhere nearby dogs are whining. ‘Tell me you’re lying!’

  ‘I’m not lying, I’m joking,’ I say to end Vee’s sonic mode before it brings on a migraine. ‘I’m joking, I’m joking.’ I want to ask her what would be the big deal if we weren’t actually married, but that’s a conversation I should not get started with a teenager. Especially not a teenager.

  ‘I suppose we’re getting married big this time because we couldn’t do it on this scale before,’ I say. ‘We couldn’t afford to. We were so young, but we really wanted to get married, so we did it. I suppose it was an unspoken thing that that one was the first wedding and at some point in the future we’d do the big one.’ I’d love to tell her the whole truth, but how can I tell her that we only got married when we did because I was up the duff, and I was up the duff because we’d had a contraceptive malfunction? How can I tell her that and not expect in, say, tw
o years’ time for her to come to me asking for my blessing to move in with her older, tattooed, long-haired boyfriend who plays drums in a band and who is expecting her to leave school and get a job so she can support his ‘art’ while they live in a glorified squat in Kemptown? And how can I not expect, when I protest, for her to throw, ‘Well, you were pregnant before you got married and only got married because you had to’ back in my face?

  When it comes to my teenage daughter, I am a hypocrite and I don’t pretend to be anything other than that.

  I continue, ‘And, besides, you get to be there,’ even though you were technically at the last one, ‘and so does Con. We have the chance to get married with all our family there. So, in that sense, we are actually doing it for the first time. You know?’

  From the corner of my eye, I see her nod.

  I check the rear-view mirror and my blindspot before I indicate and pull out into the right-hand lane. I hit the accelerator to get past the blue Micra proudly displaying a green ‘P’ on its rump and keeping a steady ten miles below the speed limit. New drivers like that make me nervous. I always suspect they’re going to do something crazy for no other reason than that they don’t know any better, so I always speed past them and get away as soon as possible.

  I check the rear-view mirror again to make sure there’s nothing too close behind me as I go to pull back into the left-hand lane when I see the blue lamp of a police car. As always, even after all these years, anxiety spikes in my chest cavity. I cannot help it, the police make me nervous. Always.

  The light flashes on suddenly, and I have to tear my eyes away from it in the rear-view mirror to concentrate on the road ahead.

  ‘They’re coming for you, Mum,’ Vee says, copying what her dad says every time we see the police. If Con was here, he’d say it too. None of them have ever noticed that I never laugh, I never even smile. I tug at the corner of my mouth and say nothing, allow the joke to wash over me and pretend I don’t know that the police may very well be coming for me.