by Jenny Colgan
‘OK,’ sighed Austin, just typing in ‘skiing’ on his BlackBerry. It wasn’t like his grandmother could make it over to check. She was old, he realized, that was true, and devastated by the loss of her only son, but after that, it was as if she’d had the great tragedy of her life and therefore was excused from doing anything else: she hadn’t ever seemed to be the least bit interested in the progress of her grandchildren, apart from the occasional passing query and a very small cheque at Christmas. Austin had given up trying to understand it. Families were funny things, no matter what size. He squeezed Darny to his side.
‘Hey!’ said Darny. Austin turned his head. ‘Sirens!’ shouted Darny. ‘Fire engines! I think we should go see. I want to see.’
Austin smiled. Every time he thought Darny was turning into a sullen teenager way too quickly, the ten-year-old in him reared its head. As ever, though, Austin wanted to hold back. Once upon a time, those sirens had been for their parents. He lived in constant dread of witnessing it happening to someone else.
‘We shouldn’t, D,’ he said, trying to steer him in the direction of a local sweet shop.
‘Fire engines,’ said Darny. ‘You can tell Grandma it’s fire engines I like the best.’
Pearl, deep in thought, and Issy, likewise, felt the crumping sound as well as heard it; it was extremely loud and startling in the quiet Saturday morning air. A large, twisted metal noise, punctuated with shattering glass, then sudden screams, and car alarms, and horns beeping and tooting furiously.
Along with the two customers, both young studious males who had plugged their laptops into the walls and had been enjoying the free wifi and electricity for over forty-five minutes, one on a small latte and one with a bottle of sparkling mineral water, they charged outside to the entrance to Pear Tree Court.
‘Oh no,’ said Issy, stopping dead in her tracks.
Pearl was grateful Louis was home with her mother, and felt her hand fly to her mouth.
Strewn right across the road, as if dropped from the sky by a bored child, the bulk of the number 73 – the huge, elongated, unloved bendy bus – lay smashed and on its side. It blocked the road completely, its true size suddenly laid bare, as wide as the height of the house, and as long as half the road; the smell of wrecked machinery was horrifying; smoke rose from the undercarriage, a mass of exposed metal and piping.
A cab with its roof bashed in had come to a stop, skewed at a crazy angle across a reservation. Behind it could just be glimpsed a dirty white Ford Escort that had ploughed straight into the back of it. And most ominously of all, several metres in front of the top right corner, as if hurled there, was a twisted, bent bicycle.
Issy felt sick, her heart pounding in her chest. ‘Christ,’ she could hear one of the laptop boys saying. ‘Christ.’
Issy felt in the pocket of her apron for her mobile phone. She glanced, light-headed, at Pearl, who had already found hers and was prodding 999 into the handset.
‘Quick,’ said the other man. ‘Come on! We have to get them out.’
And Issy glanced up, as if in slow motion, and saw the bus was full of people – shouting, waving, clawing people. Others were already running from shops, from the bus stops, from houses, to help. In the far distance, the first siren could be heard.
Issy picked up her phone again.
‘Helena,’ she gasped into it. She knew her flatmate had a day off – a precious day off – but she was two streets away.
‘Hmm?’ said Helena, obviously still half asleep. But within two seconds she was wide awake and pulling on her clothes.
At one end of the bus, people were hammering on the window; it didn’t seem to be breaking. With the smoke seeping out of the pipework, Issy wondered – everyone wondered – if the engine was going to explode. Surely not. But there had been stories about these buses catching fire, everyone knew it. Anything could happen. In the middle of the bus, a tall man was desperately trying to open the doors from the inside, above his head. One of the men from the coffee shop was already clambering up the side of the bus – what had been the roof, but was now the side – and other people were anxiously shouting guidance to him. From inside the bus Issy could hear screaming; the driver looked unconscious.
There was a scream from a woman halfway down the road. A young man – obviously a cycle courier, in skintight lycra, now ripped, with a huge walkie-talkie still on his hip – was lying, eyeballs rolling, in the gutter, his arm at a very strange angle. Issy looked over her shoulder and was relieved to see Helena tearing down the road at full pelt.
‘Over here!’ she shouted, then ushered Helena through. ‘She’s a nurse! She’s a nurse!’
Helena ran to the boy as the sirens grew louder.
‘I’m a medical student,’ volunteered a young man standing watching on the kerb.
‘Come with me then, sonny,’ said Helena grimly. ‘And don’t give me any cheek.’
Issy glanced around. Suddenly, she noticed a very calm, quiet figure. While everyone else was either stock still in shock or tearing about like a wild thing, the figure was approaching steadily from Pear Tree Court. It was the strange man from the ironmonger’s; the man who hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge them when they moved in. He was carrying an enormous metal box. It must have weighed a ton, but he hoisted it effortlessly.
Her eyes followed him as he headed towards the bus, knelt down by the windscreen away from the driver’s side, opened his box and selected a heavy mallet. Indicating to the panicking passengers inside to stay well back, he hit the glass sharply three or four times until it shattered. He then carefully selected a pair of pliers and lifted out the large, dangerous shards from the black rubber rim of the window frame. Then and only then did he beckon the people inside to come forward; first a screaming baby, which he handed to the person nearest to him, who happened to be Issy.
‘Oh,’ said Issy. ‘There, there.’
The baby screamed, her hot wet face buried in Issy’s shoulder, the great peanut shape of her mouth seeming oddly wider than her head. She had thick, straight black hair and Issy stroked it soothingly.
‘Ssssh,’ she said, and two seconds later the baby’s mother was out, her hands flapping and outstretched, the buggy twisted and discarded behind her.
‘Here you are,’ Issy said. The mother could barely articulate her distress.
‘I thought she was … I thought we were …’
The baby, back in the familiar scent of her mother’s arms, hiccuped and gulped and let out another experimental wail but then seemed to decide that the imminent danger had passed, and snuggled her damp face into the crook of her mother’s neck, peering round to gaze at Issy with huge dark eyes.
‘It’s OK,’ said Issy, patting the mother on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK.’
And as she could see other people clambering out behind her – some clutching their heads, some with rips in their clothing, all sharing a similar expression of shock and bemusement, Issy thought that it just might not be too bad … Nobody seemed to be horribly injured. Except for the cyclist – she glanced back, but all she could see was the wide form of Helena bent low over him, gesticulating at the young medical student. Her throat constricted. Whoever he was, he’d left home that morning without a worry in his head.
The bus driver too was still lying contorted across the huge steering wheel.
‘Everyone, get away from the bus!’ the ironmonger said loudly, in a tone that brooked no argument. The bystanders and rubber-neckers were hanging about the pavement, watching; no one seemed to know what to do for the confused commuters with their cut lips and twitching eyes.
‘Perhaps,’ said the ironmonger to Issy, ‘you might be able to make these people a hot drink. And I’ve heard sugar can be good for shock.’
‘Of course!’ said Issy, stunned that she hadn’t immediately thought of it herself. And she ran back as fast as she could to get the urn heated up.
By the time they started feeding tea and cake to the victims, five minutes later, t
he ambulances and fire engines had arrived; the police were ushering everyone away from the bus and had cordoned off the road. Everyone was absolutely delighted by the hot tea and buns Issy and Pearl had rounded up, and the bus driver, already beginning to stir, had been loaded into the ambulance.
Helena and the medical student, whose name was Ashok, had stabilized the cycle courier and been congratulated by the ambulance crew, who had grabbed a couple of cakes to enjoy once they’d delivered their patient to A&E. The survivors of the crash were already bonding, sharing stories of where they’d been on their way to, and hadn’t everyone always been sure that these bendy buses were going to cause trouble one day; the joy and luck that no one, it appeared, had been too seriously injured or killed made people quite voluble and a bit overexcited, like they were at a cocktail party, and everyone rounded on Issy to express their thanks. One or two people pointed out that they lived just round the corner and they hadn’t even known she was there, so when the photographer from the local paper turned up, as well as taking pictures of the shattered bus from every angle (the ironmonger had disappeared as smoothly as he’d arrived; Issy hadn’t even noticed him go), he also took a shot of her smiling with all the passengers. When the Walthamstow Gazette came out the following week the headline to part of their crash coverage was LOCAL CAKES BEST MEDICINE and after that, things started to change quite a lot.
Before that, though, there was the simple fact that the entire stock was sold out. Half they’d given away to the tumbled and bruised and shocked; half they’d sold to the nosy and curious. Either way, every crumb was cleared, the milk all finished, the big, unwieldy coffee machine was jarred into life – obviously, Issy thought in retrospect, it was made to be used all the time. It didn’t like stopping and starting, and who could blame it?
Exhausted, she looked over at Pearl, who was washing the floor.
‘Shall we go for a drink?’ she asked.
‘Why not?’ said Pearl, smiling.
‘Hey!’ Issy yelled to Helena, who was, uncharacteristically, mooning out of the window. ‘You coming for a drink?’
They went to a nice wine bar and the three girls relaxed round a bottle of rosé. Pearl had never tried it before and thought it tasted like vinegar, but she gamely sipped along, trying not to notice how fast the other two downed their glasses.
‘What a day,’ said Issy. ‘Cor. Do you think those people will come back?’
Helena raised her glass to Pearl.
‘I gather you’ve already seen the glass-half-empty side of your boss then?’
Pearl smiled.
‘What do you mean?’ said Issy. ‘I’m very optimistic.’
Helena and Pearl swapped glances.
‘Well, it’s not so much pessimistic,’ said Helena. ‘I suppose … timid.’
‘I’ve started my own business!’ said Issy. ‘That feels pretty optimistic to me.’
‘And you still think Graeme’s going to make an honest woman of you one day,’ said Helena, starting in on her second glass. ‘That’s pretty optimistic.’
Issy felt herself colour.
‘Who’s this?’ said Pearl.
‘No one,’ said Issy. ‘My ex.’
‘Her ex-boss,’ explained Helena helpfully.
‘Ouch,’ said Pearl. ‘That doesn’t sound too good.’
Issy sighed. ‘Well, I’m moving on now. Taking control of my life.’
‘Was he nice?’ asked Pearl, who didn’t feel in any position to tell people who they should and shouldn’t be taking back.
‘No,’ said Helena.
‘He was!’ protested Issy. ‘You just didn’t see that side of him. He had a sensitive side.’
‘That came out when he wasn’t summoning you by taxi halfway across town in the middle of the night to make him Super Noodles,’ said Helena.
‘I knew I should never have told you about the Super Noodles.’
‘No, you should have done,’ said Helena, helping herself to a packet of crisps. ‘Otherwise I might have been sitting here saying, “Oh yes, he is terribly handsome, you must turn yourself into a total doormat to get him back just because he looks like he should be in a razor commercial.”’
‘He is handsome,’ said Issy.
‘That’s why he preens himself in every polished surface,’ said Helena. ‘It’s brilliant you’re over him.’
‘Hmm,’ said Issy.
‘And have that banker to pash on.’
Issy shot a look at Pearl. ‘Helena,’ she said.
Pearl smiled back at Helena. ‘Oh, I know.’
‘I am not. And for your information, just because I don’t dribble on about it all the time, I do still miss Graeme.’
Pearl patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I know it can be hard to get over people.’
‘You?’ said Issy. ‘You look like you never worry a day in your life about that kind of stuff.’
‘Do I?’ snorted Pearl. ‘What, I’m completely sexless?’
‘No!’ said Issy. ‘I mean, you just seem so sorted.’
Pearl’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s right, Issy. Oh, and there’s Louis’s dad, Barack Obama, sending the helicopter to give us a lift home.’
‘Is Louis’s dad still around?’ asked Helena, forthright as ever.
Pearl tried not to let a little smile cross her face. She was being tough. If even Issy could show her no-good lover the door, the least she could do was put up a bit more resistance to Benjamin. On the other hand, what time was it …
‘Well, he sees his boy,’ she said, conscious that she sounded a bit proud.
‘What’s he like?’ asked Issy, anxious to change the subject to someone else’s romantic travails.
‘Well,’ said Pearl reflectively, ‘my mother always used to say that handsome is as handsome does … but I was never very good at listening to my mother.’
‘I didn’t want to listen to mine,’ said Issy. ‘She said, “Don’t get tied down.” But I would really like to be tied down …’
‘Or up,’ added Helena.
‘And nobody wants to. So I am Not Tied Down.’ Issy sighed and wondered if more rosé would help. Probably not, but worth a shot under the circumstances.
‘Well, look at you now – owning your own business, which actually sold some cakes today,’ said Helena. ‘Not reliant on some lantern-jawed eejit for snogging. And men love a woman who can bake and look nice in a flowery dress, they think it’ll be like the fifties and you’ll mix them a martini. You’re at the start of a pulling bonanza. Trust me.’ She raised a glass.
‘Now you are glass-half-full,’ said Issy, but she felt mildly cheered nonetheless.
‘What did your mother tell you, Helena?’ asked Pearl.
‘Never to get involved in other people’s business,’ said Helena promptly. And the three women laughed, and chinked glasses.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Where’s my little man Chunks?’ asked Issy as Pearl turned up – a little late, but frankly she was so grateful to Pearl that she was going to overlook the small things. ‘I miss him.’
Pearl smiled tightly and rushed in to grab the Hoover and mop so she could run round before they opened up.
‘He just loves being with his grandma,’ she said, realizing as she did so what an idyllic cake-baking, duck-feeding picture that presented, rather than the cheerless, fuggy little flat. ‘Anyway, let me just get round here quickly, the morning rush will be on soon.’
They smiled at each other, but it was true that since the accident there had been a steady stream of people – the ambulancemen, the bystanders, the mother with the lovely baby girl, and Ashok, who had popped in to ask for Helena’s phone number, which made Issy’s eyebrows rise so much he’d apologized instantly. Issy had taken his and passed it on, fully expecting Helena to drop it in the hospital incinerator.
The council had replaced the long bendy buses with the original double-deckers, which looked nicer coming down the street (and moved at more of a clip) but
held far fewer passengers than the bendy buses. As a result a lot of people couldn’t get on during rush hour, and found themselves popping in for a coffee to pass the time; Issy had started buying in croissants. Short of growing another pair of hands, she sadly admitted to herself, she had to buy them in; anyway, the very best croissant-making was an art all to itself, so rather than her straining for a new goal, she’d sourced the most wonderful boulanger, courtesy of François, who’d pointed her in the direction of a company who delivered an exquisite mixed box of pains au chocolat, croissants and croissants aux amandes at 7am sharp every day; there was never a single one left by nine.
Then came the morning coffee; Mira, with little Elise, had managed to find herself some new friends among other mums, and they came often and chattered loudly in Romanian on the grey sofa, which was beginning to take on the soft, well-used sheen Issy had hoped for it. Some of the yummy mummies had started to make their way down from the crèche; if they recognized Pearl, she would smile briefly then busy herself (now not difficult) fetching organic lemonades and juices. Lunchtime was a rush, then the afternoon was a little more meditative, with office girls and women organizing children’s parties coming in to buy boxes of half a dozen or even a dozen cakes; Issy was considering getting a sign up to invite personalizing and special orders. In between there were endless lattes, teas, raspberry specials; vanilla-iced blueberry cakes; slices of thick apple pie; cleaning up, wiping, signing for suppliers, invoices; post; cleaning up spills, smiling at children and waving to regulars; chatting to passers-by and opening more milk, more butter, more eggs. By four, Issy and Pearl would be ready to lie down on one of the huge sacks of flour in the storeroom, where Pearl fearlessly scratched out the inner corners with her mop to make sure they were as sparkling as the areas of the shop people actually saw.
The Cupcake Café was afloat; it had launched, it was sailing, tipping slightly from side to side, all hands working her – but it was afloat; it felt to Issy like a living, breathing entity; a thing that was as much a part of her as her left hand. It never went away; she sat poring over the books with Mrs Prescott late at night; she dreamed in buttercream and icing, thought in keys and deliveries and sugar roses. Friends called and she begged off; Helena snorted and said it was like she was in the first grip of a romance. And although she was tired – exhausted – from working all out six days a week; although she desperately wanted to go out and have a few drinks without knowing how much she would suffer for it the next day; although she would have liked to just sit and watch some TV without wondering about stock levels and expiry dates and disposable bloody catering gloves, she shook her head in complete disbelief whenever she heard people mention the word ‘holiday’. Yet she was happier, she realized, deep down, than she’d been in years; happier every day, when she earned the rent money, then the utilities, then Pearl’s salary, then, finally, finally, something of her own, from something she was turning over with her own two hands, made to cherish and make people feel good.
