‘Ha ha,’ I say, but my determined smile is fading. I’ve been trying not to picture Mum’s face when she finds out. I can’t afford to think about it. If I do, I’ll be swamped with horrid guilt and have to call the whole thing off. Besides, it’s too late now. I’ve gone so far with the planning that I couldn’t go back now even if I wanted to.
‘What did you want me to do?’ says Gemma. ‘Because I’m not so sure I should be backing you up on this. What about if you get really sick and there’s nobody to help you? Maybe I should come with.’
I pull a piece of slimy lettuce out of my burger and sigh. If I was making this same meal at home I’d have done the burger out of lean beef and shaped into thick, juicy rounds. I’d have served it in a home-made bun with masses of organic roast tomatoes and with loads of good French mustard.
‘Never mind the burger,’ says Gemma, reading my mind. She knows me so well. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
I put down my burger and switch to the fries instead. They’re OK, I suppose, but they don’t really taste of potato, just of fat and salt. Still, it’s all calories. I shovel them in and give Gemma my best smile.
‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say. ‘But then my mother will kill you as well, or probably your own mother will kill you. So there would be two tragic deaths. Maybe we ought to keep it to just one, yeah?’
I expect Gemma to laugh, but she looks mournful and pushes the remains of her meal in my direction.
‘I wish you didn’t have CF,’ she says. ‘It sucks.’
‘You’re telling me,’ I say, biting into her chicken burger and pulling a face at the dry, stringy chicken inside the bun. ‘But there’s not much I can do about that. Except I really, really want to do this. And I need you to pretend that I’m coming round yours on Sunday night to do homework. OK?’
Gemma nods.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘But when your mum realises, she’s going to call me, isn’t she? What do I say then?’
‘I’m leaving her a note,’ I say. ‘Just tell her to read it. And tell her it was me who put you up to it. She won’t be cross with you then. I just need to get to London before she knows, that’s all.’
Gemma sighs and finishes off her fries.
‘Are you going to tell Harry?’ she says. ‘Maybe he could go with you.’
I’ve already thought about that.
‘I don’t think I can tell him,’ I say. ‘I think he’d side with Mum. Say I wasn’t up to it.’
Gemma nods. She knows how protective Harry can be. The three of us have a lot of fun when we hang out, but she sees Harry watching my face for signs of tiredness and checking that I’ve had my pills, even though he doesn’t do it in such an obvious way as Mum.
‘You’re a bit of a nightmare, Amelie Day,’ she says. ‘You and your Flour Power.’
I grin at her.
‘I need to buy another new dress,’ I say. ‘Come on. You’re good at that.’
We leave arm in arm and head deeper into the precinct.
I spend two hours trying on different dresses in different shops and Gemma and I can’t agree on which ones look good and which ones don’t. But in the end we both agree on a white flippy sundress with a brown cut-off cardigan over the top and a pair of brown ballerina pumps with little leather flowers on them.
‘It looks good but also you won’t fall over in it,’ says Gemma as I get out the wad of cash that I took out of the machine earlier and pay for the things. ‘And you’ll probably have an apron over the whole lot anyway, won’t you?’
‘I guess so,’ I say. I sit down and cough. My newfound energy is starting to flag a bit now and I’ve got a small thrill of fear in my stomach. Now I’ve bought the outfit it feels like this is really going to happen. And I don’t know what to expect at all, other than that I’ve got to be there on Monday at 9 in the morning.
And that I’m travelling up to London on my own.
Chapter Eleven
On Sunday afternoon Dad comes over to see me.
‘I really hope it goes well tomorrow, Mel,’ he says. We’re sitting outside in our courtyard garden on the cobbles where horses used to tread. Sometimes it’s weird thinking that I live inside a building where horses were tied up and taken out to hook up to old carriages. Once or twice at night I swear I’ve heard the neigh of a horse and the stamping of hoofs, but I reckon I’m probably just imagining it.
‘What?’ I say with a start. I’m half asleep today. Couldn’t sleep at all last night for mulling it all over in my head. For a moment I think that he’s rumbled me. Then I realise that he’s referring to my operation. I wish I could tell Dad where I’m really going. I know that he’s keen for me to follow my heart and my cooking and try to fulfil all my ambitions while I’ve still got enough breath to do them. I also know that he’d be very angry if I did something behind Mum’s back.
That’s why I can’t risk telling him.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say in what I hope is a vague way. I need to change the subject. Quick.
‘I’ve made treacle tarts,’ I say. ‘Little ones. Do you want some?’
Dad stretches out in the sun on his chair and makes a noise of satisfaction.
‘Now you’re talking,’ he says. ‘What are you waiting for? Bring on the cake!’
I go inside to get a tea tray together. Mum is in the kitchen watering all her houseplants. The sight of her back and the way that she’s humming as she waters makes guilty tears threaten to spring up in my throat. For a moment I feel really small. Then I have a feeling of genuine fear. This is my home, the place where I feel safe and Mum looks after me. And I’m going to remove myself from my safety zone and throw myself into the Great Unknown, all on my own.
‘They look nice,’ says Mum, turning round and watching me put the mini-tarts onto a big white plate. I’ve put strips of criss-cross pastry across the glistening orange tops of each little tart. I can already feel the way that the treacle is going to glue all our teeth together. ‘Save me one. I’ll be out in a minute. Oh – maybe we can take the rest to hospital tomorrow, for after the op? You know how you hate hospital food.’
‘Mm,’ I say, ducking back out through the back door into the courtyard.
Dad bites into my crumbly pastry and gooey treacle with an exclamation of bliss.
‘You really are good at this, aren’t you?’ he says, letting crumbs fall all over his blue shirt. ‘It’s a shame you can’t get to that competition. I reckon you’d have done really well.’
He rolls up his shirt-sleeves and lies back in the sun with his eyes closed. I dissect the strips of pastry from the top of my tart and suck on them, but I’m not really thinking about the recipe for once. All I can think of is what I’ve got to do later.
I hope that it works.
***
I do my breathing at six after Dad’s gone and then I make sure that my tablet box has everything I’m going to need in it. I drag out my rucksack from under my bed and I pack the box, the inhaler, the nebuliser and a plastic bowl in case I need to throw up. The oxygen canister is too big and bulky for me to manage so I leave it at home.
I feel sick already but I reckon that’s just nerves.
I add the new dress, cardigan and shoes to my bag, along with the grey tunic that Mum bought me and pack a pair of leggings, a pair of jeans and a couple of vests and t-shirts. Then I put in a bottle of water and several packets of crisps and bars of chocolate. At the top I put a couple of my treacle tarts in a plastic box and at the very top I put my pink leather purse stuffed to the brim with money.
Then I do the zip up with some effort and stuff the bag under my bed.
I’m just in time. Mum comes in without knocking.
‘Is Gemma’s mum feeding you?’ she says. ‘Or will you be back for supper?’
‘Feeding me,’ I say. It’s frightening how good I’m getting at this lying business.
Mum smiles. ‘It’s beans on toast and Coronation Street for me then,’ she says. ‘Hooray.’
Mum comes downstairs with a pile of washing in her arms.
‘Are you off, love?’ she says. ‘Don’t be late back. Remember we’re up early for hospital tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, I just need to get my stuff,’ I say, bolting upstairs again. I go into Mum’s room and creep over to the bed. I get a letter out of my bag and put it on her pillow. Then I cover the pillow a bit with her duvet and creep out again.
I pick up a small black leather bag from my room and grab a couple of school exercise books so that Mum can see them.
Then I go downstairs to say goodbye.
***
Mum gives me a big kiss.
‘You’re being very brave about tomorrow,’ she says. ‘You must be a bit nervous. I know I am.’
My heart gives a big pang. I don’t much like lying to Mum. Then again I wouldn’t know how to stop this now. It’s gone too far.
I take a quick look at the cosy lounge, at the cream sofa where I lie when I’m not feeling well, at the TV I spend so many hours staring at and then over Mum’s shoulder to the kitchen where all my pans and trays and ingredients live.
A pang of something horrid comes up into my throat and for once it’s not mucus.
I force a smile onto my face.
‘See you later, Mum,’ I say.
Then I go outside, hide my exercise books behind the bin, grab my rucksack from the front garden and head off down the road.
Chapter Twelve
I walk to the station.
It takes about twenty minutes and all the time I’m looking around to see if any of Mum’s friends or neighbours are about to drive past and rumble me, but they don’t.
It’s a steep walk up the hill as the road nears the station and I feel the familiar tightness in my chest so I sit down on a bench for a moment and catch my breath, take a deep puff on my inhaler. Then I hoist the rucksack onto my back, cross the busy main road and go into the station.
The station is quite small and there aren’t many people around on Sunday evening. I approach the ticket desk feeling as if I’m on a secret spy mission or something.
‘Ticket to London, please,’ I say, dropping the rucksack onto the ground. I forgot how heavy it was going to be with all my medicine in. At the last moment I put in some little bottles of high-calorie milk drinks but they’re really weighing me down.
‘Single or return?’ says the guy behind the counter.
I consider this for a moment.
‘Don’t know yet,’ I say. It all depends whether I bomb out at the first stage of the quarter-finals on Monday or whether I go through to the semi-finals which are being filmed on Wednesday. ‘Single, I s’pose.’
‘That’ll be forty-four pounds then,’ says the guy. A couple of little orange tickets whiz out of a machine and are slid under the glass towards me.
I nearly pass out when he says this. Forty-four pounds!
‘Is there a cheaper ticket?’ I say. ‘That’s kind of a lot.’
The man laughs.
‘When did you last go to London?’ he says. ‘That’s a standard off-peak rate. It costs more than that during the week.’
I flush. I haven’t been on the train to London for at least a year and last time Mum came with and bought the tickets.
I shove my money-box cash in his direction and put the tickets in the front of my purse. Then I hoist up the rucksack again and go to wait on the platform.
I’ve got five minutes. I take out a bottle of high-cal milk and drink it while I’m waiting. Then I start on a bag of crisps.
The train pulls in and I heave my bag onto it and find a seat. As soon as I sit down a great wave of tiredness and relief comes over me. I’ve done it. I’m actually on the train to London.
The carriage is pretty empty so I get all my food out and arrange it around me. I take my Creon and then eat a sandwich that I made up this morning while Mum wasn’t looking. I finish up with a Mars Bar and then put the food away in the rucksack. Then I put all my medical stuff into my small black leather bag so that I’ve got it all together and I put it on the seat next to me. I prop up my feet on the rucksack and get out my list of recipe notes so that I can start rehearsing how to bake them in my head.
The train lurches and sways through countryside. It’s very hot and I feel exhausted. I lean my head against the window for a moment and watch all the trees and fields whiz by in a blur. Don’t suppose it matters if I have a bit of a rest. I’m going to need all my energy for what lies ahead.
The next thing I know I’m jolting awake with my head banging on the glass and a horrid dry feeling in my mouth.
It takes me a while to remember where I am. My head is aching and my chest feels tight. It’s like the past few days of plotting and planning kept me going. Now that the excitement of being secretive has gone, I feel like I’ve been in a fight. And lost.
I yawn and look at my watch. I must have been asleep for nearly an hour because there’s only twenty minutes left until the train gets in. I get out a little mirror from the top pocket of my rucksack and then attempt to calm down my hair. My face looks thin and pale in the early evening sunlight, but I try to ignore that. I get a bottle of water out and another snack and then turn to get my black leather bag full of medicine so that I can take some more Creon.
It’s gone.
***
I’m bolt awake now.
I search under the seat, behind the seat and on all the other empty seats around me. Then I open my rucksack just in case I’m going mad and put the little bag back in there without thinking, but it’s not there either.
My heart pounds with fright and uncertainty. I don’t know what to do now.
I check in my rucksack for my phone and money and they’re still there, at least. Thank God I didn’t put them in the little bag. But who can I call? Mum isn’t supposed to know where I am yet and my train is almost in London. I don’t know a single soul in London.
I try to think, even though tears are rising up and threatening to spill over.
Maybe I could find a chemist in London and tell them I’ve lost my drugs? But then they’d be bound to contact my GP’s surgery and they in turn would have to contact Mum and then the game would be up.
I could call Gemma, but I couldn’t expect her to come all the way up to London having first somehow got into my house and gone upstairs to my bedroom and got all my spare medicine and come out again. And anyway I don’t want to switch my phone on in case Mum or Harry call and then my voice will sound guilty and give the game away.
I’m shivering, even though the train is stuffy and the air-con isn’t working. This so wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m angry with myself for leaving the little bag on the seat next to me and then falling asleep. Somebody must have thought it contained money. That’s why they took it.
I sit there swearing and cursing and thinking, but I can’t come up with any good solution.
No.
I’m going to have to try and get through the next three days without my meds.
I’ve never had to do that before. If I eat meals without Creon I get the worst stomach aches ever. If I get out of breath and have no inhaler I might possibly faint or choke.
Or die.
I feel really scared now.
I cling onto my rucksack.
The train grinds into Waterloo and comes to a screeching halt.
Chapter Thirteen
I’d forgotten how busy London can be.
Once I’ve dragged my rucksack off the train and got it back onto my aching shoulders I stand on the platform disorientated and dizzy as people rush past me and bang into my back and sides. They’re like a swarm of ants all trying to run in different directions.
Dazed, I walk towards the ticket barrier. My rucksack gets caught in the automatic gates and I have to
go backwards and try again and then my ticket is spat out of the slot and a beeping noise comes out of the machine. A man behind me tuts and gestures in the direction of the ticket inspector.
‘He’ll let you through.’
I push my way through to the gates on the end. Everybody else seems to be shoving and barging in, so I decide I might as well join in. I get a lot of rude noises and glares from the people I’m hitting with my rucksack, but I’m beyond caring.
All I want to do is get to the hotel and draw the curtains, lie on the bed and cry.
***
First I’ve got to negotiate the tube.
I put my rucksack down in front of me on the escalator, but it sticks out and nearly trips up the people rushing down the inside. I lift it up and try to hold it in front of me but my chest is hurting and I’m struggling to breathe. At the foot of the escalator I have to stop to put it on my back again and a load of people behind nearly catapult over my head.
‘Great place to stop, you stupid girl,’ says a woman in high heels. She clicks off, swinging her briefcase and shaking her head in annoyance.
I fight back tears. I’d give anything to see a friendly face – Mum, Harry, even any kid from school – but that’s not really likely down here in the smelly bowels of the London Underground, so I drag myself off to find the Northern Line after a quick look at the directions I printed off earlier.
The tube is packed to the brim with people, even though it’s Sunday evening. Most of them look like tourists. They’re holding rucksacks like mine or staring at the map of the underground above my head and shouting at one another in loud, foreign voices.
I stand with my hand on the greasy pole in the middle of the carriage and try not to panic. Mum’s always told me to keep away from the underground because it’s a hotbed of germs and viruses and with CF I spend most of my time trying not to catch anything. We used to live in London but Mum moved out when she and Dad broke up and her main reason was because of the increased risk of infection.
The Baking Life of Amelie Day Page 8
