‘Dark rich jade, deep royal blue,’ she gushes.
They do sound lovely. I’ll bet EmmyLou Slinky has such a combination of undies on, because the Slinkies are SO up to the minute fashion-wise.
The Cool People get off the stop before us, no doubt headed away to be utterly fabulous. The Less Cool of us get off closer to home.
‘I think I’d best do a trial of the bath bombs,’ Uggs says. ‘How about we go for that tomorrow?’
It’s a great idea.
‘Can it not be my house?’ I say. ‘ONLY cos who knows what crazy pregnancy craving Mum will have by then. She might want to eat the bombs and, though they’re made of good stuff, the fizziness might not suit the baby.’
There are nods all round at this wisdom. We all remember the time the class put Mentos into a big bottle of diet cola and it made a gigantic, explosive spurt of effervescence into the air and covered everything in sugary, sticky stuff. Then someone (Mike Hussy, to name names) had to go one better and did it using his own body as the experimental container and the result was THE most spectacular vomit I have ever seen, or ever will see, I suspect.‡ It was PROJECTILE. I’m glad I was not the person standing in front of him – that was Hugo Pheifer and I’m not sure he has recovered yet.
Gypsy is waiting at the bus stop. You’d think Uggs had phoned ahead to tell her when we’d be arriving. She starts leaping and barking and being generally delighted to see us back, safe and well.
‘Do you think a nice, cherry-red will suit Gyp?’ he asks.
It’s only then I see he has a bag from the great wool shop. I was so wrapped up and selfish that I didn’t notice him buy something there too.
Then he starts singing to her, to the tune, and vaguely the words, of that song ‘Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah’ that we all heard as kids.
‘Gyp-a-dee-doo-dah, Gyp-a-dee-ay,
What a great dog you are s’all I can say!
Plenty of treatses comin’ your way,
Gyp-a-dee-doo-dah, Gyp-a-dee-ay!’
For the first time in my life, I want to be that dog.
Eugene’s Bath Bombs
INGREDIENTS
Citric acid
Bicarbonate of soda
Cornflour
Essential oils
Water to bind all of the above
SCIENCE BIT
The science bit of Uggs’s bath bombs is as follows: citric acid reacts with the bicarbonate of soda in the presence of water (i.e. your bath) to produce carbon dioxide, which gives the bath bombs their fizz = RESULT! You are experiencing DA BOMB.
The ratio of ingredients should be 2 parts citric acid, 1 part bicarbonate of soda, 1 part cornflour, and you can use whatever you want, like a cup, to be the ‘1 part’ measure. The amount of scent is up to you, depending on how smelly you want the bombs to be, and you’ll know when you’ve used enough water (start small here) when you have a good consistency going (you don’t want it too wet!).
METHOD
Sieve the bicarbonate of soda into a bowl, then add the citric acid and cornflour and mix well. Add the scent and some water and mix those well also. Then put into the moulds you’ve chosen and leave to set. We used a muffin tray to shape the bombs but you could use anything you fancy. Put the mixture in bit by bit and press down to keep the bomb nice and solid.
The finished bombs could be wrapped in greaseproof paper then tied at the top with string or ribbon. Just be sure to keep them dry till they go into your bath.*
Fair Trade
‘These are easily as good as anything you can buy in a shop,’ Dixie says.
She’s right.
We are sitting in Uggs’s house and are well pleased with ourselves.
‘Perhaps we should try adding colour next time?’ Uggs says, going all professional and perfectionist.
‘What if that stains the bath?’ I suggest, remembering some stuff Dad brought home to test out on us, the Quinns, his very own ‘lab rats’. In particular an orange one left us, as well as the bath, looking like we’d been Tangoed.
‘I quite like the natural look of them,’ Dixie says. ‘They smell and look healthy.’
I’m glad we didn’t make them at mine because they smell good and citrusy enough to make you want to bite into them, and Mum might do just that if her body and Bumpy Quinn told her they were full of vitamins.
‘We could sell these,’ Dixie says, ‘no problemo. Why don’t we each take one and see if it works and, if it does, we’ll draw up a business plan?’
A BUSINESS PLAN????
She sees our shocked faces. ‘We’ve gotta move with the times, guys. Trust me. I’m having one of my visionary days.’
Dixie’s visions might lead to troubles and it’s hard to know how this one could pan out.
We take our bombs and arrange to text results later.
‘I want synchronized bathing,’ Dix says, like it’s an Olympic sport. ‘Plus top reportage with marks out of ten.’
She’s on a mission …
In my bath later, the fizz is fabulous, so that’s the first thing I share: Fizz Factor = 10/10!
Dix texts: Smelltastic!
I go: MARKS?!
Dix: full 10.
Uggs: amazeballs, tanx!
A strange number texts: good job well dun Uggs.
Me: who dis?
Unknown: Gypsy
Well, Uggs has finally lost it. He has got the hound her own mobile. I just really hope it’s not her doing the texting because that would be so shocking as to make me retire from life. Strangely, I can imagine her pointy little nails hitting the numbers and letters on a phone – most disturbing.
I send back: o course! stupid o me nt 2 guess.
Then I kind of kick myself, mentally, because I have just texted a dog, even if I meant my message to be dripping in gentle scorn. It’s not just Uggs who’s losing it.
Gypsy texts: DUH!
I have to smack my forehead to knock some sense into my head. When we get over the madness of a texter being a dog, supposedly, we score v v high marks for the bombs.*
When I go downstairs Mum says, ‘That’s given the whole house a lovely, zingy smell.’
I text: zing factor 10/10.
Gran says, ‘Froooteeeee’, Dad gives, ‘Bang on,’ and even Dermo goes, ‘Yeah, not bad.’†
Dix: Da Bomb is born! Now need celeb endorsement.
We all text SLINKIES to one another at the same time, so hopefully that means ‘great minds think alike’ and Gyp goes: woof! Seems we’re going into business. Uggs has scored a totally tub-tastic hit.
Of course, human nature means I now feel v v inadequate by comparison, so I get to work on my knitted projects. There is no time to lose and every stitch counts. Plus the problem with knitting is that it does soak up time and the results are not as immediate as with a bath bomb. There is also the fact that I am a low, crawling thing, unworthy of friendship, and that has not gone away.
‘You smell good enough to bite,’ Mum tells me, and I know for sure I made the right decision taking the bath-bomb production out of our house. The temptation would have been too much for her. She would so have tried to scoff one.
Crimestoppers
The kitchen clears and I ask, ‘Mum, is keeping something from your friends the same as lying?’
‘Well, people keep things to themselves for all sorts of reasons. Maybe they think they’ll make a situation worse if they share, or maybe they feel it’s not their place to interfere. And that wouldn’t mean LYING, though there is such a thing as “a sin of omission” and it’d be like an error of omission in ordinary life. All depends on the circumstances, I suppose.’
I nod and I bet I look miserable.
‘Does a friend of yours have a problem of this sort?’ she asks.
‘Yes. A friend is keeping something from one of his best friends because he’s afraid of being laughed at, but it’ll cause a big hoohah if it comes out. And he’s also told his other best friend, so they’re both in a bad place now.’
Surely the fact I said the pal is a HE will throw her off the scent – I am pleased with this even if, technically, it’s likely to be a lie too.
‘This friend should probably balance up the good with the bad. Maybe to be laughed at a little bit might not be such a bad thing and it would be meant affectionately, I’d say, if they’re true friends. It might be gentler than risking, say, losing a best friend. Making decisions like this is all part of growing up, Jen, of taking responsibility.’
I am more miserable now than ever before.
‘For your friend, that is. Obviously it’s not you.’
‘No. Not me.’
Gran saunters in. ‘Cheer up, Jen, it might never happen,’ she says.
I’m saved from saying anything because the Quinns are gathering for one of our favourite shows and there is plenty else to think about. We stock up on chocolate and crisps and gather on the sofas and armchairs.
One of the strange things about going back to school is that it coincides with the television getting good again. So, just when you have less time to watch it because you have homework and all, the programmes get better = Sod’s Law. The Quinns have several, separate favourites but some shows are meant to be watched and enjoyed all together, and one of those is Crimestoppers. That’s exactly what we’re tucking into now, as well as cheese ’n’ onion crisps and Maltesers.*
Crimestoppers is an hour long and you can ring in to the studio with information on the crimes if you have any. Real police present it and they are v wooden, telling us about the awful stuff that’s happened in Ireland during the week. As well as criminals doing stupidly awful stuff too. I’d say presenting the show is way harder for the cops than going out chasing the villains.
The best thing is when we absorb the facts and then Dad turns and says, ‘And where were YOU on the night of Wednesday 7 August?’
Then you have to have a really good alibi or he might have to phone up the programme and turn you in. I nearly got caught for an armed robbery in Co. Tipperary once because I had such a lame excuse involving Dixie and a knitting lesson.
Gran often confesses but Dad just can’t bring himself to hand her over, or that’s what he says. And sometimes, if it looks like he will, Mum will make a big plea on behalf of Gran and beg him not to turn her in. I keep waiting for a dog story so that I can anonymously shop Gypsy for a crime she may, or may not, have committed.
Sometimes we like to guess who in the Oakdale area might be suited to a certain crime, but then you have to pick the person least likely EVER to do such a thing and back up your theory TO THE HILT. The strangest people might be criminal masterminds, according to the Quinns.
Gran is particularly devious and good at this activity. One night, we saw a piece about a stolen articulated lorry full of live chickens.
‘Rosie O’Rourke from Beech Close,’ Gran said. ‘Can’t help herself. It’s in her blood. Countrywoman. Can’t resist livestock. Been rustling poultry since she was three feet high.’
‘She’s in a mobility scooter now,’ Mum pointed out.
‘Deep cover,’ Gran assured her. ‘She only uses that thing for show in her leisure hours; rest of the time she’s like Lara Croft, throwing herself around, beating up on people and stealing chickens left right and centre. Besides, where was she on the night of 3 September?’
I’m nearly sure Mrs O’Rourke is ninety-seven.
Tonight, there’s the usual mix of attacks, car theft, cashpoint robberies and an item on con artists scamming people out of their savings by being charming and not who they seem to be. I keep expecting my face to flash up on the screen as the biggest hoaxer† in Oakdale.
There’s an item on a bunny rabbit belonging to a homeless man being chucked into the River Liffey in town – what a terrible thing to do. The man jumped in and saved his pet and then they were both rescued from the river by the fire brigade.
Dad turns to Dermot and asks, ‘Where were YOU on that Saturday?’
I’m glad it wasn’t me he picked on because I WAS in town that day! Dermot has a brilliant alibi because it turns out he was part of an unreported heist on a yoghurt factory in Monaghan that day.
Although it’s a great episode, and the Quinns do well with their excuses, I go to sleep troubled. I dream that Dixie is a giant bath bomb and I throw her into a giant bath and she fizzes away to nothing, shouting, ‘I’m your friend. I smell of grapefruit. How could you do this to me?’ Gypsy is barking, barking, barking. Then I wake. I am all sweaty and sticky and my heart is RACING, and I smell of grapefruit too. And Gypsy is barking, so maybe I didn’t dream that bit. Actually, I’m vaguely grateful to Gypsy for waking me, as I really didn’t want to continue dreaming that dream and who knows how much longer it would have taken to run out. I might have pulled the plug on Dixie and flushed her away.
The Morning after the Night Before
I slouch into breakfast.
Gran says, ‘You look like you were dragged backwards through a bush, missy.’
It’s not a massively helpful comment, so I just grunt at her, which I know is acceptable as I’m a teen. Then I hide behind my fringe, which I am growing a) to be cool and b) to use to hide behind – double whammy result.
I also hate being called ‘missy’ and I’m sure Gran knows that and does it deliberately to rile me. She’s good at that kind of torture.
Mum is drinking something green with chunks in it and to be honest it looks like peppermint puke, though I strongly suspect it may have gherkin in it and is probably not minty at all. I don’t ask what it’s made of as that’s a need-to-know basis and I SO don’t need to know, not this early in the day, or ever. She has taken to sitting with her hand contentedly resting on the Bump. Every so often she goes, ‘Whoo, this one’s a mover,’ as she feels a little kick or punch. It’s all a bit much, a bit upsetting.
I still feel odd that there is a small person growing in my mum’s tum, but I admit it’s getting less freaky now and there is a general excitement in the house that we’ll have a baby before long, just a few months. OK, I’ll admit it: I’m warming to the idea, in spite of the jumping in the tum bit and the ghastly gherkins.
Dermot is acting shifty, like he’s hiding something. I know, I know, I’m one to talk, BUT I recognize concealment in others now, like I have gained an unwanted superpower. He’s avoiding questions, dodging conversation and looks like he’s UP TO SOMETHING. Everyone else thinks it’s because he’s sixteen and that’s what blokes do when they’re that age.
This morning he’s acting fascinated by his Rice Krispies as they snap, crackle and pop. It’s as if he wants us to think he can understand some mysterious thing they’re sharing with him. Yeah, right – as I say, he’s UP TO SOMETHING.
Today, he’s taking his guitar to school, saying it’s for Guitar Club, though no one asked him, so that’s Too Much Information right there and a sure sign that he wants us to believe something that is not fully the truth.* Looks like we’ve all got secrets of some sort.
I’m happy enough with that. Some secrets should remain, well, secret. Like, I have no interest in knowing Gran’s,† or Dad’s or Mum’s. In a way I’m still a bit queasy that so many people know a big thing about us Quinns, because they can see the Bump growing daily before their eyes.
But the Dermot one is of interest to me, intriguing me, you might say, because it may involve Stevie Lee Bolton, so it is my business, as a result, when you think about it. It also makes me feel a teeny tiny weeny bit better about myself and that helps a teeny tiny weeny bit.
Mr Bombtastic
Already Dixie is all over the business plan like a rash, which is exactly what we’re all glad we did not wake up with this morning.* Dixie has morphed into a dynamo, even her uniform looks like a power suit now, so maybe this new bath product has powers we don’t yet know of.
‘What we do is give her a bomb and say we’d love her feedback and then, when she loves it, we encourage her to tell all her friends and we tell anyone who’ll listen. Perfect word-of
-mouth marketing and FREE.’
‘Which one?’ I ask.
‘Which one what?’
‘Which Slinky?’
‘Samantha. I think she’s the natural leader there.’
Uggs is looking sheepish.
‘Wots the happs?’† Dixie wants to know.
Uggs does an Ugg Shrug. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to be a businessman. I’m more the shy inventor type.’
Dixie raises an eyebrow. ‘There are three kinds of people in this world, Uggs – those who make things happen, those who let things happen, and those who wonder what the hell just happened.’
I’m not sure what her point is but it does sound mega-impressive.
‘Have you got it?’ Dixie asks.
‘Well, I get the –’
‘The bath bomb, Uggs, not the concept.’
‘Oh, yes.’
He produces a wrapped one. ‘I’ve gone with the whole kitchen theme. I put the bomb itself into a paper muffin case then used unbleached baking paper as a wrap and string to tie it off.’
It looks superb, pretty but with a healthy, natural vibe. I’m a little bit in love with it and it smells great, even if that reminds me of my dream.
We wait in the schoolyard till Sam Slinky is more or less alone, or at least not in conversation with anyone, and we go over to her.‡ Dixie is bolder than Uggs and me but she says I must open the conversation on account of Sam going out with my brother. EEK!
My voice sounds ridiculous, like I have swallowed helium, as I go, ‘Morning, Sam.’
She looks startled, so I’d say the Gang must look a bit weird – eyes poppy-outy with not knowing how this will go and gawky with having dared engage an older goddess type.
Jenny Q, Stitched Up Page 9
