‘What?’ I frown. ‘Lawrie Marshall? Are you mad?’
‘The hero in this book is exactly the same,’ Sarah tells me, waving her paperback in front of my nose. ‘Moody and mysterious, but with hidden depths. Maybe Lawrie will ask you out. If he does, would you say yes?’
I will be spending most afternoons for the foreseeable future trudging across the moors with him, but Sarah doesn’t need to know that.
‘Of course not!’ I scoff. ‘Really, he’s not interested – and nor am I. No way. I promise you, if Lawrie Marshall has hidden depths they are so well hidden that a whole team of archaeologists couldn’t unearth them. Or whatever. Although personally, I am not sure he has any hidden depths at all …’
I trail off into silence, aware that Sarah, Amy and Jayde are watching me keenly.
‘You like him,’ Amy says teasingly. ‘I can tell!’
Instantly, the pony rescue is old news, replaced by a frenzied fascination for whether I am crushing on Lawrie Marshall. Why is everyone obsessed with boys all of a sudden? It’s like the minute we all turned twelve, that’s all anyone can think of. I am not totally immune to boys – I am only human, after all – but I am not about to let hormones rule my life. I have too many things to do to let boys get in the way. I have to save the whale and the tiger and the giant panda, then qualify as a vet, become a famous violinist and maybe start up my own sanctuary for ill-treated ponies as well. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for romance.
Which is just as well, if Lawrie Marshall is the best candidate my friends can come up with.
‘He’s a mystery boy,’ Sarah says thoughtfully, as we trudge back up to school across the playing fields. ‘I mean, what do we actually know about him? Not much. He came here a year ago … didn’t somebody say he was from the Lake District?’
‘He used to look kind of scruffy,’ Jayde adds. ‘But these days he wears quite nice stuff. I think he’s probably quite well off.’
‘Don’t know about that,’ I say. ‘He told me he’s working at the stables because he needs the money.’
Amy grins. ‘So you do talk to him! I knew it! And you have loads in common, like your shared love of horses …’
‘We don’t talk,’ I correct her. ‘He just snaps at me from time to time. That’s not a conversation!’
But yesterday evening we managed at least two minutes of chat without descending back into sniping. Does that count?
‘I see him getting out of a very posh four-wheel drive some mornings,’ Sarah comments. ‘So he can’t exactly be poor.’
Lawrie Marshall is a mystery boy all right. Is he angry at the world or just trying to be invisible? Is he rich or poor, cruel or kind, secretive or just plain rude? He doesn’t make it easy for anyone to get to know him and he’s definitely not the friendliest boy I’ve ever met, but does that make him a bad person?
I cannot work it out.
‘He fancies you, definitely,’ Amy smirks. ‘I can tell!’
Sometimes I wonder if I am the only sane one on this whole planet, I swear.
Lawrie Marshall is waiting in the copse of hazel trees beneath the moor at half four, doing some maths homework. When he sees me he closes his exercise book and stuffs it into a rucksack, watching while I hide my bike in a clump of bushes. He falls into step beside me, following the stream across the moor.
‘So,’ he says, as if the whole day at school hasn’t even happened, ‘I hear Seddon’s been to the police. They’re making enquiries, planning a search.’
‘They mustn’t find them,’ I protest. ‘They just mustn’t, Lawrie!’
He shrugs. ‘They probably won’t – I think they’re safe enough, for now. But we can’t keep them hidden forever, can we?’
‘Not forever,’ I agree. ‘But I am working on a plan, don’t worry. A way to get them out of there.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But I’m worried about the dapple-grey mare. She’s been neglected and she’s quite run-down. She could be closer to foaling than we think.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say briskly. ‘I’m going to be a vet, remember? Delivering a foal would be no problem at all.’
I promise myself I’ll find out on the Internet how to help a pony foal. I have watched a sheep give birth, on the farm next door to Tanglewood, but I’m not sure that makes me an expert in animal midwifery.
‘Let’s just hope she doesn’t foal too soon,’ Lawrie grumbles. ‘She’s not really strong enough yet and if we need veterinary help this whole kidnap thing could backfire on us, big style.’
‘It won’t,’ I say. ‘Don’t be so defeatist!’
Lawrie laughs, but there is no warmth, no humour in the sound of it.
‘When are you going to learn, Coco?’ he says with a sigh. ‘Wake up, will you, and open your eyes. Not everything in life has a happy ending. Not everything that’s broken can be fixed. What if we’ve made everything worse for Caramel and the mare? If they’re found now they either go back to Seddon, or … they have no future at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘What happens to ponies that can’t be ridden, ponies that nobody wants? C’mon. You know all the answers, don’t you?’
I shake my head, a feeling of dread inside me.
‘They go to the knacker,’ Lawries says flatly. ‘They’re put to sleep. Some of them even end up as dog food, OK? Or cheap burgers. Is that what you want for your precious Caramel?’
‘No!’ I whisper. ‘No, of course not!’
I bite my lip until I can taste blood.
16
We stay up at Jasmine Cottage until past seven. We prop open the creaky back door of the cottage, allowing the ponies access to what was once a stone-floored kitchen. A couple of candle lanterns hang from the ceiling, giving out a thin, yellow light; an armchair with the springs and stuffing hanging out of it sits forlornly beside a rusted iron fireplace. If this place was Lawrie’s summer hideout, he hasn’t done much to make the place comfortable.
The two of us bicker endlessly over everything from names for the mare to how to provide the ponies with food. Lawrie wants to ‘borrow’ grain from the riding school, but that feels dishonest to me and neither of us has spare cash to pay. Both ponies have bridles and leading reins and Caramel has a saddle, but that’s all we have – no grooming kit, no blankets to keep them warm and dry once the weather turns really cold.
My head is already working on ways to raise cash to cover the costs. It’s time somebody took charge and got organized around here. I take out a notepad and begin making a list.
But Lawrie is right – if the mare foals early, we are in trouble. Big trouble …
By Tuesday night, the list has filled most of the notebook. I have packed a big travel bag with bright cushions, blankets and a few strings of solar-powered fairy lights – Mum and Paddy bought loads of them for the wedding party in June, and a whole bundle got boxed up and put away in the shed. I chuck in last year’s fluffy boots, a pair of leggings and an old fisherman’s sweater of Dad’s I’ve had hidden at the back of my wardrobe ever since he left us.
It still smells of him, a little bit, and in a good way. There was a time when I used to snuggle up with it whenever I was sad because it made me think of Dad and fooled me into feeling he was still around, for a moment at least. These days I am much less easily fooled – it’s just a ratty old jumper he used to wear when he worked in the garden, and it will keep me warm up at the derelict cottage.
I have packed a rucksack with biscuits and chocolate and apples, and after school tomorrow I will make a flask of hot chocolate to bring.
It loo
ks a little like I am leaving home, but Mum and Paddy are too busy in the workshop to notice. Tanglewood is buzzing. Paddy’s stable-block chocolate factory is working flat out, the B&B’s breakfast room transformed into a packing room. At four o’clock the afternoon shift leaves and the evening shift arrives, and in the middle of it all Mum is making phone calls and signing for deliveries and making a tray of tea and biscuits for the workers. Paddy hasn’t taken a break since breakfast time, but he can’t stop grinning and his eyes shine like some modern-day Willie Wonka. This is his dream, his big chance to let The Chocolate Box grow into a well-known brand.
I am very happy for Mum and Paddy, but let’s face it, Honey, Skye, Summer, Cherry and I could probably paint ourselves blue, dress in grass skirts and party until dawn with assorted wild boy-band lads right now, and they wouldn’t even notice. Not that we’d want to, obviously. Or I wouldn’t, anyhow. I am just glad that in all the madness nobody asks awkward questions about why I am taking bags of blankets and cushions out of the house.
I hide my supplies in the gypsy caravan, then head back to the kitchen and whisk up a double batch of cupcakes. I fill four trays and slide them into the oven, then rinse the mixing bowl and start work on a big carrot cake. If the ponies need cash for food, I will get it for them, and experience has taught me that cakes are the surest way to do it. Sarah, Amy and Jayde have promised to make traybakes and rocky road and scones for tomorrow too.
When the cupcakes are cool, I slice off the tops, scoop a little sponge out and spoon in thick, sweet caramel to create a cupcake version of Paddy’s Coco Caramel truffles. I am pretty sure my secret ingredient will have the kids at school lining up for more, and surely it will bring luck to the real-life Caramel?
‘What are the cakes for?’ Skye queries, padding through to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. ‘Giant panda? Siberian tiger? Blue whale?’
‘Local pony sanctuary,’ I lie, as confidently as I can. ‘You probably won’t have heard of it. But if you want to lend a hand …’
‘Sure,’ Skye shrugs. ‘I’ll rope in Summer and Cherry too!’
Skye and Cherry help me to ice the cupcakes with buttercream and piped horseshoe motifs. Summer whips up cream-cheese frosting for the carrot cake, not taking even the tiniest taste for herself. She loves to bake and cook, especially lately – she just doesn’t eat any of what she makes, and she thinks we don’t notice.
‘How’s the day clinic thing going?’ I ask.
Summer blinks. ‘It’s OK, I suppose – I like the doctor running it. I just don’t know if I need to be there. I know I was a little bit stressed a while back, but I’m fine now, really.’
‘Eating normally?’ I dare to ask, and Skye shoots me a warning glance.
‘Well, not like before,’ Summer admits. ‘But normal for me now. The doctor says that something like this can’t be fixed overnight, but … I put on another kilo this week – that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Brilliant,’ I say, although to me Summer still looks almost as skinny and fragile as she did back in August. Still, at least she is eating with us these days, even if she has the kind of portions that would leave a mouse asking for more.
‘Oh – I know someone whose little sister goes to the dance school in Minehead,’ I say, thinking of Lawrie. ‘She’s eight. I don’t know her name, though …’
‘I probably know her,’ Summer shrugs. ‘I worked with a lot of the little ones at the summer dance classes. It’s the best age, really. Everything seems so easy when you’re eight …’
She looks wistful, thinking back to a time when Dad still lived here, when baking was all about scraping the mixing bowl clean and sampling the cakes while they were still warm from the oven. She wasn’t scared of anything back then.
I hate the way things change.
While the twins pack the cakes into tins for me, Cherry helps me to chop up an old sheet (a new sheet, actually, but Mum will never notice) and paint Exmoor Pony Sanctuary on it in giant rainbow-coloured letters.
‘Where’s it based, this Exmoor Pony Sanctuary?’ Skye asks, running a finger round the bowl that had held the buttercream icing and licking it before dumping the bowl into the sink. ‘Is it new?’
‘Quite new,’ I say vaguely, exchanging glances with Cherry. ‘It’s up on the moors somewhere, I think. They’re just a small set-up, but they do some amazing work, and they really need the money.’
‘Good luck to them,’ Summer says. ‘They should be careful, though. My French teacher Miss Craven said two horses were stolen from a new trekking centre near Hartshill at the weekend. Some people will do anything for money!’
‘A trekking centre?’ Cherry asks, puzzled. ‘I heard it was just a farm.’
‘No, the horses were valuable, apparently,’ Summer says. ‘The owner is really upset. Who would steal animals, seriously?’
‘No idea,’ I say, but my voice seems to wobble as I speak. ‘Awful.’
‘By the way,’ Skye chips in. ‘Miss Craven gave me some worksheets for Honey too. She asked if she was feeling any better – I didn’t know what to say. Something very dodgy is going on, I’m sure of it – no matter what Honey’s school report says.’
Dismay curdles in my stomach, cold and uncomfortable. What is going on?
‘She’s skipping school again, or French lessons at least,’ I say. ‘Did you confront her?’
‘She was on the bus as usual, so I just handed over the work,’ Skye shrugged. ‘I told her Miss Craven was asking after her. She laughed and said the teacher must be mixing her up with someone else. I don’t believe her, though. That school report was perfect, but does Honey strike you as a reformed character?’
‘No way,’ Cherry says. ‘Something fishy’s going on.’
‘Have the teachers said anything to you?’ I ask.
My stepsister shrugs. ‘Not exactly. But I did overhear a couple of them talking about Honey the other day. How she’d clearly given up, and how Dad and Charlotte don’t seem to be bothered.’
‘Not bothered?’ I say, outraged. ‘They’ve done everything possible to support Honey! And if her school report says everything is fine, then why should they be worried anyway?’
Summer frowns. ‘I don’t know. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely,’ Skye agrees. ‘I haven’t seen Honey in school for ages. Should we say something? Forget that pact we made when we were little – some things shouldn’t stay secret.’
Cherry shoots me a knowing look, and I avoid her gaze.
‘We can’t tell,’ I argue. ‘What would we say? After that report, it would just look like we were stirring up trouble.’
‘But if we’re right, and we don’t speak out, isn’t that worse?’ Summer worries.
‘Could we talk to Honey?’ Cherry suggests sensibly. ‘She’s not going to listen to me, obviously, but perhaps one of you could speak to her?’
The twins exchange anxious looks.
‘It’ll look like we don’t trust her,’ Summer says.
‘Like we’re calling her a liar,’ Skye echoes. ‘Could you do it, Coco? You’re the youngest, she won’t get so cross with you.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, chewing my lip. ‘If I get the chance …’
But digging up Honey’s secrets is not top of my to-do list right now; it would feel kind of hypocritical, when I am keeping so many of my own.
By midnight, I am alone in the kitchen. My sisters have gone to bed, the evening chocolate factory shift has long since finished and Mum and Paddy have headed upstairs with hot chocolates and bleary smiles. I am sitting at the kitchen table, a riot of felt pens all around me, drawing posters f
or the imaginary Exmoor Pony Sanctuary and eating one of the reject cupcakes, with Fred curled up at my feet, when the back door creaks open and Honey sneaks in. If she is startled to see me, she doesn’t show it.
‘Colouring in, little sister?’ she asks, kicking her shoes off beside the door. ‘Cute.’
‘Fund-raising,’ I correct her. ‘How about you? Late night with the long division? Or was Anthony explaining some fascinating chemical equations? You’re such a geek-girl these days, Honey. Not.’
‘Funny,’ she says. ‘I was studying – sort of – to begin with, at least. But … not with Anthony.’
I sigh, taking in the slightly smudged lipstick, the rumpled hair. ‘I don’t think I’ll ask what you were studying …’
‘Don’t,’ Honey advises. ‘And don’t tell on me, OK?’
This is the perfect moment to challenge Honey about her school attendance, ask whether she’s hiding something. Who knows, she might even tell me – but what then? I don’t want to betray Honey’s trust any more than I want Cherry to betray mine. Perhaps it’s better not to know.
‘I won’t give you away,’ I promise, although I think that someone probably needs to tell on Honey, for her own sake. And soon.
It just won’t be me.
17
Some days I feel so full of energy I think I could conquer the world. My sisters would say it’s sugar overload, but I disagree. I spring out of bed after just six hours’ sleep, feeling like anything is possible; I have a list, I have cakes, I have bucketloads of determination – what’s to stop me?
Mum and Paddy are sitting at the kitchen table eating porridge with raisins and cinnamon, and I help myself to a bowlful as I come in. My sisters are already there, talking about the bonfire party down in the village – Mum and Paddy are planning to work through the weekend, so we won’t be having our usual beach bonfire party.
Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel Page 8
