Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘I’ve been invited by some friends,’ Honey says sweetly. ‘If I’m allowed to go, that is? It’s the girls from my lunchtime history club. We were going to look at the origins of Guy Fawkes night, have some food …’

  Mum and Paddy exchange glances. ‘Don’t forget you’re still grounded, Honey,’ Mum points out. ‘I know this is a study group, but …’

  ‘Maybe we can bend the rules, just this once,’ Paddy says. ‘I think you should go, Honey. It sounds quite educational.’

  It sounds quite unlikely to me, but who am I to say?

  ‘Thank you, Paddy,’ Honey says through gritted teeth.

  ‘We’re going to the village bonfire too,’ Skye chips in. ‘Want to tag along, Coco?’

  That stings. Why am I never included properly? Why am I the tag-along, the one nobody ever takes seriously?

  ‘I’m already going out,’ I say coldly. ‘With Jayde and Amy and Sarah. We are having an important fund-raising meeting for the pony sanctuary first, and planning a protest, because fireworks are actually quite distressing for pets, and there’s really no need to have rockets and the ones that make those shrieking noises …’

  ‘Saint Coco,’ Honey says. ‘Are you going to ban fun too?’

  I stick my tongue out at my big sister. I am about to tell her that Saturday is Sarah’s birthday and that we are all going to the big firework display in Minehead and then on to the funfair, when there is a loud knock on the door. Paddy answers; there are two policemen on the doorstep.

  I drop my spoon, splattering porridge all over my school trousers.

  ‘Just a courtesy call, sir,’ one of the officers says. ‘We’re asking locals to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters, especially where there are horses close by. We’re investigating the theft of two ponies at the weekend, and it’s possible there may be more incidents if the thieves are still in the area. We’ll catch them, it’s just a matter of time, but until we do …’

  My face is so warm I am pretty sure you could toast a bagel on it, but Cherry is the only one looking at me. Her eyes are wide, terrified, as if she expects the policemen to snap handcuffs on me and bundle me into a nearby prison cell. I suppose it could happen.

  ‘We’ll let you know if we see or hear of anything unusual,’ Paddy says. ‘It’s actually a very friendly community, so if anything happens we’ll probably hear of it. We don’t have horses ourselves, though – just ducks, a dog and a very badly behaved sheep …’

  As he trails away into silence, Humbug the sheep trots in from outside and helps herself to a reject scone from last night that has found its way into Fred’s feeding dish. The policemen laugh and ask us all to be vigilant, and then they’re gone.

  The five of us walk down to the village bus stop together, my sisters helping to carry the bags and tins of cupcakes and traybakes. My conquer-the-world feeling has evaporated, replaced by a heavy, guilty heart. It’s not like I have actually done anything wrong, of course; not morally wrong. I am pretty sure any judge in the land would understand that.

  Maybe.

  ‘Will you visit me in prison?’ I ask Cherry in a whisper.

  ‘You betcha,’ she says.

  ‘Another cake sale?’ Mr Wolfe asks at break, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s the fourth one since September, Coco. First it was to save the tiger, then the elephant, then the giant panda … now you’re raising cash for some local pony sanctuary? The dinner ladies have been complaining that nobody buys puddings on the days you sell cakes, and the food science department is grumbling about healthy eating. It’s wonderful that you try so hard to help, but I would make this one the last cake sale for now if I were you. Mrs Gregg is not happy.’

  Mrs Gregg is the head teacher, and she is actually never happy. As far as I can see, this has nothing to do with cakes and more to do with the stresses of running a large middle school, but I don’t say this. Cakes make people happy, not unhappy – it’s a well-known fact. As for healthy eating, surely a home-made caramel cupcake is better than the crisps, fizzy pop and chocolate bars on sale in the canteen vending machines? And the reason people don’t buy school puddings is because they are always pure stodge, like treacle tart or bread-and-butter pudding or rhubarb pie, and come with generous helpings of lukewarm, lumpy custard. If I were the food science department, I would focus my attentions on the dinner ladies, seriously.

  I am lucky that Mr Wolfe is so used to my animal charity fund-raising that he doesn’t question the imaginary pony sanctuary, though.

  ‘I probably won’t be doing too many more sales before Christmas,’ I explain, waving politely at Lawrie who is glaring at me from across the lobby. ‘It’s just that there are so many endangered species out there – they need our help. And this time I wanted to raise money for a new pony sanctuary. It’s important, Sir, life and death really …’

  I look across the busy cake-sale queue for Lawrie, but he has vanished, taking his own personal raincloud with him. You’d think he would at least support the cause. I wrap a couple of the prettiest caramel cupcakes in foil to give to him later – why should his little sister miss out just because Lawrie is too sour and stingy to cough up his cash?

  ‘Can I interest you in a cupcake, Sir?’ I ask Mr Wolfe. ‘Caramel Surprise. You won’t regret it!’

  ‘I probably will,’ he sighs. ‘I’ll take one, though – and one for Mrs Gregg. It might sweeten her up, though I think she means it about the cake-sale ban, Coco. Time to give other kids and other charities a chance. OK?’

  This seems a bit mean. I can’t remember any other student fund-raising attempts, except for the time Summer and Skye did a sponsored three-legged day for Children in Need two years ago. You would think Mrs Gregg would be happy to have caring, charitable pupils raising funds and awareness in her school, but no, clearly not.

  ‘OK,’ I agree, my shoulders slumping. ‘I guess. I don’t suppose you can donate a horse blanket or a bale of hay to the sanctuary, can you? Or an unwanted saddle or curry comb?’

  ‘Funnily enough, no,’ Mr Wolfe says, paying for his cupcakes. ‘Good luck, Coco.’

  Sarah and I have almost sold out by the time the weaselly Year Six boy sidles up, offering five pence for a slightly lopsided piece of rocky road.

  ‘No discounts,’ Sarah tells him firmly. ‘It’s for charity.’

  He prods it a few times until it cracks right down the middle. ‘You’ll have to sell it to me now,’ he says. ‘I’ve touched it. And besides, it’s broken. You should give it to me for free.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Sarah says. ‘You broke it, now you’d better pay for it. Full price.’

  ‘Can’t,’ the kid says, smirking. ‘No money.’

  This is the boy Lawrie found trying to steal crispy cakes from a Year Five girl, though I can’t remember his name. His sticky little hand pushes down on the last remaining scone, reducing it to a mess of crumbs and jam. I start to get angry.

  ‘This is a charity sale,’ I point out. ‘Where’s your compassion?’

  ‘Lost it,’ the kid quips. ‘Careless, me …’

  ‘Just push off,’ Sarah says crossly. ‘Loser!’

  I pick up the broken rocky road and hold it out to the Year Six boy. ‘Want it?’ I offer. ‘You can have it, I guess. Why not?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Sarah frowns. ‘He doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘Oh, but he does,’ I say. ‘He really, really does. What’s your name, anyhow?’

  The boy looks uncertain. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I don’t really want your stupid cake. It was just a joke.’

  ‘Your name?’ I repeat, grabbing hold of his sleeve so he can’t run away. ‘Don’t be shy, you c
an tell me.’

  ‘Darren,’ he mutters. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘You were the one who hoisted my panda hat up the school flagpole, weren’t you?’ I ask him. ‘And the one who tried to steal a tin of crispy cakes from a Year Five kid, until Lawrie Marshall stopped you. I guess you deserve that cake because you’re so big and so brave, right?’

  I wave the rocky road slice in front of his nose, and he jerks his head away.

  ‘Don’t you want it any more?’ I tease. ‘You seemed so sure a minute ago. And it’s not like we can sell it, not now you’ve put your sticky paws all over it.’

  ‘Get off!’ he snarls, and as he opens his mouth I shove a corner of cake in. It breaks and leaves a smear of chocolate across his face. He squirms away from me but I hang on to his sleeve, unshakeable. I may be smaller than this boy by a couple of inches, but I am stronger than I look.

  ‘Not hungry?’ I persist. ‘Or have you changed your mind? Would you rather have a scone?’

  ‘Gerroff me!’ he yells. ‘You’ve got the wrong person, OK? It was a misunderstanding. She offered me a crispy cake, and that Lawrie kid got the wrong idea. Mnnnnfff!’

  I score a direct hit with the mashed-up scone. A shower of crumbs falls to the floor and Darren wipes his face, leaving a trail of strawberry jam across one cheek.

  ‘Leave the little kids alone from now on,’ I tell him. ‘Nobody likes a bully. OK?’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘Quick,’ Sarah hisses. ‘It’s Wolfie!’

  Mr Wolfe cuts his way through the crowd just as Darren ducks free at last, wriggling out of his blazer completely and leaving me holding the sleeve.

  ‘Everything all right here?’ the history teacher asks.

  ‘Fine,’ Darren splutters through a mouthful of cake. ‘Mnnnfff. Perfect, Sir.’

  ‘Coco?’ Mr Wolfe presses. ‘Darren not bothering you, is he?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say sweetly, handing back the crumb-speckled blazer. ‘Not at all.’

  18

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Lawrie demands when I bring my bike to a wobbling halt beside the hazel trees at the moor’s edge. ‘You’re taking all those bags up to the cottage? Seriously?’

  I roll my eyes and refuse to answer.

  ‘Are you moving in?’ he goes on. ‘Got your favourite knick-knacks and fluffy floor rugs? Did you pack a kitchen sink and a mattress, just in case? And more to the point, are you expecting me to help you carry all that junk?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him, wheeling my bicycle through the trees. ‘Hoping, yes; expecting, no …’

  ‘I worry about you,’ Lawrie growls. ‘We are in the middle of a very serious situation, and you spend your time carting great bags of stuff around and baking cupcakes for some imaginary pony sanctuary.’

  I grit my teeth and fish out the cake-sale cash from my shoulder bag, stuffing it into Lawrie’s pocket. ‘Thirty-seven pounds, almost,’ I tell him. ‘The caramel cupcakes were a big hit. Enough to buy feed for the ponies for a week or two, anyway. Unless you already found the money some place else …’

  ‘No,’ Lawrie admits. ‘Well, OK. That’s good then. Thank you.’

  ‘Hurt to say that, didn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘A bit,’ he grins, and I think again that Lawrie could be a whole lot nicer to be around if he just smiled more.

  He takes the bicycle handlebars from me and begins pushing slowly uphill. ‘The easiest way to carry it is to leave it all strapped to the bike,’ he says. ‘I did it yesterday, bringing up more hay from the stables after work.’

  ‘All I’m doing is trying to help too, you know,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ Lawrie admits. ‘I suppose we just go about things differently. I’ve been trying to make the place a bit more liveable as well. And the money will be useful. I’m just worried about those ponies, that’s all.’

  ‘You and me both,’ I tell him. ‘The police came to our house this morning, warning us that horse thieves were in the area – I swear, I nearly fainted with terror. I didn’t think they would actually make a big thing of it – I mean, it’s not exactly a murder or a gang war, is it? I suppose that’s what happens when you live in a place where nothing ever happens.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lawrie says. ‘Seddon was always going to make a fuss, that’s just the kind of bloke he is. You don’t make an enemy of a thug like him.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ I say briskly. ‘And I don’t care. Besides, I’ve been thinking about the ponies, and I reckon I’ve come up with a plan …’

  I tell Lawrie my ideas as we hike upstream together in the fading light, the wind ruffling our hair and pinching our cheeks raw. With Caramel, the plan is simple; I want to keep her. If I really work on Mum and Paddy – and if the chocolate order comes good and the cash starts rolling in – there’s a chance it could happen. I would just have to wait a while, then set up a fake ad for an easy-going bay pony. I could say I’d seen it on the riding school noticeboard – who would ever know? If the price was right, Mum might just go for it.

  ‘Caramel’s not exactly easy-going, though, is she?’ Lawrie points out. ‘And your mum was dead against you buying her, so …’

  ‘That’s the point,’ I explain. ‘She won’t know it’s her – she’s never actually met Caramel, only heard about her. We’ll make up a new name – I was thinking maybe “Cupcake”.’

  ‘No surprises there,’ Lawrie says.

  ‘Then we invent a new history for her … reluctant sale, child’s pony, now outgrown … needs loving home. Simple but brilliant!’

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten something,’ he says. ‘Half of Somerset is looking for Caramel. You can’t just move her into Tanglewood – people will put two and two together!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘Sometimes, the best place to hide something is in full view, right under everyone’s noses. It’s all about confidence. Nobody’s going to expect her to turn up just down the road, and it’s not as if Seddon knows my family or anything. The police were warning us to look out for thieves, not searching for missing horses. If we give Caramel a new identity, it’ll stick, I’m sure of it!’

  ‘You’re going to ask your mum to pay money for her?’ Lawrie checks.

  ‘Yes, it has to be plausible. If I was suggesting we take in a pony for free, that would be way more suspicious!’

  ‘So … how do we arrange the actual sale?’ he wants to know. ‘Your mum will want to talk to Caramel’s “old owners”. She won’t just give you the cash and wait for you to come home with a horse, will she? She’ll want to meet the owners, do it properly.’

  I adjust my rucksack, stopping for a moment to catch my breath. ‘That’s where you can help,’ I tell him. ‘Mum doesn’t know you, or your family. I thought maybe you could get your mum or dad to pretend to be Caramel’s owners?’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ Lawrie snaps. ‘Forget it!’

  We walk on in silence for a few moments, following the stream, and even in the dusk I can see Lawrie’s lips are tight, his knuckles white on the bicycle handlebars. I know better than to argue – something has upset him, something I’ve said. Talking to him is like walking through a minefield – put the slightest foot wrong and everything blows up in your face.

  ‘Dad left us,’ he says into the silence eventually. ‘Couple of years ago. We haven’t heard from him since – no phone calls, no maintenance, nothing. So no, I can’t ask him to help out with your little scheme, Coco. And my mum can’t help either, OK? She has enough problems of her own right now.’

  ‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There is no sound except for our footfalls through the heather, the
whirr of dynamo lights on my bike in the falling light.

  ‘My dad left too,’ I whisper. ‘Sucks, right?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Mine lives in Australia now,’ I explain. ‘Like London wasn’t far enough – he had to go and move to the other side of the world. Makes you feel really wanted, y’know? Mum got married again in June, though, and I have a new stepdad now. Paddy – he’s nice.’

  I am surprised at how easy it is to say all this out loud – talking about Dad has always been off-limits for me, except with my sisters. Maybe it’s the darkness closing around us, the cold wind, the fact that Lawrie’s face is hidden beneath a fall of dark wavy hair, his eyes facing forward as he pushes the overloaded bike. Maybe it’s because I think, crazy though it may seem, that the prickliest boy in the school might just understand.

  Or not.

  ‘Look, Coco, I can’t talk about this,’ he mutters. ‘Not right now. I’m glad things are getting better for you, but – sheesh – what’s in all these bags? Bricks?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘That’s right. Thought we could rebuild the tumbledown walls and maybe install a ski-lift at the same time, make it easier to get up and down …’

  ‘Ha,’ he says. ‘I knew you’d get fed up with it.’

  ‘Did I complain?’ I argue. ‘I did not. But we both know this hiding place is only temporary – we need to move the ponies to safety. If we can’t get any adults to pretend to be selling Caramel … OK, change of plan; you can pretend to be the son of the owners. Mum’s never met you, so it could work.’

  ‘She’ll never take any notice of a kid!’

  ‘Got a better idea?’

  He sighs. ‘OK. Supposing – just supposing – things work out with Caramel. What about the dapple-grey?’

  ‘That’s where it gets clever. We use the money from the “sale” of Caramel to hire a horsebox and driver and get her taken out of Somerset – to a real pony sanctuary. I’ve googled one in Wiltshire that takes in unwanted ponies and then rehomes them – they homecheck the new owners to be certain they’re OK. Our grey could have her foal safely and then both she and the baby would have a fresh start, a new life. We’ll have to invent a convincing backstory for her – perhaps say her owner died suddenly …’