It doesn’t happen.
My mobile says it is 5.50 a.m. when I finally crash out on the little wooden bunk in the caravan. Roughly three hours later I am woken by the sound of a vehicle crunching across the gravel drive and the klaxon roar of its horn ripping through the quiet morning.
I stick my head out of the caravan door. A flatbed truck is parked by the house and a couple of workmen are unloading a whole heap of metal poles, acres of crimson canvas and about a hundred miles of coiled rope.
I groan. It’s Paddy’s Indian marquee, arriving too early, too loudly.
I stumble outside and leg it up to the house to talk to the workmen and try to persuade them to carry everything down through the trees to the open grass. By the time I manage that, Paddy and Sheddie have appeared, bleary-eyed and yawning, with Mum, Charlotte and assorted sisters crowding in behind. Everyone grabs a bit of the marquee and we trek down to the bottom of the garden, and one of the workmen gives Paddy a sheet of paper, which is supposed to be the instructions for how to put the wretched thing up. Paddy is still looking slightly stunned and turning the paper upside down to see if it makes more sense that way when we hear the flatbed truck driving away, but Sheddie says that a marquee is not so very different from a yurt, and takes charge of everything.
It is amazing what you can achieve on three hours’ sleep, seriously. We slog away for hours putting the frame together, and then reinforcements arrive in the form of Shay, Lawrie and Alfie, and the work goes faster after that. When a couple of vans draw up on the gravel beside the house shortly afterwards, we speculate that it could be more helpers, but actually it turns out to be the TV crew.
‘Seriously?’ Summer questions. ‘They want to film us slogging our guts out? Really?’
‘Looks like,’ I say. ‘I suppose they want to film the run-up to the festival, the preparations.’
‘Don’t mind us,’ Nikki, the clipboard woman, says breezily, as the crew set up their equipment, positioning reflectors and taking sound readings, buzzing around us like flies. ‘Pretend we’re not here – just act naturally!’
How is anyone supposed to act naturally with that lot breathing down their necks? For the rest of the day, we have to put up with looming cameras and mics that hover above us as we chat, but still, the Indian marquee is taking shape and I have almost forgotten that I am blanking Sheddie. Almost, but not quite.
He isn’t what I expected. He is quiet and gentle and hard-working, and I can see right away he has Paddy’s respect. Mum, Charlotte, Maisie and Isla bring down a picnic feast at lunchtime and we stop to eat and drink. I notice how he looks at Mum and I see the way she glows when she is with him, and I begin to understand that the moving-house thing has nothing at all to do with the bathtub flood and everything to do with how they feel about each other. I see how easy and comfortable my little sisters are with him too – they trust him instinctively. I only wish I could.
‘He seems OK,’ Cherry says as we eat our sandwiches, shaded from the sun by the half-constructed marquee. ‘Sheddie, I mean.’
‘Don’t be fooled,’ I say.
‘By what?’ Cherry asks. ‘By the way he drove all the way to Somerset in the middle of the night to find you? By the way he gets everyone organized and works hard and keeps us all laughing? By the way he is with your mum and your sisters?’
I scowl, checking to make sure no cameras are lurking.
‘It’s not what I want,’ I argue. ‘Another disruption, another new start. Millford sounds like a dump. Living in a yurt? No thanks. We had a perfectly good flat.’
‘It didn’t sound that good,’ Cherry comments.
‘OK, it was a rubbish flat, but you know what I mean. We don’t need him, Cherry. We’ve managed for two years on our own; it’s been fine.’
I look across at Mum and Sheddie, laughing together as the girls jump and swoop around them, chasing Fred, coaxing Humbug the lamb to join in the fun with apple slices and hugs. Maybe we don’t need Sheddie, but my mum and my sisters like having him around.
That’s where the cameras are, of course, panning out to capture the fun, to tell the story of life at Tanglewood, with bohemian friends pitching in to help organize the festival. If only they knew.
‘Was it hard for you to accept Charlotte?’ I ask. ‘I mean, didn’t you ever wish things could stay the way they were, just you and Paddy?’
‘I wanted a family,’ she says simply. ‘I wanted it so badly that sometimes I thought I’d just wished it into being, but it’s never been perfect, Cookie. The feud with Honey was the last thing I wanted.’
We look across to where Honey is now holding court for the cameras, the centre of attention, the centre of everything. She sees us watching and waves, picks up a couple of sandwiches and makes her way over. Thankfully, the cameras don’t follow.
‘I think the feud is over,’ I tell Cherry. ‘You gave us such a scare. Last night changed everything.’
‘I hope so,’ Cherry says. ‘That’s it, though, Cookie, you can change things in a second if you really want to. It’s not that difficult. You just have to decide to stop hating, take a chance.’
Maybe.
‘Hey!’ Honey says. ‘Your Sheddie bloke is actually quite cool, isn’t he?’
‘He’s not “my” Sheddie,’ I correct her.
Honey shrugs. ‘Whatever. I’m just saying. I was telling him what happened last night, how the cliff steps are treacherous when they’re wet. And Sheddie said that tomorrow he’ll have a go at building another handrail, try to even up the steps, make them less dangerous. Because seriously, guys, last night could have turned out very differently. If you hadn’t held on …’
‘No, if you hadn’t, Honey,’ Cherry says. ‘If you hadn’t climbed up to rescue me, Cookie – sheesh. Thank you … thank you, both. I don’t know if I actually said it last night.’
‘Only about a million times,’ Honey says. ‘Don’t worry, it was no biggie.’
I look across at Sheddie, wonder if he’d like a hand with the work on the steps tomorrow. Maybe I’ll ask.
‘How long did it take you to get used to Paddy being your stepdad?’ I ask Honey, and she laughs out loud.
‘How long?’ she echoes. ‘Cookie, you do not want to know. I am so, so stubborn. I never like to admit I’m wrong. Well, you know that, Cherry, obviously. But we’re OK now, right?’
‘Sure,’ Cherry says, her cheeks pink with happiness. ‘We’re good!’
‘Give him a chance, Cookie,’ Honey says. ‘Don’t be like I was. What have you got to lose?’
I’ve lost an awful lot already, as it goes, but I have gained much more, and I have no intention of letting go of my new half-sisters. I have a feeling we will be in each other’s lives for a long time.
We work all afternoon until the marquee is up, looking truly awesome with its tented twin-peaked roof and tasselled trimming and the brightly patterned paisley lining that is hung inside the crimson walls. I hammer in a final tent peg and look up to see Sheddie next to me.
‘Nice work, mate,’ he says.
‘Cheers. Um … I was wondering – if you need a hand with the cliff steps tomorrow – well, I’d like to help. But no worries if not.’
Sheddie grins. ‘Nice one, kid,’ he says. ‘I’d appreciate it. Seriously.’
He holds out a hand, tanned and sinewy with a Celtic knot pattern tattooed round the wrist. I reach my hand out too, and we shake, just briefly, and it feels like an understanding, the start of something.
I want to hate Sheddie, I really do, but somehow I just can’t.
The next morning we all sleep late. I am woken by Summer knocking on the door of the gypsy caravan, a bundle of letters in her hand.
‘I’ve just come back from walking Fred and I bumped into the postman – he’s amazing at getting letters to places, even when the addresses are a bit wrong!’ she tells me with a grin. ‘There’s a whole pile of stuff for the business, obviously, for Mum and Paddy – and there’s one for me. Which is weir
d, because I never get post – and it’s sort of official-looking too. But, anyway, there’s one for you as well, Cookie. Here y’go. I hope it’s good news!’
‘I hope yours is too.’
I watch Summer walk away, the letters in her hand, the dog at her heels. I watch her walk gracefully beneath the trees and up to the house, and once she is out of sight I open my letter.
JAKE COOKE
THE CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL PLACE
KITNOR
DEAR JAKE COOKE,
I WAS VERY CONCERNED TO RECEIVE YOUR RECENT LETTER, AND OF COURSE THE MONEY ENCLOSED. I KNOW YOU WERE UPSET BY THE ACCIDENT, AND I AN SORRY I TOOK MY TEMPER OUT ON YOU. I HAVE A SHORT FUSE, COOKIE, BUT I DIDN’T MEAN TO FRIGHTEN YOU. I KNOW THAT THE FLOOD WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. TO BE HONEST, I BLAMED MYSELF FOR NOT GETTING THAT WASHING MACHINE REPAIRED, FOR PUSHING YOUR MOTHER TO WORK TOO MANY SHIFTS. I DIDN’T REALLY THINK ABOUT WHO WAS LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR SISTERS. I WAS SELFISH, AND I FEEL VERY BAD ABOUT THAT NOW.
THERE WAS NEVER ANY SUGGESTION THAT YOUR MUM WOULD LOSE HER JOB, COOKIE, NOR YOU EITHER. AND THERE WAS NEVER EVER ANY CHANCE THAT YOU WOULD BE PUT OUT ON THE STREETS! AS I WRITE, THE CEILING IS BEING REPLASTERED. THE WORKERS HAVE SUGGESTED A FEW EXTRA REPAIRS THEY CAN DO AT THE SAME TIME, SO ACTUALLY THINGS ARE WORKING OUT VERY WELL FOR ME. THE INSURANCE WILL PAY FOR IT ALL, OBVIOUSLY, SO THERE WAS NO NEED TO SEND ME MONEY.
IF YOUR MUM STILL WANTED HER JOB IT WOULD BE HERS, BUT SHE IS LEAVING BOTH THE JOB AND THE FLAT. I AM SORRY TO LOSE HER – IT WILL BE VERY HARD TO FIND SUCH A GOOD TENANT AND HARD WORKER. I WILL MISS YOU ALL.
YOUR MUM TOLD ME SHE’D WORKED OUT WHERE YOU’D GONE. I HOPE SHE FOUND YOU, AND THAT YOU ARE STILL THERE, BECAUSE I DIDN’T GET THE CHANCE TO RETURN YOUR MUM’S DEPOSIT ON THE FLAT. THE FLAT WAS IN A MUCH BETTER STATE THAN WHEN YOU ALL MOVED IN, SO RETURNING THE DEPOSIT IS THE LEAST I CAN DO. IT’S £500. I HOPE THE CHEQUE COMES IN USEFUL FOR YOU IN YOUR NEW HOME.
DO CALL IN IF YOU ARE EVER IN CHINATOWN, AND MAY GOOD FORTUNE FOLLOW YOU ALL.
YOUR GOOD FRIEND,
DESHI ZHAO
23
I hand the cheque to Mum at breakfast, all of us squashed round the big kitchen table at Tanglewood. The cheque means all kinds of things: friendship, forgiveness, fairness, a future. It’s quite something. We are toasting Mr Zhao with orange juice when Summer comes in, her eyes starred with tears.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ Charlotte asks, jumping up. ‘Has something happened?’
Summer takes a deep breath and holds out a sheet of headed notepaper, her hand shaking. Skye takes it, her eyes widening. ‘Oh wow!’ she says.
It turns out that Summer’s letter is quite something too. Her dance teacher has recommended her for a teaching scholarship at the boarding ballet school she once auditioned at. The principal has written to offer her a place, starting in September.
‘I didn’t even know they did teaching scholarships,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Can you imagine? They’ll train me to teach, not to perform, so no pressure. Sylvie Rochelle says that I have a huge talent and a rare gift for inspiring others, that she wants me to be part of the team.’
There is so much hugging then that breakfast is forgotten, and Paddy uncorks a bottle of fizzy wine and tops up everyone’s orange juice with a little dash of that, and Maisie and Isla cling on to Summer and ask if she’ll teach them to dance. She promises she will.
Mum and Sheddie watch it all with interest; they don’t know why this means so much to Summer, how close she came to achieving her dream, how cruelly she lost it. Can they guess, looking at the slender arms thrown tightly round her twin, how fragile she has been, how strong she is inside to have come through it? Maybe.
‘What’s the story with the sad-eyed girl?’ Sheddie asks later, as we work together on the cliff steps. ‘Summer, right?’
‘Eating disorder,’ I say quietly, hammering in one of the wooden stakes we cut earlier to make the new handrails. ‘She’s lots better now, apparently, but a couple of years ago she was really ill. She wanted to be a dancer, and now it looks like she’ll be a teacher instead, but I think that’s OK. I think she’s happy.’
‘I think so too,’ Sheddie says. ‘Doing something you love – finding your happy thing – is worth a whole lot, even if it doesn’t make you rich and famous. For your mum, it’s yoga and reflexology; she’ll get to do all that stuff again when we live in Millford. Make a little business of it, maybe.’
‘Huh.’ I move away from Sheddie, further up the steps, start hammering in a new upright. I do not want to talk about Millford. I am not ready to cave in, be best mates with Sheddie, buy into the future he wants to map out for us. I know I don’t have a choice about Millford, not any more, but I need to take things slowly, get my head round it.
Earlier on we pressed fine chicken wire so tightly round the ragged steps that it made our fingers bleed, but at least now when it rains again, it will offer some grip. Then we spent hours in the scrubby woodland that edges the beach, cutting armfuls of strong branches from the hazel trees that grow wild there. Now, with all the uprights in, Sheddie gets me to hold the long, twisty branches on top while he nails them into position to create new handrails that are beautiful as well as sturdy.
When the steps are finished, every muscle in my body aches, but I’m proud of what we’ve done. While I dump the offcuts next to the half-built after-party bonfire and gather up the tools, Sheddie adds the last touch: solar-powered fairy lights threaded all along the handrails. Now the steps will be safer at night too.
It looks amazing.
We walk together back up to the house, past the Indian marquee now filled with tables and chairs borrowed from one of the local village halls, bright with red chequered tablecloths and jam-jar vases filled with garden flowers, under treetops heavy with yet more fairy lights, and past the brightly painted stage now adorned with banners and bunting. Trestle tables are positioned round the edges of the garden, ready to be transformed in the morning into the various stalls. It looks like everyone has been busy today.
‘D’you ever think about what your happy thing might be, Cookie?’ Sheddie asks as we put the tools away in the stable storeroom. ‘Any ideas?’
I think that being with my sisters, both the big ones and the little ones, makes me happy. I think that the countryside and the ocean and the dark sky at night studded with stars makes me happy too, and those are things I never expected. I even think that working hard to make something, do something, makes me feel good, like building the stage and fixing the cliff steps.
I’m not sure those are the kind of things Sheddie means, though.
‘Not a clue,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I’ve never really thought about it before. What about you, Sheddie? What’s your happy thing?’
He looks at me for a moment, a little wary. ‘You want the truth?’ he asks. ‘It’s your mum, Cookie. Simple as that.’
Back at the caravan, I check my emails one last time; nothing from Dad. It’s not a surprise, but still, it makes me sad. There are so many things we could have said, could have done. I tried to reach out, build a bridge, but Dad blew it right out from under my feet. There’s nothing left to salvage.
Even so, I find myself typing one last email.
Dear Dad,
I’d like to say it was cool to Skype you the other day, but both of us know that wouldn’t be the truth. I guess I’d built you up in my mind to be some kind of hero figure, and when you turned out to be more of a villain, it kind of did my head in.
You will be glad to know that I didn’t need your help or your money in the end – everything has turned out a lot better than I imagined it would and no cash for emergency repairs was needed. Which is just as well, as there’s no way on earth you’d have coughed up. That’s OK – you keep your money. I hope it keeps you warm at night.
So, yeah, I’ve missed you all these years without even being aware of it, and in the end it turns out I was better off without you – who knew? I have the most amazing mum e
ver. It’s sad that you can’t see that, but hey, your loss. I have two brilliant little half-sisters and now a bunch of new ones too, and a whole lot of other people who look like being fairly awesome. I’ve had the best ever time at Tanglewood and I’ve learnt a lot – and the biggest lesson of all has been that running away doesn’t solve your problems, it only adds to them. The way to sort things out is to get the facts, ask for help, work with others to fix things up.
Thing is, Dad, you seem to be pretty good at the running-away thing yourself. You had the perfect set-up at Tanglewood. A beautiful house, a cool wife, four cute daughters who loved you – and you threw it all away like so much rubbish, just like you threw my mum away, and me. It’s like you’re looking for some mythical perfect life with a fast car and champagne for breakfast every day.
Well, I hope you find it, Dad, and I hope it makes you happy. I hope you don’t wake up one day all lost and lonely and suss that happiness is not about how much you own but about the people you have in your life and the love that binds you all together. The stuff that makes you rich – well, it’s got nothing to do with money.
Life is an adventure, and mine hasn’t always been easy – but still, I wouldn’t change a bit of it. I wish you luck, Dad, and happiness. I won’t be emailing again.
Jake Cooke
24
Saturday dawns bright and clear, and we’re up before seven, putting the finishing touches in place. Honey drapes the trestle tables with sari fabric, and sets out a series of hand-painted signs for the stalls and sideshows.
Fortune Cookie Page 13
