by E. R. Murray
I try to protest, but before I know what’s happening, the cider is rushing back up my throat and out of my mouth. Projectile vomit spurts towards Jack and Maddy pulls him out of the way, into her arms, just in time.
“Urgh! Disgusting! Everyone, Liv’s chucking up.”
I heave and heave, the stream of acidic liquid seemingly never-ending, and I make these embarrassing retching noises that sound like a goat being strangled. Zadie, Emma, Chris and some other lad that’s joined us; they all come to watch. Chris pats my back.
“Get it out, lass,” he says, making me throw up once more, much to everyone’s amusement.
When I stop retching, everyone claps and cheers, then they return to their own drinking. I try to get to my feet, but it’s like my legs are disconnected from the rest of me. Thankfully, Maddy leans in and hooks my arm.
“I saw Jack first, so he’s out of bounds. NFDN, remember?” she hisses in my ear, then adds loudly to the group, “Jack, darling, get the other side.”
Jack does as Maddy asks, and the two of them walk me around the cemetery several times until I’m feeling better. Emma brings me some water, and then we do one last lap of the leafy grounds. I could easily walk without help by now, but Maddy seems intent on making a good impression by playing mother hen. Something tells me it’s not for my benefit.
The sky is getting dark and it’s time to leave. Hatty will be worried if I’m much later, especially seeing as I didn’t send her a text. But how do you leave when there’s a big gang of you and you’ve a lonely night ahead? Lorna is getting off with Macca, and I fidget awkwardly, trying not to watch, waiting for a break in the conversation of the others. As soon as there’s a breather, I jump in.
“Right, I’m off,” I say, hoping Jack will come too.
“Bye,” says Maddy, her voice cold and unfriendly.
The other girls pick up on it straight away.
“Yeah, see ya,” they say in unison.
As I start walking away, Jack shouts after me.
“Want me to walk you home?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say.
“You sure?”
“She’ll be fine,” says Maddy.
As I make my way home, the road sways and I realize I’m not as sober as I thought. It may be wobbly, but the ground feels like air. I just spent my evening talking to Jack Whitman! When I get in, there’s a crack of light showing under the living room door.
“I’m home,” I shout, and go straight up the stairs.
That’s the last I remember. Next thing I know, it’s morning, and I’m sweating in bed, fully dressed, with only my shoes missing.
Chapter Eleven
Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain
I stay in bed to avoid Hatty for as long as I can, in case she could tell I came home drunk. My head feels thick and sludgy, and my limbs aren’t quite connected to my brain. My stomach is so empty it groans, but I daren’t eat anything – huge waves of nausea keep flowing over me, and I feel like I’m going to chuck up at any minute. After a while, I brave some cornflakes.
“Morning, sleepy head,” says Hatty.
“Morning,” I say, hardly opening my mouth.
I’ve brushed my teeth three times already, and my breath still stinks. My tongue feels like a piece of sandpaper that’s been used to scrub a toilet.
“You OK?” asks Hatty, scrunching up her face.
“Yeah, just dreading The Visit.”
“I know. Me too,” she says. “Right, I’m off for a walk. Wanna come?”
“No, thanks,” I say, fighting the nausea. “I’m going to do some baking.”
“You got the stuff?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “How?”
“The cook at school.”
Hatty taps her forehead with a finger. “Smart thinking,” she says. “But not until I get back, you’re not.”
* * *
I wait for Harriet to return before braving the kitchen. Almost a week has passed since I set the kitchen on fire, and Harriet’s doing her best not to interfere, but she keeps making excuses to come into the kitchen.
I prop Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom on top of the toaster and prepare all the ingredients. The flapjack recipe promises to bring out rainbows in grey skies and, despite my great evening, I could do with some rainbows right now; I have a banging headache and I’m due at Sarah’s this afternoon, but I’m not sure whether she’ll be mad at me. Taking out the mixing bowl and wooden spoon, I already feel a little better. By the time I’m melting butter, sugar and honey together, inhaling the rich aromas, my heart feels lighter and I’m hardly thinking about Sarah at all. A twinge of guilt sneaks in as I add the porridge oats – I should at least have spoken to Sarah before I went off with Maddy – but it quickly disappears. The mixture, golden like the barley fields you see on documentaries, draws me in. No wonder Mam sounds so happy in her recipes. Baking really can make the skies blue again. By the time I add the colourful bits, I’m in a dream world. It’s like I really could be adding real pieces of rainbow.
It’s the old mnemonic that does it. Mam taught me it in primary school – Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain – to help me remember the colours of the rainbow. It’s the first concrete sign of a mam I recognize. The mnemonic earned me first prize in a school fundraising quiz. The “colours of the rainbow” was the tiebreaker question and I won a giant box of Belgian chocolates and a ten-pound book voucher. I used the voucher in the sales to get a book each for Mam and me. We read on the sofa, toes touching, chomping on the delicious chocolates for the whole weekend.
“Things weren’t always bad,” I say aloud, to make it more real. I drop sour cherries into the mixture from a height, watching the fragments glow for an instant as they catch the sun.
When it comes to mixing, I realize I’ve taken the dream world too far and haven’t been paying attention to the measurements. The mixture is thick and difficult to stir so I try blending an extra slab of butter before turning it out onto the greased baking tray and quickly shoving it in the cleaned-out oven. I set the alarm on my mobile for fifteen minutes and sit at the kitchen table, chin in hand.
Time drags and I start thinking about tomorrow’s visit to Ashgrove House. I try to keep my attention on baking, but I can’t stop my mind from wandering to those echoing corridors, the bright orange walls and fake flowers, the overpowering smell of air freshener. Hatty returns to the kitchen so I snatch up the cookbook and double-check the timings, then stuff it violently into my bag. I’m not ready to share it yet, and I wish she’d just let me get on with things in peace. Settling back in my chair, I wait, arms folded. As soon as Harriet opens her mouth to say something, I jump in before she can.
“Before you start, no I haven’t set anything on fire. All right?”
When Harriet doesn’t respond, I look up and realize she’s been crying. Her eyelids are swollen and her eyelashes look sticky. She glances at the mass of dirty pots and sighs.
“Just make sure you clean that mess up.”
I want to ask her what’s wrong, but the potential answers scare me. Instead, I say, “I will. I’m not totally useless.”
“I never said you were. And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I expected more lectures, perhaps some tantrums. A slanging match, at least.
“What are you making, anyway?” Harriet sniffs, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.
“Flapjacks. I thought I’d take some round to Sarah’s later.”
Harriet nods, a distant look in her eyes that reminds me of Mam. Panic flutters in my stomach. I’ve never seen my sister like this.
“There’s some for you, too. They’ll be ready in… five minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Harriet pours herself a glass of cold water. She downs it in one go, pours another, and joins me at the kitchen table. It’s months since we sat here together; we usually eat in our rooms or in front of the TV.
Last time, we’d been discussing what we’d do if Mam went into
residential care again. Visits to Alcoholics Anonymous and outreach support had failed and we knew what was coming. When the social worker started hinting, we weighed up our options: either I went into care or Harriet took a year out of uni. Harriet cried back then as well. I should be grateful, really, that she’s looking over my shoulder. At least she cares.
“So, what’s going on with all this cooking, then?” asks Harriet.
I shrug. I’m more interested in what’s wrong with her, but I don’t know how to ask. She’s in charge. Things feel different since she starting playing Mam, despite all the “sisters together” chats. I consider sharing the cookbook with her to see if it brings us closer again, but it’s nice to have something that’s just mine.
“I like it, that’s all.”
“Mam used to bake, you know.”
My mouth falls open. Hatty’s never mentioned this before and I can’t remember Mam baking. Ever.
“Mam doesn’t eat, never mind cook!”
“I’m serious!”
“What did she make?”
“Cakes, mostly. I used to love the smell. It was like…”
She sniffs at the air.
“Like mine?”
“Actually, yes.”
I smile to myself as I wipe the side down.
“Did you help her?”
“I was too young. She had a friend, Rosa, who used to come over and bake with her. There was talk of opening a café at one point.”
“What sort of café?”
“A cake café, I guess.”
The recipe book; it must have been for the café! It all falls into place. It’s not just a book of cakes and biscuits, it’s a book of Mam’s dreams.
“I was only a kid,” continues Harriet. “So I was more interested in my toys, but I would listen to them fooling around as they worked. When you came along, they used to sit you next to the counter in your high chair. You didn’t make a peep. It was like you were taking it all in. Maybe that’s why you’re a natural?”
I beam with pride. I know it’s sad, but I can’t help it. But then I think of what I missed out on and the smile disappears. Why couldn’t Dad have stuck around longer, so I’d have some nice memories too?
“So what happened?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I don’t know for definite… Rosa just stopped coming. Not long after that, we moved here. But it wasn’t always bad.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t say that! There are people much worse off than us. At least we’ve got each other, right?”
I pull a face, but really I’m surprised how comforting her words feel. As the warm smell of melting honey fills the kitchen, I close my eyes and try to imagine Mam and Dad here too.
“Hmm, that smells so good,” says Harriet, reaching over and giving me a gentle shove. “Better than last time, hey?”
Despite my embarrassment, I manage to keep my temper.
“I cleaned the oven while you were out.”
Harriet exaggerates wiping her brow in relief, then gives me this weird, intense stare.
“Listen, Liv, you’ll get outta here too, you know. Just hold in there. OK?”
I nod, confused. It’s Harriet that’s crying. Harriet that’s falling apart. But what does she mean by too? Is she leaving again? Has she finally given up on me?
“Hatty, are you all right?”
The words come out shaky and slow. Before Harriet can answer, the alarm on my phone sounds, making us both jump.
“Saved by the bell,” says Harriet, smiling sadly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just tired. Stuff’s getting on top of me.”
“Like me, you mean?”
“No, not you. Mam, late assignments… that stupid job interview. I’m missing my mates and trying to deal with stuff on my own. But forget it. Let’s try these flapjacks instead!”
As soon as she finishes speaking, Harriet’s hand shoots out and grabs a steaming biscuit. I copy and we giggle loudly as we shove hot chunks of flapjack into our mouths like pigs.
Chapter Twelve
Through the Ocean, Guiding a Calf
The sun is shining low and bright as I reach Sarah’s house. Armed with carefully wrapped flapjacks, I ring the doorbell several times in quick succession, my heart thumping. Even though Sarah’s mum says I can just walk in, I can’t bring myself to do it. Mam would go nuts if she found out I was walking straight into other people’s houses – it’d make “a show” of her.
“Hi Liv, come in! Sarah’s waiting in the living room,” says Mrs Butler, opening the door just enough to be visible.
Her greeting tumbles out clumsily, only half of her face smiling.
She suffered a stroke whilst giving birth to Sarah – that’s why Sarah’s an only child – and she hasn’t regained full use of her left side.
It was the stroke that made Mrs Butler agoraphobic, which means she’s too afraid to step outside her own front door. When it started, she was scared that people would laugh, and then it grew into this massive phobia. At first it seemed weird, but I’m used to it now. I often wonder what she’d do if there was a fire.
“Thanks, Mrs Butler.”
“I’ve told you, call me Fran!”
“OK, Mrs Butler.”
Being on first name terms would also make a show of Mam. Another big no-no. Another thing to worry about.
Sarah’s laid flat on her stomach, head resting on her hands, eyes glued to the TV.
On the screen, a huge blue whale makes its way through the ocean, guiding a calf. The calf is so graceful it seems weightless, even though it probably weighs a couple of tons. I flop on the floor next to Sarah.
“Hi,” I say a bit too loudly, my nerves getting the better of me.
“Isn’t it lovely? That something so b-big can be so gentle?” she says.
Her tone of voice is fine, but the stutter shows she’s upset.
I decide I’ll make it up to her – the flapjacks are a start.
“You’d expect it to kill the calf or something, being that massive,” I say.
Sarah turns around, eyes wide.
“Would you kill your baby if you were a blue whale? That’d be the ultimate betrayal.”
I know the challenge is more about me than it is the whales, but I don’t bite.
Cringing, I point at the screen, where a pack of killer whales flank the calf.
“I wouldn’t need to.”
We watch as the mother whale tries her best to guide her offspring, but the pack is stronger. It’s like Maddy’s gang when they spot Sarah. I don’t say that though – especially since I went off with them.
“That’s disgusting,” says Sarah, blocking her eyes from the television.
“It’s nature,” I say, eyes glued.
The killer whales succeed at separating the calf from its mother. Thrown around by the hunting pack, bashed and bruised, the calf eventually tires and drowns.
“How can anything be so cruel?” asks Sarah, as the camera switches to a killer whale’s graceful retreat.
A hot, steaming mug of chocolate arrives just in time – before things have a chance to get too heated.
“Thanks, Mrs Butler,” I say sweetly.
Mrs Butler’s the best mam in the world, and you can’t help feeling chilled out around her – she has this calming effect. I always feel at home here, and my worries melt away as I relax into the familiar surroundings. There’s no tension. Everything is consistent. When she walks away, I decide to get my apology over with.
“Sorry about yesterday. I didn’t know how to say no to Maddy – you know what she’s like.”
It’s not quite an apology, and not quite true either, but I figure there’s nothing wrong with a little white lie now and again to spare your best friend’s feelings.
“It’s OK,” says Sarah, her face relaxing. “I don’t blame you for going.”
“Thanks – you’re the best,” I say.
&
nbsp; My conscience cleared, I realize the timing is perfect for the flapjacks, and jump up.
“Goodness, my heart!” cries Mrs Butler, jumping as well.
“Sorry! I just remembered that I brought you something.”
Fumbling in my bag, my hands turn clumsy and awkward.
I eventually find what I’m looking for and, as I pull out the tangle of paper and Sellotape, I can’t help the cheesy grin that spreads across my face. “Here!”
Sarah and her mum glance at each other in wonder as I unravel the complicated wrapping and flatten it into a makeshift plate.
“George, I think you’d better come in here,” calls Mrs Butler. “Liv has something special for us.”
As Sarah’s dad saunters in, I realize there isn’t enough for everyone.
Me and Hatty got carried away earlier, so there are only three flapjacks left – and one of those is mine. Sarah’s dad usually works on Saturdays, so I hadn’t expected him to be home.
The flapjacks are delish and, although I want one – I mean, really, really want one, more than anything – I hold the biscuits out in full view.
“See, one for each of you.”
For some reason, the flapjacks no longer look as mighty as before.
They’re a bit dark at the edges, too pale in the centre, and not at all straight like the ones you see in the shops. They look a bit dry and shrivelled. I feel my face flush. How could I bring something so inferior to the Butlers’? As the three of them peer down at my outstretched hand, I fight the urge to bolt.
“They look delicious,” says Mrs Butler, just at the right time.
“I’ll get some plates,” says Sarah, bounding off to the kitchen.
I wait, my body tense. I can’t believe I’m getting the jitters over some daft flapjacks, but I can’t peel my eyes away as they each take a biscuit and lift it to their mouths.
Mr Butler winces as he bites into his.
“Are they too tough?” I ask.
“Nope,” he replies, crunching loudly. “I’ve been having trouble with my tooth. I can eat it very well on the other side.”
And he can. It seems they’re OK after all. I watch, breath held, as Sarah and her parents munch and chomp their way through.
