by E. R. Murray
At first, I worry they’re just being kind, but it soon begins to sink in that they really are enjoying my gift.
“Where did you buy them?” asks Mr Butler, shoving the last chunk into his mouth.
“I made them myself.”
“They’re really good. You’ve a real talent, there,” says Mrs Butler.
Her face crinkles into a proud grin and she reaches out to pat my arm. Without meaning to, I pull away. I wonder if Mam will look at me like that one day.
“Now I know what you were up to with Mrs Snelling! These are seriously good, Liv,” says Sarah. “I didn’t know you could cook!”
Beaming, I turn back to the TV, hot chocolate in hand.
“It’s nothing. You just need the right recipe.”
Eccles Cake, Like Your Granny Made
They say that the older you are, the wiser you get; well, here’s a recipe from a wise, wise woman, aged just twenty-seven. Make them and see – then feel free to call me Granny Bloom!
INGREDIENTS
500 g /1 lb 2 oz puff pastry (you can cheat this time)
25 g/1 oz yummy melted butter
Pinch of freshly ground nutmeg
55g/2 oz candied peel
115 g/4 oz caster sugar
225 g/8 oz plump and juicy currants
HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN
1. Pre-heat oven to 220 °C/425 °F/Gas mark 7.
2. In a saucepan, mix the sugar and butter, and cook over a medium heat until it’s melted into liquid gold.
3. Take off the heat, add currants, candied peel and nutmeg. Watch the currants swell and get a whiff of those smells!
4. On a lightly floured surface, roll the pastry thinly and cut into rounds – approx. ¼ in./½ cm thickness and 4 in./10 cm diameter – but don’t worry too much, no one’s watching!
5. Place a small spoonful of delicious filling into the centre of each pastry circle – be careful not to overfill. It’s tempting, but resist – otherwise they’ll burst open and burn.
6. Dampen the edges of the pastry with a little cold water and draw the edges together over the fruit, pinching to seal.
7. Turn the bundle of love over and press gently with a rolling pin to flatten the cakes. Snip a little “V” for “Victory” in the top with scissors.
8. Place on a greased baking tray, brush with water and sprinkle with a little extra sugar – go on, spoil yourself!
9. Bake in the oven for 15 minutes or until golden round the edges. Place on a wire rack and allow to cool. Travel back to simpler, happier times with every bite.
Chapter Thirteen
You’re a Right Fat Pig
The next morning, I slouch next to Harriet in the visitor waiting room. We haven’t spoken a word since we arrived and, from the look on Harriet’s face, I know she’s thinking the same: that she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here.
I hate this place. With a passion. It’s so over-the-top cheery and fake. It’s no wonder Mam isn’t getting better – places like this make you feel sick. They make you worry about not complying with the norms. It’s like they’re designed to alienate you, and that’s the last thing anyone needs. I also hate the weirdos that wait here – with their shifty glances and blank stares. We don’t belong here at all – Mam included. We should be at home, doing normal things as a family. Why can’t Mam just pull herself together and quit drinking – how hard can it be?
Every time footsteps sound in the corridor, Harriet glances at the doorway. Each time it’s not Mam, she sighs. I can’t decide whether the noise signifies relief or disappointment, but it’s driving me nuts. I tangle small plaits into my hair, tugging so tightly that my scalp pinches, and I pull my knees up to my chest. Resting my feet on the chair cushions earns a disapproving look from Hatty, but I’m past caring.
“She’s obviously not coming,” I say, head between knees. “We’ve been waiting nearly half an hour. We should go.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure. I could see what I need for the pastries I’m planning for later in the week.”
“You and your bloody cooking. Is that all you care about?”
It’s like being hit in the face with a slab of fresh liver. I finally find something I really like doing, and all it does is get me into bother.
“Can’t you see there are more important things going on – bigger things to worry about?” continues Hatty. “Mum’s stuck in here, and all you care about is bloody cake.”
I know Harriet’s trying to keep her voice quiet so the others can’t hear, but it’s not working.
“It’s her own fault!” I say. “How is sitting around here helping, when she doesn’t even want to see us? You’re just jealous I’ve found something I like doing.”
Harriet’s shoulders slope and her face darkens. I should leave it there, but I can’t stop my mouth from running away with itself.
“The only thing you’re good at is eating all the cakes. You’re a right fat pig.”
Instead of retaliating, Harriet lowers her head into her hands and cries. It’s a low, deep wail that comes from a very dark place – somewhere even worse than the Recovery Centre waiting room. Stunned, I watch my sister shake with sobs.
“I’m sorry, Hatty – I didn’t mean it.”
I try putting my arm around her shoulder but Harriet keeps crying. No matter what I try, she stays crumpled, like she no longer has the energy to lift her head. The crowd in the room shuffles, embarrassed by the show of such strong emotion. I feel a hot sting as my face glows all the way to my ears.
“Hatty, Harriet, come on, it’s OK. Let’s go home. I’ll make you something nice.”
The other people in the waiting room are really quiet. Harriet’s sobs sound magnified in the silence. Heart racing, I rub her back, but other than that, I’m clueless. My sister is growing more alien to me each day.
“Try giving her some space, love,” says a kindly voice.
When I look up, a middle-aged lady with tired eyes gives me a warm smile. I follow her advice but give Harriet’s knee a gentle squeeze to let her know I’m here if she needs me. She slaps my hand away.
“What’s it got to do with you?” snaps Harriet, suddenly lifting her head, revealing blotchy, tear-swollen skin.
“Excuse me,” says the lady, averting her gaze. “I was only trying to help.”
“It’s because of people like you helping that Mam’s in this hovel in the first place!” says Harriet, getting to her feet. “So, if you don’t mind, I suggest you keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
I stand too, uncertain what to do next. I’ve never seen my sister behave this way. Hatty’s the one that sorts things out, that stays in control.
A male nurse strides into the room, providing the perfect distraction.
“What’s all the commotion?” he asks, trying to assess the situation by scanning the room.
I look to Hatty for an answer. She tosses her hair and wipes her eyes.
“There’s no commotion. We’re leaving. Tell Mam we said hi. If she even cares.”
That’s all the answer I need. I link arms with my sister and we march out of the room, heads held high. But we don’t get far before a voice calls out.
“Girls. Girls? Where are you going?”
We stop, even though I want to keep going. I want to make her pay for upsetting Hatty like this. But of course I can’t – for all her faults, she’s our mam. I let go of Hatty’s arm so she can wipe her eyes. She blows air upwards over her face, trying to cool it down. I’m the first to turn round, buying Hatty some time.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” I say.
“I’m sorry – I got carried away watching Downton Abbey DVDs and didn’t realize the time.”
When she pulls a daft pouty face, I feel like leaving again. But Hatty stands by my side and adds, “Well, we’re glad you’re here now.”
Her face brightening, Mam rushes over to us and links our arms.
“Can we play table tennis?” I say.
“I forgot to book the table,” says Mam. “But never mind, we’ll go to my room. You can tell me all about what you’ve been up to.”
As we walk along the corridor, I lean back a little to check on Hatty. She seems completely fine. You wouldn’t know she had a meltdown just minutes ago.
Mam’s room looks more homely than last time. She’s put some flowers in a vase, and she’s been drawing. There are sketches of fruit and birds strewn across her small table. Other than the pictures in the recipe book, I haven’t seen her draw for years.
“These are really good, Mam,” I say, admiring the detail on a swallow. She’s put just enough effort into the feathers.
“Oh, those? It was my counsellor’s idea. Said it would be therapeutic. Nowhere near as good as I used to be.”
“I wish I could draw like that,” says Hatty.
I sit in the seat near the window and continue flicking through the drawings.
“Can I draw you?” asks Mam.
When I look up, her face is beaming towards me.
“Sure,” I say, taken aback. “Where shall I sit?”
“You’re perfect where you are,” says Mam, snatching up her sketchbook and pencil. “The light is just right.”
Mam draws standing up. The sound of the lead scratching against the paper is soothing and the sun warms my neck. Hatty has the biggest smile on her face as she stands behind Mam, nodding as the image forms on the page. It’s like old times, and I almost forget where we are.
“It looks like you already,” says Hatty. “Mam, you should see Liv’s drawings. She’s getting really good – must get it from you.”
“She’s a talented girl,” says Mam. When my jaw drops she adds, “Liv, don’t fidget! It’ll go wrong.”
The scratching goes on for another ten minutes and I find it harder and harder to stay still. Mam has to remind me a few times, but soon she stops and holds the paper out.
“That’s brilliant!” says Harriet. “You’ve got her eyes just right.”
““No, no. It won’t do at all,” says Mam, staring at the drawing.
“It’s great!” says Harriet, throwing me a worried look.
“Can I see?” I ask. “Can I have it?”
“Let Liv see, Mam,” tries Harriet.
But Mam’s face clouds over as she scrutinizes her work.
“Too much fidgeting. And the eyes… yours are much more beautiful.”
Moving to my side, Hatty rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s lovely, Mam, honest,” she says. “A perfect likeness.”
“Let’s have a look,” I say, getting to my feet, but before I can see the drawing, Mam rips it into four pieces. The pieces drop to the ground and a single eye stares up at me.
“I’ll do another one – a better one,” she says. “Only the best for my girls.”
I try to smile, but it feels sticky on my face. Suddenly, the orange walls feel overly bright. I make my excuses and go to the loo. When I return, the pieces have been cleared away, the TV’s on and it seems Mam has forgotten all about drawing. Hatty gives me an apologetic look as she listens to Mam’s recap of what’s been happening up to this point on Downton Abbey.
Chapter Fourteen
Clues in the Curve of His Shoulders
I try calling Sarah from the landline, but there’s no answer, and I’ve no credit to text. I scroll through my phonebook and realize most of the people in there are either relatives or they aren’t even friends any more. It’s like Facebook – hundreds of contacts, but none I can actually contact to hang out with in real life.
Hatty is shut up in her room and I decide it’s best to leave her alone after this morning’s upset. I check the weather, put my lightest jacket on, then head out for a walk to clear my head. Without realizing where I’m going, I end up at the shops. They’re closed, except for the chippy, but the place is throbbing with people my age. There’s music blasting – some dance stuff I can’t stand – and I squint into the distance, trying to decide whether I should join in or avoid it like the plague. Unexpectedly, my knee gives way behind – someone has knocked into it on purpose, making my leg buckle.
“What the—?”
As I spin round, I recognize his deep laugh before I see Jack’s face.
“Got ya!”
“Yeah, thanks a lot,” I say, any annoyance falling away as soon as I see his smile.
Seeing as I’m facing back towards home, I decide to avoid the crowd. But as I walk off, Jack catches me by the arm.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
He pulls me along towards the others, and I don’t fight it. I’d be mad to! I could do with some cheering up and it’s not like I’m letting Sarah down this time.
When we reach the crowd, Jack sits on the wall near the chippy, and pats the bricks for me to join him. I find myself admiring his toffee-coloured mop of hair. I like the way it catches the glow from the streetlights in its waves.
“Did you get into bother the other night?” he asks.
“Nah. I got away with it,” I say, the smell of hot fat assaulting my nostrils.
“I hope you didn’t mind me asking about your dad like that?”
I shake my head.
“It’s just… I got the impression I might have upset you.”
“Mam and Dad split up when I was two. I don’t know much about him. Some people remember things from when they were babies. Not me.”
There is a loud sizzle as some fresh chips are lowered into giant vats of oil.
“I’m like you. I don’t remember stuff either. Have you ever tried to find him?”
“Not really… unless you count running away when I was five! My sister and I had this big, secret chat about Dad and she told me everything she could remember – everything I wanted to know. Afterwards, I got so obsessed that I packed a bag and headed off across the Rec to try and find him.”
Jack bursts out laughing, and gives me a playful shove. I can’t help laughing too.
“You’re funny,” he says, and looks at me for a few seconds longer than I feel comfortable with.
I put my head down and pretend my shoes are more interesting.
“Would you like to meet him?” asks Jack.
“Yeah, but it’s not going to happen.”
“You could make it happen.”
“You sound like my counsellor. I don’t think he wants to be found. Anyway, the dad in my head isn’t real.”
“The one I had in my head wasn’t real for a long time either. It was like I’d wrapped him up in this imaginary bubble of what I wanted him to be.”
“Me too! A giant rainbow-coloured bubble. When I think about him too much, the bubble bursts and turns a kind of mucky brown – like when you get over-excited mixing paint in Art class. Did you know that if you mix more than three colours together, you always get brown?”
“I didn’t know that,” says Jack, a smirk on his face.
“It’s true. I stopped doing it in Art but not with my dad.”
“Do you like Art class?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw your drawings last year at the exhibition – they were good.”
My face flares. I feel my ears and neck turn hot. Even my arms turn pink. Right on cue, Maddy appears at the other end of the shop parade. It takes a while for her to spot us, so I wave. I don’t want her to think I’m sneaking around with Jack – not after her warning.
“Maddy, over here,” I call.
Her expression falters for just a moment – a brief, dark cloud settling over it – but then she brightens. Joining us, she’s all smiles.
“Fancy seeing you two here,” she says. “You’re as thick as thieves lately.”
She pauses, waiting for an explanation. I’m hoping Jack will offer one of his quips, but instead he rolls his eyes and heads off towards a group of lads a few years older than us, who I don’t know. As soon as he’s gone, Maddy sits in his spot and swings her feet, l
ighting a cigarette as the interrogation begins.
“What’s going on with you two?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“How come you’re always together?”
I laugh. “We’ve hung out like three times. I hardly know him. It’s just a coincidence that you’ve seen us.”
“A rather convenient coincidence, if you ask me.”
Maddy takes a deep drag, then blows smoke rings into my face. I don’t move. I just sit there and let her do it.
“Did you get that baking thing sorted out?” she asks, taking me by surprise.
“Not really.”
“Still struggling to get the stuff you need?”
“Yeah,” I say, hardly believing that she’s remembered – let alone taken an interest.
“Are you a complete idiot or what?” continues Maddy. “If you want something, take it. That’s what my mam and dad always say.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“Who decides what’s right and wrong?” Mad Dog takes a drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke out slowly – away from me this time. “Is it right that good people like my brother die young while bastards like my dad get to grow old in a jail cell?” She gulps before continuing. “Or that some people are loaded and others are skint or sleeping on the streets?”
“I guess not.”
I daren’t catch Mad Dog’s eye, but she has a point.
“Nicking stuff isn’t always wrong. Robin Hood was a thief and he’s a bloody hero.”
“True.”
We both go quiet. I feel Maddy fidget and I slide away from her a little, in case she accidentally knocks into me and takes offence. After a while, Maddy starts up again. Her voice turns all weird and sly, and she reaches out to my hair and starts plaiting it on one side. She hasn’t done this since we were about eight years old.
“So, Jack then… has he mentioned me at all?” she asks, her fingers weaving through my hair.
“In what way?” I ask, knowing full well, but buying time.
“You know. Like, has he said he fancies me?”
“Not in so many words but—”
“But what?” She pauses, then yanks my hair as she begins plaiting again. “He used to call me to hang out and we’d chat about all sorts of stuff. I hardly hear from him now. Any idea why not?”
