Caramel Hearts
Page 9
For some weird reason, as the clapping begins, I feel really proud. Relaxing my fists and resting my hands on my knees, I sit up straight. But then I think about Mad Dog’s throat-slitting gesture and slump back. And what if Jack puts two and two together and mentions my name? As I slide lower in my seat, I run my fingertips over my palm, searching out the half-moon imprints.
“As a reward,” continues Mr Morrelly. “I have decided to allow Jack’s registration group to choose their own end of year trip. Mrs Pearl, see to it that the destination is chosen democratically.”
This time only our class explodes with cheers. The rest of the school stays quiet – probably jealous. Sarah shoves me delightedly but I can’t muster the same enthusiasm. All of a sudden, I’m leaning forward, grasping my stomach as sharp, stabbing pains attack my gut.
“What’s wrong?” asks Sarah.
It hurts too much to answer.
“Your mam’s been playing up again?”
I nod, feeling rotten for lying again, but I want her to leave me alone. Shame courses through my body and, when Sarah starts rubbing my arm encouragingly, I swear I’m going to throw up. I close my eyes and swallow hard.
“Quiet, please!” calls Mr Morrelly, his smile switching to a serious stare. “I’d like to finish by saying, I hope more of you will take a leaf out of this young man’s book. Assembly dismissed.”
As we file out of the hall, I feel Jack’s eyes following me.
Does he know?
I put my head down and escape, hoping to be invisible in the crowd. But it doesn’t take long for Sarah to find me.
“Who would do something like that? And to poor Mrs Snelling?” she asks. “They must have issues.”
“What if they didn’t know the bag belonged to Mrs Snelling?”
“It obviously belonged to someone. Would you have taken it?”
My jaw clenches and I avoid her eye.
“No… But maybe they were desperate.”
“Still no excuse for stealing.”
“They might realize what they’ve done and bring it back?” I say.
“Yeah right. They’ll be in a heap of trouble anyway, so what would be the point?”
Sarah’s words stick in my head all day, playing over and over, like when a speck of dust gets trapped on one of Mam’s records. Scritch, scritch, scritch.
Chapter Seventeen
Screwing Up Her Nose Like I’m Diseased
Arriving home, I check the bag. It’s still hidden – in the exact spot that I left it. After assembly today, I feel anxious touching it, like the bag might suddenly yell out or trigger some secret alarm at the school or something. But Sarah is right – there’s no way for me to sneak the bag back now everyone knows it’s missing, and I’ll only get in trouble anyway – so I decide to put its contents to good use instead.
I sneak out to the shops for some pastry, leaving Harriet caught up in her uni work. My hands tremble every time my fingers brush the stolen £20 note in my pocket. I can’t stop thinking about a short story we read in English. A thief steals a valuable artefact from a museum, not knowing that it’s been dusted with a special powder that glows under UV light. The police trace the thief as a suspect. He denies everything, but the case is sealed as soon as the UV lights come out. Each time I touch the note in my pocket, it’s like I can feel something dusting my skin.
As I wander down the food aisles, I begin to feel better. The hum of the chest freezers drowns out my guilty thoughts as I hunt around the frozen goods for puff pastry.
“Liv!”
I look up to see Jack waving at me from across the freezer. He’s with an elegant, expensive-looking lady. She gives me a brief, disapproving glance before heading towards the deli section, nose upturned. I’m guessing it’s Jack’s mam and my first thought is, I can’t imagine a woman like this being beaten up by a drunk. Jack mutters something, the woman nods, and then I realize: he’s heading my way.
I quickly smooth my eyebrows and fluff up my hair, wishing I’d made more effort. I’m not wearing any makeup, and I haven’t run a brush through my hair since lunchtime. My skinny jeans and striped T-shirt look fine, but how can I look Jack in the eye without mascara? No wonder Jack’s mam looked down her nose at me.
“How are ya, Liv? What you up to?”
I hardly dare to look up, but it’s difficult to make a freezer seem that interesting.
“Just getting a few bits of shopping. For baking. You know?”
Inside, I want to curl up and die. Why would Jack want to know about baking? What a stupid thing to say.
“Mum doesn’t have stuff like that in the house. She’s always on diets.”
“Like my sister, Harriet. Only she’s always on a see-food diet.”
Despite the lame joke, Jack laughs.
“Well, if I saw your food, I’m sure I’d eat it,” he says.
As we both grin at each other like idiots, Jack’s mam appears.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” she says, her voice clipped and unfriendly.
Jack looks half nervous, half relieved.
“Mum, this is Liv. She’s in my year at school.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, offering my hand.
The gesture feels stupid and I’m painfully aware that my palm is ice-cold from poking around in the freezers. Mrs Whitman accepts my hand limply, without making eye contact. When our hands separate, I watch Jack’s mum wipe hers on a tissue, screwing up her nose like I’m diseased. Without acknowledging me any further, she signals to Jack with a nod of the head that it’s time to leave. Jack looks horrified.
“Sorry, Liv, I’ve got to go. Enjoy the baking!”
I lean back into the freezer, select the pastry I need and head straight for the till, feeling like I’ve died a little inside. I grab a Coke and some prawn cocktail crisps – blue cheese and onion are out of bounds – hoping they’ll make me feel better. As I hand over the money, I expect my fingertips to glow.
* * *
“What are you making for us this time?” asks Harriet.
I continue melting the butter and sugar over a low heat. I can tell from Hatty’s eyes that she’s forgiven – but not forgotten – my cruel remarks about her weight. I should feel bad and apologize, but as Harriet peers into the saucepan hungrily, all I can think is… at last, I’m finally good at something!
“Don’t look so smug, Delia Smith!” says Harriet, sucking in the smells. “Seriously, though – what is it?”
“Eccles cakes.”
“What are they?”
“Dunno. Pastry, currant-y things. Like Granny makes, apparently.”
Harriet nods, even though neither one of us knows what that’s like. Mam grew up in foster care. She was given up for adoption, but it never happened. No one chose her. Mam spent her childhood going from one children’s home or foster house to the next.
Spying the pre-made pastry, Harriet points, mock horror on her face.
“Hey, sis, you’re cheating!” she cries, and ruffles my hair in the way that winds me up. But I decide to make allowances today.
“It’s not cheating. It’s what the cookbook says to use.”
“Sorry, bad joke. Where’s this recipe book that’s got you so fired up anyway?”
I stop, mid stir.
“It’s over there. From school. Home Ec.”
“You don’t do Home Ec,” says Harriet, narrowing her eyes. “You took Art instead.”
She picks up the polka-dotted book, turning it over in her hands. Before she can peek inside, I snatch it out of her grasp.
“Liv, what are you up to?”
“Nothing! I need the recipe – just in case. Don’t get your knickers in such a twist. Just because I don’t do Home Ec – that doesn’t mean I can’t borrow a book!”
“True. But there’s no need to overreact. It’s just—”
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget it, Liv.”
“No, go on!” I insist.
“You didn’t steal it, did you?”
My body turns rigid and the muscles in my arm ache as I stir. I think of the look on Sarah’s face when Mr Morrelly told the school about the theft. I imagine watching Mrs Snelling fall and seeing Jack run to her rescue. And, worst of all, I think about getting rewarded for it as part of Jack’s registration class.
“I’m not judging you,” continues Hatty. “At least you’re interested in something. I just—”
“Just what? You tell me to be responsible – then when I am, you accuse me of stealing.”
“I take it back. Sorry. I want us to be straight with each other, like sisters should be.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or tell her where to go. Where was Hatty when things started getting really bad last year? The time Mam “accidentally” put her hand through the glass table, the time she locked herself in the bathroom and threatened to kill herself. My first period, my first bra – where was Hatty’s sisterly concern then?
“I’m sick of this. You’re always on my back,” I mutter.
“I just want it to be like the old days, before all this crap happened.”
“Then start acting like my sister and not my mam.” I churn the mixture and my stomach churns with it. “You’re such a control freak.”
“If you do well, you can get out of here…”
“What? Run away like you? Is that what you want? Some of us are happy to stay where we are.”
“If you stay here you’ll end up miserable. You’ve got to see different things, meet new people. The world doesn’t have to be like this.”
Harriet’s voice grows squeaky and her eyes fill with tears. It’s so pathetic.
“If that’s what you think, you’re dumber than you look. No one from here gets out. You can try, but look at Mam… She left and then came back.”
“See? It was coming back here that did it! She should have stayed in London – even without Dad. She was happy there, Liv. I just want what’s best for you.”
Sticking my hands into the flour bag, I sprinkle the surface. The powder looks so light and airy.
“So that’s why you left? Ran away so I had to cope on my own?”
“I didn’t run away, Liv. I went to university to better myself.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it away.
“So you’re better than us now, are you?”
“I didn’t mean that! I want to improve things for us. You understand that, right?”
“No. I don’t understand,” I say, as snottily as I can. “I don’t see how you being selfish benefits anyone but you. You’re as bad as Mam. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to concentrate. I’ve never rolled pastry before, and it’s meant to be difficult. Even when cheating.”
Harriet opens her mouth to say something, but instead backs away, her eyes on me the whole time. I pretend I don’t notice and persevere with the pastry – pressing, shaping and rolling it to the required thinness.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I ask.
Shaking her head, Harriet leaves me to it. Hands covered in flour, I stare at the empty space my sister leaves behind. Then I open the recipe book, clear my throat and continue with the Eccles cakes.
Chapter Eighteen
Trying to Decipher its Special Code
A few days later, there’s a nasty surprise waiting for me at my front gate when I return home from school. The words “WATCH OUT SLUT” are scrawled in chalk on the pavement. The local kids often tease Mam – trying to get her to chase after them when she’s drunk, but they’ve never done anything like this before. There’s no one around, so I scuff the message out with my foot. The chalk powders the concrete like spilt icing sugar.
“Bloody kids,” I say aloud, just in case there’s someone hiding nearby. “Next time, I’ll cut off their hands!”
Inside, Harriet is on the sofa, studying a piece of paper intently. She’s spilt tea down her unflattering grey T-shirt and hasn’t bothered to change.
“Liv, come listen to this. It’s a letter from the Social Services.”
“Oh crap…” I rush over to snatch the letter and read it myself.
“Liv!” Harriet leans away, clears her throat and reads aloud.
Monday 17th June 2014
Dear Miss Harriet Bloom,
We acknowledge that you have been the guardian of Miss Olivia Bloom since 16th May 2013, and would like to inform you that a review of your current circumstances is now due.
Your social worker, Mrs Harvey, will visit you at your home address of 19 Box Lane on Friday 5th July 2014 at 2 o’clock. Please ensure that you are available for this meeting, as it will directly affect the future status of your guardianship.
If there are any problems that affect your ability to attend, or if there are any pressing matters you wish to discuss prior to the appointment, please contact us at your earliest convenience, so that suitable alternative arrangements can be made.
Kind regards,
Mrs Walker, Secretary
When Harriet lowers the letter, her hands are shaking. “Liv, that’s less than three weeks away.”
“Any pressing matters?” I hit the arm of the sofa with my fist. “I’d like to know why they can’t keep their noses out of our bloody business!”
“I know – I agree, but we have to be compliant,” says Harriet.
“Be what?”
“Do what they say, go along with it.”
“It’s our life, not theirs. You’re almost twenty-one. Surely they can’t tell you what to do?”
I watch as Harriet tries her best to pluck a solution out of the air. When her face settles into a blank expression, I realize there isn’t one.
“I’m afraid they can. They have the law on their side. But I don’t want them to take you away from me. Look what happened last time.”
“What can we do?” I ask, realizing I’ve been scratching at my neck. Although my skin burns, I can’t stop.
“I’m not really sure.” Harriet stares at the letter without reading it. “I guess we just have to keep our noses clean. Stay out of trouble. Make sure this place is spotless for their visit.”
“You mean I have to stay out of trouble.”
I join her on the sofa, thinking about the bag – and how to get rid of it.
“No, I mean we,” says Harriet “Both of us. I still have assignments that should have been handed in. What if they check up on that?”
“Why would they care about dumb assignments?”
“Because assignments aren’t dumb. They show that I’m responsible – responsible enough to look after you. If I fall too far behind, they might think I can’t cope.”
We both fall silent, lost in our own thoughts. I can’t get the scene at Ashgrove House out of my mind. What if Hatty can’t cope?
“I’ll make them some biscuits or something,” I say.
Harriet snorts. “I don’t think we need to go that far… we want them to go away again. Once they get a taste of your cooking, they’ll move in.”
I smile at the compliment. Maybe stealing the ingredients and spending the stolen money isn’t such a bad thing after all. But then I picture Mrs Snelling’s jolly face and the big bag of stuff she gave me when I needed it, and any positive feelings melt away.
“Anyway,” continues Harriet. “You’ll be in school – or, at least, you’d better be!”
“I will. Promise. But I can bake the night before. Show them I’m interested in something. You could say that you got me into it, that you wrote the recipe book?”
The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain kicks in. Laughing, Harriet sits back and folds her arms.
“Why would they think I’ve written a recipe book? It’d be a g
ood reason for not finishing assignments – but seriously… I think all that sugar’s gone to your head!”
“Wait and I’ll show you.”
It’s a spur of the moment decision, but if Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom can help our cause and keep us together, I’m willing to share. I fetch the cookbook from my room – avoiding even the briefest of glances at the wardrobe where Mrs Snelling’s bag is hidden – and thrust it into Harriet’s hands.
“See for yourself.”
Harriet tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. “What am I looking for, exactly?”
“Open it!”
Doing as I ask, Harriet looks from the book to me. “I’ve never seen anything like it… did you write it?”
“No.”
“The handwriting looks familiar,” says Harriet, studying it carefully.
“It’s Mam’s. Look at the message on the inside cover. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Harriet peeks inside, then freezes. Her voice turns serious as she reads aloud.
“To the love of my life, Abigail ‘Happiness’ Bloom. May we have many adventures together. Yours always, Max. Christmas 2000.”
Her eyes glint, but then her face falls. “Liv, where did you get this?”
“It’s not important.”
“Tell me. Right now.”
“OK, chill out. It was in Mam’s pillowcase.”
“You went through Mam’s things?”
“I was bored.”
“So? You think that makes it OK to go through people’s personal things?”
I can hardly breathe with the weight of Harriet’s eyes on me. I finger the edges of the cookbook, waiting for the eruptions.
Instead, Harriet sits back and says in a quiet voice, “Is that what this is all about?”
“What?”
“You acting up lately?”
“I dunno what you mean,” I say, meaning it.
“Seeing the message from Dad – did it stir things up again?”