Caramel Hearts

by E. R. Murray

  It’s an awful drive home. Harriet only speaks once, to say I should have the day off school – after the bullying and so little sleep, I’ll need the day to recover. Other than that, she doesn’t speak a word.

  When we get home, I hunt out the tub of cupcakes and click open the sides. The scent of vanilla icing wafts out as the lid comes off. Harriet’s not even slightly tempted.

  As I take a bite, the creamy sweetness dissolving on my tongue, I catch a glimpse of my new self in the kitchen window. I’m grateful Hatty has said I can have the day off tomorrow. Everyone will be looking and asking questions about my hair. The teachers will be interrogating people to find the whereabouts of Mrs Snelling’s bag.

  And then there’s Jack. Sighing, I take another bite. The cupcake may not have helped me to rise above my worries, but it sure tastes good. Hatty watches me, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. It might be late, but we’re too hyped-up to consider sleeping.

  “Do you think Mam will forgive us?” asks Hatty, eventually.

  “She won’t even remember. Anyway, that’s not Mam. It’s a monster that’s taken over.”

  “Don’t you dare call Mam a monster.”

  I almost laugh. Even now, after everything, Harriet can’t help sticking up for Mam. I guess that’s why they say blood is thicker than water.

  “Stop worrying,” I say. “You said yourself – Mam won’t get better if we keep correcting her mistakes. We did the right thing. It’s for her own good.”

  “I don’t know what the right thing is any more, Liv. I’m sick of thinking – for me and everyone else. I’m sick of everything. And everyone. I wish it’d all just go away.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My own sister has turned against me.

  “Maybe I will!” I say.

  Hatty rolls her eyes. “Not you! Actually, do you know what? I am just sick of your self-pity. So, good!”

  “Fine then!”

  I flee the room and slam the door. Harriet follows me upstairs a few moments later, and I hear a loud rustling noise from her room. It sounds suspiciously like she’s packing. My heart thumps in my chest as I strain my ears. Have I pushed things too far this time?

  Leaning against my bedroom door, I slide into a crouching position and scratch at my neck. All that advice from Hatty – about getting out of Egerton and doing something good with my life – it was just talk. Harriet doesn’t give a monkey’s. Deep down, she just wants rid of me.

  I climb into bed and hide under the pillow, hoping with all my heart that my sister is still there when I wake up.

  Raspberry Fool

  A simple but delightful dish, this is good for calming the nerves and soothing your soul – or that of a friend in need. Make with love and give with kindness. Especially good for when your own misdemeanours have left you shamefaced…

  INGREDIENTS

  170 g/6 oz raspberries

  2 tbsp powdery icing sugar

  150 ml/5 fl oz yummy double cream, whipped into soft mountain peaks

  DECORATION

  ½ tbsp chopped lavender flowers

  4 raspberries sprig of fresh, invigorating mint

  HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN

  1. Crush the raspberries in a bowl with a fork. Add the icing sugar and mix well. Fold two thirds of the sugared raspberry mixture into the whipped cream until it’s delightfully smooth and pink. Set the remaining mixture aside.

  2. Spoon the sugared raspberry mixture into the bottom of two serving glasses and gently layer the raspberry cream on top.

  3. Sprinkle the raspberry fool with chopped lavender flowers, then garnish with raspberries and mint.

  For an extra-special touch, serve with my “Lovers’ Lemon and Choc-Chip Shortbread”.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mint and Chopped Lavender Flowers

  Light pokes under the curtains. Unable to get back to sleep, I creep across the hall and quietly open Hatty’s door. She’s fast asleep – her hair sprawled across her face and pillow. Breathing a sigh of relief, I close the door and return to my room. But there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. The argument with Jack pops into my head and eats away at me. What will I say to him next time I see him? It’s Mam I’m annoyed at, and Maddy – so why did I have to go and fall out with him?

  I go downstairs, hoping to leave my worries behind. Hatty will join me soon, and maybe we’ll go for a walk or something. But hours pass, and I’m completely alone and bored beyond belief. I flick through every TV channel, which lasts all of five minutes – we can’t afford Sky any more and the Internet was cut off months ago – and I read an old edition of Marie Claire that Harriet has left lying around. With Sarah at school, there’s nothing else to do. There’s always a new recipe to try, but I don’t feel like pushing things. Even listening to Unearthed on repeat on Harriet’s old MP3 player doesn’t improve my mood. It’s a bad day when Johnny doesn’t cut it.

  A cold shiver sweeps through me as I realize that school will soon close for summer. Everyone else loves the summer holidays, but I hate them. What’s good about six long, dreary weeks with nothing to do? Apart from Art class, school is rubbish – but having nothing to do is worse. It’s not like the weather’s great – and even if it was, we’ve no money to go anywhere or do anything. Whitby might as well be on the other side of the world these days. Sarah and her dad usually go camping in the Lake District for at least a fortnight and I’m never allowed to go, even though they have a spare tent. Mam always makes excuses: I’m not old enough, I can’t be trusted. With Mam gone, there’s no way I’ll be allowed to go this year either – Hatty will need me, or I’ll have to study to improve my grades. Why does everything have to be so boring?

  If only I could go back to being a kid, to a time when Mam might still be nicknamed “Happiness” by her friends, to a time when she wasn’t consumed by drink. I do remember days when Mam was cheery and bright, making fun plans. Like on our day out in Whitby: I breathed steam on the train windows so we could all play Hangman, and Mam pointed out all the animals in the fields as they sped by. The day was bright but chilly and our noses turned postbox red within minutes of stepping into the fresh Whitby air. We jumped waves and, to warm up, huddled together on the beach around bags of hot chips. Sand gritted our teeth as we ate, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes I can still hear the gulls calling overhead, making their weird laughing sounds. It’s so clear, it’s like they’re right here with me. But I can’t remember the last time I heard an actual gull. Or Mam laugh. Can’t remember what her laughter sounds like.

  “Stop being such a baby, Liv!” I chide, trying to fill the silence. “You’re fourteen now. Stop pining for a mum that doesn’t exist.”

  The words sound good but my heart doesn’t listen. Picking up Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom, I flick through the pages, but they don’t offer any comfort. The gentle fluttering of pages, their magical recipes; it only reminds me of how things should be. The next recipe is “Raspberry Fool”.

  “How appropriate,” I say to myself, out loud.

  Sometimes, when we were kids, Mam would get wasted day after day; she’d spark out at random times and the house would be so still, I’d get scared. Hatty would tell me we were going on adventures, leading me around the house to hide in strange places. We’d poke about in drawers and wardrobes, looking for treasure or stray coins we could spend on sweets on our way to school. We would try on things we shouldn’t – like Mam’s best dresses – while Mam snored on top of her bed. When we were finished with our adventures, we’d hide the evidence and cover Mam up with sheets. She often had no clothes on and I’d stare at the silver pregnancy stretch marks on her stomach. They rippled like patterns in sand. She always looked so fragile then, and we’d be especially delicate with her, knowing that we caused the scars. Sometimes, we’d give her extra covers to compensate.

  I reread the recipe book’s inscription aloud. Then I close my eyes and try to picture Dad. I imagine soft, caramel hair, a floppy fringe. I pic
ture warm brown eyes – he is kind, good looking and gentle. Then I realize I’ve made my dad look like Jack. What a freak. That has to be some kind of illness.

  Sadness swells inside me and I decide there’s only one thing for it. I’ve nothing to lose by making a few treats. There are some raspberry fools begging to be eaten. They promise to calm nerves and soothe souls – isn’t that what we need? It would be a good peace offering for Hatty.

  Despite the guilt, I take a bit of money and race to the shops to get what I need. I can’t buy lavender flowers, but I collect some on my way back, from a garden from the posher end of the estate. I collect mint too – I Googled them at school to make sure they wouldn’t poison us. As I crush raspberries and whip the cream, I start to feel a bit better. But soon my thoughts turn to the stolen bag. I know I should return it, but I’ve never had so much money before – and where else will I get the stuff I need? Mrs Butler looked so proud of me when I gave her the flapjacks, and even Hatty approves. It’s rare for me to do something that makes people smile.

  I mix some of the cream and all of the sugared fruit into dreamy pink folds. When it’s the colour of marshmallows I pause, wracking my brains for a solution. I have to come up with something before it sends me nuts like Mam.

  I decide to spend the money, but return the bag. My options are: I could keep it hidden until the whole sorry mess blows over, then ditch it in some waste ground. There’s plenty nearby, so I could probably get away with ditching it now. But I guess I should make sure the bag is returned to Mrs Snelling. After all, it contains something important that she wants back. Despite several searches, I haven’t found anything that looks particularly important. The bills are probably paid by Direct Debit and the keys and driving licence can be replaced. Maybe Old Mozzer was just trying to make the culprit feel bad? If so, it’s working.

  It’s a week since the assembly, and the handbag is taking over my life. I check it’s still there every time I come in or out of my room, and I’ve even started putting my own washing away so Harriet doesn’t find it. Every glimpse of the bag makes me shudder. The more I try and ignore it, the worse it gets. I’ve no idea why I took the stupid thing. No recipes – even Mam’s – are worth this much stress. Why couldn’t I have left it behind?

  Concluding that it’s Mam’s fault, really – I shouldn’t have to steal, normal kids get help from their parents – I layer the pink cream and sugared raspberries into four glasses I’ve set aside.

  A noise upstairs signals to me that Hatty is awake. I go to call her, but she beats me to it, her footsteps padding down the stairs. Quickly, I add the last layer to the final glass, then top all four with raspberries, mint and chopped lavender flowers. A calming, fresh perfume rises from the toppings. Harriet soon arrives – her eyes are red and swollen, but I don’t want to embarrass her, so I make a point of pushing one of the desserts straight in front of her.

  “For you,” I say. “Raspberry fool.”

  Still trying to avoid eye contact with my sister, I put two of the desserts in the fridge and set about washing up, letting the suds cover my forearms with rainbow bubbles.

  “You make some amazing stuff,” says Harriet. “Maybe you could give me lessons some time?”

  “I’d like that,” I say, even though I doubt I would. It’d only disintegrate into arguments when Hatty tried to take over.

  A long silence edges its way in. Eventually, I take the lead.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about last night, Hatty. I didn’t mean to argue.”

  I dry and put away the pots I’ve washed, and hand her a teaspoon. We stare at the pretty desserts, the sweet scent of lavender wafting around the kitchen.

  “It’s not your fault,” says Harriet sadly. She reaches out to scoop some cream. “We’re just stressed out. I guess it’s time I faced facts – I might never go back to Edinburgh. I should have listened to you. It doesn’t matter whether I go to uni or not – I’ll never amount to anything.”

  “Don’t say that!” I say.

  “This is amazing,” says Harriet, taking a big spoonful and giving a long, slow groan of appreciation.

  I try a spoon of my own and follow suit.

  “You’re right, this is good!” I say it too quickly – like I’m showing off – and my face burns up. “I mean, for a first attempt, it’s not bad.”

  Harriet chuckles.

  “Have you heard from Jack at all?”

  “No, why would I?”

  Harriet shrugs, continuing to spoon mounds of the raspberry dessert into her mouth.

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “‘As a friend’ like him, or ‘as a boyfriend’ like him?” I ask.

  “You tell me.”

  The problem is I can’t, because I don’t know. Or I’m not yet ready to admit it. Thankfully, Hatty lets the discussion drop. But then she has to go and spoil things.

  “You know… you’ll have to go back to school tomorrow.”

  “Can’t I wait until after the weekend?”

  “I know you’re worried about those bullies, but we can’t chance it. With the Social Services visiting soon, the quicker you get back and face up to them, the better.”

  Losing my appetite, I push my dessert away. My jaw tightens with anger and it feels like my insides are made of ice.

  “How would that be better?” I ask.

  “Trust me, Liv. It just would.”

  “What makes you so sure? Why don’t you sort out your own life before butting into mine?”

  As soon as the words are out, I wish I could spoon them back into my cruel mouth. Harriet pushes back her chair and leaves the room without saying a word. I go back to eating my fool. It sticks to the roof of my mouth and cements my teeth together. Pity it couldn’t do that sooner.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  An Outcast for Eternity

  The first day back at school passes too slowly. I try harder than ever to melt into the background, but with my drastic new hairstyle, it’s not easy. Some smirk, others snigger and more still pretend to see through me. Sarah sticks by my side as much as possible, but she’s quiet, afraid of being turned on again. As if the reaction from the pupils isn’t bad enough, Mrs Pearl makes a point of saying how nice I look.

  “Very like that girl from the Harry Potter films,” she says, to a chorus of sniggers, before making a fuss about the school trip. “I want each of you to put one – and only one – suggestion forward anonymously in this box, which I’ll leave at the front of the classroom,” explains Mrs Pearl. “At the end of this session, I’ll add the suggestions to a chart. Over the next few days, tick the ones you’re interested in. The three most popular will go through to a final round, and next week, you can elect your final choice in a voting ballot.”

  An excited hum breaks out.

  “I’ve too many ideas,” groans Sarah. “How am I going to choose just one?”

  I busy myself with organizing my rucksack to avoid the conversation. Everyone in the room seems excited except for me. I sneak a peek at Jack, and accidentally catch his eye. When I offer a weak smile, he looks away. My mood takes an even steeper dive as Mrs Pearl finishes her arrangements with a grand finale.

  “The trip will be even better when the thief owns up,” she says, peering at everyone in turn. “Mrs Snelling is recovering nicely and will be back to work soon. I hope the perpetrator gets their dues before she returns.”

  I’m sure Mrs Pearl’s eyes linger on me for a moment longer than everyone else. I put my head down and pretend to concentrate on the task in hand, certain the day can’t get any worse.

  But I’m wrong.

  During last lesson, Sarah is in French while I’m in Art. We have to choose partners for portrait-drawing, and no one will work with me – even when Mr Vaughn, the Art teacher, insists. I’m forced to work with the teacher, and he decides to act all cool, like he’s my best friend. The rest of the class can’t resist pointing and whispering. As if I’m not the butt of enough jokes already.

&nb
sp; “What’s wrong, Liv?” asks Mr Vaughn, looking between my face and his drawing board, his arm moving vigorously as he sketches. “Why won’t anyone work with you?”

  “She’s upset the wrong person, that’s why!” shouts Trinnie Fox.

  She’s my biggest rival in Art class and a bit of a troublemaker – if she knows Mad Dog did this, then you can be certain the whole school knows.

  “This is a private conversation, Trinnie!” calls Mr Vaughn over his shoulder, smiling like it’s OK really. Trinnie grins and continues with her work. I can see the concentration on her face as she tries to make her drawing better than mine. Mr Vaughn points his pencil at me.

  “If you need to talk…”

  I shake my head, like I’ve got it all under control, and try to concentrate on varying the pressure of my 5B pencil. But my mind is a jumble of worries and it shows on the page. I can’t get the teacher’s eyes the same size, his ears are too high and the tones are all wrong. The finished portrait is awkward and distorted. Like a bad Picasso. When we display our drawings like we always do at the end of class, mine’s the worst by far. One of the lads points at my efforts and starts mocking it.

  “I’m glad she didn’t draw me.”

  The rest of the class crowds around my crap artwork. One by one they burst into laughter. It’s that bad, I can’t even be bothered trying to defend it. Instead, I copy Mam. Ripping it in half, then half again, I dump my drawing in the bin. Mr Vaughn peers into the bin, raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say a word. No one else mentions it either.

  When I check out my own portrait, my stomach knots with excitement. Is that really how I look? Mr Vaughn has made me look like a fifties film star – Audrey Hepburn, eat your heart out! Not that it matters – I’m still the school leper.

  By the time the final school bell rings, I’m near breaking point. Thankfully, Sarah is waiting outside.

  “So – what are you going to suggest for the school trip?” she asks excitedly, as we head for home.

  I notice the purple shadows under her eyes have lessened. Being dropped by the bullies is doing her good. I, on the other hand, feel drained.