Ice Creams at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  Tom takes my hand in his and his shoulders soften. He finishes the champagne and places the glass on the blanket before moving in closer to me. I tilt my face to his. ‘And I know you made loads of effort to make the weekend special, the prop—’

  There’s a noise. There’s someone here.

  What’s going on?

  ‘Meredith?’ She’s standing behind Tom.

  ‘Shut up,’ she hisses. And, oh my God, she’s got a knife in her right hand. And now she’s crouched over Tom with her arm around his neck. Instinctively, I lunge forward, but Tom somehow manages to struggle to his knees.

  ‘Georgie, stay there!’ he shouts in a deadly serious voice, before lifting his palms up into a ‘surrender’ position. He tries to turn his head to face Meredith, but she tightens her grip.

  ‘Meredith, what the hell are you doing?’ I say, my voice trembling. Her eyes are massive, manic almost.

  ‘Doing what I should have done years ago.’

  ‘OK. Let’s just calm everything down,’ Tom says slowly. ‘I’m sure we can sort this out. Tell me, tell us … what happened years ago?’ Tom’s voice is shaky and it scares me.

  ‘Oh, you think you’re smart,’ Meredith spits, the knife glinting in the light from the lamp. ‘Well, you won’t fob me off that easily. I won’t be fooled for a second time by you Carringtons. You think you can do whatever you like. And you!’ She quickly flicks the knife in my direction before catapulting it back into place at Tom’s neck. ‘You think you have it all. With your Mr Carrington. Walter, he was my Mr Carrington.’ Oh God! A trickle of sweat snakes a path down my spine. Betty was right. Meredith still bears a grudge. But it happened years ago … ‘But you won’t take him again. You won’t steal him away from me.’ Oh, sweet Jesus, she thinks Tom is Walter, aka the Heff. ‘Oh no you won’t.’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Because I won’t let you. I won’t. I won’t. I tell you I won’t. If I can’t have him, then nobody will.’ She babbles, almost incoherently now, and I’m really scared. And a part of me feels sorry for her. She’s obviously not well – having some kind of mental breakdown. In my peripheral vision I spy the champagne bottle on the bench. I could do it, I’m sure. If I’m quick. I could grab the bottle and hit her. Throw her off balance so Tom can sit on her or whatever. My heart clambers inside my chest. I have to do something. What if she plunges the knife into Tom’s neck? He’s scared too – I can see it in his eyes. And he’s spotted the bottle as well. He flicks his eyes to it, and then straight back to me. But it’s no use, as Meredith cottons on to what we’re up to and drags Tom towards the bench, just close enough so she can swipe the bottle onto the ground and out of my reach. All the while keeping the blade of the knife dangerously close to Tom’s windpipe. Champagne fizzes and swirls across the blanket, drenching my legs, but I can’t move, I’m frozen to the spot.

  ‘Meredith, I’m not going anywhere,’ Tom says. ‘I’m here, right here with you.’ Ah, Tom has worked it out too and is going along to appease her. Meredith looks confused for a moment and her face softens, only to crumple into a hideous grimace before she tightens her grip once more. And then a sudden movement catches my eye, followed by an almighty screech.

  ‘Agggggghhhhhhhhhh.’

  It’s Mrs Grace! Back in the tunnel and right behind Tom, with her granny bag held up high in the air with both hands. And in one swift movement she crashes the bag against the side of Meredith’s head, propelling her prostrate on the blanket. Tom seizes the moment, leaps up and snatches the knife still clutched in her hand, and stabs it into the solid wood bench. Mrs Grace pounces, ninja-style, straddling her spindly legs across Meredith’s back, whacking her again with her granny bag. Meredith lets out a whimper before her body sags in defeat.

  *

  It turned out that Meredith actually had a full-on breakdown all those years ago, when Walter, aka the Heff, had told her he was going to leave his wife Camille and marry her. Meredith had seen through her part of their pact and left her husband, told him everything about the affair, only to have it thrown back in her face the following day when Walter backtracked, leaving her high and dry, destitute and alone. The saddest part of it all is that Meredith was pregnant with Walter’s babies, twin girls that she later had to give up for adoption because she couldn’t cope on her own – it was the Sixties and she was a young single mother without a job or a place to live after her husband refused to take her back.

  Mrs Grace, being an old softy at heart, had sneaked back down to the tunnels to make sure my plan went without a hitch, which is how she came to be there when Meredith pounced. Mrs Grace recognised her right away, remembering what had happened and how unstable Meredith had been at the time – but had been under the impression that Meredith had rebuilt her life, working in local government. Anyway, it turns out that when Meredith had to come back to Mulberry to work on the regatta for Mr Dunwoody’s office, being in such close proximity to the Carrington family set her back and, well, she relapsed, but is now getting treatment. After hearing all about Meredith’s sad tale, Tom was happy to leave it at that, and not involve the police.

  26

  One week later …

  The glorious smell of creamy-sweet loveliness fills the hazy afternoon air as Tom and I leap out of the taxi and practically run, hand-in-hand, to meet Marco. He’s waiting at the main door to the factory. Once inside, and gowned up in white coats and not-so-fetching hairnets, my heart does an actual leap. It’s just how I imagined. It’s just like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory but, instead of chocolate, there are huge vats of sugary, milky mixtures churning away. Tom squeezes my hand.

  ‘It’s exactly how I remember. Come on, let’s get involved,’ he shouts over the hum of ice cream being made, his face beaming, and it makes him look instantly younger. And I’m so pleased. I wanted to bring him here, to see him have some fun, just like he did as a child, on those rare occasions away from his private tutors.

  ‘Have fun, you guys. And Georgie …’ Marco moves closer to me. ‘It’s all here for you.’ He winks and I give him a covert grin before grabbing Tom’s hand and leading the way.

  We see waffle cones being made and one of the factory workers hands me a giant scoop.

  ‘Give it ten big ones,’ he instructs, and points to a sack of brown sugar on a workbench beside a giant chrome blender. Laughing, Tom and I take it in turns to add the divine-smelling granules – all warm and cosy and reminiscent of my baking days as a child with Mum. Wonderful. We’re then handed jugs of caramel flavouring to tip in too. Next, dollops of waffle mixture plop from chrome pipes to be cooked on hot plates and then scooped up and swivelled into cone shapes before being conveyor-belted over a cooling mechanism and into boxes all ready for distribution. It’s amazing how a sequence of metal machines can make something so delicious.

  We move on to the actual ice-cream section and, oh my God, I don’t know where to start first. There are massive containers everywhere with all kinds of scrumptious ingredients in – strawberries, blueberries, raisins, cherries, jelly beans, Smarties, peanut butter cups, it’s all here. We’re like kids let loose in a giant sweet shop.

  ‘Go on, get stuck in.’ Marco reappears carrying a big bowl of hot cookie dough. ‘Here, tip it in Tom.’ And he does. We both stand transfixed as the dough hardens inside the cold creamy mixture before being chunked up by a big blender. We move on to the next vat, chocolate this time, and Marco gestures for me to pour in the hot chocolate sauce. It smells incredible. Rich and velvety. And the same thing happens: the smooth, creamy dark mixture hardens before being broken up and blended into the ice cream. So that’s how chocolate chip ice cream is made! I always wondered how the chocolate chunks stayed hard even when the ice cream is soft. It’s like magic, much like this place. And to my left are a dozen plastic tubes, each with a different coloured liquid flowing through, all ready to be dispensed into individual sections. Lollies. Oh wow! But the best bit of all is the giant Perspex tube right in front of me – rainbow sprinkles are whizzin
g all around before cascading out onto the lollies. It’s amazing.

  We move on to the next part of the process and Marco gestures to the picture on the giant sheets of wrapping paper to be cut and sealed around each lolly. Fab. Oh my God! A real blast from the past. I haven’t had one of these in years.

  ‘Wanna try one?’ Marco takes two lollies from a packing box at the end of the conveyor belt and hands one each to Tom and me. Delicious. Strawberry, vanilla and chocolate layers with a truly scrumptious rainbow sprinkle top tier. Treble mm-mmm!

  ‘Georgie, this is brilliant. Thanks for organising such a wonderful surprise,’ Tom says, in between licks of his lolly. We got the early train this morning from London to Scarborough, which gave us loads of time to finally have the talk that I had hoped for – just me and him and no distractions. In other words, no secret visits and meetings about the new store, no impromptu trips to New York, no bungled surprises, or crazed women with knives at his throat – none of those shenanigans: just two ordinary people enjoying a day trip in the glorious sunshine. So lovely. And I’ve never ventured this far north before. The lush rolling green countryside from the train window was spectacular; easily as good as the Grand Canyon, I reckon – although I have yet to watch Thelma and Louise as per Eddie’s suggestion. That was followed by grassy cliffs overlooking the electric blue hue of the sea. There’s even a castle. It took my breath away. I know I can see the sea every day, but the beach up here is different – wild and evocative and in total contrast to Mulberry, where it’s calmer. Tranquil, and then touristy in season.

  ‘Well, you know me … I’m really good at surprises!’ I tease. Tom shakes his head.

  ‘Hmm, that’s debatable! You ruined mine, remember, and then your “apology picnic” in the tunnels turned into a disaster.’ And with a cheeky look on his face, he swiftly leans away when I go to play-punch his arm. We both grin.

  ‘Well, that was hardly my fault. How was I to know she had a personal vendetta against the Carrington family?’

  ‘And my neck still aches …’ He grins, tilting his head from side to side as if to emphasise the fact.

  We had a proper heart to heart after the regatta, and Tom admitted that he’d been angry at first – furious, in fact, which is why he’d avoided talking to me for a bit in case he said something he might later regret. But he was devastated and hurt too, just as Dad had predicted he might be. But, interestingly, he hasn’t mentioned his planned proposal in Vegas.

  ‘Come on, there’s more.’ I take his hand to distract him from his neck issues. Tom doesn’t know that Isabella inadvertently told me about the engagement ring; I called her when Tom was showering after Meredith’s knife attack, and explained everything to her. She totally got it and agreed to keep it just between us, as I really didn’t want him to feel even more angry or hurt about the whole ruined-surprise thing than was necessary. I had spoiled his moment, yes, inadvertently, but still, I imagine your own girlfriend not turning up to your planned wedding proposal is a massive thing for a man. Or a woman. And then to find out that your mother had let on about it all by mistake – well, I guarantee that I would still be reeling if the situation had been reversed and my plans had fallen so flat. But, hopefully, today will go some way in making it up to him. Bring back a cherished childhood memory too.

  ‘Gosh it’s warm in here,’ I say, making big eyes at Marco, and he knows what I mean right away. He leads us through a door into a changing area.

  ‘Why don’t you two get those hairnets off and pop outside to cool down?’ Marco gestures towards double doors while surreptitiously giving me a look when Tom isn’t watching.

  ‘Cool down? But it’s sweltering outside; even hotter than Italy is at this time of year.’ Tom laughs as he pulls off his hairnet and hands it back to Marco. I do the same.

  ‘Follow me.’ Taking Tom’s hand, I push through the double doors and out into the sunshine at the back of the factory, and there, just as I had planned with Marco on that day at the regatta, is a bona fide, proper vintage ice-cream van. It’s painted a glorious sky-blue colour and has Rossi Ice Creams stencilled down the side in baby pink lettering.

  I run towards it, keeping hold of Tom’s hand so that he has to follow too, until we’re standing right outside the open serving hatch.

  ‘Wait there!’ I run around to the other side and jump in the van and quickly find the box marked Harvin – it’s exactly where Marco said it would be, on the dashboard. And, right on cue, ‘Greensleeves’ chimes out of the Tannoy. I pop my head out through the hatch to see Tom grinning and shaking his head in amazement.

  ‘What can I get you, sir?’ I laugh as I pretend to serve him.

  ‘Um, I don’t suppose you have a Screwball by any chance?’ Tom plays along, and I could kiss him right now. So I do. I had banked on him going for a Screwball; it was his childhood favourite, after all.

  I fling open the freezer cabinet lid, and there, where Marco said it would be, is the Screwball. I bounce out of the van and whizz back around to stand opposite Tom.

  ‘Here you are.’ After ripping the plastic top off, I hand it to him with a little pink plastic spoon. ‘But you must eat it really quickly,’ I say, barely able to contain my excitement. He looks so thrilled with his Screwball. ‘I’ll help you.’ I push my spoon into the raspberry split ice cream too.

  ‘Hey, what’s the rush?’ Tom laughs, gently nudging my spoon out of the way so he can get more ice cream for himself.

  ‘You’ll see.’ And then, ‘Ta da!’

  ‘What’s this? Where’s the bubble gum? I was going to let you have it, seeing as you were never allowed it as a child.’ Tom frowns.

  ‘Aw, you’re just too kind and thoughtful.’ I grin. ‘But this is my surprise, remember?’ I take the Haribo sweet ring and push it onto the tip of his little finger. ‘Tom, can I ask you a question? Well, two questions really,’ I say, trying to sound casual, but my heart feels as if it’s about to burst right out of my chest, it’s clamouring that fast. Tom tilts his head to one side.

  ‘Sure,’ he says tenderly, with a quizzical look on his face. I take a deep breath and go for it, remembering Dad’s sage advice about being ‘so busy trying to avoid getting hurt that we forget to enjoy the good bits’. After everything that’s happened recently, I’m going to concentrate on enjoying the good bits from now on.

  ‘Good. Um, err. Right, here goes … question one – can Mr Cheeks and I please move in with you now? Like tonight, if you’ll still have us, of course, because you may have changed your mind after, you know, well, what with everything that’s gone on … With me spoiling your Vegas surprise and then you being held at knifepoint … well, I wouldn’t blame you, it’s OK, really—’

  ‘Stop talking.’ Tom gently lifts my chin to look me straight in the eye. His eyes search mine momentarily. And then his face creases into a massive smile. ‘At last.’ He laughs. ‘Georgie Hart … she say yeeeesssss. She will move in with me. It’s a miracle. Hal-le-lu-jah!’ And, after lifting me up, Tom twirls me around and around. I feel as if I’m flying on top of the world as the warm summer air mingled with the delicious aroma of ice cream flows through my hair.

  After everything that’s happened, it’s made me realise just what really counts when it comes down to it. What’s important to me – Tom, my friends, my family; that’s what it’s all about.

  Eventually, we pull apart and, still holding hands, Tom gently bumps my arm with his.

  ‘So, what else did you want to ask me?’ And I can see that he’s trying really hard to keep a serious face.

  ‘Um …’ I will my cheeks to stop flushing and my heart to stop pounding; even my palms are tingling, which only ever happens when I’m really REALLY nervous. But it’s now or never – I’ve spent the whole week rehearsing this inside my head. I may even have practised out loud in my bathroom mirror. And besides, it’s not just me who has experienced heartbreak in the past, and who worries sometimes about it happening again – Isabella told me Tom has been there
too. And I never even considered that, I just presumed he had lived a privileged, sparkly kind of life where nothing bad ever happens, but I know now, that perception is a weird thing and, underneath it all, we’re actually just the same. Plus maybe it explains why he was a little cool about asking me to move in with him, citing it as the ‘practical’ solution; I guess he was just being cautious too. Besides, I’m a grown woman; I can take whatever life puts in my path, I know I can – not that I’m anticipating Tom will let me down, I don’t think he will, and I’m excited about finding out what the future holds, together, if he’ll still have me. And for some bizarre reason, the conversation with Eddie over that silly bet pops into my head – I wonder if the terms still stand, if I’m the one asking Tom to marry me? Eek! OK. Deep breaths, lots and lots of them. On second thoughts, maybe not, I’m starting to feel a bit dizzy. Right, I can do this. I open my mouth. I close it when Tom speaks instead.

  ‘Actually, I have a question of my own,’ he says, casually.

  ‘You do?’ I swallow hard, wondering if this is a good or a bad thing. I was going to do it, I really was … I open my mouth again, but he gently puts a finger to my lips.

  ‘Shhhussshh. Ooops, oh hold on.’ And he bends down. ‘I’ve dropped the Haribo ring.’ But he doesn’t get back up; he stays down on one knee.

  And oh my actual God.

  I cup my hands up under my chin. I shiver.

  Is this what I think it is?

  ‘Georgie. Please will you marry me?’

  It is! I freeze. Scream. And instead of retrieving the Haribo ring, Tom stands up and pulls a small red velvet box from his pocket, and winces.