‘Let’s put Tiger on the CHUCK pile,’ I said.
‘Oh ha ha, very droll,’ said Mum. ‘Go on then, off you go to your dad’s.’
‘I still don’t see why you can’t take me, same as usual,’ I muttered, trailing after Steve.
But it wasn’t the same as usual. I knew perfectly well why Mum didn’t want to take me. She didn’t want to face my dad when he found out about Australia. It was so mean of her. I sat in the back of Steve’s posh company car and glared at the back of his pink neck. He had a very short haircut. Mum said it was cute and loved running her fingers through it. I thought it looked plain silly. Who wants designer stubble on their head? Steve was wearing one of his special weekend sport shirts with very short sleeves, showing off his big muscles. He worked out at the gym most mornings before work.
Mum had joined the gym now too. She even took Tiger to a baby gym class, which was totally mad. Tiger crawled around at way too rapid a pace as it was. He was learning to climb up onto beds and wriggle right into corners. He needed to be restrained, not encouraged.
Steve started making general chit-chat in the car. He never knows quite what to say to me. Ditto me him. He asked if I was looking forward to going to Australia. I said, ‘Mmm.’ He said wouldn’t it be fabulous living in an exciting city like Sydney. I said, ‘Mmm.’ We gave up after that. Steve switched the radio on and we both listened to music. Steve hummed along. I kept quiet. I only do sing-songs with my dad.
They played a Kylie song on the radio.
‘She’s Australian,’ said Steve.
‘Mmm,’ I said.
‘Maybe we’ll all start talking Australian. Isn’t that right, cobber?’ said Steve, in the most truly terrible Australian accent.
I didn’t respond with so much as an ‘Mmm’.
I needed to concentrate on what I was going to say to my dad. When should I tell him? I tried rehearsing the right words inside my head but it was like when your computer screen freezes. I couldn’t think up anything at all.
Steve turned into our road and drew up outside the café. I looked up at the sign: HARLIE’S CAFÉ. It’s named after my dad. It isn’t called Harlie like the big motorbikes; he’s Charlie, but the big C fell off ages ago. Mum always calls Dad a Right Charlie, like it’s some kind of insult.
The café used to get lots of customers. My dad’s chip butties were especially famous. Everyone came to eat them. Lots and lots of guys came from the big building site. The café was always crowded out at lunch time because all the high school students spent their dinner money at our place. But then everyone got into this Healthy Eating and the students had to stay at school and eat salads. The guys finished building the big offices and moved on. The office workers had sandwiches and wraps sent in. They didn’t want fry-ups and chip butties. We still had a few lunchtime regulars, but then a big pizza takeaway opened up just down the street and they started going there instead.
Dad had lots of spare time to spruce up the café now but he never seemed to get round to it. The paint was peeling and the window was dirty. Some boy had written a rude word on it with his finger. The menu had slipped sideways and one of the limp curtains was drooping off its rail and someone had thrown their takeaway pizza cartons right by the doorstep.
‘Poor old Charlie,’ said Steve. ‘The café’s starting to look a right dump. Is he still getting any customers?’
‘He’s getting heaps and heaps,’ I said. ‘My dad’s the greatest cook in the world. He’s going to get his own big restaurant one day. I bet he’ll get to be one of those famous chefs on television, with his own programme and his own cookery books.’
‘Mmm,’ said Steve.
‘You wait. He’s going to be heaps more successful than you are, Steve,’ I said, and I grabbed my bag and shot out of the car.
I hoped he wouldn’t tell Mum I’d been cheeky. I dashed into the café, the bell ringing wildly. It was almost empty, the place settings undisturbed on the blue and white check tablecloths. There were just the three regulars.
Billy the Chip was eating a chip butty, hunched up over the table listening intently to the sports channel on his crackly little transistor radio. Billy the Chip came and had a chip butty every single day, though he made his own chip butties every evening in his chip van outside the railway station. Dad used to go to his chip van when he was a little boy. Dad’s dad went to his chip van when he was a boy. Billy the Chip had had his chip van for ever. He was very old and very thin and very grey and he walked very slowly because he had to take it easy. He’d sleep late, eat his butty at my dad’s, spend his afternoon in the betting shop, tow his van to the station and then fry his chips all evening until the pubs were closed and the last train had gone.
Old Ron sat at the next table eating his bacon and eggs, still in his raincoat and cap even though it was boiling hot in the café. Old Ron was old, but nowhere near as old as Billy the Chip. He nodded and winked at me, but as he had a nervous tic and nodded and winked continuously, I wasn’t sure whether he was greeting me or not.
Miss Davis sat right at the other end, as far away from the two old men as she could manage. She saw them nearly every day in the café but she never spoke to them, or even glanced in their direction. She sat with her back to them, sipping her cup of tea. She had her pull-along bag by her side. She kept one hand on it, as if she was scared it would wheel itself off independently. It was lumpy with stale bread and birdseed. She fed all the pigeons in the town every morning, stopping off at my dad’s café for refreshment halfway round.
‘Hey, Dad!’ I called.
He peered out of the little hatch in the kitchen and then came running. ‘How’s my little birthday sweetheart?’ he said, giving me a great big chip-smelling hug. He whirled me round and round so that my legs flew out behind me.
‘Mind my trolley,’ Miss Davis snapped, though we weren’t anywhere near it.
‘There’s a horse called Birthday Girl in the big race at three thirty,’ said Billy the Chip. ‘I’ll have a little bet and if I get lucky I’ll buy you a special birthday present, Flossie.’
‘Birthday, is it? Can’t even remember when mine is,’ said Old Ron.
I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. Old Ron didn’t seem too sure either. Still, he gave me a very fluffy toffee out of his mackintosh pocket as a birthday treat. Dad thanked him very much but mouthed Don’t eat it! at me. I said I’d save it for later.
‘Oh well, I suppose I’d better find you something too,’ said Miss Davis, scrabbling inside her trolley.
I wondered if she was going to give me a packet of birdseed, but she found her purse and gave me twenty pence. I thanked her very politely because I knew weird old ladies like Miss Davis think twenty pence is a lot of money.
Dad smiled at me gratefully and then led me into the kitchen. He’d manoeuvred one of the café tables into the corner and decorated it with tinsel and balloons and hung the Christmas fairy lights up above. There was a silver place mat, and little silver bows on the knife and fork, and a banner with HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRINCESS in Dad’s wobbly printing.
‘Oh Dad!’ I said, and I started crying.
‘Hey, hey, hey! No tears, sweetheart!’ said Dad. ‘Now, sit yourself down on your special throne and open your presents.’
He thrust three big red parcels at me, and one little limp brown paper parcel tied with string.
‘That one’s from Grandma,’ said Dad. He rubbed his lip. ‘Don’t get too excited.’
I squeezed the soft brown paper. ‘I think she’s knitted me something again,’ I said.
Grandma’s presents were generally hand-knitted. They were made specially for me but she couldn’t quite keep up with how old I was. She knitted me weeny toddler-size pink cardies with rabbits and ducks and teddies on the dinky pockets.
‘It feels even littler this time,’ I said, sighing.
‘Maybe it’s a vest and knicker set!’ said Dad. ‘Don’t worry, I promise I won’t make you wear them.’
Grandma’s present wasn’t a vest and knickers. It was almost as bad. She’d knitted me two droopy woolly animals, one grey, one sludge, with little blobby sewn eyes. It was hard working out which species they were. The grey one had big ears and a very long droopy nose. The sludge one had small ears and a tail.
‘I think this one’s an elephant,’ I said, fingering the grey one. Then I looked at the sludge creature. ‘Do you think this one’s a dog or a cat?’
‘Looks like it could be either,’ said Dad. ‘Perhaps it’s a dat or a cog.’
‘Dad! What am I going to say to Grandma when I write a thank-you letter?’
‘Just say thank you for the lovely woolly cuddly toys,’ said Dad. ‘It doesn’t do to specify. I once thanked her for a stripy scarf, though privately I thought it was much too small. It turned out it was a special knitted tie. Oh well. She means well, bless her. Now, open your other presents, Princess.’
The three red parcels all said Happy Christmas in curly gold writing.
‘Sorry, pet, I didn’t have any proper birthday wrapping paper,’ said Dad. ‘Come on then, open them up. I’m dying to see what you think of them!’
The first parcel contained a home-made silver paper crown studded with Rowntree’s fruit gum jewels. Silver glitter sprinkled my curls when I put it on, but Dad said it just made my hair look extra specially sparkly.
‘You look like a real birthday princess with your crown on,’ said Dad. He bowed to me. Then he curtsied too, which made me giggle.
The second parcel contained a pair of silver high-heeled shoes.
‘Real high heels, Dad! Wow!’ I said.
They were second-hand ladies’ shoes, much too big for me, but I didn’t care. I kicked off my new trainers and stuck my feet in my special silver shoes.
‘Oh dear, they don’t really fit. Don’t twist your ankle, for God’s sake,’ said Dad. ‘You’d better just wear them indoors until you grow into them. Open the big parcel then.’
It was a long pink satin dress with puff sleeves and rosebuds round the bodice. It had once been somebody’s bridesmaid’s dress. They were quite a big somebody. The dress hung off me and trailed down onto the floor, even when I was wearing my new high heels.
‘Oh dear, it’s much too big,’ said Dad.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s lovely! I’ve always wanted a really long special dress,’ I said quickly.
‘And the shoes are too big too,’ said Dad.
‘But you don’t get high heels my size. I can always stuff them with socks or something. I feel like a real princess in them, Dad,’ I said.
‘You’re my princess,’ said Dad, grinning at me. ‘Right, I’d better prepare a royal feast for my little mini-queen.’
I hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast at Mum’s. I wasn’t sure I had the appetite for one of my dad’s famous fry-ups either. My tummy was still so tense because I had to tell him about Australia. I decided I should do it there and then, the minute he made me my breakfast, so it was all over and done with, and then Dad would understand why I didn’t feel like eating.
But Dad was so sweet serving me a plate with a funny food face – chips for hair, two mushrooms for eyes, a sausage for a nose, a curly piece of bacon for a smiley mouth and a spoonful of baked beans either side as rosy cheeks. I couldn’t spoil his fun. I shut up and ate my face as best I could, vowing to myself I’d tell him at lunch time.
But at lunch time a whole crowd of football fans came barging into the café for chip butties before the match. Dad was kept so busy that I couldn’t stop him in his tracks with my news. He fried the chips and buttered the rolls and I served them and took the money. Lots of the guys were in a good mood and left a big tip for the ‘weeny waitress’.
I tried to give Dad the money but he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘It’s yours, Floss. You’ve earned it fair and square. We make a great little team, you and me.’
‘When I leave school we’ll have our own fancy restaurant, you and me, eh, Dad? Chez Charlie and Floss, yeah?’
It was one of our favourite games, but today Dad just shook his head sadly.
‘I don’t think you should tie yourself down to your old dad, little Floss,’ he said. ‘I think I’d just cramp your style. I’m hardly a success story.’
‘Yes you are, Dad. Look, I’m sure the café will pick up soon. Look how busy we’ve been this lunch time.’
‘Ten chip butties aren’t going to change my luck, sweetheart,’ said Dad. He took a deep breath. ‘Floss, maybe I should tell you something . . .’
I took a deep breath too. ‘Dad, maybe I should tell you something . . .’
We looked at each other.
‘Is it bad news?’ said Dad.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Mine’s bad news too. But we can’t have bad news on a birthday! We’ll tell our sorry tales tomorrow, OK, sweetheart? We’ve got more important things to do today – like making your birthday cake!’
We only had a couple of customers for cups of tea all afternoon so we could concentrate on the cake. Dad let me take a turn mixing it, with a tea towel tucked round me so my princess dress wouldn’t get spattered. He let me scrape out the bowl afterwards. I even licked it. Dad just laughed.
The cake made the whole café smell beautiful when it was baking in the oven. Dad and I played catch with my birthday balloons and then he played loud rock music and we did a birthday dance. I kept falling out of my silver high heels so I took them off my feet and put them on my hands and made them do a tap dance on each tabletop.
Then the cake came out of the oven all golden brown and beautiful. We mixed up the buttercream in a bowl while the cake was cooking, and then spread it in the middle like a sandwich, with a layer of raspberry jam.
‘Now we’ll do the icing on the top,’ said Dad. ‘What decoration do you fancy? Rainbow sprinkles? Little silver balls? Smarties? Glacé cherries? Crystallized roses?’
I thought hard, pondering each choice.
‘All of them?’ said Dad, grinning.
‘Yes please!’ I said.
‘OK, Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt,’ said Dad. ‘R-i-g-h-t! The Cake Decorator Extraordinaire will get cracking, assisted by the Birthday Princess herself.’
We studded the cake with silver balls and sweets, sprinkling and dabbing and daubing until the entire cake was covered, with scarcely any room for candles.
‘Shall we light your candles now and have a slice?’ said Dad eagerly.
‘You bet,’ I said.
Dad lit each candle, singing Happy Birthday very loudly and off-key. Then I closed my eyes and wished as hard as I could. Please please please let me stay seeing Dad somehow! I blew so hard I felt my chest would collapse. I opened my eyes – and every snuffed candle burst into flames again.
I blinked at them, bewildered. I blew again. They flickered, they faded – and then flamed.
‘Blow a bit harder, Floss,’ said Dad.
‘I am,’ I said, struggling, nearly in tears. I so wanted my wish to come true.
‘Hey, hey, don’t get upset, pet. It’s only silly old Dad having a bit of fun. They’re just joke candles, look.’ Dad blew them out too, and they instantly relit themselves.
‘It’s so you can have lots of birthday wishes,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a wish too.’ He shut his eyes and muttered under his breath.
‘What are you wishing for, Dad?’
‘I can’t tell you or it won’t come true,’ said Dad, giving my nose a tiny flick. ‘Come on, here’s the cake knife. Let’s have a huge chunk each, eh?’
We chomped our cake. Whenever one of Dad’s customers drifted in we gave them a slice too. There was still a semicircle of cake left when Dad locked up the shop.
We usually cuddled up on the sofa and watched an old video on the telly. Dad hadn’t got round to buying a DVD player yet. In fact the television itself was on the blink. You often had to hit it before it would work. It didn’t really matter if it went into a terminal sulk. Dad
read to me and I read to him or we played funny paper games like Noughts and Crosses and Hangman and Battleships.
‘We’ll sofa-slouch tomorrow,’ said Dad. ‘We’ve got a hot date tonight, birthday girl. Get your jacket.’
‘Where are we going, Dad?’
He winked at me. ‘There’s a travelling funfair up on the common this week.’
‘Oh wow!’
Mum never let me go to fairs. She said they were horrible noisy rough places. She said she couldn’t stand all the fried-onion food smells, they were a horrible reminder of the café. Mum and Steve took me to Chessington World of Adventures and Thorpe Park and Alton Towers. They all cost a lot of money so Mum said you didn’t get riffraff. But I wasn’t with Mum, I was with Dad. We both loved fairs.
‘Better change out of your fancy silver shoes, sweetheart. Fairs can be muddy places,’ said Dad.
I knew it would be sensible to change out of my princess dress too, but Dad said quickly, ‘No, no, you can still stay a birthday princess in your frock, sweetie.’
I knew perfectly well I looked an idiot in my second-hand bridesmaid gown, my denim jacket and my new trainers. Still, I knew Dad wanted me to act like I couldn’t bear to take my dress off because it was so special. So I wore the entire bizarre outfit, silver paper crown and all.
I prayed I wouldn’t meet anyone from school at the fair. Especially Margot and Judy!
4
THE FAIR WAS crowded. There were quite a lot of big boys milling about, the sort Mum would call riffraff. Dad put his arm round me.
‘You stick close to your old dad, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Now, what shall we go on first?’
‘The roundabout!’ I said.
‘Good choice!’ said Dad. ‘Come along then, Princess, select your steed.’
Dad let me take my time, circling the roundabout so that I could see every single horse and work out which one I liked the best. I spotted a snow-white horse with a pink mane and tail and a big pink smiley mouth. Her name was written in magenta around her neck. She was called Pearl.
I ran for her the minute the roundabout slowed down, but it was difficult in my long bridesmaid dress. Another girl elbowed me out of the way and clambered on first.
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