Candyfloss

by Jacqueline Wilson

‘OK then, if you really don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Susan.

  ‘Did you have a best friend at your old school?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Susan. ‘It’s always horrible starting at a new school because you stick out so, and I seem to be the sort of person that gets picked on. Rhiannon thinks she’s so original, but they used to call me Swotty Potty at my old school too. Maybe I ought to change my name by deed poll!’

  ‘My mum wanted me to change my name when she split up with Dad. She wanted me to add Steve’s name on with a hyphen but I wouldn’t. He’s not my dad, he’s not anything to do with me, he’s just my mum’s new partner.’

  ‘All these partners!’ said Susan. ‘I tried to do a family tree on this big wallchart but it got so complicated. I did it all in my best italic handwriting, in red ink, but then I had to keep crossing bits out because people kept splitting up. Then my mum’s ex-partner kept having new babies with each new lady, so that side of the family tree got much too crowded. It ended up looking such a mess I crumpled it all up and threw it away. That’s why I like maths so. The numbers don’t wriggle about and change; you can just add them up or subtract them or multiply or divide them, whatever, but you always get the answer you want.’

  ‘Only if you’re you. My numbers wriggle all over the place and I never get the right answer unless I copy off you,’ I said. ‘OK then, Susan, you come as early as you like on Saturday.’

  17

  MY ‘EARLY’ WASN’T quite the same as Susan’s. Dad and I weren’t even up when the doorbell rang. We stumbled downstairs, me in my nightie, Dad in his old pyjama bottoms with a T-shirt on his top. We opened the door. There was Susan and her dad.

  We peered at them, mortified. Dad frantically combed his sticking-up hair with his fingers. I rubbed my eyes and pulled the hem of my nightie down as far as it would go, hoping it might just look like a dress.

  We didn’t convince Susan’s dad.

  ‘I’m so sorry. We’ve obviously got you out of bed. How awful!’ he said.

  He was much older than my dad, more like a grandad, but he was dressed sort of young, in a black T-shirt and jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up to try to look casual. His own hair looked as if it needed a good brush. He seemed what Mum would call dead scruffy, but try as he might he couldn’t make his voice sound anything but ultra posh and plummy.

  ‘Yes, I agree, it is awful of us. I think I must have slept through the alarm. I’ve been at sixes and sevens recently. You know what it’s like, mate,’ Dad blurted.

  ‘No, no, I meant we’re awful, arriving so horrendously early . . . mate,’ said Mr Potts. ‘It’s so good of you to say you’ll have Susan for the day. I gather she rather invited herself. But I can see it’s the worst possible time for you.’ He waved vaguely at the cardboard boxes scattered all over the hall, like a giant toddler’s building blocks.

  ‘Susan’s very welcome,’ said Dad, smiling at her. ‘Just so long as she doesn’t mind a bit of chaos.’

  ‘Oh, she’s used to that in her own home,’ said Mr Potts, and he gave Susan’s shoulder a little squeeze. ‘You know my mobile number and Mum’s, don’t you? Ring if there’s any problem. Otherwise we’ll come and pick you up about sevenish. Is that really OK?’

  He was looking at Dad. He nodded and smiled. Susan nodded and smiled. I nodded and smiled too.

  ‘Thanks again. We owe you big time. Maybe your Floss might like to come to us next Saturday.’

  ‘Oh yes please!’ Susan and I said in unison, while the dads laughed.

  Then Mr Potts waved and walked to his car, neatly kicking two Coke cans into the gutter. I could see Mrs Potts sitting in the front of their car. She had grey hair piled up in an untidy bun and little round glasses just like Susan’s. She was wearing a dark red peasant blouse and a big yellow bead necklace. She waved too. I waved back shyly.

  ‘Right!’ said Dad. ‘I’d better get myself washed and dressed pronto, and then see about breakfast. Have you had breakfast, Susan? I’m sure you can manage another, anyway.’

  ‘Oh good! Can we have chip butties?’ Susan asked eagerly.

  Dad laughed. ‘You can have a chip butty for your lunch. You might even have another for your tea. But I think we’ll draw the line at butties for breakfast. How about cornflakes?’

  Lucky came sidling down the stairs, not sure who this new visitor was.

  ‘Oooh, she’s so lovely,’ said Susan, crouching down and holding out her hand. Lucky hesitated and then took two steps forward on her dainty paws, prepared to make friends.

  ‘You are so lucky to have a cat,’ said Susan. ‘My dad is allergic to cat’s fur. Well, he says he is. And Mum fusses about their claws. We’ve got all these leather-bound books and she says they’d use them like a scratching post.’

  ‘Well, we like Lucky’s fur. I might well wrap her round my neck in the winter instead of a scarf; she’ll keep me nice and cosy. And all our stuff is scratched to bits anyway,’ said Dad. ‘I’m a bit of a scratcher myself, come to think of it.’ He bowed his legs in a chimp stance and scratched his chest.

  ‘Dad!’ I said.

  ‘Oops! Sorry. I’d better go and have my shower now. Wash the fleas off.’

  ‘Dad!’ I said.

  Dad ran up the stairs making monkey noises. I rolled my eyes and Susan giggled.

  ‘Let’s give Lucky her breakfast,’ I said.

  Lucky’s cat food looked pretty disgusting – lumpy brown slurp – but she seemed enthusiastic. She ate it up, she had a crunch of her dry biscuits and she sipped from her water bowl while we hovered over her admiringly. Then she used her new litter tray while we turned our backs discreetly.

  I showed Susan how to deal with it.

  ‘It’s a little bit disgusting, but nowhere near as bad as changing Tiger’s nappies,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, it’s weird, I even miss Tiger, though I don’t miss changing him. Maybe he’ll be potty trained when he comes back from Australia!’

  We washed our hands and Lucky licked her paws, and then I set out breakfast on the table when Dad joined us, his hair all wet and sticking up from his shower. He was wearing his silliest smiley-face T-shirt and his jogging bottoms. I’d have died if he wore them in front of Rhiannon, but I felt safe with Susan.

  We both had a big bowl of cornflakes for our breakfast. Susan tipped hers into her bowl and then started touching each one with the tip of her spoon.

  ‘What are you up to?’ said Dad.

  Susan went pink. ‘I’m just seeing how many I’ve got,’ she mumbled.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of cornflakes, sweetheart. There’s another packet in the cupboard,’ said Dad.

  ‘No, Dad, Susan just likes to count things.’ I smiled at Susan. ‘I bet you’re looking to see if you’ve got an exact hundred.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ said Susan.

  ‘Well, why don’t you two daft girls tip your cornflakes onto a plate? They’ll be much easier to count then. Do you want a cup of tea, Susan? Do you take sugar? I hope you’re not going to count the grains of sugar – you’ll go cross-eyed.’ Dad crossed his own eyes, pulling a funny face. Susan laughed and pulled a funny face back.

  ‘I do like your dad,’ she whispered when we went upstairs.

  ‘I like your dad,’ I said politely.

  ‘Yours is much more fun. And he doesn’t mind my numbers thing. It drives my dad nuts. He says it’s obsessive-compulsive behaviour and I should have therapy.’ Susan paused. ‘Do you think I’m a bit nuts, Floss?’

  ‘Not at all. Your dad might be ever so clever but he doesn’t know everything. You just like numbers. Same as I like making lists. Right, let’s make a list of all the things we’ve got to do today,’ I said, going into my bedroom.

  I made a big thing of looking for my notebook and a pen. I didn’t want Susan to be floundering for something nice to say about my bedroom. It looked smaller and shabbier than ever with cardboard boxes everywhere. Susan curled up on the duvet in th
e corner.

  ‘It might be a bit furry. I’m letting Lucky sleep on it at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘I shall get as furry as possible and then see if I make my dad sneeze,’ said Susan.

  She reached up to my pillow. Ellarina and Dimble were lurking bashfully underneath, but their little woolly paws were protruding.

  ‘Who are they?’ she said, tweaking them.

  I made Ellarina pirouette, waving her trunk. Dimble became very shy and hid for a long time, but we gradually lured him out.

  ‘They are so sweet,’ said Susan. ‘But they’re naked! Let’s make them some clothes later on. Put that on your list, Floss.’

  ‘Oh yes! Can you sew properly then, Susan?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Did your mum show you?’ I asked wistfully.

  ‘No, Mum can’t even sew buttons on. My dad sews a bit. I worked out how to do different stitches and I can join bits together, though I don’t always do it properly.’

  ‘You are clever, Susan.’

  ‘I’m not clever at making things up like you are,’ she said. ‘You’re the one who’s so good at pretending that things seem real. Like Ellarina and Dimble. Have you got any other dolls and teddies?’

  ‘No,’ I said mournfully. ‘I was such an idiot. I threw them all out because Rhiannon made me feel such a baby. I wish I still had them. I hate it that they’re just mouldering and sad in some stinky rubbish pile. I wish I’d at least given them a proper funeral. Hey, that would have been really cool in a creepy kind of way – a doll funeral! I could have given them each a shoebox as a coffin. It would have been like there’d been a mega-disaster in doll-land. Maybe some crazy robot toy ran amok with a machine gun and butchered all my Barbies!’

  ‘We could have a memorial service. That happens a couple of months after the funeral. My mum went to one for the principal of her college. You sing hymns and say poems about the dead person. We could do that for your dolls.’

  ‘I’ll put that on my list! We’ll have a memorial service and we’ll make clothes for Ellarina and Dimble. And I know what I’d also really like to do. Have you ever made a friendship bracelet, Susan?’

  ‘No, but I’d love to. I’ll make you one, shall I?’

  ‘And I’ll make one for you. I’ve made one for my dad; blue to match his jeans.’

  We heard Dad thumping up and down the stairs, shifting boxes.

  ‘Shall we help him?’ said Susan.

  ‘Yes, let’s. We’ll put that first on our list. NUMBER ONE: PACK UP THE HOUSE.’

  I wrote it in capital letters. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. My own things were easy enough because they’d been pared down to the barest minimum by Mum. Susan and I filled one box with my shoes, my underwear, my night things and my washing things. We filled another box with my home clothes and my school clothes and my princess dress. I was wearing my newly washed and ironed birthday jeans and top. I left the rhinestone designer denim outfit in the wardrobe till last.

  ‘What is this?’ said Susan, trying the cap on.

  It looked comfortingly ridiculous on her too. I reminded her about Rhiannon’s mother.

  ‘I suppose it was very kind of her – but I hate it. I look such a fool,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to wear it,’ said Susan. ‘Maybe we should put it on the hottest wash in your washing machine and shrink it right down till it fits Ellarina.’

  ‘Yes, she’d look really cute in it, and the cap would balance her big ears.’ I crumpled the outfit up and stuffed it in the box. It felt good, as if it was Rhiannon and I was stuffing her in the box too.

  ‘I can’t stick Rhiannon now,’ I said. ‘How come I had her as my best friend when really she’s my worst enemy? Her and Margot.’

  Rhiannon couldn’t get at us in the classroom now because we’d moved our front desk out of her reach. However, she and Margot and Judy lurked in the corridors at lunch time and called us stupid names and said rude things and then cackled with laughter. Margot wore the rose-quartz bracelet now. Rhiannon must have given it to her. As if I cared!

  It looked as if Rhiannon and Margot were definitely best friends now. Judy still trailed round with them, telling ruder and ruder jokes, but Rhiannon and Margot simply sniggered and then ignored her.

  ‘I feel a bit sorry for Judy now,’ I said. ‘She’s the one who’s ended up without a real best friend.’

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for her. She’s been horrible to you and me,’ said Susan. ‘She was the one who started up the whole Swotty Potty lark – and the Smelly Chip bit.’

  I paused. I bent my head, surreptitiously sniffing the clothes in the box. Then I buried my head in my chest and breathed deeply, trying to sniff me.

  ‘Are you doing yoga, Floss?’ Susan said.

  ‘No, no, I’m . . . Look, Susan, do I smell of chips? Mrs Horsefield said I should hang my clothes in the fresh air but that’s a bit of a problem, unless I find some way of pegging them to my swing. That’s my best thing. I’m going to have to get Dad to untie it even though it took him ages to get it fixed up.’

  ‘I love swings. Shall we put swinging on your list?’ Susan suggested.

  ‘Well, you can’t really swing properly. It goes kind of lopsided. Still, of course we can swing. You ever so tactfully changed the subject. I do smell of chips, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you do. You smell absolutely delicious, and if you don’t watch out I shall eat you all up,’ said Susan. She seized Ellarina and Dimble. ‘Yum yum yum!’ she said, making their little woolly mouths nibble me.

  I doubled up laughing because they were all tickling me. Then I gave Susan a quick hug. ‘You’re the best friend in all the world, Susan,’ I said. ‘Let’s stay friends for ever and ever.’

  ‘Yes, for ever and ever,’ said Susan, solemn now. ‘Can we stay friends right through the summer holidays?’

  ‘Of course we can. We can play together all the time.’

  ‘That would be lovely – only some of the time we have to go to our house in France. But I’ll write and phone you heaps, OK? You will stay friends?’

  ‘You bet. And even if Dad and I move on somewhere else after staying at Billy the Chip’s house, will you still stay friends?’

  ‘Absolutely. Even if you end up going to Australia to live with your mum. In fact I’ll come and visit you and play with the koalas.’

  ‘And what about if I go to the moon? Will you come and visit me in your spacesuit and do a dance with me in your moonboots?’

  I did a slow, bouncy moon dance. Susan joined in. We danced in and out and round about the cardboard boxes.

  Dad put his head round the door and laughed at us. He put an empty cardboard box on each foot and lumbered about doing his own crazy moon dance – and then we all collapsed, laughing.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing clowning around. There’s still so much to be done,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ve just got to pack up my books and crayons and stuff in my pink pull-along case, and then we can help you, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘We can number each box and write on it what’s inside,’ said Susan.

  ‘You’re obviously a girl with a system,’ said Dad.

  Susan was great at getting both of us organized. She found some old brown sticky tape and sealed each box so we could balance one on top of the other.

  We finished my room, though we left out clean clothes for tomorrow, and Ellarina and Dimble and my sewing set and Lucky’s duvet. She didn’t like all this sudden activity and burrowed right underneath the duvet, just her nose and whiskers peeping out.

  Dad started to tackle his bedroom while we got started on the living room. There wasn’t really much to take. We packed:

  The cuckoo clock (though it didn’t work). It had been Mum and Dad’s wedding present from Grandma, and for as long as I can remember the hands had been stuck at four o’clock and the cuckoo sulked inside his house, though you could still see him if you opened the little doors.

  The motorbike
calendar. Dad had inked stars and smiley faces every weekend with Floss written in curly writing. Last month he’d written Floss! Floss! Floss! in every single box.

  The photo of Mum and Dad and a baby me at the seaside, all sitting on the sand and licking ice cream. I remembered that day and the heat of the gritty sand and the coldness of the ice cream dripping onto my tummy.

  ‘You were such a cute little toddler, Floss. Look at all your fluffy curls,’ said Susan. ‘Your mum’s ever so pretty too. She looks so young!’

  Mum was cuddled up to Dad in the photo, licking his ice cream instead of her own. Dad was pretending to be cross with her but you could still see just how much he loved her.

  I sighed. ‘I wish I could rewind to when we were all happy together,’ I said. I sniffed hard.

  Susan patted my shoulder sympathetically. ‘We could really do with some bubble wrap,’ she said. ‘Never mind, we’ll have to make do with newspaper.’

  We were leaving the television because it didn’t work properly anyway. I packed all my favourite films (number 4 on the list), hoping that Billy the Chip might have a video recorder, though if his crackly old transistor radio was anything to go by he didn’t seem up to speed with his electrical equipment.

  We were leaving the table and chairs. The tabletop was patterned with coffee-mug rings and the woven seats of the chairs were coming unravelled and scratched your bottom. Even so, I sat down on each one, remembering when we were Mum and Dad and me, with one leftover chair for all my teddies and Barbies. They were forever falling off, the teddies too limp to sit up properly, and at the slightest nudge the Barbies jackknifed onto the floor with their legs in the air. Mum would get cross but Dad always helped me get them back on their chair. He’d sometimes put a baked bean or a chip on each of my doll’s house plates for my fidgety family.

  ‘Did your dad really never play pretend games with you when you were little, Susan?’ I asked.

  ‘He read to me and did funny voices. And he played weighing and measuring games and guessing words on pieces of card, but that was like baby lessons. My mum played music to me and I had to act it out. Sometimes we played I was a little French girl called Suzanne, but that was so I could count up to a hundred in French.’