Cookie

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Well, I thought we could offer all the guests a cookie and a cup of tea when they come back from the beach or wherever. I thought they might like it,’ said Mum.

  They all loved Mum’s cookies – and not just the children. The two very old ladies were particularly appreciative and asked Mike where he’d bought such lovely novelty biscuits.

  ‘I didn’t buy them. Dilly here made them with her own fair hands,’ he said.

  ‘My goodness! Well, they’re excellent, my dear. We used to run a little teashop and we’d have been so proud to serve your cookies, Dilly,’ they said earnestly.

  Mum went bright pink with pride and I wanted to hug her. She practically danced up to our little attic bedroom.

  ‘I’m good at cookies now, really good at them!’ she said, lying back on our bed and bicycling her legs in the air. ‘I’ve never been good at anything in my life, Beauty, but now I can say I’m an ace cookie-maker! I’m so happy!’

  ‘So am I, Mum, so am I,’ I said, leaning my arms on the windowsill and gazing out across the rooftops at the glistening sea.

  Then I glanced down at our road, and saw a silver Mercedes draw up at the end. I stared, telling myself it couldn’t possibly be Dad. There were hundreds and hundreds of silver Mercedes all over England. But then the door opened and a man stamped out, a small square balding man with a salmon-pink face. It was Dad.

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I watched him marching up the path and hammering on the door of number one Primrose Terrace. Someone answered the door, Dad said something, waited, then stormed back up the path and tried number two. He was systematically searching for us.

  ‘Mum!’ I croaked.

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘It’s Dad! He’s here and he’s going to every guest house and he’ll be knocking at our door in a minute or two! Oh quick, Mum, we’ve got to get out of here!’

  Mum jumped up and ran to the window.

  ‘Oh, God! Look at his face, he’s flaming!’ Mum took a deep breath. ‘But we’re not running, sweetheart. We’re going to stay here. We’ll see him and . . . we’ll talk quietly and sensibly and maybe Dad will understand.’

  ‘Are you mad, Mum? Dad never understands. Come on, please!’ I said, shaking her, but she wouldn’t be budged.

  ‘We’re not going to skulk in our room. We’ll go and meet him,’ she said, taking hold of my hand.

  We went downstairs hand in hand, up the hallway, and opened the green front door. We stood in the porchway of Lily Cottage, waiting. We heard Dad’s footsteps, his abrupt knocking, his demands. Have you got a Mrs Cookson staying here – Mrs Cookson and her daughter Beauty? Then he pounded back up next door’s path and burst through our gate. He was so intent on finding us that he wasn’t quite focusing. He stamped halfway up the path staring at us but somehow not seeing us. Then he stopped still, mouth open.

  ‘Hello, Gerry,’ said Mum calmly – although I could feel she was trembling.

  He stared at us, his face flooding purple.

  ‘Right. Come on. Get yourselves out of this dump now. You’re coming back home with me.’

  I hung on tight to Mum’s hand. Dad looked so crazy I was scared he’d pick us both up bodily and stuff us head first into the boot of the Mercedes.

  ‘We’re not coming. This is our home now,’ said Mum.

  ‘This isn’t a home, it’s a tacky little B and B – and a right dump it looks too,’ said Dad. ‘Why didn’t you stay in the hotel up in the village?’

  ‘It’s a lovely home, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘You shut your face, Beauty. I’m sick of you. If you hadn’t started begging for that bloody rabbit then none of this would have happened,’ Dad shouted.

  The two teashop ladies came into the hall behind us, coughing discreetly to let us know they were there.

  ‘Come on, I haven’t got time to mess around discussing the pros and cons of guest houses,’ said Dad. ‘Get your stuff and get cracking – now!’

  The two old ladies gasped.

  ‘Are you all right, dear? Shall we go and get Mike?’ one enquired timidly.

  ‘Mike? Who the hell’s Mike?’ Dad asked.

  ‘I’m Mike,’ said Mike, coming into the hallway. He put his arms round the elderly ladies.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dears. I’ll look after things here. I should go up to your room,’ he said. Then he walked forward and stood beside Mum and me.

  ‘I gather you’re Dilly’s husband? Would you like to come in?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m not bloody coming in! I’ll thank you not to interfere, you nosy git. Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Dad shouted.

  ‘I’m Dilly and Beauty’s friend,’ said Mike.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? Friend! Don’t take the mickey out of me,’ said Dad, and he punched Mike right on the nose.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said Mike thickly, blood dribbling. He felt his nose gingerly. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry. Here, have a tissue,’ said Mum frantically.

  ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? How long have you known her? So this was all a put-up job! I knew you didn’t have the bottle to leave me and strike out on your own, Dilly! But is he the best you can do? He’s a pensioner, for pity’s sake – and he doesn’t look like he has a bean to his name.’

  ‘You’re right on both those counts,’ said Mike. ‘But totally wrong when it comes to any kind of relationship between Dilly and me. We are simply friends, plus I’m technically her employer.’

  ‘You what?’ said Dad. ‘What do you employ her as, might I ask?’

  ‘She’s my breakfast chef,’ said Mike.

  Dad stared – and then he started spluttering with laughter.

  ‘Well, if you want to kill off all your guests then set our Dilly free in your kitchen! She can’t cook to save her life. All she can make is bloody biscuits.’

  ‘Very very good biscuits,’ said Mike. ‘Would you like to come in and calm down and have a cup of tea and one of Dilly’s cookies?’

  ‘Don’t take that patronizing tone with me! This is a private conversation between me and my wife.’ Dad took a step nearer Mum. Mike did too, protectively.

  ‘Now pin back your ears, Dilly. You obviously cleared off because you thought the whole business was going down the pan, and me with it. But I’ve got a lot of pals in the right places. They’re dropping the bribery nonsense, and now this guy’s tipped me the wink about a riverside council site that’s going to be pulled down. It could be even bigger than the Water Meadows deal and I’m pretty damn sure I’m going to get it. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably going to make a lot more money,’ said Mum.

  ‘So I’m giving you one last chance, girl. Come back now and make the most of it – or I’ll cut you off without a penny, you and the kid.’

  ‘Gerry, I don’t want your money,’ said Mum. ‘That wasn’t the reason I married you. I wanted you to look after me. But I’m not that stupid little girl any more. It’s time I learned to look after myself, and Beauty too, of course.’

  ‘Well, to hell with you,’ said Dad. ‘I can do a lot better than you. You’re already losing your looks.’ Then he looked at me. ‘And you’ve never had any looks to speak of. You’re just a waste of space, both of you. I wasted my time driving all this way to find you. You can stew here in this little seaside dump for ever for all I care.’

  Dad spat on the doorstep and then stamped off. Mum and I stood watching, still holding hands tightly.

  ‘Phew,’ said Mike. ‘Well, come inside my little seaside dump, my dears. We’ll have that cup of tea and another cookie – and I need to bury my poor nose in a bag of frozen peas!’

  ‘I’m so so sorry, Mike. I feel so terrible. Do you think you need to go to hospital? It could be broken!’ said Mum.

  ‘I very much doubt it. It’s been broken twice before in rugby accidents so it’s no big deal even if it is. It’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine, o
nce we’ve stopped shaking!’

  We stayed chatting to Mike and eating cookies, Mum and Mike talking about anything under the sun – apart from Dad. But when Mum and I went upstairs she pulled a ‘help‘ face at me.

  ‘It looks like there’s no going back now,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll stew here for ever, hurray, hurray, hurray!’ I said. ‘So, Mum, is this home now?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Then can I write to Rhona to let her know where I am?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  I got out my best card and Auntie Avril’s felt tips. I drew a picture of myself on the front, painting with Mike. I did a teeny weeny picture of my picture on Mike’s easel, and a picture of Rhona holding poor dear Birthday on my canvas.

  I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to write to Rhona so I spent a long time colouring everything in. I even did the sea in the background all different blues and greens, leaving a little white tip on the top of each wave.

  When the page was shiny and stiff with colour I had to turn over and write my letter. I’d been rehearsing what to say inside my head but it was so difficult. In the end I just scribbled:

  I put Lily Cottage as my new address but I didn’t really expect Rhona to write back. She wasn’t really a girl for writing letters. But in two days’ time I got a little parcel from her. It was small and soft and when I slid my little finger under the wrapping paper I felt fur.

  I thought Rhona was sending me Reginald Redted to keep me company, but when I ripped the paper open I found a tiny droopy bear in a very wrinkled faded navy outfit.

  ‘Nicholas Navybear!’ I whispered. ‘But you drowned!’

  I opened Rhona’s note.

  Seventeen

  ‘I think we’d better get you into a school here, Beauty,’ said Mum, as we had a cup of tea together after serving breakfast.

  I stared at Mum, appalled.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school!’ I said. ‘I can’t! I’ve got to do my share of the guest-house work – and then I paint with Mike. I’m working, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t be such a noodle, you know you’ve got to go to school.’

  ‘Yes, some day, but not now. It’ll be the summer holidays soon anyway. I can start school in September, if I must.’

  ‘You’ll start now. I want to do everything properly. What if your dad starts suing for custody of you and it comes out in court I didn’t send you to school. I don’t want to be declared an unfit mother! No, you’re going, sweetheart, and that’s final. We’ll ask Mike where the Rabbit Cove primary school is.’

  ‘That’s simple,’ said Mike, coming in to load the dishwasher. ‘There isn’t one. It closed down five years ago because the numbers were dwindling.’

  ‘Hurray!’ I said. ‘Then I can’t go, Mum, can I?’

  ‘Yes, you can. You’ll have to go to the nearest school, that’s all,’ said Mum determinedly.

  It turned out the nearest primary school was in Seahaven, a good six miles away.

  ‘Then I can’t go,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, you can. You have to,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘But how on earth could I get there?’

  ‘I’ll have to drive you.’

  ‘You can’t, not if you’re serving breakfasts.’

  ‘Well, maybe there’s a bus. Although I don’t want you going on a bus on your own. Oh, God, how can I be in two places at once?’ said Mum.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dilly,’ said Mike. ‘There are kids at number two and number seventeen. They go on the bus. Beauty can go with them.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I raged. ‘I won’t go. You can’t make me, Mum.’

  ‘Stop it, Beauty. You’re doing my head in,’ said Mum.

  ‘Here, Beauty, leave your mum in peace,’ said Mike. ‘Come shopping with me. I need to stock up on heaps of flour and sugar and stuff. Your mum’s cookies are getting incredibly popular. Mrs Brooke next door has got wind of them and wants to buy a batch to offer to her guests, if you please!’

  Mike kept nattering on as we walked up the hill to the little supermarket. He kept asking for advice as we went round all the shelves, getting me stretching and bending and balancing and adding up in my head. He didn’t mention the dreaded ‘S’ word until we were trailing home, with huge carrier bags in both hands.

  ‘Now then,’ he puffed. ‘About school . . .’

  ‘You think I’ve calmed down now and I’ll be reasonable. But I’m still—’ I tried to think of the right word. ‘Adamant!’ I finished triumphantly.

  ‘Does it not occur to you that a girl intelligent enough to use a posh word like adamant might be in need of a good school?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a good school. I think they’re all bad bad bad.’

  ‘You didn’t like your last school?’

  ‘It was awful, the worst ever. It was ever so posh – and I’m not.’

  ‘But you must do OK at most lessons?’

  ‘That’s partly the problem. If you come top that’s another reason for everyone to tease you and call you Brainbox and Cleverclogs and Snotty-Swotty,’ I said gloomily. ‘I did try to act thick when I first went to Lady Mary Mount bank but the teacher got cross with me and said I wasn’t trying. She got really upset and I hated that and so I worked hard and she was pleased so then I got called a teacher’s pet too.’

  ‘Well, they could call you worse things.’

  ‘Oh, they did, they did! There was this one girl called Skye – she was ever so pretty and popular but the meanest girl ever and she invented a new nasty nickname for me nearly every day. It was just like a game to her. The worst nickname of all was . . .’ I swallowed, still scarcely able to say it. ‘Ugly,’ I mumbled, my eyes stinging.

  ‘What was that?’ Mike said apologetically. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘Ugly!’ I said, shivering with the shame of it.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mike, but he didn’t sound shocked. ‘That’s not very nice.’

  ‘It’s a silly take on my name, Beauty. Skye laughed and laughed at it because I’m the exact opposite of my name. I am Ugly,’ I said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mike, more sympathetically. ‘You’re not the slightest bit ugly, Beauty. You’re not a pretty-pretty curly-wurly sort of girl, I grant you, but I think you look bright and intelligent and interesting. However, I’m not going to waste my breath trying to convince you, because I know what you women are like! And this poisonous Skye seems to have done her best to demoralize you. What about the school before this last one? Was that posh too?’

  ‘It wasn’t posh, it was quite tough, but they didn’t like me there either. They all had a belly laugh at my name too.’

  ‘And you’re worried that’s what will happen at Seahaven?’

  ‘Yep. Unless I can make them call me something else, like Cookie.’

  ‘Cookie’s a cool nickname, but I’d stick with Beauty. It’s great to have a distinctive, unusual name.’

  ‘Oh, Mike, I do like you ever so much and I don’t mean to be rude but you do talk rubbish sometimes. How would you like to be called Handsome?’

  ‘I’d love it!’ said Mike, chuckling. ‘And why would that be funny, Miss? I am handsome!’ He struck a silly pose as if he was being photographed, big belly much to the fore. I couldn’t help laughing as he intended, though I was still feeling very fussed.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll like it there once you’ve settled in,’ said Mike.

  ‘That’s what my dad said about my last school. I didn’t ever settle.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to think positive, Beauty. I’m sure it’s a great little school.’

  ‘Did your children go to this school, Mike?’

  ‘No, no, they were both grown up when I moved here,’ said Mike.

  ‘So how do you know it’s a great school?’

  ‘Sometimes you just have to take things on trust,’ said Mike. ‘You and your mum didn’t know anything about Rabbit Cove, right – but you knew you�
�d like it here.’

  I lightened up at last. ‘OK, OK, you’ve got me now,’ I said, laughing.

  I didn’t feel like laughing next Monday morning. Mum had phoned Seahaven Primary and they said they’d squeeze me in somehow. Mum asked about uniform and they said they didn’t have one, just a sweatshirt. Mum and I had a long discussion about what I should wear.

  I had very few clothes now so I didn’t have much choice. I obviously wasn’t going to wear the grey party dress and pinafore and my grey heeled boots – that outfit was far too grand for school. I wanted to wear my jeans and a T-shirt but Mum said they might look too scruffy. I was left with my denim skirt and the blue stripy top that went with it.

  ‘I can’t wear it every single day though, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘I know. We’ll maybe go shopping in Seahaven next week and buy you another couple of outfits. I’ve been saving my wages,’ said Mum. She ruffled my hair. And we’ll have to get you to a hairdresser, you’re starting to look like a Shetland pony.’

  ‘Mum . . . Can I have it all cut off?’

  ‘What? You want a crew cut? Are you mad?’ said Mum.

  ‘No, I’d like it just ordinary short. So I don’t have to bother with stupid bows and slides and stuff. They always fall off anyway. Oh please, Mum.’

  ‘But your dad won’t let you—’ Mum stopped herself.

  ‘We’re not with Dad. We’re just us – and you don’t really mind if I get my hair cut, do you?’

  ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘Whoopee! Will you do it for me? I’ll go and find some scissors.’

  ‘No, no, we’ll get it cut properly. There’s a hair-dresser’s card in the newsagent’s window. We’ll phone her up.’

  The hairdresser was called Dawn. She was a lovely large lady with a plump baby who smiled and waggled her legs in her baby chair while her mum did her hairdressing. The baby had very cute hair in little dandelion tufts.

  ‘Do you think mine would go like that?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe not a good idea,’ Mum said quickly. ‘I think you’d suit a pageboy, Beauty. What do you think, Dawn?’