Sundae Girl

by Cathy Cassidy

  Gran’s face crumples. ‘But I thought …?’

  ‘Bobby’s marrying Victoria,’ Grandad reminds her. ‘You remember, Molly, love.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you missed your chance there, Rose, pet,’ Gran says. ‘Never mind. Perhaps you’ll catch the bouquet?’

  Mum snorts. ‘As if. Who wants to get married anyway? I’m a career girl.’

  ‘I thought you were a hairdresser!’ Gran says, baffled.

  Mum rolls her eyes, lighting another cigarette and frowning at the invitation. ‘Have you seen the date? April Fool’s Day! Well, that’s the biggest joke of all, isn’t it?’

  There’s a dull silence, broken only by the clickety-click of Gran’s knitting.

  ‘It won’t last,’ Mum says darkly, giving her toast and jam to Toto and stomping upstairs to bed. ‘If Sue rings, tell her I’m feeling under the weather,’ she calls down to us. ‘I’m going to take a couple of days off, get a proper rest. Sue knows how hard I work. She’ll understand.’

  Maybe, maybe not.

  After school, I get home to find Mum has recovered enough to get dressed up and style her hair ready to head off to town to meet some friends.

  ‘Which friends, pet?’ Grandad asks. ‘Where will you be? Don’t be too late, now!’

  ‘Late?’ Mum laughs harshly. ‘What am I, sixteen again? I’ll come home when I want to, Dad. You don’t know my friends, and we don’t know yet where we’ll be, so just back off. Is it a crime to go out once in a while? Have a little drink, relax, have fun?’

  Gran and Grandad look at her, silent. Their eyes are very blue, very shiny, their faces are pale and crinkly and sad. They look too old to be coping with this, too old to know what to do.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ Mum says now, shrugging on a pink leather jacket with a couple of old ciggy burns on the sleeve. I notice her make-up is streaky, the mascara all smudged and claggy.

  ‘You can’t,’ I hear myself say. ‘You can’t look after yourself, or me, or Gran and Grandad. You’re smoking again, and you promised you never would. And drinking, even though you swore blind that you’d stop. You don’t care about us –all you care about is the next whisky, even though you know it’s poisoning you. Can’t you see what you’re doing, Mum?’ I plead.

  Mum’s eyes flash with anger, and her hand springs up to slap my cheek. Somehow, she pulls back, and her hand hovers in mid-air, shaking. She claps the hand over her mouth, and her whole body seems to shudder.

  ‘How could you understand the things I’ve been through?’ she hisses at me. ‘The heartbreak? I bring a wage in, don’t I? I’ve brought you up single-handed, and you’ve never wanted for a thing. Aren’t I still at home looking after those two –’ she jerks a finger towards Gran and Grandad – ‘even though they’re enough to drive anyone mad with their fussing and their nagging? What more do you all want? Oh, you make me sick, the lot of you.’

  She shoves her way out of the door, slamming it behind her.

  I press a hand to my cheek, almost as though I can feel the slap that never quite happened. My heart is thumping.

  ‘What a very rude girl,’ Gran says into the silence. ‘No manners at all. I don’t think we should ask her here again. In fact, I’ve a good mind to have a word with her mother.’

  ‘You do that, Molly, love,’ Grandad says, and I smile, in spite of everything. Grandad slips an arm round my shoulder, leading me back into the living room.

  ‘She didn’t mean it, pet,’ he says. ‘It’s the drink talking. She’d never hurt you, Jude.’

  ‘I just wanted her to know how it feels for us,’ I whisper. ‘I hate it!’

  I look at Grandad’s tired eyes, at Gran, hunched in an armchair with her knitting, chewing her lip, tugging holes in the wool with long, anxious fingers. Toto puts his head on her lap, and she strokes his fur, absently.

  ‘We all hate it,’ Grandad says.

  We’re just not allowed to talk about it. We don’t know how. I wipe my eyes – there’s no way I’m going to cry when Gran and Grandad need me to be strong.

  ‘Anyone hungry?’ I ask, too brightly. ‘Beans on toast?’

  ‘Lovely pet.’

  So I make beans on toast and Grandad makes a pot of tea, and Gran produces a packet of jammie dodgers from her knitting bag. We are still munching our way through this feast when Sue from the hairdresser’s calls round. Sue is plump and chatty and she’s good friends with Mum when Mum isn’t drinking. Right now, though, Sue has been replaced by an ever-changing cast of nameless drinking mates, Mum’s new best friends for a week, a day, an hour.

  I pour Sue a mug of tea and arrange some jammie dodgers on a plate for her.

  ‘Oh, Sue, love, sit down,’ Grandad says. I know right away he won’t tell her the truth. No one must know.

  ‘I’m sorry Rose didn’t make it in to work today,’ he says brightly. ‘She wasn’t feeling too good – she’s never quite shaken off that flu since January. Give her a couple of days and she’ll be back on top form.’

  ‘I expect she was feeling embarrassed, after yesterday, too,’ Sue says, taking the tea and biscuits.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Well, you know, the accident and everything,’ Sue says.

  ‘Yes, of course, I expect so,’ Grandad bluffs.

  ‘What accident?’ I ask.

  Sue looks kind of pink. ‘She didn’t tell you? Oh, well, it was nothing to worry about. Could have happened to anyone. I just wanted to let her know that it was all sorted out, the client has promised not to go to the papers or anything. I offered her a year’s free hairdressing and manicures at the salon …’

  ‘Sue,’ I say bluntly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Um, well, Rose mixed up a hair colour a little too strong and left the client under the hairdryer for too long …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, she dyed Miss Devlin’s hair green,’ Sue admits. ‘With slight burns to the scalp.’

  I sink down into an armchair.

  ‘As in Miss Devlin the English teacher?’ I ask faintly ‘My form tutor?’

  ‘I think she does teach up at St Joe’s, now that you mention it.’

  I let out a long, ragged breath. Mum can hardly get her act together to go into work these days, but when she does appear she manages to maim the only teacher at St Joseph’s I actually like. Miss Devlin with green hair? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘She was away today,’ I recall, horrified. ‘We had a cover teacher.’

  ‘Well, it took a while to put things right,’ Sue explained. ‘She’s fine now, apart from the burns, and I put some aloe vera gel on those. We settled for “Golden Sunset” in the end.’

  ‘You dyed Miss Devlin’s hair blonde?’ I ask. This is almost as shocking as dyeing it green.

  ‘Best colour to cover it.’ Sue shrugs. ‘Bit of warmth. It’s taken ten years off her – apart from the burns, of course.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Grandad says. ‘Well, as I said, Rose has been feeling a bit run down …’

  Sue looks at him, her eyes full of pity.

  ‘Patrick, I know,’ she says. ‘It’s OK. I just wanted to say – well, tell Rose to take as much time off as she needs. I know she didn’t mean it, but I can’t afford mistakes like that. Karen and I can cover for her till she’s back on track. OK?’

  Sue stands up, smoothing down her jeans.

  ‘I – ah – found this at the back of the shampoo cupboard,’ she says quietly to Grandad, passing him a bottle-shaped package swathed in carrier bags. ‘I thought it best to let you know.’

  Grandad has the bottle out of her hands and hidden in the sideboard drawer in less time than it takes to blink.

  ‘Yes, well, lovely to see you again, Sue,’ he says quickly, ushering her to the door. ‘Don’t be a stranger, now. I’ll be sure to tell Rose how understanding you’ve been about … well, everything.’

  ‘As I said, Patrick,’ Sue says, beaming, ‘not a problem.’

  Not a problem?

  M
y mum only dyed Miss Devlin’s hair green. It could have been anyone, but it had to be Miss Devlin, didn’t it? She knows Mum, from Parents’ Night. And now she knows that I am the daughter of a mad, hair-dye-wielding maniac. Or, worse …

  Did she smell the drink on Mum as she painted on the deadly dye-paste? Did she guess? Will she look at me with sad, pitying eyes when I trudge in to registration tomorrow?

  I hope not.

  Grandad turns the TV on to Family Fortunes. Gran’s eyes light up as she watches the screen, needles flying, and Toto very daintily leans over and snaffles the jammie dodgers from Sue’s untouched plate.

  I wake up early, in a cold sweat, after a vivid nightmare in which Mr McGrath, Father Lynch and Miss Devlin (with glowing lime-green hair) chase me off school property, pelting me with bottles of ginger beer, jammie dodgers and snowballs that turn out to be gobbets of hair dye.

  Nice. I shower quickly and get dressed, making sure my shirt is crisply ironed, my sweater clean, tie straight. I spend a few minutes polishing my boots to a high shine, on the off chance that perfect school uniform will shield me from the fallout that Miss Devlin’s hair disaster is bound to create.

  By the time I hear the creak of the stairs, the table is laid for breakfast and I’ve poured tea for Gran and Grandad.

  ‘That’s grand, pet,’ Grandad says, huddling into his dressing gown and warming his hands above the toaster. ‘You’re a good girl, Jude.’

  Gran wanders into the kitchen in tartan slippers and an ankle-length nightdress. Her blue eyes are pale and watery from sleep. She flops into a chair, picking up a bundle of knitting from the fruit bowl.

  ‘No sign of your mum, yet, then?’ Grandad sighs, dishing out bowls of cornflakes. ‘I didn’t hear her come in, so it must have been really late. What does she find to do till all hours of the night?’

  ‘Drink,’ I say, coldly. ‘That’s what she does. Even though she knows what it does to her. It’s pathetic!’

  ‘Now, now, Jude,’ Grandad says. ‘It’s an illness, you know. She can’t help it.’

  ‘Can’t she?’ I ask. ‘I bet she could help it if she tried. She just doesn’t want to. She’d choose whisky over us any day, Grandad, you know she would. She doesn’t care how much it hurts us.’

  ‘Who’s hurt?’ Gran asks, clutching her knitting. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Molly,’ Grandad says softly, putting an arm round her. ‘Eat up your cornflakes, now. Jude didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I whisper. ‘It’s OK, Gran.’

  But Gran is standing now, clutching the mess of yarn to her, eyes wild. ‘Something’s wrong!’ she cries. ‘Where’s my Rose? What’s happened to my Rose?’

  Grandad rolls his eyes, coaxes Gran back on to her chair. ‘Nothing’s happened to Rose,’ he says patiently ‘She’s upstairs, asleep in bed. Jude’s just going to take her a nice cup of coffee.’

  ‘I don’t want …’ I begin, but Grandad gives me a stern look.

  ‘She didn’t mean those things she said yesterday,’ he tells me. ‘She won’t even remember them, Jude. It was the drink talking. Take her a coffee and clear the air.’

  ‘She dyed Miss Devlin’s hair green,’ I say. ‘I’ll never forgive her.’

  ‘Jude!’

  So I shrug and huff and spoon instant coffee into Mum’s drama queen mug.

  I hesitate outside Mum’s door and knock, but there’s no reply so I push the door open. I expect to see a messy, darkened room stinking of whisky and fags, a rumpled duvet, Mum asleep with a ginger-beer bottle in her arms. Instead, the curtains are wide open, and the dull February light filters in. I can see right away she’s not there. The duvet is neat and tidy, the pillow plumped. It’s like nobody slept there at all.

  My heart starts to race. I look around for Mum’s pink leather jacket with the stained cuff, her red stilettos, her handbag. They’re missing. She hasn’t been home.

  ‘Grandad!’ I roar. ‘Grandad! Quick!’

  He thunders up the stairs, puffs into the doorway behind me.

  ‘Ah, no,’ he says. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s been out all night,’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘She could be anywhere! Anything could have happened!’

  Images of dark alleys, sleazy pubs and strangers crowd into my head, and I push them away again.

  ‘No, no,’ Grandad blusters. ‘There’s no need to worry. She’ll be at Sue’s or Giovanni’s, or one of her new friends’ places. Perhaps she couldn’t get a taxi.’

  ‘But she always comes home,’ I say shakily. ‘Always.’

  ‘Of course she does.’ Grandad frowns. ‘Of course. But perhaps she had just a little bit too much to drink and forgot the time, lost her keys, spent her taxi money …’

  I blink back tears, thinking of Mum lost and alone in the middle of the night. What if she’s had an accident? Or made herself really, really ill, like last time, when it took an ambulance, a bunch of doctors and a long stay in hospital to put things right?

  ‘Don’t be upsetting yourself, Jude,’ Grandad says firmly. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure. You go on to school and leave this to me – I’ll do some ringing round. By the time you get home, your mum will be back, safe and sound, you’ll see.’

  ‘Promise?’ I ask, the way I used to when I was little and I thought that Grandad could do anything.

  ‘Promise,’ Grandad says. He stretches out a hand to ruffle my hair. ‘It’ll be all right. Go on to school, Jude – and don’t worry.’

  I clatter down the stairs, grab my rucksack, blow Gran a kiss. Her knitting yarn is trailing through the dregs of milk and cornflakes on the table, but I pretend not to notice. She looks at me, faintly puzzled, and I know she’s struggling to remember who I am.

  ‘I had a daughter, once,’ she tells me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I agree, tucking a strand of grey hair behind her ear. ‘I had a mum once too.’

  Miss Devlin stalks through the school in her usual no-nonsense manner, with an armful of books and a long, crinkly scarf trailing behind her. She looks amazing. The straggly, mouse-grey layers have gone, replaced by an ash-blonde bob with golden streaks. She has ditched her usual dark trouser suit for a cute flowery skirt and a pale blue fluffy jumper. Fluffy? Miss Devlin?

  Mr McGrath stops in his tracks and does a double take as she sweeps past. Then he sees me staring, and goes slightly pink.

  In registration, there is a similar reaction. The kids look once, look again, then gawp openly. ‘Like the hair, Miss,’ Brendan Coyle says, eyes wide.

  ‘Thank you, Brendan.’

  ‘It’s too young for her,’ Kristina Kowalski whispers nastily, but Miss Devlin doesn’t seem to hear. She just smiles to herself and raises one eyebrow, and Brendan tells Kristina to shut up.

  Well, at least Miss Devlin isn’t mad at me. Nobody has pelted me with ginger-beer bottles, jammie dodgers or hair-dye bombs. Nothing has been said about detentions or lines. I have not been summoned to see Mr McGrath to be expelled, or Father Lynch to confess all my sins. Yet.

  Just when I think I’ve got away with it, Miss Devlin collars me as we trail out of the classroom ready for our first lesson.

  ‘Can I see you for a minute, Jude?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t want to be late for history,’ I bluster.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. It’s just – well, I thought we should have a little chat.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Miss?’

  ‘Jude …’ she says, kindly. ‘Is everything all right at home?’

  A blush seeps up from my neck, staining my face with pink. I can’t meet her eye. Miss Devlin is brisk, businesslike, strict. I don’t think I can cope with kindness, not from her.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Miss,’ I lie.

  ‘Oh? Well, that’s good. But if there were any problems … if you ever needed to talk …’

  My gaze slides past Miss Devlin. I’m looking out of the window, off into the distance where a plane is slic
ing its way through the vast, blue sky, trailing a long streak of feathery white behind it. I wish I was on that plane, heading for somewhere warm and sunny, leaving my troubles behind. Of course, knowing my luck, I’d be sandwiched in between Gran and Grandad, with Mum across the aisle glugging down the duty-free.

  ‘No problems, Miss,’ I say. ‘Honestly’

  ‘Well, if you do need to talk,’ Miss Devlin says, ‘you know where to find me. It’ll all work out in time, Jude, I’m sure.’

  I bolt out of there like my tail’s on fire. It’ll all work out in time? Yeah, sure.

  My mum could be curled up in an alleyway, mugged, bleeding. She could be stuck in Casualty with a broken ankle, trying to remember her name and address. She could be waking up in some seedy flat with a stranger, rubbing her head and reaching for the next drink.

  It’s not going to work out, not any time soon.

  And Miss Devlin is going to be shooting me sad-eyed looks of pity, probably for the rest of my school career. Great.

  I slope along to history and slip into a seat beside Nuala. Mr Jackson’s voice drones on endlessly, something about Henry VIII and his six wives. I’m not taking anything in, not even when Carter writes Amber-Lynn up on the whiteboard instead of Anne Boleyn and the class dissolves into giggles.

  ‘What?’ Carter demands, baffled. ‘It is Amber-Lynn, isn’t it? What’s funny?’

  ‘This is a history lesson, not a soap opera,’ Mr Jackson huffs. ‘Write me two sides of A4 on Anne Boleyn for homework, Carter. Are you feeling all right, Jude Reilly? You look very pale.’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ I say. A whole wave of shudders washes over my body. Even my fingers are shaking.

  ‘She’s shivering, Sir,’ Nuala says, anxiously.

  ‘Oh dear. Take her along to the office.’

  I hide behind my hair and let Nuala lead me from the room.

  When you are a bright-eyed, Goody Two-Shoes, high-achieving pupil, nobody expects you to pull a sickie, but hey, I learnt it from my mum. She’s an expert.

  ‘How do you feel?’ the school nurse asks. ‘There’s no fever, but you do seem a bit shaky.’

  ‘I feel shaky’ I say, and that’s the truth, at least. ‘And tired.’