Jelly Baby

by Jean Ure

I said, “They’re shorts. Why?”

  “Just asking,” said Dad. “I suppose shorts are all right.”

  I could see that Em was starting to feel unsure all over again. Rather crossly I said, “Why shouldn’t they be?”

  Dad hunched a shoulder, like, Don’t ask me, I’m just a man.

  I said, “Da-a-ad!” It wasn’t like they were short shorts. Obviously you couldn’t wear short shorts. Not to a classy restaurant. But Em’s were as long as a skirt would have been. They were perfectly decent! And actually Em has quite nice legs. Nice and slim. Not podgy like mine. I reckoned Dad ought to be pleased to see her all dressed up for once.

  “Maybe we should ask Caroline,” he said. “Caroline! Come and help us out. Is it all right for Em to wear shorts?”

  “Shorts?” Caroline sounded alarmed even before she was properly in the room. She took one look at Em and shrieked, “Emily, my God! You’re not going like that?”

  A terrible silence fell. Em’s cheeks had turned a painful scarlet.

  “Sorry,” said Caroline. “Sorry! It was just a bit of a shock. But really, sweetie, you can’t go to a top-class restaurant dressed like a— Well! In shorts and a leather jacket. It’s just not appropriate. Come!” She took Em by the hand. “Let’s go back upstairs and see what else you’ve got. You must have something!”

  Dad cleared his throat. “That was unfortunate,” he said, as Em and Caroline left the room. “She’d obviously made an effort. It just wasn’t quite … right. For the occasion.”

  “I thought she looked lovely,” I said.

  “Yes, if she was going to a party, maybe. It’s not really the sort of thing to wear to a restaurant! We’re not just popping up the road for a pizza, you know. This is a place where they won’t let you in without a tie.”

  “Just as well we didn’t try going there before,” I said. “They’d never have let us in. You didn’t even have a tie!”

  “Of course I had a tie.” Dad was beginning to sound a trifle frazzled. “I had lots of ties. I just never wore them. There’s the cab! Go and see if your sister’s ready.”

  Em was on her way back down, pale, now, and subdued, trailing behind Caroline. She had changed into a boring pleated skirt and a thick woolly jumper that our gran had knitted. At least Caroline had let her keep the boots. I was glad about that.

  As we walked out to the cab Em whispered urgently in my ear, “The jacket isn’t really leather!”

  “Makes it even more cool,” I said.

  We’d never been anywhere as posh as the Chateau Bonaparte. It was awesome! We were led to our table across oceans of carpet so thick it was like walking on sponge cake. Triple sponge cake. You just sank right in up to your ankles.

  The table had a white cloth, all stiff and starchy. I surreptitiously tried folding one of the bits that hung over the edge and it practically cracked in two. The chairs were tiny and spidery, like doll’s-house chairs. Dad looked quite precarious, perched on his. I wondered what they would do if a huge great fat person came walking in. Maybe they had special chairs they kept in a cupboard. Or maybe they had rules about fat people. At least I could see now why Caroline had made Em go and change her clothes. A sleeveless jacket and shorts would have been a bit out of place. They might not even have let her in.

  “Right,” said Caroline. She reached out for the menu. “Let’s take a look and see what you two fussypants can eat.”

  The menu was all in French. And in handwriting. Dad chuckled.

  “This will test you,” he said.

  Em and I peered at it distrustfully.

  “Potage,” I said. “That’s soup!”

  Em said, “Yes, and boeuf is beef.”

  “And oignon is onion,” said Dad. “French onion soup! Can’t get more veggie than that.”

  “Or more tasty,” said Caroline.

  Rather doubtfully, we agreed to try the onion soup. It seemed to be the only veggie starter on offer so we didn’t really have much choice.

  “Good,” said Dad. “That’s that settled. How about the main course?”

  There was only one veggie dish and that was aubergine. Em and I exchanged worried glances. We don’t like aubergine!

  “Don’t like aubergine?” Caroline tutted impatiently. “How awkward you are!”

  I didn’t think we were awkward. I thought it was the restaurant that was awkward. Seemed to me it wasn’t fair, only having one dish for vegetarians and a whole load for meat-eaters. I counted them up – there were ten. I didn’t say anything, though. It would have been rude to grumble when Caroline was treating us.

  “So what are we going to do?” she said. She studied the menu. “How about roast potatoes and a selection of vegetables? Would that suit you?”

  We nodded. By now I was starting to feel a bit uncertain, what with the menu being all in French and the waiter standing there looking superior, like we were some low form of life that had crawled out of the gutter. Caroline had explained that we not only didn’t eat meat, we didn’t eat fish, either, and he’d made a puffing sound like pfui! Like, really snooty. I’d been tempted to open my mouth and say about fish having faces, but a warning glare from Caroline had stopped me.

  “Well, now,” said Dad, when we’d all settled on what we were having, “isn’t this nice?” He beamed happily. “All together, as a family! You can thank Caroline for that. If it had been up to me I’d have left you both at home to eat lettuce leaves. So let’s not make any waves, huh?”

  “Have a roll and butter,” said Caroline. “You can’t object to that.”

  “They’re not going to object to anything,” said Dad. “Are you?”

  Very meekly we shook our heads.

  “Shall we let them have a taste of champagne?” said Dad. “Do you think they deserve it?”

  “Oh, I think so,” said Caroline. “They’ve behaved quite well so far.”

  I felt Em kick at me under the table. She pulled a face. I pulled one back. I wondered, if Em hadn’t been there, whether I would have been tempted to eat prawns. People at the next table were eating them and just for a moment I almost forgot that even little creatures like prawns have faces. Sort of. But I had to support Em. Apart from anything else, I’d promised Cass.

  The champagne arrived in a big silver bucket full of ice.

  “Oh,” I said, “I thought it would be pink.”

  “Why so?” said Dad.

  “Cos pink’s the best!”

  “Who told you that?” Caroline sounded amused.

  “Isn’t it?” I said.

  “Not really. You just pay over the odds for the pretty colour.”

  Huh! I might have known Lottie had no idea what she was talking about.

  “They use exactly the same grapes,” Dad assured me. “They just add the skins to make it pink.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “Champagne’s made from grapes?”

  Caroline laughed. “What did you think it was made from?”

  “Dunno,” I said. I’d never thought about it. But just to get things straight, I said, “So pink isn’t any better than the ordinary sort? Like that one?” I waved a hand at the bottle of champagne sitting in its ice bucket.

  “This is vintage,” said Dad.

  “Is vintage good?”

  “You’d better believe it! The amount it costs.”

  “So is vintage the best?”

  “What is this obsession?” said Caroline.

  “I’m just trying to learn,” I said. “What make is it? The one we’re having?” I needed to know so that I could tell Lottie.

  “This is Bollinger,” said Dad.

  “Bollinger?” I giggled.

  “Strange, whimsical child,” said Caroline. “What do you find so funny?”

  “Sounds rude,” I said.

  Caroline rolled her eyes.

  “So, are you going to try it?” said Dad.

  “Yes, please!”

  I held out my glass. The waiter, with a sneery sort of smirk, splashed a bit of cham
pagne into it. I felt like hissing Bollinger! at him. He was being really obnoxious.

  “There you go,” said Dad. “Just a taste.”

  I really wanted to like champagne, just so I could boast about it to Lottie, but quite honestly the only good thing I could find to say about it was the way the bubbles all fizzed and popped. Basically it was like drinking medicine.

  Dad said, “Well, that was a waste! You’d better have something else.”

  “Fruit juice,” said Caroline. I’d actually have preferred Coke, but I thought probably they wouldn’t do Coke in such a posh restaurant, so I chose pineapple juice to take the taste away, pineapple juice being really sweet. I like sweet things!

  I didn’t like the onion soup at all, even if it was French. I don’t think Em did, either, from the way her lips kept puckering. It tasted like a bad smell, like armpits. But we both cleared our soup bowls. We didn’t want Dad accusing us of being ungrateful.

  He and Caroline were eating lobster for their main course. I could see Em trying not to watch as they tucked into it. We just had our roast potatoes and vegetables.

  After a few minutes Dad frowned and said, “Emily, what’s the problem?”

  “N-nothing,” said Em.

  “So why do you keep sucking your cheeks in like that?”

  Em looked down at her roast potatoes. “They taste funny,” she muttered.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Dad was starting to sound a bit irritable. “They’re only potatoes. Bitsy’s eating them all right. Aren’t you?”

  He gave me this look, like, Don’t you dare say otherwise!

  “What’s the matter with them?” said Caroline.

  Em said that nothing was the matter, they just didn’t taste like normal potatoes.

  I’d thought the same thing, but decided they were probably just a special brand. Special French potatoes. I said this to Em, and she latched on to it gratefully.

  “That’s probably what it is.”

  Frowning, Caroline picked up the menu and studied it for a moment.

  “Can’t you just enjoy them?” said Dad.

  “I am,” said Em, hastily stuffing potato into her mouth.

  “They’re good,” I said. “Just different.”

  “But can you eat them?”

  We assured him that we could.

  “Thank the lord for that,” said Dad.

  For afters Caroline said we could choose whatever we fancied. Even lemon possets if they were on the menu. (They weren’t. But I bet they wouldn’t have been as good as mine, anyway!)

  “There’s a thing called lemon sorbet,” said Em.

  I didn’t think lemon sorbet sounded very interesting so I had a big gooey meringue thing all squidging with cream. Caroline didn’t say a word!

  “That was yummy,” I said. “Best part of the meal! But I did enjoy the potatoes,” I added.

  “Oh, me too,” said Em.

  “Did you really? Honestly?” said Caroline. We promised her that we did. We wanted her to be happy. She gave a little smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s excellent!”

  It wasn’t till we got home and Dad was putting the car away that she told us the truth.

  “Girls, I have a confession to make! I didn’t say anything at the time because I knew if I did there’d be a scene, but I suddenly realised those potatoes that you liked so much were actually cooked in goose fat. It just never occurred to me until I looked at the menu again. Still …” She gave a little laugh. “No harm done! You managed to eat them quite happily, and it hasn’t poisoned you, has it?”

  I darted an anxious glance at Em. She had this look of frozen horror on her face. She whispered, “Goose fat?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Caroline, “I wasn’t trying to trick you, but the French do pride themselves on their cuisine. There probably wasn’t anything on the menu that would qualify as totally vegetarian, apart from the aubergines, which you said you didn’t like. And the puddings! You were safe there. You enjoyed those, didn’t you?”

  She smiled at us hopefully. I darted a quick glance at Em.

  Caroline said, “Emily? Am I forgiven?”

  Em made a choking sound.

  “Oh, now, come on!” said Caroline. “Don’t go all to pieces on us. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “It was for the goose,” I said.

  “The goose was already dead! They don’t kill them just to cook potatoes. Emily, do have a sense of proportion!”

  But Em had fled the room, bumping into Dad on his way in.

  “Now what’s up?” said Dad. “Where’s she off to in such a rush?”

  Caroline shook her head, like, I give up!

  “She’s probably gone to be sick,” I said.

  “Sick?” Dad sounded alarmed. “Why?”

  “We ate goose fat,” I said.

  “Goose fat?”

  “On the potatoes!”

  “But you enjoyed them,” said Caroline.

  “Only cos we didn’t realise.” And anyway, we hadn’t enjoyed them. We’d known there was something peculiar about them. And the onion soup had tasted like armpits.

  “Well, but if you didn’t realise …” Dad looked at me, almost pleading. He wanted me to say it was all right. That Em was just making a fuss about nothing.

  “Honestly,” said Caroline, “I didn’t mean to trick them!”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Dad put an arm round her, all protective. “You know these girls … couple of tragedy queens!”

  “It’s my own fault,” said Caroline. “You told me to leave them at home. I just so wanted us to be a family!”

  “I know,” said Dad. “I know.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m afraid you can’t take them anywhere!”

  I thought that was totally unfair of Dad. Caroline had tricked us; I didn’t care what she said. Soon as she’d discovered about the potatoes she should have told us, so we could have ordered something else. She didn’t have to let us go on eating them. That was just, like, gross.

  “Do you want to go and check on your sister?” said Dad.

  “I’ll go, if you like,” offered Caroline, “since I’m the one she’s cross with.”

  “She has no right to be cross,” said Dad, sounding rather cross himself. “It couldn’t be helped, it was a genuine mistake.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  I found Em in the kitchen, sitting at the table cuddling Bella.

  “You OK?” I said.

  Em nodded.

  “Have you been sick?”

  “I couldn’t help it.” Em gazed up at me pathetically. “I’ve eaten animals!”

  “You weren’t to know,” I said. “Somebody should have told us.”

  “But what could we have had? There wasn’t anything!”

  “Apart from aubergines.” All slippy and slimy. “And puddings.” I brightened. “The puddings were nice!”

  “Probably cooked those with something horrible, like gelatine.”

  “Oh.” I’d forgotten about gelatine. I never used to know what it was until Em explained to me. She said we had to watch out for it cos it came from hooves and bones and even intestines. Yuck! Doubtfully I said, “They wouldn’t use it in meringues, would they?”

  “Could have,” said Em.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Meringues are just egg white and sugar.”

  “Yes, and you can bet the eggs came from battery hens!”

  I said, “Don’t! That’s horrible.”

  “It’s all horrible.” Em snuffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I wish Caroline had never taken us!”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “We’ve just gone and ruined everything.”

  I said, “Us?” What had we done?

  “It was meant to be a celebration! It was meant to be happy. She just wanted us to enjoy ourselves and now she’s all upset and so’s Dad.”

  “So are you,” I said. “You’re wheezing again.” />
  “Don’t tell Caroline,” begged Em. “She’ll say it’s Bella!”

  Yes, and Dad would agree with her. That was the worst part of it – Dad always taking Caroline’s side.

  “It’s cos you’re stressed,” I said. Loyally I added, “Anyone’d be stressed eating goose fat when they’re supposed to be vegetarian.”

  “You’re not,” said Em.

  “I am so! I just don’t show it as much.”

  I wouldn’t ever kill an animal for food, not unless I was starving, maybe, but what can you do when someone you trust says “Eat the roast potatoes,” knowing all the time they’re covered in goose fat? It must have said on the menu, but the menu was all in French. I’d only been learning French for a term!

  Dad spoke French. Had he read the menu? If he had, then that would be, like, a real betrayal.

  “What are you frowning about?” said Em.

  “Nothing.” I didn’t want to upset her even more. It was bad enough Dad thought we were tragedy queens. “Thing is,” I said, “we didn’t know!”

  “It’s still murder,” said Em. She pushed her hair back and took a quivering breath. “Meat is murder. You know that!”

  Em has these posters in her bedroom that tell you so in big red letters like dripping blood. When Caroline first came to live with us she tried to get Em to take them down. She said they were grotesque.

  “Why can’t you have pictures of pop stars or something?”

  She’d even complained to Dad, but for once Dad had stuck up for Em.

  “Animal rights are like her religion,” he’d said.

  The posters had stayed where they were. Caroline said she shuddered every time she had to go into Em’s room.

  She appeared at the kitchen door just as we were deciding we might as well go to bed.

  “Oh, Emily, look at you!” she said. “Look at the state you’re in! I hope you’re not taking that cat upstairs with you?”

  “I’m taking her,” I said. I snatched Bella away from Em and cradled her defiantly. “She sleeps with me now.”

  “She shouldn’t be sleeping with either of you. What’s wrong with out here?”

  “She’s not used to it,” I said.

  As soon as we were upstairs I bundled Bella back into Em’s waiting arms.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s never going to find out.”