Caramel Hearts

by E. R. Murray

  “That was nice.”

  “Yeah. Only he didn’t call. Not until three weeks later, when he happened to be without a date.”

  “What a cheek!”

  “Yeah. A real charmer.”

  “And you said yes? Even though it was three weeks?”

  “He’d found my friends for me. And he was fine looking.”

  I giggle. “Fine looking”. Not “fit” or “hot” – “fine”. I pull out three small plates and three spoons, and lay them on the counter.

  “I was so nervous,” continues Mam. “I couldn’t remember what he looked like, so I made one of my friends come with me to identify him.”

  “No way!”

  “Yep. But I’m glad I did. It was the best date ever. We got on so well and hit it off right away. We liked the same things – Johnny Cash, Russian literature, hillwalking, cake. The conversation just flowed. You know?”

  I think of Jack, and my heart threatens to crack open like an egg.

  “And you stayed together from then?”

  “Not quite. We had a few dates, but Max was young. Wanted to sow his oats.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I say, trying not to think about the possibility of Jack and Sarah kissing.

  “That’s what it’s like when you’re that age. You’ll find out.”

  I look away – concentrate on the sauce. It’s ready, so I turn off the heat and let it stand in the hot pan.

  “I found another boyfriend. Carl. He was lovely – but he wasn’t Max. I couldn’t get your dad out of my head. I was certain we were meant to be together.”

  “Fate?”

  “Exactly. One day, I was in a restaurant with Carl, and Max came in. He was on a date with a beautiful woman. I remember her black hair trailing down her back. Her dress was high at the front but dangerously low cut at the back. She was a stunner. But somehow, fate intervened and he ended up leaving the restaurant with me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Chemistry.”

  I pull a face.

  “You might think it’s – what’s that word you use?”

  “Lame?”

  “Yeah – lame. But chemistry is a magical recipe. Only, unlike a dessert, you can’t explain the ingredients. It just – happens.”

  I open the oven door, checking the progress. The sponge hearts have browned nicely. Mam throws me her tea towel. Bunching it around one hand, I lift the baking tray out and set the hearts on a rack to cool. We look at the steaming desserts hungrily as the sweet, burnt-sugar scent wafts around the kitchen.

  “Max was late for his reservation, so they’d given his table away. I told Carl we were old friends and he suggested they joined our table.” She reaches out to prod each heart in turn. “They did – and it was like old times. Our dates melted into the background. The rest is history.”

  “You really loved Dad that much?”

  “So much that it made me feel sad at times. I couldn’t cope with all the overwhelming emotions. He was my only love. My happiness. And I was his – like this says.”

  She flashes me the inscription.

  “Do you want him back?”

  “Your dad? Sometimes I think that’s the only way I’ll ever be happy. Other times, I know leaving was the right thing to do. But he still tugs at me – in here.”

  Mam thumps her chest and jumps off the counter, changing the subject.

  “These Caramel Hearts look good to go!”

  I decide not to push the conversation any further. It’s the most open Mam has ever been and I don’t want to ruin things.

  “We’ll definitely try the Baked Alaska together,” says Mam, as the front door slams. “How’s that for impeccable timing? Hatty! Come and try some of this.”

  Harriet’s there like a shot, a bulging carrier bag in her hand.

  Grinning, I cut around the inside edges of each heart-shaped mould and tap its contents gently onto a plate. I spoon the thick caramel sauce over the top, letting it drip down the sides. The hearts are perfectly shaped and the sauce forms a creamy moat. Despite Hatty’s weight fixation, I push one across the table. She tucks in and nods slowly. Mam follows suit.

  “Amazing! I thought I’d never bake again but—”

  “You’re going to love my surprise,” interrupts Harriet. “Look – I got what you needed for the Baked Alaska. It’s my parting gift to you both.”

  A grin spreads across Mam’s face but, staring at the bag of ingredients, I don’t know what to think or feel. Why do they have to be so nice now I’ve got my heart set on London?

  Maybe I should forget the whole thing? But then Mad Dog’s face pops into my mind. There’s no way I’m going through with her plan, so I’m dead meat. Who knows what she’ll do to me next time? Anyway, I’ve waited a lifetime to meet Dad – and he’s been in touch, so he must feel the same.

  “What are you grinning at?” asks Hatty.

  I shrug.

  “See,” she whispers. “I told you it would be OK.”

  * * *

  I’m heading to bed when Harriet bounds out of her bedroom. Behind her, I spy piles of clothes, books, magazines and makeup. The room looks like it’s been under siege and come out on the losing side.

  “Packing already, I see?”

  Out of respect, Harriet pulls the door shut.

  “I can’t believe I’m finally going back.”

  “Me neither.”

  An uncomfortable silence settles between us. There is so much to say, but neither of us can find the words. I hear Mam singing downstairs. At first I feel guilty, but then I think, If she can be like this today, why can’t she be like this every day? Hope turns to anger. Within minutes, I’m angry at everything and everyone – especially Hatty, for leaving, and myself for nearly being fooled. Harriet obviously doesn’t sense my change of mood because she nudges me gently.

  “Hey, it’s my last night tomorrow. Want to go watch a film as a send-off? Mam said she’ll treat us to Ben & Jerry’s – we could choose a flavour each and share?”

  “No thanks.”

  “What about the bus station on Saturday – will you come and wave goodbye?”

  “I can’t. I’m busy.”

  “Suit yourself,” shrugs Harriet. “But you can’t keep sulking like this for ever. I’ve got to go back to uni – you understand that, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I say. “You gotta do what you gotta do. We all have.”

  As I close my bedroom door behind me, I put my headphones on and blast Johnny’s “If You Could Read My Mind”.

  Staring up at the ceiling, I recount Mam’s conversation. I try to stay mad, because otherwise I might lose my nerve. Maybe I’m being too harsh, but this could be my only chance to look for Dad. I can’t back down now. And imagine how happy Mam would be if I brought Dad home!

  I just have to face Old Mozzer and Mad Dog first.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Pretending Not to See or Be Seen

  Mad Dog’s deadline arrives too quickly and, true to her word, she’s waiting for me in the smokers’ corner after school.

  I see Emma, Zadie and Lorna disappearing into the distance. They keep looking back and gossiping, and I take this as a bad sign.

  “You’ve got the bag?” asks Maddy.

  “In here.” I tap my rucksack unenthusiastically. Knowing I’m leaving has made me brave. The purse, bills, photograph of Mrs Snelling’s dead son – it’s all there. Everything except the money.

  “Good – you know what you’ve got to say, right?”

  I know what to say, all right. It kept me up half the night as I tried to pre-empt every possible reaction from Mr Morrelly. And I came up with an even better version. I’ve decided to tell the truth. They can suspend me or do whatever they like – I’m outta here! But now, after another frustrating day of being the school leper, I’m exhausted and my brain hurts. I’ve given myself a worry headache and I’ve been jumpy all day. Every time a door slammed, I expected a teacher to haul me out of class a
nd catch me with the bag red-handed.

  “We’d better get going,” says Maddy. I must look startled, because she laughs in my face. “You don’t think I’m letting you go by yourself, do you?”

  Maddy trots beside me, chatting away about nothing in particular, as though she’s my best friend. I’m careful with what I say in return. I made the mistake of trusting her once and I’m not about to repeat it. As we cross the playground, Mad Dog suddenly goes quiet.

  “What the hell is he doing here? He’s got some nerve,” she snarls. “And as for her – she’s dead meat, I swear!”

  Jack and Sarah are outside the school gates – Jack’s banned from the premises – leaning in close to chat. They pause now and again to look around nervously, and seeing them together doesn’t sit right with me one bit. Jack looks up and catches my eye. On cue, Sarah spins around and looks at me like she no longer recognizes me – like she can’t believe what I’ve turned into. Unable to bear it, I pretend not to notice them, even though I know I can’t pull it off. Head down, I walk in time with Maddy, pretending not to see or be seen. Maddy takes my hand and swings it as we walk, like we’re complete besties. But once we’re out of their line of vision, she drops my hand and stomps towards the head teacher’s office with an ugly grimace on her face, cursing now and again under her breath. When we reach the office, she turns on me and flings me against the wall, holding me in place by the neck of my polo shirt. It could be worse – it could be my throat. But I daren’t move an inch.

  “Listen, you go in there and act as frightened as you can, cos believe me – if you mess this up, I’ll make sure your life isn’t worth living.”

  Nodding vigorously, I fight the urge to pee.

  “You think things’ve been bad up to now, with this.” Mad Dog tugs at my hair with her free hand. “Next time, you’ll get more than a haircut.”

  “OK, I get it.”

  “Good. Do well and you’ll never have to worry about being bullied again. And we’ll get that bitch, Sarah, for interfering.”

  “I’d prefer not to waste my time with Sarah,” I say, as calmly as I can, hoping Mad Dog will believe me. “Her and Jack deserve each other.”

  Mad Dog twists her mouth into a grin.

  “We’ll worry about that later. When we’re officially friends.” Pausing for a moment to give her best menacing stare, Mad Dog eventually stands aside. “I think you look scared enough now. Time to deliver the Oscar-winning performance.”

  I take a deep breath and smooth down my uniform.

  “What are you waiting for?” asks Maddy.

  “Don’t you think it’ll look a bit suspect if you’re here too?” I say.

  “I guess so,” says Maddy, and saunters off, checking back on me with every few steps. “But I’ll be waiting for you up there.”

  “Fine,” I say – like I’m happy about that.

  Lifting my hand to knock, I wait until Maddy has rounded the corner, give her a few seconds to make sure she’s not going to check back on me, and then bottle it. I’d be mad to tell the truth and, if I follow Maddy’s plan, she’ll own me for the rest of my life. Racing down the corridor, I use the teachers’ exit, cut through the car park and lose myself in the winding streets of the nearest estate. It’s only seven hours until the bus. Only seven hours to stay hidden.

  * * *

  As I climb the steps of the National Express coach – changed into my skinny jeans, favourite Johnny Cash T-shirt and warm coat – I feel my heart and head calming.

  This is it! I’m finally doing something brave. I’m ready to show everyone what I’m made of. There’ll be no more pushing Olivia Bloom around.

  Nervously, I play with my ticket – what if the driver realizes I’m underage? – but I needn’t have worried. He waves me on without even looking up. I head to the back of the bus and choose a window seat in front of the toilet. I don’t remember anything about living in London – I was too young –I’m looking forward to soaking up the sights along the way.

  Repeatedly checking my phone for the time, I wonder how long it will take my family to realize I’ve gone. If they notice at all. Putting my phone on silent, I decide to ignore their calls if they do try to contact me. Finding Dad is my best hope for a happy life.

  Three minutes before the bus is due to pull away, a girl in a green velvet jacket and cherry-red Doc Martens approaches, eyeing the spare seat. I adopt the best Mad Dog scowl I can and shove my rucksack so it covers the spare seat. Intimidated, the girl sits a few rows in front. As the coach pulls away, I slouch down, knees up against the chair in front, listening to “Father and Son”. Things feel better already.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Trapped in One Spot Isn’t Fun

  The National Express coach sails along the motorway. A smattering of chimney-littered industrial towns and smog-choked cities whizz by, reminding me of Egerton and the life I’m leaving behind. My favourite part of the journey is the long stretch of winding road after Nottingham. It’s pitch black, but I know the darkness is filled with green fields, horses and sheep – like the countryside we travelled through on the train to Whitby.

  As the coach gets further away from home, I can’t stop replaying events in my head. My mind is like a film trailer, showing various scenes from my life – good and bad. After a while, it gets so muddled, I no longer know why I’m running away and whether it’s the right thing to do. Then I see the stolen bag as I search for my iPod, and it all becomes clear again. I had hoped to be rid of it by now, but chickening out of coming clean to Old Mozzer means I’m stuck with it. I hunker down and try to sleep, thinking up ways I can get rid of the bag in London. Before long, my eyes start drooping, but every time the driver changes gear or brakes, I’m jolted awake.

  My phone vibrates, making me jump. The screen shows “Home”. I press the reject button and try to snooze again. But it vibrates a second time with a text from Harriet.

  LIV, WHERE ARE YOU? H XXX

  I quickly delete it. Deep down, I wonder how Mam and Harriet are feeling, but I tell myself I have to stop thinking that way, they’re no longer my problem – not that it works.

  To remind myself why I’m here, I reread Dad’s address – even though I have it memorized. I study the Tube map, but I almost know the route off by heart too. Still, I don’t want to make any mistakes.

  Circle or District Line from Victoria, change at Tower Hill for the DLR to Cutty Sark, Greenwich. From there, I follow the map to the “X” I’ve drawn to mark Dad’s house. A twinge of fear makes me shiver, and I think how different this would feel with Hatty or Sarah by my side. But the image of Sarah and Jack together pops into my head, and the thought melts away. I focus instead on the happy moment ahead – when Dad welcomes me. I wonder whether I’ll hold it together or whether I’ll cry. Maybe he’ll cry? I hope not. I’m no good when people cry. That’s Hatty’s area of expertise.

  The journey is longer and more uncomfortable than I imagined. Even though I can spread myself across two seats, my muscles ache and my neck feels snapped out of place. Six hours trapped in one spot isn’t fun – it’s not the adventure I expected.

  When the bus pulls in at Peterborough Station, I decide to stretch my legs, but it doesn’t really help. Only the excitement of London at the other end keeps me going. I’ll finally meet my dad – and that is worth any amount of discomfort.

  By the time the driver shouts “London, Victoria”, I’m tired, hungry and agitated. But the instant the coach pulls to a stop in the huge, fluorescent-lit coach station, excitement bubbles inside me. I spot a sign for the Underground and feel a new surge of energy. Fingering the address in my pocket, I climb off the bus and head straight for the bowels of London’s transport system.

  Fighting my way through the turnstiles, I can’t believe how many people are rushing about at such an early hour. Where could they all be going? A man with a briefcase bumps into me as I stop to figure out which direction of the District Line to take.

  “Sorry!”
I call after him, but he keeps walking, like I don’t exist. No change there then. It seems everyone is busy and important, with places to be. Well, I have places to be, too.

  “Greenwich, here I come!” I say, heading down the escalator to my first Tube.

  “Get outta the way, will ya!”

  It takes a moment for me to realize I’m not following etiquette – I should stand on the right. The left is for impatient people, scaling the escalator at top speed, dashing off to goodness knows where.

  “Sorry!” I call, for what feels like the umpteenth time.

  What’s wrong with people? It’s a good job the Tube is amazing – otherwise I might be put off. Wait till I tell Hatty about this, I think, then I realize – I might never see my sister again. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I concentrate on the journey.

  The Tube whizzes along at top speed, sparking its way in and out of tunnels and twisting round corners like a giant, engine-powered snake. Changing lines isn’t that complicated – I just keep a close eye on the stops shown above the doors. When I get off, I let myself get caught up in the crowd until a space opens. Then I stop and check my bearings. It’s easier than I expected – more straightforward than the labyrinth of colours on the Tube map suggests.

  But when I reach Tower Hill, it all starts to go wrong. As I exit the Tube in search of the DLR, an announcement comes over the Tannoy.

  “Passengers are advised that all services to Lewisham have been terminated due to an accident at Canary Wharf. A replacement bus service is available outside the station.”

  Lewisham – that’s the train I need! I knew it was going too well. Joining the claustrophobic throng of grumbling passengers queuing for the replacement bus, I feel like I’m swallowing dust, not air. I spot a lady in the regulation neon-orange uniform and head over to her. Waiting my turn, careful not to make eye contact or get in anyone’s way, I realize my turn will never come, so eventually I jump in.

  “Is this bus for Greenwich?” I ask, showing my ticket.

  The attendant shakes her head.

  “No, this is the 617A. You’re looking for bus 617B. You just missed one, but there’ll be another in the next few minutes. Are you in a hurry?”