Caramel Hearts

by E. R. Murray

  It’s bright, but still early. “Not really.”

  “You could always avoid rush hour by taking another route on the DLR.”

  As another busy person bashes into me, the idea sounds attractive.

  “What route?” I ask.

  “I reckon Blackheath would be your best bet. Fewer people, and you could walk through the park.”

  The bus is noisy and packed, and my bones ache from the long journey. I remember seeing the park on my map and a walk sounds nice. It also means I’ll be calling on my dad at a more reasonable time.

  “OK.”

  “Head to London Bridge, then get the DLR to Blackheath – you can use the same ticket. Ask someone for directions to the heath and follow the path to the big metal gates of Greenwich Park. The village is on the other side, at the bottom of the hill.”

  Before I can thank her, three suited workers mob her – all talking at the same time. I slip away from the crowd, heading back towards the Tube.

  When the DLR pulls into Blackheath, I take a deep breath and skip out, checking the battery on my phone. There is more than half left – plenty of juice to last until I can charge it at Dad’s place. I follow the exit signs and stride out of the Tube station into the cold air, map in hand. The streets are filled with people carrying newspapers, laptop cases and coffee. I stop an old man to ask for directions. He points across the main road that cuts through the shops and station, towards a side street.

  I, Olivia Bloom, am getting good at life.

  The heath is easy to find. It’s a wide expanse of grass with a long path cutting through it – reminding me of the Rec back home. The rising sun casts long shadows on the pavement and my heart sinks as I think how much Hatty would love walking here, watching the place wake up. With every step, I think about home. What are Mam and Hatty doing? Have they called Sarah and Jack to see if I’m with them? As soon as Jack and Sarah enter my thoughts, I swallow hard and lift my chin an inch or two, shoulders pulled back.

  “I don’t care about any of them,” I say aloud to the crisp air. “They can all go to hell.”

  As I repeat my mantra, the shadows seem to shrink and my heart feels free. Spotting tall, wrought-iron gates ahead, I speed towards Greenwich Park.

  The park is the biggest I’ve ever seen. Tall trees with thick, dark trunks – big enough to hide behind – line the paths. Their leaves flutter, concealing noisy birds. One swoops from the tree – a luminous green parakeet – and I rub my eyes, thinking I’m seeing things until I spy another and another. Brightly coloured flowers bud and bloom in neatly arranged flower-beds. Red-bricked domed buildings, tiny teashops and ice-cream stands line the walkways.

  Despite its size, the park feels packed. Groups of ladies in sunglasses, pushing weird-shaped pushchairs, chat loudly as they stroll. Dog walkers with multiple leads march their way across the grass, pulled by various breeds – pugs, Dalmatians, terriers and Labradors. Lines of young children holding hands jostle by, tugging at the high-visibility vests covering their jackets. They chatter and nudge each other as their mams and playgroup leaders complete headcounts or point out things of interest. It reminds me of nursery. I liked school back then. I liked lots of things.

  The park opens up to an expanse of concrete littered with people taking snaps of the cityscape. I pause, taking in the view. I can’t make out any of the famous landmarks I’ve seen online or on TV. Buildings like crooked teeth bite into every part of the jumbled landscape: gleaming high-rises and proud, red chimneys. A web of cranes lines the blue sky. It feels like every brick, block of concrete and steel rod is tumbling in on me. I turn, bumping into a Chinese lady wearing a padded jacket, a camera strung around her neck.

  “Sorry! Do you know where Greenwich village is?”

  The lady smiles and nods.

  “Greenwich,” she says, pointing down a steep, sloping path.

  “Thank you!”

  My heart thumps as I race towards the village. I pass people pushing prams uphill – sometimes, it takes two as the angle is so steep. I can’t understand why they’d bother, just to get a view of a big, ugly city.

  After a while, the long, meandering path leads to a glass building. Outside, there is a huge ship in a bottle, mounted on a concrete column, and a sign reading Maritime Museum. I wonder where I’d sail to if I could commandeer the bottled ship. Whitby, probably. The thought catches me unawares. I walk off without looking where I’m going, and bang into someone.

  “Are you OK?” asks a voice in a thick, foreign accent as I stumble.

  A stocky, darkly tanned man in a long coat and red scarf waits for an answer. I blush – I was so caught up in my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed him. I’ll have to be more careful. Anything could happen in a city this size.

  “I’m OK.”

  The man shrugs, then jogs towards three friends who are waiting up ahead. I sit on the concrete wall outside the museum. A water feature trickles through the centre of its blocks. Listening to the calming sound, I watch the four friends flick water from the wall at each other, then leave through the spiky black and gold gates.

  I suddenly realize how close the park gates are. How small and alone I am. Feeling sick, I lean over and take deep breaths before checking my map.

  Dad’s house isn’t far.

  All I have to do is navigate the few winding roads to where “X” marks the spot.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Battered Leather Suitcases and All Sorts of Junk

  As I step out of the park gates, my confidence drains away and my palms ooze with sweat. On my right, there are shops, bars and restaurants, but up ahead the street is quiet and empty. I start walking along it, heart pounding. Above me, bright red cranes loom like menacing, mechanical giants, watching my every move. I tuck in as close to the buildings as I can to escape their glare.

  There’s the back of a hotel to my right, flats up ahead and a road curving left – Crooms Hill. My dad’s place is just off this road, meaning it’s even closer than I thought. A taxicab slows and toots, looking for a fare. I wave him away and start up the hill, passing a grocery store with a big chalkboard sign outside:

  PROUD TO SERVE THE PERFECT PIE, FULL OF FLAVOUR

  Crooms Hill skirts the park, twisting and winding its way up so I can’t see what’s ahead. Every part of my brain screams at me to turn back, give up, but I know it’s just fear trying to take hold, so I keep going.

  Halfway up the road, I pause to look back. The grocery store is still in view but everything else – except the cranes – has disappeared. The buildings around me sink back from the road – all different heights and styles. Not like home, where each house looks the same, except for the curtains. I wonder if people can tell I don’t belong here just by looking at me. A group of children tumble out of the park, almost bumping into me, and making me jump. I can’t believe I’m scared of a bunch of kids.

  I continue up the hill, my breath shortening with the effort. I check my map again. The turn-off is very close. I’m terrified of missing it –yet scared of finding it, too. A bright red postbox across the road catches my eye. A car obscures it from view momentarily, then turns into an alleyway between two massive houses – a cul-de-sac I hadn’t spotted. High up on the side of one of the houses, I can just make out the faded street sign: Crooms Hill Close.

  I’ve found it!

  Taking a moment to gather my thoughts and my courage, I lean against the railings of the park. What do I say when Dad opens the door? I’ve thought about this moment for years – but now it’s finally here, I’m clueless.

  There’s a quiet shuffling sound behind me so I turn slowly. A huge white dog stares up at me from the other side of the railings, like a lone wolf. His mouth is open and panting, but otherwise he’s motionless. His nervous brown eyes connect with mine. They seem to look straight through me. Backing away slowly, I cross the road. When I look back, the dog has gone. Spooked, I hurry between the two houses into the close, shivering as the walls temporarily block
the low, spring sun. I quicken my pace, desperate to return to the light and feel the sun’s rays on my eyelids.

  Stepping into Crooms Hill Close, relief sweeps over me. The place is gorgeous. It’s a sun trap, with pretty cottages on the right and grandiose townhouses on the left. Every house has a tiny garden bordered with wild roses and neat hedges. Many have steps up to the front door, like in American movies. Hand trembling, I walk the length of the road, scouting the door numbers on both sides of the street. A small part of me doesn’t want to find the place at all.

  Eventually, the houses end and a row of garages begin. A shabby brick wall runs the length of the road up ahead, creating a dead end. Panic sets in. There is no number 43! I’ve come all this way for nothing.

  Edging towards the garages, I feel as though my heart has lodged itself in my throat. This part of the road is dark, edged with tall, whistling trees and a man-sized, creaky gate. Despite my fear, I have to investigate – if I don’t find Dad, I’ve no money for lodgings. And if I give up now, I’ll have to go home and face Mad Dog and Mam – neither of which is attractive. Pushing through the gate, I heave a sigh of relief.

  This is it. My dad’s house.

  The building is huge – four storeys high, with red-bricked walls and giant bay windows. Two white pillars flank the daffodil-yellow door. Whatever Dad does, he has a lot of money.

  I follow the path and climb the steps, building up enough courage to ring the bell. I give it a good, strong poke and hold my breath. There is no reply, so I try again. After ringing the bell several times, I’m just about to give up when a window slides open. Stepping back, I look up, sheltering my eyes for a better look. A slim, olive-skinned girl with long blue-black hair peers down at me. She rubs her eyes, yawning, like she’s just woken up. She’s about the same age as me – but much prettier.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a Mr Max Bloom,” I call.

  “You’d be lucky! He hasn’t been home all night.”

  Nausea rises in my stomach. I hadn’t thought of a Plan B.

  “When’s a good time to call back?” I ask.

  “There’s never a good time. He’s a workaholic.”

  “Can I try again this afternoon?”

  The girl shrugs and starts to lower the window.

  “Wait! I’ve come a long way.”

  Agitated, the girl pulls her hair back from her face, then twists it, throwing it over one shoulder. It spills down her arm like oil.

  “Come back if you like, but you’d be better off waiting until tonight and trying The Bear Arms.”

  With that, the girl slams the window shut and lets the curtains fall back into place. I don’t even get a chance to ask where The Bear Arms is, or what he’ll be doing there. Mam mentioned it before – she thought he owned the place – but what if Dad’s another alky? The girl said he was a workaholic, but that could be some sort of “code”. Pushing the worry away, I decide to start searching Greenwich Village for the bar.

  Walking slowly out of the cul-de-sac, I wait on the corner, leaning against the postbox for a time, in case someone who might be my dad suddenly appears. My rumbling stomach eventually forces me to move on, and I head back down the hill to the pie shop.

  Finding my way round Greenwich is easy. It’s not that big, and most of the shops and cafés are on three main streets. But there’s no sign of The Bear Arms. I ask a few people, but most of them are tourists who don’t speak English. The rest assume I’m begging and shoo me away. One man even shouts “Get a job!” into my face. By the time I find a busy, covered market, I’m so shaken I have to lean against the wall until my legs stop trembling.

  Wandering through the tightly packed market crowd, I marvel at the latticed roof and the stalls with funny names like “Bull in a China Shop”. Everything imaginable is for sale: stuffed pheasants, handmade cards, war medals and old wooden toys. There are endless rails of goth clothes I’d love – but I’d get picked on if I wore them back home. There are vinyl records (but no Johnny Cash), lamps made from coloured glass, battered leather suitcases and all sorts of junk labelled as “retro”.

  At one end of the market, a food area fills the air with delicious smells and I feel my shoulders relax as I watch Japanese noodles, Spanish paella, Italian sausages, Colombian coffee and Ethiopian stews sizzle and gurgle. People of all colours, shapes and sizes eat hungrily from disposable tubs, seated on concrete steps or wobbly plastic chairs. Passing below a big heart that dangles from the ceiling, I decide to ask for directions again. A seated old man looks harmless.

  “Excuse me.”

  The old man turns, his eyes blotchy and deeply shadowed. Spit gathers in the corner of his mouth and I realize my mistake.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouts, saliva dribbling down his chin. “Help! Help!”

  I stand there, stunned, not knowing how to react. A friendly coffee-stall owner calls me away and hands me a cup of sugary tea. I’d prefer a milky coffee, but I’m not going to argue.

  “Don’t worry about ’im, love. One of the local fruitcakes. Take no notice.”

  “Thanks,” I say, hugging the cardboard cup. After a few sips, I feel better. “I only wanted to know if he’d heard of The Bear Arms.”

  “A swanky joint, eh? You’re in luck – I know the very place. It’s not far from ’ere. Off Greenwich South Street, on Ashburnham Grove. Don’t open ’til late, mind – and over twenty-ones only. Follow the blue neon lights and local glitterati after dark – you can’t miss it.”

  Smiling, I search for the street on the map, confirm its location with the coffee seller, then head out into the sunshine. Now I know where to find The Bear Arms, I can do some exploring. What’s the point of coming all the way to London if I can’t enjoy myself – at least a little bit?

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Fake Candlelight and Long Banquet Tables

  Down in the quay, the Cutty Sark floats above a glass building, her intricate masts dominating the skyline.

  I overhear some people talking about a tunnel under the Thames, and it sounds so cool I have to follow them. We stop at a strange little circular structure – like a mini church dome – that houses a big, glass-fronted lift. It takes us down to the belly of the river.

  Stepping out into the white-tiled tunnel, I gasp. It’s like something out of a sci-fi film – a giant space-age cocoon. It slants upwards so you can’t see what’s ahead or how long it is.

  My footsteps echo, no matter how quietly I creep. People’s voices reach my ears long before I can see them. Now and then a muffled rumble passes overhead – probably boats, but I imagine it’s the blue whale calf I saw on Sarah’s TV. A cup of her Mam’s hot chocolate would go down a treat right now.

  The tunnel stretches out for what seems like miles. At the other end there is another lift, and within a few moments I’m standing in a small park, which looks over the Thames to the bank I just came from. The Cutty Sark looks much smaller from here. Too small. Just like me. My legs start trembling and I’m overcome with an inexplicable urge to get back to Greenwich Village and find my dad – and quick! I race back towards the lift and run the length of the tunnel to where I’d started.

  Back in the open air, I search for somewhere snug to hang out for a while. Somewhere that doesn’t need money. I see a Student’s Union sign. Harriet always bangs on about hers in Edinburgh, so I decide to take a peek – hoping for a glimpse of the secret world that keeps enticing my sister away. The entrance is cool and dark, with low ceilings and sweeping staircases. Doors lead in all directions, but the doorman stops me before I can choose which one to take.

  “Do you have your student card, please?”

  “No, but I go to Egerton Park School. It’s up North.”

  The doorman looks amused, then apologetic.

  “Sorry, you have to be part of a University to get in here. But you can walk round some nice grounds – and the Painted Hall is free.”

  “The Painted Hall?”

&nbs
p; It sounds like a consolation prize.

  “Out the door, turn right – when you see the entrance to the Naval College buildings, turn right again and follow the signs. You can’t miss it.”

  Without anywhere else to go, I decide it’s definitely worth a try.

  The college buildings are magnificent and I take my time wandering past, staring up at the elaborate carvings. After a while, I find the Painted Hall – a hugely ornate room filled with fake candlelight and long banquet tables. The ceilings are painted with lifelike figures, animals and angels, their expressions captured in muted pastels and rich gold.

  Seated at one of the tables, I flick through the information leaflets. One claims this place was the set for Pirates of the Caribbean.

  I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t afford to go to the cinema and I lost interest after that. Didn’t want to look like a loser asking to borrow someone’s DVD. I read about the painted figures and try to get a feel for the history of the place, but it’s all so long ago, I can’t relate to it. Instead, I close my eyes and imagine a banquet. I picture a huge pig roasting on a spit, baskets laden with luscious fruit and giant soup terrines with decorative silver ladles. The centrepiece is a grand layered wedding cake, with ivory icing that shines like silk. The image feels so real I can almost hear the spit crackling, taste the rich fruitcake.

  Feeling a bit better, I people-watch for a while, enjoying the different languages and outfits. A long blond ponytail catches my eye and I think how much Sarah would love the detailed ceiling.

  Then, my stupid brain morphs a quiet student type admiring the banquet tables into Hatty, and a nervy, quick-eyed lady into Mam. Nearby, a cross-looking man slaps a little boy’s legs, his teeth bared as he mutters something under his breath. The boy looks too scared to cry and I look away in disgust. The man’s just like Maddy’s dad. At least Mam’s never like that.

  The sound of laughter makes my head swivel, and my stomach flips as I watch a mam and her two daughters pull poses for the camera before falling about in fits. I’d give anything to swap places – to have Mam and Hatty here. They could do with a break too. Instead of concentrating on starting a new life here alone, maybe I should be thinking about reuniting everyone with Dad. He certainly has enough money to look after us all and Mam wouldn’t need to drink any more with Max in her life. I’d get the best of both worlds.