Caramel Hearts

by E. R. Murray

  A rowdy group of girls in short dresses and heels clatter past, squealing unintelligibly as they tuck into hot bagels. I struggle to fight back the tears, but then I cop on and realize there must be a bakery nearby, busily preparing tomorrow’s bread and cakes, with hot ovens churning out heat. If I could hide out there for the night, I wouldn’t have to wander the streets. It would be nice and cosy, and I could steal some breakfast too.

  Jumping from the bench, I head to where the high-heeled girls just came from. Soon, I hit the market, but now the stalls are stripped bare, like skeletons. As I search the lanes leading from the square, I mull over the trail of bad decisions I’ve made recently. Finding my dad now feels like a totally stupid idea. It hasn’t got me anywhere – except in deeper trouble. It’ll tip Mam over the edge, and I’ll end up in care for sure. But first, I’ll have to face the bigger mess I’ve created.

  I spy a flickering light striking the wall in the next alleyway, and peep round the corner. It’s a faulty streetlight, but next to it is a sign: Stan’s Bakery.

  The bakery windows glow orange, like a sunrise. Inside, people scurry about unloading huge trays of golden, crusty loaves and plaited pretzels. I watch as a chubby, red-faced man with thick lips wipes at his forehead under his white hat. A short, muscular, Jamaican woman with tightly woven braids moves quickly behind him, tidying up any mess he makes. I sneak past the front door unnoticed, and search for a back entrance. There isn’t one, and the shop is flanked by spiked green railings. There’s no way in.

  Frustrated, I remove the money from the purse and, returning the purse to the bag, fling the whole thing over the railings. It lands with a thud and I’m just about to walk away when something clatters and rolls, and something else skids across the ground. An image of Mrs Snelling’s son appears in my mind. What about the photo? I imagine rain pouring down, the smiling face of Simon Snelling blistering and lifting away from the paper, his face erased for ever. I can’t leave it there, so I climb the fence to retrieve the photo. Somehow, I’ll get it back to Mrs Snelling – drop it in the dinner hall, maybe, so it can be found and returned.

  My Converse fit perfectly between the spikes after all – making it easy for me to haul myself up and over. Within seconds, I’m inside the bakery yard. Leaving the brightness of the shop behind, my eyes take time to adjust to the darkness. The yard is filled with delivery boxes, recycling bins and oversized trolleys for bread trays. The ventilator hums loudly as it battles to cool the oven-filled kitchen. I pick up the bag, locate the purse, but not whatever it was that rolled – despite searching round every trolley and behind every bin. Finally, I give up – I have what’s important. Stuffing the wallet in my rucksack, and the bag under one of the bins, I look for somewhere suitable to rest.

  Hot steam blows from vents into the night air, and I eventually settle behind a pile of delivery boxes, directly in the ventilator’s path. Sitting on my bag to keep my bum off the cold floor, I let the heat warm my bones, and begin to feel safe. No one will find me here. Huddling up, trying not to think about my dad’s cold reaction, my eyelids droop. I think about baking “Caramel Hearts” with Mam and wonder: Never mind Mam’s heart – what about melting my own?

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  There’s No Point Crying over Spilt Bagels

  I open my eyes to a loud clunk. Realizing where I am, I listen carefully to the weird scraping noises from behind the stacked delivery boxes. Half expecting a scavenging fox, I kneel up as quietly as I can and peer over.

  I see a squat, rotund man slotting food trays onto a trolley. As he turns back towards the kitchen door, the light highlights his features. It’s the red-faced man with the white hat I saw earlier. Accidentally knocking a stack of boxes with my knee, I crouch down as he calls out.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Hardly daring to breathe, I keep as low to the ground as I can. I hear footsteps, followed by a second male voice with a strong foreign accent.

  “Talking to yourself again, Stan?”

  Stan laughs. “Thought I heard something.”

  “Probably a fox. Bloody pests!”

  “Right,” says Stan, sounding convinced. “Probably just a fox. Unless my mind’s playing tricks!”

  Waiting until their footsteps retreat and the back door slams, I let out my breath in one big puff and sit back against the wall. I notice a patch of sky brightening and decide to leave before I’m discovered. Standing slowly, I stretch my stiff, aching limbs, and shoulder my bag.

  Making sure the coast is clear, I sneak past the trolleys, snatching a couple of bagels as I pass, and climb the metal railings. As I reach the top and try to jump down, my tired foot slips from between the spikes and I topple backwards. Crying out as my jacket catches on the spikes, I tip upside down and swing like a pendulum. Stan rushes out to see what the commotion is, just as the stolen bagels spill to the ground. He helps me down, eyeing the bagels.

  “You’re the strangest-looking fox I’ve ever seen,” he says.

  I kick at the bagels with the toe of my shoe. “Sorry about those.”

  “There’s no point crying over spilt bagels,” says Stan. “Come inside – you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Knowing there’s no point in trying to escape – I’m too sleepy and slow – I walk towards the glowing kitchen. Stan follows close behind, whistling to let me know he’s there – but at a safe distance. As we reach the door, I hesitate.

  “Come on – we won’t bite,” says Stan, pushing his way up front and inside.

  The aroma of warm bread and cake washes over me like a soothing balm. My stomach rumbles loud enough for everyone to hear, so I keep my head bent low as I follow.

  “Odessa, Anatoly, we have an unexpected guest.” Stan turns to me. “What’s your name, pet?”

  “Liv.” It comes out barely audible.

  “Our guest’s name is Liv. Can one of you make us some tea while it’s quiet out front? Bring some warm bagels and croissants too. We’ll be in my office.”

  I sneak a daring peek as I pass. The muscular Jamaican lady I saw earlier and a tall, square-jawed man in his late fifties stare back with confused – but friendly – expressions. Then the lady jumps into action – filling up a kettle and setting it on top of a huge stove.

  When we reach the office – a cupboard-sized room with a messy desk, noisy, ticking clock and three kitchen chairs – Stan perches on a chair, arms folded.

  “Now, young lady, why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  Not knowing quite where to begin, I flop down, rub my eyes and drag my palms down my face. Then I let the words tumble out.

  * * *

  After two vanilla croissants, a cinnamon bagel and two cups of sugary tea, I feel much better. Until Anatoly comes in with the bag in his hand, saying “I think this is yours,” and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Stan must have noticed my face drop, because as soon as Anatoly leaves, he asks me what’s wrong.

  “Everything,” I say and start blubbering like a little kid.

  He doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t say anything – he just listens. His silence makes my mouth spill the beans, and before I know what’s happened, I’ve told him all about Mam, the recipe book and the blue bag, about falling out with Sarah and Jack and my disastrous meeting with Dad. When I finish, Stan rubs his chin and makes a long, low humming sound.

  “You’ve certainly been through the wringer. What will you do now?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “You know your mam’ll be worried, don’t you? And your dad?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s true. You’ll understand when you’re older and a parent yourself. But what are we going to do with you?”

  I chew my lip nervously, listening to the sound of someone punching numbers into a till in the shop.

  “I was thinking I’d find a mobile-phone shop and charge my battery so I could call home. Then, I guess it’s back on the coach.”

  “And the bag? Have you thought ab
out that?”

  “Only every day since I took it.”

  Stan laughs and apologizes immediately.

  “I guess I’ll have to take it back,” I say.

  “Smart girl,” says Stan. “But why don’t you use my office phone?” He gestures towards his desk. “Come out to the shop floor when you’re finished. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

  Before I can protest – I didn’t mean to call home right now – Stan strides out of the room.

  I pick up the handset and hold it to my ear before slamming it down. What if Mam’s wasted? I don’t trust either of us to keep our temper if she is. After several attempts, I finally muster enough courage to dial home. The ringing tone seems to go on for ever. My heart thumps as someone answers.

  “Hello?”

  It takes a while for me to register the voice.

  “Hatty?”

  A huge sigh blasts down the phone, quickly followed by a muffled shout directed away from the receiver.

  “Mam, it’s OK! It’s Liv. She’s on the phone now.” Then Harriet’s back. “Liv, we were so worried – where are you?”

  “London.”

  “We know that. Dad phoned. But where? Are you OK? I’m so happy to hear your voice! We were out of our minds with worry…”

  A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard to force it away.

  “I’m fine. I’m in a bakery – I’m using their phone. Sorry, Hatty. I thought… I just wanted to… Dad phoned?”

  “Yes, thankfully. He was worried.”

  “He couldn’t care less!”

  “He’s been looking for you all night. When we couldn’t get hold of you on your mobile, we thought…”

  Her voice trails off. My stomach flutters. Dad was out looking for me? The journey wasn’t a waste of time after all!

  “My battery died. I forgot my charger. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “Of course we were worried! Liv, you’ve got to come home. Right away. Do you have any money to get back or do I need to come and get you?”

  “I’ve got a return ticket.”

  “Train or coach?”

  “Coach.”

  A rustling sound travels down the phone, followed by a deafening bang.

  “Sorry, I dropped the phone. I have the times here. Your next coach is at 11.20 a.m. Can you make it?”

  I check the clock on the wall. Five hours is plenty of time to navigate the Underground.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll come meet you at the station. Hang on, Mam wants to talk to you—”

  “Hatty, no – she’ll kill me!”

  But it’s too late – Hatty’s gone.

  “Liv, sweetheart!”

  As Mam’s trembling voice rings out, I panic and slam down the phone. Leaning my head in my hands, I groan. What did I do a stupid thing like that for?

  * * *

  “Is everything all right, pet?” asks Stan as I join him in the shop.

  “I spoke to my sister. I’m going home.”

  His face breaking into a big grin, Stan claps his hands together.

  “Thatta girl. Not everyone sees sense like you. How are you getting back?”

  “Coach.”

  “From Victoria? I’ll drop you over there.”

  “It’s OK, really, it’s not till 11 a.m. – I can go by Tube.”

  “No way. I want to make sure you get there safely.”

  “OK, thanks,” I say, eyeing some cooling shortbread Anatoly carries through on a giant tray.

  “Hey, Stan, have you ever tried ‘Lovers’ Lemon and Choc-Chip Shortbread’?” I ask.

  Stan looks up to his forehead, scanning his memory. “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

  “Can I show you before I go? It’s really nice – but the trick is to leave it in the fridge for half an hour before baking.”

  “Sure, why not?” says Stan, shrugging to the others. “We’ve got time to kill.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  There’s Something I Have to Do First

  The journey home is painful. My stomach is in knots, and every mile closer, every time the coach lurches, I feel worse. Halfway, I open the packed lunch Stan gave me. Inside the bag there’s a business card. On the back Stan has written:

  Thanks for the recipe. If you ever want some work experience or a job, give me a shout!

  Stan

  I tuck the card into my rucksack and watch as fields of cows whizz by. I bite into one of Stan’s pasties, noting the crisp crunch of the pastry, the saltiness of the corned beef. Maybe I should branch out into savouries as well? It’s a bit of a leap, but if I asked nicely, when things have settled down, Mam might help. Perhaps I could create some concoctions of my own?

  Then reality hits: who am I trying to kid? After this stunt, I’m screwed. Home will be worse than ever. And now I’ve met Dad – know for certain he’s not interested – what do I have to look forward to? As I start stressing out big-time, my stomach goes all funny. An hour later, I’m retching into the coach toilet.

  When the coach reaches the end of the line, I rub my eyes dry before I stand. Harriet is waiting like she promised, leaning against the wall. I wobble off the bus, a thin layer of sweat lining my top lip. As Harriet’s worried face rushes towards me, it takes all my willpower not to vomit on the footpath.

  “Sit down for a minute. You look a wreck!” cries Harriet, guiding me to an empty bench before tucking an arm around my shoulders. “Are you OK?”

  “A bit travel sick.”

  I manage to avoid looking her in the eye.

  “What on earth were you thinking, Liv?”

  “I just wanted to meet Dad. Then I thought I might get him to come home and help Mam so you could go back to uni without worrying. Everything sucks here. You all hate me.”

  “I do not hate you! You’re my lil sis!”

  I feel her eyes on me, but keep mine focused on my knees.

  “I overheard you talking to your friend on the phone about putting me in care. And you’re always whinging.” I affect a whiny voice and screw up my face. “I’m fed up of you, you little cow.”

  Harriet gives a nervous chuckle.

  “I might say that, but I don’t mean it. We all do and say things we don’t mean – especially when it comes to those we care about. You should know that…”

  “See? You’re having a dig already.” I try to pull away, but Harriet holds on to me. “Next, you’ll be cross at me cos you’re not at uni yet.”

  “Hey! A few more days won’t hurt. You’re more important. OK?”

  Relaxing a little, I sniff.

  “You mean that?”

  “Of course I do. Who else is going to make me cakes?”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t really think you’re a fat pig.”

  Harriet gives me a friendly squeeze.

  “Forget about it. Come on, let’s go.”

  “I can’t. I can’t face Mam.”

  “You’re going to have to at some point. She’s been worried sick.”

  “Sure she has!”

  “Of course she has, Liv. She’s not perfect, but she’s not the monster you make out either. If you dropped the attitude a little—”

  “I know. But I can’t bear it. The drinking.”

  “Build a bridge and get over it. I know it’s not easy, but being so angry all the time doesn’t help. You’ll drive yourself nuts. We can’t change what’s going on – only the way we deal with it.”

  I contemplate Harriet’s words, let them drip-feed into my brain. My sister is right: I can’t carry on like this. Mam might not be perfect, but she’s the only one we’ve got.

  “But what about when it kicks off when you’re away?”

  “The Social Services will be visiting, and I’m only on the other end of the phone. One call, and I’ll be right there.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. Sisters together, right? We’ll get through this. The truth is, Mam might never get better, but if we stick together,
we’ll be OK.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll try and give Mam a break. For you.”

  “Good – but do it for yourself. Come on, let’s go.”

  But that’s only part of the problem dealt with. Instead of getting up, I scrunch up even smaller, tucking my knees into my chin.

  “What’s wrong, Liv?”

  “Everything! Jack, Sarah, Mad Dog, you leaving. I did something terrible and tried to put it right…”

  “What could be so bad that it made you run away?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Harriet opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind. After a while, she asks, “Is it something you can still sort out?”

  Slowly, I nod my head.

  “Then put it right. As soon as you can.”

  “Mad Dog will kill me,” I say.

  “We’ll deal with her. Now you’ve got that off your chest, are you ready to face Mam?”

  I nod my head.

  “Almost. There’s something I’ve got to do first.”

  * * *

  Mr Morrelly is at his desk, browsing documents. When I enter, he looks up, raises an eyebrow and stops what he’s doing.

  “Olivia,” he says, and a lump balls in my throat.

  I hover uncomfortably. I consider turning around and leaving, abandoning my plan, but facing Old Mozzer will be easier than being under Mad Dog’s thumb for the rest of my life. Plus, I owe it to Jack.

  “Would you like to take a seat?” asks Mr Morrelly.

  I sit, rucksack on my lap, fidgeting with my nails. The silence is like a weight suspended above our heads, threatening to crush us both, but I can’t make any words come out.

  “Is this about the missing bag?” prompts Mr Morrelly.

  It should make things easier, but it doesn’t. I want to be brave, like I felt this morning in Stan’s bakery when I decided to come clean. Instead, I’m petrified and just about manage a nod.

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Yes,” I mumble.