Angel Cake

by Angel Cake (epub)

  ‘No,’ Frankie says, selecting a Snowdrift Slice. ‘His gran texted, telling him to come straight home. Not sure why. Wow, this cake is awesome… the window too! At least we know what you were doing all day, when you should have been at school. Draping fairy lights all around the window…’

  ‘Mum’s hoping the display will attract a few more customers,’ Dan says. ‘We sold three pots of tea, seven coffees, four milkshakes and thirteen cakes, yesterday. It’s not enough.’

  ‘Too right it’s not,’ Frankie agrees. ‘How much stuff did you give away for free?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘You have to get tough. Um… not with us, though.’

  Dan laughs and drifts back to the counter, and Ringo looms over us, alarming in his orange satin coat. ‘Have you heard about the Lonely Hearts Club?’

  ‘Beatles song, isn’t it?’ Frankie says.

  ‘No, no, this is a special singles night, inspired by the song,’ he explains. ‘Every Friday night, starting this week, right here in Heaven. Ten-pound entry fee, to include a free cake and coffee, and Beatles songs playing all evening. All singles over the age of eighteen welcome. If you know anybody who might be interested…’

  He offers us some flyers, printed up with swirling sixties’ hearts and flowers. ‘It’s a tough world out there, you know.’ He breaks into a random Beatles song abruptly. ‘All the lonely people… where do they all come from?’

  I choke on my cake and struggle to keep my face straight as Ringo dances off to the next table, now singing another song at full volume. ‘All you need is love… da da da da da…’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Frankie snorts under her breath. ‘As if !’

  ‘You don’t believe in love?’ I grin.

  Spots of pink appear in Frankie’s cheeks. ‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I believe in friendship.’

  ‘What about Kurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Kurt?’ she squeaks. ‘Kurt Jones? Are you serious? No way! I mean, I like him, as a friend… but that doesn’t mean we… erm… fancy each other. Or anything. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ I say, hiding a smile. ‘Whatever you say. Take a flyer for your mum, though. She’s single, yes?’

  ‘She likes being single,’ Frankie says. ‘But she also likes cake and coffee and the Beatles, so maybe…’ Frankie folds up the flyer and slips it into her pocket.

  The door chimes and Kurt bursts in, pink-faced and flustered. ‘Slight problem,’ he says under his breath, sliding into an empty seat. ‘OK, scratch that. Major problem. Disaster, even.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Gran was dusting on the landing when she heard a loud squeaking noise coming from my room –’

  ‘Cheesy!’ I exclaim.

  ‘She’s found him,’ Kurt says. ‘She opened the wardrobe and… well, there he was, poking his nose through the chicken wire. Gran fainted. Clean out.’

  ‘Is she OK?’ Frankie gasps.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kurt sighs. ‘But I am in big trouble… I mean BIG trouble. Cheesy needs a new home. Like now!’

  A small twitching tail appears, sticking out from Kurt’s jumper sleeve. ‘You can’t bring him here!’ Frankie hisses. ‘You’ll get the place closed down!’

  ‘I know!’ Kurt wails. ‘I know, but I have to do something… can you have him, Frankie? Just for a night or two?’

  ‘No way,’ she says. ‘My mum is terrified of rats!’

  ‘Anya?’

  ‘No pets allowed in the flat,’ I shrug. ‘Sorry!’

  Kurt fixes his gaze on Dan. ‘Hey,’ he calls over. ‘I’ve got the perfect Christmas pressie for your little brothers! A cute pet, cuddly, clever, free to good home…’

  ‘Sorry,’ Dan says. ‘We had a guinea pig once, but we had to give it away. Ben’s allergic to animal hair.’ Dan’s eyes open wide and he drops his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s not… the rat, is it?’

  That’s when Cheesy wriggles out of the neck of Kurt’s drooping handknitted jumper and perches on his shoulder, twitching.

  Somehow, we get Cheesy out of the cafe without starting a full-on riot. ‘I can’t believe you brought a rat into our cafe!’ Dan growls. ‘Are you crazy?’

  But when Kurt explains how Cheesy has been turned out on to the streets just before Christmas, Dan just sighs and sends his brothers to fetch the old guinea pig cage from their attic. Half an hour later, Cheesy has a new home – a shiny, roomy cage in the corner of my bedroom.

  It’s a bad, bad idea, I know that, but Cheesy is homeless. And we might be too, pretty soon, if Dad’s business doesn’t pick up. I can’t help feeling sorry for the little rat. We have a lot in common.

  ‘He can’t stay,’ I remind Kurt. ‘Mr Yip, the landlord, will be angry. Just one night, until you find a proper home for him!’

  ‘He’s cute!’ Kazia sighs.

  ‘He’s not staying,’ I repeat. ‘If my parents find him…’

  And then we hear the door click shut, and it’s too late, because Mum is home. Seven guilty faces peer at her round the bedroom door. Eight, if you count Cheesy. Caught, red-handed.

  ‘A rat?’ she says, horrified, then subsides into Polish, calling on a whole bunch of saints to save her from certain disaster.

  ‘Gran won’t have him in the house!’ Kurt explains.

  ‘My mum’s terrified!’ Frankie adds.

  ‘My brother’s allergic,’ Dan chips in.

  ‘But we’re not,’ Kazia pleads. ‘So can he stay here? Please?’

  ‘He’s cooler than a guinea pig,’ Ben and Nate add.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘No!’ she says. ‘He’s a rat! And no pets are allowed here, anyway. And we cannot afford –’

  ‘I’ll supply food and bedding and hay,’ Kurt promises. ‘Think of him as a lodger. Just one or two nights, Mrs Mikalski, till I find him a permanent home…’

  ‘Please, Mama?’ I ask.

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘One night,’ she sighs grudgingly. ‘Two at most.’

  Cheesy’s two nights turn into three, then four, and after that Mum stops mentioning the deadline. ‘He is no trouble,’ Dad comments. ‘Not really. Just keep him hidden from Mr Yip!’

  ‘He’s temporary,’ Mum reminds us. She doesn’t add that we are too.

  In the end, both Kazia and I set our boots out for St Nicholas on the night of December the fifth. ‘Leave the boots inside the door,’ Mum calls down. ‘They’ll be fine there.’

  ‘Do you really think he’ll find us?’ my little sister asks. ‘St Nicholas? All the way over here in Liverpool?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Kazia is not convinced. ‘He might not be expecting boots, here,’ she worries. ‘And he might not even see them, if we leave them inside. Outside would be better, no?’

  I sigh. ‘OK, Kazia. He’ll find them, promise, but we can leave them outside if you want to…’ I open the door and set the two pairs of boots on the doorstep. ‘There… all done. Come on!’

  I take her hand and we run up the stairs to the living room, where Mum is waiting.

  ‘How will he get here?’ Kazia wants to know. ‘There’s no snow for his sleigh!’

  ‘Shhh, Kazia. He’ll come, when you are sleeping. Off to bed!’

  Obediently, Kazia goes.

  Dad is working late again – very late, tonight, but when we got back from school earlier, Mum was home and the flat smelt of freshly baked gingerbread. I knew she’d remembered it was St Nicholas’s Day. Now Mum reaches into a drawer for a carrier bag that rustles thrillingly, rubbing her forehead with a palm. She has been getting headaches lately. I think she’s working too hard.

  ‘Mama?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to do the boots?’

  ‘Would you, Anya love?’

  I run downstairs and open the front door a crack. The street is quiet as I press tiny red apples down into the toe of each boot, then walnuts in their shells, handfuls of wrapped sweets, and gingerbread wrapped in foil. I close the door softly, smiling as I think of Kazia
finding them in the morning.

  ‘Thank you, Anya,’ Mum whispers. ‘I need to sleep, that’s all. Remember, I’ll already be at work when you get up – I took an early shift, so I could be home this afternoon. Your dad won’t be in for a while yet, so let him sleep in tomorrow. You’ll take Kazia to school, won’t you? There’s bread and jam, so you can have toast for breakfast, something warm… don’t be late for class!’

  ‘We won’t. Mama, please don’t work too hard…’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Anya,’ she promises. ‘Sleep now… good girl.’

  I awake to the sound of quiet crying, and trust me, that’s not usual on St Nicholas’s Day. I push back the covers and drag myself out of bed, and there is Kazia, alone at the kitchen table, sobbing her heart out. ‘What is it, Kazia?’ I ask. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

  A muffled wail leaks out. ‘All… gone… wrong!’ she gasps.

  I put an arm round my little sister, wipe her eyes.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask again.

  ‘St… St Nicholas…’ Kazia chokes out.

  ‘Did he forget to come?’ I frown. Perhaps some passing drunk has helped himself to the sweets? Maybe Mum was right. We should have left the boots inside the door.

  ‘It’s worse,’ Kazia whispers. ‘Much worse. No apples, no gingerbread, no sweets…’

  She tugs my hand, pulls me down the stairs and out on to the step. ‘No nothing!’ she wails, and finally the penny drops.

  I sink down on to the doorstep, dismayed.

  Some lowlife loser has gone and nicked our boots.

  I suppose most girls have three or four pairs of boots and shoes. Some, like Lily Caldwell, probably have dozens. But Kazia and I, we have just one pair each. Oops – make that no pairs now.

  Kazia grew out of her summer shoes before we flew to Liverpool, and my ballerina flats were so worn and scuffed I didn’t bother to pack them. I knew my boots would take me through the first few weeks of school and after that, I imagined, there would be any amount of new shoes and boots, new everything, if we felt like it.

  It didn’t quite work out that way.

  And now our boots have been stolen, or kidnapped by the milkman, or kicked around the streets and chucked into Princes Park boating lake by drunks coming home in the early hours.

  Leaving boots on the doorstep on the night of December the fifth in Liverpool is clearly not a good idea.

  And now we have no shoes.

  ‘Should we wake Dad?’ Kazia asks, but telling Dad is the very last thing I want to do – he has enough on his mind. As for Mum, well, maybe she left before the boots were taken this morning, or perhaps she just didn’t notice at all.

  Either way, it’s my fault – Mum told me to leave the boots inside the door, and I listened to Kazia and left them outside. Now they’re gone, and all because of me.

  ‘We won’t tell Dad, or Mama, OK?’ I tell Kazia. ‘Not yet. I’ll think of something, I promise!’

  So Kazia pulls on her black canvas PE pumps, and I have to wear my fluffy slippers, at least until I get to school and drag the trainers out from my locker. Great. I have never been so ashamed in my whole, entire life.

  I time it carefully, so that the bell is just ringing as we arrive at Kazia’s primary, but still, I get a whole bunch of smart comments on the way.

  ‘Oi, girl, yer feet’s all hairy!’

  ‘That the new fashion, or what?’

  By the time I get to St Peter and Paul’s, I’m running late, and I’m so mortified I’d like to crawl under a stone and stay there for the rest of the day. I kick off the fluffy slippers at the door and stuff them into my satchel, then sign in late at the desk and head for my locker, padding in my stockinged feet along deserted corridors draped with drooping paper chains.

  ‘Forgotten something?’

  Dan Carney is sitting on the bench outside Mr Fisher’s office, grinning. ‘Like your shoes, maybe? Or is it a tradition that Polish girls go barefoot on December the sixth, in thanks for the sweets St Nicholas left them the night before?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not a tradition.’

  Dan tips his head to one side, baffled. ‘So…?’

  I sink down on to the bench beside Dan. ‘We put our boots out last night, me and Kazia,’ I confess. ‘And I filled them with sweets and cake and fruit…’

  ‘Was Kazia pleased?’

  I sigh. ‘Not exactly. Our boots are stolen. No shoes for me or Kazia today, and no sweets, for sure.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Dan asks, outraged. ‘Nicked? That’s low. That’s very low. And… you’ve got no other shoes for school? Seriously?’

  I open my satchel just enough to show a fringe of pink fluff.

  ‘Ah,’ says Dan. ‘My favourites. Well, don’t let Fisher see them. He is not in a good mood. I was cheeky in class, plus I owe him three homeworks, so now I have to do my lessons here, so Fisher can supervise. This school gets more like a prison every day. I don’t know why I bother to stick around, half the time.’

  ‘You don’t,’ I say, with a sad smile. ‘Half the time.’

  Dan just shrugs and grins. ‘Well, can you blame me? Seriously, Anya, what’ll you do about the boots? Will you be OK?’

  I bite my lip and tilt my chin up, trying for a smile. I’d like to tell Dan about what’s happening with the business, ask him for a hug, but I remember that he doesn’t want a girlfriend, and if he did it wouldn’t be a girl with no boots, no future, a girl whose life is falling apart.

  I am the last thing Dan needs. Maybe he’d be better off with Lily after all?

  ‘Stuff this,’ Dan growls, getting to his feet. ‘Life’s too short for biology notes and being polite to Fisher. I’m going to fix this, Anya.’

  He pulls on a beanie, winds a stripy scarf round his neck, and throws me a big grin. ‘See you later, OK?’

  ‘Dan, you can’t just go –’

  ‘Watch me,’ he says.

  He walks down the corridor, pushes through the double doors and breaks into a sprint just as the school secretaries run out, yelling, to try and stop him.

  Mr Fisher’s door creaks open.

  ‘Was that Dan Carney?’ he barks at me. ‘Where is he? What’s going on? Did you see him?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, smiling sweetly. ‘I don’t understand…’

  Frankie wants to know why I’m wearing white trainers with black tights. ‘It’s an unusual look,’ she says. ‘I’m all for unusual, Anya, but this is a little bit… weird.’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I sigh.

  We’re in art, making decorations for the school Christmas dance. Mr Finlay’s art room is a mess of tinsel, glitter and glue.

  ‘I want an ice palace theme,’ Mr Finlay announces. ‘Think icicles and snowflakes… and perhaps a giant papier-mâché snowman, filled with sweets and presents?’

  You can tell that Mr Finlay once dreamt of a career in children’s TV, or designing sets and costumes for the theatre. Teaching art to sulky teenagers was probably not what he had in mind. A roll of chicken wire appears, newspapers are torn into confetti shreds and buckets of thick, gloopy paste are sloshed around until the art room looks like a war zone.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ Lily calls over to me. She is avoiding the chicken wire and glue, and seems to be making herself a miniskirt out of silver tinsel. ‘All the rage in Poland, that look, is it?’

  ‘Ignore her,’ Frankie says. ‘You can wear dodgy trainers if you want to. It’s a free country.’

  ‘I’ve lost my boots,’ I confess.

  ‘How do you lose a pair of boots?’ Frankie asks. ‘And supposing you do, why not just wear shoes instead?’

  I bite my lip.

  ‘You do have shoes, right?’ Frankie says. ‘You don’t just have one pair of boots to your name?’

  ‘I have trainers,’ I say brightly. ‘And pink fluffy slippers.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  Kurt unwinds a roll of cellophane, ready for us to slice into silvery streamers. It’s k
ind of like my life, unravelling, coming apart in my hands. I know one thing for sure. Staying quiet about this is no longer an option.

  ‘At home, money is tight,’ I say. ‘Dad’s business is in trouble. Big trouble. We might have to go back to Krakow.’

  ‘No way,’ Frankie says. ‘Tell her, Kurt!’

  ‘No way,’ Kurt echoes. ‘Things can’t be that bad!’

  ‘Worse,’ I tell him. ‘We have no money, and Mum and Dad are working late every day. It feels bad… like there’s a black cloud following me the whole time. And now, Kazia and I have lost our boots… and we have nothing else!’

  ‘Sheesh. That’s why you’re always looking after Kazia these days. Why didn’t you say something?’

  Because I didn’t want pity? Didn’t want even to think about it? I can’t answer that.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Frankie says, throwing down her scissors. ‘Anya’s in real trouble, and we’re making streamers? Why bother? People like us never go to the Christmas dance, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe we should,’ Kurt says. ‘It might be Anya’s first and last Christmas here. Shouldn’t we make it one to remember?’

  Frankie’s eyes shine. ‘We could,’ she says. ‘Why not? I never really had anyone I could go with, last year, but… well, we could dress up, stick together, have a laugh! What do you think, Anya?’

  ‘I guess…’

  ‘It might take your mind off things,’ Frankie says. ‘Forget your troubles for a while. Forget about Dan Carney too. He is so not good enough for you, Anya. Did you hear about this morning? He was on report, outside Mr Fisher’s office, and he just stood up and walked out of school! Everyone says he’s going to be excluded again. That boy is crazy!’

  ‘Dan’s OK,’ I argue. After all, he walked out of school because of me, didn’t he? I can’t exactly explain that to Frankie, though. Where Dan is concerned, she just can’t see the attraction. She’d probably accuse him of heading off to shoplift me a pair of flash shoes to replace the missing boots.

  ‘I just don’t think he’s right for you.’

  ‘Isn’t that up to Anya and Dan to decide?’ Kurt says loyally. ‘You can’t choose who you fall for, right?’ He shoots Frankie a loaded look, but typically, she doesn’t even notice.