Angel Cake

by Angel Cake (epub)

  ‘Dan and I are just friends,’ I sigh. ‘And that’s all we’ll ever be, now it looks like we’re going back to Poland.’

  Frankie shrugs. ‘I was just saying. Anyway, who needs boys, right, when you’ve got good friends? The three of us can stick together, go to the dance as mates…’

  Frankie seems not to notice that Kurt is a boy, and worse than that, a boy with a crush on her. She barges on, oblivious.

  ‘We’ll have fun, dress up, have a laugh… isn’t that what Christmas is all about?’

  I’m not sure what Christmas is all about, not at St Peter and Paul’s, anyhow. Across the classroom, the chicken-wire snowman is taking shape, plastered with torn newspaper, dripping with paste. Mr Finlay unveils a huge blanket of cotton wool to make the final layer. It’s kind of scary.

  Frankie spots a tube of black acrylic paint by the sink.

  ‘Don’t worry about the whole Poland thing, OK, Anya?’ she says. ‘We can sort this. We’re your friends, and we won’t let this happen. As for the trainers… well, they’re easily fixed.’

  She squeezes out a curl of black paint and hands us each a brush, and slowly the scabby white trainers turn into scabby black ones. With silver marker-pen stars, courtesy of Frankie.

  ‘See?’ she says. ‘They’re actually quite cool.’

  As long as I don’t go out in the rain, anyway.

  ‘Something might turn up, y’know,’ Kurt says. ‘Strange things happen all the time.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ Frankie says. ‘Last night was the first meeting of the Lonely Hearts Club at Heaven… and Mum went! I only gave her the flyer as a joke, really, but she went, and she had a great time. She got chatted up by a really nice bloke, and now she’s saying that maybe she got it wrong all these years, and not all men are trouble. Incredible, right?’

  ‘Sounds like,’ I agree.

  ‘So don’t give up, Anya,’ Frankie says. ‘Things will work out, they always do.’

  The bell rings for the end of the lesson, and Mr Finlay blinks in surprise as the kids stream past him, out of the door. His hair is stiff with paste, his fingers covered with cotton-wool fluff, his classroom looking like the scene of a small massacre.

  ‘Trust me,’ Frankie says, as we pick our way through the puddles of glue. ‘Kurt is good at plans. He’ll work it out. No worries.’

  Kurt doesn’t look quite so confident. I’m not sure his plans are brilliant enough to overthrow a global credit crunch, rescue Dad’s business and find me new shoes by teatime, but I guess you never know.

  I pick Kazia up from school, wearing my handpainted trainers with the silver stars. They don’t attract quite as many comments as the pink fluffy slippers, which is kind of a relief.

  ‘What will we tell Mum and Dad?’ Kazia wants to know.

  I haven’t quite figured that one out. Maybe they just won’t see? They’re so tired these days they probably wouldn’t notice if Kazia and I were wearing red stilettos.

  It’s dusk by the time we cross the road towards the chippy, and I don’t see them at first, the boots sitting neatly on the doorstep of the flat. It’s only when Kazia starts to whoop and yell, when she lets go of my hand and sprints ahead to see, that I realize what has happened.

  They’re not our boots, of course. That would be too much of a miracle, but they’re boots, and that’s pretty amazing. Kazia’s are pink suede with a sheepskin lining and pink flowers stitched on the sides. Mine are black with a turn-down cuff, like little pixie boots. Both are the right size, and both are stuffed with tangerines and sweets and topped with a gingerbread man wrapped in cellophane.

  ‘He came!’ Kazia is squealing. ‘There was no snow, and maybe we were in a different place, but he found us! Maybe a day late, but who cares? And it doesn’t matter about the old boots, because now we have new ones, much better ones!’

  I look over to the corner, frowning, as a movement catches my eye. I’m almost sure I can see a shadowy figure with unruly braids and angel wings, disappearing into the shadows.

  Dan used his savings to buy the boots, cut-price, from the discount shoe shop in town. He said it was an early Christmas present.

  Mum noticed that the boots were different, but Kazia insisted that we found them on the doorstep on St Nicholas’s Day, and I think Mum was just too tired to question it. Besides, we had boots, new boots, and that was the main thing.

  Dan had another trick up his sleeve too. ‘It’s a treat,’ he explained. ‘For Kazia, really. Friday evening, OK?’

  How do you say no to a boy like Dan Carney? You don’t. It’s Friday evening and I’m ankle deep in snow, watching Kazia chatting to a fat old man with a bushy white beard who is sitting beside her in a sleigh piled high with presents.

  He’s Santa Claus, the British version of St Nicholas, and we’re outside his workshop at the North Pole, Dan, Ben, Nate, Kazia and me. How cool is that?

  OK, it’s not really the North Pole. It’s a converted shop in town, with life-size models of reindeer and fairy lights and Christmas music playing, but it’s half-price on a Friday night, so here we are. Dan explained the whole thing to Mum, and she said it sounded great and gave us money for tickets and bus fares. ‘Can we afford it?’ I asked, anxious.

  ‘Anya, it’s Christmas,’ she sighed. ‘I won’t let every penny I earn be eaten up by your dad’s business. You and Kazia need a treat.’

  So here we are, standing in the snow, and there are real elves and fairies, and Santa himself, sitting on a plush red-velvet seat in a sleigh that’s strung with silver bells.

  It’s not real snow, of course, just a kind of glittery powder that catches the light and crunches a little when you walk on it. The elves may not be real elves. One of them is chewing gum, and another is listening to an iPod, but they are wearing pointy green hats and red boots and wrinkly green tights. The fairies look bored, and one of them has a pierced eyebrow and a ladder in her tights, so I’m pretty sure they’re not real either. I think they could be students, earning a little extra cash, and that’s OK.

  It’s even possible that the man in the red suit and white beard may not be the real Santa Claus, but his blue eyes are kind. He listens very patiently to Kazia as she talks. There is a long queue of hopeful children, including Ben and Nate, but Santa doesn’t rush things. Perhaps Kazia is telling him the story of the stolen boots, or explaining about Dad’s business and the flat with peeling wallpaper.

  Santa hands her a gift from the sack beside him, a painted Russian doll, which opens up to reveal a whole family of smaller dolls inside. Kazia gives him a big hug, and one of the bored-looking fairies has to drag her away with a wave of her wand and a sprinkle of fairy dust. Everyone in the queue smiles and sighs and the elves look at their watches. It’s obvious they can’t wait for it to be eight o’clock when the whole late-night grotto thing is over.

  ‘Oh, Anya!’ my little sister says, her smile as bright as the fairy lights. ‘He says he will bring us everything we want, on Christmas Eve night!’

  I catch Dan’s eye. Kazia will probably be getting an apple and a selection box and a pair of new mitts on Christmas Eve night, if she’s lucky. Still, right now she’s happy, and Ben and Nate are too, asking Santa for PlayStation games and bikes and rollerblades, and pulling on his beard gently, to check it’s the real deal.

  ‘I gave Santa one of the vouchers, Dan,’ Ben announces as we walk back up Renshaw Street afterwards. ‘For the free cakes. I told him to come any time. Think how many customers we’d get if the real Father Christmas started hanging out in our cafe!’

  ‘Great idea,’ Dan says.

  ‘Maybe the elves and fairies will come too?’ Nate smirks.

  I smile. That’s all the cafe needs… a whole bunch of grumpy elves and fairies, alongside Ringo with his yellow cab and Lonely Hearts Club. Oh, and the misfit schoolkids too.

  Kazia, Ben and Nate are still fizzing with excitement, skipping on ahead, the boys playing with the plastic swords they got from Santa while Kazia da
nces around them, bright-eyed, laughing.

  ‘It was a very kind thing,’ I tell Dan. ‘Taking Kazia to see Santa. It was very different from Poland, but good!’

  ‘Mum used to take me, when I was a kid,’ he shrugs. ‘I loved it, and Ben and Nate still do. Mum’s too busy this year, and it’s not like Dad’s gonna help, so I promised… and I had an idea Kazia might like it. I didn’t want her to think that Liverpool was just full of boot thieves!’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ I promise him. ‘She loves it – we all do.’

  What would Dan think if he knew we might be heading back to Krakow in the New Year? I can’t even bring myself to tell him, because it would mean facing up to it myself. What if Dan didn’t care? And worse – what if he really, really did?

  We reach the bus stop and lean against the shelter. The Christmas lights flicker and shine, and the streets are busy with groups of office workers on Christmas nights out. Restaurants and bars are overflowing, and every second person has fluffy reindeer antlers or a length of tinsel round their neck. Kazia, Ben and Nate link arms and start some random carol singing, and a group of women fuss and sigh and give them a five-pound note.

  ‘I was wondering…’ Dan says. ‘You know the Christmas dance Frankie and Kurt have been talking about? On the last day of term? I just thought I’d ask… um… d’you think we should go? Me… and you?’

  I can’t stop grinning. Dan wants to go to the Christmas dance – with me! The whole evening feels like magic, with the Christmas lights shimmering, the office workers with their Santa hats, the kids singing.

  And then the whole thing skids out of shape.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I start to say, but Dan isn’t listening any more.

  He’s miles away, his face startled, shocked, angry. I can hear Kazia, still singing ‘Jingle Bells’ and getting most of the words muddled up, but Ben and Nate are silent, staring, mouths open.

  I follow their gaze.

  A tall, dark-skinned man in a smart suit is coming out of the bar just along from the bus stop, a fair-haired woman in a skimpy red party dress draped around his neck and whispering into his hair. The man is laughing, but the grin dies on his lips as his gaze slides over Ben, Nate and Dan.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ Dan says.

  Ben and Nate just blink, shocked and silent, and Dan turns and walks away. It’s left to me to grab Ben and Nate by the hand and run along after Dan, with Kazia in tow and Dan’s dad chasing us along the street.

  ‘Dan! Ben! Nate!’ he shouts. ‘Hold on! I can explain! It’s not the way it looks!’

  Dan stops and turns to face his dad, who is standing a few feet away, raking a hand through fuzzy black hair in a gesture I’ve seen Dan use a million times.

  I gather the kids in behind Dan.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ he spits out. ‘A rotten, lousy liar!’

  ‘Dan, son, you don’t understand –’ the man says.

  ‘We understand, all right,’ Dan says, his voice shaking a little as he speaks. ‘We’ve heard the rows, seen Mum crying. We’ve known for months that something was going on, so please don’t pretend you can explain. It’s pretty clear already, from where I’m standing.’

  ‘But, son –’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ Dan bites out. ‘Because you know what? You sure don’t act like a dad!’

  I don’t know what to do, but Ben is clinging to me, tears welling in his big brown eyes, while Nate and Kazia just look shell-shocked. I don’t know how to help, but I know I need to get the kids out of here, get Dan away too. A number 80 bus slides to a halt beside us with a squeal of brakes, and I herd the kids on board. ‘Come on, Dan,’ I tell him. ‘Please?’

  Dan jumps on, looking back over his shoulder. ‘You know what?’ he yells. ‘I hate you, even if you are my dad. I hate you, and I’ll never, ever forgive you for this! So why don’t you just get lost, leave us alone? We don’t need you! We don’t want you!’

  The doors slide shut and the bus lurches away from the kerb.

  Mum is making honey cakes, and the flat is filled with the rich, sweet smell of them baking. For the first time in weeks, she isn’t working weekend shifts at the hotel. ‘We’ll have a proper Sunday,’ she says. ‘I can’t keep going at this pace, and nor can Jozef. So today we’ll have some family time, a good, Polish dinner and then Mass at the cathedral with our Polish friends.’

  ‘Where is Dad?’ Kazia frowns. My little sister looks tired too – her cheeks are pink and her eyes are huge and shadowed. I think Mum’s right. We all need some family time, some chill-out time.

  ‘Jozef will be back soon,’ Mum says. ‘With a special surprise…’

  After Friday night, when Dan, Ben and Nate saw their dad with another woman, it seems especially important that my family, at least, are together today. I don’t think I ever realized before how fragile a family can be.

  I don’t know what happened on Friday after Dan, Nate and Ben got home, but I don’t think it was good. I held Dan’s hand tightly all the way home on the bus. I could feel him hurting, and Ben and Nate too.

  Kazia and I went along to the cafe first thing on Saturday, but the sign said closed, and Ringo was on the doorstep, wondering aloud what might have happened. I wondered too.

  ‘Girls, don’t look so sad,’ Mum says now, lifting the honey cakes out of the oven and setting them down to cool. ‘No use worrying. Come, both of you, and see what arrived in yesterday’s post…’

  She brings out a large parcel, layered with brown paper and decorated with Polish stamps and postmarks.

  ‘It’s Gran’s writing!’ I say. ‘For us!’

  ‘Christmas presents!’ Kazia squeals.

  We tear off the brown paper to reveal a cardboard box filled with scrunched-up newspaper, packed in tight, as if to protect something. Mum fishes two small presents out from the packing, wrapped in red crêpe paper and tied with ribbons, one labelled for me, one for Kazia.

  ‘We haven’t even got a tree to put them under,’ Kazia sighs. ‘What else is in there?’

  Mum lifts out the last of the packaging, and Kazia’s eyes grow round.

  ‘The Christmas castle!’ she breathes.

  Inside the box is the old tin castle Dad made years ago in Krakow when I was little. It’s a szopka castle, traditional to Krakow, with turrets and towers and little domed roofs, intricate and beautiful. The tin has been shaped and scored and patterned, the whole thing painted with bright, rich colours.

  Every year in Krakow, there’s a competition to see who can create the best design, and back when I was three years old, Dad won the prize. He never entered again, but we took the castle out every December and sat it in the window with candles burning beside it, to show that Christmas was coming.

  ‘It brings us luck,’ Dad used to say.

  We couldn’t take it to Liverpool, of course. It was too bulky to pack, and besides, other things were more important. We gave it to Gran and Grandad, and now they’ve sent it over to us, just in time for Christmas – and just when we really, really need the luck.

  Kazia and I carry it to the window, and set it on the rickety side table there. It looks beautiful.

  In the bottom of the box, a silver star made of beaten tin glints brightly. ‘The star!’ I grin. Again, made by Dad back in the days when he had time to cut and shape and pattern things from tin or wood, the star sits at the top of the Christmas tree every year, watching over us all. There is something comforting about having our old things around us, even in this dump.

  ‘But no tree…’ Kazia sighs, and right then the door swings open and Dad comes in, a Christmas tree slung over his shoulder.

  ‘No tree?’ he echoes. ‘This is the best tree in the city, especially for my girls!’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Kazia grins. ‘It’s perfect!’

  Well, not quite – it’s slightly lopsided and kind of bare and brown-looking all down one side, but we wedge it into a bucket and edge it into a corner so that you can’t see the brown bits. Mum switches on the
radio and finds some Christmas songs, then we cut stars from white paper and make apple and orange slices to dry out on the radiator and string together with nuts and sweets, the way we used to back in Krakow. Dad lifts Kazia up to fix the star on top, and finally I can see that this is the best Christmas tree in Liverpool after all.

  ‘Have you seen the Christmas castle?’ I ask Dad. ‘Gran and Grandad sent it over in a big parcel, so now we’ll have all the luck we need…’

  Dad frowns, as if he doesn’t believe in luck any more, and I know he is thinking of happier times, times in Krakow when the castle glinted bright in the wintry sunlight and silent snow. Even I can see that it looks out of place here, perched on a lopsided table next to the draughty, grey window.

  ‘Maybe,’ Dad says. ‘But right now, what we need is some of your mother’s stew with dumplings and rye bread, then honey cakes to sweeten us up.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Kazia complains. ‘I’m all tired and hot and achey.’ Mum rests a palm against my little sister’s forehead.

  ‘You’re very warm,’ she says. ‘And clammy. You don’t look well at all. I hope you’re not sickening for something, Kazia.’

  She makes my little sister a nest of blankets on the threadbare sofa, settling her against the cushions with lemon squash and a warm honey cake. In minutes, Kazia’s head droops and she is sleeping, one blonde curl sticking damply to her cheek.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Dad sighs. ‘I was hoping we could eat and then take a walk up to the cathedral… catch up with our Polish friends. Perhaps one of them might help with the business? A small loan, perhaps, just to tide us over?’

  Most of Dad’s contacts from the Polish Mass at the cathedral are struggling as much as we are, but I don’t say that. If Dad is desperate enough to be asking acquaintances for a loan, things must be bad.

  ‘Well, we’ll eat, anyway,’ Mum says. ‘Perhaps Kazia just needs a rest?’

  Mum is dishing out stew and dumplings when the doorbell rings. It’s Dan. He looks even worse than Kazia, as though he’s been up all night, and maybe the night before that too. He’s forgotten to put on a jacket, and his eyes seem shadowed, dull.