by AD Hartley
‘Me dishonour her? Dad, you’ve put her in the dessert!’ Carlo shouted whilst reaching across to grab the seatbelt.
Moving down the road at over 60 miles over hour, Luigi automatically stretched to the dashboard and switched the van music on. With “You Are My Sunshine” garbling out of the tiny speaker on the top of the van at full volume they hurtled towards a steep bank that lead back down towards the town.
‘All I wanted was for you to take over after I’m gone…’
‘I’m not putting you in the chocolate ice cream, Dad! Forget it!’
‘I just wish my son loved me enough to do this.’
Carlo started to answer but found himself having to cling on as the van swung wildly around a corner, careering from one side of the road to the other as motorists screeched to a halt only just avoiding a collision. Behind the wheel Luigi had become so upset that he barely seemed concerned about driving anymore. ‘Dad, slow down. You’re going to kill us!’
‘Die? We might as well all die now! We might as well all join your mother.’
‘Don’t be so bloody dramatic, Dad! Err, Dad? What are you doing?’ Carlo dove across the seats as his father released the wheel to cover his face, wailing, too distraught to continue driving.
‘My poor love, my sweet love… I’m coming to you Sweet Helena… I can’t live without you.’
Kicking his father out of the way, Carlo fell into the driver’s seat and tried to slow the van, but it was too late and they missed a turn, plunging off the road and down a steep bank, staying on four wheels until the van hit a tree and flipped onto its side. Sliding down the rest of the incline, the van slowly came to rest with “You Are My Sunshine” still blaring from the speakers.
Carlo opened his eyes and to his surprise found himself still sitting in the driver’s seat holding tightly to the wheel and leaning against the door underneath him. Looking through the windscreen at the outside world he was rather curious to see that everything seemed to have shifted ninety degrees.
Looking up to where the passenger seat was now hanging above him, Carlo tried to find his father but couldn’t see him.
‘Dad? Are you all right, Dad?’ he shouted, slowly pulling himself upright so he could stand on the door. Getting no response, he clambered over the seats to the back of the van, but nearly threw up in shock as he found his father slumped awkwardly against the counter whilst the Ice Cream machine, now hanging from the ceiling, slowly dripped the tainted vanilla ice cream onto his head where it began to mix with blood from a large gash across his temple. The liquid flowed over his still open eyes, past his nose and down into his mouth. Unable to take in what he was seeing, all Carlo could think about was the music still playing. Climbing onto the counter and up to the hatch, he hoisted himself through and onto the side of the van before gingerly dropping to the ground. From above him at the top of the bank he could hear voices as motorists, having witnessed the accident, called out, some slipping down the bank as they rushed to help.
But all Carlo could concentrate on was the music; the music from the van; the van that now contained his dead father as well as serving his dead mother. The music that was a call to all the sweaty, horrible, whining children to attend the Ice Cream Van of Death!
Carlo ignored the shouts and questions as the would-be rescuers neared the crash and instead walked over to the tree the van had hit during its descent and grabbed the biggest branch he could. As the first of the motorists reached the accident, Carlo returned to the van and began to repeatedly thrash the speaker with the branch, each blow accompanied by a steadily growing scream from the young boy.
Eventually the music stopped as the speaker broke free from the roof under the onslaught, dangling on a wire like a chicken with a broken neck. Carlo looked at the speaker with a strangely satisfied smile on his face before he turned to the crowd of people who were now staring at him in confusion.
‘Apparently, there’s a reason.’ he said, before slumping to the floor unconscious.
Leodoni’s Ice Cream Factory
Carlo heard his mobile phone beep as he stepped out of the car into the rain and knew immediately who it would be. Ignoring it he pulled his hood over his head and zipped up his coat as he waited for Mr Fox to get out of the other side of the car. Next to him were two once impressive but now rusty black, wrought iron gates. Eight feet high and unnecessarily ornate, they spelt out the words “Leodoni’s Ice Cream” across the top. He used to think them impressive and imposing but it had been two years since he had last seen them and now they were just the tarnished entrance to the one place in the world he did not want to see again.
On the other side of the gates there was a large yard that used to hum with activity on summer mornings as ice cream vans, tricycles and trolleys, laden with his father’s best products would zoom out of the factory and into the streets. As the rain thundered down into the now empty yard Carlo saw one of the tricycles standing awkwardly near the factory doors, one wheel badly buckled and the cool box in front of the handlebars faded. The orange parasol attached to the box was hanging rather forlornly at an odd angle, reflected in the busy puddles slowly covering the yard.
As Mr Fox fumbled with the three huge padlocks that had been put in place to keep the gates closed, Carlo heard his phone beep once more. Taking it out of his pocket he saw that, as expected, the last two text messages were from Norton. He opened the latest one which simply and rather unhelpfully said “Psst! Over here!”
Carlo looked to his right, but could see nothing asides from Uncle Randy searching through a huge bunch of keys.
‘Oi, you stupid Italian, over here!’
Carlo turned to his left and despite his dark mood let out a small laugh. Peeking around the corner wall of the factory were four heads, one atop the other, three with a concerned look on their faces and one, Norton’s, grinning with enthusiasm and giving a thumbs up. Ben, the top of the head structure was struggling with a large umbrella, simultaneously trying to keep all four dry whilst still being able so see round the corner yet also keep from sight. He seemed to be failing spectacularly on all three counts and finally slipping from whatever he had been standing on he managed to push all four of them into plain sight. With a lot of jostling and swearing they jumped back behind the wall before Mr Fox could see them and then one by one the four heads reappeared Totem pole-like from around the corner.
Trying his best to keep his laughter inside, Carlo waved to his friends but then stepped towards the gates as Mr Fox finally managed to get them open. The gang had offered to come with him on his first visit to the factory since his father’s death, but knowing how anxious it was going to make him feel he had thanked them but said no. It was just like them to turn up anyway. He could feel them looking on as he entered the yard, but he didn’t turn around; he knew that if he saw their concerned faces again he would probably lose his nerve and not go in.
Still holding his phone as he followed Mr Fox across the yard Carlo began to feel panic rising. He started to flick through the contacts until he came to the one he wanted and pressed the call button.
‘Come on… Come on Dad!’ Carlo urged quietly as he lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Answer… Answer.’
‘I’m sorry. The Number you have called is not in service. I’m sorry. The number you have called is not in service. I’m sorry. The….’
Carlo hung up. He wasn’t sure why he had done that or what he had expected to happen, but he suddenly felt more alone than at any point in the last two years. ‘It’s so we can stay in touch, Dad.’ He whispered. ‘But I don’t know where you are.’
‘Carlo? Giancarlo? Are you ready?’ Mr Fox asked.
Carlo looked up to see him holding open a hatch set inside one of the huge factory doors.
‘Come on. Lets get it over with.’ Uncle Randy said with a warm smile, before ducking through the hatch. Carlo took a deep breath and followed him into the dark beyond.
Stood in the darkness beyond the factory doors, Carlo could feel
the cold air of a huge open space in front of him. There was a breeze from beyond the railing he was holding onto, bringing forth the slightly sweet smell of syrup and vanilla. To his right Mr Fox could be heard flicking a number of switches and slowly a buzz filled the air as one by one the large strip lights that filled the factory blinked and clicked into life revealing Luigi Leodoni’s Ice Cream Empire.
Carlo was stood on the street level balcony looking down to the storey below at the huge factory floor. The sight was oh so familiar to him but no less mysterious for that, full, as it was, of pipes and conveyor belts; churning machines and ovens; robotic arms and many more wondrous machines, most of which he had no idea to their purpose. To his left a concrete ramp dipped down fifteen feet from the main doors to the to the factory floor where the track turned to the left and hugged the edge of the building. Carlo could see all twelve of Leodoni’s vans lined up along the track stretching to the back of the factory. He was slightly shocked to see his father’s own van at the front of the line gleaming as if the accident had never happened. He had never asked what had become of the van after the crash and had to assume now that Uncle Randy had taken care of it and had it repaired via the insurance. It was, after all, an asset of Leodoni’s. His shock at finding the van sat ready for another day’s work began to resolve itself into distaste and Carlo longed to rush over to it and once again start beating it with all his strength.
Randy had set off along the balcony towards the line of offices stretched along the opposite wall to the vans and Carlo hesitated, gripping the cool railing ever tighter, before dragging his eyes from the van and following, glad that the factory floor with all its massive and unknowable apparatus was now blocking the vans from view. Entering the third office he came to, Carlo found Randy already rifling through a filing cabinet, occasionally pulling out files and throwing them onto the large mahogany desk that dominated the centre of the room. Slumping into a chair Carlo watched as the pile became larger until Randy, having seemingly come to the end of the search, closed the drawer, turned around and placed the last file on the desk and opened it so they could see the contents.
‘These,’ Randy said, indicating the files ‘are the key staff at Leodoni’s. The ones we will need to tell in advance… if you still intend to go through with this?’ Carlo nodded but remained silent, so Randy continued with a sigh. ‘Then this is what you need to sign, Carlo.’ he said, fishing another document from his bag and placing it next to the files. ‘Why don’t I leave you alone to read it for a minute? You can make sure you understand exactly what it means.’
Randy stood and smiled down at Carlo before leaving the office, closing the door behind him. Carlo stared at the desk and wished himself anywhere else but here; his father’s office. The files were plied on his father’s desk, with his father’s cup next to them. There was a picture of his mother on the shelf behind the desk and next to that another photo of Carlo sat on his father’s shoulders laughing. Everything about this place reminded him of his parents. But he couldn’t understand why this wasn’t a comfort to him. He just knew that he hated everything about the factory.
‘It killed them!’ he had said to his friends not long after his father’s will had been read.
‘No it didn’t, Carlo.’ Newton reasoned, ‘Your Dad was killed in an accident and your mother was ill. It wasn’t the factory. ‘
Carlo just shook his head in disagreement. How could he possibly tell them? How could he ever explain that his parent’s deaths were so intrinsically linked with the factory? He would never be able to tell anyone the secret ingredient of Leodoni’s vanilla ice cream and therefore he could never tell anyone what had started the argument that culminated in his father’s death. His own sense of guilt made his head feel like bursting whenever he thought about it.
‘It was the factory.’ he repeated.
‘Well, what are you going to do with it?’ Abi asked.
‘Uncle Randy can have it. I don’t want it.’
‘Your father left the company to you.’ Randy said a few days later when Carlo had repeated his thoughts. ‘It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you, but we’ve had to deal with your father’s wishes as best we can with all the legal entanglements that involved.’
‘I know, Uncle Randy. And I appreciate it, but I just don’t want the factory. It’s difficult to explain.’
Mr Fox stared at the young man intently. Although “Uncle Randy” had been a huge part of Carlo’s young life for as long as he could remember, the two years since Mr Leodoni had passed away had brought them much closer together and Carlo had been glad his guardian didn’t push the matter of his rejection of the factory too much.
‘Your Uncle Luca rang again this morning.’ Randy had told him. ‘He and Franco are keen for you to join them now the school holidays are starting. They wish you would reconsider moving to Italy with them. They’re your family, they would look after you.’
‘I don’t know that side of the family. I’ve never even been to Italy. I want to stay with my friends.’ Carlo stated bluntly.
Randy had given Carlo a very warm smile, saying, ‘When I took you in I said you could stay as long as you want and I meant it.’
Carlo left his seat in his father’s office and moved around the desk to look at the document Randy had left. It was very long and contained many words that he had never even heard of. He tried his best to skim through it but got lost in a whirl of legal jargon and long sentences. Eventually he dropped into his father’s chair in disgust. A few minutes later Randy walked back in to the office with two cans of lemonade and put them on the desk.
‘That bad?’ he asked looking at the rather forlorn expression on Carlo’s face.
‘I don’t understand a word of it!’ Carlo replied. ‘It’s a different language. You’d have to be a genius to understand it. It’s probably how Newton writes all his letters to his pen pal; “Dear fellow genius from Canada. E=MC2 and stuff like that. Rah rah rah. The melting point of rabbits is five million pencils. I had beans for tea. Yours in Scientific Discovery. Newton.” Carlo mimicked before banging his head down on the table.
Randy laughed and pulled the document towards him. ‘It’s not that bad. It just says that you want to relinquish control of the factory and hand it over to me. In return a percentage of the profits will be placed into a trust every year until you are twenty one when you will be able access the trust but all other ties with the company will be cut. It’s what we talked about; basically I’m buying the factory from you and paying for it over a period of four or five years.’
‘Well why doesn’t it just say that then?’ Carlo mumbled from his position slumped over the desk.
‘Because that would be too boring for the lawyers. Now, here’s the crunch...’ Randy said, sliding the document back in front of Carlo and handing him a pen, but at that moment the office door slammed open behind him and a dripping wet umbrella entered the office followed by a large man in a long black waxed coat and a rather battered top hat.
‘Ah, Randolph. How good to see you.’ wheezed the man with a sound like there was lump of phlegm rattling in his throat. Carlo looked on in surprise as the uninvited guest shook his umbrella on the floor and removed is hat, all the while a suspicion that he had seen this man before arose, but he just couldn’t remember where.
‘Haverton?’ Replied Randy, somewhat in shock. ‘How did… err… why… err… what are you doing here?’
‘No need to be so flustered my dear boy, I come with good news… but, who is this?’ the gentleman said, looking beyond Randy to Carlo still slumped in his father’s chair. Carlo looked the man up and down, noticing how old-fashioned his clothes were and feeling slightly nauseated by the gurgling sound every time he spoke.
‘My, my… this can’t be young Carlo can it?’ Randy nodded an affirmative but still looked a little disconcerted. ‘Well, well. What a nice surprise.’ A queasy grin spread across the man’s face.
‘Excuse me. Who are you and what do you wan
t?’ Carlo asked, jumping into the question gap that was currently being left by Randy.
‘I, young man, am Haverton Hill, owner of Hill’s Confections. You will have heard of us, of course.’ he intoned with obvious delight at his own grandeur.
‘Err… no.’ Carlo lied, finally recognising the old man and immediately disliking him. ‘What do you do?’
Haverton Hill’s grin slipped a little as he stared at Carlo for a second weighing up his answer before seeming to think better of it and turning to address Randy. ‘Randolph. As I understand it Leodoni’s is now yours. I wish to make you an offer.’
‘Well, err… not quite Haverton, the papers haven’t been signed yet. In fact we were just about to sign them.’
‘Ah, good, good.’ beamed Mr Hill, looking not in the least surprised that he had been incorrect about the current ownership. ‘You know, boy.’ he continued, grin back in place and addressing Carlo once more, ‘This is a very shrewd move. More shrewd than ever your father was.’
‘Excuse me?’ Carlo asked, sitting up a little straighter in the chair.
‘Well, your father was, how shall I put it, a very good ice cream maker, but a terrible ice cream seller. He lacked the business acumen. So, of course, if you are anything like him, as I imagine you are, you do the right thing to refuse ownership. I imagine you would only make matters worse.’
‘What matters worse? What are you talking about?’ Carlo asked feeling both patronised and angry at this man’s disrespect to his father.
‘You wouldn’t understand, my boy. It’s a grown up matter. Perhaps you would like to continue? I believe you were about to sign the papers?’
‘What’s he talking about Uncle Randy?’ Carlo said, ignoring Mr Hill.
‘Erm, I’m not sure,’ Randy said looking between them. ‘Haverton, you mentioned an offer? I’m confused. Did you mean… for Leodoni’s?’