Caramel Hearts (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Attached by an Invisible Thread

I watch as the note travels along the dinner queue, skipping us out, and feel nausea rise each time someone reads it and giggles. No prizes for guessing who it's about, but I can't stick up for myself – one word from me and it'll get back to Maddy – so I keep my head down and try to pretend I haven't noticed. When it goes quiet, I don't need to look up to know that Maddy's here. It's like the moment before a storm when the birds stop singing and seek shelter. Only, there's nowhere for me to hide.

“Let's get out of her way,” I say, sensing Sarah tense beside me.

Not long after we're seated, Maddy arrives at our table, flanked by Lorna and Zadie. They slam their plates down and settle themselves for lunch.

“So, ginger pig, what's on the menu today?” asks Maddy.

She reaches over with her fork and stabs at my plate, lifting off a huge slab of meat pie.

“Mmm – meat pie. Exactly what I was going to choose – but then I noticed that's what you picked. So I chose the sausages. Knew you wouldn't mind sharing.”

Zadie giggles.

“Here. Take it,” I say, pushing the plate towards Mad Dog. “I've lost my appetite.”

I don't know where it comes from. I guess I've just had enough. Sarah stops eating and holds her fork mid-air. Mad Dog looks momentarily confused while Lorna and Zadie eye each other nervously. Recovering, Mad Dog leans in.

“Tough, are we?” She grabs me by the shoulder, pressing her thumb against my throat just enough to restrict my breathing. “I decide what happens around here, not you.”

As Mad Dog tightens her grip, I struggle for air. A cough from Lorna signals Mozzer's arrival and Maddy releases me at just the right moment. Eyes narrowed, she watches as the head teacher does his rounds, waiting until a shout from the other side of the room diverts his attention so she can lean right up close to my face. The other girls lean forward too, as though attached by an invisible thread.

“You're going to get it, ginger pig. The other day – that was nothing. I'll get you properly – when you least expect it.”

Recovering my breath, I rest my hand on my chest and avert my gaze. I distract myself by thinking about the peanut-butter fudge recipe that's waiting for me at home. Maddy wedges herself between me and Sarah, motioning with her head for Sarah to leave. Stalling, Sarah tries to catch my eye, but I purposely avoid her gaze.

“It's OK – go,” I say, hanging my head as I listen to Sarah's footsteps fade.

Mad Dog reaches under the table and grabs my wrist. She digs her nails in deep as Old Mozzer approaches.

“Everything all right, girls?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr Morrelly,” says Maddy, in a sickly-sweet voice.

My wrist is burning now where Maddy has her claws dug in, but I'm determined not to flinch.

“Olivia? Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to keep my face from screwing up with pain.

“Good, good.”

The head teacher strides off, arms clasped behind his back. As soon as he's out of earshot, Mad Dog lets go.

“See? We run this place now, not him. When it comes to thieves, we're in charge.”

I feel my thoughts spin out of control. She knows.

“Think you can steal Jack from me, ginger pig?” Mad Dog continues. “You'd better watch your back.”

Relieved it isn't the bag we're talking about, I fight the smile that threatens to spread across my face. Maddy stands, the other girls following. As a parting insult, she unscrews the salt pot and pours it all over my lunch. “Jack might say he likes your hair, but it's only cos he feels sorry for you. It looks like shit.”

Now she has my interest. Jack likes my hair?

They're only gone a couple of seconds when a gentle hand lands on my shoulder, making me spin round.

“Mrs Snelling! What are you doing back?”

Despite the cast on her foot, she looks as jolly as ever.

“Well now, that's a nice greeting!” hollers Mrs Snelling. “If you must know, I thought I'd stop by and see how things were going. I'll be back at work next week, and wanted to make sure the place was running smoothly.” She points at my ruined dinner. “It's a good job I did! Come with me.”

Gobsmacked, I slowly rise and follow Mrs Snelling, aware of eyes turning my way. Not wanting to give them any satisfaction, I refuse to react. I act like this is
completely normal and focus on Mrs Snelling's back as she leads the way, limping past row upon row of lunch tables. If only she'd move a bit quicker.

In the kitchen, Mrs Snelling puts a replacement meal in front of me.

“Meat pie, wasn't it?”

Around us, the other cooks continue to serve up lunches, remove hot trays from the oven, replace empty containers on the counter and stack dishes as high as the ceiling. Although I've lost my appetite, I suck in the scents of gravy, custard and baked apples. I see Mad Dog's scowling face in the distance, but she can't see me. Digging into the pie, I chew a small mouthful. It tastes better than before.

“Don't you worry about the likes of her. Another few years and you'll never have to see her ever again.”

Another few years? I nearly choke on a lump of pastry.

“Get through school and you can get out of here – keep away from those sorts. It's them that give this area a bad name.”

I nod, wondering why Mrs Snelling has to be so nice. If only she knew the truth.

“So, how's the cooking going?”

“Good,” I reply, pleased to change the subject. “I've made flapjacks, Eccles cakes and shortbread. And tomorrow I'm making fudge.”

Mrs Snelling's eyes grow as round as cake tins. “And they've all worked first time?”

“More or less. The shortbread burned but everything else was fine.”

“A little tip with the shortbread… did you put it in the fridge?”

I rest my fork on my plate and shake my head.

“Leave it to sit in the fridge for half an hour before baking. It improves the texture.”

“I'll try that next time,” I say.

I'll try anything to make life a bit better.

“I also wanted to ask you something,” continues Mrs Snelling. “I hope you don't mind. It's about the robbery.”

Fear freezes the blood in my veins. Looking up, I try to relax my facial muscles. “Sure, go ahead.”

“I hear you're friends with that Jack boy – the one who helped me.”

Mrs Snelling visibly shudders, remembering the incident, and my mouth turns dry as chalk.

“Yes. Well – kind of.”

“Do you know him well enough to know whether he'd be capable of it?”

I drop my fork with a clatter.

“Of what?”

“Well, Mr Snelling's been onto me. Says it seems a bit coincidental that Jack happened to be there. And I do remember he had a rather large bag with him. Do you think he could have been involved? Helping me was a cover-up?”

Shaking my head emphatically, I clear my throat. I can't let Jack get blamed for something I did.

“No way – I mean, Jack wouldn't do that. He's a good guy. He stuck up for me when I needed it,” I say, wishing I could go back in time and put everything right.

Mrs Snelling heaves a relieved sigh.

“Good – that's what I thought. Please don't repeat what I said. It's just a silly idea that Mr Snelling got into his head, and it started niggling away at me. Stupid really. You won't tell anyone, will you?”

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. I should come clean. But I can't.

“Thanks, dear. I knew you were a nice girl, someone I could count on. I don't care about the bag or the money – there wasn't much in there anyways – but my purse held an important photo.”

“A photo?” I picture the ginger lad with the big smile.

“Our son, Simon, was killed in a car crash four years ago, and I always carried our favourite photo – the one from his graduation – with me. I know it probably sounds silly to a young girl like you, but it felt like a bit of his memory was lost when that photo was stolen.”

Avoiding Mrs Snelling's gaze, I gulp down the lump that has settled in my throat.

“Mr Snelling always warned me not to carry it around. He said I'd lose it. I guess it's the last we'll see of it now. I'll never hear the end of it.”

Turning away, Mrs Snelling reaches for a big helping of rhubarb crumble and custard. She sets the bowl down with tear-moistened eyes.

“Thanks, Liv, you've been very kind to a sentimental old fool. Now promise you won't say a word about what I said? I'd feel terrible if it got out!”

Nodding, I force a tiny spoonful of pudding into my mouth. It feels like boulders as I swallow.

Peanut-Butter Fudge Chunks

Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey… A delicious fudge never fails to bring your sweetheart closer to you. If you've had a bitter row, sugar him up with this. If you're all loved-up, make him melt with this crunchy, nutty delight. Trust me – have I lied to you yet?

INGREDIENTS

340 g/12 oz chocolate chips – as sweet as you like

340 g/12 oz crunchy peanut butter

415 ml/14 fl oz sweetened condensed milk

HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN

1. Line a square pan (approx 8 in.) with waxed or parchment paper.

2. In a bowl placed over a pan of boiling water, melt the chocolate chips and peanut butter until they turn into gooey goodness.

3. Stir well to make sure there are no lumps – we want the only crunch to be the peanuts.

4. Add the milk and continue stirring until it's smooth and golden.

5. Pour the mixture into the pan and refrigerate until chilled (make it at least 2 hours, if you can. I know – it's tempting!).

6. When set, place fudge on a cutting board, remove waxed paper and cut into around forty delicious fudge squares.

Tip
: Don't worry about making the fudge squares perfect. After all, imperfections are a part of life. That's what makes those we love special.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Placing It Carefully on the Spring-Loaded Donkey

As soon as I'm home, I race upstairs to my room. Pulling the bag out of my wardrobe, not even bothering to be careful, I rip it open and yank out the wallet. Gently opening the clasp, I search inside, feeling like anything but the kind girl Mrs Snelling believes me to be. As I pull the photo out for a closer look, Harriet's voice floats up the stairs.

“Liv, your tea's ready.”

“I'll be right down.”

The lad smiling up at me is a bit older than Harriet. He's wearing a mortarboard and has bright red hair and a smattering of freckles on his pale skin. He doesn't resemble Mrs Snelling much, apart from the hair and the infectious grin. I guess he looks more like his dad.

“Liv! Your food is on the table. It's getting cold.”

“I said I'd be right down.”

I try to imagine how Mrs Snelling must feel, but I can't. I've never known anyone who has died. Dad isn't around, but he's not dead. As far as I know, he's out there somewhere, living his life. A life without us. I try to ignore what that means – that our dad doesn't want
to know us. I guess he doesn't realize how bad things are with Mam. Or maybe he does and it doesn't make any difference.

Focusing back on the photo, I can't believe that this person is dead. I try to imagine what it would be like if Mam or Harriet died. What would I do? Probably carry a photo with me, just like Mrs Snelling.

Simon's eyes seem to stare at me accusingly, so I carefully return his picture to the purse and make a decision. I'll sneak the photo back to Mrs Snelling and put things right without getting caught. But how?

“Liv! For God's sake will you come and GET YOUR TEA!”

“I'm COMING!”

Racing down the stairs, I run straight into Harriet. She's flustered and cross.

“I have better things to do than make tea for an ungrateful brat,” she snaps.

“Fine. Let me make my own tea then.” I sit down at the table in front of a plate of sausages, potato waffles and beans. “I'm a better cook than you anyway. You only make frozen muck.”

As I pick up my fork, smug look firmly in place, Harriet snatches my plate away.

“Right. If that's how you feel!”

She marches to the bin, stamps on the pedal to open it and pours my food away. Then she lets the lid slam shut, slings the plate into the sink and stomps off. It happens so fast, I can't even think of a smart comment.

“I'm fed up of you, you little cow,” she calls after her.

“Not as fed up as I am,” I shout back.

Hardly an impressive comeback, but at least it's something. Starving, but determined not to give Hatty the satisfaction of knowing it, I decide that dinner's overrated and it won't kill me to miss it. She'll be sorry when I end up dying of anorexia. Jack too. I stamp up the stairs and play Johnny as loudly as the record player will allow, imagining a long, slow, dramatic death. I'm halfway through planning my obituary when my anger abates and I decide the whole thing would require far too much effort. Especially when there's a heap of recipes still to try.

Laid on my bed, listening to
Personal Jesus
, my mind races. How am I going to put things right? I can't go on like this. Guilt sucks. It destroys your life. My mind wanders back to Harriet's advice: “
You'll get outta here one day too, you know. Just hold in there
.”

What if Hatty is wrong? What if hanging on means I'm trapped in the Egertons for ever? If only after returning the bag I could leave the estate – take some time out. But where would I go?

My mind goes crazy, thinking up possibilities. Whitby, Oxford, Disneyland Paris, London… if only I knew where my dad was. Then I could visit him. Like Jack said, I could make it happen. Imagine how happy he'd be – reunited with his long-lost daughter. It's all I can think of for the rest of the night. As I drift off to sleep, stomach rumbling, my made-up image of his face is the last thing I see.

* * *

That night, I dream of breaking glass and loud sirens. Long streaks of laser beams blast the sky like a pyrotechnic
show and the whirr of a helicopter's propellers fill the thick night air.

There is a search party out. It's looking for me.

I run upstairs to the safety of my room. Harriet's bedroom door swings open and my sister sways in the doorway, her hair replaced by writhing snakes. They squirm and coil.

“You sssteal… you sssteal…” they hiss, preparing to strike.

I take a sharp breath in and edge my way past just in time. Slamming the bedroom door behind me, I rest against it, breathing hard. Inside, gentle music plays, birds sing and sunbeams pattern the floor like lace. My carpet is littered with retro toys I liked as a kid: Ladybird books, Operation, Buckaroo. As I pick up the plastic saddle, placing it carefully on the spring-loaded donkey, a voice calls from the wardrobe.

“Liv, sweetheart, are you there?” It's Mam. The sweet, light-hearted voice of a Mam I barely remember. A Mam that could be nicknamed “Happiness”. “Come and see the surprise I have for you.”

Uncertain why I'm scared, I edge towards the wardrobe. As I swing the door open, the room turns dark and cold.

“Thief, thief, thief.”

The chant starts off quietly, growing gradually louder. The voice is gravelly and angry. It's coming from somewhere beneath my clothes.

“Thief, thief, thief.”

I try to say something but can't. Searching my face with my hand, I discover my mouth has gone.
It wasn't my fault
, I want to call out.
I didn't mean to do it
. The chant continues, growing louder still. I have to make it stop.
Stepping into the wardrobe, I search through the rubble of clothes. As jeans, skirts and polo shirts fly beyond me, the voice grows deafening.

“Thief, thief, thief.”

Pain shoots through my jaw as I try to talk without a mouth. I shove more clothes out of the way and realize I'm crying. Then I find it.

The Blue Handbag.

It has eyes and teeth.

Dancing up and down on the spot, the handbag screams out its accusation. I try to wedge my hand over its mouth but it bites down hard, drawing blood.

The helicopter whirr grows closer. Light beams from sniper guns settle on my chest. I scream.

On waking – sweating and shivering, my legs entangled in the quilt – I lie as still as I can and let the darkness wash over me. Wiping my teary cheeks dry with the back of my hand, I wait until my heartbeat calms and the fear abates.

When I feel brave enough, I sit up and check around me, happy to see my floor littered with vinyl sleeves, Harriet's cast-off magazines and
Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom
. Rubbing my eyes, I check the time.

4.30 a.m.

It's going to be a long night.

My mind turns into a jumble of questions. What can I do with the bag? Should I tell Sarah? Will Jack ever speak to me again? Will I ever meet my dad – and when will Mam come home? I try to figure out some answers – even one would do – but I end up giving myself a headache instead. Thank God it's Saturday and I'll be visiting Sarah's. Only a few more hours to go.

I distract myself by practising my kissing technique – first on the pillow, then on the back of my hand. I manage to get my teeth out of the way of my lips, but I have no idea what to do with my tongue. It strays in all the wrong places, looking for somewhere to go. Maybe I should be grateful I'm too ugly to kiss? Thinking I'm relaxed enough to sleep, I snuggle down into my quilt and try to drift off. But every time I drop off, I jump awake, certain I can hear the handbag hopping around chanting Thief! Thief! Thief!

Instead of fighting it, I decide to get up and make the peanut-butter fudge. Only when it's cooled and divided up into portions – some to share with Mam, some for Sarah – do I dare go back to sleep.

* * *

Crawling out of bed and rubbing my eyes, I approach the wardrobe with caution. As I shovel down into the mound of clothes, my heart races. Even though I know Harriet will be busy making breakfast, I can't help checking over my shoulder.

When I see the stupid blue bag, I flip and start kicking stuff around. I can't take it any more. I have to figure out how to return it without getting caught.

Checking the time, I quickly pull on my green and black stripy tights, short black skirt and khaki Converse. Walking always helps me think, and Sarah's is a good half hour away. Smoothing some wax into my hair, I grab Sarah's fudge and head out, pausing only to double-check my hair in the mirror. Just in case I bump into someone along the way.