Caramel Hearts (3 page)

Chapter Four

Like Magic, It Begins to Mould Together

I set the recipe book in place, open the oven door, and a rancid smell of stale fat rushes out. When was the last time Hatty cleaned this thing? A thick, tar-like substance has frozen mid-drip on the shelf's slats. It's disgusting, but as Mam says, “beggars can't be choosers”, so I light the gas anyway, and get to work. Without any weighing scales, I guess the measures, using the overall quantities on the packet as a guide. I place the butter and sugar in a bowl and, without a wooden spoon to hand, try a fork for whisking instead.

It's a disaster.

The fork handle gets covered in butter and loose sugar granules spray out of the bowl like water from a sprinkler. A metal spoon isn't any better. The thought of sticking my hands into the butter is gross, but time is ticking, and if I want it to work, I have to chance skipping to the next step. I'm surprised to find the cool stickiness is actually quite nice as I mix the ingredients together. But it's hard work. The recipe book doesn't mention anything about that. My shoulder goes dead after a few minutes and the sugar grazes my skin like sand. The butter's so hard I think my arm might snap with the effort, but soon everything begins to warm and soften, dissolving
the sugar in a buttery embrace. When everything is mixed, I can't resist sucking on a finger. It already tastes amazing.

Mouth watering, I carry on. The recipe says to add a bit of flour at a time, but to speed things up, I dump it all into the bowl. White powdery clouds billow out, catching in my throat and making me choke.

“Dammit!”

Using all my strength, I work the ingredients between my fingers. Like magic, it begins to mould together – not like any breadcrumbs I've ever seen, but it'll have to do. I check my flour-stained phone for the time. Hatty should be back in about an hour, leaving just enough time to bake, clean up and get out of here undetected.

As I add the lemon zest and chocolate chips, my nostrils suck in the smells and my stomach rumbles loudly in complaint. I had to skip lunch, so I can't wait to get stuck in. All morning I've been imagining the warm shortbread crumbling in my mouth and melting away. It even took my mind off my next counselling session with Rachel for a while. Sometimes talking about stuff helps, but it's like Rachel wants to know everything that's in my head. She's just trying to help, but it's freaky. She even started talking to me about sex and periods the other week – like they've got anything to do with Mam! And she's a year too late for the periods. I guess I don't mind. It's not like anyone else is going to talk about these things – Hatty gets too embarrassed – but still!

I realize I've been daydreaming and the dough has turned lumpy. I turn the mixture out onto the kitchen surface and start to knead, hoping this will help. Every
time I lift my hand, the dough sticks and, no matter what I try, I can't make it stop. Taking a deep breath and checking the recipe, I realize I haven't floured the surface. Annoyed at myself for missing such a basic detail, I grab a fistful of flour and wiggle my fingers so it falls like snow. The dough works better this time, and I relax into the kneading, enjoying the rhythmic strokes – until I realize I'm missing a rolling pin. When did I get so crap at following instructions?

I grab the first heavy item I can find – a supersize tin of beans – and lay it flat on the dough. I try to roll. But once again, the mixture sticks. It lifts with the tin, breaking into gloopy blobs and slopping back down onto the surface. Sweating and cross, I squash the dough together as best I can and pound it into shape with my fists. The citrusy, chocolatey aroma makes my mouth water. I pull a bit of the dough off and let it melt slowly on my tongue. The velveteen mixture's dead tasty. These are going to be divine! Hurriedly, I check the recipe one last time: “
Use a heart-shaped biscuit cutter to get as many biscuits as you can out of the dough
.”

That's a laugh – and I can't even imagine Mam writing it. There's nothing heart-shaped or patterned anywhere. “False hearts and broken promises are the reason I drink,” Mam always says. When she's not blaming me. But the recipe is proof that she must have believed in love once upon a time, and I can't help wondering why she changed her mind. She says it's Dad's fault, of course – we all know nothing is ever down to her – but she's never actually explained why they split up. You get the feeling she's hiding something.

After fashioning my own heart shapes with a dinner knife, I place them carefully on the baking tray. I reread the bit about the icing sugar – “
seal with a kiss
”
–
and a boy's face from school unexpectedly pops into my head: Jack Whitman. Even though I'm alone, my face burns. Pushing him out of my mind, I splash sugar on the biscuits and pop them into the smoking oven. Ignoring the acrid burning smell, I set about cleaning up.

The tidying takes longer than expected. Flour dusts the floor, the worktops and my hair. Wherever I turn, there's another doughy handprint or footprint. I've trampled it everywhere and, to make matters worse, the dough isn't easy to wash away. Like the clay we use in Art class, it clogs the sink.

“Hatty's going to kill me…”

I check the time. My sister's probably due back any minute. And I'm meant to be at school. A loud whoosh catches my attention and I turn to see flames lapping out of the oven.

“Holy crap!”

I bust the oven door open. Angry blue and yellow tongues flick out. The fat on the shelf has caught fire. I'm definitely dead meat now. I cross my fingers and hope that Hatty will be too busy celebrating her new job to get angry with me. Grabbing a bunched-up tea towel – I've discovered we don't own an oven glove – I try to snatch the baking tray out of the fire but the heat is too strong. The flames lap higher, blackening the ceiling. Smoke fills the kitchen, spilling into the passageway.

“Liv, is that you?” I hear Hatty call out. I hadn't even heard the front door slam. “Liv? What are you doing
home? Pauline next-door called me – said she'd heard noises… What the—?”

Hatty runs full speed into the kitchen and flings her bag across the floor.

“Quick, get me a damp tea towel!”

I do as I'm told. Within seconds, Harriet has everything under control – shortbread and tray dumped into the sink, oven shelf quickly following.

“What are you playing at? You know that if we don't keep things under control, they'll take you away. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.”

“Well you've a funny way of showing it. I thought you were going to act responsibly?”

“I am! I was just—”

“Nicking off school and setting the place on fire?”

My heart sinks. I only wanted to make Harriet smile.

“If Mam hears about this,” continues Hatty. “It'll set her right back.”

“And it'll be all my fault. You sound just like her.” It's too late to stay out of trouble and I can't seem to stop my mouth. “Maybe I'd be better off if the Social Services did take me away?”

“Sometimes I wonder why the hell I bother!” snaps Harriet.

I roll my eyes. “Go back to your precious uni. I don't need you to look after me.”

Harriet grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me harder than I expect, her face puckering with anger.

“Don't be such an ungrateful bitch!” she spits.

My ears and teeth rattle, but I don't bother to fight back. Instead, I focus on the points of her fingers digging into
my flesh, my eyes resting on the sink where my ruined shortbread lies black and smouldering. My stomach growls as I watch the red cinders of my shortbread die out, one by one. Why can't Harriet see I'm trying to do something nice?

Wriggling free, I snatch up the recipe book and stomp up to my room.

“I'm a bitch? Then what are you?” I shout down the stairs before slamming the door.

It's our first fight since Mam went away and the lovely lemony flavour turns sour in my mouth. I ball my fists and punch into my mattress. Only when my knuckles start getting sore do I feel a bit better.

“It's all your stupid fault,” I say, flinging the cookbook across the room. “It was a ridiculous idea.”

The book slams against the wall and lands on the floor, open on the inscription page. I can see my dad's words from here, full of love and tenderness.

“Why did you have to leave?” I say, my voice cracking.

Pushing my face into my pillow, I let the tears fall, resolving to never set foot in the kitchen again.

Chapter Five

The Three Amigos

It's almost 8.15 a.m. when Hatty shakes me awake, a freshly laundered and ironed uniform in her hands. She drops the uniform on my bed as I clamber out, but there's no sign of any note to explain my absence. I'm expecting fireworks and lectures, but it doesn't happen. Instead, her voice is cool and clipped.

“You know you can't keep nicking off school, right?” says Harriet, her best frown in place.

“Right,” I agree, my head hung low.

“I know you were trying to do something nice, and it's good you've got an interest, but…”

“But?”

My voice is more defiant than I mean it to be, but there's bound to be something bad coming. Like getting grounded or being walked to school to make sure I get there. For the rest of my life.

“We have to keep our noses clean if we're to keep things as they are.”

“You don't even want to be here!”

It's hard to keep my voice from wobbling. My head feels heavy, my heart heavier still, and my hands shake as I turn my back to my sister and start getting dressed. My shirt smells of wild flowers, and I breathe it in.

“I'm sorry for what I said, but I was worried – what if the place burned down? With you trapped inside?” She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “Where would I be without my lil sis?”

I pull away, but only because she's making me feel bad. I'm the one that messed up, and she's apologizing!

“I'm sorry too,” I say, the words sticky in my mouth. My shoulders feel lighter as the words come out. “But it was an accident.”

“I know that. But that doesn't excuse—” She pauses, gathering herself. “You've got to start pulling your weight, Liv. Taking control of your own life a bit more. I can't always be here to pick up after you and wash your clothes. You're old enough to do it yourself.”

“Fine,” I say. “Why didn't you just say?”

“I did,” she replies. “And I'm sick of repeating myself. Just do it, please.”

As Hatty leaves, I spot the recipe book discarded on the floor, still open, and I blurt out, “What about the baking?”

Suddenly, giving up doesn't seem like an option. Why should I? The recipes are the only thing I've looked forward to in ages. And if I'm going to be treated like a slave, I might as well do something I enjoy.

“What about it?” asks Hatty, pausing on the landing.

“Will you still help me out?”

Her eyes go wide and her eyebrows lift so high, they look like they're trying to escape her forehead.

“You're kidding, right?”

“No. You said—”

“That was before you abused my good nature, played truant and almost burnt the place down.”

“So you're stopping me from doing the one thing I'm interested in? You're always telling me to have more hobbies.”

Harriet puts her hands on her hips.

“I'm not stopping you, Liv. You want to bake, you bake. But you have to learn some sense of responsibility for your actions. So, you get the money for the stuff, and you can bake as much as you please. But not in school time, and not without me around. OK?”

“How am I meant to get money, if not from you?”

“Get a part time job. I used to babysit when I was your age.”

“If only I was as perfect as you!” I say, and close the door in her face.

* * *

When I get to the traffic lights, my best friend Sarah is already waiting. Sarah's face is flushed pink, and the dark shadows under her grey eyes show she's had a restless night's sleep. Her long, usually straight blonde hair sticks out like twigs. I know if I tell her she'll get embarrassed and she'll bite my head off. So I keep quiet, hoping she'll notice it in the reflection of a car window instead.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I slept in.” I check my hair in the reflection of a car window. “Are you OK?”

“I-I'm fine.” Worry always brings out Sarah's stutter. Embarrassing situations and excitement too. I feel dead sorry for her, cos she can't ever hide what she's feeling. Sarah pauses, takes a deep breath and continues slowly.
“M-Mam had a turn last night, but she's OK now. It's just… you know?”

I nod. I know all right. We've been friends since primary school.

“NFDN,” I say. No Further Discussion Needed. “Do you have running practice during lunch?”

We always get our plan straight as we walk to school – especially when our timetables don't match. For the last year, Sarah's been having problems with one of our old friends, Madeline Delaney (who we've secretly started calling Mad Dog). Maddy's from Egerton Mount, and her dad's doing time for aggravated armed robbery. She's tougher than steel, but we were best friends once. Mam used to call us The Three Amigos in primary school – we were inseparable. But she outgrew us. Myself and Sarah were still into dolls and making dances to our favourite songs when Maddy started kissing boys and having a cheeky fumble. Mam said it wasn't her fault that she had to grow up fast. Now she's mixed up with a bad crowd, so we only hang out now and again – when she'll let me. Not with Sarah though. Never Sarah.

“Yeah, I'm running. Meet me at the hall at 12.15 p.m.? We can go on first dinners.”

It's a mutually beneficial scam we've been pulling for months: the dinner ladies think I'm running too, so they let me in for the early sitting with Sarah. That way, Sarah has the backup she needs and I get fresher food.

“Deal!” I say.

We turn in the direction of school, taking the long way round across the open fields. Known locally as “the Rec”, most people avoid it because a cold wind
always blows across its exposed grounds. As the wind blows, the scent of floral washing powder fills my nostrils.

“Chris Murchison said he'd seen you yesterday, dressed as a clown.”

I feel my face redden. “He's an idiot,” I say.

“Yeah, but cute,” says Sarah, a dreamy look on her face.

Rolling my eyes is the only reaction I can muster.

“Aw, c'mon, Liv – admit it. You must fancy him a little bit. Otherwise you're not right in the head.”

“Guess I'm not right in the head, then. Seriously – why would I fancy someone everyone else likes?”

“Those big eyes, his posh accent, and he's dead funny – Chris is the hottest guy I've ever seen.”

“He's an airhead. I'd have thought you'd know better.”

“Well I'd have thought you'd know better than going after the same guy Maddy Delaney fancies.”

Stopping in my tracks, I put my hand to my chest like I've been shot in the heart.

“Why would you say such a thing?”

“Are you still denying you fancy Jack Whitman? I've seen the way you gawk at him.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You go weak at the knees every time you see him.”

“I do not! What would be the point? Maddy's much more popular. I've never even been kissed and she goes all the way.”

“So you have been considering the idea…” coaxes Sarah.

“All right,” I say, waiting until Sarah goes quiet. “I guess he's OK.”

“I knew it!”

“But you keep your mouth shut! If Maddy finds out, she'll kill me, then you, then him.”

“I'd be first on the list,” says Sarah, glumly. “Come on, we'd better get a move on.”

Hunkering down into our summer jackets, we speed up. It's nearly the end of May but the wind is harsh. Mam always says the landscape matches the lives of the people here: wild and brutal. But I think it's all right. At least it's consistent, and when your cheeks sting and your eyes water, you feel alive.

* * *

“Sorry about yesterday, miss – I was sick,” I say to my form teacher, Mrs Pearl, as I breeze my way past her.

I'm chatting happily with Sarah when a shadow looms over me. It's Mrs Pearl.

“Liv, can I have a word?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Outside the class,” she says, motioning to the door.

Someone in the class whistles, like I'm really in for it. Sarah gives me a quizzical look and I give her a sly shrug of the shoulders. I wait outside the door, fiddling with my tie, while Mrs Pearl gives the class some instructions. When she joins me, her face is full of concern.

“Would you like to tell me what's going on?” she says.

“I— Erm— About what?”

“Your sister called and said she caught you playing truant yesterday. Is this true?”

I flip my tie over my hand as I stare at her dumbly. Betrayed by my own sister.

“What's going on, Liv?” asks Mrs Pearl, even though it's none of her business. “Should I be concerned?”

I shake my head. Why did Hatty do such a stupid thing? Why can't she colour outside of the lines sometimes?

“It won't happen again, miss,” I say.

I just hope Hatty hasn't mentioned the fire. Mrs Pearl would freak and she'd be bound to tell someone. It'll all get out of hand – and we all know where that will lead. Back in care.

“Do you want to talk?”

I shake my head. I'm sick of talking. Hatty, my counsellor Rachel… where does it ever get us?

“Well, I'd like you to see the head teacher,” says Mrs Pearl.

“But there's no need!”

“At school, we have a duty to look after you, Liv. I understand you're going through a difficult time, but if you won't talk to me… I'll make an appointment for you to see Mr Morrelly at twelve o'clock sharp.”

Before I can return to class, the bell rings for first lesson. My form class nudge their way past me – some glancing, some staring, all trying to figure out what's going on. I spin on my heels and head down the corridor towards Science, pretending I can't hear Sarah when she calls my name.