Caramel Hearts (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Through the Ocean, Guiding a Calf

The sun is shining low and bright as I reach Sarah's house. Armed with carefully wrapped flapjacks, I ring the doorbell several times in quick succession, my heart thumping. Even though Sarah's mum says I can just walk in, I can't bring myself to do it. Mam would go nuts if she found out I was walking straight into other people's houses – it'd make “a show” of her.

“Hi Liv, come in! Sarah's waiting in the living room,” says Mrs Butler, opening the door just enough to be visible.

Her greeting tumbles out clumsily, only half of her face smiling.

She suffered a stroke whilst giving birth to Sarah – that's why Sarah's an only child – and she hasn't regained full use of her left side.

It was the stroke that made Mrs Butler agoraphobic, which means she's too afraid to step outside her own front door. When it started, she was scared that people would laugh, and then it grew into this massive phobia. At first it seemed weird, but I'm used to it now. I often wonder what she'd do if there was a fire.

“Thanks, Mrs Butler.”

“I've told you, call me Fran!”

“OK, Mrs Butler.”

Being on first name terms would also make a show of Mam. Another big no-no. Another thing to worry about.

Sarah's laid flat on her stomach, head resting on her hands, eyes glued to the TV.

On the screen, a huge blue whale makes its way through the ocean, guiding a calf. The calf is so graceful it seems weightless, even though it probably weighs a couple of tons. I flop on the floor next to Sarah.

“Hi,” I say a bit too loudly, my nerves getting the better of me.

“Isn't it lovely? That something so b-big can be so gentle?” she says.

Her tone of voice is fine, but the stutter shows she's upset.

I decide I'll make it up to her – the flapjacks are a start.

“You'd expect it to kill the calf or something, being that massive,” I say.

Sarah turns around, eyes wide.

“Would you kill your baby if you were a blue whale? That'd be the ultimate betrayal.”

I know the challenge is more about me than it is the whales, but I don't bite.

Cringing, I point at the screen, where a pack of killer whales flank the calf.

“I wouldn't need to.”

We watch as the mother whale tries her best to guide her offspring, but the pack is stronger. It's like Maddy's gang
when they spot Sarah. I don't say that though – especially since I went off with them.

“That's disgusting,” says Sarah, blocking her eyes from the television.

“It's nature,” I say, eyes glued.

The killer whales succeed at separating the calf from its mother. Thrown around by the hunting pack, bashed and bruised, the calf eventually tires and drowns.

“How can anything be so cruel?” asks Sarah, as the camera switches to a killer whale's graceful retreat.

A hot, steaming mug of chocolate arrives just in time – before things have a chance to get too heated.

“Thanks, Mrs Butler,” I say sweetly.

Mrs Butler's the best mam in the world, and you can't help feeling chilled out around her – she has this calming effect. I always feel at home here, and my worries melt away as I relax into the familiar surroundings. There's no tension. Everything is consistent. When she walks away, I decide to get my apology over with.

“Sorry about yesterday. I didn't know how to say no to Maddy – you know what she's like.”

It's not quite an apology, and not quite true either, but I figure there's nothing wrong with a little white lie now and again to spare your best friend's feelings.

“It's OK,” says Sarah, her face relaxing. “I don't blame you for going.”

“Thanks – you're the best,” I say.

My conscience cleared, I realize the timing is perfect for the flapjacks, and jump up.

“Goodness, my heart!” cries Mrs Butler, jumping as well.

“Sorry! I just remembered that I brought you something.”

Fumbling in my bag, my hands turn clumsy and awkward.

I eventually find what I'm looking for and, as I pull out the tangle of paper and Sellotape, I can't help the cheesy grin that spreads across my face. “Here!”

Sarah and her mum glance at each other in wonder as I unravel the complicated wrapping and flatten it into a makeshift plate.

“George, I think you'd better come in here,” calls Mrs Butler. “Liv has something special for us.”

As Sarah's dad saunters in, I realize there isn't enough for everyone.

Me and Hatty got carried away earlier, so there are only three flapjacks left – and one of those is mine. Sarah's dad usually works on Saturdays, so I hadn't expected him to be home.

The flapjacks are delish and, although I want one – I mean, really, really want one, more than anything – I hold the biscuits out in full view.

“See, one for each of you.”

For some reason, the flapjacks no longer look as mighty as before.

They're a bit dark at the edges, too pale in the centre, and not at all straight like the ones you see in the shops. They look a bit dry and shrivelled. I
feel my face flush. How could I bring something so inferior to the Butlers'? As the three of them peer down at my outstretched hand, I fight the urge to bolt.

“They look delicious,” says Mrs Butler, just at the right time.

“I'll get some plates,” says Sarah, bounding off to the kitchen.

I wait, my body tense. I can't believe I'm getting the jitters over some daft flapjacks, but I can't peel my eyes away as they each take a biscuit and lift it to their mouths.

Mr Butler winces as he bites into his.

“Are they too tough?” I ask.

“Nope,” he replies, crunching loudly. “I've been having trouble with my tooth. I can eat it very well on the other side.”

And he can. It seems they're OK after all. I watch, breath held, as Sarah and her parents munch and chomp their way through.

At first, I worry they're just being kind, but it soon begins to sink in that they really are enjoying my gift.

“Where did you buy them?” asks Mr Butler, shoving the last chunk into his mouth.

“I made them myself.”

“They're really good. You've a real talent, there,” says Mrs Butler.

Her face crinkles into a proud grin and she reaches out to pat my arm. Without meaning to, I pull away. I wonder if Mam will look at me like that one day.

“Now I know what you were up to with Mrs Snelling! These are seriously good, Liv,” says Sarah. “I didn't know you could cook!”

Beaming, I turn back to the TV, hot chocolate in hand.

“It's nothing. You just need the right recipe.”

Eccles Cake, Like Your Granny Made

They say that the older you are, the wiser you get; well, here's a recipe from a wise, wise woman, aged just twenty-seven. Make them and see – then feel free to call me Granny Bloom!

INGREDIENTS

500 g /1 lb 2 oz puff pastry (you can cheat this time)

25 g/1 oz yummy melted butter

Pinch of freshly ground nutmeg

55g/2 oz candied peel

115 g/4 oz caster sugar

225 g/8 oz plump and juicy currants

HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN

1. Pre-heat oven to 220 °C/425 °F/Gas mark 7.

2. In a saucepan, mix the sugar and butter, and cook over a medium heat until it's melted into liquid gold.

3. Take off the heat, add currants, candied peel and nutmeg. Watch the currants swell and get a whiff of those smells!

4. On a lightly floured surface, roll the pastry thinly and cut into rounds – approx. ¼ in./½ cm thickness and 4 in./10 cm diameter – but don't worry too much, no one's watching!

5. Place a small spoonful of delicious filling into the centre of each pastry circle – be careful not to overfill.
It's tempting, but resist – otherwise they'll burst open and burn.

6. Dampen the edges of the pastry with a little cold water and draw the edges together over the fruit, pinching to seal.

7. Turn the bundle of love over and press gently with a rolling pin to flatten the cakes. Snip a little “V” for “Victory” in the top with scissors.

8. Place on a greased baking tray, brush with water and sprinkle with a little extra sugar – go on, spoil yourself!

9. Bake in the oven for 15 minutes or until golden round the edges. Place on a wire rack and allow to cool. Travel back to simpler, happier times with every bite.

Chapter Thirteen

You're a Right Fat Pig

The next morning, I slouch next to Harriet in the visitor waiting room. We haven't spoken a word since we arrived and, from the look on Harriet's face, I know she's thinking the same: that she'd rather be anywhere else in the world than here.

I hate this place. With a passion. It's so over-the-top cheery and fake. It's no wonder Mam isn't getting better – places like this make you feel sick. They make you worry about not complying with the norms. It's like they're designed to alienate you, and that's the last thing anyone needs. I also hate the weirdos that wait here – with their shifty glances and blank stares. We don't belong here at all – Mam included. We should be at home, doing normal things as a family. Why can't Mam just pull herself together and quit drinking – how hard can it be?

Every time footsteps sound in the corridor, Harriet glances at the doorway. Each time it's not Mam, she sighs. I can't decide whether the noise signifies relief or disappointment, but it's driving me nuts. I tangle small plaits into my hair, tugging so tightly that my scalp pinches, and I pull my knees up to my chest. Resting my feet on the chair cushions earns a disapproving look from Hatty, but I'm past caring.

“She's obviously not coming,” I say, head between knees. “We've been waiting nearly half an hour. We should go.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Sure. I could see what I need for the pastries I'm planning for later in the week.”

“You and your bloody cooking. Is that all you care about?”

It's like being hit in the face with a slab of fresh liver. I finally find something I really like doing, and all it does is get me into bother.

“Can't you see there are more important things going on – bigger things to worry about?” continues Hatty. “Mum's stuck in here, and all you care about is bloody cake.”

I know Harriet's trying to keep her voice quiet so the others can't hear, but it's not working.

“It's her own fault!” I say. “How is sitting around here helping, when she doesn't even want to see us? You're just jealous I've found something I like doing.”

Harriet's shoulders slope and her face darkens. I should leave it there, but I can't stop my mouth from running away with itself.

“The only thing you're good at is eating all the cakes. You're a right fat pig.”

Instead of retaliating, Harriet lowers her head into her hands and cries. It's a low, deep wail that comes from a very dark place – somewhere even worse than the Recovery Centre waiting room. Stunned, I watch my sister shake with sobs.

“I'm sorry, Hatty – I didn't mean it.”

I try putting my arm around her shoulder but Harriet keeps crying. No matter what I try, she stays crumpled,
like she no longer has the energy to lift her head. The crowd in the room shuffles, embarrassed by the show of such strong emotion. I feel a hot sting as my face glows all the way to my ears.

“Hatty, Harriet, come on, it's OK. Let's go home. I'll make you something nice.”

The other people in the waiting room are really quiet. Harriet's sobs sound magnified in the silence. Heart racing, I rub her back, but other than that, I'm clueless. My sister is growing more alien to me each day.

“Try giving her some space, love,” says a kindly voice.

When I look up, a middle-aged lady with tired eyes gives me a warm smile. I follow her advice but give Harriet's knee a gentle squeeze to let her know I'm here if she needs me. She slaps my hand away.

“What's it got to do with you?” snaps Harriet, suddenly lifting her head, revealing blotchy, tear-swollen skin.

“Excuse me,” says the lady, averting her gaze. “I was only trying to help.”

“It's because of people like you helping that Mam's in this hovel in the first place!” says Harriet, getting to her feet. “So, if you don't mind, I suggest you keep your nose out of other people's business.”

I stand too, uncertain what to do next. I've never seen my sister behave this way. Hatty's the one that sorts things out, that stays in control.

A male nurse strides into the room, providing the perfect distraction.

“What's all the commotion?” he asks, trying to assess the situation by scanning the room.

I look to Hatty for an answer. She tosses her hair and wipes her eyes.

“There's no commotion. We're leaving. Tell Mam we said hi. If she even cares.”

That's all the answer I need. I link arms with my sister and we march out of the room, heads held high. But we don't get far before a voice calls out.

“Girls. Girls? Where are you going?”

We stop, even though I want to keep going. I want to make her pay for upsetting Hatty like this. But of course I can't – for all her faults, she's our mam. I let go of Hatty's arm so she can wipe her eyes. She blows air upwards over her face, trying to cool it down. I'm the first to turn round, buying Hatty some time.

“We thought you weren't coming,” I say.

“I'm sorry – I got carried away watching
Downton Abbey
DVDs and didn't realize the time.”

When she pulls a daft pouty face, I feel like leaving again. But Hatty stands by my side and adds, “Well, we're glad you're here now.”

Her face brightening, Mam rushes over to us and links our arms.

“Can we play table tennis?” I say.

“I forgot to book the table,” says Mam. “But never mind, we'll go to my room. You can tell me all about what you've been up to.”

As we walk along the corridor, I lean back a little to check on Hatty. She seems completely fine. You wouldn't know she had a meltdown just minutes ago.

Mam's room looks more homely than last time. She's put some flowers in a vase, and she's been drawing. There are sketches of fruit and birds strewn across her small table. Other than the pictures in the recipe book, I haven't seen her draw for years.

“These are really good, Mam,” I say, admiring the detail on a swallow. She's put just enough effort into the feathers.

“Oh, those? It was my counsellor's idea. Said it would be therapeutic. Nowhere near as good as I used to be.”

“I wish I could draw like that,” says Hatty.

I sit in the seat near the window and continue flicking through the drawings.

“Can I draw you?” asks Mam.

When I look up, her face is beaming towards me.

“Sure,” I say, taken aback. “Where shall I sit?”

“You're perfect where you are,” says Mam, snatching up her sketchbook and pencil. “The light is just right.”

Mam draws standing up. The sound of the lead scratching against the paper is soothing and the sun warms my neck. Hatty has the biggest smile on her face as she stands behind Mam, nodding as the image forms on the page. It's like old times, and I almost forget where we are.

“It looks like you already,” says Hatty. “Mam, you should see Liv's drawings. She's getting really good – must get it from you.”

“She's a talented girl,” says Mam. When my jaw drops she adds, “Liv, don't fidget! It'll go wrong.”

The scratching goes on for another ten minutes and I find it harder and harder to stay still. Mam has to remind me a few times, but soon she stops and holds the paper out.

“That's brilliant!” says Harriet. “You've got her eyes just right.”

““No, no. It won't do at all,” says Mam, staring at the drawing.

“It's great!” says Harriet, throwing me a worried look.

“Can I see?” I ask. “Can I have it?”

“Let Liv see, Mam,” tries Harriet.

But Mam's face clouds over as she scrutinizes her work.

“Too much fidgeting. And the eyes… yours are much more beautiful.”

Moving to my side, Hatty rests a hand on my shoulder. “It's lovely, Mam, honest,” she says. “A perfect likeness.”

“Let's have a look,” I say, getting to my feet, but before I can see the drawing, Mam rips it into four pieces. The pieces drop to the ground and a single eye stares up at me.

“I'll do another one – a better one,” she says. “Only the best for my girls.”

I try to smile, but it feels sticky on my face. Suddenly, the orange walls feel overly bright. I make my excuses and go to the loo. When I return, the pieces have been cleared away, the TV's on and it seems Mam has forgotten all about drawing. Hatty gives me an apologetic look as she listens to Mam's recap of what's been happening up to this point on
Downton Abbey
.