Mrs Whippy (3 page)

“Oh, Amanda, that's a lovely name. What ice-cream would you like?”

“A 99 please.”

“May I say that's an excellent choice, Amanda?”

Amanda giggled shyly and skipped away happily with her cone.

“Hello, David. Good to see you again,” Mr Whippy said to the next young boy. “Where's Matthew today?”

He remembered all their names. I was very impressed. I watched him work his magic with all the children while their parents watched on happily. To the children he was like some kind of god. He was the great big man that owned the ice-cream van that they had to look up at. It was like he was on stage. He was a performer, an entertainer for the parents and children.

Finally, when all the children had received their treats, they went home. Their parents returned to their houses with less money in their pockets. Then it was my turn. I stepped toward Mr
Whippy feeling like little Amanda. Shy and giggly.

“Well, hello.” He grinned.

“Hello.” I smiled back, noticing my voice was once again child-like.

“I don't believe we've met before.” He slid off his glove and thrust his hand out of the window toward me.

He wasn't wearing a ring. I felt like doing a dance.

“Hi, I'm Emelda,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. His hands were smooth and so soft.

“Emelda,” he said gently. “Now that's the nicest name I've heard all day.”

I laughed. “Charmer.”

“Indeed.” He smiled.

“And what's your name?” I asked as he put his glove back on.

He raised his eyebrows and held his hands out to indicate his surroundings. “Mr Whippy, of course!”

“Of course.” I laughed.

“What can I get you, Emelda?”

He had a lovely way of saying my name. It flowed from his tongue like hot fudge slipping down cold ice-cream. It sounded soft and velvety.

“I'll have the best ice-cream there is,” I said, peering over his shoulder into the van.

“Oh. An ice-cream expert, are you?”

I looked down at myself and back to him. “You could put it that way, yes.”

He laughed. “That's what I like to see, someone who appreciates my art. Well, let's move away from all this, shall we?” He stepped away from the ice-creams the children had been interested in. “I have some very special ice-cream over here for
true
ice-cream lovers. Can I suggest this freshly made six-layer frozen sweetie pie? Only
made yesterday by yours truly. It's bursting with citrus fruity flavours designed to tickle your tongue and prickle your palate.”

My jaw dropped. “Yes,” I breathed.

“Excellent choice, Emelda.”

I handed over my money but he withdrew his hands. “This one is on the house.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly,” I began to say, but he cut me off.

“Next time,” he said and smiled. “I'll allow you to get the next one, which means I
expect
to see you when I'm here next.”

If it weren't for the delicious delight in my hand, and the extra one hundred pounds of fat on my bones, I would have cart-wheeled naked across the lawn with excitement.

I find that the rules of ice-cream tasting are the same for most things in
life. To experience true flavours and true feelings you need to pay attention to your senses. How do things look? How do things smell? How do things feel when you touch them or when they touch you? How do they taste? And, very importantly, what memories do they leave you with?

Mr Whippy's ice-cream is not gourmet and it's not expensive. He's appealing to children playing out on the road on spring and summer days. His customers are not people like me that end up with more ice-cream in their mouth than on their faces and on the ground. His ice-cream has none of the richness of more expensive ones. But the lack of exotic flavours is made up for by its preparation.

I can tell this by the look on his face
when he opens the window of the van and serves the children with his biggest, brightest smile. I can tell that his ice-cream was made with love. I know it was prepared with patience and pride. I know that this man's love for ice-cream is his livelihood. I can tell even by one brief meeting that that man has passion.

Later that night, I imagined him preparing his special ice-creams for the next day. I pictured him whisking egg yolks with sugar and salt and moving around the kitchen like he was performing on stage. I could see him splitting vanilla pods and scraping out the seeds. I saw him softly, yet firmly, pressing raspberries and stirring smooth, milky chocolate.

I could imagine the thick, heavy cream gushing into the saucepan and being brought slowly to a simmer. I
could hear the small bubbles rising to the surface and bursting with a light popping sound.

I could see him whisking the warm cream into the egg-yolk mixture. I could smell all the aromas in the kitchen. I could feel his excitement as the mixture thickened, the heat of the hob built and his stirring became faster and more constant. All this while he remained calm and didn't allow it to boil. No over-acting; no steps out of place. There was a rhythm to his work.

And then the music would slow as the performance neared its end. He would take the mixture off the heat and pour it into a churn. It would be churned until lovely and thick, the fruit and flavours added right at the end. Then he would transfer it to the freezer, where it would sit until the next day. Work done, song finished and dance completed. It was time to take a bow.

I closed the curtains in my bedroom late that Saturday night. And I felt that Act One certainly had closed in my life. Tomorrow was a new day.

Usually I would have been in bed when the boys arrived home on Sunday morning. But this morning was different. Feeling refreshed after my meeting the day before with Mr Whippy, I decided to get up early.

I wish I had taken a photo of Charlie and the boys' faces when they walked in the door. They must have been in shock at seeing me out of bed, and that I had dressed myself. I had been wandering around in my egg-stained
dressing gown for the past few weeks. Not only was I dressed, I was wearing my finest. I was wearing the outfit I saved for special occasions. Well, there was no point letting it gather dust in my wardrobe. Today was officially a special occasion.

It was the day I was going to take hold of my life. I would once and for all take back what was rightfully mine: my freedom, my dignity and my pride.

“Would you look at the state of you,” Charlie said. His mouth gaped open like a fish on ice. His arm was frozen in mid-air from where he had inserted the key in the door. “If it isn't Joan frigging Collins,” he spat out, looking me up and down with that familiar look of disgust on his face.

Well. It wasn't quite the reaction I was hoping for.

Brian sniggered. Vincent was silent, as usual. Little Mark looked at me in
confusion, as if trying to decide where his mother had gone.

My cheeks pinked beneath my rose-red blusher. Charlie had a point. My best outfit had been purchased for my eldest son's christening years ago. I had spent so much money on it that Charlie had insisted I get as much wear out of it as possible. It was my anniversary outfit, wedding outfit and birthday-party outfit. Here I was, twenty-five years later, standing in my front hall that hadn't been decorated in all that time. It was like some kind of time warp.

I could feel myself bursting out of the bright blue fabric. The buttons were stretching across my expanded waistline. They looked as if they were ready to pop. My shoulders were so padded I looked like I was armoured up and ready for battle. But ready for battle, I was not.

“Mammy, what's in your eyes?” Mark asked timidly.

I thought he was referring to the tears that had begun to well up.

“Eye-liner.” Brian smirked and he looked like his father. “
Blue
eyeliner.”

OK, so I had gone the whole nine yards. When I had got dressed that morning I had felt beautiful and ready to take on the world. Now I felt like the little girl in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
that blew up like a blueberry and had to be rolled off. The more they all stared at me, the more my confidence crumbled.

“Anyway,” Charlie continued, marching into the kitchen.

I could hear him rooting through the kitchen presses looking for food, as usual. Nobody noticed how I had scrubbed the house from top to bottom. Nobody commented on how I
had attempted to make it and myself look fresh and new.

“What are you cooking?” Charlie shouted with his mouth full of food.

“Breakfast for the boys,” I replied wearily, pulling off the bright blue pumps that my feet were squashed into.

“They ate already,” he said, appearing at the kitchen door with a sausage in his hand. He dropped it into his mouth and munched it.

“You cooked for them?” I asked in surprise.

“No.” He looked irritated again. “We went to McDonald's.”

“Oh, Charlie, I wish you wouldn't do that. It's so bad for them.”

He looked me up and down again. “You should talk,” he jeered and swaggered down the hall and out the door.

I went to the kitchen, filled a plate of food and brought it upstairs. I got down onto my knees in Mark's bedroom and slid the plate under the bed.

“Thanks, Mam,” his little voice chirped. “You look funny. Is today fancy-dress day?”

I sighed, sat on the carpet and listened to his quiet munching underneath the bed. I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror with my big earrings and my frizzy back-combed hair. My face was painted in orange foundation, blue eye-shadow and ice-pink lips.

I certainly felt like a clown.

No sooner had the boys returned than the sparkle and freshness disappeared from the house. Their over-night bags had been overturned, leaving their clothes messily draped across the house. Toys, computer games and DVDs cluttered the living-room floor. Their washing piled up in the basket. The ironing piled up on the board. I had taken off my “best” outfit and replaced it with my usual black leggings and T-shirt. I felt completely deflated that my revolt had got me nowhere. I
began the ironing while keeping an eye on the TV in the living-room.

Two school uniforms and three football jerseys later, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Well, are the remnants back?”

It was Susan, my best friend since I had moved to the street twenty-five years ago. She always referred to the boys as remnants, meaning the leftovers of our marriage. The only proof that Charlie and I had ever had sex.

“Yes, they're back.” I brought my cup of tea and cigarette over to the couch and sat down. I knew this would be a long conversation. It always was. Well, at least it used to be before she started seeing the window cleaner. I needed to talk to her. I had so much to tell her and I needed advice. I needed someone of sound mind to tell me that I wasn't as useless as everyone else was making me feel.

“Damn,” Susan swore down the phone.

“What's wrong?”

“I'll have to check with Julie if her kids are with her ex for the day.”

“Why?”

“Paul wants to take me out for a picnic today, up the Wicklow Mountains. Lately Ray's been asking twenty questions every time I walk out of the house. I need an excuse. But if I say I'm in your house all day then the kids will let it slip that I wasn't.” She groaned. “Oh, this is so unfair. Why can't anything good happen for me?”

I was speechless. I just sat on the couch with my mouth open in shock. My cigarette burned down so much the ash fell onto my lap and burned a hole in my Mickey Mouse T-shirt.

“Hello? Are you there, Emelda?”

“Yes,” I managed to say.
She
had all the bad luck? She had a wonderful,
faithful husband and four saint-like children who all got As in school. And she thought
she
was
unlucky
?

“Never mind. What are you doing on Tuesday night?”

I ignored her earlier comment because of the chance to meet up with her. “Oh, I'd love to meet up. We haven't had a good chat for such a long time. I've so much to tell you. Lately everything has really been getting on top of me. The boys are acting up. Charlie is being
horrible
and this new job I've started is –”

“No, no, no, no,” Susan interrupted. “I mean, does Tuesday suit you as a day for me to
pretend
to Ray I'm calling over to you? Paul wants to take me out for dinner. It's really awful not being able to have dates without looking over my shoulder all the time. Honestly,” she huffed. “But you would have to promise me that the boys won't be
there to say anything. And it would be great if you could stay in for the evening. That way no one will have any proof that I'm not there. You wouldn't believe how people like to talk around here.”

I saw red. She made me so angry that my whole body began to shake and my head became hot. I was tired of being used and walked all over by the people who were supposed to love me.

“No, Susan.” My voice shook with rage.

“No?” she asked in shock.

“No, you cannot use me as an excuse so you can carry out your dirty, lying, disgusting affair. If you had any sense at all, you would realise that what you are doing is
exactly
what Charlie was doing to me. You saw how hurt I was. You were there for the tears and all the pain. I can't understand how you
can do this to Ray. I love Ray. He is a lovely, honest and faithful man. I will
not
have anything to do with this.”

“But –”

She tried to interrupt but I wouldn't let her.

“And as for bad luck, Susan, you wouldn't know anything about it. You have a great husband, great children, a great house and a great life. You're so selfish you don't even know what's right in front of you. You ignore those around you, like
me
, for example,” I burst out. “I could do with some friendship right now. Don't you dare call me again.”