Sundae Girl Read online

  ‘You’re Molly, pet,’ Grandad says sadly. He stacks up the breakfast plates and dumps them into the sink.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ Mum huffs, ‘is that if he insists on turning up at Jude’s school, he should at least leave that woman behind.’

  ‘Victoria is a lovely girl,’ Grandad says firmly. Victoria is a bank clerk in Grandad’s local branch. ‘Very kind. And she’s always been good to our Jude, hasn’t she?’

  Victoria is great, but Mum definitely doesn’t want to hear that. Not this morning, and not from me. Unless I can tell her that Victoria eats raw liver for supper and tortures small animals as a hobby, my comments are not wanted here. I stay silent.

  ‘That dreadful suit she was wearing,’ Mum says. ‘And her hair! Why can’t she get it done professionally?’

  ‘She looked very nice to me,’ Grandad says.

  ‘And that engagement ring was just beautiful,’ Gran chips in.

  Mum drops the hairbrush, and it clatters on to the floor. We all stare at Gran, eyes wide with horror, but she’s gazing down at her knitting again, brows furrowed. She might as well be a million miles away.

  Mum makes a kind of choking sound. ‘Engagement ring?’ she gasps. ‘I didn’t see an engagement ring. Did you?’

  We shake our heads, stunned into silence.

  ‘He wouldn’t. Would he, Jude?’

  ‘No,’ I whisper, but I don’t know, not really. Dad loves Victoria, I know that. She loves him. Why shouldn’t they get married? But … wouldn’t he tell me first?

  ‘Take no notice of your gran,’ Mum says boldly. ‘She’s always getting things mixed up. The very idea!’

  I pick up my bag from the coat peg in the hall. Mum’s right – Gran does get muddled up. Not this time, though. Something tells me that this time Gran’s not muddled up at all.

  Everyone is talking about the Green Scarf Incident from yesterday’s Parents’ Night. Kevin Carter’s fateful fall has been transformed from something clumsy and embarrassing into something wonderful, heroic. Carter has a bandaged right arm and gets out of work for hours, until someone remembers he’s left-handed.

  By late afternoon, the true identity of the batty old couple with the green scarf at the centre of the action is at last revealed. Kristina Kowalski, glancing down at me like I’m something disgusting she just scraped off her spike-heeled shoe, is not impressed.

  ‘You told Carter they were my parents,’ she hisses. ‘You sad little loser.’

  ‘I … er … thought he was talking about someone else,’ I bluff.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Kristina says. ‘And I do not have seven little sisters, OK? I’m an only child. Really, Jude, I pity you.’

  She wiggles on up to the back of the English room and perches on Brendan Coyle’s desk. Her skirt, another shrunk-in-the-wash special, slides up scarily to reveal acres of fake-tan thigh. Kristina Kowalski is the only girl I know who comes to school in December wearing high heels, ankle socks and a micro-mini. I hope she gets icicles on her bum.

  ‘Ignore her,’ Nuala O’Sullivan says, beside me. ‘Everyone has grandparents. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘No big deal,’ I sigh.

  ‘And anyway, that thing with the scarf was a useful diversion.’ Nuala grins. ‘It took the heat off your dad. If Kristina ever finds out about him …’

  ‘Don’t. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Oh, Jude, you worry too much,’ she laughs. She can afford to – she has a normal mum and dad with normal jobs and normal dress sense.

  Miss Devlin sweeps into the classroom, a small, fierce whirlwind dressed entirely in navy blue. ‘Miss Kowalski, back to your own seat,’ she snaps. ‘And Miss Kowalski – I wonder if you could remember to wear a skirt tomorrow? Knee-length, grey, regulation. If you forget yet again, perhaps I could find something in the lost-property cupboard for you?’

  ‘No thanks, Miss Devlin,’ Kristina replies. ‘I’ll remember.’ She makes it sound like a threat.

  We settle down to write an essay called ‘School Uniform: For or Against?’ I surprise myself by coming out in favour of knee-length grey skirts, stripy ties and hideous maroon blazers. In uniform, you can blend in, become invisible. You look just like everyone else … even if you’re really not.

  ‘I hate uniform,’ Nuala whispers. ‘Who wants to be a sheep?’

  I do. I really, really do.

  At the end of the lesson, we hand in our books and put our chairs up on the desks, because it’s the end of the day. The bell rings out, but we never get away that lightly, not with Miss Devlin. St Joseph’s is a Catholic school, and Miss Devlin is an old-style Catholic. She makes us join our hands, close our eyes and pray silently.

  When the shuffling and coughing dies down, I pray for Gran and Grandad, Mum and Dad and Victoria and Toto. I pray that Gran was wrong, even though I’m not sure what’s so scary about the idea of Dad getting married. It just is.

  ‘Let us finish,’ Miss Devlin says, ‘by offering up a special prayer for Kevin Carter, so that his wrist heals quickly. For Brendan Coyle, so that he learns to stop wasting time in my lesson. And Kristina Kowalski, so that she finds her school skirt and her manners. We pray to St Jude – the patron saint of hopeless cases. Amen.’

  There’s a snort of laughter from Brendan Coyle and then we’re dismissed, clattering down the stairs and out towards the school gates.

  I’m halfway down the street when Kevin Carter skates up and gives me a high five with his bandaged hand.

  ‘That prayer worked quickly,’ I observe.

  ‘Aw, it was just a scam. Thought I’d go for the sympathy vote. So, how come your parents named you after the patron saint of hopeless cases? That’s a bit mean.’

  ‘They didn’t,’ I say shortly. I’ve heard it all before, this stuff about St Jude, and I refuse to be bugged by it.

  ‘So how come …’

  ‘Dad named me after his favourite song,’ I explain. ‘It was a Beatles track called “Hey Jude”. Mum didn’t mind because her favourite film star was called Judy Garland. There were no saints involved, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Kevin Carter nods, but seems in no hurry to move off. I walk on, and he skates along beside me, tripping occasionally on uneven paving stones.

  ‘I wanted to say sorry’ he admits at last. ‘About last night, y’know?’

  ‘It’s not your fault you’re useless on Rollerblades.’

  ‘Not about the fall,’ he says. ‘I mean, I am sorry about that, but … it was the laughing at your grandparents, really. I didn’t realize.’

  I raise one eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘They are odd. That’s just the way it is. Could have been worse.’

  He could have clocked that Elvis was my dad.

  ‘Was he really a championship boxer? Your grandad?’

  Grandad worked for the post his whole life, but Kevin Carter’s not to know that.

  ‘Might have been.’

  ‘OΚ. Well, I know you don’t have seven little sisters – you’re an only child, like Kristina. But the rest of the story … the bit about watching Neighbours with Martin Peploe from Year Nine. Was that you?’

  I stare at Kevin Carter, amazed. He thinks I once sat on a sofa with Martin Peploe? I can feel myself going pink. It’s the best compliment anyone ever gave me.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.’ Carter shrugs. ‘Some things are private.’

  ‘They are,’ I agree.

  ‘But I’d like you to know that I think Martin Peploe has excellent taste.’

  Carter winks, scarily, and skates off down the road like someone just put a rocket down his trousers. He gets right down to the junction before colliding with a pillar box.

  ‘I’m getting better,’ he shouts over as I cross the street.

  Better than what? I wonder, but I know what St Jude would say. Better than hopeless.

  Dad lives in a little terraced house near the city centre. When I ring the doorbell, the chime plays ‘Blue Suede Sh
oes’.

  ‘Jude, sweetheart!’ Dad says, opening the door in jeans and a T-shirt that says Elvis Lives. ‘Come in, my little child-genius. Your teachers were pleased with you last night. Me and Vic were so proud!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I laugh. ‘Thanks for coming, anyway.’

  Now that it’s over, I guess I am glad Dad and Victoria were there. I just wish they’d blended into the background a bit more.

  ‘Didn’t mind the white flares, did you?’ Dad asks, reading my mind. ‘I don’t think anyone noticed.’

  ‘Of course not.’ White nylon catsuits with rhinestone-studded stand-up collars are all the rage among the parents at St Joseph’s. ‘How was the gig at the old folks’ home?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Dad shrugs. ‘They soon warmed up. Had them jiving round their Zimmer frames in the end, you know how it is.’

  I do. I used to love going along to gigs with Dad. He is a very good Elvis impersonator, I’ll give him that. He has the craziest clothes, the widest flares, the biggest quiff. He wiggles his hips and old ladies (and some young ones) squeal and roar with laughter. He works the crowd, crooning ‘Love Me Tender’ and gazing into the eyes of some old battleaxe, and next thing you know she’s giggling like a teenager and blushing to the roots of her purple rinse.

  Dad loves it, all this Elvis stuff, and his enthusiasm is catching. Except to me. These days, I am immune.

  We drift through to the kitchen.

  ‘Toast?’ asks Dad, loading up the toaster and setting out the jam and butter.

  ‘OΚ.’

  We sit and eat toast that’s dripping with butter and slathered with strawberry jam. It is a secret vice we have, the two of us. Dad reckons I must have inherited it from him, along with the black hair and freckles.

  ‘So,’ he says, crunching happily. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Great,’ I lie brightly. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Busy. Always is, in the run-up to Christmas. I’m booked out – office parties, old folks’ homes, discos, karaoke, the lot. Still, it should be fun!’

  ‘Should be,’ I echo.

  ‘Jude, love,’ Dad says. ‘Is something bothering you?’

  ‘No. At least … can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure! Fire away’ Dad grins.

  ‘Why did Mum leave you?’

  I’m not sure where that came from, because actually I’m here to ask if he’s getting married to Victoria. Digging up the dim and distant past is not part of the plan. Dad stares down at his toast crumbs, shell-shocked.

  ‘Things didn’t work out,’ he tells me, which is all that anyone has ever been able to tell me. Suddenly, it just isn’t enough.

  ‘Why didn’t they?’ I push. ‘Did you stop loving her? Did you have an affair?’

  ‘No!’ Dad sounds angry. ‘Nothing like that, Jude. Perhaps you should ask your mum.’

  ‘I’m asking you,’ I remind him.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So … oh, Jude, we cared a lot about each other. We met after a Fab Four gig. We were together for years, having fun, out every night, touring with the band. Then you came along, and everything should have been perfect. We were planning to get married – a church wedding, a white dress for Rose, the lot.’

  I want to remind him that weddings are meant to come before babies, but I bite my tongue. Instead I try to picture myself as the littlest bridesmaid ever, pink-faced and beaming in a dress full of frills.

  ‘What went wrong?’

  Dad sighs. ‘Looking after a baby isn’t easy. Your mum was a bit wiped out at first, she found it hard to cope. I was away a lot, with the band, so I couldn’t help as much as I’d have liked. She started drinking. I mean, we’d always liked a drink, the two of us, so I didn’t notice it to start with, but then I realized Rose was drinking in the day.

  ‘You can’t do that when you’ve got a baby to look after, Jude. I got scared. I started taking more and more time off from the band, to look after you, until finally they found someone else to take my place.’

  Dad lets his shoulders sag, remembering.

  ‘Go on,’ I say quietly. I want to hear it all, now we’ve got started. It’s my history, after all.

  ‘We put the wedding off, till things got better,’ Dad remembers. ‘Only – well, they never did. I couldn’t stand it, the way she was drinking, kidding herself that everything was fine. One day, we argued over breakfast. I poured all the drink in the house away, and Rose packed a suitcase and took you home to her parents.’

  Mum left Dad because he wouldn’t let her have whisky for breakfast. It’s not what I imagined, but then again, it’s not exactly a shock. Mum doesn’t drink these days, but that’s because the doctor says she can’t. She’s messed up her body with years and years of it, of drinking and weeping softly into the bottom of a whisky glass.

  I always thought she drank because of Dad. Now I know it’s because of me.

  ‘Jude?’ Dad is looking at me intently. ‘You said you wanted to know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I didn’t want to let you go,’ Dad says. ‘It broke my heart, but I knew Molly and Patrick would look after you – and Rose, of course. It seemed like the best thing at the time.’ He reaches out across the table and squeezes my hand.

  ‘I always thought it was something you did,’ I say shakily.

  ‘So did I, Jude. So did I.’

  When Victoria gets in from work, she finds us baking sponge cake from a dog-eared recipe book. Things have not gone well. I do not have Gran’s gift for baking, and Dad doesn’t have the right kind of flour, the right amount of eggs, the right kind of sandwich tins. And we’ve eaten all the strawberry jam. We press on regardless, pouring the mixture into a non-stick loaf-tin, whipping up butter and icing sugar and cocoa powder to make buttercream icing to die for.

  ‘Hi, Jude.’ Victoria grins, chucking her jacket on the sofa and kicking off her shoes. ‘Smells gorgeous. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ I say airily. ‘We’re just celebrating something.’

  Victoria shoots a quizzical look at Dad, who pretends not to notice. ‘So, what are we celebrating?’ she asks again.

  ‘Nothing important,’ I tease. ‘Just the fact that you’re finally going to make an honest man of my dad!’

  ‘You told her!’ Victoria squeals. ‘Oh, Jude, what do you think? Are you OK with it? Because if you think it’s too soon …’

  ‘Soon? You’ve been living together for six years!’

  ‘I know, but if you’d rather we waited …’

  ‘Victoria! I’m trying to tell you how happy I am. OK?’

  ‘OK!’ She flings her arms round me and hugs me tight, and I wonder how I ever could have thought this was a bad idea. Victoria and Dad are perfect for each other.

  ‘Want to see the ring?’ She blushes, showing me her left hand with the tiny diamond glinting. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ I tell her.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ Dad corrects me, putting an arm round each of us. ‘My two gorgeous girls.’

  Just then, the oven timer goes off and I dive for an oven glove to rescue the cake. I lift it out, golden brown, looking like a small, steaming housebrick with a worrying dent in the middle.

  ‘It’ll be fine once we’ve got the icing on,’ Dad says doubtfully.

  ‘Of course it will,’ Victoria says kindly. ‘What exactly is it, anyway?’

  My mouth twitches, and Dad is unable to keep a straight face. Soon we’re doubled up, laughing, and all I can do is point to the recipe book, the page splattered now with chocolate buttercream and bits of eggshell.

  It’s Victoria Sponge.

  It is almost Christmas. I know this because I have watched the sixth-form pantomime, burned a trayful of mince pies in Home Ec. and learnt ‘Silent Night’ in German. I stood behind a stall at the Christmas Craft Fair, flogging handprinted gift wrap and salt-dough Santas and home-made crackers filled with
pick ‘n’ mix.

  On the last day of term, we get to finish early. Year Seven and Year Nine are having an afternoon Christmas disco in the school hall. Years Ten and Eleven are having an evening Christmas disco in the school hall. Year Eight are raising money for an orphanage in China, so we get to troop into the city centre with photocopied carol sheets and collecting tins, even though the temperature is sub-zero. Kristina Kowalski, after weeks of wiggling about in black hipsters, has appeared once more in her micro-mini, and may well need to be wrapped in one of those reflective blankets they drape round accident victims if she is foolish enough to venture outside.

  ‘This is it, 8b.’ Miss Devlin beams, as we trudge on to coaches hired specially to take us to our fate. ‘The real spirit of Christmas.’

  Year Eight is divided into three groups and dropped off at different locations around the city to divide and conquer. Two classes get to sing in the foyer at the railway station, where travellers are returning home for Christmas full of smiles and loose change. Two classes are dropped at a supermarket complex heaving with festive shoppers, and get to rattle their tins where it is warm and cosy. The last two, 8a and 8b, get to shiver in the open air in the middle of the shopping precinct in town.

  Miss Devlin, wearing novelty reindeer antlers on her mousy curls, darts in and out of the harassed shoppers, shaking a tin. A couple of kids play violins with frostbitten fingers, which sounds like several cats being strangled.

  We trawl through ‘Silent Night’, ‘Little Donkey’ and ‘Away in a Manger’, then throw in ‘White Christmas’ for light relief. After an hour, flasks of hot cocoa and weighty fruit cake are passed around to keep us going. Kristina Kowalski pretends to have a sore throat and is sent home early, her legs mottled blue like slabs of Stilton cheese.

  The rest of us struggle on, even when the light begins to fade and the first flakes of snow begin to fall.

  ‘Keep going,’ Miss Devlin implores. ‘Just half an hour more. Think of those little orphans. Think of the true spirit of Christmas!’

  If I hear another word about the true spirit of Christmas I think I will cry. My tears will probably turn to icicles as they fall.