Sundae Girl Page 5

  ‘My life is a mess,’ Mum groans. ‘Nothing worked out the way I planned it.’

  Because of me. She only started drinking heavily after I was born. There’s a sad, churny feeling in the pit of my stomach, a prickle of tears behind my eyes.

  ‘It’s not so bad, is it?’ I ask. ‘Mum?’

  She laughs, but there’s no warmth, no humour in the sound. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s not so bad.’ She smooths down her hair, fixes a shaky smile on her face. ‘It’s not bad, Jude, but it could be a whole lot better. And it will be. I’m going to be a better mum, a better daughter. Set up my own business, maybe, make you proud of me! We’ve had some good times, haven’t we? Well, I’m going to make sure we have more!’

  Good times … yeah, we had them, once.

  Days at the seaside, eating egg sandwiches gritty with sand, Gran and Grandad paddling in the water and sipping lukewarm tea from a flask while Mum and I built sandcastles, collected shells, slathered ourselves in suntan lotion and floated around on neon-bright lilos. Gran and Grandad would stroll along the prom or mooch around the souvenir shops while Mum and I tried out the scariest rides at the funfair, screaming like crazy, then queuing up for more. We’d all meet up later at a little ice-cream shop, crowding into a window booth to eat ice-cream sundaes before getting the train home.

  There haven’t been any days like that for a long, long time, not since Gran got ill. It’s like she was the one holding us all together, keeping us strong, and once she lost the plot we all fell to bits.

  Mum faces me, her eyes wet with tears. ‘I know things haven’t been easy for you,’ she whispers. ‘That’s why I’m asking you to keep this little slip a secret, give me a chance to stop. Do you think I haven’t noticed how tired your grandad is looking these days? He has a full-time job looking after your gran. The last thing he needs is for me to go off the rails again.’

  ‘So don’t,’ I say in a small, quavery voice. ‘Don’t, Mum.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she says, blotting at her tears with a corner of bath towel. ‘I won’t, I promise. Look – let me prove it!’

  She jumps up, dragging me into her bedroom. She roots under the bed to unearth a whisky bottle, almost full, then marches into the bathroom and pours it all down the sink.

  ‘See? I mean it, Jude. I’ve learned my lesson. Just give me a chance – believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ I tell her. ‘You’re strong – you can do it.’

  Mum droops sadly ‘I’m not strong. That’s the trouble. And sometimes, a little drink makes me feel like I am – like I can cope – when really it just wrecks everything. I’ll put things right, I promise you.’

  I bite my lip, nodding slowly, and Mum flings her arms around me in a warm, sweet-smelling hug that chases all my doubts away.

  Mum cancels her night out and nips down to the corner shops to buy fish ‘n’ chips and ice cream. We’re just finishing the chips when she brings in a tray of home-made ice-cream sundaes, the little glass dishes piled high with fruit and ice cream, crowned with chocolate sauce and sprinkles.

  ‘Sundaes!’ Gran beams over her knitting. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Rose, pet,’ Grandad says. ‘Delicious!’

  I take a mouthful of rich, creamy sundae, shivering at its icy coldness. The chocolate sauce seems too sweet, too sickly, and the fruit isn’t quite ripe. Why is nothing ever as perfect as the way I remember it? There’s an ice-cream numbness at the back of my throat that feels like sadness.

  Mum winks at me. ‘Good times,’ she whispers. ‘Trust me.’

  I almost do.

  Mum spends a whole week tidying the house, dusting, hoovering, polishing every surface. She washes dishes, clothes, curtains, even Toto’s stripy blanket. Next, she moves on to ironing. I come home from school to find my wardrobe crammed with crisply ironed shirts and sweatshirts, my shoes polished to a high shine.

  I slip on a red T-shirt and skinny jeans, both soft and fragrant with fabric conditioner, and pad down to the living room with my homework. Mum is spritzing the windows with a green spray, wiping away the fog of years.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, and it’s not just for the clothes and the tidying up, it’s for staying off the drink. Mum looks round from her polishing and winks.

  ‘Yes, very nice, love,’ Grandad agrees. He snaps the braces on his old green cord trousers, which now boast razor-sharp creases front and back. ‘Thanks, Rose.’

  ‘Those cords are so old and worn, though.’ Mum frowns. ‘You need new ones, and Mum needs stuff too – when was the last time she had a new dress? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mum? Something pretty to wear?’

  Gran’s eyes sparkle. ‘I bought the loveliest dress in town last week,’ she says. ‘Blue tafetta, it was, with a nipped-in waist and a full-circle skirt.’

  ‘I don’t think that was last week,’ Mum says gently.

  ‘No, not last week,’ Grandad chips in. ‘But I remember it as if it were yesterday, Molly, love. You wore that dress to the Locarno, and every young man in the place wanted to dance with you. You wouldn’t have anything to do with them – you only had eyes for one lad. Scruffy fella, fresh off the boat from Dublin, in a borrowed suit and shoes with holes in them. You danced with him all night, Molly, and he thought he was the luckiest man alive. He still does.’

  ‘My Patrick,’ Gran says softly.

  My eyes widen. ‘Was that you, Grandad?’

  ‘It was. Your gran looked like an angel in that blue dress, the first night we met.’ He turns to the sideboard and rummages through a drawer, unearthing a faded photograph album.

  Near the front, held in with a little white triangle in each corner, is a black-and-white picture of a couple, grinning at the camera. The young man looks cute and cheeky, his hair sticking up untidily, his suit too big for him. The girl is beautiful, breathless, her face shining with love and confidence like she hasn’t a care in the world. She has masses of black, wavy hair tied up in a high ponytail, and her lips are parted in a big, happy grin.

  I study those faces hard, but I can’t see much trace of Gran and Grandad there. They are like shadows from another world.

  ‘Crazy quiff,’ Mum says, peering over my shoulder. ‘I’d forgotten you were a rock ‘n’ roller, Dad! And this is Mum’s famous dress …’

  The girl in the picture is wearing a shimmery, off-the-shoulder dress that hugs her figure and flares out from her tiny waist to just below the knees. It looks like a special dress, a dress for dancing, for falling in love.

  ‘It was peacock blue,’ Grandad says. ‘The exact same shade as her eyes.’

  I look at Gran now and my heart aches for the way time has changed her. What happened to the young girl in the picture, dancing the night away? Or even the cuddly, capable Gran who read me bedtime stories, taught me to make apple pie and once showed Nuala and me how to hand-jive to one of Dad’s Elvis CDs? We were seven and she was sixty-six, and she was still dancing and laughing, her skirt swishing out around her, long after Nuala and I had given up.

  ‘Remember that night, Molly?’ Grandad asks now, showing her the photograph. ‘The blue tafetta dress?’

  Gran frowns, squinting at the picture as though she can’t quite see it clearly. ‘Do we know these people?’ she asks, and I have to turn away because I can’t bear to watch any more.

  On Saturday, just before tea, Mum arrives home in a taxi, laden with carrier bags. The driver has to help her up the path with them, and she gives him a fiver tip.

  ‘What’s going on, Rose, love?’ Grandad asks. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘Wait and see!’ Mum announces, dumping the bags in the living room. ‘I’ve been shopping. It was all in the sales, before you ask!’

  From one bag, she pulls out a cornflower-blue button-through dress with a gathered skirt, and Gran drops her knitting and stands up shakily, her mouth making a perfect ‘o’ shape.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Mum wants to know. ‘What do you think?’

  Gran hugs
the dress to her, then hugs Mum. ‘It’s beautiful!’ she whispers. There’s a peacock-blue cardigan too, soft and fluffy, and a blue silky scarf and a new brushed cotton nightie. Gran’s face is aglow with pleasure.

  ‘I didn’t forget you, Dad,’ Mum says, dropping a couple of carrier bags at Grandad’s feet. ‘Or you, Jude, sweetheart!’

  It’s like everyone’s birthday and Christmas has come at once. Grandad has new cord trousers, a zip-up pullover with leather patches on the elbows, a checked shirt and a pair of braces. I get new jeans, a mohair sweater, tartan jammies and a pair of pink Converse trainers. Mum fishes around in the last carrier bag and brings out a squeaky dog chew, which she throws to Toto. He falls on it in a frenzy of crimped hair and excitement, squeaking madly. Everybody loves their prezzies, and Mum basks in our delight.

  ‘These can’t have been in the sales, Mum,’ I exclaim, trying on the trainers. ‘They’re fantastic!’

  ‘It’s too much, Rose, love,’ Grandad says, anxiously. ‘Too much.’

  ‘Can’t I buy a couple of little treats for my family?’ Mum asks, and I frown at the word ‘treats’ because in my mind it doesn’t mean clothes or squeaky dog toys, but something forbidden, something bad. I glance at Mum. Her good mood is down to a mad shopping spree, nothing else. I hope.

  ‘Yοu deserve it, don’t you?’ Mum continues. ‘We all do! What are credit cards for?’

  She sees the anxious look on Grandad’s face and jumps in. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’m working, aren’t I? I’ll pay it back.’ She looks at him and smiles. ‘Don’t you like your stuff?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Grandad says. ‘Thank you, Rose, love. You’re a good girl.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Mum,’ I add. ‘I love it all.’

  The clothes are brilliant, but the best thing of all is having a mum who acts like a mum – a mum who isn’t drinking. A mum who keeps her promises.

  ‘Soft, so soft,’ Gran is whispering, stroking her fluffy cardigan.

  ‘So, did you get anything for yourself?’ I ask, eyeing the last carrier bag. ‘Let’s see!’

  Mum gets all brisk suddenly, gathering up her bag. ‘Just a couple of tops, that’s all,’ she says, flashing me a wisp of pink and turquoise. ‘I’ll show you later, OK? I’m going out with some of the girls tonight.’

  ‘Oh … OK.’ Mum hasn’t been out all week, but I guess she can’t stay in forever, drinking or not.

  ‘That’s OK with you all, isn’t it?’ she asks, an edge of challenge in her voice. ‘One night out with my mates? I won’t be late.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine, Rose, love,’ Grandad echoes. ‘You get out and enjoy yourself.’ I can see a shadow of doubt fall over his face, and I know what it is because I feel it too.

  ‘Well, just going to get ready,’ Mum announces, edging past me with the carrier bag swinging. As she walks up the stairs, I hear the clink of bottles, clear as day. Underneath the wispy pink and turquoise tops there is something hidden, something heavy, something made of glass.

  One week, that’s all she lasted. One week of housework and presents and hugs, and now it’s over. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, the taste of disappointment. I fell for it again, the lies, the promises – just like I always do.

  Is that all I’m worth, a few days’ effort, a new pair of trainers, an ice-cream sundae?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  ‘Have you ever really fancied a boy?’ Nuala O’Sullivan asks. ‘You know, a real boy? Not counting Orlando Bloom or David Beckham or the Mousset brothers?’

  The Mousset brothers, Yassain, Youssuf and Khalid, run the corner shop next to St Joseph’s. They are very cool and very gorgeous, and every girl pupil is madly in love with them. They will all be millionaires sometime soon, based on sky-high sales of bubblegum and cherry cola.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Boys are a waste of time.’

  ‘So, you don’t have a crush on Kevin Carter?’ Nuala persists.

  ‘Me? No way!’ I protest, turning beetroot at the thought. ‘Why? Do you?’

  The idea of Nuala and Kevin makes me feel all hot and prickly. It’s not a nice feeling. I’m not sure why – if Nuala and Kevin got together, he’d stop stalking me, wouldn’t he? Problem solved. Well, one of them.

  ‘No, silly,’ Nuala scoffs. ‘Why would I fancy him? Seriously, Jude, he’s more your type.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘And he fancies you,’ Nuala continues. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed. He’s besotted, totally. Lost the plot. The poor lad had detention, yesterday, for chucking paper planes at you in maths. He is desperate for your attention.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jude!’ Nuala laughs. ‘Take pity on the boy! Either tell him to back off or give him a chance. Have you no heart?’

  ‘’Course I have!’

  ‘Well, it must be made of ice,’ Nuala huffs. ‘Poor Carter.’

  Poor Carter?

  ‘He’s been talking to you!’ I exclaim. ‘What’s he said?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Nuala protests. ‘He just happened to ask me for your phone number …’

  ‘Nuala! Please tell me you didn’t …’

  ‘It’s just a phone number …’

  I slump, thinking of what might happen if Carter rings and gets chatting to Gran about knitting patterns, or Grandad about Gaelic football, or Mum about whether whisky is a treat or a curse.

  ‘Nuala, I don’t want a boyfriend,’ I say. ‘My life is complicated enough.’

  ‘A boyfriend would be a nice complication,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t mind, if someone fancied me.’

  ‘You might, if it was Kevin Carter,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well. Maybe.’

  That night, I camp out near the phone just in case Carter rings.

  Mum has slipped back into the same old pattern of late nights and sulky sleep-ins. While I wait, there’s a call from Sue, asking why Mum wasn’t in work this afternoon, one from Giovanni, asking why Mum didn’t turn up for their date last night, and one from a double-glazing company, asking us to put in UPVC windows at a bargain, never-to-be-repeated price.

  It is so typical of a boy to ask for your number and not bother to ring. I begin to feel quite huffy.

  ‘Expecting a call?’ Grandad asks.

  ‘No,’ I snap. ‘Why would I be?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  It’s almost ten when he finally rings, and Grandad beats me to the phone. ‘Some idiot waffling on about boxing,’ he grumbles. ‘For you.’

  I drag the phone out into the hall, and sit on the stairs.

  ‘You’re avoiding me,’ Carter says. ‘You’ve been avoiding me since New Year. Nuala says it’s because you’re shy.’

  ‘I am not shy!’ I protest.

  ‘No? I thought not. A girl who can wear a blue tinsel wig and a polka-dot minidress can’t really be shy. It looked like a good party’

  ‘It was,’ I admit. The kiss on the nose bit was a highlight, but I’m not about to tell him that.

  ‘Nuala says you have a problem with trusting boys, because your mum and dad split up,’ Carter goes on.

  ‘Oh? Nuala says quite a lot, doesn’t she?’ I snap. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off with her?’

  ‘She’s not my type,’ Carter says.

  ‘So what is your type?’

  ‘Tall, skinny, black hair, blue eyes, freckly nose. Blue tinsel wig and snowflakes optional.’

  ‘Skinny?’ I squeal.

  ‘Definitely. Pretending to be shy, sensible and stand-offish when really you’re mad about me.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘No, but I’m hoping.’

  ‘Carter, I have to go now,’ I tell him.

  ‘You can call me Kevin.’

  ‘Bye, Carter.’

  I put the phone down. I am mad at Nuala for saying I have a problem trusting boys. I don’t. I have a problem trusting anyone I’m not related to, plus quite a few people I am. What’s wrong with that?


  Life is complicated enough, especially right now. Carter wouldn’t understand. He’d laugh, or worse, he’d feel sorry for me, and I don’t need that. I don’t need him.

  There’s a scuffling noise out on the front doorstep, and I open the door. Mum falls into the hallway, unsteadily. The side of her coat is torn and grey with dirt, her tights are ripped and the heel of her right shoe is broken.

  ‘Mum! Oh, Mum, what’s happened? Grandad! Quick!’

  Grandad comes into the hall, his face ashen.

  ‘Rose, pet, whatever’s happened?’ he asks, taking her arm, helping her out of her coat. ‘Did somebody try to hurt you?’

  ‘Hurt me?’ Mum slurs. ‘No, of course not. Stop fussing. I slipped over on the ice. No problem. Could have happened to anyone.’

  She totters into the living room, flopping down on to the sofa. I bring her a coffee and she takes it sulkily, sipping some and spilling the rest. We pretend not to notice.

  Mum fell over on the ice, and yes, it could have happened to anyone, but it happened to her. Because she was drunk.

  I go back to my homework, chewing my lip. We don’t stand up to Mum when she’s drinking. We ignore it until we can’t ignore it any longer, because we don’t know what to do, how to cope, how to help her. We stay silent and pretend it’s not happening, because nothing will stop her, short of a week in the hospital, and she’s not ill enough for that yet.

  The last time this happened I was ten, and it was the worst six months of my life. Nobody could get through to her – not me, not Gran, Grandad or Giovanni. She drank until her liver couldn’t cope any more. The alcohol poisoned her body, turning her skin yellow, bloating her body. Even the whites of her eyes were the colour of custard. She collapsed in the house and an ambulance took her to hospital, and when some kid at school said they’d seen her carried out on a stretcher, I told everyone she had a rare blood disease, and that she might die.

  It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  My mum is an alcoholic, and Grandad says it’s a disease, an addiction. It’s in her blood. Unless she stops drinking it will kill her, one day – that’s what the doctors say. Already, she has destroyed some parts of her liver, damaged her heart. She’s damaged mine, I know that much.