Candyfloss (23 page)

Then I heard it! The gate creaking. Someone walking up the garden path.

I sat rigid on the old sofa, waiting. I heard them outside the door. They didn’t knock. There were scrambling sounds. Then I heard the door
opening
.

They were coming right in.

They were coming down the hall ready to
get
me . . .

‘Floss? Flossie, love?’

‘Oh Dad!’ I said. I gave a shaky cartoon laugh:
Ha ha ha
. ‘Hey, what are you doing back home?’

‘I know it’s daft, I know you’re perfectly fine here by yourself.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘But I couldn’t stand it. I kept imagining stuff. I know it’s mad, pet, but would you mind coming in the chip van with me?’

‘OK, Dad. I
am
fine here, but if it’ll put your mind at rest then I’ll come too. Let’s go,’ I said, scooting off the sofa and hanging onto his arm.

We started up a whole new routine. Every evening I set off with Dad in our van. We’d go to the big garage behind the station, hook the chip van up and tow it onto the station forecourt. Then Dad would start the generator and get the fryer heated up while I squashed up in a cramped but cosy nest in the corner of the van, out of sight of the customers. I had two cushions and Dad’s old denim jacket to snuggle up in. I didn’t need to wear any kind of coat. It was boiling hot in the van from the fryer, with its sizzling fat.

I did my homework first, except when it was maths, which I needed to do before school with Susan. Then I read for a bit. I started reading all these old Victorian Sunday school books from Billy’s house. They were told in a strange old-fashioned way, but the stories were really good once you got into them. They were all about poor ragged children begging on the streets of London. They
often
had cruel drunken stepfathers and sickly little baby brothers and sisters. They sometimes coughed a lot and then said they saw angels and then they died. I read some of the best bits to Dad in between customers.

‘Aren’t these stories a bit morbid for you, Floss?’ said Dad. ‘They certainly give me the willies!’

‘I
like
them, Dad,’ I said.

When people started coming out of pubs it got too busy and noisy to concentrate on my books so I made things instead. I made a friendship bracelet for Susan.
Several
friendship bracelets. I made a Scoubidou keyring for Dad. I fashioned slightly wonky denim jackets for Ellarina and Dimble. I made a little blue denim mouse with a string tail for Lucky.

I tried taking Lucky to the van with us one day, but it was much too hot and cramped for her and she hated it. She seemed much happier left at home. She couldn’t care less about creepy men and sad old ghosts.

Dad would give me a little paper plate of chips every now and then, or a can of Coke, but I couldn’t drink too much because there was nowhere I could go to the loo. After a while I’d start to get achy and my eyes would itch, so I’d put my sewing stuff away and plump up my cushions and rub my cheek against Dad’s old
jacket
and go to sleep. Then at midnight Dad would tow the chip van back to the garage, lift me up into our van and drive us home. I’d tumble into bed half asleep, one arm out of the covers so I could still reach down and stroke Lucky.

Dad still worried about me being in the van. ‘Your mum would go mad if she knew I was keeping you up till all hours,’ he said. ‘It’s not suitable, I know. Especially when all the lads start coming out the pubs and get a bit mouthy. The language! I think we’ll have to put earmuffs on you, little Floss.’

I had learned a few amazingly awful phrases, which came in useful when Rhiannon and Margot and Judy were teasing me. They held their noses all the time when I came near. I knew I did smell chippier than ever, but I pretended not to care.

I did try very hard the next Saturday when I went to spend the day with Susan. I got up early and had a bath, although the peeling enamel scratched my bottom. I shampooed my hair as best I could and then tried to brush out all the tangles. My curls had grown a lot. They stuck up all round my head in a mad fuzz.

I wore my birthday jeans and top and I cleaned my trainers. Dad made a big effort too. He put on his blue shirt and his best jeans even though he was just going to loaf around at home for most of the day.

He drove me to Susan’s house. I was worried that it was going to be a huge great mansion with beautiful polished furniture and very pale sofas and carpets, and I’d have to sit on the very edge of my seat and not eat or drink anything slurpy in case I spilled it. It was a relief to see that it was an ordinary red-brick Victorian villa.

When I got inside I saw it was gloriously untidy, with shoes all over the hall and papers and files stacked high by the phone and books
everywhere
– not just on the bookshelves but in higgledy-piggledy piles all over the carpet and climbing up the stairs and stacked halfway up each windowsill. There were books in the lavatory, books in the bathroom and books all over the kitchen, stuffed in between the saucepans and the spice jars.

The kitchen seemed to be the main Potts living room. There was a television on the dresser and fat velvet cushions scattered over the benches on either side of the long table. The actual living room was turned into a huge library study, with Mrs Potts and her computer and desk and filing cabinet one end and Mr Potts and
his
computer and desk and filing cabinet the other.

They had the big bedroom upstairs. Susan had a very little bedroom with a pine bed and a patchwork quilt and a special shelf for her
elephants
and giraffe and crocodiles and rabbits. The middle-sized bedroom was
Susan’s
study. She had her own computer and desk and filing cabinet, and masses of books on shelves and drawings and posters and maps Blu-tacked all over the walls.

‘It’s so
lovely
, Susan,’ I said, tiptoeing around, peering at a book here, a picture there. ‘You’ve got so many
things
!’

‘I wondered . . . would you like to make another book world like we did in the library at school?’ Susan asked.

‘Ooh yes,’ I said.

I watched as Susan eagerly started getting books down from shelves and tipping out a stack of wooden building bricks all over the wooden floor with a great clatter.

‘Won’t your mum mind us making such a mess?’ I asked.

‘She doesn’t mind a bit if we’re being creative,’ said Susan.

‘Creative?’

‘You know, making things up and being artistic.’

‘I can do that,’ I said.

So we were happily creative most of the morning, building a land for all Susan’s animals. We made a book mountain and had the elephants
plodding
up it tail to trunk, led by a little Roman toy soldier that Susan called Hannibal. We made a river out of blue and green books, edged with potted ferns and ivy from the kitchen windowsill. The two crocodiles lurked in the river, jaws ready to start snapping. We made Hannibal have a paddle and then run away screaming. The giraffe came to have a drink and had a tasty fern sandwich garnished with ivy salad. The pink and blue rabbits had a frolic too, and we sat the giant green one on top of the mountain as a monument.

‘We could really do with some more people,’ I said. ‘Do you have any plasticine?’

‘No, but I’ve got modelling clay. Will that do?’ said Susan.

It did wondrously. We made a little Roman army for Hannibal to command, and some pilgrim worshippers to kneel at the paws of the Giant Green Rabbit. We made twin giraffe babies for the big giraffe, and lots of tiny baby rabbits for Mrs Pink and Mr Blue Bunny. We made half a person screaming in the river, with a severed leg in each crocodile’s jaw.

We had great fun acting it all out, but I was still a bit worried about the mess, especially as we’d accidentally smeared modelling clay all over the floorboards. However, when Susan’s mum came to see what we were up to she was so pleased by our
bookland
that she actually took photos of it. She took photos of us two with our arms round each other and promised I could have copies of all of them.

Then we went in the kitchen with Susan’s mum to watch her prepare lunch.

‘Though I know I’m not as good a cook as your father, Floss,’ said Mrs Potts. ‘Susan adores his chip sandwiches.’

‘
Butties
, Mum,’ said Susan.

‘My dad’s butties are famous,’ I said. I started talking about the café without thinking – and then suddenly shut up. It was so awful to think that it didn’t exist any more. It had been my home ever since I was born.

They hadn’t just closed it down. When Dad drove me past on the way to school we saw someone had taken down the
HARLIE’S CAFÉ
sign. There were workmen in there stripping out the kitchen, tearing everything down. I felt as if they were tearing up all my happy memories too. I didn’t say anything and neither did Dad, but the next day he drove to school all round the outskirts of town so we didn’t have to go past.

Susan’s mum saw I looked a little bit sad. ‘How about you two doing a bit of cooking too? Have you ever done any baking, Floss?’

‘I’ve made toffee and cornflake crispies and
chocolate
biscuit cake with Mum,’ I said. My voice wobbled when I said her name. I think I must have looked even sadder, because Mrs Potts put her arm round me.

‘I wonder if you’ve ever made bread,’ she said.

This was a wonderful idea. It was fascinating creaming the yeast, with Mrs Potts explaining exactly how it worked. Susan helped me measure out the flour accurately. The best bit was the kneading part. I got dough right up to my elbows so it looked as if I was wearing thick white gloves.

I made one loaf and Susan made another. They started to smell utterly delicious as they were baking in the oven, and when at last it was time to take them out they looked wonderful – golden brown with a lovely crust. One had risen just a little higher out of the baking tin and was just a little bit more glossy and golden. Susan and Mrs Potts said it was
my
loaf. I rather think it was too.

‘You’ve obviously got a real knack as a baker, Floss,’ said Mrs Potts. ‘Next time you come you can try making rolls.’

‘If only we still had the café then I could make newly baked rolls for Dad’s chips and we could be a brilliant chip butty partnership,’ I said.

It wouldn’t work for the chip van. There wasn’t space to do anything properly. Dad’s chips weren’t
quite
the same anyway. He used the same type of potatoes, the same cooking fat, but Billy’s fryer was old and unpredictable. Sometimes the chips burned to a frazzle, sometimes they swam limply like white fish in a fatty sea, taking an age to crisp up.

Dad did his best but he couldn’t serve his chips with pride. He didn’t care for the burgers and sausages he served up either. He didn’t have any complaints though. The big lads pouring out of the pubs just wanted something hot and savoury to stuff down their throats. They covered everything in blood-red tomato sauce or bright yellow mustard anyway.

‘Dad says his chip butties aren’t up to scratch any more,’ I said sadly.

‘Well, I shall always remember mine as the most sublime culinary experience ever,’ said Susan.

I didn’t understand every word she said, but I knew what she meant and smiled at her gratefully.

We had our home-made bread at lunch time, with cheese and tomatoes and salad, and then Greek yoghurt and honey for pudding. Susan’s mum told us all about proteins and carbohydrates and vitamins, and Susan’s dad told us all about Greece and how bees make honey.

I tried hard to ask intelligent questions like
Susan
and ended up giving myself hiccups. Susan’s mum told me exactly what little thingy inside me had gone into a spasm and why. Susan’s dad told us about some wretched man in Scotland who hiccuped for two solid years. I started to worry I might be an even more wretched girl in England, fated to hiccup her way through life for ever – but Susan suddenly leaned forward across the table and shouted, ‘
BOO
!’

I jumped.

‘I bet you can’t hiccup any more now!’ Susan said – and she was
right
.

We’d have been very happy to play back in Susan’s study all afternoon, but Mr and Mrs Potts felt we should go on an outing. They drove us to Hampton Court Palace because Henry the Eighth had once lived there and Susan and I were doing the Tudors in history.

Henry the Eighth had had six wives. Susan’s dad told us the names and what happened to them all. Henry divorced his first wife Catherine. My dad divorced my mum. I imagined what it would be like if he got through five more wives.

There were actors dressed up as Elizabethans inside Hampton Court. They gave a talk and then you could ask them questions. Susan asked all sorts of interesting things about beheadings and religion and music. Mr and Mrs Potts pretended
not
to notice but I could see they were bursting with pride.

‘You can ask a question too, Floss,’ Mrs Potts whispered.

I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to ask whatsoever.

‘Go on, dear, don’t be shy,’ said Mr Potts.

I ended up asking the lady how she got her sticky-out skirt to stay all puffed up.

‘It’s called a farthingale, Floss,’ Mr Potts hissed.

I think he was scared they thought I might be his daughter too. The lady didn’t seem to think it too silly a question. She held up her skirts so I could see the weird hooped petticoats underneath.

We went all over the palace and Mr and Mrs Potts told us heaps of stuff about the Tudors. Susan was obviously fascinated, but I started having terrible yawning fits because it got soooo boring. I tried to keep my mouth shut when I yawned but my eyes watered. Perhaps Mrs Potts thought I was crying. She put her arm round me.

‘I know what Flossie would like to see – the Tudor kitchen!’ she said. ‘Let’s go there next.’

The kitchen
was
quite interesting, but I so wished Susan and I could have just dawdled round there by ourselves.

The very
best
bit of the Hampton Court trip was going to the maze. Susan’s dad had told us this story about some monster called the Minotaur, so we pretended we were running away from this Minotaur. We ran screaming round and round the paths between the high hedges, and every time we came to a dead end and had to turn on our tracks we’d yell, ‘
The Minotaur! The Minotaur!
’ We played we were diving between his cloven hooves or jumping high over his scaly back.