Caramel Hearts (2 page)

Chapter Two

That's OK – Sisters Together?

Waking to the sound of the shower running and the boiler creaking, it takes me a moment to realize where I am. I sneak out of Mam's room and across to my own,
Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom
tucked inside my dressing gown. I hadn't meant to sleep in Mam's bed all night – or at all, if I'm honest – but I'm grateful for the decent kip. For once, my brain feels alert and my eyes don't sting.

Before I do anything else – drink a glass of water or brush my teeth, even – I cover the recipe book in polka-dot paper like my schoolbooks, as a disguise. Then I plump the pillows on my bed and open the book to see what gems are hidden inside. There might even be more messages from my dad. Scouring the lists of ingredients, my taste buds tingle. There's nothing boring in there, like salads or shepherd's pie – just sweets and puddings. Mam always had a sweet tooth. Each cake, biscuit and dessert sounds tastier than the last, and the instructions are almost poetic – telling stories that make the recipes come to life. Stories from a time when my mam and dad didn't hate each other. Just by reading, I can imagine how delish everything will taste. I wonder what it would be like to try and
bake some cakes; imagine the smells wafting from the kitchen and filling the house, hiding the smell of damp.

At school, our English teacher, Miss Clyde, says that smells bring back memories more acutely than any other of our senses. She always makes us add aromas into our creative writing to help our readers feel what's going on. I close my eyes and think about the smells I love: hot chips, acrylic paint, new books and cinnamon bubblegum. Then I think about Mam – violet perfume, face cream that smells like freshly cut grass, plummy red wine, whiskey stale and sour on her breath – and I decide not to go down that route. When I try and think about Dad, it's just a void, so I return to my recipes.

After a while, my stomach starts rumbling and I realize it's almost noon. I hide the recipe book under my pillow and race downstairs for food. The cereal boxes are empty so there's only toast to eat. I conjure up images of croissants and
pain au chocolat
– like they eat in France. Imagine living in a country where you can eat cake for breakfast!

As the slices of bread warm between the hot filaments of the toaster, my mind races. I fantasize about serving the treats up to Hatty on elaborate silver trays, and making boxes of them for summery picnics. It'd be a “thank you” for all she's done. Just like a scene from one of those period dramas that Mam likes to watch, snuggled under a blanket on the sofa with a bottle of wine. I'm not a huge fan myself, but I do like sharing the blanket and seeing Mam's eyes light up when the handsome hero comes back for his girl.

As soon as my toast is ready, I slather on butter and run up the stairs two at a time, trying to figure out how to make this fantasy a reality. There must be a bit of spare cash to get some ingredients – and it would feed us, so it'd be an investment. I decide to ask Hatty for help, so I can cook Mam's recipes in the order they appear in the book – it's the closest I've felt to Mam in ages. Something tugs at my memory – a vague reminder of how she was before the drink took over. “Lovers' Lemon and Choc-Chip Shortbread” is first, and you never know – if I make some for Mam, it might trigger something in her alcohol-riddled brain and help her recover. So long as I keep quiet about the fact I was in her room and going through her things. I'd better not mention it to my sister either, if I want her help.

* * *

“What are you doing?” asks Hatty, as she catches me rifling through the backs of the cupboards that evening.

Amazingly, I've gathered most of the ingredients I need, except for icing sugar and a lemon. The stuff's mostly out of date, but seeing as I've never even held a wooden spoon, I'm not going to fret about details like that just yet.

“Do you like shortbread?” I ask.

“Yeah, why – have you found some?”

Her voice is so excitable, I can't help grinning.

“Nope,” I say, and Hatty's shoulders deflate. “But I was thinking of making some.”

“Make? Like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, from scratch.”

Hatty's eyebrows lift high on her head.

“You know how?”

“I've got a recipe. How hard can it be?”

Hatty laughs as she puts some fish fingers under the grill.

“So long as you don't go nuts and make a mountain of the stuff,” she says. “I'm watching my weight, remember.”

Like I could forget. She's been watching her weight for ever. Always fussing over calories and fat content – but then she just eats it anyway, cos we can only afford cheap food and neither of us can cook anything except bolognaise. And even then we use a jar. I don't know what she's worried about anyway – she's a size 12, and I think it suits her, but she's obsessed with getting skinnier. Believes everything in life will get magically better if her waist shrinks a few inches.

“I don't have to make any…” I say, shrugging.

She turns the fish fingers.

“I didn't say that, did I? It'd be a shame not to try…”

We both chuckle, then stand and watch in silence as the breadcrumbs sizzle and brown under the grill. Hatty piles half of the cooked fish fingers on some bread, squirts wiggles of ketchup along each one, exactly how I like it, then tops it with more bread and cuts it into triangles. She hands it across to me, before making one for herself, ketchup-free and sliced into rectangles.

“If you're serious about these biscuits, let me know if I can help,” she says, taking a bite.

“How about a lemon and some icing sugar?”

She rifles in her jeans pocket and hands over £1. I'm amazed how easy this is – it must be fate.

“If they have it cheap in Asda, it's a yes. And if I get this job tomorrow…”

“I'm sure you will, Hatty,” I say, pocketing the money. “Then I'll make you all the shortbread you can eat.”

“A moment on the lips,” says Hatty, tapping her hips and I shake my head, laughing, as she disappears back upstairs to her books.

* * *

It's late by the time I get round to gathering my school stuff together; it took me ages to get the icing sugar and lemon at Asda because the baking section was so intriguing. I had no idea that there were so many fancy tools required – silicone cookie cutters, rolling pins you can fill with water, decorative cake cases in all shapes and sizes and special sugar thermometers. When I got home, I read the shortbread recipe over and over to make sure nothing could go wrong. And then I remembered about my Maths homework. Only when that was finished did I think to check whether my uniform needed ironing.

Peeking upstairs, I'm relieved to see the light is still shining under Hatty's door. One of the coolest things about Mam not being here is that I've got total freedom when it comes to staying up late. We had this big chat when Hatty first came home about how she's not trying to replace Mam: she's still my big sister and we're in this together, so we have to work as a team. No “Mam rules”, so long as I pull my weight and act responsibly.

“Hatty, have you done my school uniform?” I call up the stairs. “I can't find it.”

A short silence follows – then I hear a book slam and Hatty's feet pad across her bedroom floor. It's the only room without carpet. Mam's been promising it for years, but when Hatty went to uni, other things took priority. Drink included.

“I'm sorry, Liv,” Hatty says, biting her bottom lip. “I completely forgot. I'm so behind in my assignment… it must still be in the wash basket.”

On my bedroom floor, more like
, I think, but I decide it's best not to mention that fact.

“But what will I wear tomorrow?”

Sighing, Hatty starts down the stairs, a pen tucked behind her ear. She looks knackered – I hope she'll use plenty of slap for her interview.

“Even if I put a wash on now, it won't be dry in time. You should have reminded me on Friday.”

“I did. You said to leave it with you.”

“I did? You should have reminded me again this morning. Or better still, done it yourself. I can't remember everything.”

“Can you give me a note so I can wear something else?”

I see the worries flying through her brain as she mulls my request over. Hatty's scared of the slightest thing going wrong, in case it upsets the Social Services and she's declared an unfit guardian.

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “I'll just clean the tidemarks off the shirt collar and hope it dries. No biggie.”

Hatty frowns. “That's disgusting.”

“It's only one day. I'll stick the wash on after school tomorrow – sisters together, right?”

“Right. Sisters together.” Harriet checks her watch, and her tired smile melts away. “It's almost midnight. Hadn't you better think about getting some sleep?”

“Sure,” I say. “I'll just wash my shirt first.”

Nodding, Hatty climbs back up the stairs. “Goodnight, lil sis.”

“Goodnight.”

It's almost one o'clock in the morning by the time I finish scrubbing the shirt collar clean – and I can't resist a final peek at the recipe book. I fall asleep in seconds. I get the best night's sleep I've had in months. No nightmares or twisting in the covers. Instead, I dream of buttery smells and warm, sunny kitchens.

Chapter Three

It's Not Fair to Stress Her Out

I wake up with biscuits on the brain, only to find my shirt collar isn't dry. I give the shirt a good sniff and it reeks. I spray it with deodorant and hope for the best, but the results aren't quite what I was expecting. I knock on Hatty's door, hoping she's awake. The door creaks open, and Hatty peeks out.

“Morning,” she says, yawning.

Behind her, I can see a pile of books sprawled across her bed, her laptop open and glowing.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask. “You've got that interview—”

“Did you come to give me a lecture, or do you want something?” she asks.

“Smell this.” I hold out my shirt. Hatty gives it a sniff and pulls a face. “I can't wear this. Will you write me a note?”

“I don't want the school thinking we can't cope, Liv.”

“I'll get picked on if someone gets a whiff of this. And I'll get grief all day off the teachers if I wear something else without a note. Please?”

“OK. But just this once.” Hatty scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it over. “So, you'll wash your own uniform from now on?”

“OK,” I say, not really meaning it. “Though I'm pretty sure that's a form of child abuse.”

I turn and head away before she can say anything.

“That's not funny, Liv,” she calls after me.

I don't have many clothes that would be considered suitable for school, so I decide to go in with a bang. Picking out my favourite green and white striped tights, black dress and fake Dr Martens, I shove my burgundy school jumper over the top and check in the mirror.
The teachers will pee their pants when they see this, but they won't be able to do anything with a note!
I chuckle to myself, fix up my eyes with some eyeliner and mascara, and plait the front left side of my hair. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I tiptoe past Hatty's room, then quickly make toast, stuffing it down my throat as I head up the street. I haven't gone far when one of the most popular lads from my class, Chris Murchison, passes by and gawks.

“Are you going to school in fancy dress?” he says, laughing.

“Whatever,” I say.

What's he even doing over here? Chris is from the posh part near school, but it looks as though he's just come from Egerton Mount – the dodgiest of the Egerton estates. Known for theft and drugs, it's the kind of place the bus won't pass through in case it loses its wheels halfway. Neighbouring Egerton Hill – where I live – is rough enough, but some people have jobs and there's a Neighbourhood Watch scheme, so there's a bit less crime, and people try not to chuck their litter into your front garden. Egerton Park, where
school is based, is snobbier; it sits facing our estates like a referee separating two boxers. People say places like the Mount and the Hill give the North-East of England a bad name. They're no oil painting, but they're not that bad.

“I wouldn't be seen dead in that outfit. Are you some kind of goth?”

I ignore him so he can see I couldn't care less what he thinks.

But maybe he's right. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to wear this outfit after all. I slow down, let Chris get well ahead, and then I turn back. Dawdling, I try to think up a good explanation to give Hatty – a reason why I thought these clothes would be suitable attire. And why I changed my mind. But my brain keeps wandering back to the recipe book and the shortbread, so when I reach home, I've nothing to say for myself and I daren't go in. Even if I get changed really fast, I'll be late for school, so I'll need another note. Hatty won't be best pleased, and it's not fair to stress her out when she's got her assignments and an interview.

Thankfully, a better idea comes to mind. I send a text to my best friend, Sarah, so she won't be waiting for me to walk to school.

NOT COMING IN TODAY. I'VE GOT THE LURGY. L X

The reply comes back immediately.

OK. GET BETTER SOON. S X

I know nicking off school isn't the smartest move, but it's not like I planned it. Those biscuits are dying to be baked, and with Hatty at her job interview in the supermarket in town this afternoon, it's the ideal time to get started. It would be a nice surprise for Hatty after a stressful day – I'll pretend I made them at school.

I walk around the estate for a couple of hours, then hide near the garages at the end of our road when Hatty is due to leave for the bus. As soon as I see her pass, I give it a few minutes and then I head home and watch some TV before rolling up my sleeves. I'll still be done and out of here before she gets back, and the risk of getting caught is pretty much zero.