Caramel Hearts (23 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

Battered Leather Suitcases and All Sorts of Junk

As I step out of the park gates, my confidence drains away and my palms ooze with sweat. On my right, there are shops, bars and restaurants, but up ahead the street is quiet and empty. I start walking along it, heart pounding. Above me, bright red cranes loom like menacing, mechanical giants, watching my every move. I tuck in as close to the buildings as I can to escape their glare.

There's the back of a hotel to my right, flats up ahead and a road curving left – Crooms Hill. My dad's place is just off this road, meaning it's even closer than I thought. A taxicab slows and toots, looking for a fare. I wave him away and start up the hill, passing a grocery store with a big chalkboard sign outside:

PROUD TO SERVE THE PERFECT PIE, FULL OF FLAVOUR

Crooms Hill skirts the park, twisting and winding its way up so I can't see what's ahead. Every part of my brain screams at me to turn back, give up, but I know it's just fear trying to take hold, so I keep going.

Halfway up the road, I pause to look back. The grocery store is still in view but everything else – except the cranes – has disappeared. The buildings around me sink back from the road – all different heights and styles. Not like home, where each house looks the same, except for the curtains. I wonder if people can tell I don't belong here just by looking at me. A group of children tumble out of the park, almost bumping into me, and making me jump. I can't believe I'm scared of a bunch of kids.

I continue up the hill, my breath shortening with the effort. I check my map again. The turn-off is very close. I'm terrified of missing it –yet scared of finding it, too. A bright red postbox across the road catches my eye. A car obscures it from view momentarily, then turns into an alleyway between two massive houses – a cul-de-sac I hadn't spotted. High up on the side of one of the houses, I can just make out the faded street sign: Crooms Hill Close.

I've found it!

Taking a moment to gather my thoughts and my courage, I lean against the railings of the park. What do I say when Dad opens the door? I've thought about this moment for years – but now it's finally here, I'm clueless.

There's a quiet shuffling sound behind me so I turn slowly. A huge white dog stares up at me from the other side of the railings, like a lone wolf. His mouth is open and panting, but otherwise he's motionless. His nervous brown eyes connect with mine. They seem to look straight through me. Backing away slowly, I cross the road. When I look back, the dog has gone. Spooked, I hurry between the two houses into the close, shivering as the walls temporarily block the low, spring sun. I quicken my
pace, desperate to return to the light and feel the sun's rays on my eyelids.

Stepping into Crooms Hill Close, relief sweeps over me. The place is gorgeous. It's a sun trap, with pretty cottages on the right and grandiose townhouses on the left. Every house has a tiny garden bordered with wild roses and neat hedges. Many have steps up to the front door, like in American movies. Hand trembling, I walk the length of the road, scouting the door numbers on both sides of the street. A small part of me doesn't want to find the place at all.

Eventually, the houses end and a row of garages begin. A shabby brick wall runs the length of the road up ahead, creating a dead end. Panic sets in. There is no number 43! I've come all this way for nothing.

Edging towards the garages, I feel as though my heart has lodged itself in my throat. This part of the road is dark, edged with tall, whistling trees and a man-sized, creaky gate. Despite my fear, I have to investigate – if I don't find Dad, I've no money for lodgings. And if I give up now, I'll have to go home and face Mad Dog and Mam – neither of which is attractive. Pushing through the gate, I heave a sigh of relief.

This is it. My dad's house.

The building is huge – four storeys high, with red-bricked walls and giant bay windows. Two white pillars flank the daffodil-yellow door. Whatever Dad does, he has a lot of money.

I follow the path and climb the steps, building up enough courage to ring the bell. I give it a good, strong poke and hold my breath. There is no reply, so I try again. After ringing the bell several times, I'm just
about to give up when a window slides open. Stepping back, I look up, sheltering my eyes for a better look. A slim, olive-skinned girl with long blue-black hair peers down at me. She rubs her eyes, yawning, like she's just woken up. She's about the same age as me – but much prettier.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for a Mr Max Bloom,” I call.

“You'd be lucky! He hasn't been home all night.”

Nausea rises in my stomach. I hadn't thought of a Plan B.

“When's a good time to call back?” I ask.

“There's never a good time. He's a workaholic.”

“Can I try again this afternoon?”

The girl shrugs and starts to lower the window.

“Wait! I've come a long way.”

Agitated, the girl pulls her hair back from her face, then twists it, throwing it over one shoulder. It spills down her arm like oil.

“Come back if you like, but you'd be better off waiting until tonight and trying The Bear Arms.”

With that, the girl slams the window shut and lets the curtains fall back into place. I don't even get a chance to ask where The Bear Arms is, or what he'll be doing there. Mam mentioned it before – she thought he owned the place – but what if Dad's another alky? The girl said he was a workaholic, but that could be some sort of “code”. Pushing the worry away, I decide to start searching Greenwich Village for the bar.

Walking slowly out of the cul-de-sac, I wait on the corner, leaning against the postbox for a time, in case someone who might be my dad suddenly appears. My
rumbling stomach eventually forces me to move on, and I head back down the hill to the pie shop.

Finding my way round Greenwich is easy. It's not that big, and most of the shops and cafés are on three main streets. But there's no sign of The Bear Arms. I ask a few people, but most of them are tourists who don't speak English. The rest assume I'm begging and shoo me away. One man even shouts “Get a job!” into my face. By the time I find a busy, covered market, I'm so shaken I have to lean against the wall until my legs stop trembling.

Wandering through the tightly packed market crowd, I marvel at the latticed roof and the stalls with funny names like “Bull in a China Shop”. Everything imaginable is for sale: stuffed pheasants, handmade cards, war medals and old wooden toys. There are endless rails of goth clothes I'd love – but I'd get picked on if I wore them back home. There are vinyl records (but no Johnny Cash), lamps made from coloured glass, battered leather suitcases and all sorts of junk labelled as “retro”.

At one end of the market, a food area fills the air with delicious smells and I feel my shoulders relax as I watch Japanese noodles, Spanish paella, Italian sausages, Colombian coffee and Ethiopian stews sizzle and gurgle. People of all colours, shapes and sizes eat hungrily from disposable tubs, seated on concrete steps or wobbly plastic chairs. Passing below a big heart that dangles from the ceiling, I decide to ask for directions again. A seated old man looks harmless.

“Excuse me.”

The old man turns, his eyes blotchy and deeply shadowed. Spit gathers in the corner of his mouth and I realize my mistake.

“Leave me alone!” he shouts, saliva dribbling down his chin. “Help! Help!”

I stand there, stunned, not knowing how to react. A friendly coffee-stall owner calls me away and hands me a cup of sugary tea. I'd prefer a milky coffee, but I'm not going to argue.

“Don't worry about 'im, love. One of the local fruitcakes. Take no notice.”

“Thanks,” I say, hugging the cardboard cup. After a few sips, I feel better. “I only wanted to know if he'd heard of The Bear Arms.”

“A swanky joint, eh? You're in luck – I know the very place. It's not far from 'ere. Off Greenwich South Street, on Ashburnham Grove. Don't open 'til late, mind – and over twenty-ones only. Follow the blue neon lights and local glitterati after dark – you can't miss it.”

Smiling, I search for the street on the map, confirm its location with the coffee seller, then head out into the sunshine. Now I know where to find The Bear Arms, I can do some exploring. What's the point of coming all the way to London if I can't enjoy myself – at least a little bit?

Chapter Forty-Four

Fake Candlelight and Long Banquet Tables

Down in the quay, the
Cutty Sark
floats above a glass building, her intricate masts dominating the skyline.

I overhear some people talking about a tunnel under the Thames, and it sounds so cool I have to follow them. We stop at a strange little circular structure – like a mini church dome – that houses a big, glass-fronted lift. It takes us down to the belly of the river.

Stepping out into the white-tiled tunnel, I gasp. It's like something out of a sci-fi film – a giant space-age cocoon. It slants upwards so you can't see what's ahead or how long it is.

My footsteps echo, no matter how quietly I creep. People's voices reach my ears long before I can see them. Now and then a muffled rumble passes overhead – probably boats, but I imagine it's the blue whale calf I saw on Sarah's TV. A cup of her Mam's hot chocolate would go down a treat right now.

The tunnel stretches out for what seems like miles. At the other end there is another lift, and within a few moments I'm standing in a small park, which looks
over the Thames to the bank I just came from. The
Cutty Sark
looks much smaller from here. Too small. Just like me. My legs start trembling and I'm overcome with an inexplicable urge to get back to Greenwich Village and find my dad – and quick! I race back towards the lift and run the length of the tunnel to where I'd started.

Back in the open air, I search for somewhere snug to hang out for a while. Somewhere that doesn't need money. I see a Student's Union sign. Harriet always bangs on about hers in Edinburgh, so I decide to take a peek – hoping for a glimpse of the secret world that keeps enticing my sister away. The entrance is cool and dark, with low ceilings and sweeping staircases. Doors lead in all directions, but the doorman stops me before I can choose which one to take.

“Do you have your student card, please?”

“No, but I go to Egerton Park School. It's up North.”

The doorman looks amused, then apologetic.

“Sorry, you have to be part of a University to get in here. But you can walk round some nice grounds – and the Painted Hall is free.”

“The Painted Hall?”

It sounds like a consolation prize.

“Out the door, turn right – when you see the entrance to the Naval College buildings, turn right again and follow the signs. You can't miss it.”

Without anywhere else to go, I decide it's definitely worth a try.

The college buildings are magnificent and I take my time wandering past, staring up at the elaborate carvings. After a while, I find the Painted Hall – a hugely ornate
room filled with fake candlelight and long banquet tables. The ceilings are painted with lifelike figures, animals and angels, their expressions captured in muted pastels and rich gold.

Seated at one of the tables, I flick through the information leaflets. One claims this place was the set for
Pirates of the Caribbean
.

I wouldn't know. I couldn't afford to go to the cinema and I lost interest after that. Didn't want to look like a loser asking to borrow someone's DVD. I read about the painted figures and try to get a feel for the history of the place, but it's all so long ago, I can't relate to it. Instead, I close my eyes and imagine a banquet. I picture a huge pig roasting on a spit, baskets laden with luscious fruit and giant soup terrines with decorative silver ladles. The centrepiece is a grand layered wedding cake, with ivory icing that shines like silk. The image feels so real I can almost hear the spit crackling, taste the rich fruitcake.

Feeling a bit better, I people-watch for a while, enjoying the different languages and outfits. A long blond ponytail catches my eye and I think how much Sarah would love the detailed ceiling.

Then, my stupid brain morphs a quiet student type admiring the banquet tables into Hatty, and a nervy, quick-eyed lady into Mam. Nearby, a cross-looking man slaps a little boy's legs, his teeth bared as he mutters something under his breath. The boy looks too scared to cry and I look away in disgust. The man's just like Maddy's dad. At least Mam's never like that.

The sound of laughter makes my head swivel, and my stomach flips as I watch a mam and her two
daughters pull poses for the camera before falling about in fits. I'd give anything to swap places – to have Mam and Hatty here. They could do with a break too. Instead of concentrating on starting a new life here alone, maybe I should be thinking about reuniting everyone with Dad. He certainly has enough money to look after us all and Mam wouldn't need to drink any more with Max in her life. I'd get the best of both worlds.

Without me even noticing, dusk settles over the city. The Warden waits until everyone else has gone before asking me to leave.

“See you again,” he says, tipping his hat before locking the door.

I hope he will. Only next time we'll all be here – Mam, Dad, me and Hatty – thanks to my ingenious plan. The thought boosts my spirits.

But Greenwich looks different at dusk, and my momentary confidence drains away. The gates I came through are locked, so I have to find an alternative exit. My breath mists the air as the temperature drops. Huddled in my coat, I check the time on my phone – 8 p.m. Seven missed calls from Harriet and another text.

ANSWER YOUR PHONE, LIL SIS X H X

I also notice that my battery symbol has turned red. Maybe I should call back? I decide to stay strong. I'm too close to give up. I'll keep my battery power until I find Dad, then I'll charge my phone and call home. Put them out of their misery. All those missed calls tell me they've suffered enough.

As darkness falls, I keep to the main streets, pounding the same route over and over. Surrounded by people and streetlights, I feel safer.

Many shops are still open so I browse for an hour, going into anywhere that looks cosy. Hunger rumbles in my belly, but I want to make the money stretch as long as possible, just in case. Of what, I don't want to think about.

Anyway, my dad will feed me.

It's time to find him.

Even with the map, The Bear Arms is tricky enough to find. It's only a few streets away, but the streets are long and confusing and I can't tell where to turn off. The surroundings switch from loud, busy areas full of pubs to silent, residential patches filled with parked cars and inquisitive foxes nosing in rubbish bins. Both are equally spooky. Distant sirens keep setting my nerves on edge. As it turns ten o'clock, I start panicking and abandon the map, walking the streets blindly, listening out for noisy bars. After a few false leads, I spot a well-dressed crowd in high spirits. Remembering the coffee-seller's advice, I follow them.

My phone buzzes and, although I know I'm not going to answer, I check it anyway.

Home. Again.

I hit the reject button.

A third text comes through from Hatty's phone.

THIS IS MAM. WE'RE WORRIED. PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OK XXXX

When I look up, I've lost my crowd. They've merged into the night-time city.

Spotting a flash of blue neon in the distance, I head straight for it, quickening my pace.

Two young men about Hatty's age appear out of nowhere. One is large and muscular in a white tracksuit, the other is small and wiry in black jeans and hoody. They look different to the rest of the people I've seen round here. Rougher. More like people back home. They smile at me as though they've known me all their lives.

“Hey, darlin', wanna come party?” shouts the small guy in a thick, London accent.

Sweating with fear, I shake my head. If I speak, my accent will give me away.

The two guys pause, heads cocked to one side as they size me up. I don't like the way they're looking at me. News headlines flash through my mind – “Runaway Schoolgirl Found Chopped to Pieces in Bin” – so I walk on, trying to look nonchalant.

Losing interest, the tall guy grabs his mate by the arm.

“Leave her alone – she's just a kid. We've got bigger fish to catch!”

Breaking out into a cheesy R & B song, he dances away. Just like that, I'm alone again in the shadowy streets.

Holding my stomach, I blow out a big mouthful of air.

That was a close one. I try to picture what I'd be doing right now if I had stayed at home. I'd probably be sprawled on the bed reading
Cosmo
. I might even be tackling that Baked Alaska with
Mam. Either way, I'd definitely be listening to Johnny.

As the memory of me, Jack and Harriet moshing rushes back, I run towards the blue neon, as though it's the only thing in the world that can save me.

Baked Alaska

Hot on the outside, cool on the inside, this is the most elegant treat you'll ever serve.

So don't get all hot under the collar when you need to impress. Stay calm and think big! There's no mountain you can't climb – it's just a case of “mind over matter”.

SPONGEY DELICIOUSNESS (BASE)

55 g/2 oz self-raising flour

55 g/2 oz caster sugar

2 eggs, plus 2 extra yolks

Pinch of salt

2 tbsp warm water

SHIVERY GOODNESS (IN THE MIDDLE)

1 litre vanilla ice cream

CRUNCHY MOUNTAIN PEAKS (MERINGUE TOPPING)

6 egg-whites

300 g/11 oz caster sugar

1 tsp granulated sugar

HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN

1. Pre-heat the oven to 190 °C/375 °F/Gas mark 5. Lightly grease a round 20 cm (8–9 in.) sandwich tin.

2. Make the sponge first by beating the eggs, salt, warm water and egg yolks together (hint: keep the whites for the crunchy meringue peaks), then add the sugar really slowly – a bit at a time. Bruise it all up real good until thick and dreamy.

3. Use a metal spoon to gently fold in the flour – the more love, the better the bounce.

4. Pour the mixture into the tin and bake for 12–15 minutes until swollen and golden brown. Check with a chopstick – poke it in (not all the way through – we don't want any holes) and if it comes away sticky, whack it back in for a bit longer.

5. Cool on a wire tray – but keep the oven on! When it's cold, place the sponge on an ovenproof dish.

6. Now the fun bit – make the mountain! Using a glass bowl (not plastic, otherwise it won't go fluffy) and a fine big whisk, beat the egg-whites and caster sugar together until thick and shiny. Make it gleam like snow-topped peaks.

7. Place the ice cream in the middle of the sponge (use what you need – it might not be the full litre) and swirl the meringue topping over it. Make sure it's well sealed or it'll be more “molten volcano” than “gargantuan goodness”.

8. Sprinkle granulated sugar over the meringue and place it in the oven for 3 minutes, or until it is golden-brown. Serve immediately with the most tantalizing fresh fruit you can find.