Cookie (10 page)

‘Hey, they look good!’ I said. ‘How shall we roll them out?’

We didn’t have a rolling pin so Mum improvised with a bottle of wine. We didn’t have any cookie cutters either but Mum twisted the lid off
a
jar of jam and started cutting out rounds in her flattened dough.

‘I’m going to make mine into people,’ I said, starting to mould my dough.

‘What, like a gingerbread man?’ said Mum.

‘Sort of.’ I made a dough woman, carefully cutting a skirt for her, then putting little dough high heels on her pale legs. I broke off pieces of dough and rolled them long, and then with my fingers I twirled them round and round, creating long curls. I stuck them on the dough woman’s head. I found a safety pin and fashioned features on her dough face: two big eyes, a little nose, a cupid’s-bow mouth smiling at me. I smiled back as I laid her carefully on a baking tray.

I started on another dough person, small and square. I made a dough dress for her and gave her a fancy hairdo. Her eyes went squinty when I scratched them into place, her nose went blobby and her mouth turned down. I stared at her, sighing. Then I pulled all her dough ringlets right out and gave her a radical haircut, chopping it tomboy short. It didn’t look so bad now. I peeled off her party dress and made her dough dungarees. She looked much better. I rubbed at her mouth and she started smiling.

Mum peered over at the finished figure on the baking tray.

‘Oh, Beauty, that’s so good! Is that me?’ She came and stood beside me. ‘And who’s this? Is it a boy? No, it’s
you
with short hair! You look so cute.’

‘I wish I did have short hair,’ I said. ‘Do you think Dad would mind terribly if I had it all cut off?’

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.

I put my dough girl beside her mum. Then I got started on a dough man.

‘Is that Dad?’ said Mum.

I didn’t answer. I made the body and then rolled the arms and the legs. I made pin marks on the dough shirt to show it was checked and gave his long legs comfy jeans. I spent ages carving his face with my pin to give it the right gentle expression. Of course it wasn’t Dad.

I started on a new smaller person, very fat, with four little legs. I fashioned long loppy ears. Then I carefully picked her up and laid her on my man’s checked chest. He wrapped his doughy arms around her, holding her close.

My tray was full now. I patted my special pastry people, feeling bad as I put them into the hot oven.

‘I hope it doesn’t hurt,’ I whispered foolishly. ‘I’ll try hard not to let you burn.’

Mum put her tray of plain round cookies above mine and we shut them in the oven.

‘Tra la!’ said Mum. ‘Welcome to the world, Cookie Girl.’

‘Well, hi there, Cookie Mum,’ I said.

Mum switched on the radio and we started dancing to the pop music in our pyjamas. We didn’t disco dance like Skye; this was happy mad dancing, leaping around the room, beating a tattoo on the table top, tapping out tunes with the spoons. We sank into our seats exhausted when the music stopped.

‘I can smell the cookies!’ I said, my nose twitching like Lily’s. ‘Do you think they’re ready yet?’

‘We’ve only just put them in the oven, sweetheart. They’ll be ages yet. Come on, let’s go and get washed and dressed while we’re waiting.’

I washed and dressed in double quick time, not quite trusting Mum’s judgement. I decided to have a little peep in the oven. I just opened the door a tiny crack so as not to let the heat out. I stared. Then I opened it wide, peering at the two trays.

‘Mum!’ I shouted. ‘Oh, Mum, something really awful’s happened!’

Mum came rushing into the kitchen in her underwear.

‘Have you burned yourself? Have you broken something? What
is
it, Beauty?’

‘Look at the cookies!’ I wailed.

Mum’s neat cookies had expanded in every direction, joining up so that her baking tray contained one long flat misshapen biscuit. My lovely cookie people had expanded too. They were now great grotesque caricatures. Sam was this bloated blobby man, all head and huge stomach, and lovely Lily had blown up into a beach ball. Little Mum was a great giant. Even her careful curls were ruined. Now she looked as if she had snakes writhing right out of her head.

I was the worst, so squat I was completely square, my dungarees inflated into vast overalls, my short haircut making me look like a man. Not any old man. I looked the spitting image of my dad.

I put on an oven glove and pulled the baking tray out of the oven. I picked up the me-cookie even though it was red hot and snapped off its stupid head.

‘Hey hey, stop it, Beauty! Don’t burn yourself. And stop spoiling them. They might look a bit weird but I bet they taste yummy,’ said Mum.

We waited until they’d cooled down a little and then nibbled. They
didn’t
taste good at all. They were as flat and hard and boring as cardboard.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mum. She took the oven glove and pulverized her own cookie. ‘They’re horrible, aren’t they?’

‘Yep.’

‘Your dad’s right. I can’t cook for toffee,’ said Mum, drooping.

‘Yes, you can,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘Well, maybe you could
learn
.’

‘I’m useless at learning stuff. I was always bottom of the class at school,’ said Mum. ‘Thick as a brick, that’s me.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re … pretty and witty,’ I said.

‘OK, OK, so you’re … cute and astute,’ said Mum.

‘Maybe we need a proper recipe book?’ I said, scraping the cookie crumbs into the wastebin. ‘I think we need to get all the ingredients right. Maybe this is the wrong sort of flour? And perhaps we’ve left out something important? What would make the cookies softer and sweeter?’

‘Butter and sugar!’ said Mum. ‘OK, I’ll look for a recipe book tomorrow. Number two on my shopping list. Number one will be the new Venetian glass mirror.’

I quivered.

‘Sorry! Forget about it now. Shall we go and watch some telly? Don’t they have a Sam and Lily omnibus edition on a Sunday morning?’

Mum and I curled up at either end of the sofa. We tucked our feet up cosily. We were never allowed to do that when Dad was around because he said
it
marked the sofa cushions. Mum flipped through the Sunday papers while I spun round and round into Sam and Lily world in the Rabbit Hutch. I’d seen all five programmes during the week and so I could whisper all the right words. At the end of all the repeats there was a special five minutes of Sam and Lily on Sunday.

‘Hey there!’ said Sam.

He was holding Lily. She twitched her nose at me, but she was more interested in something down on the ground. She struggled a little in Sam’s arms, not quite sure of herself.

‘Hey, Lily, it’s OK. It’s only a little black cat come to say hello. Let me introduce you.’

Sam bent down so that Lily’s face was on a level with the cat’s. They regarded each other warily.

‘Lily, meet Lucky. Lucky, meet Lily.’ Sam looked out of the television set at me. ‘And here’s my very special friend, Beauty. Say meow to her, Lucky.’

Lucky obediently gave a tiny mew, lifting and licking one small paw.

‘Oh, Lucky, you’re so
sweet
,’ I whispered.

Lily stared at me reproachfully.

‘Not quite as sweet as Lily, of course,’ I said.

‘Lucky’s come to live in the house next door. She’s just popped in to meet her new neighbour,’ said Sam. ‘Are you going to come and say hello on a daily basis, Lucky?’

Lucky gave a demure nod.

‘Well, that’s just fine and dandy, because that means you’ll cross our path and if a little black cat does that then we’ll have a lucky day.’

‘I wish you lived next door to me, Lucky,’ I whispered. ‘I need all the luck in the world to counteract seven whole years’
bad
luck.’

‘Seven
years
?’ said Sam. ‘That’s all the way until you’re practically grown up! Whatever have you done to inflict such a curse upon yourself?’

‘I broke my mirror,’ I confessed.

‘Oh, Beauty, is that
all
!’ said Sam. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t really get seven years’ bad luck. That’s just an old wives’ tale.’

I glanced at Mum, who was deep in a fashion article.

‘OK, a
young
wives’ tale,’ said Sam. ‘But it’s just silly superstition. I think we make our own luck, Beauty.’

‘Well, I’m not very good at it,’ I said, sighing. ‘I wish I could come and live in the Rabbit Hutch with you and Lily, Sam.’

‘We’d love that too,’ said Sam.

‘Do you think we’ll ever meet?’

Sam looked straight into my eyes. ‘Yes, we’ll meet.’

‘Really? Actually face to face?’

‘Absolutely. Face to face. Or ear to ear in Lily’s case.’

Lily made a little snorty noise as if she was laughing. Then Sam reminded everyone that he’d love to see a drawing or a painting of their pet, and said goodbye.

‘Bye, Sam, bye, Lily,’ I said out loud.

‘Bye, Sam and Lily,’ Mum said, turning her page.

The television voice said, ‘Who have we just seen?’

‘Sam and Lily in the Rabbit Hutch!’ Mum and I said simultaneously.

I stood up. ‘I think I’ll go and do some drawing, Mum,’ I said.

I sat cross-legged on my bed upstairs with my drawing pad and coloured pencils. I propped Reginald Redted up beside me, telling him I wanted to draw his portrait.

‘You can be my pet and then I can send your picture off to Sam in the Rabbit Hutch,’ I said.

Reginald Redted looked down his snout at me. He seemed offended at the idea that he was
my
pet. He wouldn’t pose properly, falling forwards, flipping backwards, even tumbling head over heels over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

‘OK,
don’t
co-operate then. I won’t draw you. I’ll draw Nicholas Navybear instead,’ I said.

I divided my page into four squares. I drew myself looking at Nicholas on the tray at Rhona’s
party
. I was smiling from ear to ear as I saw his little furry face. Then in the second square I drew my hands gently cradling Nicholas. He lounged against my fingers, using my thumbs as a footrest. He was smiling from ear to ear too.

I drew great splashes of water in the third picture, with poor Nicholas thrashing wildly through the waves, mouth wide open, screaming for help. Then I drew the poor drowned Nicholas lying in an open coffin, paws crossed on his chest, with wreaths of daisies and dandelion crosses arranged all around him.

It was hard getting all four pictures properly balanced. I had to rub out quite a lot but at last it seemed OK. I coloured it in very carefully, not going over a single line and keeping my pencil strokes as smooth as I could.

Mum came up to see how I was getting on and acted like I was an artistic genius.

‘You have to send it in to Sam, Beauty,’ she said.

‘No, Mum, I’m too old – and my picture’s too weird,’ I said, closing my drawing book.

‘You’re
so
artistic, Beauty.’ Mum hesitated. ‘Shall we show it to Dad when he comes in?’

‘
No!
’

‘He’d be ever so proud.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. He’d go off on a rant.’ I puffed
myself
up and put on a deep Dad voice. ‘Why don’t you do a proper drawing of a teddy rather than this damn daft cartoon rubbish.’

Mum burst out laughing. ‘Oh, stop it! Yes, that’s
exactly
what he’d say. OK, we won’t show him.’

‘Beauty’s party, Silly Dilly!’

‘Are you sure about this, Gerry?’ said Mum. ‘Think of all those children running riot, sticky hands all over the furniture—’

‘We’re not going to have a party
here
. We’re going to go out,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve been talking to a couple of chaps at golf. One of them is part of some theatrical management company. He reckons he can get a whole block of front stalls seats for that
Birthday Bonanza
musical. Isn’t that great? It’s solidly booked up for the next six months. It’s always a matter of who you know, eh? And to make the day
extra
-special I’ve done a deal with another chap who has his own fleet of limos. You can ask all your friends, Beauty, and we’ll fit them into a super-stretch white limo, how about that?’