Cookie (22 page)

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ she said, nearly in tears.

‘They can be
your
breakfast, Dilly!’ said Mike cheerily. ‘Never mind, shove some more under the grill, there’s a dear.’

He didn’t get the slightest bit cross, dancing around the kitchen, laughing and joking. Mum was soon laughing and joking back. She had to serve up the little boys’ breakfasts and she made them each a face on a plate: a sausage cut in two for the eyes, a tomato nose and a bacon-rasher mouth, which they both loved. She made a smiley golden syrup face in both bowls of porridge too and the old ladies clapped their little claw hands in delight.

Mike seemed pleased when we all had breakfast together – but Mum and I
really
came into our
own
when it came to making the beds and doing the cleaning. We were used to living in a home where everything had to be pin-neat perfect. I’d followed Mum around when I was a toddler, doing my own ‘dusting’ with a hankie and riding on the vacuum cleaner. Now I could tackle housework properly myself. We worked together in each room, making beds, cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming the carpet.

We were astonished at everyone’s untidiness. We didn’t like to tidy things up too thoroughly in case people thought we were meddling with their things, but we couldn’t help playing little games. The walkers had left big woolly socks strewn all over the floor so we hung them in a row at the foot of the bed like Christmas stockings. The little boys had thrown their teddies everywhere so I collected them up and tucked them all into the cot, the covers pulled up tight to their button noses.

Mike did a tiny tactful inspection in our wake and grinned appreciatively.

‘I’ve got two girls for the price of one – and you’ve both done an excellent job. I
knew
it was my lucky day when I spotted you on the beach.’

‘
Our
lucky day,’ I said happily. ‘Can we do some more painting together this afternoon, Mike?’

‘You bet we can,’ said Mike.

Mum and I went up to our little attic room to gather our things together for the beach. We were running out of clean clothes now but Mike said we could use his washing machine.

‘I wish I’d packed more sensibly,’ said Mum. ‘I filled half my suitcase with your baby photos and all the pictures you’ve ever drawn for me – and yet I forgot my nightie and my good knickers and I didn’t even think to take any tights. Oh well, I can always buy some more when I get my first wages. Unless we ask your dad if we can go back to collect some more stuff? No, maybe not.’

‘
Definitely
not!’

‘We’ll have to phone him though.’ Mum took a deep breath. ‘Now!’

‘
No
, Mum.’

‘Come on, we’ve got to. It’s only fair and responsible.’

‘But he’ll spoil it all.’

‘Beauty, he’s your
father
.’

‘Yes, but I wish he wasn’t.’

‘Now don’t be silly.’

‘He wishes I wasn’t his daughter.’

‘Now that’s totally out of order. Your dad thinks the world of you.’

‘He’s ashamed of me. He’d swap me for Skye quick as a wink.’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Mum, but she was nibbling
her
lip, not looking me in the eye. ‘You mustn’t ever think that, babes.’

‘I don’t just think it, Mum, I
know
it.’

‘And
I
know you’re just nattering away so I’ll lose my bottle and put off phoning your dad. But I’m not going to!’ Mum’s fingers darted over the phone keypad and she pressed the green button before I could stop her.

‘You’re through to the desk of Gerry Cookson,’ said Dad in his brightest and best Happy Homes tone.

Mum and I stared at each other. He sounded so cheerily normal, as if nothing had happened.

‘He’s fine, Mum! Switch off now!’ I hissed – but Mum had already started talking.

‘Hello, Gerry darling,’ she said, and then pulled a face. The ‘darling’ had obviously slipped out from force of habit.

‘Dilly? Dilly, what the
hell
are you playing at?’ Dad’s voice revved up. I could hear him; Mike all the way downstairs could hear him; even kids down on the beach could hear him.

‘I’m not playing, Gerry. This isn’t a game,’ said Mum.

‘You’ve been gone three
days
. You’ve made your point. Now pack your gear and get yourself home, pronto.’

‘We’re not actually coming home,’ said Mum.

‘
What?
Don’t talk such total bilge. Of course you are. What sort of a mother are you, flouncing out of your lovely home and dragging poor little Beauty with you?’

I tried to take the phone to stick up for Mum but she wouldn’t let me.

‘You were the one who told us to get out, Gerry,’ Mum said.

‘Because you were bang out of order, you jumped-up little tart,’ Dad bellowed.

‘Well, nice to know what you think of me,’ said Mum. ‘Now listen, Gerry, I’m trying to be as responsible as possible. I know you need to know where Beauty is—’

‘No!
No! NO!
’ I said, jumping up and down.

‘We’re staying at a little spot on the coast called Rabbit Cove. It’s lovely here. I promise you Beauty’s very happy.’

‘Stop burbling this nonsense! Now come back home this
instant
!’

‘We’re going to stay here for a while, Gerry, at least for the summer season.’

‘And what exactly are you going to live on, you little fool? You needn’t think I’m sending any money for you and the kid.’

‘I’ve got a job,’ said Mum proudly.

‘
You’ve
got a job?’ Dad said. ‘What is it? The Useless Ageing Dumb Blonde Page Three Pin-Up job?’

Mum took the phone away from her ear, stared at it a moment, and then terminated the call.

‘About time,’ I said.

‘Oh God,’ said Mum, starting to shake.

‘I
told
you so,’ I said.

‘Don’t, Beauty,’ said Mum, and her eyes went watery.

‘I’m sorry. I
hate
people who say I told you so. I didn’t really mean it,’ I said, giving her a hug.

We stayed hugging hard, glancing anxiously at the phone. It started ringing again almost immediately. Mum switched it off quickly, keeping the phone at arm’s length as if Dad could wriggle right out of it and grab her.

‘OK, babes, let’s go on the beach,’ said Mum.

We left the phone shut up in our dressing-table drawer and went down to the sands. We were both hot and flushed. We longed to cool down by going in for a swim. We hadn’t packed swimming costumes but Mum felt I’d look perfectly decent in my T-shirt and knickers.

‘I can’t go swimming in my
knickers
!’

‘You wore them with your T-shirt on the beach the other day.’

‘Yes, sitting down. I can’t go gallivanting into the sea dressed like that. Everyone will stare at me and laugh.’

‘No they won’t! Don’t be so daft. Look,
I’ll
go in wearing my underwear. I’ve got my old red bra and knickers on. They look
kind
of like a bikini. OK, ready steady
strip
!’

Mum ripped her top and jeans off. I gaped at her – and then pulled my own jeans off. We went charging into the sea. It was incredibly cold but we didn’t hang around shrieking. We plunged straight in and splashed around like crazy.

We saw Mike setting up his easel by the wall and called to him to come and join us. He was an old spoilsport and wouldn’t even come in paddling. He painted us instead, bobbing about in the sea, Mum in her red ‘bikini’ and me in my big T-shirt.

When I’d dried off I went to paint with him too. I did another Sam and Lily portrait: Sam was sunbathing in a funny long stripy costume and Lily was hunched up on a deckchair, licking a carrot-flavoured ice lolly, with sunglasses hooked onto her ears. I sang the
Rabbit Hutch
song under my breath as I painted, and I made Sam say, ‘Hey there,’ to me.

‘Hey there,’ said Mike, thinking I was talking to him.

‘Hey,’ I said again, giggling.

Mum put her clothes back on when she’d sunbathed herself dry. She gathered up our
beach
stuff and came to join us up on the wall.

‘Do you want to do some painting too, Dilly?’ Mike asked.

‘You have to be joking!’ said Mum. ‘No, I’m going to nip back to Lily Cottage if that’s OK. I’m planning a little surprise.’

I had an idea what Mum’s surprise would be. Sure enough, when Mike and I went back to the guest house with our finished canvases there was a wonderful warm sweet cookie smell the moment we opened the door. Mike breathed in deeply.

‘What’s your mum been up to?’ he asked.

‘Cookies!’

They were the most amazing ice-cream cookies: sugar cookies for the cones with different coloured frostings on each one, white, pink and pale brown.

‘Oh Mum,
ice-cream
cookies!’ I said. ‘How did you cut them all into such neat shapes?’

‘There was this funny little sandcastle-making kit in the beach shop and they had three different cutters, starfish, mermaids and ice-cream cones!’ said Mum. ‘It was only one pound fifty so I thought I’d treat us. And I bought the flour and sugar and eggs myself, Mike. I wanted to give you this little present to say thank you for being so kind to us.’

‘That’s truly lovely of you, Dilly! They look wonderful. Gosh, you’ve done masses!’

‘Well, I thought we could offer all the guests a cookie and a cup of tea when they come back from the beach or wherever. I thought they might like it,’ said Mum.

They all
loved
Mum’s cookies – and not just the children. The two very old ladies were particularly appreciative and asked Mike where he’d bought such lovely novelty biscuits.

‘I didn’t buy them. Dilly here made them with her own fair hands,’ he said.

‘My goodness! Well, they’re excellent, my dear. We used to run a little teashop and we’d have been so proud to serve your cookies, Dilly,’ they said earnestly.

Mum went bright pink with pride and I wanted to hug her. She practically danced up to our little attic bedroom.

‘I’m good at cookies now,
really
good at them!’ she said, lying back on our bed and bicycling her legs in the air. ‘I’ve never been good at anything in my life, Beauty, but now I can say I’m an ace cookie-maker! I’m so happy!’

‘So am I, Mum, so am I,’ I said, leaning my arms on the windowsill and gazing out across the rooftops at the glistening sea.

Then I glanced down at our road, and saw a silver Mercedes draw up at the end. I stared, telling myself it couldn’t possibly be Dad. There were
hundreds
and hundreds of silver Mercedes all over England. But then the door opened and a man stamped out, a small square balding man with a salmon-pink face. It
was
Dad.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I watched him marching up the path and hammering on the door of number one Primrose Terrace. Someone answered the door, Dad said something, waited, then stormed back up the path and tried number two. He was systematically searching for us.

‘Mum!’ I croaked.

‘What, darling?’

‘It’s Dad! He’s here and he’s going to every guest house and he’ll be knocking at our door in a minute or two! Oh quick, Mum, we’ve got to get out of here!’

Mum jumped up and ran to the window.

‘Oh, God! Look at his face, he’s
flaming
!’ Mum took a deep breath. ‘But we’re not running, sweetheart. We’re going to stay here. We’ll see him and … we’ll talk quietly and sensibly and maybe Dad will understand.’

‘Are you
mad
, Mum? Dad never understands. Come on, please!’ I said, shaking her, but she wouldn’t be budged.

‘We’re not going to skulk in our room. We’ll go and meet him,’ she said, taking hold of my hand.

We went downstairs hand in hand, up the hallway, and opened the green front door. We stood in the porchway of Lily Cottage, waiting. We heard Dad’s footsteps, his abrupt knocking, his demands.
Have you got a Mrs Cookson staying here – Mrs Cookson and her daughter Beauty?
Then he pounded back up next door’s path and burst through our gate. He was so intent on finding us that he wasn’t quite focusing. He stamped halfway up the path staring at us but somehow not
seeing
us. Then he stopped still, mouth open.

‘Hello, Gerry,’ said Mum calmly – although I could feel she was trembling.

He stared at us, his face flooding purple.

‘Right. Come on. Get yourselves out of this dump
now
. You’re coming back home with me.’

I hung on tight to Mum’s hand. Dad looked so crazy I was scared he’d pick us both up bodily and stuff us head first into the boot of the Mercedes.

‘We’re not coming. This is our home now,’ said Mum.

‘This isn’t a home, it’s a tacky little B and B – and a right dump it looks too,’ said Dad. ‘Why didn’t you stay in the hotel up in the village?’

‘It’s a
lovely
home, Dad,’ I said.

‘You shut your face, Beauty. I’m sick of you. If you hadn’t started begging for that bloody rabbit then
none
of this would have happened,’ Dad shouted.

The two teashop ladies came into the hall behind us, coughing discreetly to let us know they were there.

‘Come on, I haven’t got time to mess around discussing the pros and cons of guest houses,’ said Dad. ‘Get your stuff and get cracking –
now
!’

The two old ladies gasped.

‘Are you all right, dear? Shall we go and get Mike?’ one enquired timidly.

‘Mike? Who the hell’s
Mike
?’ Dad asked.

‘I’m Mike,’ said Mike, coming into the hallway. He put his arms round the elderly ladies.

‘Don’t worry, my dears. I’ll look after things here. I should go up to your room,’ he said. Then he walked forward and stood beside Mum and me.

‘I gather you’re Dilly’s husband? Would you like to come in?’ he said.

‘No, I’m not bloody coming in! I’ll thank you not to interfere, you nosy git. Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Dad shouted.

‘I’m Dilly and Beauty’s friend,’ said Mike.

‘Do you think I’m stupid? Friend! Don’t take the mickey out of me,’ said Dad, and he punched Mike right on the nose.