Cookie (3 page)

‘Do I really have to have a party, Dad?’ I said desperately.

‘I’m not sure about a lot of over-excited children running round the house,’ Mum said quickly. She knew how Dad fussed so about the carpet and the cream sofas.

‘We won’t have them running riot
here
,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll take them out somewhere swish. Leave it to me, I’ll work on it. I want my Beauty to have a really fantastic birthday.’

‘It’s ever so kind of you, Dad,’ I gabbled, though my heart was sinking.

I just had to hope he might somehow forget about it. I wasn’t sure many of the girls in my class would come, especially not Skye or Emily or
Arabella
. Or if they did, they’d all call me names the way they did in class.

‘What does my best girl want for her birthday present, eh?’ said Dad.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Well, think!’ said Dad. He tapped my forehead. ‘What’s going on inside that little noddle of yours, eh? I bet you’ve got some idea of what you’d really really like for a present.’

‘Well …’

‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, what is it?’

Mum leaned forward, looking tense. Dad shifted his knee, tipping her off his lap.

‘You go and make a start on tea, Dilly, I’m starving. Whack a steak under the grill. Even you can manage that.’

I tried to get up too but Dad hung onto me.

‘No, no, you stay and keep your old dad company, little Beauty. I want to get to the bottom of your birthday wishes. What are you pondering? I can tell you’ve set your heart on something.’

I wriggled, wondering whether I dared ask.

‘Come on, sweetie. No need to be shy of your old dad. What is it, eh? Have you got your eye on some outrageously expensive outfit? It’s OK, baby, I’m used to your mum. I’ll happily fork out for the junior designer doodahs of your choice – with a
dinky
little handbag and maybe your first pair of shoes with tiny heels, yes?’

‘Well, actually, Dad, I wasn’t really thinking about clothes.’

‘Aye aye! Something more expensive, eh? It’s OK, darling, the business is doing well. You heard me tell your mum I’m on the brink of the biggest deal yet. Do you fancy your very own little laptop? Or a personal flatscreen telly for your bedroom?’

‘No, Dad. It’s very kind of you but I truly don’t want anything like that.’

‘Then what
is
it? Come on, spit it out. I’ll get you anything you like, my lovely.’

‘Then please could I have a rabbit?’ I whispered.

‘What?’ Dad cupped his ear.

‘A rabbit,’ I repeated. ‘I’d really like a white one with loppy ears, but really any kind of rabbit would be …’

My voice tailed away when I saw the expression on Dad’s face.

‘Are you
thick
, Beauty?’ he said.

‘I – I don’t know, Dad,’ I said, not sure whether he wanted me to say yes or not. It didn’t look as if I could win whatever I said.

‘You come on like Miss Smarty Pants but I SAY YOU’RE THICK,’ said Dad, jabbing me in the back at every word.

The last jab shoved me right off his lap onto the carpet. I tried to scuttle out of Dad’s way but he caught hold of me by the wrist.

‘Don’t, Gerry!’ Mum said, darting back into the room.

‘I’m not hurting her,’ said Dad. He deliberately loosened his fingers so that they were just like a fleshy pink bangle on my arm. ‘
Am
I hurting you, Beauty?’

‘No, Dad,’ I said.

‘And
are
you thick?’ he said.

‘Yes, Dad,’ I said.

‘Y
es, Dad, certainly, Dad, as thick as
three
short planks, Dad,’
said Dad, in a horrible high squeaky imitation of my voice.

‘Please let her go, Gerry,’ said Mum. ‘What has she done to upset you?’

‘She’s only gone and ignored one of the very basic rules of this household – this particularly luxurious house, custom-made by my own best craftsmen for our benefit. I don’t think it’s asking much to want us to take care of this lovely home. I’m not what anyone would call a finicky man, now am I?’

Mum and I didn’t dare contradict him.

‘I just like my house to be well looked after. No scratches on the parquet, no chips on the plaster, no dirty hairs or stains on the carpet. What
causes
scratches and chips and hairs and stains, mm, Beauty? Do you really not know the answer?’

‘Pets, Dad,’ I whispered.

‘Yes. Full marks. And what has my view on pets always been?’

‘I know I can’t have a dog or a cat, but I did think a rabbit might just be OK, because it wouldn’t be
in
the house, it would live in a little hutch outside.’

‘In a little hutch? Where, precisely? In the middle of my lawn? The rosebeds? The patio?’

‘No, just by a wall somewhere.’

‘Yes, that would really add to the classy atmosphere, rabbits in smelly hutches. What else would you like, pigeons in cages, ferrets scrabbling in a run?’

‘Not ferrets, Gerry, they’d eat the rabbits,’ said Mum, trying to turn it into a joke.

‘You shut your face, Dilly,’ said Dad. ‘No one’s asking you.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that, Gerry, please,’ said Mum. She tried to say it firmly but I could see she was trembling.

‘I’ll talk how I please in my own house,’ said
Dad
. ‘Now listen to me, Beauty. I don’t mind animals on a farm or in a field. I can get very fond of a winning gee-gee at a race track. I just won’t have animals in the house – or surroundings, OK? When we were peasants in mud huts back in the bad old days, folk shared their homes with a cow and a goat and a guard dog, but we’re not peasants now and this isn’t a mud hut, this is a luxury home. Get that?’

Dad stuck his face right up close to me so that his head seemed horribly big. I could see the vein throbbing in his forehead, the blood vessels in his eyes, the hairs up his nostrils, the flecks of spit on his lips.

He looked like a story-book ogre about to eat me up. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I knew I mustn’t cry in front of him. I always looked so ugly when I cried. My eyes screwed up, my nose ran, and my mouth went square. It always made Dad madder than ever.

I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry
, I said inside my head, but the tears were already spurting down my cheeks.

‘Go to your room right this minute, Beauty,’ said Mum. ‘It’s naughty of you to nag at your dad for a pet, you know the rules.’

I knew Mum wasn’t cross with me too. She was just trying to save me.

‘Yes, get upstairs, now!’ Dad thundered.

I was off like a shot. I was in such a hurry I tripped on the stairs and scraped my shins, making me cry harder. I flopped onto my rose-silk bed and hugged my old rag doll PJ. I had a shelf of big fancy china dolls in Victorian costume. They had ringlets and bonnets and parasols and long flounced dresses and tiny heeled boots. They were all collector’s dolls and very beautiful but I couldn’t play with them properly. They just stood on their shelves and stared straight through me with their spooky glass eyes.

I’d had PJ ever since I was a baby in a cot. Mum made her for me. Her eyes were crossed and her mouth was wonky and her arms and legs were uneven. I’d given her a drastic haircut when I was little which didn’t help her appearance. PJ stood for Plain Jane but I didn’t mind a bit that she wasn’t very pretty. Her mouth still smiled and she felt soft and she had her own special sweet smell. When I was little I liked to suck my thumb and nuzzle my nose against her cloth cheek. It made me feel safe.

I tried sucking my thumb now, holding PJ close. I could hear Dad shouting downstairs. Poor Mum. She was getting the worst of it now.

I wanted to run downstairs, turning rapidly into SuperBeauty, my arms pumping, legs bounding a mile a minute. I’d floor Dad, seize Mum in my arms, and with one mighty bound we’d soar through the open window, up up up, away from our Happy Home.

I wished I hadn’t eaten it now. I’d golloped it down so rapidly I hadn’t really tasted it. It had taken the edge off my hunger but now I felt sick.

I wondered what would happen if I
was
sick. I’d once not made it to the bathroom in time and thrown up on the carpet and Dad had been so cross. I needed to distract myself quickly. I got out my schoolbooks and did my sums quickly, finishing all of them in twenty minutes, even though they were quite difficult problems. I started doodling in my rough book, making up my own problem.

Dad is a good man because

a) he loves us

b) he’s given us a beautiful home

c) he works very hard for us

Dad is a bad man because

a) he gets so cross

b) he orders us around

c) he’s a great big bully

So is Dad a good man or a bad man???

I had no idea how to find out the answer. I flipped over the page and started trying to draw the chocolate chicken from memory. I coloured it in with my crayons, feeling guiltier than ever. I did it very carefully, not going over my lines, even leaving little white spaces in the brown to give the illusion of glossy chocolate sheen.

I printed:
Dear Sam and Lily, This is my pet chicken
, neatly at the top of the page.
I didn’t give her some tea. She was MY tea!

A little later Mum came into my room carrying a tray.

‘Dinner is served, madam,’ she said, making a little curtsy, pretending to be a maid. She gave me a jaunty smile but her eyes were red.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said. ‘Have you been crying?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Come on, pet, eat your supper.’

She’d made me a tuna-and-sweetcorn sandwich with a few oven chips and a little tomato salad. She’d cut the crusts off the sandwich and arranged the oven chips like a flower and cut the tomatoes into zig-zag shapes, trying to make it all look special. I wanted to wolf it down appreciatively but I still felt a bit sick. Maybe it was eating all the chocolate chicken.

‘I’m not sure I can eat it all, Mum,’ I said.

‘Never mind. I’ll have a little nosh, shall I?’ said Mum. ‘Oh chips, yummy yummy.’

‘In my tummy,’ I said automatically. ‘Mum … is Dad still mad?’

‘He’s OK now. He’s just nipped out to the office to check on something.’ She paused. ‘This new Water Meadows deal means a lot to him, Beauty. Maybe that’s why he’s so … tetchy at the moment.’ Mum’s voice sounded odd, like she was reading aloud. She wasn’t looking me in the eye.

‘That’s rubbish, Mum,’ I said. I nestled up close to her. ‘I’m sorry you got shouted at when it was my fault, getting him all worked up about the rabbit. He was so angry I thought he was going to whack me one!’

‘Your dad would never ever hit you, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘You’re his little Beauty.’

She put her arms round me, knocking my glass
of
orange juice over. ‘Oh no! I’m so clumsy. We’ll have to change the sheets, otherwise it’ll look like you’ve wet the bed!’ said Mum, trying to joke again. Her smile was stretched so tight it looked as if her face might split in two.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I said, starting to cry.

‘There now, pet,’ said Mum, rescuing my crayons and drawing pad from my damp bed. ‘Oh, what a lovely chicken!’

‘I ate it, Mum,’ I confessed. ‘The real chocolate chicken. I ate it. It’s all gone.’