Caramel Hearts Read online

  “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 f
ast, 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.

  Chapter Four

  Like Magic, It Begins to Mould Together

  I set the recipe book in place, open the oven door, and a rancid smell of stale fat rushes out. When was the last time Hatty cleaned this thing? A thick, tar-like substance has frozen mid-drip on the shelf’s slats. It’s disgusting, but as Mam says, “beggars can’t be choosers”, so I light the gas anyway, and get to work. Without any weighing scales, I guess the measures, using the overall quantities on the packet as a guide. I place the butter and sugar in a bowl and, without a wooden spoon to hand, try a fork for whisking instead.

  It’s a disaster.

  The fork handle gets covered in butter and loose sugar granules spray out of the bowl like water from a sprinkler. A metal spoon isn’t any better. The thought of sticking my hands into the butter is gross, but time is ticking, and if I want it to work, I have to chance skipping to the next step. I’m surprised to find the cool stickiness is actually quite nice as I mix the ingredients together. But it’s hard work. The recipe book doesn’t mention anything about that. My shoulder goes dead after a few minutes and the sugar grazes my skin like sand. The butter’s so hard I think my arm might snap with the effort, but soon everything begins to warm and soften, dissolving the sugar in a buttery embrace. When everything is mixed, I can’t resist sucking on a finger. It already tastes amazing.

  Mouth watering, I carry on. The recipe says to add a bit of flour at a time, but to speed things up, I dump it all into the bowl. White powdery clouds billow out, catching in my throat and making me choke.

  “Dammit!”

  Using all my strength, I work the ingredients between my fingers. Like magic, it begins to mould together – not like any breadcrumbs I’ve ever seen, but it’ll have to do. I check my flour-stained phone for the time. Hatty should be back in about an hour, leaving just enough time to bake, clean up and get out of here undetected.

  As I add the lemon zest and chocolate chips, my nostrils suck in the smells and my stomach rumbles loudly in complaint. I had to skip lunch, so I can’t wait to get stuck in. All morning I’ve been imagining the warm shortbread crumbling in my mouth and melting away. It even took my mind off my next counselling session with Rachel for a while. Sometimes talking about stuff helps, but it’s like Rachel wants to know everything that’s in my head. She’s just trying to help, but it’s freaky. She even started talking to me about sex and periods the other week – like they’ve got anything to do with Mam! And she’s a year too late for the periods. I guess I don’t mind. It’s not like anyone else is going to talk about these things – Hatty gets too embarrassed – but still!

  I realize I’ve been daydreaming and the dough has turned lumpy. I turn the mixture out onto the kitchen surface and start to knead, hoping this will help. Every time I lift my hand, the dough sticks and, no matter what I try, I can’t make it stop. Taking a deep breath and checking the recipe, I realize I haven’t floured the surface. Annoyed at myself for missing such a basic detail, I grab a fistful of flour and wiggle my fingers so it falls like snow. The dough works better this time, and I relax into the kneading, enjoying the rhythmic strokes – until I realize I’m missing a rolling pin. When did I get so crap at following instructions?

  I grab the first heavy item I can find – a supersize tin of beans – and lay it flat on the dough. I try to roll. But once again, the mixture sticks. It lifts with the tin, breaking into gloopy blobs and slopping back down onto the surface. Sweating and cross, I squash the dough together as best I can and pound it into shape with my fists. The citrusy, chocolatey aroma makes my mouth water. I pull a bit of the dough off and let it melt slowly on my tongue. The velveteen mixture’s dead tasty. These are going to be divine! Hurriedly, I check the recipe one last time: “Use a heart-shaped biscuit cutter to get as many biscuits as you can out of the dough.”

  That’s a laugh – and I can’t even imagine Mam writing it. There’s nothing heart-shaped or patterned anywhere. “False hearts and broken promises are the reason I drink,” Mam always says. When she’s not blaming me. But the recipe is proof that she must have believed in love once upon a time, and I can’t help wondering why she changed her mind. She says it’s Dad’s fault, of course – we all know nothing is ever down to her – but she’s never actually explained why they split up. You get the feeling she’s hiding something.

  After fashioning my own heart shapes with a dinner knife, I place them carefully on the baking tray. I reread the bit about the icing sugar – “seal with a kiss” – and a boy’s face from school unexpectedly pops into my head: Jack Whitman. Even though I’m alone, my face burns. Pushing him out of my mind, I splash sugar on the biscuits and pop them into the smoking oven. Ignoring the acrid burning smell, I set about cleaning up.

  The tidying takes longer than expected. Flour dusts the floor, the worktops and my hair. Wherever I turn, there’s another doughy handprint or footprint. I’ve trampled it everywhere and, to make matters worse, the dough isn’t easy to wash away. Like the clay we use in Art class, it clogs the sink.

  “Hatty’s going to kill me…”

  I check the time. My sister’s probably due back any minute. And I’m meant to be at school. A loud whoosh catches my attention and I turn to see flames lapping out of the oven.

  “Holy crap!”

  I bust the oven door open. Angry blue and yellow tongues flick out. The fat on the shelf has caught fire. I’m definitely dead meat now. I cross my fingers and hope that Hatty will be too busy celebrating her new job to get angry with me. Grabbing a bunched-up tea towel – I’ve discovered we don’t own an oven glove – I try to snatch the baking tray out of the fire but the heat is too strong. The flames lap higher, blackening the ceiling. Smoke fills the kitchen, spilling into the passageway.

  “Liv, is that you?” I hear Hatty call out. I hadn’t even heard the front door slam. “Liv? What are you doing home? Pauline next-door called me – said she’d heard noises… What the—?”

  Hatty runs full speed into the kitchen and flings her bag across the floor.

  “Quick, get me a damp tea towel!”

  I do as I’m told. Within seconds, Harriet has everything under control – shortbread and tray dumped into the sink, oven shelf quickly following.

  “What are you playing at? You know that if we don’t keep things under control, they’ll take you away. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well you’ve a funny way of showing it. I thought you were going to act responsibly?”

  “I am! I was just—”

  “Nicking off school and setting the place on fire?”

  My heart sinks. I only wanted to make Harriet smile.

  “If Mam hears about this,” continues Hatty. “It’ll set her right back.”

  “And it’ll be all my fault. You sound just like her.” It’s too late to stay out of trouble and I can’t se
em to stop my mouth. “Maybe I’d be better off if the Social Services did take me away?”

  “Sometimes I wonder why the hell I bother!” snaps Harriet.

  I roll my eyes. “Go back to your precious uni. I don’t need you to look after me.”

  Harriet grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me harder than I expect, her face puckering with anger.

  “Don’t be such an ungrateful bitch!” she spits.

  My ears and teeth rattle, but I don’t bother to fight back. Instead, I focus on the points of her fingers digging into my flesh, my eyes resting on the sink where my ruined shortbread lies black and smouldering. My stomach growls as I watch the red cinders of my shortbread die out, one by one. Why can’t Harriet see I’m trying to do something nice?

  Wriggling free, I snatch up the recipe book and stomp up to my room.

  “I’m a bitch? Then what are you?” I shout down the stairs before slamming the door.

  It’s our first fight since Mam went away and the lovely lemony flavour turns sour in my mouth. I ball my fists and punch into my mattress. Only when my knuckles start getting sore do I feel a bit better.

  “It’s all your stupid fault,” I say, flinging the cookbook across the room. “It was a ridiculous idea.”

  The book slams against the wall and lands on the floor, open on the inscription page. I can see my dad’s words from here, full of love and tenderness.

  “Why did you have to leave?” I say, my voice cracking.

  Pushing my face into my pillow, I let the tears fall, resolving to never set foot in the kitchen again.

  Chapter Five

  The Three Amigos

  It’s almost 8.15 a.m. when Hatty shakes me awake, a freshly laundered and ironed uniform in her hands. She drops the uniform on my bed as I clamber out, but there’s no sign of any note to explain my absence. I’m expecting fireworks and lectures, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, her voice is cool and clipped.