Candyfloss Read online

  ‘You’re such a brainybox, Susan,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Susan, as if I’d insulted her.

  ‘I’m paying you a compliment! You’re heaps and heaps brainier than me.’

  ‘It’s not that great a deal being brainy,’ said Susan. She sat down on the sofa, sighing.

  I went to sit beside her. The sofa sagged badly and the corduroy was shiny with age. There were several big dark stains where Dad had spilt his coffee or his can of beer. We were leaving the sofa too. I wished we could somehow take it with us. It wasn’t just because it was where Dad and I cuddled up and watched the telly. When I was little it had been a fairytale castle and a wagon train across the prairie and a bridge over the man-eating crocodiles crawling across the carpet.

  ‘I wonder if we could just take one of the sofa cushions?’ I said, tugging at it.

  ‘It’s a bit . . . tired looking,’ Susan said, as tactfully as she could. ‘And it would take up a whole cardboard box all by itself.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ I said, stroking the sofa as if it was my giant pet.

  ‘Shall we go and see how your dad’s getting on with his packing?’ Susan said, going for diversionary tactics.

  Dad was having similar problems. He was slumped on the edge of his bed, his clothes scattered all over the duvet, so it looked as if there were twenty Dads sprawled beside him. There were Mum things too, clothes I’d completely forgotten about – an old pink towelling dressing gown, a sparkly evening frock with one strap drooping, a worn woollen jacket with a furry collar, even some old Chinese slippers, embroidered satin, with one of the butterflies unravelling.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, and I went and sat beside him while Susan hovered tactfully in the doorway. ‘Where did all Mum’s stuff come from?’ I picked up one of the slippers, rubbing my finger across the satin. I remembered sitting watching television long ago, leaning back against Mum’s legs, stroking her satin slippers, feeling the little ridges of embroidery with my fingertip.

  ‘Your mum left them in her half of the wardrobe when she went off with Steve. She didn’t want them. I was supposed to get rid of them but I couldn’t.’ Dad sighed, shaking his head at himself. ‘Daft, aren’t I, Floss?’

  ‘You’re not daft, Dad.’

  ‘I suppose it’s time to deal with them now.’

  ‘You can still keep them. We can pack them all up in a cardboard box.’

  ‘No, no. It’s time to chuck them out. Time to chuck half of my stuff too.’ Dad picked up the jeans that had got torn at the fair and flapped the tattered legs at us.

  ‘I thought you were going to keep them as decorating trousers.’

  ‘Who am I kidding? When was the last time I did any decorating, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘You painted my chest of drawers silver.’

  ‘And left it half finished.’

  ‘I still love it. Can I take it to Mr Chip’s house, Dad? It won’t take up much room.’

  ‘OK OK. Definitely, little darling. So how are you two girls getting on with packing up your bedroom, Floss?’

  ‘We’re finished, Dad. Susan’s absolutely ace at getting everything sorted.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we lucky! Thank you so much, Susan, you’re a sweetheart. I wish I had a smashing friend to sort me out,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’d like to be your friend too, Mr Barnes,’ said Susan. ‘We can start sorting your clothes for you, if you like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Potts,’ said Dad. ‘And I could sort out a tasty snack, seeing as you’ve both worked so hard. Now let me see . . . would you like chip butties – or chip butties – or indeed, chip butties?’

  We both put our heads on one side, pretending to consider, and then yelled simultaneously, ‘Chip butties!’

  It was a joy to see Susan eating her very first chip butty. Dad served it to her on our best blue china willow-pattern plate, garnished with tomato and lettuce and cucumber. Susan ignored the plate and the little salad. She didn’t use the knife and fork Dad had set out beside the plate. She picked up the chip butty in both hands, staring in awe at the big soft roll split in half and crammed with hot golden chips. She opened her mouth as wide as possible and took a big bite. She shut her eyes as she chewed. Then she swallowed and smiled.

  ‘Oh thank you, Mr Barnes! It’s even better than I hoped it would be. You make the most wonderful chip butties in the whole world!’

  After we’d eaten every mouthful of our chip butties we sorted Dad’s clothes into GOOD, NOT TOO BAD and CHUCK. Susan counted and I made a list.

  Dad’s clothes:

  GOOD – 12 items of clothing, including one tie and socks and shoes and underwear.

  NOT TOO BAD – 20 items of clothing

  CHUCK – 52 ½ items (the half was an ancient pair of pyjama bottoms – we couldn’t find the top).

  Dad laughed ruefully and started obediently chucking his stuff into a big plastic bag. He took Mum’s old clothes, hesitated, and then started chucking them too.

  ‘Maybe we don’t have to chuck all of them, Mr Barnes,’ said Susan. ‘We couldn’t have them, could we?’

  ‘Do we want to dress up in them?’ I asked a little doubtfully.

  ‘No, we want to make them into clothes for Ellarina and Dimble,’ said Susan.

  We borrowed Dad’s sharp kitchen scissors and some greaseproof paper to make patterns. It took a lot longer than I’d realized, but after two extremely hard-working hours Ellarina had a sparkly strapless dance dress, Dimble had a fur coat and they both had pink dressing gowns, and tiny embroidered slippers tied to each of their four paws with sewing thread.

  ‘We’ll cut the legs right off your dad’s ripped jeans and make them little denim jackets and Ellarina can have a skirt and Dimble can have dungarees – he’d look so cute!’

  ‘And caps?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I could give it a go. Just so long as you don’t ever ever ever wear yours,’ said Susan. She waggled her fingers. ‘They ache now.’

  ‘Mine too. Yet I wanted to work on our friendship bracelets.’

  ‘We can do them another time,’ said Susan. ‘We’re going to have lots and lots of times. You will come to my house, won’t you, Floss?’

  ‘And I’m sure Billy the Chip won’t mind you coming to his place. And then . . .’ My voice tailed away. I didn’t have any idea where we’d be after that. It was so scary not knowing. ‘Let’s go and have a swing,’ I said quickly. ‘It goes a bit wonky but you can still swing quite high if you really kick your legs.’

  We went out to the back yard. Lucky came with us and circled the wheelie bins. I always worried whenever she slipped out of sight, but she bobbed back each time.

  I let Susan have first go on the swing, but she wasn’t really any good at it, so I stood on the seat behind her and pulled on the ropes and bent my knees and got the swing going. We didn’t really go that high, but we pretended we were swooping right up in the air, over the treetops, flying far over the tallest tower, up and up and up.

  ‘Wheee! We’re right over the sea now,’ I shouted. ‘And there’s land again! See all those skyscrapers? We’re over America!’

  ‘I think it’s more likely France,’ Susan said breathlessly.

  ‘No, no, look, more sea, we’re swooping r-o-u-n-d and d-o-w-n and here’s Australia! See all the kangaroos? Whoops, there’s a boomerang. Who’s that waving? It’s my mum! Hey there, it’s me, Floss. Meet my best friend Susan.’

  We both let go of the swing with one hand and waved wildly into thin air.

  18

  ON SUNDAY MORNING Dad and I loaded all the neatly labelled cardboard boxes into the van. Then Dad struggled with my silver chest of drawers and my swing. He crammed in his old CD player and all our pots and pans and crockery and a box of vital tools I’d never seen him actually use.

  He dithered for a long time out in the yard, shifting all the bits of motorbike under the tarpaulins. He laid them all out on the concrete, as if they were parts of a jigsaw pu