Candyfloss Read online

  ‘Let’s put Tiger on the CHUCK pile,’ I said.

  ‘Oh ha ha, very droll,’ said Mum. ‘Go on then, off you go to your dad’s.’

  ‘I still don’t see why you can’t take me, same as usual,’ I muttered, trailing after Steve.

  But it wasn’t the same as usual. I knew perfectly well why Mum didn’t want to take me. She didn’t want to face my dad when he found out about Australia. It was so mean of her. I sat in the back of Steve’s posh company car and glared at the back of his pink neck. He had a very short haircut. Mum said it was cute and loved running her fingers through it. I thought it looked plain silly. Who wants designer stubble on their head? Steve was wearing one of his special weekend sport shirts with very short sleeves, showing off his big muscles. He worked out at the gym most mornings before work.

  Mum had joined the gym now too. She even took Tiger to a baby gym class, which was totally mad. Tiger crawled around at way too rapid a pace as it was. He was learning to climb up onto beds and wriggle right into corners. He needed to be restrained, not encouraged.

  Steve started making general chit-chat in the car. He never knows quite what to say to me. Ditto me him. He asked if I was looking forward to going to Australia. I said, ‘Mmm.’ He said wouldn’t it be fabulous living in an exciting city like Sydney. I said, ‘Mmm.’ We gave up after that. Steve switched the radio on and we both listened to music. Steve hummed along. I kept quiet. I only do sing-songs with my dad.

  They played a Kylie song on the radio.

  ‘She’s Australian,’ said Steve.

  ‘Mmm,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe we’ll all start talking Australian. Isn’t that right, cobber?’ said Steve, in the most truly terrible Australian accent.

  I didn’t respond with so much as an ‘Mmm’.

  I needed to concentrate on what I was going to say to my dad. When should I tell him? I tried rehearsing the right words inside my head but it was like when your computer screen freezes. I couldn’t think up anything at all.

  Steve turned into our road and drew up outside the café. I looked up at the sign: HARLIE’S CAFÉ. It’s named after my dad. It isn’t called Harlie like the big motorbikes; he’s Charlie, but the big C fell off ages ago. Mum always calls Dad a Right Charlie, like it’s some kind of insult.

  The café used to get lots of customers. My dad’s chip butties were especially famous. Everyone came to eat them. Lots and lots of guys came from the big building site. The café was always crowded out at lunch time because all the high school students spent their dinner money at our place. But then everyone got into this Healthy Eating and the students had to stay at school and eat salads. The guys finished building the big offices and moved on. The office workers had sandwiches and wraps sent in. They didn’t want fry-ups and chip butties. We still had a few lunchtime regulars, but then a big pizza takeaway opened up just down the street and they started going there instead.

  Dad had lots of spare time to spruce up the café now but he never seemed to get round to it. The paint was peeling and the window was dirty. Some boy had written a rude word on it with his finger. The menu had slipped sideways and one of the limp curtains was drooping off its rail and someone had thrown their takeaway pizza cartons right by the doorstep.

  ‘Poor old Charlie,’ said Steve. ‘The café’s starting to look a right dump. Is he still getting any customers?’

  ‘He’s getting heaps and heaps,’ I said. ‘My dad’s the greatest cook in the world. He’s going to get his own big restaurant one day. I bet he’ll get to be one of those famous chefs on television, with his own programme and his own cookery books.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Steve.

  ‘You wait. He’s going to be heaps more successful than you are, Steve,’ I said, and I grabbed my bag and shot out of the car.

  I hoped he wouldn’t tell Mum I’d been cheeky. I dashed into the café, the bell ringing wildly. It was almost empty, the place settings undisturbed on the blue and white check tablecloths. There were just the three regulars.

  Billy the Chip was eating a chip butty, hunched up over the table listening intently to the sports channel on his crackly little transistor radio. Billy the Chip came and had a chip butty every single day, though he made his own chip butties every evening in his chip van outside the railway station. Dad used to go to his chip van when he was a little boy. Dad’s dad went to his chip van when he was a boy. Billy the Chip had had his chip van for ever. He was very old and very thin and very grey and he walked very slowly because he had to take it easy. He’d sleep late, eat his butty at my dad’s, spend his afternoon in the betting shop, tow his van to the station and then fry his chips all evening until the pubs were closed and the last train had gone.

  Old Ron sat at the next table eating his bacon and eggs, still in his raincoat and cap even though it was boiling hot in the café. Old Ron was old, but nowhere near as old as Billy the Chip. He nodded and winked at me, but as he had a nervous tic and nodded and winked continuously, I wasn’t sure whether he was greeting me or not.

  Miss Davis sat right at the other end, as far away from the two old men as she could manage. She saw them nearly every day in the café but she never spoke to them, or even glanced in their direction. She sat with her back to them, sipping her cup of tea. She had her pull-along bag by her side. She kept one hand on it, as if she was scared it would wheel itself off independently. It was lumpy with stale bread and birdseed. She fed all the pigeons in the town every morning, stopping off at my dad’s café for refreshment halfway round.

  ‘Hey, Dad!’ I called.

  He peered out of the little hatch in the kitchen and then came running. ‘How’s my little birthday sweetheart?’ he said, giving me a great big chip-smelling hug. He whirled me round and round so that my legs flew out behind me.

  ‘Mind my trolley,’ Miss Davis snapped, though we weren’t anywhere near it.

  ‘There’s a horse called Birthday Girl in the big race at three thirty,’ said Billy the Chip. ‘I’ll have a little bet and if I get lucky I’ll buy you a special birthday present, Flossie.’

  ‘Birthday, is it? Can’t even remember when mine is,’ said Old Ron.

  I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. Old Ron didn’t seem too sure either. Still, he gave me a very fluffy toffee out of his mackintosh pocket as a birthday treat. Dad thanked him very much but mouthed Don’t eat it! at me. I said I’d save it for later.

  ‘Oh well, I suppose I’d better find you something too,’ said Miss Davis, scrabbling inside her trolley.

  I wondered if she was going to give me a packet of birdseed, but she found her purse and gave me twenty pence. I thanked her very politely because I knew weird old ladies like Miss Davis think twenty pence is a lot of money.

  Dad smiled at me gratefully and then led me into the kitchen. He’d manoeuvred one of the café tables into the corner and decorated it with tinsel and balloons and hung the Christmas fairy lights up above. There was a silver place mat, and little silver bows on the knife and fork, and a banner with HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRINCESS in Dad’s wobbly printing.

  ‘Oh Dad!’ I said, and I started crying.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey! No tears, sweetheart!’ said Dad. ‘Now, sit yourself down on your special throne and open your presents.’

  He thrust three big red parcels at me, and one little limp brown paper parcel tied with string.

  ‘That one’s from Grandma,’ said Dad. He rubbed his lip. ‘Don’t get too excited.’

  I squeezed the soft brown paper. ‘I think she’s knitted me something again,’ I said.

  Grandma’s presents were generally hand-knitted. They were made specially for me but she couldn’t quite keep up with how old I was. She knitted me weeny toddler-size pink cardies with rabbits and ducks and teddies on the dinky pockets.

  ‘It feels even littler this time,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘Maybe it’s a vest and knicker set!’ said Dad. ‘Don’t worry, I promise I won’t make you wear them.’