Jelly Baby. Jean Ure
Now that we’d finally settled on what to cook, Cass started to fret about not having a proper wine glass for Caroline to drink out of.
“I thought that was a wine glass,” I said. I pointed to one that I’d spent ages polishing with a bit of old sheet that we used for wiping up. “It looks like one.”
“Actually,” said Cass, “it’s a sherry glass.”
“Sherry is wine,” said Em.
“Not table wine. Oh, God, why didn’t I think of it before? I could have picked some up on my way home!”
“We’d only go and break them,” I said.
Cass ran her fingers through her hair, bunching it up on top of her head.
“This is serious! Caroline’s not the sort of person to drink wine out of an ordinary tumbler.”
“So why can’t she drink it out of the sherry glass? It’s ever such a nice shape!”
Cass said, “But it’s not a wine glass! It wouldn’t hold more than a thimbleful.”
I honestly couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. A glass is a glass, seems to me.
“They’re very pretty tumblers,” I said. Gran had given them to us last Christmas. “And look, there’s loads of them!”
“They’re still tumblers.” Cass took her fingers out of her hair, leaving it sticking up like a haystack. “Sophisticated people don’t drink wine out of tumblers.”
I said, “Oh.” Caroline was definitely a sophisticated person.
“I don’t want her thinking your dad’s some kind of oik. And omigod! What about plates? Do we have five plates?”
Em rushed to have a look. “There are five with roses,” she said, “but two of them are chipped.”
Cass let out a little scream. Me and Em exchanged glances. Em shook her head. Cass is usually such a calm sort of person. Very laid-back, like Dad. I was really surprised it bothered her so much. I mean … once the food was on them, what did it matter?
“You can always give the bad ones to me and Em,” I said, trying to be helpful. “We won’t mind.”
“She’ll still notice,” moaned Cass. “I’m sorry, girls, I know you think I’m making a fuss over nothing, but I feel so bad for your dad. I feel like I’m letting him down.”
Me and Em stayed silent.
“Thing is,” said Em at last, “it’s Dad she’s supposed to be in love with. Not plates and glasses and stuff.”
“This is it,” I said. “If I was in love with somebody I wouldn’t care what they ate off. They could eat off newspaper. They could eat off the floor! Wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“I would think it’s a bit pathetic,” said Em. “Getting all worked up about that sort of thing.”
Sadly, Cass said, “That just shows what sort of upbringing you’ve had. I’ve been a poor substitute for a mother!”
We both immediately rushed to reassure her.
“You’ve taught us to care about the things that really matter,” said Em. “Like not eating animals, and—”
She stopped and rather frantically rolled an eye in my direction. I dived in to her rescue.
“And not wasting your life doing boring things like housework!”
Cass smiled and shook her head. “Oh dear,” she said. “What a legacy! Never mind.” She picked up the mock steak and kidney and popped it into the oven. “It’s a bit too late to do anything about it now. I suggest you two go and get changed. Your dad will be bringing Caroline back at any moment.”
“Why have we got to change?” said Em. “What’s wrong with the way we are?”
“Well, for one thing,” said Cass, “you’re covered in flour. Just go and find something clean! You want your dad to be proud of you, don’t you?”
“Got to be smart for Caroline,” I cried, as we hurtled upstairs.
I knew exactly what I was going to wear. I had this favourite skirt, bright red with pleats, like a mini kilt. Really short. I mean, like, really short. My friend Lottie had one too; we’d bought them at the same time. Lottie’s mum had taken one look and gone, “Oh, to be eleven years old again! What I wouldn’t give to be able to wear something like that.”
Lottie, being kind, said, “Mum, you still could!” but her mum said no.
“They’re for little young people, not middle-aged mums.”
As I stood in front of my wardrobe mirror, admiring myself, there came an anguished wail from Em’s room.
“Hey, Bitsy!”
“What?”
I went on to the landing. Em appeared, trailing garments.
“Oh,” she said, “you’ve got your skirt on. I adore that skirt!”
“You ought to get one,” I said.
Not that we could have worn them at the same time. Well, if they were different colours I suppose we could. Me and Lottie did. But Em rather sadly said, “It would just look stupid on me. I’m the wrong sort of shape.”
It’s true that Em is a bit tall and gangly, and somewhat on the skinny side, whereas I am short and – not dumpy. But kind of … well! Roundish.
“So what are you going to wear?” I said.
“I don’t know!” Em held up the various garments she’d pulled out of her wardrobe. “What do you think? Would these do?”
She waved a pair of jeans at me. I inspected them critically. I am not an expert in fashion. Fashion is not really something that plays much of a part in our lives. As far as Dad and Cass are concerned, it doesn’t even exist. But I do have a bit more of a clue than Em. Being long and skinny, Em is very sensitive about her appearance. She doesn’t have much confidence. Even though she is two years older than I am she is always turning to me for advice.
Anxiously, she said, “So what do you think?”
“Jeans’ll be OK,” I said. “So long as you have a nice top.”
“This?”
She held up a big chunky sweater that Gran had knitted for her. Em likes big chunky sweaters – she reckons they’ll hide the fact that she doesn’t have any bosom. I told her yes, OK, cos I mean there is absolutely no sense trying to turn people into something they are not. And in any case, Cass always says it’s important to feel comfortable in your clothes. Dress Em up like a model and she would just die of embarrassment.
“Are you sure?” she said. “I wouldn’t want Dad being ashamed of me! I—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I hustled her back into her room. “Just get dressed … quickly. That was Dad’s car. They’re here!”
We hurtled downstairs just in time to greet Dad and Caroline as they came through the door.
“Everything’s on!” I cried. I wanted to set Dad’s mind at rest – I knew how anxious he was. “It’s being cooked right now.”
“Whatever it is,” said Caroline, “it smells delicious.”
“It’s a pie,” I said. “Steak