CECELIA
AHERN
MRS WHIPPY
Cecelia Ahern was 21 when she wrote her first novel, P.S. I Love You. It was an instant best-seller and became a major motion picture. Since then she has published many more novels including Where Rainbows End, If You Could See Me Now and Thanks for the Memories.
MRS WHIPPY
First published by GemmaMedia in 2009.
GemmaMedia
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Boston MA 02109 USA
617 938 9833
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Copyright © 2006, 2009 Cecelia Ahern
This edition of Mrs. Whippy is published by arrangement with New Island Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
12 11 10 09 08 1 2 3 4 5
ISBN: 978-1-934848-39-5
Cover design by Artmark
Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number (PCN) applied for
OPEN DOOR SERIES
An innovative program of original
works by some of our most
beloved modern writers and
important new voices. First designed
to enhance adult literacy in Ireland,
these books affirm the truth that
a story doesn’t have
to be big to open the world.
Patricia Scanlan
Series Editor
One
My name is Emelda. Describe myself in twenty words? I can do it in less. There’s really not much to me. Forty-six years old. Soon-to-be divorced. Mother of five. Five foot three. Two hundred and twenty pounds. Fed-up and mightily bored with my life. Five words that define me? I hate my ex-husband. That’s only four words, but you get the point. I tend to fall short of my targets.
I can almost hear my mother in my head. “Hate is a very strong word, Emelda. You don’t hate – you dislike.” She does that a lot now since she died. She pops into my head and reminds me to do things. I like it when she does that. It’s nice company in my lonely head. Well sorry, my dear departed mother, hate is not a strong enough word for me. I detest him and dream of ways he can die a very painful death.
Perhaps that’s too evil, but he does deserve my bad thoughts. He deserves my mother to tut and shake her head disapprovingly. She did that when she was disgusted at me. He recently ran off with a twenty-three-year-old Russian lap dancer the size of a broomstick. He left me with five sons: a twenty-five-year-old, a twenty-one-year-old, a sixteen-year-old, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. The remnants of our once-upon-a-time sex life.
I live in a three-bedroom semidetached house with patterned wallpapers, curtains, carpets and borders. They haven’t been changed since we moved in twenty-five years ago. My kitchen is shabby. My bedroom is a depressing disappointment that, over the years, has seen more depressingly disappointing performances than the West End. Romeo, oh Romeo, my husband was not. Juliet, I certainly am not. The only where-bloody-art-thous uttered from my gob were at four a.m. when he still hadn’t returned from a night out. The only standing on a balcony and calling I’ve done is to hang from our bedroom window while throwing his clothes into the garden. All the neighbours could hear me cursing him.
I was seventeen when I fell in love with the beast named Charlie. “Fell” is the appropriate word because it was indeed my downfall. I remember the exact moment this fall happened. We were having dessert in the cheapest restaurant he could find. We chose delicious vanilla rice-pudding with poached pears and chocolate ice-cream. I looked up from my plate to take a breath from scoffing. I caught his gaze over the flickering flame of the candle. My heart melted like the ice-cream meeting the hot pudding. I can still remember the sweet taste of that chocolate ice-cream on my lips when he kissed me. It was the sweetest kiss I had ever had.
Every moment of my life is marked by ice-cream. I associate moments with tastes, textures and smells. Sweet sugars that pumped into my blood, lifted my heart and made my special moments even more special.
I recall the passion-fruit ice-cream in our wedding cake. I remember it touching my tongue and sliding down my throat as Charlie fed the food into my mouth. My first spoonful of married life. That taste always reminds me of that look on his face. The adoring look that made me think I was the most special woman in the world. I once was in his world.
I remember the vanilla and strawberries on the first night of our honeymoon. I’ll never forget how the vanilla felt against my skin as it slid down my stomach and formed a pool in my belly-button while we rolled around laughing.
Knickerbocker Glory reminds me of a time spent watching the sunset on a holiday in Spain. Tones of red and orange decorated the sky over a glistening sea while we watched with sunburned noses and peeling shoulders.
I recall eating mint ice-cream and chocolate Flakes with my mother in the back garden on summer days. I was heavily pregnant, hot and bothered. The cooling effect of the mint mixed with the familiar smell of my mother’s perfume was a wonderful combination.
I remember my father bringing me to the beach as a child and tasting orange Popsicles. That smell brings me back to the sandy beaches, rich with the smell of coconut suntan lotion.
Barbecued bananas and vanilla ice-cream at friends’ parties remind me of our “just-married” social life. Vanilla ice-cream between soggy wafers reminds me of the kids’ birthdays. Raspberry-ripple-stained T-shirts and ice-cream-and-chocolate-sauce-covered mouths remind me of my growing boys.
All these tastes hold memories.
It’s only been a few months since Charlie left me. I do very little these days except sit in my house. I cry and binge on Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough. Cookie Dough will forever remind me of tears, stinging eyes, snotty tissues and an aching heart. This was my routine until last Monday. After Monday there was a big change in my behaviour.
I knew summer was beginning when I heard that sound – the wonderful tinkling music of the ice-cream van. There was such excitement on the street. Children ran into their homes to beg their parents for money for treats. The music lightened the mood. The day seemed brighter as the distinctive tune played from the speakers. It tickled and teased everyone’s senses. That sound immediately reminded me of the smell of barbecues drifting over garden walls. Summer was here. Brightness was here. Hope was here.
I used to feel trapped. I used to feel like I had been stuck down a hole for days with a broken leg. I felt that I couldn’t go anywhere or help myself. The sound of that van was like hearing a rescue helicopter. Mr Whippy was my rescuer. Those tinkling sounds saved me that day.
The man in the van, who called himself Mr Whippy, brought smiles to everyone’s faces. He caused parents and children to rush to his side. That man with the twinkle in his eye brought brightness into my life, which had become so dark.
Two
My sixteen-year-old, Brian, has taken to smoking pot in his bedroom. I’m not one of those snooping mothers that roots through her children’s things when they are at school. I don’t need to. He doesn’t hide his habit. He doesn’t care if I object. He doesn’t lock his door. He doesn’t even open his window. No amount of threats of being grounded can stop him. He’s sixteen. He’s taller than me, stronger than me and apparently knows better than me. So he does what he likes.
My youngest child’s name is Mark. He is five years old. Unfortunately, yesterday he was hiding under Brian’s bed. It’s a new habit of his. He appeared to have inhaled too much smoke. He wandered down to breakfast like a zombie in his Power Rangers pyjamas and cowboy boots. He was complaining that he had the munc
hies. His eyes were as wide as saucers. He had pupils like Charlie’s when he used to watch late-night porn.
Apart from becoming high every day from inhaling second-hand pot, he has now decided that breakfast, lunch and dinner must be eaten under the bed. Whenever we need to leave the house, it takes me twenty minutes to find which bed he has hidden under.
My eight-year-old, Vincent, has taken to not speaking. His school principal has called me into the school twice in two weeks because of his behaviour. But nobody can do anything to convince him to talk.
So I eat dinner practically alone every evening. Mark hides under the bed. Vincent doesn’t speak to me. Brian rarely comes home to eat dinner. There’s not much I can do about this, unfortunately. How can you drag someone into the house on time when you don’t know where they are? How can you force someone to speak? And how can you tell someone to stop hiding when you can’t find them?
And I’ve just realised that each of my boys has copied their father in some form or another.
My eldest son, Charlie Junior, has my heart broken too. He’s in prison. He has a sentence of four years for burglary. He’s been there for two years. My second eldest, Terry, went on one of those year-long world trips with a group of friends. That was three years ago. He has decided to settle in Thailand. He sends me an e-mail once a month. I don’t really know how to work e-mail, so I have to ask Brian to read it to me. He rarely does.
I try my hardest with the boys. I really, really do. I’m a good mother. I know I am. But I can’t seem to get through to them. There isn’t anyone around me to help. My husband refused to recognise his own bad behaviour during our married life. I doubt he has noticed his sons’ carry-on. Any time something was wrong, it was always my fault. He could never compromise. The only time we met in the middle was when we both rolled into the dip in the centre of our twenty-five-year-old bed. If my husband won’t listen to me, why on earth would the boys?
My dear mother died last month. My older brother has moved to Ohio. He’s opened an Irish store that sells Irish butter, sausages, bacon, chocolate bars, crisps and tea to the homesick Irish community. My very best friend, Susan, is a mother of four and married to a saint of a husband for twenty-five years. She has just begun an affair with the window cleaner. He is twelve years her junior. I feel I can’t talk to her any more.
I’m feeling very alone these days. Every day, as I sit on my twenty-five-year-old sofa, I begin to think that it and my life are very similar. It’s falling apart at the seams.
Three
My husband takes the boys on Saturdays. I watch him from the bedroom window every week as he drives off in our car. Then I fall onto the bed we used to sleep in together. I stay there until the boys come home the next day.
Today I greeted him at the door. I needed to talk to him about the boys’ behaviour. I needed him to back me up more often. I needed the boys to see him support me and respect me. Then perhaps they would listen to me. When all they ever saw was a man that walked all over me, they assumed they could do the same. My mother saw it in them. She tried to teach them. They were as good as gold for her. But as soon as she would leave they would return to their old ways. It was like a bulb being switched off inside me when that happened. My mother was always on my side. I needed the boys to see that Charlie was on my side too.
“Charlie,” I said, opening the door before he put the key in the lock. He refused to return the key to what he considered “his house”. And it was his. He had never put my name on the deeds to the house. In fact, he had refused to.
He looked up at me in surprise. Then his usual scowl returned. He always seemed irritated by everything I did.
“Where are the boys?” he growled, looking past me.
“They’re in the sitting-room,” I said, aware that my voice sounded child-like. He had that effect on me. “I just wanted to talk to you about something first.”
“What?” he snapped. “We’ve done enough talking. I’m not coming back. Don’t beg me again.”
My face reddened. I felt my head get hot. I swallowed hard and looked down at my hands. I still had my wedding ring on. He hadn’t. He had refused to wear it the day after he said “I do”. I should have known that meant “I don’t”. I should have known it meant “I never will.”
“No, I … I … I don’t want to talk about that,” I stammered.
“You, you, you what?” He imitated me cruelly. He was enjoying my discomfort.
“I want to talk to you about the boys, Charlie.”
“What about them?” He picked at the back of his teeth. When he removed his finger from his mouth, he studied his nail.
“They’ve been acting up for the past while. They –”
“They’re always acting up. They’re kids, for Christ’s sake.” He waved his hand dismissively and looked irritated again. Even when we started going out, I always had the feeling he was embarrassed by me in public. When I began to tell a story he would interrupt and finish it. Sometimes he would make a joke half-way through to change the subject. He didn’t like when the attention was on me, when someone else asked for my opinion. He was embarrassed by my opinions. He was ashamed when I didn’t agree with him. He belittled me all the time. I said and did nothing about it because I loved him. When I said “I do” at the altar, it meant that I really, really did.
“No, Charlie,” I said a little more strongly. “Mr Murphy called me into the school again this week. Vincent still won’t talk to anyone. He won’t talk to his brothers or any of the kids at school. He won’t talk to the teacher. He –”
“He talks to me,” he said childishly. Accusingly.
“He does?” I asked in surprise.
“The boys are fine with me. They feel comfortable with me, Emelda,” he said. “If they’re not happy here, we’ll have to make different living arrangements.”
I felt like he’d punched me in the stomach. My body started to shake. I couldn’t lose my boys.
“Charlie, I think it’s important that you tell them to listen to me. I’m their mother. They’re with me six days a week. I have to look out for them. I need you to tell them that. I need you to tell them that we both know what’s best for them. They should respect that.”
He had smirked the whole time that I was talking.
“You want me to do your job for you?” He looked over my shoulder and down the hall.
“Charlie,” I continued, “they don’t –”
“Boys!” Charlie shouted loudly. He pushed me out of the way and walked into the living-room.
“Listen to me,” I continued quietly. I said it to myself, really, rubbing my arm, which had banged against the wall when he pushed me.
“Dad!” Mark yelped. I could hear him jumping up from the floor to wrap his arms around his father.
I tried to control my rage. Every day of my life, everything I did was for those boys. But I never received an excited hug like that.
“Hi, Brian, how’s the girlfriend?” I heard. My eyes almost popped out of my head. Girlfriend? What girlfriend?
“Shh,” I could hear Brian say.
“Don’t worry, she can’t hear.” Charlie dismissed me and they both laughed. She. He called me she.
They left the living-room and pushed past me in the hall. Nobody said goodbye to me apart from little Mark, who was being carried by Charlie.
“Bye, Mam!” he called, leaning over to give me a kiss.
“Bye, love. Be good for your dad,” I said, kissing him on the nose.
He nodded excitedly and Charlie carried him away before we could hug.
I watched them walk toward the car. For the first time I noticed that she was in the car. The Russian broomstick. The one who swept the ground right from under me. I didn’t know her name and I didn’t care.
“Hi, Goldie,” a voice said as they opened the doors. My heart almost stopped.
It wasn’t her name that shocked me. It was the fact that it had been said by Mark. My baby Mark. He jumped onto her kne
e in the front seat and innocently waved at me, bursting with excitement.
My whole body shook and my knees weakened as I watched them all drive off, leaving me in silence. Even at forty-six years of age, I sat on the stairs and cried for my mammy.
Four
As I said already, on Saturdays I usually collapse onto the bed and stay there until the next day. This week I couldn’t do that. On Monday I had decided to go out and get a job. Well, I didn’t have a choice. Charlie had cut my weekly allowance. When we were married he had felt very strongly about me not working outside of the home. I was happy to stay at home with the boys. Knowing that Charlie wanted to provide for me and the children made me feel safe and protected. I was a very innocent young woman. I handed my independence and life to him on a silver plate. He took it and feasted on them.
I got a part-time job in the local supermarket, packing bags at the till. I could work from eight thirty to two o’clock, two days a week, and a full day on Saturday. I thought it sounded reasonable and that I could cope with it. It meant that I could still collect Mark from school. Brian and Vincent had long stopped wanting to be seen with me in public.
The supermarket was very handy, as it was only ten minutes’ walk from the house. But I was feeling very nervous that first morning as I got ready to go to work. I had never worked outside the home. Ever. I met Charlie when I was still in school. We got married as soon as I left. We had children and Charlie felt it was best that I stay home with them.
My first day of work felt like my first day at school. I was going into an unknown environment. I would be surrounded by people I had never met. It was all very new to me.
After the ten-minute walk to the supermarket I was already panting. I was aware I was putting on weight, but I didn’t care. Eating ice-cream in the evenings was my only comfort.
They put me to work at a till and, my God, was it busy. I would barely have the first bag open when I would be faced with a pile of groceries. They all moved so quickly off the conveyor belt and gathered at the end of the till. I found it so difficult to keep up. I was sweating after fifteen minutes. The customers just kept on coming.