From the corner of my eye, I could see the supervisor, half my age, keeping her eye on me. Every now and then she would make me take everything out of the bag and start again. Apparently I was mixing dairy with raw meats and squashing fruit with tins. I could barely concentrate on what I was doing. Everything was being fired at me so quickly. All the groceries blended into one and became a blur in my eyes. When I got my first fifteen-minute break, I had never been so pleased to finish anything in my life.
I went into the staff room feeling tired, hot and sweaty. I was greeted by a few giggles. All the other bag-packers were less than half my age.
“You’re Mrs O’Grady, aren’t you?” one spotty-looking teen said.
“I am,” I said politely and pointed to my badge proudly. “Emelda.”
“I told you, Jenny,” he sneered and they all laughed.
I looked around the room to the girl he referred to as Jenny. I noticed her face was bright red.
“Scarlet,” she said, trying to cover her face with the collar of her polo shirt.
“Do I know you?” I asked her politely, looking around the small kitchen for a chair. My feet were swollen and sore, as I had been standing for hours. All the seats had been taken. I could once again hear my mother’s voice in my head, giving out about the youth not offering up their seats to their elders.
I flinched with pain as I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
Jenny rolled her eyes and looked away, her face becoming even redder. The crowd all jeered her.
“No one’s going to tell me?” I asked, still polite but feeling a little embarrassed now.
They all laughed and continued talking among themselves. Some flicked through magazines, ignoring me. I looked around and spotted a kettle. I filled it with water and flicked the switch. I was absolutely dying for a cup of tea. My arms were sore from the constant movement of packing. I hadn’t had that much exercise for years. Leaning against the counter for support, I looked longingly at the chairs. I hoped someone would leave so I could take their seat before I passed out.
Finally the teenagers looked at their watches and began to file out one by one. I spooned sugar into my tea, added a drop of milk and sat down at the table.
“Oooh,” I couldn’t help but say as the pain disappeared from my feet. I kicked off my shoes and relaxation swept over my body. I took a sip of the hot, sweet tea and allowed it to slide down my throat. It instantly calmed my nerves. I was afraid to close my eyes in case I fell asleep. I felt completely worn out.
There was a bang on the door.
“Emelda!” came the shout from the young supervisor. “Back to work, break’s over,” she snapped. “There’s a line of people waiting at the till.”
“Yes! OK!” I replied, jumping and spilling hot tea over my hand. I forced my swollen feet into my shoes. I put the hardly touched cup of tea back on the table and hobbled my way out to the shop floor.
It was only eleven o’clock.
Five
Why do I love ice-cream so much? It’s not just the taste I like or the soft, creamy texture. I appreciate ice-cream like a wine drinker appreciates a good glass of wine. Like wine tasting, ice-cream appreciation is not just about drinking or eating it. To experience the true flavour you need to pay attention to your senses. Sight, smell, touch as well as taste.
The colour of ice-cream can tell you its origins. I’m not just talking about brown for chocolate and white for vanilla. I’m talking about rich homemade ice-creams with juicy raspberries, strawberries and blackberries. Real ice-creams that don’t have artificial flavourings. Ice-creams that don’t come straight from a factory and into a tub. I’m talking about ice-creams made in someone’s kitchen from organic ingredients and freshly grown fruit, filled with natural flavours. Tangy orange, bitter lemon and country brown bread ice-cream.
Gourmet ice-creams have the right thickness and consistency. The texture on your tongue can be balmy or harsh. Does it give a refreshing zing to the edges of your tongue, enough to make your mouth water? The ideal touch is a mellow softness that leaves a velvety feeling in your mouth. Like the perfect kiss.
When I taste it I take small spoonfuls, like wine tasters take small sips of wine. I leave it on my tongue and allow my tastebuds to get to work. Sometimes it doesn’t taste as the aroma leads you to expect. Sometimes the aftertaste is different. Most importantly of all, and the point I’ve been making about ice-cream, is what is the memory evoked by the ice-cream? Not only on your palate but in your mind.
You’ve already heard my memories. Childhood days on the beach, wedding days, garden parties, romantic dinners and perfect kisses. Well, I have a new and fresh taste in my mouth to represent a new and fresh memory. Here it is.
I returned from my first day of work and collapsed onto the couch. As soon as I sat down I was sure that I would never, ever stand up again. The more I sank into the couch, the more it seemed to wrap itself around me. It held me tight and hugged my body and I felt loved. By a couch. The phone rang and I ignored it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make my way to the kitchen for some ice-cream. That’s how bad the situation was. All I could feel was shooting pain running up and down my legs, my arms and my back. Packing bags was proving to be very hard work.
Just when I thought that not even an earthquake would move me from my spot, I heard a sound that made my heartbeat quicken. It was the tinkling music of the Mr Whippy van. It got louder and louder as it came nearer and nearer to my road. My heart beat so loud I was sure my neighbours could hear it.
Grabbing my bag from beside me, I forgot my pain and jumped up like a thirteen-year-old who had just spotted Colin Farrell. As I opened the door I saw at least fifteen children running excitedly toward the van. And there he was. Mr Whippy himself, standing at the window, smiling proudly at the approaching crowd.
I joined the back of the queue, feeling like a child. For once in my life it was the man that was having this effect on me and not the ice-cream. What age was he? Early fifties at least, I guessed. He had brown, leathery-looking skin, like he had just been away on holidays. He was dressed in a white T-shirt with a white apron. He had a little white hat on. I could see wisps of black and grey hair sneaking out from under it.
I checked his hands to see whether there was a wedding band on his finger. But he was wearing white surgical-looking gloves. There were no bumps beneath the gloves. Then again, Charlie had never worn a wedding band. So that didn’t tell me much. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. I tried to tug my wedding ring off my finger. It wouldn’t move. It had been on my finger for so many years it was like a part of me. The fat on my fingers was gathering around the ring, almost cutting off my circulation. I would have to hide my hand from Mr Whippy.
“Hello there,” Mr Whippy said to the little girl at the head of the queue.
“Hello.” She smiled at him shyly.
“What’s your name?” He smiled back.
“Amanda,” she said quietly and sweetly.
“Oh, Amanda, that’s a lovely name. What ice-cream would you like?”
“A 99 please.”
“May I say that’s an excellent choice, Amanda?”
Amanda giggled shyly and skipped away happily with her cone.
“Hello, David. Good to see you again,” Mr Whippy said to the next young boy. “Where’s Matthew today?”
He remembered all their names. I was very impressed. I watched him work his magic with all the children while their parents watched on happily. To the children he was like some kind of god. He was the great big man that owned the ice-cream van that they had to look up at. It was like he was on stage. He was a performer, an entertainer for the parents and children.
Finally, when all the children had received their treats, they went home. Their parents returned to their houses with less money in their pockets. Then it was my turn. I stepped toward Mr Whippy feeling like little Amanda. Shy and giggly.
“Well, hello.” He grinned.
“Hell
o.” I smiled back, noticing my voice was once again child-like.
“I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He slid off his glove and thrust his hand out of the window toward me.
He wasn’t wearing a ring. I felt like doing a dance.
“Hi, I’m Emelda,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. His hands were smooth and so soft.
“Emelda,” he said gently. “Now that’s the nicest name I’ve heard all day.”
I laughed. “Charmer.”
“Indeed.” He smiled.
“And what’s your name?” I asked as he put his glove back on.
He raised his eyebrows and held his hands out to indicate his surroundings. “Mr Whippy, of course!”
“Of course.” I laughed.
“What can I get you, Emelda?”
He had a lovely way of saying my name. It flowed from his tongue like hot fudge slipping down cold ice-cream. It sounded soft and velvety.
“I’ll have the best ice-cream there is,” I said, peering over his shoulder into the van.
“Oh. An ice-cream expert, are you?”
I looked down at myself and back to him. “You could put it that way, yes.”
He laughed. “That’s what I like to see, someone who appreciates my art. Well, let’s move away from all this, shall we?” He stepped away from the ice-creams the children had been interested in. “I have some very special ice-cream over here for true ice-cream lovers. Can I suggest this freshly made six-layer frozen sweetie pie? Only made yesterday by yours truly. It’s bursting with citrus fruity flavours designed to tickle your tongue and prickle your palate.”
My jaw dropped. “Yes,” I breathed.
“Excellent choice, Emelda.”
I handed over my money but he withdrew his hands. “This one is on the house.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” I began to say, but he cut me off.
“Next time,” he said and smiled. “I’ll allow you to get the next one, which means I expect to see you when I’m here next.”
If it weren’t for the delicious delight in my hand, and the extra one hundred pounds of fat on my bones, I would have cart-wheeled naked across the lawn with excitement.
I find that the rules of ice-cream tasting are the same for most things in life. To experience true flavours and true feelings you need to pay attention to your senses. How do things look? How do things smell? How do things feel when you touch them or when they touch you? How do they taste? And, very importantly, what memories do they leave you with?
Six
Mr Whippy’s ice-cream is not gourmet and it’s not expensive. He’s appealing to children playing out on the road on spring and summer days. His customers are not people like me that end up with more ice-cream in their mouth than on their faces and on the ground. His ice-cream has none of the richness of more expensive ones. But the lack of exotic flavours is made up for by its preparation.
I can tell this by the look on his face when he opens the window of the van and serves the children with his biggest, brightest smile. I can tell that his ice-cream was made with love. I know it was prepared with patience and pride. I know that this man’s love for ice-cream is his livelihood. I can tell even by one brief meeting that that man has passion.
Later that night, I imagined him preparing his special ice-creams for the next day. I pictured him whisking egg yolks with sugar and salt and moving around the kitchen like he was performing on stage. I could see him splitting vanilla pods and scraping out the seeds. I saw him softly, yet firmly, pressing raspberries and stirring smooth, milky chocolate.
I could imagine the thick, heavy cream gushing into the saucepan and being brought slowly to a simmer. I could hear the small bubbles rising to the surface and bursting with a light popping sound.
I could see him whisking the warm cream into the egg-yolk mixture. I could smell all the aromas in the kitchen. I could feel his excitement as the mixture thickened, the heat of the hob built and his stirring became faster and more constant. All this while he remained calm and didn’t allow it to boil. No over-acting; no steps out of place. There was a rhythm to his work.
And then the music would slow as the performance neared its end. He would take the mixture off the heat and pour it into a churn. It would be churned until lovely and thick, the fruit and flavours added right at the end. Then he would transfer it to the freezer, where it would sit until the next day. Work done, song finished and dance completed. It was time to take a bow.
I closed the curtains in my bedroom late that Saturday night. And I felt that Act One certainly had closed in my life. Tomorrow was a new day.
Seven
Usually I would have been in bed when the boys arrived home on Sunday morning. But this morning was different. Feeling refreshed after my meeting the day before with Mr Whippy, I decided to get up early.
I wish I had taken a photo of Charlie and the boys’ faces when they walked in the door. They must have been in shock at seeing me out of bed, and that I had dressed myself. I had been wandering around in my egg-stained dressing gown for the past few weeks. Not only was I dressed, I was wearing my finest. I was wearing the outfit I saved for special occasions. Well, there was no point letting it gather dust in my wardrobe. Today was officially a special occasion.
It was the day I was going to take hold of my life. I would once and for all take back what was rightfully mine: my freedom, my dignity and my pride.
“Would you look at the state of you,” Charlie said. His mouth gaped open like a fish on ice. His arm was frozen in mid-air from where he had inserted the key in the door. “If it isn’t Joan frigging Collins,” he spat out, looking me up and down with that familiar look of disgust on his face.
Well. It wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.
Brian sniggered. Vincent was silent, as usual. Little Mark looked at me in confusion, as if trying to decide where his mother had gone.
My cheeks pinked beneath my rose-red blusher. Charlie had a point. My best outfit had been purchased for my eldest son’s christening years ago. I had spent so much money on it that Charlie had insisted I get as much wear out of it as possible. It was my anniversary outfit, wedding outfit and birthday-party outfit. Here I was, twenty-five years later, standing in my front hall that hadn’t been decorated in all that time. It was like some kind of time warp.
I could feel myself bursting out of the bright blue fabric. The buttons were stretching across my expanded waistline. They looked as if they were ready to pop. My shoulders were so padded I looked like I was armoured up and ready for battle. But ready for battle, I was not.
“Mammy, what’s in your eyes?” Mark asked timidly.
I thought he was referring to the tears that had begun to well up.
“Eye-liner.” Brian smirked and he looked like his father. “Blue eyeliner.”
OK, so I had gone the whole nine yards. When I had got dressed that morning I had felt beautiful and ready to take on the world. Now I felt like the little girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that blew up like a blueberry and had to be rolled off. The more they all stared at me, the more my confidence crumbled.
“Anyway,” Charlie continued, marching into the kitchen.
I could hear him rooting through the kitchen presses looking for food, as usual. Nobody noticed how I had scrubbed the house from top to bottom. Nobody commented on how I had attempted to make it and myself look fresh and new.
“What are you cooking?” Charlie shouted with his mouth full of food.
“Breakfast for the boys,” I replied wearily, pulling off the bright blue pumps that my feet were squashed into.
“They ate already,” he said, appearing at the kitchen door with a sausage in his hand. He dropped it into his mouth and munched it.
“You cooked for them?” I asked in surprise.
“No.” He looked irritated again. “We went to McDonald’s.”
“Oh, Charlie, I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s so bad for them.”
&nbs
p; He looked me up and down again. “You should talk,” he jeered and swaggered down the hall and out the door.
I went to the kitchen, filled a plate of food and brought it upstairs. I got down onto my knees in Mark’s bedroom and slid the plate under the bed.
“Thanks, Mam,” his little voice chirped. “You look funny. Is today fancy-dress day?”
I sighed, sat on the carpet and listened to his quiet munching underneath the bed. I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror with my big earrings and my frizzy back-combed hair. My face was painted in orange foundation, blue eye-shadow and ice-pink lips.
I certainly felt like a clown.
Eight
No sooner had the boys returned than the sparkle and freshness disappeared from the house. Their over-night bags had been overturned, leaving their clothes messily draped across the house. Toys, computer games and DVDs cluttered the living-room floor. Their washing piled up in the basket. The ironing piled up on the board. I had taken off my “best” outfit and replaced it with my usual black leggings and T-shirt. I felt completely deflated that my revolt had got me nowhere. I began the ironing while keeping an eye on the TV in the living-room.
Two school uniforms and three football jerseys later, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Well, are the remnants back?”
It was Susan, my best friend since I had moved to the street twenty-five years ago. She always referred to the boys as remnants, meaning the leftovers of our marriage. The only proof that Charlie and I had ever had sex.
“Yes, they’re back.” I brought my cup of tea and cigarette over to the couch and sat down. I knew this would be a long conversation. It always was. Well, at least it used to be before she started seeing the window cleaner. I needed to talk to her. I had so much to tell her and I needed advice. I needed someone of sound mind to tell me that I wasn’t as useless as everyone else was making me feel.