Angel Cake Read online

  I may not have the words, but I do have something to fight back with. I undo the straps on my satchel, lift the flap.

  ‘Oh, I forgot, you don’t talk, do you?’ Lily sneers. ‘Face it, Sauerkraut Girl, you don’t belong here… so why don’t you just back off and mind your own business? Go back to wherever you came from…’

  Her voice trails away into silence as the rat sprints neatly over her spike-heeled boots, then pauses, twitching, to look around.

  Lily Caldwell may be a mean girl, but there is nothing wrong with her eyesight. Or her vocal chords.

  ‘RAAAAAAAT!’ she screeches, in a voice that could shatter glass.

  Lily, Frances and I are sitting on hard plastic chairs outside Mr Fisher’s room. We are in big trouble. The little row in the canteen escalated into a full-on riot, with girls standing on tabletops, screaming, and boys skidding about trying to catch the rat.

  Things got a little out of hand, with chips, doughnuts and dollops of rice pudding being flung about. One dinner lady fainted and landed face down in the fruit salad.

  When Mr Fisher finally got the place in order, he looked around for the ringleaders.

  ‘How did this start?’ he roared, and all eyes swivelled to Lily, Frances and me. As he marched us out of the canteen in disgrace, I looked back over my shoulder and caught sight of Kurt Jones, sitting on the window ledge. A small, whiskery nose stuck out of his blazer pocket, sniffed politely and disappeared from view.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Lily fumes. ‘How come we’re getting the blame? Like it’s our fault this dump of a school is rat-infested!’

  ‘I’m going to be in sooooo much trouble!’ Frances wails. ‘My mum’ll kill me!’

  Me, I keep a dignified silence, because I don’t quite know the English words for ‘Your school is like a lunatic asylum, the kids are all insane, chip-throwing arsonists and I wish I had the airfare back to Krakow.’ Just as well. It might sound kind of harsh.

  I’m right, though, about the lunatic asylum bit. It turns out that the three of us are not in trouble for arguing in the canteen, nor even for starting a school riot. No, it’s weirder than that. We are accused of stealing a rat from the biology lab.

  ‘What?’ Lily snaps, when Mr Fisher explains the situation and asks us to tell him anything we might know, before the police are called in. ‘You think I nicked that scabby rat? Yeah, right!’

  ‘I am trying to get to the bottom of a serious crime,’ Mr Fisher replies. ‘The rat was taken from his cage this morning, by person or persons unknown, possibly under cover of the fire alarm. A message was scrawled on the whiteboard in the biology lab… Rats have rights.’

  ‘Rats have what?’ Lily chokes. ‘Er, no. They don’t have rights, they have fleas and germs and plague and horrible yellow teeth –’

  ‘I take it you have no animal rights sympathies then,’ Mr Fisher probes, and Lily rolls her eyes and huffs as if the head teacher is an especially annoying insect she’d really like to swat.

  ‘Animal rights?’ Frances echoes. ‘What do you mean? Are you saying that rat was rescued from the lab? What were they going to do with it? They don’t dissect rats in schools any more, surely?’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ Mr Fisher assures her. ‘We don’t. But I fear that the misguided pupil who took the rat may have seen the whole episode as a rescue, yes… whereas, in fact, the rat was just Mr Critchley’s pet.’

  ‘Gross,’ Lily says.

  ‘Spooky,’ Frances adds.

  ‘And you know nothing about the theft?’ he presses.

  ‘No, Sir,’ the two girls chorus.

  ‘Anya?’ Mr Fisher turns to me. ‘I know you’ve been finding it hard to settle in here, and that you come, of course, from a very different culture. The children in the canteen reported a confrontation between you, Lily and Frances, this lunchtime. And then, very conveniently, the rat appeared, right at your feet. Anya… did you take the rat from the biology lab?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ I tell him.

  But I think I know who did.

  *

  We end up in after-school detention, Lily, Frances and me.

  When Mr Fisher abandoned his search for the rat-napper and tried to unravel the canteen bullying incident, he met with a brick wall. Lily insisted the three of us were the best of friends, Frances blinked hard and agreed there really wasn’t a problem and I just sat there, stunned and silent.

  Mr Fisher didn’t buy the cover-up, and kept us all in after the final bell.

  ‘I cannot help you unless you let me,’ he tells us now. ‘There was definitely something going on, this lunchtime. I don’t know if it was bullying, or if it was linked to the missing rat, but it was definitely something. One way or another, I intend to find out!’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Frances says, rolling her eyes.

  We sit in silence, writing out the legend I must respect my fellow pupils over and over again. It’s a bit much, when Lily is the only one of us to have a problem with respect.

  Over in the corner, Kurt Jones is writing lines too.

  ‘He’s in trouble for going missing during the fire alarm,’ Frances whispers, raising an eyebrow. ‘Good job Fisher hasn’t worked out where he really was…’

  I remember Frances telling Miss Matthews that she saw Kurt running towards the science block earlier, and follow her gaze across the room. Kurt is leaning over his desk, the tip of a slim pink tail just visible, sticking out of a blazer pocket.

  At four o’clock, Mr Fisher looks at his watch. ‘Well, young man,’ he says to Kurt Jones. ‘I hope you’ve learnt your lesson! Disappearing during a fire alarm is a very serious matter, even if you did need to go to the toilet rather urgently. We searched high and low for you!’

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ Kurt says. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘As for you girls,’ Mr Fisher continues, ‘I am not happy about today’s little scene in the lunch hall… not happy at all. I will be watching you all very carefully.’

  ‘Will you, Sir?’ Lily Caldwell says, fluttering her eyelashes and sticking her chest out a little. ‘Oh!’

  Mr Fisher turns a startling shade of pink. ‘Off you go home,’ he says, exasperated. ‘All of you.’

  The four of us straggle out into the rain. Kurt gives us a wave and strides on ahead, his school bag swinging, his flared trousers flapping gently in the breeze. Lily Caldwell huddles in the doorway, beneath a Hello Kitty umbrella, lighting a ciggy. She is trying to look cool and hard, but coughing way too much to look either.

  Frances McGee falls into step beside me. ‘That girl is something else,’ she says darkly as we walk up towards Aigburth Road, dodging the puddles. ‘Poisonous little witch.’

  ‘Lily is not nice girl,’ I sigh.

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ Frances says. ‘You understand a whole lot more than you let on. And you can speak, if you want to! So… friends?’ Frances tugs down her beanie hat against the rain.

  ‘Yes, friends,’ I tell her.

  ‘Call me Frankie,’ she says, and links my arm, and the two of us walk along together. ‘What a day,’ she sighs. ‘Arson, animal rights kidnappings, fights in the canteen, rat riots, detentions…’

  ‘School in England is not like home,’ I say carefully.

  ‘Well, not every day is like today,’ she laughs. ‘It’s not usually this good!’

  I frown. I don’t think I’ve got the hang of this English sense of humour yet.

  ‘Does it rain always, in Liverpool?’ I ask.

  Frankie laughs. ‘Of course not! The weather has been yucky since you arrived, I admit…’ She looks at me, her plump face kind. ‘You hate it, don’t you, Anya?’

  ‘No, I…’ The words have deserted me, and I wipe a hand across my face, pretending I’m wiping away raindrops and not tears.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Frankie says. ‘Who knows, you might even get to like it. Miracles do happen!’

  Yeah, right. Then again, I guess it’s never too late to hope.

  We turn the corne
r into Aigburth Road, and there on the pavement in front of the shops is… an angel.

  Seriously – a dark-haired boy wearing white-feathered angel wings is standing on the kerb, facing away from us, holding a tray and a large white umbrella.

  Then he turns round and I do a double take, because this is not an angel at all, it’s Dan Carney. At least, I think it is.

  It’s hard to tell, because he isn’t burning exercise books or setting off fire alarms, and he isn’t scowling. He is carrying a big tray of home-made cupcakes, all pastel icing and sugar-strand sprinkles, tilting the umbrella carefully to keep them dry. His soft brown eyes are shining behind a fall of braided hair, his mouth stretched wide into a grin. Then he sees us, and his face falls.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’ Frankie says, holding my arm a little tighter.

  ‘I see,’ I tell her.

  ‘Angel boy,’ Frankie says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she means, because the Polish word for ‘English’ is angielski, which sounds an awful lot like the English word for ‘angel’. Dan Carney may be English, but I’m not sure if he’s an angel, even with the wings.

  He looks around, as if checking for escape routes, but short of sprinting across the busy road or loitering under the awning of a shop that sells ladies’ underwear, he has nowhere to go. He stands his ground, trying to hide behind the umbrella.

  ‘He’s selling cakes,’ Frankie whispers. ‘Must be a part-time job. C’mon, let’s take a look!’

  She drags me over, lifts up the white umbrella and pulls me under its shelter. We are face to face with Dan Carney, the mad arsonist of Year Eight. Up close, I’d swear I can see a faint pink blush beneath the caramel skin of his cheeks. I can smell vanilla, warm and sweet, but that’s probably the cakes, of course.

  ‘All right, Frankie?’ Dan Carney says. ‘Anya?’

  He knows my name. I thought I was invisible, but Dan Carney can see me. His melted chocolate eyes hold mine over the tray of cakes, turning my insides to mush. Then the umbrella tilts, and a dribble of cold rain slides down the back of my neck, bringing me down to earth.

  ‘It’s funny, Dan,’ Frankie is saying, tugging at one of his white-feathered wings. ‘I never had you down as an angel.’

  ‘I have hidden depths,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Just don’t tell anyone, OK? How come you’re so late out of school, anyhow? I thought I was safe. Thought everyone had gone…’

  ‘Detention,’ Frankie says. ‘Some divvy set fire to his desk this morning, and the whole day went downhill from there… remind me to tell you about it, sometime.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he says. ‘It’s old news. Want a cupcake?’

  It turns out that Dan Carney isn’t actually selling anything – he is giving away cupcakes for free. He explains that this is the opening day of a brandnew cafe, Heaven, and that as a special promotion he is giving away a free voucher for cakes and drinks to a few very special customers.

  ‘Us?’ Frankie snorts. ‘What’s special about us? What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch,’ Dan shrugs. ‘The boss is just trying to attract the right kind of customers. People who could become regulars, tell their friends, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Are you saying I look like the kind of person who eats a lot of cake?’ Frankie bristles. ‘What does that mean?’

  Dan rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not saying that,’ he says. ‘I’m just saying… look, this is the opening day of my mum’s new cafe. It’s chucking down with rain, and we need customers. And it’s free, OK? Please? For me?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Frankie says, taking a cake and handing one to me. ‘Why didn’t you just say?’

  ‘I thought I did,’ he sighs. ‘So… what d’you think? Good, huh?’

  I take a bite and nod, smiling, as the sweet pink frosting melts on my tongue and sinks into my soul.

  ‘Awesome!’ Frankie whispers, between mouthfuls. ‘Vouchers for free cake, you said? Count us in!’

  Dan laughs and hands us a couple of pastel printed flyers apiece. Heaven, the flyer reads. Where life is sweet. There’s an address and a snip-off voucher for the promised freebies.

  ‘It’s just across the road, in Lark Lane,’ he tells us. ‘Anya, you’re soaking… haven’t you even got a hat? Look, take the umbrella, OK? I can hang around under the awning.’

  Definitely a miracle.

  I smile shyly at Dan from behind my dripping hair, and Frankie laughs, grabbing the umbrella. ‘You really are an angel, aren’t you, Dan?’

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ he says.

  Heaven is warm and dry, with pale squashy sofas and mismatched tables and chairs. The place is packed. A gaggle of mums with noisy toddlers tuck messily into cake, and a couple of old grannies in plastic rain hats are chatting in the corner.

  And then there are the cakes… a whole long counter of them, behind sparkling glass. There’s a chocolate layer cake, a vast Victoria sponge, an apple and caramel pie, a mountain of glazed fruit tarts and something amazing made of strawberries, cream and fluffy meringue.

  Frankie pinches herself, then me, hard.

  ‘Ow!’ I protest.

  ‘It’s real, isn’t it?’ she whispers. ‘This place. I’m not imagining it, right? First, the school firestarter chats us up in the street and lends us his umbrella. Then he gives us free cake and sends us here!’

  ‘It is real,’ I tell her.

  I take in a deep breath. I can smell baking, sweet and warm, in the background. The aroma wraps itself round me like a hug.

  A smiley boy of about nine, in angel wings and a Heaven T-shirt, comes to greet us. His chocolate eyes and caramel skin mark him down as Dan’s little brother, and I can see another, younger, boy, also in angel wings, carrying a tray of cakes to the chatting grannies.

  ‘Have you got vouchers?’ the boy asks. ‘Did Dan send you?’

  We nod, and he leads us through the crowded cafe. ‘It’s a bit crazy,’ he explains. ‘It’s our first day, and the vouchers have been popular… but we have a few seats left, if you don’t mind sharing?’

  ‘We don’t mind,’ Frankie says.

  ‘Just in the corner here…’ the boy says.

  Sitting at the corner table, slurping noisily on a tall strawberry milkshake, is Kurt Jones. On the table in front of him stands a tall, tiered cake rack laden with slices of sponge and gateau, cream scones, fruit slices, strawberry meringues.

  ‘Hey,’ Frankie says, sliding into a seat. ‘If it isn’t the mystery rat-napper!’

  ‘Shhh,’ Kurt says. ‘They’re very nice here, but I’m not sure Cheesy would be welcome. There are probably health and safety regulations.’

  ‘Cheesy?’ I echo.

  ‘The rat,’ Kurt explains. ‘That seems to be his favourite food. I had a cheese and pickle roll in my rucksack, and he ate the whole thing in double maths.’

  ‘Keep him hidden, or you’ll get us all thrown out,’ Frankie hisses. ‘I want my free cake! Dan Carney in angel wings… what a laugh! Devil horns and a tail would be more his style. Seriously, this has been one crazy day!’

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ Kurt says, and I follow his eyes. The littlest waiter is carrying a tray of milkshakes across to our table. Someone is following him.

  ‘There’s a seat here,’ the boy says.

  Lily Caldwell slips into an empty chair with a face that could turn milk sour.

  ‘This sucks,’ Lily says, looking around the table with a sneer. ‘What are you losers doing here?’

  ‘Nice to see you too, Lily,’ Frankie says.

  Lily just curls her lip. ‘Dan said the vouchers were for special customers,’ she huffs. ‘What makes you all so special?’

  ‘Our wit, our charm, our sparkling good looks?’ Kurt quips, selecting a slice of cream sponge from the tiered cake plate. ‘Oh, yeah – and we’re willing to put up with you.’

  ‘Or not,’ Frankie mutters under her breath.

  ‘Don’t kid yourselves that I want to sit with you no-hopers,’ Lily snar
ls. ‘I’m only here for the free cake. Dan said he’d come and join me, once he managed to ditch the flyers and the cupcakes. Hopefully, you lot will have gone by then.’

  My shoulders slump. Dan Carney may have given me a cupcake, an umbrella and a look that turned my insides to mush, but he definitely didn’t make a date for later. I guess that Lily, with her sparkly eyeshadow and her acid tongue, is much more his type. Anybody would be more his type, really, than me.

  Silent, drenched and miserable is not a look many boys go for.

  ‘Pity this place doesn’t do wholemeal options,’ Kurt is saying. ‘Sugar and cream and white flour are not good for you. What this area needs is a really good wholefood cafe. You can do amazing things with seeds and walnuts and chopped dates.’

  ‘Get a life, freak,’ Lily snaps, her eyes skimming over Kurt’s lank hair, his skinny shoulders, the sagging school sweater that looks like it came from a jumble sale. ‘Who wants some stodgy old cake stuffed with nuts and seeds and dried fruit?’

  Lily’s description sounds a lot like the cakes my mum used to make at the bakery in Krakow, and they were really popular. I’m not about to argue, though.

  ‘This cream sponge may not be the healthiest cake on the planet,’ Frankie tells Kurt. ‘But it looks like the tastiest… go on, one slice won’t hurt!’

  Lily snorts. ‘That’s a laugh! You’re the last person who needs free cake, Frances McGee,’ she says. ‘There must be, like, a million calories in this stuff. You’ll be the size of a whale. Oh, I forgot, you already are!’

  I watch Frankie’s cheeks flare crimson and wish I had the courage to slap Lily Caldwell. Frankie’s words poisonous little witch spring to mind. If nothing else, Lily is expanding my English vocabulary.

  It’s a pity I don’t have a rat in my satchel to shut her up with this time, but Kurt comes to the rescue instead.

  ‘Just leave it, Lily, OK?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘Leave what? I was just saying. As a friend.’