Free Miss You by Kate Eberlen Page A

non-existent. It was fortunate that they served a hot lunch at school, because in the evenings all I ran to was toast with
beans, toast with spaghetti or toast with Marmite. Occasionally, when Dad was flush from a win on the horses, he’d arrive home with a big bag of fish and chips, but usually he ate at the pub,
or at the Taj Mahal after closing time.
    One Sunday, I’d tried to make us a roast dinner, Hope’s favourite, chicken with little sausages, but I got the timings all wrong, and omitted to remove the plastic tray under the
chicken before putting it in the oven. The custard for the trifle was sweet scrambled egg, and I over-whipped the cream, so instead of being all floaty, it was fatty and impossible to spread. After
that, Dad started taking us to the Carvery on Sunday where it was all you could eat for £4.99 and kids went free, including an Ice Cream Factory which Hope went backwards and forwards to,
until Dad decided value for money was one thing, but enough was enough. The Carvery wasn’t open on Christmas Day.
    Christmas shopping in London was something I’d always done with Mum before Hope was born. We’d rarely bought anything but we used to look at all the Christmas
windows of the department stores, sometimes venturing inside to take a surreptitious squirt of Chanel N°5 – ‘If you marry a rich man, Tess, that’s the scent he’ll buy
you!’ – while the perfumery assistant’s back was turned. I knew it was a risk taking Hope, but I thought she might enjoy all the decorations and the change of scene.
    It was a mistake to stop outside Hamleys. When I tried to move us on, Hope literally stuck herself to the pavement, the force of her will making her much heavier than she really was. Inside, she
immediately spotted the mountain of soft toys.
    ‘You can touch them very carefully and nicely. Nicely, Hope! Gently. Now put it back, please, Hope . . . put it back!’
    I ended up having to buy the giraffe who was on the point of losing his tail by the time we got it to the till. I couldn’t believe the price. Dad had given me a twenty-pound note to have
ourselves a good time, but there was only enough left for a Happy Meal for lunch. At that point, it would have been more sensible to go home, but it was already 23 December and I hadn’t yet
got gifts for Mrs O’Neill or Doll, and I wanted to buy them something in Selfridges.
    After Doll and I turned fifteen, we were allowed to go up to London in the holidays if we saved enough money from our Saturday jobs. We loved walking round the city, discovering all the
different little villagey areas and fantasizing about sharing a place there one day. Doll fancied a modern flat overlooking Hyde Park; I preferred the idea of one of the little houses at the top of
Portobello Road which were all painted a different bright colour. The dream was that I’d be a librarian or work in a bookshop and Doll would be one of the women in Selfridges’ perfumery
who wear a clinical-looking white uniform and offer you a demonstration facial.
    Oxford Street was crammed with last-minute shoppers. You just had to keep moving along with the crowd, which was tiresome enough for someone as tall as me but much worse for Hope. When she
couldn’t stand the crush and the noise any longer, she stopped dead.
    ‘Come on, Hope. It’s not far now.’
    The columns of Selfridges were just up ahead.
    ‘Hope! We’re holding everyone up.’
    Initial glances of sympathy changed to disapproval as the screaming started.
    ‘Hope! Come on now! What would Mum think of this behaviour?’
    I’d vowed never to use Mum’s memory as a threat, and as soon as I said it I wanted to take it back, but the question had distracted her for the second I needed to scoop her off her
feet and carry her. She started fighting and kicking me.
    ‘Put me down!’
    ‘Only if you’ll promise to behave.’
    ‘Put me down!’
    The screams were getting louder, her face was all hot and wet with tears,