Free Mrs Whippy by Cecelia Ahern Page A

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 foreverremind 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 munchies. 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 schooltwice 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 oneof those year-long world trips with a group of