Free Another Life Altogether by Elaine Beale Page A

basket and my father taking them out.
    During our trip to the Midham Co-op that evening, I spent much of my time trying to get my father to agree to buy a package of Mr. Kipling cream cakes. “We can’t afford them,” he answered wearily.
    Both my mother and I loved the adverts for Mr. Kipling. They were set in pretty English cottages or on wide green lawns, the kind where people played croquet following afternoon tea. And they were narrated by a man with a voice that was warm and crumbly, and made you think of a fat Victoria Sponge Cake with jam oozing from its middle. “After all,” he’d say at the conclusion of every advertisement, “Mr. Kipling does make exceedingly good cakes.”
    “Ooh, I could do with one of those and a nice cup of tea,” my mother would say, gazing longingly at the television screen. And, indeed, when she was in charge of the shopping we’d have Mr. Kipling cakes at least once a week. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it,” she’d say, unwrapping them from the cellophane and arranging them carefully on a plate. I’d gobble mine down in a matter of seconds, but my mother would relish hers, taking small slow bites, closing her eyes and rolling her mouth around their taste. I sometimes thought she looked at her happiest when she was smacking her lips and finishing off a Mr. Kipling custard tart.
    “Please, Dad,” I begged, following him around the aisles as he stared glassy-eyed at rows of tinned button mushrooms and processed peas. “Just this once, can we have them? Please.”
    “Stop whining, Jesse, and make yourself useful,” he said. “Go and get us some toilet paper, can you? We’re running out.” I returned carryinga packet of Andrex Supersoft toilet tissue. “Not that,” my father said. “Costs a bloody arm and a leg. Get the Co-op brand.”
    When my father and I approached the checkout counter, and I had failed to add one single item beyond those on my father’s list, I was feeling decidedly frustrated. Then I noticed a pyramid display of Mr. Kipling chocolate fingers, sited strategically at the end of the aisle, where all the shoppers queued to have their items rung up. They were even on special offer, at five pence off. “Dad,” I said quietly.
    “What?”
    “I bet those chocolate fingers are really tasty, don’t you?” I spoke cautiously, pointing at the towering triangular display. He sighed as he turned toward me, and I felt my heart sink, sure that he would deny me this one pleasure, and the extra Co-op stamps. But, to my surprise, when his eyes rested on the stack of cakes he seemed to consider them.
    “You know, they’d be nice with a cup of tea, they would. I bet your mam would like them as well. Tell you what, get us a packet, Jesse, love.”
    “Really?” I asked, a little incredulous.
    “Yeah, why not?”
    I could scarcely contain my excitement. An entire packet of Mr. Kipling cakes. I could imagine the delicious smell of the chocolate as I tore them from their wrappers, the spongy softness against my fingers as I put them on a plate, my mother’s delight when I set them out in front of her. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, and pulled at the packet nearest to me in the display.
    Unfortunately, at that moment I was far too preoccupied with visualizing my parents and me sitting around the table devouring the cakes to consider the obvious consequences of my actions. I soon found out, however, when, having removed one of the packets close to the base of the Co-op’s nicely arranged pyramidal display, the whole thing came tumbling down, boxes of Mr. Kipling chocolate fingers hurling themselves onto my father and me and scattering over the floor in a wide and unruly mess.
    “What on earth is going on?” Once the debris had settled, the woman at the checkout stood up. With massive shoulders, a broad face, and a short, fat neck, she reminded me of the female Russian shot-putters I’d seen while watching the Olympics on television.
    “It was