Free Candyfloss by Nick Sharratt Page A

muddled.’
    ‘What about your mum’s mum?’
    ‘She died when I was a baby. There’s Steve’s mum, but I don’t think she likes me much.’
    ‘You poor little mite. Well, listen to me, sweetheart. Any time you need to discuss anything girly, you come and have a word with me, all right? I know your dad will do his best, but it’s not the same, not the same at all. A growing girl needs her mother. I just can’t understand how
your
mother . . .’ She let her voice tail away.
    I clutched the phone so tightly it was a wonder the plastic didn’t buckle. I couldn’t stand her going on like that, as if Mum had deliberately abandoned me. I decided I didn’t want Rhiannon to come round after all, but her mum was busy calling to her and asking for details of the address.
    I heard Rhiannon saying stuff in the background. It didn’t sound as if she wanted to come round.
    ‘You’ve got to go! It’s the least you can do. Poor little Flora will be feeling so lonely,’ Rhiannon’s mother hissed.
    ‘I’m fine, really,’ I said.
    ‘Yes dear, I’m sure you are,’ she said, in a
don’t-think-you-can-fool-me
tone of voice.
    I couldn’t fool Rhiannon either when she came round . She was wearing a lacy blue top and white jeans. She had one little plait tied with blue and white thread in her long glossy black hair. She looked beautiful. She seemed so out of place in our café.
    ‘Oh Floss, you poor thing, your eyes look so sore, all red and puffy,’ she said.
    ‘It’s an allergy,’ I said quickly.
    Rhiannon sighed at me. She turned to Dad. ‘My mum says you must phone her if you’ve got any problems.’
    Dad blinked. ‘Problems?’
    ‘You know. Over Flossie,’ said Rhiannon. She was acting like she was my social worker or something. Even Dad looked a bit irritated.
    ‘We haven’t got any problems, Floss and me, have we, doll-baby? But it’s very kind of your mum to offer all the same, so thank her very much. Now, would you two girls like to go and play on Floss’s swing?’
    He led the way through the café, out into the kitchen, and opened the door to the back yard dramatically, as if Disneyland beckoned.
    Rhiannon stepped warily into the back yard, walking as if she was wading through mud. She peered at the wheelie bins, the tarpaulins, the bits of bike. It was definitely a mistake inviting her round. I suddenly saw Rhiannon telling her mother all about our dismal back yard. Worse, I saw her telling Margot and Judy and all the girls at school.
    I looked at her anxiously.
    ‘Oh, there’s your swing. How . . . lovely,’ she said.
    ‘I know it’s not lovely,’ I whispered. ‘But Dad’s fixed it all up for me specially.’
    ‘Sure. OK. I understand,’ said Rhiannon. She raised her voice so that Dad could hear in the kitchen. ‘Oh Floss, your swing looks great hanging on the apple tree,’ she said, enunciating very clearly, as if Dad was deaf or daft.
    She hopped on it, had one token swing, then hopped off again. ‘So, shall we go up to your bedroom and play?’ she said.
    ‘Maybe we should swing a bit more,’ I said.
    ‘But it’s, like, boring,’ said Rhiannon. ‘Come on, Floss, I’ve been nice to your dad. Now let’s go and do stuff.’
    ‘OK.’
    We went back indoors. Dad had started peeling potatoes in the kitchen. He looked baffled to see us back so quickly.
    ‘What’s up, girls?’ he said.
    ‘Nothing’s up, Dad. I – I just want to show Rhiannon my bedroom,’ I said.
    I didn’t didn’t didn’t want to show her my bedroom.
    She looked round it, sucking in her breath. ‘Is
this
your bedroom?’ she said. She wrinkled her brow. ‘But I don’t get it. Your bedroom’s lovely, all red and white and clean and pretty.’
    ‘That’s my bedroom at my mum’s, you know it is,’ I said.
    I sat on my old saggy bed and stroked the limp duvet, as if I was comforting it.
    ‘So OK, where’s all your stuff? The cherry curtains and the red velvet cushions and your special