Cecelia Ahern: Mrs Whippy

I got a part-time job in the local supermarket, packing bags at the till. I could work from eight thirty to two o’clock, two days a week, and a full day on Saturday. I thought it sounded reasonable and that I could cope with it. It meant that I could still collect Mark from school. Brian and Vincent had long stopped wanting to be seen with me in public.

The supermarket was very handy, as it was only ten minutes’ walk from the house. But I was feeling very nervous that first morning as I got ready to go to work. I had never worked outside the home. Ever. I met Charlie when I was still in school. We got married as soon as I left. We had children and Charlie felt it was best that I stay home with them.

My first day of work felt like my first day at school. I was going into an unknown environment. I would be surrounded by people I had never met. It was all very new to me.

After the ten-minute walk to the supermarket I was already panting. I was aware I was putting on weight, but I didn’t care. Eating ice-cream in the evenings was my only comfort.

They put me to work at a till and, my God, was it busy. I would barely have the first bag open when I would be faced with a pile of groceries. They all moved so quickly off the conveyor belt and gathered at the end of the till. I found it so difficult to keep up. I was sweating after fifteen minutes. The customers just kept on coming.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the supervisor, half my age, keeping her eye on me. Every now and then she would make me take everything out of the bag and start again. Apparently I was mixing dairy with raw meats and squashing fruit with tins. I could barely concentrate on what I was doing. Everything was being fired at me so quickly. All the groceries blended into one and became a blur in my eyes. When I got my first fifteen-minute break, I had never been so pleased to finish anything in my life.

I went into the staff room feeling tired, hot and sweaty. I was greeted by a few giggles. All the other bag-packers were less than half my age.

“You’re Mrs O’Grady, aren’t you?” one spotty-looking teen said.

“I am,” I said politely and pointed to my badge proudly. “Emelda.”

“I told you, Jenny,” he sneered and they all laughed.

I looked around the room to the girl he referred to as Jenny. I noticed her face was bright red.

“Scarlet,” she said, trying to cover her face with the collar of her polo shirt.

“Do I know you?” I asked her politely, looking around the small kitchen for a chair. My feet were swollen and sore, as I had been standing for hours. All the seats had been taken. I could once again hear my mother’s voice in my head, giving out about the youth not offering up their seats to their elders.

I flinched with pain as I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

Jenny rolled her eyes and looked away, her face becoming even redder. The crowd all jeered her.

“No one’s going to tell me?” I asked, still polite but feeling a little embarrassed now.

They all laughed and continued talking among themselves. Some flicked through magazines, ignoring me. I looked around and spotted a kettle. I filled it with water and flicked the switch. I was absolutely dying for a cup of tea. My arms were sore from the constant movement of packing. I hadn’t had that much exercise for years. Leaning against the counter for support, I looked longingly at the chairs. I hoped someone would leave so I could take their seat before I passed out.

Finally the teenagers looked at their watches and began to file out one by one. I spooned sugar into my tea, added a drop of milk and sat down at the table.

“Oooh,” I couldn’t help but say as the pain disappeared from my feet. I kicked off my shoes and relaxation swept over my body. I took a sip of the hot, sweet tea and allowed it to slide down my throat. It instantly calmed my nerves. I was afraid to close my eyes in case I fell asleep. I felt completely worn out.

There was a bang on the door.

“Emelda!” came the shout from the young supervisor. “Back to work, break’s over,” she snapped. “There’s a line of people waiting at the till.”

“Yes! OK!” I replied, jumping and spilling hot tea over my hand. I forced my swollen feet into my shoes. I put the hardly touched cup of tea back on the table and hobbled my way out to the shop floor.

It was only eleven o’clock.

Five

Why do I love ice-cream so much? It’s not just the taste I like or the soft, creamy texture. I appreciate ice-cream like a wine drinker appreciates a good glass of wine. Like wine tasting, ice-cream appreciation is not just about drinking or eating it. To experience the true flavour you need to pay attention to your senses. Sight, smell, touch as well as taste.

The colour of ice-cream can tell you its origins. I’m not just talking about brown for chocolate and white for vanilla. I’m talking about rich homemade ice-creams with juicy raspberries, strawberries and blackberries. Real ice-creams that don’t have artificial flavourings. Ice-creams that don’t come straight from a factory and into a tub. I’m talking about ice-creams made in someone’s kitchen from organic ingredients and freshly grown fruit, filled with natural flavours. Tangy orange, bitter lemon and country brown bread ice-cream.

Gourmet ice-creams have the right thickness and consistency. The texture on your tongue can be balmy or harsh. Does it give a refreshing zing to the edges of your tongue, enough to make your mouth water? The ideal touch is a mellow softness that leaves a velvety feeling in your mouth. Like the perfect kiss.

When I taste it I take small spoonfuls, like wine tasters take small sips of wine. I leave it on my tongue and allow my tastebuds to get to work. Sometimes it doesn’t taste as the aroma leads you to expect. Sometimes the aftertaste is different. Most importantly of all, and the point I’ve been making about ice-cream, is what is the memory evoked by the ice-cream? Not only on your palate but in your mind.

You’ve already heard my memories. Childhood days on the beach, wedding days, garden parties, romantic dinners and perfect kisses. Well, I have a new and fresh taste in my mouth to represent a new and fresh memory. Here it is.

I returned from my first day of work and collapsed onto the couch. As soon as I sat down I was sure that I would never, ever stand up again. The more I sank into the couch, the more it seemed to wrap itself around me. It held me tight and hugged my body and I felt loved. By a couch. The phone rang and I ignored it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make my way to the kitchen for some ice-cream. That’s how bad the situation was. All I could feel was shooting pain running up and down my legs, my arms and my back. Packing bags was proving to be very hard work.

Just when I thought that not even an earthquake would move me from my spot, I heard a sound that made my heartbeat quicken. It was the tinkling music of the Mr Whippy van. It got louder and louder as it came nearer and nearer to my road. My heart beat so loud I was sure my neighbours could hear it.

Grabbing my bag from beside me, I forgot my pain and jumped up like a thirteen-year-old who had just spotted Colin Farrell. As I opened the door I saw at least fifteen children running excitedly toward the van. And there he was. Mr Whippy himself, standing at the window, smiling proudly at the approaching crowd.

I joined the back of the queue, feeling like a child. For once in my life it was the man that was having this effect on me and not the ice-cream. What age was he? Early fifties at least, I guessed. He had brown, leathery-looking skin, like he had just been away on holidays. He was dressed in a white T-shirt with a white apron. He had a little white hat on. I could see wisps of black and grey hair sneaking out from under it.