Cecelia Ahern - Mrs Whippy

I checked his hands to see whether there was a wedding band on his finger. But he was wearing white surgical-looking gloves. There were no bumps beneath the gloves. Then again, Charlie had never worn a wedding band. So that didn’t tell me much. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. I tried to tug my wedding ring off my finger. It wouldn’t move. It had been on my finger for so many years it was like a part of me. The fat on my fingers was gathering around the ring, almost cutting off my circulation. I would have to hide my hand from Mr Whippy.

“Hello there,” Mr Whippy said to the little girl at the head of the queue.

“Hello.” She smiled at him shyly.

“What’s your name?” He smiled back.

“Amanda,” she said quietly and sweetly.

“Oh, Amanda, that’s a lovely name. What ice-cream would you like?”

“A 99 please.”

“May I say that’s an excellent choice, Amanda?”

Amanda giggled shyly and skipped away happily with her cone.

“Hello, David. Good to see you again,” Mr Whippy said to the next young boy. “Where’s Matthew today?”

He remembered all their names. I was very impressed. I watched him work his magic with all the children while their parents watched on happily. To the children he was like some kind of god. He was the great big man that owned the ice-cream van that they had to look up at. It was like he was on stage. He was a performer, an entertainer for the parents and children.

Finally, when all the children had received their treats, they went home. Their parents returned to their houses with less money in their pockets. Then it was my turn. I stepped toward Mr Whippy feeling like little Amanda. Shy and giggly.

“Well, hello.” He grinned.

“Hello.” I smiled back, noticing my voice was once again child-like.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He slid off his glove and thrust his hand out of the window toward me.

He wasn’t wearing a ring. I felt like doing a dance.

“Hi, I’m Emelda,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. His hands were smooth and so soft.

“Emelda,” he said gently. “Now that’s the nicest name I’ve heard all day.”

I laughed. “Charmer.”

“Indeed.” He smiled.

“And what’s your name?” I asked as he put his glove back on.

He raised his eyebrows and held his hands out to indicate his surroundings. “Mr Whippy, of course!”

“Of course.” I laughed.

“What can I get you, Emelda?”

He had a lovely way of saying my name. It flowed from his tongue like hot fudge slipping down cold ice-cream. It sounded soft and velvety.

“I’ll have the best ice-cream there is,” I said, peering over his shoulder into the van.

“Oh. An ice-cream expert, are you?”

I looked down at myself and back to him. “You could put it that way, yes.”

He laughed. “That’s what I like to see, someone who appreciates my art. Well, let’s move away from all this, shall we?” He stepped away from the ice-creams the children had been interested in. “I have some very special ice-cream over here for true ice-cream lovers. Can I suggest this freshly made six-layer frozen sweetie pie? Only made yesterday by yours truly. It’s bursting with citrus fruity flavours designed to tickle your tongue and prickle your palate.”

My jaw dropped. “Yes,” I breathed.

“Excellent choice, Emelda.”

I handed over my money but he withdrew his hands. “This one is on the house.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” I began to say, but he cut me off.

“Next time,” he said and smiled. “I’ll allow you to get the next one, which means I expect to see you when I’m here next.”

If it weren’t for the delicious delight in my hand, and the extra one hundred pounds of fat on my bones, I would have cart-wheeled naked across the lawn with excitement.

I find that the rules of ice-cream tasting are the same for most things in life. To experience true flavours and true feelings you need to pay attention to your senses. How do things look? How do things smell? How do things feel when you touch them or when they touch you? How do they taste? And, very importantly, what memories do they leave you with?

Six

Mr Whippy’s ice-cream is not gourmet and it’s not expensive. He’s appealing to children playing out on the road on spring and summer days. His customers are not people like me that end up with more ice-cream in their mouth than on their faces and on the ground. His ice-cream has none of the richness of more expensive ones. But the lack of exotic flavours is made up for by its preparation.

I can tell this by the look on his face when he opens the window of the van and serves the children with his biggest, brightest smile. I can tell that his ice-cream was made with love. I know it was prepared with patience and pride. I know that this man’s love for ice-cream is his livelihood. I can tell even by one brief meeting that that man has passion.

Later that night, I imagined him preparing his special ice-creams for the next day. I pictured him whisking egg yolks with sugar and salt and moving around the kitchen like he was performing on stage. I could see him splitting vanilla pods and scraping out the seeds. I saw him softly, yet firmly, pressing raspberries and stirring smooth, milky chocolate.

I could imagine the thick, heavy cream gushing into the saucepan and being brought slowly to a simmer. I could hear the small bubbles rising to the surface and bursting with a light popping sound.

I could see him whisking the warm cream into the egg-yolk mixture. I could smell all the aromas in the kitchen. I could feel his excitement as the mixture thickened, the heat of the hob built and his stirring became faster and more constant. All this while he remained calm and didn’t allow it to boil. No over-acting; no steps out of place. There was a rhythm to his work.

And then the music would slow as the performance neared its end. He would take the mixture off the heat and pour it into a churn. It would be churned until lovely and thick, the fruit and flavours added right at the end. Then he would transfer it to the freezer, where it would sit until the next day. Work done, song finished and dance completed. It was time to take a bow.

I closed the curtains in my bedroom late that Saturday night. And I felt that Act One certainly had closed in my life. Tomorrow was a new day.

Seven

Usually I would have been in bed when the boys arrived home on Sunday morning. But this morning was different. Feeling refreshed after my meeting the day before with Mr Whippy, I decided to get up early.

I wish I had taken a photo of Charlie and the boys’ faces when they walked in the door. They must have been in shock at seeing me out of bed, and that I had dressed myself. I had been wandering around in my egg-stained dressing gown for the past few weeks. Not only was I dressed, I was wearing my finest. I was wearing the outfit I saved for special occasions. Well, there was no point letting it gather dust in my wardrobe. Today was officially a special occasion.

It was the day I was going to take hold of my life. I would once and for all take back what was rightfully mine: my freedom, my dignity and my pride.

“Would you look at the state of you,” Charlie said. His mouth gaped open like a fish on ice. His arm was frozen in mid-air from where he had inserted the key in the door. “If it isn’t Joan frigging Collins,” he spat out, looking me up and down with that familiar look of disgust on his face.

Well. It wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.

Brian sniggered. Vincent was silent, as usual. Little Mark looked at me in confusion, as if trying to decide where his mother had gone.