The Ice Cream Girls by Dorothy Koomson Page B

delivered within minutes of the verdict being announced so my stretch was reduced to eighteen years minimum. Apparently that was good. That was taking into consideration that it was a first offence, I’d had no other dealings with the police beforehand, and I was of good enough character to have stayed out of prison on house arrest until the trial. When my solicitor passed on the information and I nodded at him, I could tell he thought I was being ungrateful, that having seven years shaved off a life stretch was cause for celebration. ‘Only if you’re not innocent,’ I wanted to say to him, but kept quiet because I knew he wouldn’t understand.
    My palace is dusty, the smell of rust and emptiness and the sea have become trapped in the grain of the wood inside and slowly diffuse into the air around me. This isn’t much smaller than most of the rooms I’ve lived in since 1989. It’s a hell of a lot more welcoming. I run my fingers over the rough, marine-treated wood, with its coats of stark white paint, and allow the smell, the history of the place to seep into me. I close my eyes and smile as I remember the picture I saw of Granny Morag and Grandpa Adam sitting outside here on their stripy deckchairs, metal cups in hand, proudly smiling at the camera.
    On hooks behind the door are two deckchairs. One red, one blue. If any more than one person other than Granny Morag came down here, they’d have to sit on a blanket. It takes a little manoeuvring, trying to work from memory and against natural instincts, before I manage to put the red one up. Then I put up the blue one beside it on the tarmac. I sit on the blue one – the red one was Granny Morag’s. When I stayed for the weekend we’d come down here and I’d sit on the blue deckchair and she would sit on her red deckchair and we would stare at the sea, wave at people walking past and eat the picnic she brought. I thought life couldn’t get much better back then. Being with her here was the best thing on earth.
    I look over at her seat, remember her as she was: the big curls of her grey-white hair framing her face; her soft features brightened even more by her smile; her large, friendly eyes; her small, perfect little mouth. She always wore small pearl earrings in her ears, and her engagement and wedding rings on her finger. Even though Grandpa Adam died a year after I was born, Granny Morag never married again. She was popular with the old fellas of Portslade, but she never went beyond a spot of companionship. ‘Why would I want to be messing with all that again, lassie?’ she’d say to me. ‘You know when you’ve met the man you’re meant to be with. I don’t see the bother of trying again.’
    I close my eyes for a second, fancy that I can feel sun on my face, even though it’s an overcast day and there is a slight chill in the air. I prefer the outside when it’s like this. The sky does not look so scary and threatening and huge, but something to be ignored while I spend as much time in the fresh air as I can. It looks manageable again; only slightly bigger than the snatches of it I used to get.
    I’m going to paint the inside of the hut an off-white. Maybe even a cream-white. Sew a new cover for the boxseat – I know how to do that now. Get myself a new kettle and a camping stove. A flask. Maybe even a picnic set. I’ll repaint the doors, keep it Granny Morag’s deep, dark orange but freshen it up. I may even get a rug for the floor, and a picnic blanket. And I’ll have to get myself a big woolly blanket so I can wrap up warm, drink tea and watch the sun go down.
    I reach into my pocket and take out my cigarettes and lighter. I’ll need to get a job, of course, to be able to afford all that. That might take some doing, but I’ll have to find the money somehow. Granny Morag has given me this place and I want to make it my own and make her proud at the same time.
    I inhale life into the cigarette, drawing in breath to make the tip take the flame