-
Get Published on Female First
I stood in the queue outside the pink and white Mr Whippy van enjoying the faint smell of diesel fumes and deep hum of the running engine. Little trumpets sat on top of it, ready to chime 'Greensleeves' or 'You Are My Sunshine' when it moved off. This particular van was here for most of the time though, a relic of the 70's. The pictures of classic lollies and ice-creams on the side hadn't changed much from those on the vans of my childhood; scrappy, peeling and mucky from the sticky fingerprints of children. The van reminded me of pocket-money and sweet things on long summer days.
The town centre was bustling - women with too many bags; young men on their phones who probably took longer to get ready than I did; a couple strolling, with nothing in their hands but each other and each with piercings that caught the light of the mid-day sun as they walked. The girl had dreadlocks, blonde ones and the boy's hair was blue. It made me want to cut my hair and dye it red again. In the heat, hot-dogs and burgers from another van smelt like holiday. A nearby busker had a beautiful face and an acoustic guitar; he was singing 'Let it be'. In front of me, two silver-haired men were ordering their ice-creams.
'So is a 99 the one with a flake in it? That double one there?'
The ice-cream lady answered in a steady voice. 'No. The 99 is just a normal cone with a flake. The double one is extra.' Her eyes moved quickly over the scene outside the van.
'So what is the double one called?'
'A double 99.'
'So you get two flakes in it?'
'No it's just...look at the picture! That's what you get.'
She pointed to a sticker of a 99 and the half-sticker of the double 99 that remained. The silver-haired men looked at the stickers for longer than they should have had to.
'Okay, we will simply have a normal ice-cream, thank you; a small one each.'
'Sauce?'
'Yes that would be nice. Not too much though. Many thanks.' Their voices were jarred with etiquette, like they were in a fancy restaurant.
I felt a shift in the energy around me and there was a slight change in shadows. Someone was behind me. I decided to ignore it. After all, I didn't think I would know them.
I opened up some memories instead.
When I was young, I'd often sit outside a van like this for ages on the park, just watching. Children would gather around the lolly and ice-cream stickers whilst the man dished out their orders and quickly added it all up; sometimes the man would have to count coins himself for the younger kids who would just place a pile of copper at the hatch. There would be some kid on his own clutching his money, trying hard not to get pushed to the back; and always an older girl who's Mum had sent her to get treats for the whole family, with the little ones running around her feet. With the moving vans, I remember kid's frantically running as the chime signalled the vans departure, screaming 'We've missed him!' but then the relief as the van pulled over.
I never had money to buy anything from the van, but I liked guessing what others were going to buy. Tiny children would get a 'Mini-Milk' whilst the parents got a huge ice-cream. Girls would get the large Del Monte lolly's that fizzed on your tongue and sparkled in the sunlight, or maybe a Calypso or Jubbly, letting the juice melt so that they could drink it all at the end. Boys would get a 'Feast' or even a 'Screwball' for the gum at the bottom. It was only really the grown-ups who got actual ice-creams. In this queue today, everyone was a grown-up; a lot of ice-creams.
I felt the man move to the side of me; so close that his arm was almost touching mine. The masses filtered around us then, like busy water around stones in a stream. His shifted slightly and despite the song of the busker, I could hear the scratchy fabric of his coat whilst he moved.
The ice cream lady set about making the ice-creams for the silver-haired men. They followed her movements as she swiftly removed two light beige cornets from a stack of them in a plastic wrapper and held them underneath the Mr Whippy dispenser. Her arms were rounded, giving her a 'mumsy' look. She had a round face to go with her round arms and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. The men watched the ice creams taking form and I thought that would be the same level of attention they give the shiny presentations they sat through whilst chewing their shiny pens in their shiny offices. The humming noise was hypnotic and there was a delicious clunk after each ice-cream was made.
'Fantastic!' said one of the men.
The lady ignored them and grabbed the sticky raspberry sauce and coated the gleaming white ice creams in bright pink streaks.
'That'll be £2.60 please.'
As one of them men rummaged through his loose change, I heard a noise come from the man at side of me.
'Excuse me,' he said; but it sounded like a drawl, like he was on drugs or drunk, or even mad. I didn't look. I kept my eyes focused on the silver-haired men and their ice-creams and chose to hear other things around me, like the busker, and a youth saying 'That was live, yo! Nah, that was unreal!' loudly as he walked past with a group of friends.
'Excuse me,' he repeated.
I shoved my restless hands in my pockets and glanced behind me. The other people in the queue were stood back from us enough that they absolved themselves from the problem; so he became my problem or the ice-cream ladies problem. I hoped the ice-cream lady would answer him, after all, he was doing this outside of her place of business, surely she would deal with him so that he could move on and I didn't have to hear the drawl? And I thought why should he even be out? He should have been somewhere else, away from me so I could enjoy my day without being reminded of why I rarely venture into the city centre. I moved discreetly to the left so I could breathe better and tried to rub him from my mind, like rubbing away a mistake on a drawing.
His drawl continued; he was asking for something. I thought if I could answer his question, then maybe he'd go away. He was asking where Sainsbury's was. I didn't know. But then I decided I wouldn't tell him anyway because I didn't want to have a conversation with him.
The ice-cream lady gave the silver-haired men their ice creams and they smiled big, happy smiles. They must have really been looking forward to those ice-creams. They seemed completely unaware of my plight. They thanked the ice-cream lady and then walked away, the back of their heads bobbing like silver balloons, and my eyes followed them helplessly as they mingled with the lunchtime shoppers.
I tried hard to control the movements of my limbs, then. I folded my arms and crossed my legs as I stood, twisting myself stupidly. I wished the lady would just look at me and take my order. Then I watched, horrified, as she began to turn away from the van window, leaving me alone.
'Just a minute,' she said; and I didn't know if she was saying it to the man or to me.
I took steady breaths and focused hard on what she was doing. She drank some water from a litre bottle. The bottle had the remains of a sticky label on it that had now collected dirt around the edges, indicating that it used to contain something other than water. She placed it down and got a stained, wet, chequered-blue cloth from somewhere that seemed too close to the food, but of course I didn't say anything about this to her. I pretended not to notice because it was one less thing to deal with. She wiped the tiny counter in front of the van window with it and despite this resulting in the removal of wafer crumbs and renegade sauce I think the counter was probably cleaner before she put the cloth on it. All the while, the expectant vibes emulating from the man were tangible.
Unable to resist any longer, I glanced at his face.
My brain began to send signals like lithe shards of electric chasing each other. My heart raced - just for a couple of beats, but enough for me to take a deep breath and swallow; enough to send a rush of blood to my forehead and make it hot. There was recognition. I'd seen him before. I remembered him. I think at some point in another life, I may have even known him.
Now I had to stare because he was like a car crash and I have to see just how bad the damage is. A red crust like scabs now clung around his mouth and grew around his chin. It looked like blood from his gums, but the fact that it remained congealed around his lips made me want to heave. But still I stared.
Then I remembered. I remembered how I had adored him; an intense crush that made my muscles ache. He was dashing. Thick hair, curly and tanned skinned, but a natural colour, as though he was from Mediterranean descent. I remember him sat relaxed one summer in a white t-shirt outside our local pub. He was speaking and those around him were enraptured, their beers halted in mid-air or left in yeasty brown rings on the tables. They lit cigarettes, then, and sat back to listen to him. He was passionate, I thought. Whether it was a tale or an opinion or anecdote he was voicing; whatever it was seemed to be an extension of him, something that he was sharing to the benefit of everyone else watching. I slowed down a little as I approached, finally finding courage to get closer and show him that I wasn't a misfit. But the demons of my past wouldn't let me - even though he looked at me kindly and stood up; ready to invite me into his world. I couldn't face his pity, so I ran and I ripped the skin on my feet running.
Then I remembered…an accident he had; the details of it escape me, but I know he had an accident. Someone said that he had been hurt and now walked with a stoop. They said that he could no longer talk properly and I remember thinking what a loss that was. Why did I run from him still?
The beautiful busker was now singing 'Purple Rain' as part of a medley; and as if right on cue, raindrops began to fall around the ice-cream van. I looked up to the sky, loving the cleansing cold droplets on my face. He was repeating his question about Sainsbury's, but still I didn't answer him. My stomach twisted with the thought that he would recognise me and I just didn't want the conversation; even though I now realised that he was not drunk or mad.
Then the ice-cream lady mercifully pointed to the right of the van.
'Carry on down there. You'll soon see it on the left.'
I could tell that she was uncomfortable and hoped that he heard her first time. But he heard and understood her perfectly. It only took one straightforward instruction for him to know where Sainsbury's was. He thanked her and turned on his way. He actually thanked her. After being ignored for so long, he thanked her, because he was just grateful that somebody, anybody, told him where the shop was; so glad that somebody bothered to acknowledge him, that they were brave enough. I wondered how many times a day he must fight the same battle?
I swallowed hard again and my lips were dry but I didn't lick them because I was still scared that he'd turn to see me and regret the kindness he had once showed. I wanted him to remember me as I was; a nervous teenager with purple cheeks and red hair, who just for a moment had caught his attention.
Finally, he turned towards Sainsbury's and began moving slowly away from the van, dragging his leg along.
'Yes? What can I get you?'
I realised the ice-cream lady was waiting and I was aware of impatient shuffling and noisy exhales from people behind me. I was only slightly conscious of ordering a small ice-cream with raspberry. He was still in my head, and his smudgy image was sharp and it ripped open my twisted sense of self, morphing it into something different than what it was before.
I took my ice-cream and followed in his footsteps. At first, the soft, cool ice-cream was like salve on my dry lips; but then the taste made me feel uneasy and peculiar. I decided I didn't want it anymore, but I carried on eating anyway because to eat it would be normal and to have thrown it would be to acknowledge that I felt strange and peculiar. So I opted for normal. Behind me, the busker was finishing his medley with a haunting rendition of Waltzing Matilda. I continued walking until I blended in with the masses around me, busily flowing as if in a stream.
Dawn Purcell is a mother of 3, a teacher and a Creative Writing Masters student at the University of Bolton. She has been previously published for her story 'Skates'.