(2006)

Mrs Whippy

My name is Emelda. Describe myself in twenty words? I can do it in less. There’s really not much to me. Forty-six years old. Soon-to-be divorced. Mother of five. 5’3”. 220 pounds. Fed-up and mightily bored with my life. Five words that define me? I hate my ex-husband. That’s only four words but you get the point. I have a tendency to fall short of my targets.

I can almost hear my mother in my head, “Hate is a very strong word Emelda. You don’t hate, you dislike.” She does that a lot now since she died. She pops into my head and reminds me to do things. I like it when she does that. It’s nice company in a lonely head. Well sorry my dear departed mother, hate is not a strong enough word for me. I detest him and dream of ways he can die a very painful death.

Perhaps that’s too evil but he does deserve my bad thoughts. He deserves my mother to tut and shake her head disapprovingly. She did when she was disgusted at me. He recently ran off with a twenty-three year old Russian lap dancer the size of a broomstick, leaving me with five sons. A twenty-five year old, a twenty-one year old, a sixteen year old, an eight year old and a five year old. The remnants of our once upon a time sex life.

I live in a three bedroom, semi-detached house with patterned wallpapers, curtains, carpets and borders. They haven’t been changed since we moved in twenty-five years ago. My kitchen is shabby and my bedroom is a depressing disappointment that over the years has seen more depressingly disappointing rear end performances than the West End. Romeo, oh Romeo, my husband was not. Juliet, I certainly am not. The only “Where bloody art thou’s?” uttered from my gob were at four am when he still hadn’t returned from a night out on the town. The only standing on a balcony and calling out I’ve done is hang from our bedroom window while throwing out his clothes into the garden. All the neighbours could hear me cursing him.

I was seventeen when I fell in love with the beast named Charlie. “Fell” being the appropriate word because it was indeed my downfall. I remember the exact moment this fall happened. We were having dessert in the cheapest restaurant he could find. We chose delicious sweet vanilla risotto with poached pears and chocolate ice-cream. I looked up from my plate to take a breath from scoffing and I caught his gaze over the flickering flame of the centre candle. My heart melted like the ice cream meeting the hot risotto. I can still remember the sweet taste of that chocolate ice-cream on my lips when he kissed me. The sweetest kiss I had ever received.

Every moment of my life is marked by ice-cream. I associate moments with tastes, textures and scents. Sweet sugars that pumped into my blood, lifted my heart and made my special moments even more special.

I recall the passion-fruit ice cream in our wedding cake. I remember it touching my tongue and sliding down my throat as Charlie fed the food into my mouth. My first spoonful of married life. That taste always reminds me of that look on his face. The doting and adoring look that made me think I was the most special woman in the world. I once was in his world.

I remember the vanilla and strawberries on the first night of our honeymoon. I’ll never forget how the vanilla felt against my skin as it slid down my stomach and formed a pool in my belly button as we became sticky, entangled and entwined as we rolled around laughing. KnickerBockerGlory reminds me of a time spent watching the sunset on a holiday in the Mediterranean. Tones of reds and oranges decorated the sky over a glistening sea while we watched with sun burned noses and peeling shoulders.

I recall eating mint ice-cream and chocolate flakes with my mother in the back garden on summer days when I was heavily pregnant, hot and bothered. The cooling effect of the mint mixed with the familiar smell of my mother’s favourite perfume was a wonderful mix to remember. I remember my father bringing me to the beach as a child and tasting orange Popsicles. That citric smell brings me back to the sandy beaches rich with the smell of coconut sun tan lotion.

Barbecued bananas and vanilla ice cream at friends’ parties remind me of our ‘just-married’ social life. Vanilla ice cream between soggy wafers reminds me of the kids’ birthdays. Raspberry ripple stained t-shirts and ice-cream and chocolate sauce covered mouths reminds me of my growing boys.

All these tastes have sounds, all these sounds have memories.

It’s only been a few months since Charlie has left me and I do very little these days but sit in my house. I cry and binge on Ben and Jerry’s Cookies and Cream. Cookies and cream will forever hold these memories of tears, stinging eyes, rolled up snotty tissues covering every surface and an aching heart. This was my routine until last Monday. After Monday there was a noticeable change in my behaviour.

I knew summer was beginning when I heard that sound, the wonderful twinkling, tinkling music of the ice-cream van. There was such excitement on the street. Children ran into their homes to beg their parents for money for treats. The music lightened the mood and it made the day brighter as the distinctive tune danced from the speakers. It tickled and teased everyone’s senses. That sound immediately reminded me of the smell of barbecues drifting over back garden walls. Summer was here. Brightness was here. Hope was here.

I used to feel trapped. I used to feel like I had been stuck down a valley for days with a broken leg. I felt that I couldn’t go anywhere or help myself. The sound of that approaching van was the equivalent of hearing a rescue helicopter. Mr. Whippy was my rescue team. Those tinkling fairground sounds saved me that day.

The man in the van who called himself Mr. Whippy brought smiles to everyone’s faces, caused parents and children to rush to his side. That man with the twinkle in his eye brought brightness into the life that for me had become so dark.

And I immediately wanted to be Mrs. Whippy.