Mollie Cinnamon Is Not a Cupcake Read online

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to my beloved daughter, Amy-Rose, and my cousin Mollie O’Regan

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve always loved books about islands: Enid Blyton’s, Five on a Treasure Island and The Secret Island; the wonderful Irish adventure Island of the Great Yellow Ox by Walter Macken; the Anne of Green Gables books, which are set on Prince Edward Island in Canada; and a very old book called The Swiss Family Robinson, which my mum used to read to me, and is about a family who are stranded on a desert island.

  A few years ago, I stayed in a yurt (a round Mongolian tent) on a small island called Cape Clear. It was so quiet, so peaceful. There was no traffic noise, only the odd dog barking and birds calling. One night as I lay on the grass, looking at the stars – there were so many glittering above me that I saw not one but two shooting stars – I started to think about what it might be like to live on a small island.

  I decided I’d like to create and write stories about my very own island, Little Bird. At its heart would be a very special cafe, the Songbird Cafe − a place where everyone on the island meets. And then I introduced Mollie Cinnamon, a girl who is used to city life, and I stood back and watched the island’s magic cast its spell on her.

  I hope you have the chance to visit a stunning island like Cape Clear one day. Until then, you can read about Mollie and her journey from city slicker to island girl.

  Best and many wishes,

  Sarah XXX

  P. S. For teacher’s notes on using Mollie Cinnamon Is Not a Cupcake in the classroom, see www.SarahWebb.ie.

  Chapter 1

  As I watch from the window of the ferry, Little Bird Island gets bigger and bigger. I can just make out the harbour, and behind it, a stone castle covered in ivy, where Red Moll McCarthy once lived. She was a famous pirate queen and Granny Ellen said she is one of our ancestors. I was named after them both – Mollie Ellen Cinnamon.

  There’s a village just up from the harbour, the buildings all painted bright seasidey colours: strawberry pink, vanilla yellow, mint green. I can’t believe I’m about to be imprisoned on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere with people who think it’s normal to paint their house the colour of ice cream! And Little Bird is such a weird name for an island. It sounds like something from Sesame Street. I’m doomed.

  Flora dropped me at the bus terminal this morning and made the driver promise to keep an eye on me. Then she had the nerve to get all bleary-eyed and emotional.

  “I’m going to miss you, Mollie Mops,” she said, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. “I’ll say hello to the kangaroos and wallabies for you. Be good for your great-granny, OK? And email me all your news, promise? Sorry I can’t travel with you, but I have so much packing to do. You know what I’m like, darling, last minute dot com.”

  “Don’t forget your passport this time,” I said. “It’s in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter, remember?”

  She gave one of her tinkling laughs and squeezed me even closer. “How am I going to survive without you? I miss you already, sweetie. See you in three weeks for our Parisian adventure.” And then she kissed the tip of my freckled nose, and off she skipped, abandoning me, her only daughter, to my fate.

  At first the bus ride wasn’t too bad − most of it was on the motorway − but the journey along the coast took for ever, worse luck. The roads were so winding and bumpy that I felt really sick. When we finally got to the ferry terminal, the bus driver insisted on walking me to the boat, like I was five. It was so embarrassing.

  The journey across the sea took about forty lumpy minutes and now the mainland is a grey-and-green curve behind us. The little ferry has just docked. Flora told me to stay on it and that my great-granny would come and find me. So I wait alone in the cabin, surrounded by cardboard boxes and oddly shaped packages.

  The ferry is ancient and smells of diesel fumes and rotten fish. I’m dying to get off, so I jump up from the orange plastic seat and stick my head through the doorway, almost crashing into a white-haired woman.

  “Oops, careful, child,” she says. “Mollie? Is that you?” She has a strong accent, all sing-songy.

  I nod.

  She smiles, making her bright blue eyes twinkle. “I’m your great-granny. Call me Nan. Everyone does. You’re very welcome to Little Bird. It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

  I’m not sure what I was expecting from my great-granny, but it wasn’t a petite woman in muddy green wellies with a long white plait down her back. Flora’s tall and so was Granny Ellen.

  “Have you got your bags, child?” she asks me.

  She’s called me child twice now. How old does she think I am? I may be small for my age, but I’m nearly thirteen. I don’t say anything, just nod. I know it’s a bit rude, but it feels really weird being here.

  I’ve spoken to Nan on the phone a few times recently (which was super Awkward with a capital A), but I’ve never met her in person. She and Flora don’t exactly get on, which is another reason why being here is strange. I guess Flora was so desperate to get rid of me she’d have sent me anywhere.

  I swing my rucksack over my shoulder and pick up my travel bag. “What is all this?” I ask as I almost trip over a rectangular package that must be at least three metres long.

  “That’s a tree,” Nan says. “The smaller boxes are probably books or DVDs. Everything that comes to the island is dropped off by ferry. There’s no postal service, so Alanna takes in the packages, rings the people they belong to and they come and collect them.”

  “Who’s Alanna?”

  Instead of answering my question, Nan asks, “Are you hungry?”

  “A bit.” I’m starving. We left the apartment at nine and it’s now four. There wasn’t any bread in the house so I couldn’t make sandwiches. All I’ve had today are an apple and a packet of crisps. Flora says I’m a demon if I haven’t been fed. She’s the opposite – she often forgets to eat. She can go a whole day on one piece of toast.

  “In that case you’re about to meet Alanna in person,” Nan says. She leaps off the ferry deck and then scrambles up the old stone steps in the harbour wall like a mountain goat. She walks towards a tiny cream Fiat 500 that is parked a few metres away. I follow her, my stuffed bag hitting my shins with every step.

  She points over at a sky-blue building. “That’s Alanna’s place − the Songbird Cafe.”

  The cafe looks nice. It has a wooden sign swinging over the door and white tables outside with matching chairs. There’s a wooden conservatory to the left, a big window overlooking the harbour at the front and a cluster of metal dog bowls near the door.

  Besides the cafe, there is a tourist office, a craft shop, a pub called The Islander’s Rest and a small grocery shop. And that’s it. There must be another village on the island, a bigger one.

  “Are you all right, Mollie?” Nan asks me. “You’re being very quiet.”

  No, I’m not all right − I miss Dublin and Flora already. But I don’t know Nan at all and I don’t want to talk to her about this stuff. I gulp down the lump in my throat, nod again and say, “Fine.”

  “Let’s get your bag in t
he car then,” she says, her voice all bright and chirpy.

  After putting my bag in the boot of her little car, we head to the cafe. I clutch my rucksack against my chest, needing to keep something from home close by me. It’s quiet on the island, so different to the city, and I’m starting to feel very alone and lost − like the little alien E.T., abandoned on planet earth. I don’t know anyone here. What was Flora thinking? I can’t believe she’s leaving me here for two whole months.

  “What do you like doing in Dublin?” Nan asks me as we walk to the cafe. “Are you into sport?”

  “Not really.”

  “What are you interested in then? Music? Writing? Drama?”

  “Nothing, really.” Which is a complete lie. Movies are my life. I just don’t feel like answering her right now.

  “Come on, you must like something. How about television? Do you watch your mum when she’s on?”

  “Sometimes,” I admit. My mum, Flora Cinnamon, is a television presenter. She started off doing the “continuity”, which means talking between the shows – you know, “Gosh, wasn’t that exciting? Stay tuned for more drama in EastEnders, coming up next.” Then she was a weather girl for a few years, and she’s just landed a job presenting a new holiday programme called Travelling Light. She’ll be filming in amazing cities all over the world: Paris, Rome, New York. The first stop is Sydney, Australia, and then Auckland, New Zealand. Unfortunately she can’t take me with her as I’d miss too much school. That’s why I’m on Little Bird being interrogated by Nan.

  I’m dreading attending the local school while I’m staying here. I won’t know a soul. But here’s the good news − Flora’s promised to take me to Paris with her in three weeks’ time. We have it all worked out. She’s going to come and collect me. We’ll spend the weekend together in Paris and I’ll get to watch her filming some of her show in the most romantic city in the world – imagine! I can’t wait. Flora’s always really busy with work and her friends and we don’t get to spend much time together just the two of us, so it’s going to be ultra special. She’s promised we can visit the lock bridges − where lovers put their initials on a padlock and secure it to the metal railings of the bridge, pledging their amour for ever (how swoony is that?). And we’re going to see the Eiffel Tower.

  “She’s doing very well, isn’t she, your mum?” Nan says, interrupting my thoughts. “I love watching her. When’s her new show on the telly?”

  “It starts in May, I think. Flora isn’t quite sure.”

  “Flora? Is that what you call her?”

  “Yes. She says ‘Mum’ makes her feel old.” Flora’s twenty-nine. She had me when she was seventeen and she’s always telling me how young she is to be a mum.

  Nan smiles. “If ‘Mum’ sounds old, then ‘Great-Granny’ sounds positively ancient. I can’t believe I have a great-granddaughter who’s so grown up.” She pauses for a second, then says, “Mollie, I know this must be difficult for you, but I’m delighted to have you here. I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time now. I think you’ll like Little Bird.”

  “I doubt it. Flora says it’s the most boring place in the universe.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and I instantly feel bad.

  Nan just gives a surprised laugh and says, “Your mum is a bright-lights, big-city kind of girl. Like my Ellen was. But I know Ellen loved the island in her own way, and maybe you’ll grow to love it too.”

  Granny Ellen was Flora’s mum. Which makes her Nan’s daughter. She died two years ago. I wish Nan wouldn’t talk about Granny Ellen. I don’t like thinking about her − it makes me too sad. But I don’t say anything. Nan wouldn’t understand. Flora says they weren’t close.

  “It’s quiet here, but you’ll get used to it,” Nan adds. “And the harbour and the village can get quite busy in the summer.”

  “There are other shops, right?” I ask. “Places to buy clothes and stuff? A cinema? A Chinese?” I love Chinese noodles.

  “Mollie, it’s a small island. The population’s tiny – less than two hundred. Everyone orders what they need from the Internet. We’re very lucky − the island has a broadband connection every Saturday. We all trek down to the library and queue up to use the one computer on Little Bird.”

  “What?”

  She smiles. “Ha! Got you. We have broadband in the house. Don’t look so horrified. We’re not all that backward. If you need clothes, we can order them online, and I have lots of movies on DVD.” She pushes open the door to the cafe. “Now let’s get you some food. Ellen used to get really ratty if she hadn’t eaten. Are you the same?”

  “No!” I say, a little too loudly.

  Nan laughs. “Of course not.”

  Chapter 2

  The old-fashioned bell over the door tinkles as we walk into the cafe. I’m hit by the smell of baking, which reminds me of Granny Ellen again. My eyes start to sting with tears. Luckily Nan doesn’t seem to notice.

  Granny Ellen never talked about Nan. Flora says they had some sort of mega argument a long time ago. I wasn’t allowed to ask Granny Ellen about it. That’s why I’ve never been to Little Bird before or met Nan. The last time Flora was on the island was for her grandpa’s funeral when she was fifteen, and she hasn’t been back since.

  Granny Ellen used to look after me while Flora was working and I loved hanging out with her. She’d help me with my homework and we’d bake together – she loved making cakes. She died two years ago of a brain haemorrhage. One of the neighbours found her collapsed at her front door, but it was too late by then. I was so upset I went quiet for days and I couldn’t eat a thing. Flora was really worried about me because I was just so sad. How could someone be there one minute, perfectly healthy, and then gone the next? It didn’t make sense. I still miss her every day.

  Some nights I dream about Granny Ellen. We’re doing ordinary things like watching old movies or baking together. Then I wake up and realize that she’s gone and I cry.

  Suddenly a warm hand touches mine as a dark-haired girl presses a white paper napkin into my palm. I quickly dab my eyes and then shove the napkin into my pocket before Nan sees.

  “Hiya, Nan,” the girl says, giving Nan a warm hug. She’s amazing looking – willowy, with an oval face and strong, cat-like cheekbones. She could be a supermodel if she wasn’t so small. She has the most incredible emerald-green eyes, with tiny flecks of gold dancing around the pupils. For a second I’m lost in them.

  “Alanna, this is Mollie,” Nan says.

  “You’re very welcome to the Songbird, Mollie,” Alanna says. “It’s great to have you on the island. Come in and say hi whenever you feel like it.” From the kind look in the girl’s eyes, I know Nan’s been telling her all about me. How I’m only staying here because my mum can’t find anyone else to mind me for so long. How I don’t have a dad to stay with.

  Her pity makes me bristly and irritated. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I adjust my rucksack, which is heavy on my shoulder, and look at the squashy leather sofa by the window. “Can I have a hot chocolate with marshmallows and a croissant, please? Do I have to come up and collect it?”

  Alanna looks taken aback. “No, I’ll bring it over to you.”

  “Thanks.” As soon as I sit down I realize how rude I’ve been. Alanna was only trying to be friendly and welcoming. I’m such an idiot.

  Nan continues talking to Alanna, and I catch snippets of their conversation. They don’t know I have super hearing.

  “Sorry about that,” Nan is saying. “She’s tired and I think she’s a wee bit homesick.”

  “That’s OK. I understand.”

  “Any news from the bank, pet?”

  Alanna sighs. “They’re going over your figures, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “Can they not see how important this place is to Little Bird? The cafe can’t close − it’s the island’s heart. And it’s your home. They have no right to—” Nan stops suddenly.

  “Are you OK, Nan?” Alanna asks.

>   “Just a touch of angina,” she says, wincing. “I’ve been getting it a lot lately. Nothing to worry about.” She notices me watching and I look away quickly.

  I can’t make out anything else as they’ve lowered their voices, but, as Granny Ellen used to say, I can feel my ears burning. They’re obviously talking about me again. Great − just what I need. And from the sound of things, this cafe is closing down, which is a shame because it’s quite cosy and pretty. Not that it really matters to me. In two months I’m out of here!

  Nan walks towards me. “I’m just popping outside to ring Flora. Let her know you’ve arrived. Would you like to speak to her?”

  My eyes start to well up at the mention of Flora’s name and I blink the tears away. “Maybe later.”

  “I understand. I won’t be long, pet.”

  So here I am, alone again. My phone is out of battery, so I can’t text my best friend, Shannon, and I’ve left my book – Hollywood Movie Stars of the 1950s –in my other bag. It’s one of Granny Ellen’s old books. Flora says it’s too grown up for me, but it’s really interesting and full of cool black-and-white photos of people like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly. Granny Ellen was mad about 1950s movie stars. She always said they don’t make actresses like they used to. She loved their glossy hair and glamorous clothes. “Real women with real curves,” she’d say. “Not like those modern movie stars who look like they’d fall down a drain. No, give me Marilyn Monroe or Maureen O’Hara any day.”

  To stop myself getting sad about Granny Ellen again, I look around the cafe. Chains of funny-looking straw dolls, joined together by their little straw hands, are strung across the walls and the window, and there’s a doll on every table, resting against the salt and pepper holders. All the dolls are dressed in white cotton skirts and green cloaks. Weird.

  The place is empty apart from a man and a woman on the far side of the room speaking another language – Italian, I think. It’s not like the cafe down the road from our apartment, which is always buzzing.

  “So you’re a movie buff?” Alanna slides a hot chocolate and a croissant onto the coffee table in front of me. “Mind if I sit down for a second?”