Mollie Cinnamon Is Not a Cupcake Read online

  I shake my head, unnerved by her first question. How on earth did she know…?

  As if reading my mind, Alanna nods at the button badges pinned to my rucksack. “Audrey Hepburn, Judy Garland and the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz. Old school – a girl after my own heart. It’s from the 1930s, that film. I’m surprised you know it.”

  “I used to watch it with my granny. It’s my favourite film.”

  “I love it too. So what brings you to the island, Mollie?”

  I hesitate. I’m sure Nan has already told her and she’s just being polite.

  “Sorry, you probably want to eat your croissant in peace.” She starts to get up.

  “No, it’s OK,” I say quickly. “Flora, that’s my mum, is away working, so I’m staying with Nan. Flora’s a television presenter. She’s working on a new travel show for RTÉ and she’s leaving for Sydney tomorrow and then Auckland.”

  “Lucky her,” Alanna says. Often when I tell people about Flora’s job they’re very impressed, but Alanna doesn’t seem all that awed by it. “New Zealand is magic. I did the whole camper-van thing a few years ago. Whale watching, glaciers, smelly mud springs − the works. It was an amazing trip.”

  I’m surprised. She doesn’t look all that grown up, but maybe that’s because she’s so small. She must be at least eighteen if she’s running her own cafe. “On your own?” I ask her. “Or with your parents?”

  Before Alanna can answer, the Italian woman appears beside us. “May I order another Americano, please? Your coffee is very good.”

  Alanna jumps to her feet. “Of course.”

  “We have heard about your dolphin,” the woman continues. “Do you think he will be here today?”

  Dolphin? Flora never said anything about a dolphin. I sit up a little.

  “I think he just might,” Alanna says. “Let me pop outside and have a look for you.” She smiles at me. “Nice talking to you, Mollie.”

  “You too.” I try to smile back at her, but I don’t think it reaches my eyes. I’m still feeling pretty homesick.

  After eating my croissant, which is delicious, I cup my hands around the hot chocolate and look out of the window. A few small fishing boats are bobbing up and down in the harbour, and tubby yellow-beaked seagulls are either perched on stone bollards or swooping over the water. OK, it’s all very pretty and quaint and everything, but it’s so quiet. What do people around here do for fun?

  I spot Alanna on the pier. Her hands are held up to her mouth and she seems to be calling to someone on one of the fishing boats. And then I see something in the water at the mouth of the harbour – a pale grey curve. I lean forwards and squint. It’s a dolphin!

  It leaps out of the water and I almost squeal with excitement. I’ve never seen a dolphin before. Not in real life. There’s a pod of dolphins living in Killiney Bay and Flora’s always promising to take me to see them, but she never has. Animals aren’t really her thing. I smile a real smile, and for a moment I feel happy.

  “That’s Click,” Nan says, coming up to me. “He lives in the bay. Beautiful, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  He disappears under the waves. I watch for a moment, but he doesn’t come back up again.

  “Your mum sent you lots of hugs and kisses. She wishes you were flying out with her.”

  “Did Flora really say that?” Flora made it quite clear that I couldn’t go to Australia and New Zealand, full stop. And believe me, I spent days trying to change her mind.

  Nan blushes. “She didn’t use those exact words, but I’m sure that’s what she meant. She’s a bit frantic with all the packing.”

  I stay quiet. I know exactly what Flora is like when she’s obsessed with a new job or going away. And this time it’s both. The third thing that makes her all flustered and forgetful is a brand-new boyfriend. At least she doesn’t have one of those.

  “Don’t be too hard on your mum, child,” Nan says. “She’s nervous about this new job and it’s making her a bit … caught up with herself. It doesn’t mean that she isn’t thinking about you. Ellen was just the same. It was all rush, rush, rush when she was excited about something.”

  Eager to change the subject, I ask her, “What’s with all the dolls?”

  “It’s St Brigid’s Day. Don’t you celebrate it at home?”

  I wrinkle up my nose. “No! Who’s St Brigid?”

  Nan tuts. “Do they teach you nothing in school these days? St Brigid is an Irish saint. There is also a Celtic goddess of fertility and nature called Brigid. We celebrate both the saint and the coming of spring today, the first of February. The little dolls are called Brideógs and you can make a wish on one. Try it.” Nan passes me a little doll. “Hold her tight and make a wish.”

  I stare at the strange doll in my hands. Granny Ellen was very superstitious. She always saluted single magpies to ward off bad luck. She avoided walking under ladders and stepping on cracks in the pavement and picked up pins and “lucky pennies” all the time. She also made wishes on all kinds of things: shooting stars, rainbows, engagement rings. Granny Ellen would definitely make a wish.

  I want to tell Nan that wishing is stupid. I’ve made dozens of wishes before – quite serious ones – and they’ve never come true. But thinking of Granny Ellen has softened me a little. Maybe just this once my wish will come true.

  I close my eyes. Take me home.

  Chapter 3

  Nan’s house is called Summer Cottage. It doesn’t take long to get there. We drive up a small road and then turn right onto a muddy track with grass growing down the middle and bushes and trees on either side. Set back from the lane is a white two-storey house. I’m not sure what I was expecting – a falling-down farmhouse with hens pecking around the yard and mud everywhere, maybe – but it wasn’t this.

  “Here we are,” Nan says. “What do you think?”

  I take in the pale blue door and window frames, the flower pots full of nodding white snowdrops, the weeping willow tree in the middle of the large garden and the small wooden pagoda at the far end, which looks perfect for hiding away in and reading. There’s even a gurgling stream running down the side of the garden, with a small humpback bridge over it. The whole place is like something out of a fairy tale.

  I shrug. “It looks OK.”

  Nan’s mouth twitches. “Glad you approve.”

  Inside, the house is modern and bright and smells just like Granny Ellen’s house – a mixture of baking and fresh flowers. It’s warm too. Flora is always forgetting to pay the gas bill, so sometimes we don’t have heating for days and the apartment is so cold you can blow out puffs that hang in the air like dragon’s breath. Plus, the communal hallway smells of curry and bins. At least our apartment smells nice as Flora always has a scented candle on the go. She once blew a month’s grocery money on a posh Jo Malone one that smelled of orange blossom. Granny Ellen said Flora has champagne taste on a lemonade budget.

  Nan closes the front door behind me. “Leave your bag at the end of the stairs,” she tells me. “I’ll show you the kitchen first.”

  I follow her down the hall. The right-hand wall is full of framed photographs. They’re mainly pictures of the island, and of a stocky red-haired man. In one photo he’s wearing an old-fashioned black teacher’s cloak over a tweedy suit, like one of the professors in Harry Potter. He’s grinning, making his eyes go all crinkly.

  “That’s PJ,” Nan says, following my gaze. “Your great-grandpa. He ran the island’s primary school. Have you never seen a photo of him?”

  I shake my head. “Did Flora meet him?” I never met my own grandad, Granny Ellen’s husband. He was much older than she was and he died before I was born.

  Nan goes quiet for a second. “It was complicated. Ellen wasn’t keen on island life. She wanted something different. After she left Little Bird she only came back a handful of times when your mum was little. Flora did meet him, but she may not remember very clearly. She was at his funeral, all right, but Ellen and I—” Nan stop
s abruptly. “It’s all in the past now, child. No need to burden you with it. Let’s just say that Ellen and I quarrelled and I regret it deeply. I’m a stupid, stubborn old woman and your granny was a wonderful person.” She smiles at me. Then she points at another photo. “You’re the spit of her at that age. She was about eleven when I took that one.”

  Granny Ellen is sitting cross-legged on a beach towel, a comic resting on her knees. Her head is turned towards the camera, showing her dark blue eyes, nose dotted with freckles and wavy, flaming-red hair. Nan’s right − it’s like looking in a mirror.

  “Where was the photo taken?” I ask. “Is that beach on the island?”

  “That’s Horseshoe Bay, down near the harbour. We swim there when the weather is better. Now, I can smell that stew. I hope it’s not burning. This way.”

  I look at Nan’s photos a moment longer before following her. They’re good. Really good. Like images you’d see in a magazine. I think about telling her that, but I suddenly feel shy. I know I’ve been a bit stand-offish since I got here. I need to be nicer, to say thank you once in a while. Granny Ellen was big on manners.

  The kitchen is cosy, with a cream Aga, sky-blue cupboards and a dresser full of hand-painted pottery. There’s a wooden table in the centre of the room and an alcove in one corner with a desk and a laptop.

  “I spend most of my time in here,” Nan says, planting her bum against the Aga. “I love baking. Does Flora cook?”

  “She’s too busy. She’s the takeaway queen of Dublin.”

  Nan laughs. “I see. And what about you? Do you like to cook?”

  “Sometimes.” Actually, I love cooking, but I don’t get much chance any more. I used to do lots of baking at Granny Ellen’s house, but the kitchen in our apartment is tiny – more like a cupboard than a room – and the electric cooker barely works. Plus, cooking wouldn’t be the same without Granny Ellen.

  Nan checks the stew, which smells delicious. My stomach gurgles.

  “We’ll eat very soon,” Nan reassures me. “It just needs another twenty minutes or so. Would you like to see the rest of the house while we’re waiting?”

  “Sure. I mean, yes, please.”

  I follow Nan down the hallway again. There’s a small study full of packed bookshelves and a living room with a black pot-bellied stove and a squashy cream sofa. There’s also a huge flat screen TV. I smile when I spot it.

  “Not so stuck in the dark ages, am I, child?” Nan says, nodding at the telly. “I love watching movies on a decent-sized screen – it makes it more like the cinema. Do you like films?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Ellen loved films. It must run in the family. I thought we could have a proper cinema night once a week. With popcorn and hot dogs. You can pick the film. Nothing too noisy or action-packed, mind. I’m not a big fan of films with lots of explosions or screechy-tyre car chases. Classics are more my thing. Right, let’s get you settled into your room. It’s up the wooden hill.”

  That’s something Granny Ellen used to say – “wooden hill” instead of “stairs”. And “heavens to Betsy” for “oh dear.” That one always made me laugh.

  As soon as I walk into the bedroom I know there’s something funny about it. It looks perfectly normal, although I’m not loving the Disney-Princess-style canopy over the bed, but the room feels different to the rest of the house − older and musty, like it hasn’t been lived in for a long time. Nan’s acting oddly too. She’s standing in the doorway with this stiff, forced smile on her face.

  “This was Ellen’s room,” she says. “But it’s yours now. No one’s stayed in here for quite some time, so I’m sorry if it’s a bit stuffy. I did air it, but…”

  I shiver. I believe in ghosts, you see. I’ve never actually seen one, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Granny Ellen believed in them too. “Don’t be scared of the spirits, Mollie,” she always said. “They’re just souls waiting to pass into heaven. They don’t mean us any harm. Think of them as guardian angels.”

  For a second I imagine that Granny Ellen is in the room watching me, maybe even smiling, her eyes twinkling, and I don’t feel scared any more. How could I be afraid of Granny Ellen?

  “Are you all right, child?” Nan asks.

  I give myself a shake. “Just thinking about Granny Ellen,” I say honestly.

  “I understand. Ellen was special, all right − always the brightest thing in a room. PJ used to say there are people in this world and there are people.” Nan presses her lips together, her eyes wet. “You must miss her.”

  I nod silently. I don’t trust myself to say anything without crying.

  “There’s another room if you prefer,” she says, “but it’s awfully small.”

  “No, this one is nice.”

  “Good. And I can change anything you don’t like.”

  Apart from the canopy, which is a bit young for me, the bedroom is lovely and it’s much bigger than my room at home. It has a window seat, bookshelves and even a desk. I’ve never had my own desk before. I usually have to do my homework on the kitchen table.

  On the wall above the desk is a framed painting of a woman with a shock of wild red hair. She’s wearing a red wool cape and there’s an ancient-looking curved gun tucked into her belt. I know exactly who she is − Red Moll, the famous Irish pirate queen.

  “That picture belonged to your granny,” Nan says. “PJ painted it for her. It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “Granny Ellen told me the old legends,” I say.

  “They’re not legends, child − it’s history. Red Moll was a real person and she lived right here on this island.”

  “I know,” I say. “I saw her castle from the ferry. Granny Ellen showed me pictures of it once, so I recognized it immediately.”

  “Did she tell you how Red Moll saved Little Bird from the Algerians?”

  “Fighting off the slave traders, you mean?” It was one of Granny Ellen’s favourite stories. She was obsessed with Red Moll. She even dragged me to a Red Moll re-enactment once. We had to dress up in costumes from the sixteen hundreds. She made them herself. She was Red Moll in a chestnut-brown linen tunic and a billowing red wool cloak (called a “bratt”, which made me giggle), with a curved gun (a fake!) that she found on eBay tucked into her leather belt. I was one of her daughters in a matching outfit, but without the gun. Red Moll had three daughters and two sons, but because she was so busy as a pirate queen, she gave them to her sister to look after.

  At the re-enactment we got to sail on a galley ship along the quays in Dublin and then we freed some “slaves” from another gang of people who were dressed up as Algerian slave traders. It was all a bit weird, but Granny Ellen loved it.

  When I finish telling Nan about the re-enactment, she repeats the story I’ve heard so many times. “Those Algerians never knew what hit them. They were trying to raid Little Bird for slaves. Red Moll had been tipped off by a fisherman and she rounded up her men – over two hundred of them – and came tearing out of Dolphin Bay on one of her galley ships. She commanded her crew to howl like banshees and wave their swords in the air. She scared those slave traders right back to Africa. It was a different story for the poor folk at Baltimore down the coast,” she adds.

  “What happened to them?”

  “They didn’t have Red Moll to defend them. Slave traders sailed in and captured over a hundred people. They sold them all in the Algerian slave markets. Only three made it back to Ireland alive. It was called the Sack of Baltimore. Didn’t you do it in history class?”

  I shake my head. “We never do anything interesting. Just the Greeks and the Romans and stuff. When did it happen? The Sack thing.”

  “In sixteen thirty-one. Ten years after Red Moll’s death. They wouldn’t have dared if she was still around. Those slave traders were all terrified of her. The English Navy, too. She was forever raiding English merchant ships. She used to fight sea battles for whoever would pay her the most. She even fought for the French at one stage.
She was an amazing woman. I can see why Ellen loved her. And Flora must have caught the bug too, naming you after her.”

  “Granny Ellen told me they had a big fight about it. She wanted Flora to call me Moll, but Flora said it was too old-fashioned. So they settled on Mollie.”

  Then I think of something else Granny Ellen once said. “Did Red Moll really lift up a horse?”

  Nan smiles. “It was a foal with a broken leg. It had fallen down one of the cliffs on the far side of the island and she climbed down and rescued it.”

  “And we’re really related to her?”

  “Yes, we most certainly are.”

  I look out of the window at the bay where Red Moll sailed all those years ago.

  “Ellen loved to sit and look out at the sea,” Nan says. “She liked to imagine she was Red Moll, commanding her fleet.” She pauses before saying, “Mollie, I know it must be hard on you − new place, new people, everything reminding you of your granny and how much you miss her. I miss her too.”

  She looks at me. I get the feeling I’m supposed to say something, but I can’t think of anything. Of course I miss Granny Ellen − I miss her so much it hurts − but I don’t feel able to talk about it with someone I hardly know.

  When Nan realizes I’m not going to say anything, she continues, “Anyway, I’m pleased to have you here. No, more than pleased. I’m over the moon. I want to get to know you properly. We’re family after all.”

  “I’m only here two months,” I remind her yet again.

  “Yes, of course,” she replies quickly. “But in the meantime, I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

  As soon as Nan’s gone, I look around the room again. The white walls are so plain. Apart from the Red Moll painting and a small mirror by the door, they’re completely bare. I open up my rucksack and take out my big yellow notebook. Tucked inside is my prized collection – my signed movie-star photographs. They used to belong to Granny Ellen. She didn’t actually meet any of the movie stars, but she used to write to all their film studios and fan clubs and ask for autographs. She started doing it when she was a little girl. After she died, Flora wanted to sell them on the Internet. I nearly killed her. We had a big row and eventually she let me keep them. But I always carry them with me, just in case. I wish I could trust her, but you never know what Flora’s going to do.