Page 29 of The Cake Fairies
No matter what they were going through, it was nothing compared to this poor girl’s current plight. Annabelle couldn’t stop shaking as the image of her vertical drop into the ground replayed itself. She hardly dared to peer out of the window, but sneaked a look now, to see two hands clawing at the top of the excavation, desperate for a way out. So, shewasalive! That was something.
From what she’d seen, she was pretty sure that the girl wasn’t particularly tall, though. How in the hell were they going to pluck her out of there?
Nigel could move like he had a fire lit under his arse, when circumstances required it. He leapt from the vehicle in comic book hero style, ubiquitous expletive speech bubbles trailing cloud-like behind his head, stunned at the girl’s stupidity when there were bright red road works signs dotted all around, and stripy tape cordoning off the excavation besides.
Annabelle and Polly followed his lead against a cacophony of horns and curses from the traffic. The F-word had definitely gained in popularity over the decades. Together they peered into the hole in the pavement, wondering if they were strong enough to heave the girl out.
“Help me, HELP MEEEE!”
The girl let out a painful-sounding yelp as all three of them stood at the crater’s edge, gulping at the immensity of her predicament.
“You could have helped yourself in the first place, silly. Don’t text and drive? Don’t text and bloody walk either. Whatever happened to common freakin’ sense?”
“Nigel, I think she’s probably learnt her lesson already. Let’s get her out of there. Plenty of time for small talk later,” said Polly.
Nigel rummaged in the limo’s spacious boot and pulled out a tow rope. He tied it to a hook on the back of the vehicle, made a person-sized loop, and lowered it to the girl in the hole with the confidence of a former Boy Scout, gesturing at Annabelle and Polly (who themselves happened to have navigated the pioneering and orienteering waters of the Girl Guides) to help him pull. The teen reluctantly released her purple-manicured grip on the rim, wriggling the lasso over her head and down to her waist.
“What’s your name?” asked Annabelle in a bid to calm their new friend down.
“Ivy,” she snivelled, “Ivy Lee. But please don’t tell my mum… about my cl… clumsiness… she always said this would happen if I didn’t sort out the amount of time I was spending in my online bubble, and well, here we go.”
“Don’t worry about any of that for now.” Annabelle was stunned at the intricate life details Ivy could still embellish an answer with while knee (neck) deep in peril. “We won’t be telling a soul unless we can help it,” she reassured her. “More importantly than any of that, are you injured, sweetheart?”
“My foot hurts,” Ivy sniffed. “I don’t think it’s broken but it’s pretty sore.”
Between the three of them, they heaved Ivy from the gape in the ground in a tableau reminiscent of the Russian story about the giant turnip. She flopped onto the pavement, sobbing in relief, covered in mud and grit. Annabelle gently removed her right boot, and sock to examine her foot.
“Can you wiggle your toes, Ivy?”
“Yes, it’s just the ankle that’s throbbing.”
“Hmm. It’s a little on the puffy side, but I’m sure you’ll live.”
“My phone!” Ivy squealed.
“A thank you might be nice,” snapped Nigel. “The best place for your mobile telephone is right where it is, six foot under… before it threatens to finish you off as well next time. Man alive!”
He shook his head and recoiled the rope around his arm, heading back to the boot of the limo.
Ivy’s sobs became heavier as rubberneckers crawled past the unconventional scene. And where was an abandoned road worker’s spade to retrieve a girl’s beloved gadget when you needed one?
But Nigel, clearly relenting in the face of so many tears, plodded back with a heavy-duty shovel from the back of the car. Annabelle was beginning to suspect he might be a big softy at heart.
“Seriously? This is England, not Scandinavia.” Polly’s words could have cut through the thickest of ice.
Like Annabelle really needed to be reminded of the impending visit from a certain Dane. “Where do you live, Ivy?”
“In a small apartment above our takeaway in Chinatown. It’s just me and my mum and my brother. Dad died a few years ago. He’d gone home to visit family in Hong Kong and… it was a motorbike accident, heavy traffic on the Tsing Ma bridge, the lorry didn’t see him,” she sniffed.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry, Ivy.” Polly dived in instinctively to comfort Ivy with an overdue hug. A few flecks of rubble and dust might tarnish the appearance of her pristine outfit, thought Annabelle. She couldn’t wait to hit the shops with her recent cash windfall to sort out her hideous hand-me-downs. Amber Magnolia had to be joking if she thought she knew a thing about fashion.
Poor Ivy, though. She must have been the same age as Polly had been when she’d lost her father, Annabelle’s Uncle Henry. Guilt seemed to be piling up on Annabelle from all angles today. She’d had it pretty sweet in 1969, after all. A pang of homesickness threatened to engulf her, but this was neither the time nor the place. She made an executive decision. “I think she’s too shaken up to go home just yet, and I’d like to bandage that foot.”
Annabelle was glad her first aid badge skills were coming into their own, as Nigel prodded about with the shovel until he’d successfully rescued the phone. Arm outstretched, he brought the giant spade – and another generous helping of dirt – over to Ivy as if he were serving her dinner. Gratefully, she extracted it, clasping it between her palms – the talons of which weren’t just purple, but individually painted with tiny crocodiles – in a praying motion. Even Nigel managed half a smile at the randomness.
“Come back with us, then,” said Polly, who Annabelle sensed was trying a little too hard to prove that she could also make friends. “We’re… er… carrying out a study as well, as it happens – an anonymous study – on the effects of social media across a whole spectrum of ages. Not just teens.”
“Definitely not just teens.” Annabelle caught on to Polly’s inspired idea.
To be at one with the potential recipients of their cake drops, they needed to get inside their heads, understand what made them tick (and walk into holes); curate some empathy for the phenomenon that was their addiction. For as long as she was marooned in this place, she may as well milk her opportunities.
Things were about to get very interesting.
