X: Thirty-one Flavours

Thirty-one Flavours. That was a lie, for a start. Perhaps in New
York or London or even Glasgow they had thirty-one flavours, but in
this sorry city you'd be lucky to choose from a dozen. I'd spent three
months working in Mr McLure's ice cream parlour; three months of hating
everything about it.

I was sick of the front shop with its shiny white tiles and glass
counters that were forever needing wiped; sick of the grimy black
corners and curling lino out the back. Sick of the plate glass wall
that put me on display to passers by, so the boys from school could
gather outside to watch me mop the floor in a candy striped tunic that
strained in folds across my back and squeezed round the tops of my
arms. I was sick of Mr McLure, who spoke to me like I was an idiot, who
left me alone to cash up and lock up and take the bags of money to the
night-safe just as the pubs were letting out. Who, if the money was
short by even 20p, would accuse me of dipping the till.

Most of all, I was sick of ice cream. I may not have been helping
myself to McLure's takings, but my family and my friends had been
growing fat on his stock all summer. I smuggled it under the counter
like contraband, half litre tubs packed heavy with chocolate fudge
brownie and rocky road. And, bursting with resentment, I hid in the
back shop and gorged myself on cookies'n'cream and caramel, till I
popped out of my uniform and had to ask for a bigger size. I put on
twelve pounds in as many weeks. It was revenge eating.

My last night, Mr McLure told me: "Mind and turn everything off now.
You daft lassies leave the lights on all night, you're always costing
me money." And that was it. No good luck, no thanks for all your hard
work. I was a daft lassie costing him money, that was all. And off he
drove in his silver Merc, leaving me to lock up alone.

As I cleaned up I ticked off the tasks: this is the last time I
sterilise the scoops; this is the last time I polish the glass; this is
the last time I mop the floor. Outside, a gang of lads from my year
shouted and pulled faces. I flung floor-dirty water down the sink,
slammed shut the lids of the humming freezers, did my best to ignore
the laughter. I was out of here tomorrow.

Mind and turn everything off, he'd said.

Everything?

By the time the food poisoning scandal made the press I was 200 miles
away, in my first week at university and starting my first diet. I'd no
idea how dangerous melted ice cream could be, and though I knew McLure
was tight, I couldn't have guessed he'd be unscrupulous enough to
refreeze the stuff and sell it as though nothing was wrong. I certainly
didn't intend for him to end up in court, or to lose his business. I do
feel bad about it now. But not that bad. And I can only imagine his
face that morning when he walked into the shop to find all twelve of
his flavours melted to thick, sweet soup.