SugarPop

The morning had the kind of shine that felt painted on, a varnish of sunlight laid over every brick, every windowpane, every leaf trembling in the garden hedges. I stepped into it with my best frock pressed neat and my hair tied up in a ribbon the colour of boiled raspberry sweets, already sticky at the edges from the heat. Edenvale always smelled sweeter on festival days, as though the streets themselves had been dusted in powdered sugar. I breathed deep, and the air was warm with vanilla from the bakery stalls, candied almonds turning in great copper pans, and the faint fizz of sherbet as it clung to children’s fingers. It was enough to make my teeth ache in my skull, but pleasantly so, like the promise of something indulgent.

Everywhere I looked there were colours, more brilliant than seemed possible in nature, colours that practically hummed as they struck the eye. The bunting overhead draped from lamppost to lamppost, stripes of butter-yellow and cherry-red fluttering like tongues in the breeze. Little girls twirled beneath them, their dresses ballooning, their cheeks dusted with the glittering sprinkles handed out by the council this morning. Even the cobblestones seemed polished, their usual cracks lost beneath chalk drawings of lollipops and fizzy bottles and the smiling faces of peppermint men. I found myself grinning too, because how could one not? The town looked as though it had been dipped in syrup and left to crystallise in the sun.

I could hear the music before I saw the bandstand, bright brass, cheerful as whistling birds, with the drums thumping a heartbeat beneath it. My shoes tapped along without asking me, as though even my feet couldn’t resist. All down the street, shop windows shone with their best wares, towers of toffees balanced in glass jars, cream cakes stacked high enough to tempt the pigeons, rows of marzipan fruits glistening like real plums and apricots. Children darted from one display to the next, mouths open, pockets bulging. Their mothers laughed indulgently, though I noticed they clutched their own paper bags just as tightly. Everyone was allowed to be greedy today. Greed was practically a virtue when the whole town celebrated together.

It was hard not to get swept up. I tried to keep a dignified pace, as Father always said a lady should, but my eyes leapt and darted to every little marvel, the fizz-powder boys throwing coloured smoke into the air, the carousel gleaming with fresh paint, the ribbons curling like sugar-strands from every post. A woman passed me with a tray strapped to her front, calling out the day’s specials: Treacle Chews, Jammy Whirls, Peppermint Shards, Licorice Knots, Fizz-Whips, Bubble-Burst Drops. My mouth watered, though I had only just had breakfast. I told myself I would try them all, every last one, because today was the day for it. If not today, when?

And everywhere, above the music and chatter and the squeals of children already on their third helping, I saw the banners. Dozens of them, strung high in cheerful arcs across the square, the letters hand-painted in a script so round it seemed to laugh at you. They swayed gently in the breeze, catching the sunlight.

Happiness is Sweet!

Children darted between legs like minnows, their paper bags puffed with sherbet clouds that trailed after them in little puffs of pastel. A boy with freckles down his nose clutched a Lemon Lolly longer than his forearm, the syrup glinting wet and golden in the sunlight. He laughed when it dripped onto his shirt, though his mother only shook her head, licking a Cherry Drop of her own until her lips gleamed redder than rouge. Everywhere, there was laughter, the kind that bubbled up from chests, that spilled over and tangled with the brass notes in the air. I thought for a moment that even the rooftops seemed to lean closer, listening in on the merriment.

A group of girls passed me, skipping two by two with licorice ropes, their shoes clapping against the stones in a rhythm that matched the bandstand’s drums. The black twists bounced with each step, snapping tight then loose again, a shiny bow here, a neat knot there. Their ribbons and curls caught the sun like stained glass, throwing tiny shimmers across the cobbles, as though the very air had learned to play along. They sang nonsense rhymes between giggles, the sort of half-songs children make up on the spot, with the words sticky as toffee and twice as sweet.

At the curb, two men bent over the hood of a polished motorcar, its bonnet reflecting the world like liquid chocolate. They weren’t really working on it, not today, but they buffed and shined as though polishing off their pride itself. One raised his hand in greeting, and I found myself waving back, though I hardly knew him. That was Edenvale: everyone familiar, everyone dear, even strangers. Their wives stood close by, sundresses swaying like sugared buns in the breeze, glasses of cola fizzing in their hands, chatter bubbling up quicker than the drinks. I wondered if they tasted the sweetness in the air with every sip, because I did.

And beyond them, beyond the chatter and skipping and song, I saw the banners ripple and the bunting twist on its string, all the colours of boiled sweets stretched against the sky. For a moment I thought I could hear the fabric itself whisper, like tissue paper being unfolded, but it was only the laughter echoing, stretched thin by the wind.

Making the whole place feels like a Norman Rockwell painting dipped in sugar.

The sky stretched high and blue above us, polished as though it had been scrubbed for the occasion. A soft drift of clouds slid lazily across it, round and white as dollops of clotted cream spooned onto a tart. They never seemed in any hurry, only gliding, as if the day itself were content to take its time. I tilted my face toward them and felt the sun press warm against my skin, sweeter than the buttery shortbread melting in shop windows. It was the sort of sky that made you want to laugh for no reason at all, to stretch your arms and spin until the hem of your dress caught the air.

I thought about how Mother always said the weather was Edenvale’s finest blessing. No sudden showers to spoil a picnic, no wind sharp enough to whip the hats from our heads. There was only warmth, only ease, a kindness in the very air that settled on the shoulders like a shawl. I wondered if the roses in the gardens grew more brilliant here because of it, or if the grass lay softer under bare feet for the same reason. The thought made me smile, of course they did. Of course it was so.

The sky overhead looks perfect, it’s blue sky drifting with white clouds, though it’s never stormed or rained here, it just is.

I hardly made it two steps further before a man in a striped waistcoat and bowler hat called out to me from behind a stall, his voice warm as treacle. “Go on, love, have a taste. Festival’s no place for an empty mouth.” He held out a little paper twist, the kind you’d tuck into a pocket and forget about until it rattled loose with lint. Inside glowed a sweet like a nugget of captured sunshine, bright yellow and dusted in sugar fine as flour.

I hesitated, more for show than sense, because everyone knew the rule of festival day, you never refused a sample. To turn away was to turn your back on joy itself, and who’d want to be thought of like that? So I pinched the paper between my fingers and the man winked at me, his teeth flashing, each one perfectly even, almost too neat to be real. “That’s a Lemon Twist, sweetheart. Fresh batch this morning. You’ll not taste better.”

A girl no older than ten stood beside me, her cheeks sticky with melted fudge. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve and pointed to the tray. “Can I, Mum? Please?” Her mother sighed but nodded, and soon the little girl was giggling around her mouthful, her laughter bubbling like ginger beer.

I unwrapped mine carefully, the sugar crackling between my fingers. The sweet caught the light as though it were alive, its glossy coat gleaming like polished glass. I brought it to my lips, and the smell of sharp citrus made my nose prickle. “Go on, then,” I heard the vendor chuckle, almost conspiratorial. “Let it dance a bit.”

I bit into the Lemon Twist. It fizzes like soda pop on the tongue, sending a wave of warmth and joy through them.

The fizz hadn’t even faded from my tongue before I was swept along with the crowd toward the square, where everyone was chattering about sweets as though they were fine treasures. You could hear it everywhere, a low hum of bragging and comparing, the way some men in town might talk about cigars or sherries. Only here it wasn’t tobacco or wine, it was sherbet, fudge, and drops.

“Cherry Jubilee,” a stout man declared proudly, his chest puffed like a pigeon’s. He had his arm draped around his wife, who nodded fiercely in agreement, her apron already powdered with flour from the morning’s baking. “Wouldn’t eat anything else. Not in this house.”

His daughter, freckles darting across her nose like sugar sprinkles, chimed in with a mouthful of bun. “Mum makes Jubilee Biscuits too, don’t she? And Cherry Jubilee sponge. Whole loaf, gone in a day.”

The mother laughed, wiping her hands against the apron. “That’s true enough. I could bake two more and still find crumbs on the counter by evening.”

I wanted to say how good that sounded, but another family joined in before I could. A tall, thin woman with a wicker basket on her arm sniffed like she’d caught a whiff of vinegar. “Well, Cherry’s all well and good,” she said, “but nothing compares to Honeycomb Crusts. My boys won’t touch anything else, not when I’ve got a tray cooling by the window.”

The boys at her side puffed their chests, their teeth shining golden from the sweets they were already gnawing. “Honeycomb!” one shouted, and the other echoed him like a cheer.

A man behind me muttered to his wife about his preference for Clotted Cream Fancies, while a boy no older than six sang the praises of Jammy Ripple Tarts, his lips sticky with the filling. Every voice was full of certainty, of pride, as though their chosen flavor weren’t just a treat but a badge of loyalty. I couldn’t help laughing at it, the seriousness with which they debated, the joy they took in defending what they loved. It all seemed so terribly important, and in that moment, I suppose it was.

The crowd began to shift, a ripple moving toward the bandstand. Brass polished bright as sugar tins gleamed in the sunlight, and the council men in their suits and medals stepped aside as the mayor climbed the steps. He was round and red-cheeked, his waistcoat straining over his belly, but his voice carried strong across the square.

“People of Edenvale!” he called, and the chatter dimmed at once, as though someone had turned down the dial on a wireless. “Today we celebrate what makes us who we are. Our sweets, our breads, our puddings, they are not mere indulgences, no. They are our heritage, our lifeblood, the very spirit of this town.”

Applause broke out, loud and proud. A woman near me shouted “Hear, hear!” and clapped so hard her paper bag split, spilling sugared almonds onto the cobbles. She didn’t even stop to pick them up.

The mayor raised his arms, his voice swelling like the brass band waiting behind him. “We eat together, we laugh together, and we share in the joy that has been passed down through generations. And let it be known…” he paused, surveying us with a grin broad as a toffee tin lid, “…that Edenvale is strong, proud, and united.”

The mayor’s last word had barely left his lips before the band struck up again, a gleaming crash of cymbals that shivered right through the square. The trumpets soared, high and bright as birds startled into flight, while the tubas grumbled underneath like a stomach begging for pudding. I clapped with the rest, the rhythm carrying us all into one shared pulse, one shared breath. Children leapt onto the cobbles to spin, their arms flung wide, skirts flaring, trousers muddied at the knees, and their laughter wove itself neatly into the music, as though it were meant to be part of the tune.

I edged out of the press of bodies, my shoes tapping against the stones in time with the drums, and found myself drifting toward the side street where a little cart stood alone, its striped awning pulled taut in the sun. It looked newer than the others, less worn, the paint on its wheels still bright and unchipped. A hand-painted sign leaned against the front, the letters swirled in jaunty curls of blue and silver:

“Try Blueberry Breeze!”

The fellow behind the cart was young, not much older than myself, with sleeves rolled high and hair slicked into a neat side parting. He was laughing at something a boy said — a local lad, sticky-cheeked, clutching a bag already half-full, but when he caught sight of me he straightened and offered a paper cup with a flourish. Inside nestled a jewel-bright sweet, blue as summer twilight and speckled with a dusting of silver that winked in the light.

“Go on, love,” he said, his voice rolling easy, a Midlands lilt softened by charm. “First batch of the day. Fresh as a daisy.”

The boy at his side piped up, his words tumbling over themselves. “Tastes like the sea! Proper does, miss. Like waves in your mouth!” His teeth were stained a faint violet, and he grinned proudly as though they were medals.

I laughed and reached for the sweet, the paper cool and crinkling between my fingers. The smell hit first, sharp, fruity, with something lighter beneath, a whisper of peppermint perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure. It made my nose tingle, the way the air does just before a summer storm.

I popped it onto my tongue, and the flavor bloomed at once, a rush of berry that unfurled into something cleaner, brighter, as though I’d just bitten into a gust of wind itself. For a moment, no longer than a blink, the sky above seemed to shimmer, the blue peeling back in a flicker like film catching in a reel. The clouds juddered, then stilled.

Nobody gasped. Nobody pointed. Children still laughed, the band still played, the cart boy still smiled at me, waiting for my verdict.

And I smiled back, the taste still fizzing soft against my teeth. Smiling, because that’s what people do in Edenvale.