The Waffle House on the Pier: A gorgeous feel-good romantic comedy

by Tilly Tennant

  The Waffle House on the Pier

  A gorgeous feel-good romantic comedy

  Tilly Tennant

  Books by Tilly Tennant

  The Break Up

  The Garden on Sparrow Street

  Hattie’s Home for Broken Hearts

  The Mill on Magnolia Lane

  The Christmas Wish

  The Summer Getaway

  The Summer of Secrets

  * * *

  An Unforgettable Christmas series

  A Very Vintage Christmas

  A Cosy Candlelit Christmas

  * * *

  From Italy with Love series

  Rome is Where the Heart is

  A Wedding in Italy

  * * *

  Honeybourne series

  The Little Village Bakery

  Christmas at the Little Village Bakery

  * * *

  Hopelessly Devoted to Holden Finn

  The Man Who Can’t Be Moved

  Mishaps and Mistletoe

  * * *

  Mishaps in Millrise series

  Little Acts of Love

  Just Like Rebecca

  The Parent Trap

  And Baby Makes Four

  * * *

  Once Upon a Winter series

  The Accidental Guest

  I’m Not in Love

  Ways to Say Goodbye

  One Starry Night

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 21

  The Little Village Bakery

  Tilly’s Email Sign-Up

  Books by Tilly Tennant

  A Letter from Tilly

  The Break Up

  The Garden on Sparrow Street

  Hattie's Home for Broken Hearts

  The Mill on Magnolia Lane

  The Christmas Wish

  The Summer Getaway

  The Summer of Secrets

  A Very Vintage Christmas

  A Cosy Candlelit Christmas

  Rome is Where the Heart is

  A Wedding in Italy

  Christmas at the Little Village Bakery

  *

  Acknowledgements

  For our real-life Luke, who is a little bit brilliant!

  Chapter One

  It was on days like this that Sadie wondered what the hell she was doing with her life.

  Why was she training to be a teacher and not working out on the glorious bay, as her parents did and as her brother, Ewan, and his wife, Kat, did? Sadie had always told them that a life on the sea wasn’t for her, that she didn’t want to be reliant on the fickle whims of tourism for her livelihood, which in turn relied on the fickle whims of the weather, or the strength of the pound, or the rating that the little town of Sea Salt Bay – the place she called home – had been given on TripAdvisor that year. She’d wanted certainty, a guaranteed income, a career that she could – more or less – predict.

  She’d tried for a while to follow the employment route that almost everyone else in Sea Salt Bay took, which mostly involved looking after tourists in some capacity, but the only work available had bored her and she’d quickly tired of doing the same thing every day. She wanted more; she wanted to explore her academic side, to satisfy the part of her with a thirst to learn and a curiosity about the world to match. And so she’d bucked the family trend and gone back into education – a little later than her classmates at the ripe old age of twenty-two – sat a degree in modern history, and then enrolled on a teacher training course. It meant leaving Sea Salt Bay and its charms behind every day to commute to the nearest big town to study, but that was OK.

  Except on days like this, when the sand of the bay was as warm and soft as demerara sugar and the gulls sang their songs of the sea and the waves rolled onto the shore in a hypnotic rhythm, crystal clear and iced with foam, and the sun was like an old friend, warming her freckled skin while the breeze whispered words of love as it gently lifted the auburn hair from her neck. On days like this she wondered why she’d taken the decision to sit in a gloomy classroom when the bay was at its best and brightest, when children were squealing and splashing in the rolling waves, when couples were walking the spray-capped line of the shore hand in hand, eating chips from paper or ice creams from sugar cones, or simply walking and saying or doing nothing else at all because they didn’t need to.

  She wondered why she spent her days listening to a lecturer who didn’t care if she was there or not when she could have been sitting outside her parents’ boatshed. On a day like today, the radio would be murmuring in the background while the sun shone down and excited tourists waited to board their boat, hoping to see dolphins or seals or puffins out on the grey rocks that stood proud of the sea – the same grey rocks that looked like tiny teeth from the shore, but mighty and mysterious up close. As a child, Sadie had loved to sail round them with her parents, happy enough just to be on the waves but always excited to see some wildlife when luck was on their side.

  But now, while her parents spent their days at sea, smiling at marvelling visitors as they pointed out porpoises or sea birds, or the way the light played on the ancient chalky cliffs, or while her brother took the same tourists beneath the waves to swim through magical forests of silky green seaweed as the sun sent white daggers of light slicing through the cerulean depths, Sadie studied in a dark room. She learnt about how children learnt, how to keep them safe, how to measure their progress and intelligence, how to check charts and fill in forms, how to keep control, how to instil discipline, how to turn them into fine, moral, sensible adults. Where was the wonder in that? She’d had a grand vision, once, that she’d be the teacher to inspire, to fire curiosity, to nurture creativity, and she’d thought that was what she’d learn to do on her training course. She’d believed that she was going to make a difference, that her job would be important, that she was going to shape young lives. Maybe the kids she taught would remember her long after they’d left her care, and maybe as adults they’d think of her once in a while and give silent thanks for the wisdom she’d imparted to them.

  But that wasn’t what it was like at all. She’d tried to explain this to one of her lecturers once, but he hadn’t understood. He’d said that she’d be able to run her own class however she wanted once she’d qualified, but she didn’t think that was true, even though she couldn’t explain to him why she felt that. She couldn’t run her class however she wanted because there were all the rules she was learning right now that would make it impossible. She knew the rules had to be there, but sometimes she felt like there were just too many – so many they weighed her down so that she couldn’t think about anything else.

  Class 3G of Featherbrook School had done little to allay her many doubts about whether this really had been the right career choice after all. Today had to be her worst day of work experience so far and she’d felt nothing but desperation and an overwhelming fatigue as she’d made the journey back to Sea Salt Bay. There had been no one at home when she’d arrived there – her parents were still working, making the most of the lengthening days and a fresh tourist season, and wouldn’t be ba
ck until the sun had started to sink below the horizon. Rather than sit in an empty house feeling like a wretched failure, Sadie had decided to make the most of a warm afternoon and head to the beach, hopeful that the sounds of the sea and the feeling of the sun on her face would go some way to healing her. If nothing else, she’d top up her vitamin D.

  As she sat on the sand now, looking out to sea, she went over the day’s events again. She was supposed to get support from a qualified teacher so that she wouldn’t be alone with the kids, but that seemed to happen less and less often. In a way, it was easy to see why – the school was so understaffed and underfunded that they probably grabbed the chance of some cheap teaching with both desperate hands, support or not.

  Today, one girl had come to her in tears because someone in the class had snuck up behind her and cut a chunk from her hair. When Sadie had quizzed the class nobody would admit to being the perpetrator – and why would they? Sadie was such a useless pushover of a teacher that they weren’t a bit scared of her. Not that she’d want anyone to be scared, but an air of authority might be nice. Then she’d had to leave the room for a moment and had come back to a giant chalk penis on the board that someone had kindly left for her. Throughout her lesson the volume of chat and raucous laughter in the class had grown and grown, as had the rowdiness, no matter how many times she’d called for order, until a teacher from a neighbouring classroom had come in to complain that they couldn’t hear the play they were trying to listen to. Of course, the kids had clammed up immediately at the sight of the actual scary, qualified and confident teacher, only to begin their verbal assault again as soon as he’d disappeared, but louder this time. Eventually the red-faced headmistress had had to intervene, beckoning Sadie to step outside the classroom and out of earshot of her young charges.

  ‘Miss Schwartz… I suggest you get your class in order!’

  Sadie had nodded helplessly but hadn’t known what to say in reply, and perhaps the desperation in her expression had reminded the head of her own training, because she seemed to soften at this.

  ‘You know you can always come and see me if there’s anything you need help and advice on,’ she’d said. ‘I realise that some of the children think they can play the trainee teachers but you do have support in this regard. You must come and seek it when you need to.’

  Sadie had nodded again, and she’d tried to mean it this time, but the head’s words hadn’t made her feel any better. While the woman had given the impression of being sympathetic and patient over Sadie’s doubts, Sadie knew that she had about a thousand other things that she’d rather be worrying about than the noise volume of a trainee teacher’s lesson, or whether she was managing. Sadie didn’t want to be that person who constantly sought help or reassurance. She wanted to be the reliable person who coped, the one that the head could leave to it, confident that she’d do a good job, but it certainly wasn’t turning out that way.

  Thinking back on it all now made Sadie’s stomach sink and her face burn. She didn’t want to give up her training because – more than anything else – she didn’t want to admit she’d failed, but she was beginning to feel that she’d reached some unnamed and as yet unclear crossroads in her life. She was starting to wonder if fate had something different in store for her; if, perhaps, it had never really meant for her to be teaching at all. And if that was the case, was it really failing to let fate tell her what that thing was? Was it really so bad to stop and listen to the tiny voice for a moment while it whispered to her the real destiny, the one it had been trying to tell her about when she’d refused to take any notice? Perhaps she’d been landed with class 3G of Featherbrook School today for a reason that was not yet clear to her. But was that to steel her resolve, to make her a better and stronger teacher, or was it to make her think twice about the future she’d chosen for herself?

  She brushed a fly from her leg and looked out on the white cliffs of the headland, tinged now with the rose gold of the sinking sun and gleaming like Greek marble, the glittering water of the bay swelling at their feet, a shell-pink haze scoring the horizon. A sudden cool gust blew up from the sea and she shivered, reaching for her cardigan and pulling it on. She checked the time on her phone, vaguely surprised that she’d been sitting on the sand a lot longer than she’d realised. If she took a slow walk home now she’d probably arrive back around the same time as her parents, and if she got back a little earlier then she’d make a start on dinner and surprise them with something nice.

  Mulling over what she might cook, she shook out the towel she’d been sitting on and rolled it into a neat tube before stuffing it into a cloth bag. Then she poked her feet into a pair of denim flip-flops and headed across the beach to the promenade. Lined along it, windows like eyes looking out to sea, was a long row of terraced cottages that served as Sea Salt Bay’s main shops and restaurants. They’d once been fishing cottages, back when that had been the main source of income for everyone in the bay – at least, when they weren’t trying to sneak barrels of rum past the King’s men, which had been the other little sideline, spoken of only in hushed tones.

  Sadie had read all the old classics like Moonfleet and Treasure Island where the smugglers were painted as romantic heroes and loveable rogues, and she liked to imagine that Sea Salt Bay had been filled with men like that once. But the reality, she acknowledged with some disappointment, had probably been a lot less romantic and a lot more dangerous. Her dad had once done some research on the bay’s history and had read some of the old records. Times had been brutal and tough in Sea Salt Bay all those hundreds of years ago, and many people got involved in the smuggling only because they’d had no choice – it was either that or starve. She’d sat at her dad’s side one Sunday afternoon just as she’d turned nineteen and looked over at what he’d been reading before wishing she hadn’t. It had only confirmed Sadie’s suspicions of a depressing reality – though, on days like today, she preferred to think about her version of Sea Salt Bay’s past. Her version was more fun and far less grim.

  Looking at the row of cottages now, each painted a different pastel shade – apple green, cornflower blue, sugar pink, soft peach, primrose yellow, lavender and lilac – gleaming in the light of golden hour, it was easy to believe in Sadie’s preferred alternative history. Sea Salt Bay was still a small town – a village really – and still reliant on the sea, but it was a brighter, happier place these days. Every window of every cottage showed a different display: surfing supplies, beach games and toys, postcards and gifts, swimming costumes and wetsuits. One had freezers full of coloured ice cream standing in the shade of an opened-out frontage, one had tables set on the tarmac for fish and chip suppers and one had a little window-cum-counter where you could buy crab sandwiches and cockles and mussels caught out in the bay. As she passed this house, Reginald, who made the crab sandwiches, was outside rubbing something off the chalkboard menu that he must have sold out of. He looked across and, noticing Sadie, raised a hand.

  ‘How do, Sadie! How goes it?’

  ‘Good thanks,’ Sadie called back. ‘Business is good?’

  ‘Could be better but won’t complain,’ Reginald said, and Sadie smiled knowingly because he always said that even when business was astoundingly good. ‘Tell your folks I said hello!’ he added.

  ‘I will.’

  At the last house the road forked off towards the Victorian pier. The pier was the jewel in the crown of Sea Salt Bay. It wasn’t much compared to the piers in other seaside resorts, but it was quaint and pretty and everyone loved it. The wrought iron of its fencing panels was painted a delicate sage green and it had old wooden boards that rattled and creaked as you walked them. If you looked down as you went you could see the waves below showing through the gaps between them. This was home to the amusement arcade and a gathering of tame rides, including the carousel and dodgems. And right at the end of the pier stood Sea Salt Bay Waffle House. It was perfectly square with a pointed roof, the exterior candy-striped pink and white like a stick of rock. Th
e old paintwork was faded a little these days, battered by too many sea storms, and the shutters didn’t close properly at night and the posters in the windows had been bleached by the sun, but it still drew in a regular and faithful clientele. The best waffles on the South Coast, the sign outside said, and nobody could deny that they were.

  Sea Salt Bay Waffle House made Sadie especially proud, because it was owned by her Gammy and Gampy. They’d be Grandma and Grandpa to anyone else, but as a small child Sadie had never quite got the pronunciation right and the names she’d given them by mistake had stuck. Gammy and Gampy were also known as April and Kenneth Schwartz, who’d moved to England from America before the birth of Sadie’s father and had run the waffle house in Sea Salt Bay for most of that time. When they’d first opened up in the sixties, for most of the locals waffles were an exotic treat that they’d never had. Through the sixties and seventies their business had grown, drawing customers from far and wide. People were used to waffles now, but for Gammy and Gampy, reputation had proved a powerful thing and business was still good – at least, good enough to keep them trading, even if the building was long overdue a facelift.