Spring at The Little Duck Pond Cafe

by Rosie Green

  SPRING AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

  A heart-warming tale of love, family and second chances

  ROSIE GREEN

  Published by Rosie Green

  Copyright © Rosie Green 2018

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), locales or events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by: Cara Armstrong

  Cover design by: Berni Stevens

  FOR MY LOVELY FAMILY

  You inspire me and keep me grounded!

  SPRING AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

  This is the first of three short stories in

  The Little Duck Pond Café series

  Coming soon:

  SUMMER AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

  CHRISTMAS AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  I have never climbed a tree in my life.

  But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

  It’s a gaspingly cold mid-January morning with an ice-blue sky overhead – not exactly the ideal conditions in which to be lurking on the pavement outside a stranger’s house, nervously eyeing up the oak tree in their garden.

  Camera gripped in my freezing hands, I stamp my feet and blow out misty breath as I psyche myself up to be bold. I’ve driven sixty miles from Newtown, where I live, to the pretty, chocolate-box village of Sunnybrook in Surrey - with the ultimate goal of climbing this very tree and taking photos of the view from up there.

  I am not going to crap out at the final hurdle!

  I’ve already taken pictures of Harrisons, the department store on the High Street, and the Sunnybrook War Memorial with its scattering of scarlet poppies; and The Swan Hotel with its vintage sign that probably hasn’t changed in close to a hundred years. I went completely snap-happy on the village green earlier and took dozens of the pond from every angle imaginable, trying to feature a duck or two in each one.

  And now, all that remains for me to do, is climb that tree and get my final picture!

  I could, of course, walk boldly up to the front door of the house and use the old-fashioned knocker. There’s no car parked on the driveway so it’s likely no-one is at home. But if someone answers, I’ll then have to ask if they wouldn’t mind me climbing their tree and taking a photograph from up there. My heart races even faster at the thought of trying to explain why . . . as the poor, bewildered house-owner stares at me and perhaps wonders if I’ve omitted to take my medication that day.

  No, if I’m going to do it, it has to be an in-and-out operation, over in a jiffy. Then hopefully no-one will ever be any the wiser.

  The tree is almost exactly how I pictured it in my imagination - old and gnarled with broad, evenly-spaced branches. My eye homes in on one branch in particular. It reaches out to the left, a little over six feet from the ground; the perfect place to sit and gaze out over the village green and the duck pond. (As I knew it would be.)

  Tears fill my eyes. But I’m smiling, too.

  It’s all in a good cause.

  Stop dithering and just do it!

  When I push it open, the garden gate swings inwards without creaking and the windows remain blank. I drop my bag by the gate and head for the tree.

  It’s amazing how fear can give you almost super-human powers. Under normal circumstances, I’d definitely need someone to give me a bunk-up into this tree. But today, with adrenalin pumping through my system, I manage to swing myself up there with no problems at all.

  I perch on the branch, steadying myself. Then I stare out over the village green towards the duck pond, the camera around my neck quite forgotten as a swell of emotion washes over me.

  Smoothing the broad branch with my hand, I think to myself: This is it, right here. This would have been her view . . .

  The camera case tumbles out of my pocket but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground.

  A sudden noise makes me turn my head towards the cottage and I almost lose my balance, grasping just in time at a branch above my head.

  Oh, nightmare!

  A tall man is striding out of the house towards me, looking understandably peeved. He crosses the grass and stands right below me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The deep, rumbling voice matches his big, lean frame as he stands there, hands on hips, glaring up at me. I can barely see his eyes beneath the tumble of dark hair but I’m pretty sure they’re flashing with anger.

  I swallow hard and open my mouth to start apologising but my throat feels so dry, nothing comes out. So I’m left staring back at him like a stunned haddock.

  ‘Well?’ his bark tones down a notch. He just looks baffled now. I think he’s realised from my gormless expression that I pose no big security threat to his tree or his person.

  ‘Sorry.’ I manage to choke out a single word. But looking down, I feel quite faint. Descending is going to be a challenge. Fright has welded my bottom to the branch. The ground is miles away and I literally can’t move. I try to smile at my inquisitor but my face is frozen and won’t work properly.

  ‘Are you doing this for a dare?’ he asks, glancing towards the hedge as if he expects to see a friend with a sheepish grin pop up at any moment with their thumb in the air. ‘We’ve had one or two break-ins around here lately, so you can understand how I might feel slightly suspicious about a strange woman lurking in the tree.’

  Oh God, does he think I’m a burglar?

  I gulp. ‘Look, I’m really sorry. My name’s Ellie, by the way, and there’s actually a perfectly reasonable explanation for my being up here. I just needed a photo. I’m not stealing your apples. Or anything else, for that matter. Truly. It was a really stupid mistake. I should have knocked on the door and asked permission first and normally I would, but . . .’ I tail off, not wanting to start explaining.

  ‘Apples don’t grow on oak trees.’

  ‘Well, there you go, then.’ I lift my chin, annoyed he just dismissed my rambling but earnest apology out of hand. I stare at him with what I hope is an air of defiance. ‘I can’t possibly be stealing them, can I?’

  Much to my annoyance, he manages to out-glare me.

  As my eyes slide away, I suddenly catch sight of some initials carved into the trunk of the tree, just to my left, and my heart lurches into my throat. It hits me with the force of a ten-ton truck; this is why I’m here, carrying out my heart-breaking little mission.

  Hot tears prick at my lids and all the bravado drains out of me, leaving me feeling like a balloon three days after the party. I’m no match at all in this emotional state for an angry house-owner, who has every right to question why I’m sitting in his tree on his front lawn.

  ‘So have you taken your
photo?’

  ‘Er, no, I haven’t . . . would you mind terribly if I . . .?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  I grit my teeth, wishing he would just bugger off back inside. But he folds his arms and remains there, feet planted firmly in the frost-encrusted grass, clearly not trusting me an inch while I’m on his property.

  I raise my camera, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, focusing on the duck pond and the village green beyond the hedge. My hands are trembling slightly so I click several times, hoping against hope the pictures won’t be blurred.

  I smile at him. ‘Thank you.’

  He nods. ‘No problem. Do you need help getting down?’ He holds out a hand and I catch a glimpse of long, strong fingers and well-clipped nails.

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’ I shuffle slightly forwards on my perch, then I half-turn and, clinging onto the branch, lower myself gingerly to the ground.

  ‘You’ve left the camera case.’ He points upwards and before I can say a word, he strolls over and stretches to catch the branch, affording me a flash of toned, tanned body as his sweatshirt rides up. Then he casually levers himself up with one hand and grabs the case with the other. I try not to notice the way his strong thighs in close-fitting jeans clench slightly during this display of athleticism.

  It all happens in the space of a few seconds and before I know it, he’s on the ground again, holding out the case to me.

  And I’m caught red-faced staring at his bum.

  I mutter a thank you and turn to go, desperate to be safely back on the other side of his garden gate.

  ‘I’m Zak Chamberlain, by the way.’

  I turn back and he’s studying me with a baffled expression, as if he can’t decide if I’m really as daft as I appear to be.

  ‘Ellie Farmer.’

  ‘Well, goodbye, Ellie. Very nice to have met you.’ His gentle mockery just makes my cheeks flame even hotter.

  I mumble something incoherent then flee from the scene of my shame, only just remembering to snatch up my bag from where I dropped it by the gate. It might be a bitterly cold winter morning, but beneath my top, the climate is Bahamas tropical, to say the least. Feeling dazed, I cross the road and narrowly miss getting run over by a man on a bike, who zips by then turns and lets fly with a string of expletives. Rather than berating myself for being careless, I find myself hoping that Zak Chamberlain didn’t see me making an idiot of myself. Again.

  It’s been that kind of a day.

  Earlier, when I was taking photos of the duck pond, I was so focused on getting the best shots that I almost came a cropper on the gnarly tree roots protruding through the earth at one end of the pond.

  Someone shouted, ‘Careful! They’re treacherous when it’s icy!’ I looked across at a cottage, set all by itself a little way back from the pond, and saw a woman with short white hair in the garden, up a ladder, looking over at me. I waved to show her I was fine and she went back to cleaning the sign that hung just above the front door of the quaint two-storey cottage: The Little Duck Pond Café.

  I march across the green, making for that same cluster of oak and horse chestnut trees trailing their branches over the duck pond. If I can just disappear among the trees, out of sight of Zak Chamberlain . . .

  My heart is still bumping wildly after my encounter with him as I pick my way along the bank. The early ice is starting to melt, making the ground underfoot muddy but I’m careful to step over the slippery tree roots this time.

  If I’d known Zak Chamberlain was at home, I’d never have ventured through his garden gate. I’m so annoyed with myself. I’ve never done anything so rash in my whole life.

  I glance back to check he’s not still there in the garden. But I can’t even see his house from here, through the trees, which is a huge relief. Distracted, I slide on a patch of muddy bank but manage to remain upright.

  But next second, my foot meets a tree root and this time, I lose my balance altogether, staggering sideways into the pond.

  One foot planted in the shallows, I gasp as icy water fills my shoe and shoots up my leg. I try to turn but I’m hampered by the layer of silt underfoot and I can’t halt my momentum. My arms shoot out as I try desperately to get my balance, but the next second, I’m falling - splashing backwards with a shriek into the chilled, green-slime-soup of the duck pond.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I surprise myself by laughing.

  I almost wish there was someone here to take a photo, because it’s not often a person finds themselves sitting fully clothed in a freezing pond, fingers deep in silt, with the resident ducks squawking indignantly around them.

  Heaving myself up, in a sloosh of swampy-smelling water, I grab my bag before it sinks, wincing at the feeling of my sodden jeans clinging to my legs. Staggering from the pond, I check inside the bag and find to my relief that my mobile phone and camera seem to have survived the ducking. No pun intended.

  As I squelch along the path, walking like John Wayne just off his horse, I can’t help wondering bitterly if there are any more shocks in store for me.

  Because the shocks have been coming with gut-wrenching regularity of late.

  It started with the shock of finding out, three weeks ago, that my long-term boyfriend, Richard, had had a one-night stand (which he deeply regretted) with a girl who works at the local library. He told me her name but she’s just ‘Thing’ in my head now because I’m trying very hard to wipe all memory of her - and that’s not easy with a girl who goes by the impossibly glamorous name of Giselle. Devastated, I ordered Richard to pack his bags and he left.

  This was closely followed by the shock of me deciding to give Richard another chance, only for him to say that actually, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to come home. Maybe, he said, we should continue living apart for a while until we were absolutely sure of our feelings. That really knocked me for six.

  I didn’t think things could possibly get any worse, but I was wrong.

  The most spectacular shock of them all exploded into my life without warning eight days ago. I still feel dazed at the news, unable to believe it, even though I know I have to. It’s the reason I’m here in Sunnybrook today taking all these photographs.

  I suppose I just needed to do something – anything - that might help . . .

  The route back to the village car park takes me past the door of The Little Duck Pond Café, and as I draw level, the woman I saw earlier emerges with a cloth.

  We exchange a ‘good morning’. Then her eyes drop to my soggy lower half. ‘Good grief! What happened to you?’

  I smile ruefully. ‘Tripped over a tree root and landed in the pond.’

  She winces. ‘Oh, dear. That’s why most people use the pontoon bit on the other side.’ She points across the pond to where the bank has been landscaped with a wooden platform to make it safer, complete with a bench on which to sit and admire the view.

  A young couple are sitting on the bench. She’s leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder. As I watch, she turns her face up to him and he kisses her nose.

  A lump appears in my throat from nowhere.

  The events of the past few weeks have taken a big toll on my emotions. I’ve been trying hard to put on a brave face, but the slightest little thing can bring me to tears without warning.

  The woman is studying me.

  I swallow down my despair and force a grin. ‘It’s been that kind of month.’ I shrug. ‘The falling in the duck pond sort.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nods. ‘How about a dry off and a warm up? I’m Sylvia Symington, by the way. Owner of this slightly dilapidated establishment.’

  ‘Ellie Farmer.’ I hold out my hand but it’s covered in drying green slime so I quickly take it back.

  Sylvia grins. Her short white hair is styled to stick up in little tufts. It suits her elfin features perfectly. ‘Coffee? On the house?’

  I’m about to decline her generous offer but then she adds the magical words, ‘I’ve got a nice fleecy tracksuit you can borrow.’r />
  I hesitate. The mention of ‘fleecy’ sounds downright luxurious when you’ve got rivulets of earthy pond water trickling down your thighs. (The last time my knickers clung so cold and wet was when I had an unfortunate accident on the way home from school in Primary One.)

  I sniff and rub my nose, and the smell makes me grimace. ‘That’s so kind of you, Sylvia.’

  ‘Good. Follow me.’

  From the outside, the place looks utterly charming. It’s a two-storey cottage with pretty whitewashed wooden shutters that remind me of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, with a perfect heart shape carved out of each, and a lovely red and white striped awning.

  However, entering The Little Duck Pond Café is quite a revelation. There are ornaments everywhere. And I mean everywhere. It’s like stepping back in time to the Victorian era, or suddenly finding yourself slap bang in the middle of an episode of Bargain Hunt - the part where contestants trawl through the market, picking up all sorts of curios and looking for that perfect gem amongst all the tat.

  Someone has helpfully put up some rather ugly dark wood shelves on three of the walls, and how they don’t fall off with the sheer weight of the bric-a-brac they’re laden with beats me entirely.

  The tables and chairs for customers have been herded together into the middle of the space to make room for the assortment of antique coat stands, giant ceramic vases and the imposing grandfather clock in the far corner. There’s even an old fire surround lying against the wall by the counter.

  I cast a quick glance at the sliver of space between the tables. One reckless flick of a scarf and it would likely end up trailing in someone else’s coffee. On the next table.

  ‘Do you live in Sunnybrook, Ellie?’ Sylvia is asking.

  ‘Er, no, I’m the other side of Guildford.’ I smile brightly, trying not to stare around me. My mouth might fall open without me realising it and that would be rude.

  ‘Ah. I thought I hadn’t seen you around the village. Are you a photographer?’

  ‘Oh, no. I was just – um - driving through and decided to stop. They’re for a project I’m doing.’ I bite my lip. At least that last bit is true.