Spring at The Little Duck Pond Cafe

by Rosie Green

  ‘Oh, marvellous.’ She nods as if she’s expecting me to say more but I turn to peer at a painting of a castle on the wall, and she says, ‘Okay, well, sit yourself down and I’ll go upstairs and fetch some dry clothes.’

  I glance at the pretty padded cushions tied to the wooden chairs and feel my soggy bottom with a grimace. ‘I think I’d better stand.’

  Sylvia smiles. ‘Good point. Just give me a minute,’ and she disappears through a door to my right.

  I glance around me, eyes wide with amazement now that I no longer have to pretend that I find it quite normal to run a café stuffed with every object imaginable and more. It’s so gloomy in here. The room is probably a decent size but it’s hard to tell with all the clutter. And it doesn’t help that the walls have been painted the sort of sludgy brown colour that was popular in the Seventies. There is a silver lining, though. There’s not much of the brown sludge showing, since practically every inch of wall space is filled with old paintings of horses, castles and sheep grazing on the sides of heather-covered hills.

  Sylvia returns and catches my mouth in an ‘o’ shape.

  I snap it shut and she smiles ruefully. ‘It’s a bit busy. But I like it this way.’

  I nod enthusiastically. ‘Wow, yes, it’s incredible. However long did it take you to collect all these – erm - treasures?’

  Her face grows wistful. ‘Oh, many lovely years. Mr Snow and I enjoyed searching out antique bargains more than anything else. This is just part of our collection.’

  ‘Mr Snow?’ I ask, surprised at the quirky name. Didn’t she say she was called Sylvia Symington? She mustn’t be married, then. ‘Is he . . . ?’ I glance around me, expectantly.

  ‘Ah, no.’ Sylvia looks down, and although she’s smiling, I catch the gleam of moisture in her eyes. ‘My Snowy departed this world three years ago. Most inconsiderate of him, considering we were intending to go on cruises and end our days holding hands on park benches at the age of ninety-nine!’

  She sniffs and hands me a lavender-scented bundle containing a pink bath towel, a navy blue tracksuit, and a pair of thick brown socks. Then she perches on the edge of a table and picks up the little blue and yellow vase in the centre that holds a single silk red rose. ‘By Clarice Clift,’ she says. ‘We found that in December 2012 in a little antiques shop on the south coast. There was snow on the ground that day.’

  I maintain a respectful silence as she smiles at the vase, remembering.

  ‘Actually, he died three years, three months and seventeen days ago. Not that I’m counting, of course.’ She laughs at her foolishness. Then she stands up, briskly brushing down her apron. ‘Now, how about you go through there and change out of your wet things?’ She indicates a door with a sign saying WC. ‘And while you’re getting comfortable, I’ll make something special to warm you up.’ She frowns. ‘A tumble into the duck pond requires rather more than a latte, don’t you think? How about a piping hot mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows and chocolate sprinkles?’

  ‘That sounds like just what the doctor ordered,’ I say truthfully, as I squelch my way over to the WC. ‘I’ll try not to leak too much.’

  As I’m peeling off my wet jeans in the toilet cubicle, there’s a rap on the door and Sylvia shouts, ‘Plastic bag for your wet things?’

  Standing on one leg, jeans half-on half-off, I open the door a crack and a hand appears, holding a supermarket carrier bag. My eye is drawn to a large antique diamond ring sitting a little loosely alongside a plain gold wedding band. So she was married to Mr Snow.

  ‘Thank you!’ I grab the bag and overbalance, cannoning off the wall in the tight space.

  ‘Hot chocolate’s ready!’

  ‘Out in a sec!’

  I check my reflection in the mirror. My curly honey blonde hair, which I blow-dried smooth this morning, now kinks in soggy rats’ tails around my shoulders and my mascara is smudged. The green eyes that stare back at me have lost their usual sparkle over recent weeks. They look sad and lacklustre.

  Pulling on the warm, fleecy tracksuit makes me feel better.

  I join Sylvia in the café where, true to her word, the hot chocolate is spectacular - almost like dessert in a mug, topped as it is with marshmallows and generous chocolate sprinkles. Sylvia is behind the counter, cleaning the coffee machine.

  I cradle the toasty mug thankfully in my freezing hands. ‘This is amazing, thank you, Sylvia.’

  ‘A pleasure! We don’t get many customers on a Thursday morning, so it makes a lovely change to have company.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘Actually, who am I kidding? I don’t get many customers on any day during the week. Most of my business happens at weekends. Tourists, mainly. People on a trip out, bringing their children to feed the ducks and stretch their legs, that sort of thing. I’d probably do better if the café was on the high street.’

  ‘Well, people clearly don’t know what they’re missing here.’ I dip my spoon into the gooey, melting-marshmallow lusciousness and taste with my eyes closed. ‘Mm. Delicious. Great name, by the way. The Little Duck Pond Café. Have you tried spreading the word locally? Or on social media?’

  Sylvia puts down her tea towel and squeezes through a gap in the furniture to sit down opposite me. ‘You mean that Twittery thing? Ooh, I’m too old for all of that nonsense.’

  I laugh. ‘No you’re not. It’s really easy once you know how. I could show you if you like.’

  She scrunches up her nose. ‘Maybe. But I’m seventy-three. And Snowy and I never even bothered learning how to text. We couldn’t see the point.’ She frowns. ‘I wish I had now.’

  I shrug. ‘Age is just a number and anyway, you look at least a decade younger than that,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘I’m sure you could Tweet with the best of them.’

  She sighs. ‘Maybe you’re right. But to be honest, I’m thinking of selling up, sad as it seems. I just can’t see how to make the café pay its way.’

  Looking around, I can think of several ways, straight off, and they mostly involve a large skip. But I wouldn’t dream of hurting her feelings. It’s obvious all these antiques, collected during her travels with Mr Snow, mean the whole world to Sylvia.

  She sighs. ‘Sometimes I think maybe I should just get away altogether. Pastures new, you know?’

  ‘Just what I’ve been thinking,’ I say wearily, thinking of Richard and Thing.

  ‘Really?’

  I nod. And then because she’s waiting for me to expand, I sigh and say, ‘Boyfriend trouble. Richard. He doesn’t read at all. Well, except for car maintenance manuals. But he started bringing books home from the library. Literary stuff like Dickens and George Eliot. I thought he was just trying to improve himself, then I realised he wasn’t actually reading them. He’d just place the book on his bedside table and a couple of days later, there’d be a different one there.’

  I swallow hard. ‘So I paid a visit to the library and as soon as I saw Thing, I just knew.’

  ‘Thing?’ Sylvia looks baffled.

  ‘Sorry, Giselle. She looks like her name, all willowy beauty and impossibly delicate bone-structure.’

  Sylvia frowns. ‘I hate her already.’

  ‘So I tackled him – because apart from the weird book thing, he’d been doing other odd things, like wanting a lot more sex but not really looking at me while he was doing it.’ I glance at Sylvia. ‘Sorry, is this too much information?’

  ‘Not at all. The more information the merrier,’ she says, looking totally unabashed. ‘What did he say?’

  I sigh and swirl my spoon in the dregs of my cup. ‘He said he’d slept with Thing once but he really regretted it and I was the one he loved.’

  Sylvia considers. ‘It may well be true.’

  ‘Maybe. But I was so hurt, I told him to leave immediately and he did. But then I regretted acting so rashly and phoned him to say I was giving him another chance.’

  ‘So he came back?’

  I shake my head. ‘He said he wasn’t sure he wanted to and maybe we sh
ould live apart for a while to work out how we really felt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I force a smile. ‘He will come back, though. I’m sure of it. We’ll laugh about it one day.’

  ‘When did this happen? You offering him another chance?’

  ‘Nearly three weeks ago.’

  ‘And has Richard been in touch, wanting to make things right?’

  I swallow hard as hot tears well up. ‘Erm, not really. Well, no. But I think he’s just trying to make me suffer a little longer for ordering him out. Which is pretty rich, really, considering it was Richard who had the fling, not me.’ I attempt a laugh but it falls flat.

  ‘Has he – has he gone to live with this Thing person?’ She frowns, shaking her head. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be asking all these questions. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. No, it was just a one-night thing with um – Thing. He’s been staying at his mate’s.’

  There’s a silence, broken only by the slow ticking of the grandfather clock.

  ‘It sounds as if getting away for a bit might be just what you need,’ Sylvia says at last.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You know, when Snowy died, I was utterly heart-broken. My heart literally ached, from the moment I woke up to the moment I put my head on the pillow at night. I couldn’t get back to a “normal” sort of life for a long, long time. And then a year ago, a good friend staged an intervention. She ordered me into the shower, packed a bag for me and took me to Devon. After one night in a little cottage near the sea, she drove off and left me there.’

  I stare at Sylvia in dismay. ‘She left you all alone? But how could she do that, knowing you were still grieving?’

  ‘Ah, well. It turned out to be the best thing she could have done. She admitted later that she had to steel herself to leave me there. But the miraculous thing was, the change of scene gave me a different perspective on what had happened. While I was stuck in my house – our house – I couldn’t get past Snowy’s death. But walking on that little beach I finally realised he wouldn’t want me to waste away without him. He’d want me to do something with my life. So I did.’

  ‘You opened a café?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles and looks around her. ‘I bought this place last year and I started living again.’

  I nod, wondering if I could be so brave in her shoes. Starting a brand new business venture at the age of seventy-two!

  ‘Did you get all the photos you needed?’ Sylvia asks. ‘For your project.’

  My heart lurches at the reminder of why I’m here. ‘Yes, I did. It went really well, apart from when I was shouted at by this horrible man. He was probably the reason I fell in the pond, actually. I was hurrying to get away from him.’

  ‘Horrible man?’ says Sylvia. ‘Who could that be, I wonder? It wasn’t old Mr Wheedon, was it? Did he brandish a walking stick at you? Apparently, he keeps one by the door to ward off cold callers.’

  ‘Oh no, he wasn’t old. He was quite young and – um – very fit, actually.’

  A memory rushes into my mind - Zak Chamberlain catching the branch and swinging up in one easy movement, muscles flexing as he grabbed my camera case.

  Very fit, as a matter of fact . . .

  An odd little shiver traverses its way down my spine.

  Sylvia looks intrigued. ‘Very fit but horrible?’ She stares away into the distance, frowning.

  I swallow hard, pushing away the image of Zak Chamberlain’s tight buttocks in his jeans. ‘No, well, horrible is probably too strong a word. He was just very narky. But then I suppose I had climbed his tree to take a photo. Without permission.’

  Sylvia laughs. ‘You did?’

  I give a sheepish smile. ‘I did. Totally against character, I might add. I don’t normally do reckless things like that.’

  ‘Don’t you? Oh, I do.’ Sylvia beams. ‘I once pushed Snowy into the duck pond because he made fun of my cooking. That was in the early days of our marriage. It was shepherd’s pie and I’d thrown in quartered onions so they were completely raw.’

  ‘Ooh, lovely!’

  ‘I know.’ She grins. ‘I took things to heart then.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been cheeky when you’d made such an effort.’

  ‘Well, precisely!’

  I laugh. ‘At least there’s no chance of me running into that grumpy man again – not after I leave here today.’

  After I leave here today . . .

  I feel an odd little pang as I say this. Maybe Sunnybrook’s charm is rubbing off on me, despite my soaking.

  I glance upwards. ‘Do you live here, above the café?’

  Sylvia shakes her head. ‘I’ve got a little cottage on the main street. Just a one-bedroom place but it suited Mr Snow and me just fine. I’d never move out.’ She folds her arms and leans forward on the table. ‘No, when I bought this place and had the ground floor fashioned into a café, the builders turned the first floor into a self-contained flat at the same time. I keep meaning to give it a lick of paint and rent it out but the café has kept me so busy.’

  She narrows her eyes as if something has occurred to her. ‘I’m going to be needing a tenant soon,’ she says thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m sure the flat will be perfect. For someone who wants to live in Sunnybrook.’

  She nods. ‘Or someone who needs a bolthole for a while?’ She gets up and adjusts a painting on the wall nearby. ‘I was thinking of a six-month lease.’

  I watch as she ‘straightens’ a frame, makes it wonky, then puts it back to where it was in the first place. Have I somehow given Sylvia the impression I’d like to ‘bolt’ to Sunnybrook? If I have, I wasn’t conscious of it. Although there is a great deal I’d be happy to run away from right now.

  For a second, I think about what it would be like, living above The Little Duck Pond Café. Far too tempting, I imagine. I’d be the size of a house within a month with hot chocolate like this just a flight of stairs away! And all those luscious-looking muffins and cupcakes calling up to me.

  Just for a second, my heart lifts at the thought.

  Then I remember my commitments back home in Newtown. It’s been lovely to visit Sunnybrook for the day, but move here?

  That would be completely out of the question.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On the drive home, memories from the day keep popping into my head.

  I chuckle at my dip in the duck pond, flush hotly all over again thinking of Zak and the tree, and then reflect on how lovely and unexpected it was to meet Sylvia.

  When I promised to return her clothes, she said not to worry, only if I was passing and fancied another hot chocolate. As we said goodbye, she smiled a little wistfully and said, ‘Be happy.’

  I keep thinking about the flat above the café; imagining what it would be like to live there. But I know I’m only attracted by the idea because my life is such a mess at the moment. You can’t run away from your problems, however much you might wish you could.

  It might seem simple to move to a brand new place and make a fresh start, but it would never be as easy as that. There’s my job as a medical receptionist, for a start. I’ve been there a long time and I earn good money now. Then there’s the joint mortgage that ties me to the house in Newtown, and the fact that Richard is sure to return once he’s had enough of ‘bachelor living’. No doubt we’ll slip back into our old routine and everything will get back to normal.

  I’ve known Richard for seven years and we’ve lived together for the past five.

  I grew up in a much smaller place than sprawling Newtown, called Farley’s Edge, where Mum still lives. It’s only thirty miles from Newtown, and I see her most weekends. When I left school, I studied graphic design at college nearby and had dreams of setting up my own business, but then I met Richard and fell in love for the first time.

  Richard was two years older than me and my first serious relationship. He’d just graduated and started work at a law firm in Newtown when we literally bumped into each other in a pub. I was
drawn to his endless energy and the knack he had for lighting up a room with his charm and daft jokes. And the way his smile made my heart skip a beat. At first, I found it hard to believe he could be in love with someone as ordinary as me. I always forgot the punch-line to jokes and I never seemed to have any fascinating stories to tell.

  But gradually, I started to trust him when he said he loved me because I was different to the other girls he’d gone out with. He said he could relax with me and be himself and he liked that.

  A year ago, when he started talking about having a family, I was over the moon. I’ve always loved kids and I knew from an early age that I really wanted to be a mum. And when Richard confessed he couldn’t wait to be a dad - well, that just made me even more certain I’d found the right man for me.

  Emotion clogs my throat. Since I discovered his fling and he moved out, all of our lovely plans for a baby are up in the air now. I’ve been more down about this than anything, to be honest, which has really surprised me. I hadn’t realised just how much the idea of becoming a mum meant to me . . .

  These days, I hate driving back to the cold, empty house. Not that I’m going straight there because I promised I’d call in on Mum. Farley’s Edge, where she lives, is mid-way between Sunnybrook and Newtown, so it’s on my route back.

  There’s just something I need to do before I see her. Get my photos printed out.

  As I drive into Mum’s estate, I automatically straighten up in my seat and compose my smile. Keeping the conversation upbeat is important – for me and for her. It helps to preserve the notion that nothing is amiss; that we are both how we have always been. She greets me with her usual dimpled smile of joy to see me and I hug her tightly.

  ‘Come on through. Have you had anything to eat?’ she asks, and I shake my head.

  ‘I had a hot chocolate earlier but that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve got some lovely fresh scones from the bakery. Cheese ones. Your favourite.’

  I grin at her. ‘Go on, then. And a cup of tea would be lovely.’