by Karen Clarke
‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she said, seeming tickled. ‘“Meg’s Kitchen”, I like that a lot.’
‘Have I got one, too?’ Cassie came back with the ladder, looking ready for business with her denim shirtsleeves rolled up. ‘Good idea to get some new ones made.’
Flushing, I handed her one, deciding not to mention where they’d come from. ‘It’s a shame Tilly can’t be here today, but I suppose she can’t help being ill.’ Tilly really had got the summer flu, and according to her text wasn’t fit to be out in public.
‘Let’s just hope we don’t come down with it,’ said Cassie. ‘We’ll get this bunting up, and when we’re done, I’ll chalk up a list of your cakes. Do you have a cake of the day?’
‘Apple and raisin,’ I said. ‘Or ginger parkin.’ I was riddled with indecision, all of a sudden. I’d done it before, but this felt different. I was in charge now. What if I made a hash of it, or no one turned up?
‘Stop fretting,’ Cassie’s voice cut in, as if she knew where my thoughts were heading. ‘You’ve got this,’ she said firmly.
‘But what if I haven’t?’
‘You have,’ said Kath, and their faith in me was both terrifying and heartening. ‘We’re rooting for you, love, the whole village is, and most of Salcombe too.’ She winked so hard, her lashes almost stuck to her cheek. ‘You’ll see.’
While they got to work, bickering about who should go up the stepladder, and who should hand up the bunting, I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started arranging the bread and cakes in wicker baskets, placing some in the shop window, another couple on the shelf behind the counter, and the rest of the cakes underneath the display area by the counter.
After placing my apple and raisin cake beneath a glass dome, I cut the ginger parkin into even squares and arranged them on a cake stand, then stacked my gingerbread hearts in a basket on the counter before standing back to admire the effect. With the sun pouring though the freshly-cleaned windows, giving the wood floor, counter and shelving a burnished glow, it looked like a picture worthy of Instagram. I was half-tempted to post some photos on Facebook, to show Sam what he was missing, but he was clearly having too good a time to be looking on social media, once he’d posted his update of the day. Instead, I took a couple of snaps on my phone and sent them to Mum.
Look what I did! X
Beautiful! I’m so proud of you she responded instantly. We’ll see you later. Mum XXX
I wondered whether she meant dinner, or if she was planning to visit the bakery with Mike. Kath had persuaded her over to Seashell Cove a few times in the past, and they’d enjoyed a coffee at the café, but I knew Mum would rather be in the house, and still doubted Mike could get her up to Yorkshire.
I wondered whether the Ryans would put in an appearance, then remembered the way Beverley had ignored my news about the bakery, and how she only seemed to support me in things that involved her son. Like our wedding. Recalling the horror of the dress she’d had in mind, and my reaction, I doubted she’d want to speak to me ever again, and imagining how she’d react once I’d told Sam I didn’t want to marry him made me want to retch.
Mind bubbling like a volcano, I tried to concentrate instead on making sure everything was ready for the opening, tipping the change I’d got from the bank the day before into the till, and making sure the card reader was plugged in.
By nine o’clock the bunting was up, the boards were filled with Cassie’s arty lettering and cupcake drawings, and she and Kath were behind the counter with their aprons on, nudging each other in a giggly fashion.
Best of all, there was a queue outside, and everyone looked smiley.
I suddenly wished I’d had a proper opening ceremony, with a ribbon and scissors but I knew Mr Moseley wouldn’t have approved of me making a fuss, so I took one last look around to make sure everything was perfect, and turned the wooden sign on the door from closed to open, and pulled it wide.
‘Morning,’ I said, nerves falling away as I scanned the bright, expectant faces, a lot of whom had been customers in the past. ‘Welcome to the Old Bakery.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
By eleven o’clock, I was in the kitchen, pulling dough from the freezer as supplies were running low. The first raisin and apple cake had all gone, and there weren’t many slices left of the second, and two people had been back for a second square of ginger parkin.
‘Don’t tell my missus,’ the first had said, with a guilty grin. ‘It’s better than hers, and I thought hers was good.’ Luckily, I didn’t know his missus.
I’d had three orders for celebration cakes, a request for more specialist loaves, like sourdough (which I knew would thrill Big Steve) and a suggestion that we provide paper napkins with the cakes, which I hadn’t thought of.
Cassie called the café and ten minutes later Tamsin hurried in with a boxful, her hair floating free from her bun on one side. ‘Can’t stop, or Gwen will murder me,’ she panted, eyeing the cupcakes longingly, and I gave her one to take back.
After fumbling the first cake box into a peculiar shape, and dropping a flapjack on the floor, Kath quickly got the hang of things, and was proving as much of a hit with customers as Gwen was at the café – though Kath smiled a lot and wasn’t rude, and called everybody love.
‘It’s just like being at Discount Clothing,’ she said at one point. ‘I mean the principle’s the same, dealing with customers. Obviously you can’t eat clothes, and you can’t wear a cake.’ She chuckled at her own joke.
Cassie was friendly and efficient, but I could tell she was reminded of her previous job, and that she’d be relieved to get back to her painting, so when Valerie Jones from the café came in and reminded me she’d liked to work there, I asked how soon she could start.
‘Monday?’ she suggested, a delighted smile stretching to her ears. ‘Pity all interviews aren’t that easy. When my son last applied for a job he had to do a group interview, and was so intimidated he forgot his own surname.’
The photographer from the paper appeared at that point and whisked me into the kitchen for a picture, posing with mixing bowl and wooden spoon, then snapped a few of me behind the counter, handing cake boxes to customers, and one outside the bakery where I was sure I was squinting as the sun hit me full in the face. A scroll through the shots on his display screen showed me looking completely at home, my eyes clear and my smile genuine. My apron logo showed up nicely and my hair, freed from its net, fell in shiny waves. My cheeks were a bit red, but the photographer assured me I looked wholesome, which was apparently a good thing for a bakery manager.
He asked emerging customers what they thought of it all, and the response was overwhelmingly positive. I’d just accepted my fourth handshake in a row – I would have to wash my hands for the umpteenth time – when someone said, ‘There she is,’ in an Irish lilt, and I turned to see a smiling Mike with Mum gripping his arm. She looked as flushed as I felt, but pretty in a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and white, low-heeled sandals.
‘Mum!’ I wrapped her in a hug, thinking how much she suited being outdoors – that it brought sparkles to her eyes, and a brighter sheen to her hair – then I realised it was probably the Mike effect, rather than the weather. Either way, it didn’t matter; she was here. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
‘I feel a bit breathless, but I’m sure it’ll pass,’ Mum said, casting a panicked look at the bakery over my shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look inside then, before I pass out.’ She gave a nervous laugh, and Mike winked at me before leading her inside, where he handed her a gingerbread heart, and Kath came round the counter to give her a cuddle.
It had quietened down in the shop, and while they chatted, and Cassie tidied the cakes in the cabinet with a pair of tongs, I slipped into the kitchen where I froze, a tray of bread rolls poised half in the oven as a childish voice floated through.
‘Please can I have a bwownie, I love bwownies, don’t I? It won’t spoil my dinner.’
Charlie! My pulse accelerated
. Nathan was here! Trying not to think what it meant, I slid the tray into the oven and smoothed my hair and apron down, before hurrying back to the shop.
‘Smeg!’ Charlie cried when he spotted me, eyes lighting up like firecrackers. ‘Can I have a bwownie?’ He was wearing an orange T-shirt with a shark on the front, and was holding the same bucket and spade he’d had when we went to the beach. ‘It’s MEG!’ he said, tugging the fingers of a man facing the counter. A man with a crutch and a cast on his lower right leg. A man who definitely wasn’t his uncle. ‘Daddy, look!’
I fought hard not to let disappointment wash away my smile as the man turned, fixing me with a curious gaze.
‘Ah, it’s the famous Meg Larson,’ he said drily, twisting away from the counter, leaning on his crutch as he swung his way over, Charlie at his side.
‘Hardly famous,’ I said, blushing. ‘You must be Nathan’s brother.’ As if he could be anyone else. Apart from the fact that Charlie had called him daddy, there was an obvious resemblance to Nathan in the shape of his face. He was a taller, leaner version, his wavy hair shorter, his eyes the same shade but slightly wider set. He was wearing baggy shorts with side pockets, and a pale-green T-shirt, but I could easily imagine him dressed in a suit and tie.
‘Hugo Walsh,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you, Meg.’ He said it in a speculative way that sent more blood to my face.
Charlie hopped from one blue-sandaled foot to the other, his eyes beseeching. ‘Can I have a bwownie, please, Meg?’
‘Actually, that’s ginger parkin,’ I said, realising where he was pointing, unable to stop a smile at the sight of his sun-flushed face.
‘What’s parkin?’
‘It’s a cake like my granny used to bake, made with oatmeal and black treacle, and I think it might be too chewy for you,’ I said. ‘What about a gingerbread heart instead?’ I looked at Hugo for confirmation and he nodded.
‘Go on then.’
I took down the basket so Charlie could help himself, taking his time even though there weren’t many left and they looked identical. Once he was nibbling round the edge, his bucket and spade at his feet, Hugo said, ‘I thought we’d pop over so I could see what – or should I say who – has been keeping my little brother fixed in one place for more than a month.’
My heart seemed to lodge in my throat. ‘I thought he was staying to help you out,’ I said croakily. ‘And to sell this place.’
‘He agreed to stay a fortnight, tops.’ Hugo adjusted the crutch under his forearm. ‘Just until my wife got back from China.’
‘Didn’t she get back on Thursday?’
‘She was back over a week ago.’ There was an amused slant to Hugo’s mouth, but his eyes were wary. ‘He was looking for excuses to stay, and now I see why.’
Before I could answer, Mum touched my arm, startling me. ‘We’ll see you later, Meg.’ She looked strained, and I could see she needed to leave. ‘Bring Sam over for dinner, won’t you? Mike would love to meet him.’
‘If he’s not too tired.’ Aware of Hugo’s critical gaze I kissed her cheek, which felt almost as hot as my own. ‘Thanks for coming, Mum.’ I smiled a thank you at Mike and he smiled back, casting Hugo a quizzical look. Mum wouldn’t have cared if I was chatting to the Pope, she was so keen to get out.
‘See you later,’ Mike said, and looked for a second as if he might kiss my cheek too, but had second thoughts. We were still navigating the whole father/daughter dynamic, and I guessed it would be a while before it felt completely natural.
As they left, Cassie mimed getting herself a drink and I nodded, glad of a second’s distraction from Hugo’s attentive stare. ‘Could you take the rolls out of the oven while you’re there?’ She gave me a thumbs-up and tilted her head in Hugo’s direction, as if to say who’s he?, and I gave a tiny shake of my head.
‘This is so yummy,’ Charlie declared, causing Kath to look over, her face melting into a soppy smile. ‘Can we go and see Mummy now?’
Hugo ruffled Charlie’s curls, not taking his eyes off me. ‘In a minute, Charlie.’ His mouth had tightened. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Nathan like this over a woman. In fact, I don’t think I ever have,’ he said quietly. ‘He got his heart broken last time he fell in love, too.’
Love? ‘I… like him a lot.’ My voice crumbled a little. ‘It’s just… I’m… I have some things to sort out. I’m getting married.’
‘So I gather.’ Hugo seemed to be waiting for me to say something else and I opened my mouth obligingly, but my words had disappeared. ‘Anyway, I thought I should let you know,’ he said, bending awkwardly to pick up Charlie’s bucket. I dipped down to retrieve the spade, meeting Hugo’s eyes on the way back up. ‘My brother doesn’t fall in love lightly.’
My heart turned over. ‘Neither do I,’ I squeaked.
‘Good to hear.’ He straightened, and handed the bucket to Charlie, who had icing round his mouth, and was feeding bits of biscuit to a soft-eyed terrier a customer had sneaked in. ‘We were looking forward to having Uncle Nathan stay around, weren’t we?’ he said.
Charlie nodded. ‘Uncle Nafan,’ he repeated, and ate a piece of biscuit the dog had just licked.
I looked at Hugo. ‘You can’t blame me for him leaving.’
‘I’m not blaming you.’ Something like sadness settled around his eyes. ‘We miss him, that’s all.’ He held out his hand to his son. ‘You ready to go now, sunshine?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Fanks for the biscuit, Meg,’ he said as I slipped the spade into his bucket and tried to smile. ‘It was d’licious.’ He patted his tummy.
‘Would you like to take one for Mummy?’
He nodded keenly, and Kath slipped one in a bag with a paper napkin without me having to ask.
As I watched them go, Charlie holding his dad’s hand and chattering non-stop, Hugo manoeuvring more easily away from the confines of the shop, I found myself wishing we’d met under different circumstances. Hugo seemed nice (hard stare notwithstanding) and so was Charlie, and I wondered what Mrs Hugo was like – what her name was – and whereabouts they lived, and what Nathan and Hugo were like together; whether they bickered like Cassie and her brother did and whether—
‘It’s a nice age,’ Kath’s voice broke in, with an unusually wistful edge, and I moved back to the counter. I guessed she was remembering Freya when she was four – though I couldn’t picture Freya ever being as happy-go-lucky as Charlie seemed to be. ‘I’m already looking forward to Milo being able to talk,’ she said, as Cassie came through carrying the tray of rolls.
‘Just caught them before they burnt,’ she said.
Another flow of customers kept us busy, and most wanted a chat with me about my TV appearance, and to ask if Alice Denby was as nice in real life, and to tell me how lovely it was to see the bakery trading again, and how Mr Moseley was much missed.
‘You’re a worthy successor,’ said one, an accolade I felt I hardly deserved, but it was nice to hear, and by five o’clock all but one cupcake had sold, and I’d finally stopped expecting Nathan to turn up and surprise me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The front door was ajar when I got home, and I caught a glimpse of Sam’s bike parked in the hallway. The sight of it made my heart leap and my stomach roll over with nerves.
I crept into the house like an intruder, eyes flicking over his rucksack on the bottom stair, and his cycling shoes on the floor. Just like at Mum’s, before I’d met Mike, the air felt somehow disturbed.
‘You’re back!’ I called in a sing-song voice, hearing movement in the kitchen, hovering by the coat hooks to delay the moment I’d see him again. All the things I’d wanted to say suddenly seemed either too much or not enough, and I had no idea where to start.
‘Come and look at this!’ Hearing trapped laughter in his voice, I was transported back to him seeing his cycling itinerary online for the first time. It felt like a lifetime ago.
‘Coming!’ My mouth felt desert-dry as I put down my bag and kicke
d off my sandals, and I had to work hard to summon a smile before entering the sunlit kitchen. ‘What is it?’
With a feeling of déjà vu I saw that his eyes were trained on his laptop at the breakfast bar, and he smiled and held out his hand without looking up. ‘Chris posted a photo of me on the Eurostar this morning, the cheeky sod.’
He’d changed into his usual T-shirt and joggers, but his skin was a shade darker from being in the sun, which made his hair look lighter, and he was sporting a prickly-looking layer of pale stubble. It was like seeing a stranger wearing Sam’s clothes, and I had the sense I was seeing him properly for the first time.
‘I fell asleep and he thought it would be hilarious to do this.’ He chuckled, pointing at the screen.
I slowly moved over, and he drew me to his side as though we’d never been apart, and as if nothing between us had changed, and I stiffened before peering at a photo of Sam on his back, along the full length of the train seat. His legs were stretched out, his cycling shoelaces undone, and Chris had positioned the back page of a magazine over Sam’s face, so he looked to have the head of a grizzly bear.
‘That’s funny,’ I said, unable to match his chuckle as I pulled away. ‘Typical Chris.’
Sam tugged me back and squashed a kiss on my hair. He smelt foreign – of trains and sunshine, and a hint of garlic and beer. I wondered what I smelt of.
‘It went well then?’ I eased away again, wishing he’d face me. I needed to look at his eyes, and read what was in them, but he crossed to the fridge and stuck his head inside.
‘It was brilliant.’ He threw me a smile as he pulled out a carton of orange juice. ‘Toughest thing I’ve done, but totally worth it.’ He took down two glasses, and poured us both a drink. ‘Ben met us at the station. He’s gutted he couldn’t make it.’
I felt like saying I know, I’ve seen his comments online, but instead took the glass of juice he was proffering and said politely, ‘What was Geneva like?’