‘Frankie,’ I squeak. ‘Are you enjoying that?’
‘Yes,’ he says almost reluctantly, looking at his plate as he responds. He’s always maintained that he would never find a chicken nugget to rival his beloved McDonald’s, but he has insisted even harder that he would never enjoy a vegetable of any description – obviously, excluding chips and the occasional roast potato. I’ve tried covering his broccoli in cheese, hiding carrots in his pasta sauce, and even roasting parsnips and trying to convince him they were chips, but my tricks have always failed me. And yet here he is, consciously and contently eating peas.
‘He doesn’t usually like vegetables,’ I tell Clara, unable to hide my happiness.
‘I cook them with bacon and a bit of honey,’ she explains. ‘I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love my peas.’
‘Well you’ve definitely got yourself some new, regular customers,’ I laugh.
‘You’re not customers today,’ she says. ‘Consider this our “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift to you.’
‘Clara, you’ve done so much for us!’
‘You’re our neighbour now,’ she points out. ‘Think nothing of it.’
I pick up my apple juice and take a sip – it’s delicious. I can’t wait to get to see what I can do with the ones in my garden…not that I’m an especially good cook. I’m just excited to try. Things maybe have got off to a bumpy start but I really do feel like we’re going to be happy here.
‘So, what brings you here then?’ Clara asks. ‘Just a fresh start?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, although that’s not strictly true.
Nervously, I take a long drink from my glass and, thankfully, by the time I come out of hiding from behind my apple juice, Clara has shifted her attention to Frankie, asking him questions about his hobbies.
Now isn’t the time to tell a woman I’ve just met about what I’m hiding from.
Chapter 4
I run a hand over the perfectly clean kitchen worktop, marvelling at my own handiwork. I’ve never really been a Good Housekeeping kind of woman. My cooking skills are pretty basic, my cleaning abilities are adequate and as for all the helpful extras, like being able to sew – well, I’ve never really had time for that.
This kitchen though, it’s spotless. From the floor, to the surfaces, to the windows (which, truth be told, I don’t even remember cleaning), everything looks great.
What really catches my attention though, is the man in the back garden. I didn’t know this place had a gardener, but I suppose it makes sense, with all the beautiful plants, the neatly trimmed lawns and the pond to take care of.
The shirtless gardener is reaching up and plucking apples from the tree. I can’t help but stare at his bulging biceps, watching them flex as he extends his arm to grab an apple, before tossing it into the basket on the ground.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped outside the backdoor and called out to him.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
The man turns around and if he wasn’t picking apples in my back garden, in the arse-end of nowhere, I would swear it was Daniel Craig, with his chiselled good looks, his blond hair and his buff Bond-worthy body.
The man doesn’t reply. He reaches up, plucks a bright red apple from the tree and tosses it over to me, which I catch with an unusual ease. I’m not usually this coordinated…or confident, for that matter.
I raise the apple to my mouth to take a bite, stopping just before it touches my lips. Bizarrely, it doesn’t smell like I was expecting it to; in fact, it smells like lemons. I take another big whiff, only to wake up suddenly, in my new bed, with my Marigold-clad hands wrapped around a can of lemon Pledge. So not only did I fall asleep cleaning, but I dreamt the whole sexy gardener thing! I suppose it all makes sense now. I don’t approach men or have a perfectly tidy kitchen, and, now that I think about it, Daniel Craig trimming my bushes in his iconic blue swimming trunks doesn’t sound all that realistic.
Disappointed, I place the Pledge and the gloves down on my (half-polished) bedside table and stretch out my neck and my back before unplugging my phone. I’m just about to mindlessly scroll social networks for a few minutes, like I do every morning, when I see the time. Shit! I’ve overslept! And not only am I going to be late for my first day on the job, but Frankie is going to be late for his first day of school.
I dash to the kitchen and, although it is clean, it’s not as sparkling as it was in my dream and stupidly I can’t help but feel a little disheartened. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with milk from the fridge before charging into Frankie’s room. He’s sleeping so peacefully, I almost don’t want to wake him up. I hope it’s because the bed is comfortable and not because I blitzed his room with too many cleaning products before I put him to bed last night.
‘Wake up, kiddo, we’re late,’ I babble as I place the milk down next to him. ‘Drink milk, brush teeth, put clothes on and meet me in the kitchen.’
‘What?’ Frankie asks, rubbing his eyes.
‘We’re going to be late,’ I tell him. ‘Quick, quick.’
‘Fine,’ he says, sounding a little too much like a moody teenager for my liking.
I dash back into the kitchen, grab his lunchbox and quickly fill it with a ham and cheese bagel, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and one of those little Freddo chocolate bars – his favourite three things, to make him feel as comfortable as possible on his first day. Frankie has never been through anything like this before and I can tell he’s nervous because he’s been asking me a lot of questions about his new school since he found out he was going there.
Next, I dash into my bedroom, hurry off yesterday’s clothes and quickly wipe off as much of yesterday’s make-up as I need to, before carefully applying copious amounts of all the things that make me look awake and alive. Then I hop into the white shirt and the black pencil skirt that I’m so glad I set out ready for myself last night, step into a pair of heels and hurry on some accessories before heading back to the kitchen, where a sleepy-looking Frankie is waiting.
‘Aw, look at you,’ I can’t help but pause to say. ‘But where’s your tie?’
‘I don’t wanna wear it, Mum,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t have to wear a tie at my old school.’
‘Kiddo, they didn’t care if you wore trousers at your last school – remember that day Sam turned up in his Minion swimming shorts?’
‘Yeah,’ Frankie cracks up. ‘That was funny.’
‘Bring me your tie, I’ll fasten it for you,’ I tell him.
My son reluctantly does as he is told.
‘OK, so we just wrap this bit around a couple of times, pull it through and…there we go. My God, you look cute.’
‘I look stupid,’ he corrects me.
‘Stand by the fireplace, I want to take your picture,’ I insist.
‘Mum,’ he whines.
‘Please?’
Oh God, I’m that mum.
Frankie, knowing that sometimes it’s better to just do as I ask than to fight it, slowly walks over to the fireplace and stands, sort of slumped, with a glum look on his face.
‘Smile.’
Frankie forces a big, dumb smile.
‘When you turn 21 I’m going to put this picture on your birthday cake, and you’ll regret pulling that face,’ I laugh as I look at it on my phone.
I dash back to the kitchen and grab my handbag, Frankie’s lunchbox and a variety pack-sized box of Frosties before hurrying for the door. I hand Frankie the lunchbox and the Frosties.
‘Go wait by the car, I’ll just lock the door,’ I instruct.
I pause for a split second before I lock up. I’m pretty sure everything is turned off that should be turned off, and everything that should be locked is locked. Back home, I had my morning routine down. In fact, I just did most stuff on autopilot, like locking doors and turning appliances off, but here everything is strange and new. Still, we weren’t up long enough to turn things on, so I’m sure everything is fine.
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I fasten Frankie into the back of the car, climb into the front seat and set the destination on my phone. Acorn School isn’t too far away but I don’t know the area yet, so better to be sure of where we’re going than to explore and hope we find it.
Marram Bay is a strange combination of coastal town and countryside. The seafront is the touristy part, with the pretty views and the cute little shops. Then, as you travel further inland, you approach the homes where the locals live. Finally, you reach the part of Marram Bay that is mostly farmland and fields, with the occasional cottage or school dotted in the middle of nowhere.
At the end of the road where our cottage sits, is a huge, contemporary house. I glance at the sign outside which reads ‘Westwood Farm’, though it doesn’t look much like any farm I’ve ever seen.
‘Whoa,’ Frankie says. ‘That’s a cool house.’
‘It is,’ I reply, a pinch of salt in my words, given our current living situation. Obviously the closest thing we’ve got to a next-door neighbour lives in a house that was most likely on Grand Designs. ‘We can’t stop and stare though, kiddo, we’re late. Make sure you eat your breakfast.’
‘Yes, crisps,’ he chirps.
‘Oi, no, eat your cereal, not your lunch,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Did you brush your teeth?’
‘Oops,’ Frankie says. I can’t really blame him today, we were running so late. Running my tongue across my own teeth reminds me that brushing my teeth was something I forgot to do too.
I stop the car and glance around, looking for something that isn’t a field.
‘Oh, there we go,’ I say, pointing ahead.
Acorn School is an old Victorian stone building with a slate roof and sash windows. It even has a little tower – I’ll bet this was some house back in the day. But while it has the grandeur and proportions of an amazing Victorian era house, as far as schools go it’s positively tiny. Acorn School is the only school for kids Frankie’s age for miles, but it didn’t bother me too much when I enrolled him because the school has a glowing track record and rave reviews. I suppose, because it’s so small, there are much fewer students and therefore each kid can get much more attention and support.
I hurry Frankie out of the car, through the heavy metal gate and up the stone steps into the playground.
‘This way,’ I instruct, pointing towards the main door.
We must be extremely late, because there’s no sign of any kids – or even any parents on their way out.
There is no way I could have known the large wooden door led straight into their (little) main hall, and that assembly would be well underway. No more than forty kids are sitting on the floor, singing along to ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, which is being played on a piano at the front of the room by a person who is far too short for me to see over the top of the instrument. Leading the assembly is a woman, maybe in her fifties, conducting the children with her hands. She’s quite tall, and on the broad side, which makes her appear intimidatingly large next to the little kids, although I imagine if I were to stand alongside her in my four-inch heels, she probably wouldn’t seem like such a giant. She’s kind of old-fashioned, and a little on the drab side, wearing navy blue trousers, a white shirt and a navy Aran cardigan. She has a pair of glasses hanging around her neck on a chain – something I didn’t realise people did in real life, I assumed this was a look reserved for librarians in movies. She has an especially short auburn bob, just skimming her ears, which only adds to her stern, harsh appearance.
As she glances over at us, it confirms one thing, that no matter how old I get, I will always recognise one look: the look from a teacher that lets you know you’re in trouble.
As we wait for the song to end, I place an arm around Frankie protectively – or maybe I’m just hoping she’ll go easier on me if I use my child as a shield. What is it about teachers and the slightly terrifying air of authority they give off? I can feel it from across the room.
‘Well, children, first of all Ms Berry is going to talk to you about all the wonderful things we have in store for you this term. I need to go and welcome our new – slightly late – pupil,’ the teacher says, gesturing towards us.
Everyone turns around to look at us so I give an awkward wave.
‘Miss Holmes, I presume,’ she says as she approaches us.
‘Hello, yes, I’m so sorry we’re late,’ I babble as she ushers us into a classroom. ‘We only arrived yesterday and we had a late night sorting the cottage out, didn’t we?’
I hear a weird crunching sound, which I quickly realise is coming from my son, who is finally eating his Frosties. I die inside.
‘Hello, Frankie,’ the teacher says, crouching down next in front of him. ‘My name is Mrs Snowball, I’m the headteacher here at Acorn School. I’m also going to be your teacher.’
Mrs Snowball? Really? I couldn’t think of a more cutesy name for a teacher if I tried.
Frankie nods in acknowledgement as he crunches his dry cereal.
‘Is that your breakfast?’ she asks him, returning to my level without waiting for an answer. ‘Is that his breakfast?’
‘Yes, we were in such a hurry this morning,’ I explain. ‘He did have the milk before we left.’
Mrs Snowball scrunches up her face.
‘I’ll get you some nice fruit once Mum has gone,’ she tells Frankie.
Good luck with that, darling.
‘I can’t apologise enough for being late,’ I say again, not that I think it’s doing me much good.
‘Well, I was hoping to show you both around, but I’m not sure there’s time now,’ Mrs Snowball says. ‘How about I go get Frankie a real breakfast and show him the ropes. And then, when you come to collect him after school, I’ll show you around.’
‘OK, sure,’ I reply. ‘That OK, kiddo?’
‘Come on now, Mum, he’s not a baby. You’re fine, aren’t you, Frankie? What’s Frankie short for?’ she asks me.
‘Probably because he’s only 8,’ I quip, laughing at my own joke, but I’m getting nothing from my audience. Mrs Snowball clearly has a different sense of humour to me, I must remember that when I do what I always do and fill awkward encounters with terrible gags.
‘I meant his name,’ she says, not at all amused by me.
‘Sorry, just a joke. Frankie is his name.’
‘Exotic,’ she replies.
‘Well, be a good boy,’ I say, because I feel like that’s a parent-y thing to say. ‘And you know that if you need me, Mrs Snowball has my number.’
‘He’s not going to need you,’ she laughs, ushering Frankie away from me. ‘We’ll see you at three.’
Back in my car, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror. Why did you have to be late today, Lily? Why? Of all the days, it just had to be Frankie’s first day of school and my first day of work.
Speaking of which, I am now twenty minutes late to meet the site manager at the deli.
My first job, after I had Frankie, was working behind the counter in a YumYum deli. Back then there were only three branches, all in London, but now they’re popping up all over England as the business rapidly expands.
No one grows up with big dreams of working in the deli business, do they? I can’t say it had ever crossed my mind. I only (reluctantly) took the job because I was a single mum and it was close to home, but it turned out to be a perfect fit for me in many ways.
I’ve always had a passion for food – a fact my thighs will attest to – and working in the deli, I got to share this passion with the customers, giving them recommendations on what to buy and making suggestions for their lunch. I loved the work, I loved the customers and most importantly I loved all the delicious food.
While I was working there I got to know the bosses, Eric and Amanda, a married couple who had no idea that, when they opened their first deli, they would one day be sitting in a swanky central London office, with a thriving deli chain. I think the fact that they didn’t expect their success is why they’re probably still s
o humble and generous. Eric and Amanda saw my passion for the products we sold and promoted me, giving me a job in their head office, where I would source new products to stock and make decisions about what we sold in each branch. Sure, I missed the customer-facing work, but I loved looking for new and exciting foods to sell.
I often fantasise about running my own deli one day, but know I’d never be able to afford it. So when, out of the blue, Eric and Amanda said they were opening a new branch in a tourist town up north, and needed someone who knew the business well to go and oversee the important opening and then run the branch, I jumped at the chance. Not only is this my chance to get as close to running my own deli as possible, the fresh start couldn’t have come at a better time.
I pull up outside a little stone building and it’s just perfect. Exactly what I had in my head when I conjured up my dream deli. It’s a small, standalone building that looks like it perhaps used to be a cottage. I’m guessing the stone walls have been sandblasted, because it looks almost like new, and unlike weather-beaten Apple Blossom Cottage, you can see all the different coloured stones that were used when it was built. There is a small, paved section out front, perfect for a few tables and chairs to be put out when we’re ready to open, and the walls are adorned with large, absolutely gorgeous hanging baskets. The only thing missing is the sign, which reminds me that it is my job to find a name for this place. The owners don’t want their delis to seem like chains, even though they technically are, because each deli is unique and deserves a unique name.
I quickly search my bag for some chewing gum. It’s weird how, when you forget to brush your teeth, you feel fine up until the point you realise you haven’t brushed your teeth, and suddenly they feel alien in your mouth. I spot a packet with a couple of pieces in that, truthfully, I don’t remember buying, but it’s not like I plan on swallowing it, is it?
Once again, I see the corner of the postcard poking out of my bag, the postcard I’m trying so hard to keep out of my mind.
As I chew the stale chewing gum, I glance over at the deli again. I’m just thinking about how perfect it is when I notice something propped up outside – it looks like a cardboard sign.
Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli Page 3