Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Ah,’ I reply. I can see why they’d have a problem with that. ‘So, how did you change their minds? Get them all drunk on cider?’

  He laughs.

  ‘A bit of time and a lot of hard work,’ he replies. ‘I showed them that my big idea would pay off and eventually they embraced it. These are old-fashioned folk – even the younger ones. They’re creatures of habit and they don’t just dislike change, they actively protest it.’

  ‘I realised this when I learned they had a literal protest outside the deli,’ I laugh. ‘So why do you have alpacas.’

  ‘Have you ever seen one? They’re cute,’ he says with a big smile. ‘I have alpacas, loads of ducks – I have a pygmy goat called Phillip, who is just this little, angry-looking ball of fluff.’

  I smile. There’s something so attractive about a man who loves animals. Just listening to him talk about them with such passion and love, with a big, dumb grin on his face, is melting my heart.

  ‘The point is that no one wanted me here either, or my business and now you can buy my booze all over town. I’ve even recently started making alcoholic jams, which you’ll be able to buy in Fruitopia,’ he says with a wink.

  I think about his words for a moment. If they didn’t want him here and he managed to turn things around then maybe I can too. Perhaps the locals are just stubbornly set in their ways and reluctant to change. The locals are a force I just don’t understand. Even after I learned they were against the deli, I didn’t expect them to be so open about it, and right to my face. They must care a lot about their town and, if Alfie could make them come around to him then I’ll do the same. ‘Thanks for this,’ I tell him sincerely. ‘For bringing Frankie back, for the pep talk…and for being nice to me.’

  ‘Thanks for the food,’ he replies. ‘You’ll bring people around to your way of thinking a lot quicker if they taste these.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I laugh.

  ‘We will. Well, I should get back to work,’ Alfie says, pulling himself to his feet. ‘I do know what you’re going through, and I know that it’s crap, so if you need an ally, you know where I am, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, all smiles. He might know what I’m going through, but he has no idea what his kind words mean to me.

  ‘You don’t seem convinced…’

  ‘You underestimate how horrible people are being to us,’ I tell him.

  ‘Why don’t you and Frankie come over tomorrow? I’ll show you around the farm, he can meet all the animals properly.’

  ‘That…that would be amazing, thank you.’

  ‘What are neighbours for,’ he says with a smile. ‘Plus, it might distract him from running away for another twenty-four hours.’

  As soon as Alfie has gone I go to speak to Frankie, after a quick detour to my bedroom to grab something.

  ‘Hey, Dick Whittington,’ I tease as I walk into his room. Frankie is sitting on his bed, doodling in his sketchbook. For as long as I can remember, Frankie has loved doodling, and he’s pretty good now – and, no, I’m not just saying that because I’m his mum. I had plenty of rubbish, shall we say abstract, pieces of art on my fridge before we got to the ones that were objectively impressive for an 8-year-old.

  ‘I’m so sorry you felt like you had to run away,’ I tell him. ‘Alfie said you were heading back to Viv’s?’

  ‘I hate it here,’ he tells me quietly. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘I know that things kind of suck here at the minute…but you know that running away was the wrong thing to do, don’t you?’

  Frankie nods.

  ‘I am working on trying to make things better. I know things have been difficult and a bit boring…I have a few things that might cheer you up, though. First of all, I want you to have my old iPhone.’

  Frankie’s eyes widen with surprise and delight.

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ I tell him. I’m not crazy, I’m not about to give an 8-year-old an expensive phone to keep in his pocket. ‘It will only work on Wi-Fi, so it lives at home, OK? But you can use it whenever you want to FaceTime your friends. I’ll have a word with their mums, I have their numbers, so you can talk to your friends and you can see them when you’re feeling lonely. How does that sound?’

  ‘Awesome.’ Frankie beams.

  It’s just a gesture really, and a way for him to see his friends. Plus, if he feels like he has a phone, even if it doesn’t really have a connection unless I connect it, he might feel less isolated here.

  ‘And, Alfie, the nice farmer who just brought you home, says we can go over tomorrow and meet all of his animals. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Yes!’ he replies, finally excited about something for the first time since we arrived. ‘I think I like him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘I think I might too.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘I can be there by tonight,’ my mum insists.

  ‘Viv, really, it’s fine.’

  My mum, finally back from her cruise, has just called to check in on me, and I’ve made the mistake of telling her everything.

  ‘It’s not fine,’ she replies. ‘You’re struggling and you need your mum.’

  I laugh to myself because I’m 31 years old, with a child of my own. Still, I suppose you’re never too old to need your mum, are you?

  ‘Things just came to a head yesterday, that’s all,’ I insist. ‘But I’ve made a friend and we’re going to see him today. He has a farm with cute animals, Frankie is so excited.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like the only one,’ she replies, with an unmistakable tone.

  ‘He just a friend, Viv,’ I insist, licking my fingertip before removing a smudge of mascara from under my eye in the bedroom mirror.

  ‘Frankie needs a man in his life,’ she tells me – she’s always telling me.

  ‘Hey, I never had a man in my life, and I turned out just fine,’ I remind her.

  ‘No, you turned out thinking you’re just fine, but you need a man too.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Honestly, we’re fine. I’ve given Frankie my old phone to use – it doesn’t really work but I can connect it to Wi-Fi so he can video call you, if that’s OK? Maybe after we visit the farm?’

  ‘Of course, baby,’ she replies. ‘I have yoga for an hour at seven, but no plans otherwise. Unless the new male instructor, Fabian, takes me home and ravages me.’

  ‘Oh, God, Mum, please,’ I babble, careful to call her Mum instead of Viv, to remind her that I’m her daughter and that, no matter how young and vibrant she may be, I don’t want to think about her having sex with her yoga teacher – or anyone, for that matter.

  ‘Promise me you’ll call me if you need me,’ she says seriously. ‘You know I’ve got nothing going on, other than my hectic social life. I can be there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell her sincerely.

  ‘So, are you dressed up to meet this new friend?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  Maybe I am, just a little. I figured after yesterday, when Alfie caught me in my tracksuit and glasses, with my hair piled on top of my head, it might be nice for him to see me looking smart and clean. I washed and straightened my hair, layered on the make-up and slipped into a black and white strappy summer dress – the prefect outfit for a casual visit to a neighbour’s house on a warm summer Sunday. Hopefully, despite having tried really hard, I don’t look like I’ve tried too hard.

  ‘Have fun, baby,’ she says. ‘Call me tonight.’

  I hang up, feeling a little brighter for speaking to my mum, and excited to be going over to Alfie’s. Frankie is even more excited than I am, to be going to the big house we drive past on the way to school every day.

  ‘You ready, kiddo?’ I shout.

  ‘Yep,’ Frankie replies, appearing almost out of nowhere. Wow, he really must be excited to go.

  With Alfie’s farm not being too far up the hill, we decide to walk up there, to properly take in the scenery around us.

  Apple Blossom Cottage is protected by
walls of trees, encasing it in leaves, hiding it from the outside world. But as you walk up the road towards Westwood Farm, no matter whether you look to the left or the right, all you can see is fields. At first, I thought this was beautiful, so much untouched green earth, free from big, ugly, fossil fuel-consuming buildings full of stressed out, vaping, corporate sheep. Now that we’ve been here a week, I feel differently. I feel claustrophobic, which I realise makes little sense given that I’m looking at such wide, open spaces, but I feel so isolated out here – yet another reason I’m so pleased that we’ve made friends with Alfie. I might not have enjoyed having four neighbours in the London flat (one either side, one above and one below) but there’s something unnerving about the nearest house being so far away.

  Once we’re outside Alfie’s gate, I press the buzzer and, after a few seconds, the gates open and we begin walking up the driveway.

  From the outside, Alfie’s spectacular, contemporary house is all white walls and glass. If the back has as many floor-to-ceiling windows as the front, he’ll have a panoramic view of the countryside that would make anyone jealous. It’s such a new, modern-looking house that he must’ve had it built since his dad died. It certainly isn’t an old-fashioned dairy farm. When he said he’d sold the dairy part of the business to another farm, I imagine that’s when – oh, what were they called, the ones who gave their kids weird names? Anyway, I imagine that’s when they took over selling dairy to the town. Well, God forbid Marram Bay would have two sources of one thing.

  ‘It’s like something from a movie,’ Frankie marvels as we approach the front door.

  ‘It is,’ I reply. Like something a Hollywood hunk or an evil supervillain would live in.

  Never, ever, ever, in my wildest dreams would I be able to afford to live in a place like this – to be honest, I never even thought I’d get invited into one. I guess dairy farms sell for a lot of money, or he makes a lot selling fancy alcohol to the locals – maybe it’s both. Although, you’d think if they were all hitting the bottle, they’d be a lot happier.

  ‘Hello,’ Alfie says warmly as he opens the door, but his welcome pales in comparison to the one we get from the chubby little pug who charges past him and jumps up at us, begging for attention. Frankie instinctively drops to his knees, offering his face to the pug who kisses him excitedly.

  ‘This is Pugsley,’ Alfie laughs. ‘And this is how we greet people in this house.’

  ‘Has he learned that from you?’ I joke, instantly regretting it.

  ‘I’m a little fussier,’ he laughs.

  ‘Come in, please. Pugsley, down boy.’

  Pugsley dutifully obeys his owner, but he can’t take his cute little bug eyes off Frankie as his tail wags wildly. Well, I say that, but in true pug style Pugsley’s tail is curled up at the bottom of his back, so when he does try and wag it, it looks more like he’s twerking – oh God, my heart!

  The only thing more captivating than the cute little dog is Alfie’s enormous, open-plan living space, so incredible I am suddenly very self-conscious of my own.

  ‘Your house is bigger than my school,’ Frankie blurts.

  Alfie laughs.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right. Just me and Pugsley living indoors though.’

  Hmm, so there’s no Mrs Barton, then. Interesting.

  ‘Take a seat on the sofa,’ Alfie instructs. ‘I’ll bring some drinks over.’

  We sit down on the sofa, both on our very best behaviour, keeping our limbs glued to our bodies just in case we knock anything over.

  ‘Relax,’ Alfie insists as he carries a tray of drinks over, placing it down on the glass coffee table in front of us.

  If he hadn’t made it obvious that he lived alone, I probably could’ve worked out as much from his decor. This place is the very definition of a bachelor pad, with its clean white walls, black leather furniture and hi-tech gadgets everywhere you look – some of which I can’t identify. The only thing he doesn’t seem to have is a television, bizarrely.

  Right on cue, Alfie’s robot vacuum cleaner whizzes past us, closely followed by Pugsley.

  ‘I know, it’s a bit of a madhouse,’ he laughs. ‘Here, have a drink. One of Westwood Farm’s finest blackberry ciders for you to try, and a teetotal version for Frankie.’

  I take the glass and examine the contents.

  ‘Sorry, I should’ve asked if you liked cider, I just thought you might like to try what we make,’ he quickly adds.

  ‘I love cider,’ I assure him. ‘It was all I drank when I was young – when I was old enough to drink, of course.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he laughs.

  I take a sip, expecting a fruity cider, but this is so much more than that.

  ‘Wow, this is gorgeous,’ I admit. ‘It’s so fresh and fruity.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, smiling humbly. ‘How’s yours, Frankie?’

  I watch as my son carefully places his empty glass back down on the table with both hands.

  ‘I think that answers that question,’ I laugh.

  ‘That’s all the review I need,’ he replies. ‘So, I thought we could take Pugsley for a walk, and I can show you around the farm – you can meet all the animals.’

  ‘Now?’ Frankie replies.

  Perhaps he didn’t really enjoy his drink as much as we thought – maybe he’s just so looking forward to meeting the animals.

  ‘Do you want some boots to wear? What size are you?’ Alfie asks me.

  I look down at my wedges. That might be a good idea.

  ‘What is this, a bowling alley?’ I laugh.

  ‘No,’ Alfie chuckles. ‘But the vet left hers here, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you borrowing them.’

  ‘I’m a seven,’ I say, after a moment of hesitation. He might as well learn about my giantess feet now, just in case it’s a deal breaker. I told you, I’m five foot eight, I’m not going to have cute little lady size feet, am I?

  Alfie thinks for a moment – probably about my flippers.

  ‘Hmm,’ he replies. ‘Wait right there.’

  Alfie dashes off, closely followed by Pugsley, but only until he reaches the stairs. Once he has safely escorted his master, Pugsley bounds back over to us, jumping up on the sofa and wedging himself between us.

  While we wait for Alfie, I give Pugsley’s ears a quick scratch, but whenever I stop, he places a paw on my leg, to remind me that he’s still there, still wanting attention.

  ‘Well, aren’t you just a typical man,’ I say to him, in that voice adult humans reserve for animals and babies.

  When Alfie finally appears with a pair of wellies and some balled up socks, Pugsley takes this as a sure-fire sign that he’s going for a walk, transforming him from a chilled out pup who just wants his ears scratched to a little furry Catherine wheel, going crazy on the floor.

  ‘I figured you’d be more comfortable in a pair of mine,’ he says. ‘We just need to pad them out with a few pairs of thick socks.’

  I’m not sure if he’s not mentioning sizes because my feet are almost man-sized, or because his are on the small side. Either way, it doesn’t really matter.

  I layer up on socks, slip my feet into the wellies and we’re ready to go for our tour of the farm.

  First Alfie shows us the apple trees, which put our few to shame, then he briefly shows us the facilities where the drinks and jams are made, although we don’t go inside. Alfie says it’s no place for kids – mostly because it’s boring, apparently.

  Alfie has so much wide, open space here, all his own, except, of course, for where his animals live.

  Pugsley charges off ahead of us, like he knows where he’s going.

  ‘So, down here we have Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo and Raphael,’ Alfie says. ‘Pugsley loves them, as you can see. Leonardo has a bad leg at the moment and Pugsley is really upset he can’t play with him.’

  As we approach the gate, four alpacas come hurrying over to greet us. They’re such bizarre animals, with their curly fur and their long n
ecks. If you crossed a giraffe with a sheep – with a little bit of poodle thrown in for good measure – you’d get an alpaca.

  ‘Hi,’ Frankie says, cautiously approaching his new friends.

  The alpacas line up at the gate, ready to get some attention.

  ‘Is that the noise they make?’ I ask Alfie, referring to the weird gentle humming noise coming from them.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the sound. But it’s the same sound they use to show a whole bunch of emotions, so you have to learn to read them. They can make a piercing yelp if they want to, but it’s rare that they do. Male alpacas actually have a song that they sing, for impressing the ladies. They’re such intelligent animals. They have great memories too.’

  ‘Wow,’ I reply sincerely. ‘You really know your stuff.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he replies. ‘And if you’ll follow me this way, you can meet Phillip.’

  ‘Who is Phillip?’ Frankie asks as he follows. As we walk across the muddy field I feel my feet sinking into the ground and I realise why Alfie suggested I change my shoes.

  ‘This is Phillip,’ he says, leading us into another field. ‘He’s a pygmy goat, they’re much smaller than your average goat.’

  ‘Hello, Phillip,’ Frankie greets him.

  ‘I adopted him from France,’ Alfie explains. ‘So he only knows French commands.’

  Phillip is very small indeed, with grey and white, long, fluffy hair, with occasional flecks of black. He is small but chunky and impossibly cute.

  ‘Pygmy goats are generally quite friendly animals but, er, Phillip has some issues,’ he tells us.

  ‘Oh?’

  Information from the back of my mind suddenly comes to the forefront: that goats are closely associated with the devil, but why is that? Of the very few dates I’ve been on since Frankie was born, I remember one far more vividly than the rest. The guy invited me to the cinema, which even I know is a terrible idea for a first date, and I made the mistake of letting him choose the movie. I’ve never really been a big fan of horror movies – too much of a big baby – but I’ve always been a fan of love, so if he wanted to see a horror movie, I was willing to take one for the team, because who knew if this was the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with? We went to see this movie called The Witch, about a Puritan family who come up against evil forces in the woods where they live. There was a goat in that, and it is truly one of the most terrifying things I have ever experienced in my life – and I gave birth to my son on the tube. Seriously, credit to the filmmakers, because that film left me unable to sleep for days after, and it was all thanks to the goat, which, now that I think about it, was called Phillip too.