Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Well, tell me a bit about yourself then.’

  I shuffle on my stool to make myself a bit more comfortable.

  ‘OK, sure. Name’s Chantelle – Channy to my mates. I’m 21, lived in Marram Bay my whole life.’ At this fact, Channy pulls a displeased face. ‘Went to school here, left after my GCSEs.’

  ‘What GCSEs do you have?’ I ask. We’re supposed to seek out candidates with English, Maths and Science, not that I’ve ever really understood why. Supposedly it shows a well-rounded individual, if they’ve got good GCSEs. It shows that they’ve worked for something, I guess.

  ‘C in Science, D in Maths. I got a B in my English Lang, but I got a U in my English Lit. I’m not dumb or anything, I just muddled my days up and slept right through it. Duh!’ Channy adds with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply, not really sure what else to say. ‘So, why do you want to work here?’

  ‘I want a job so I can save up enough money to move away – somewhere more fun, y’know? Like, it’s real pretty here and whatever, tourists seem to like it, they visit and have a great time but then they go back to their lives in real places. I want to live somewhere exciting, where there are nightclubs and more than eleven people on Tinder, y’know?’

  I really don’t, but I appreciate her honesty.

  ‘Do you have any experience in customer service?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any work experience at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a keen interest in international cuisine?’

  ‘No,’ she says again, shaking her head for emphasis this time.

  ‘Are you interested in food at all?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I eat it, if that’s what you mean.’

  That wasn’t what I meant.

  ‘Channy, I’m going to be frank with you, because I appreciate your honestly. Why should I give you this job?’

  She smiles.

  ‘Because A, I can give you the low-down on all things Marram Bay – everything you could possibly need to know about everyone, and B, because I’ll bet I’m the only person who has applied.’

  I think for a moment. Well, she’s right. She really is the only person who has applied, so she has that going for her, and I suppose if she can educate me on the town, maybe that would help. Plus, she’s clearly smart enough to realise I need her, so maybe she’s more intelligent than she seems.

  ‘OK, you’re hired,’ I say happily, and not just because she’s the only person, or because she knows the locals, but because I see myself in her. Once upon a time I was a twenty-something misfit, with my unapproachable outfits and my dreams of getting out of my hometown. If I can help her achieve her dreams, then great.

  ‘Awesome,’ she replies. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ I tell her. ‘We’re just waiting to see when the work is done, and when we get out liquor licence, and we’ll need another couple of staff members…I will need some help in the run up to opening though.’

  ‘Great,’ she says.

  ‘If you want stick around for a bit, I’ll make you a drink, and there’s always some cakes or some doughnuts somewhere. You can start filling me in on the town.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ she replies. ‘Nowt else to do.’

  I make two cups of tea before rifling through the large box of biscuits Eric and Amanda sent for the workmen to have during their breaks. See, that’s what I mean about them, they’re such great bosses and it’s so amazing to work for them.

  I spy a box of French madeleines – delicate, mini sponge cakes flavoured with lemon and dusted with sugar – before spotting a few bags of Mulino Bianco biscuits. Mulino Bianco are an Italian brand I hadn’t encountered until I started working at the deli. We have always been encouraged to take products home with us, just as a treat or to review them – Eric and Amanda like us to have proper knowledge of all products on offer. I couldn’t think of a more amazing job perk if I tried. One day, not long after I started working for YumYum, they very first thing I took home to try was a bag of Mulino Bianco Pan Di Stelle biscuits. They are delicious chocolate and hazelnut pastry biscuits, topped with white stars and sugar. They’re so crunchy, and delicious without being overly sweet – they soon became my favourite biscuit, kicking the reigning champ, the humble bourbon, off my top spot.

  ‘Here we go,’ I say, setting the drinks down on the counter. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Well, who have you met?’ she asks, tucking straight into the biscuits.

  ‘Mrs Snowball,’ I say, to get the ball rolling.

  ‘Ha, she’s an old bag, isn’t she? She taught me, back when I was a “Little Acorn” and I hated every moment of it. She always used to tell us that “mighty oaks grow from little nuts” which, now that I think about it, is pretty effed up…’

  I snigger.

  ‘I find it right weird that she’s a teacher who doesn’t have any kids of her own. She’s married, lives with her husband, but they just never had any. She says the school kids are all the kids she needs. You might think she’s a prim middle-aged woman but she was a proper goer when she was younger, apparently. I remember not too long ago, a photo did the rounds online, of her getting arrested. She was protesting something, back when she was at uni – she didn’t have a bra on.’

  Oh, damn.

  ‘Wow,’ I blurt. ‘Erm, any more interesting characters here?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, for sure. We pretend we’re this perfect little place, but we’re just as barmy as everywhere else. Who else have you met?’

  ‘Clara and Henry…’

  ‘Yeah, they’re all right. Clara is an interesting one though – she isn’t the original Clara, if stories are to be believed.’

  All sorts of thoughts fight for attention in my head…Not the original Clara? What does that even mean?

  ‘Her mum had a little girl named Clara when she was a teenager,’ she explains. ‘We’re talking a long time ago, back when it wasn’t chill for a teen to get knocked up. Long story short, the postman and his wife couldn’t have kids, so her parents gave Clara away to them. Then, when Clara the First’s mum got married and had another daughter, she gave her the same name.’

  I feel my eyes widen with horror. Clara’s gran made her mum give her baby away because she was young? I fell in love with Frankie the second I knew he was growing inside me and there was no way anyone was going to take him away from me – not that anyone suggested they would. I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been for her. I know we’re talking about a different time, but even so, that’s just horrendous.

  ‘Know anything about the mums?’ I ask.

  ‘Er, let’s think, who has kids…Katy and Graham, who have a little kid at Acorn School – Buster, he’s a first year, I think. Anyway they made the local news when he proposed to her. There’s an abbey over on Hope Island, it’s a proper romantic spot, lots of couples go there – and I know what you’re thinking, that sounds like a proper banging proposal, but it turns out, because they’re proper into their murder mysteries, he arranged for her to be “kidnapped” as a surprise. So she was just going about her day when she was bundled into a van, tied up, blindfolded, gagged! The van drives her to Hope Abbey where Graham is waiting to propose to her. She said yes – probably because she was scared not to, if you ask me. I can’t even get a text back and she’s got her own boyfriend kidnapping her.’

  Channy shakes her head.

  ‘Know anything about Avril?’

  ‘Avril Newman?’ she asks. ‘Head of the PTA? Nah, doesn’t mean there’s nothing to know though. People are having affairs, avoiding tax and driving out into the sticks to flash their headlights, just like everywhere else.’

  I’m not sure that last one is as typical as she thinks – or maybe I’ve been living a sheltered life.

  ‘We’ve even got our own Lothario,’ she says excitedly.

  ‘Oh really?’ I reply.

  ‘Yep,’ Channy replies, throu
gh a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Bad boy farmer, Alfie Barton.’

  I choke on my tea.

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Yeah, you met him?’

  ‘Erm, yeah, I met him and Charlie in the pub the other night,’ I say, embarrassed.

  ‘Ha. Charlie the vet. Everyone knows that as soon as Alfie moved back to town and inherited all his dad’s money, she was all over him…but bad boy farmers don’t take wives,’ she laughs. ‘Charlie is playing the long game, waiting for him to change his ways. In the meantime, he’s ploughing all over town. Can’t blame women for falling for him – rich, charming, gorgeous. I would.’

  Alfie has got to be at least fifteen years older than Channy. I can’t blame her though, I fell for his charms too.

  ‘So, he’s not a good guy?’ I ask, sounding a little bit like a kid who’s just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.

  ‘He’s not a bad person,’ she insists. ‘But he moved back into town, started making alcohol instead of milk, and since then he’s just been dating loads of different women, wooing the tourists – I think he likes a challenge.’

  And what bigger challenge than a single mum who has lost all faith in men. Then again, look at me go – going over to his house, literally falling into his arms, meeting him for a drink and just palming my son off on a couple I met once…I haven’t been playing that hard to get, have I?

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I ask. Am I refusing to believe her? Why would she make this up?

  ‘Nothing stays a secret in this town,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve always been a good listener, well, outside of school. Always listen to my mum gassing on the phone – kids hear everything. And who doesn’t love a good gossip?’

  ‘Wow, so much to take in,’ I say, pausing to clear my throat. ‘I, er, I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘OK, yeah,’ she replies, standing up. ‘I don’t suppose I’m gonna get paid for today?’

  I glance at my watch – she’s been here forty-five minutes.

  ‘How about you take the biscuits and the cakes?’ I suggest.

  Channy looks down at the sweet treats on the worktop, shrugs and gathers them up in her arms.

  ‘You’ve got my number, yeah. Call me when it’s time to start.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ I call after her. ‘Thanks for the gossip.’

  ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ she calls back.

  Mike and his team are working in the back room today, so I sit here, alone, thinking about everything Channy told me. How could I be so dumb, to be taken in by the first handsome face I meet?

  I take my phone from my bag, only to see that I have a message from the devil himself, asking if I have any plans tonight. I quickly reply, a little too bluntly perhaps, saying that I’m busy this evening, before turning my phone off.

  If Alfie Barton thinks he can add me to his list of conquests, he can think again.

  Chapter 16

  Walking up the steps to the school, with yet another bad day under my belt, I realise that it isn’t over just yet when I see Mrs Snowball standing in the school doorway with Frankie next to her, her hand placed on his shoulder to keep him in place.

  I approach them cautiously, although I’m not sure why – Frankie is usually good as gold and, for once, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.

  ‘Lily,’ Mrs Snowball greets me. ‘A word, if you don’t mind?’

  It sounds optional, but I don’t think it is.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  The playground has pretty much emptied, so Mrs Snowball directs me to a wooden picnic bench. Well, it is such a lovely day – far too nice to be stuck inside getting a telling off.

  Mrs Snowball removes an iPhone from the pocket of her maroon trousers and places it on the table.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ she asks me.

  ‘Wow, SATs are getting easier,’ I joke. ‘It’s an iPhone.’

  ‘Correct,’ Mrs Snowball replies.

  I shrug.

  ‘Your son brought it to school.’

  I look over at Frankie, who looks down at the table.

  ‘Oh?’ I say coyly.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Mrs Snowball replies. ‘I realised something was amiss at lunchtime, when I noticed a crowd of children around him. I went over and, one of the boys, who I shan’t name, was trying to search for something I shan’t mention.’

  Ship! I told Frankie the phone was only for using at home. It’s not like anyone could’ve used it today, it only works when I connect it to my phone or to the Wi-Fi at the cottage. Still, I don’t suppose explaining this to Mrs Snowball is going to do anyone any favours.

  ‘I asked him what he was doing. He said he was trying to ring you.’

  ‘Is everything OK, kiddo?’ I ask him, but Mrs Snowball isn’t having any of it.

  ‘Lily, listen, I don’t know how things were in London, but here we don’t give our 8-year-olds iPhones to pop in their backpacks.’

  ‘I didn’t do that, I assure you,’ I tell her.

  ‘And then I tried to call you, but your phone was off. Anyway, I’ve confiscated the offending phone.’

  Frankie looks up quickly, panicked. I suppose to him fully functional or not, that phone is his only connection to the outside world.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ I insist. What is it with this woman and confiscating things? First his lunch, now the phone…I suppose the second one is a little different, but these are tough times for my son and me. ‘It’s my phone.’

  ‘This is your phone?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I reply. ‘Eight-year-olds don’t have iPhones.’

  ‘And that phone…’ Mrs Snowball starts, nodding at my actual phone, on the table next to my bag.

  ‘…is my business phone,’ I say. ‘That one is my personal phone. You won’t bring my phone to school again, will you, Frankie?’

  Frankie shakes his head.

  ‘Well, I can’t confiscate your phone from you, I suppose,’ Mrs Snowball tells me reluctantly.

  ‘Nope,’ I reply. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with my son.’

  ‘Please do,’ she replies. ‘If not, we’ll have to seriously reconsider his place at this school.’

  I take my son’s hand and lead him across the playground and down the stone steps. We walk along the road, past my car, until we reach a little beauty spot at the side of the road. I sit down on the grass, patting it to tell Frankie to sit next to me. He does.

  I’ve been a mum for eight years now and I have never seen my son so miserable. When I’m not busy with the deli, I’m stressing out about it. The poor kid is going to a school with a militant headteacher, where he has no friends – I’m not surprised he’s so sad.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, before I have chance to ask him any questions. ‘I kept the phone with me, just in case, and then today I just needed to talk to you.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, sensing a bigger issue.

  ‘Is my dad a murderer?’ he asks.

  His question stuns me into silence for a moment. I feel my hands lightly shake as his question continues to sink in. As far as Frankie is concerned, he doesn’t have a dad, and seeing as he’s only 8, I’ve never expanded on that. I always knew that, when he grew up and learned a lot more about where babies come from, he would ask questions, but I figured he’d find the truth much easier to understand at that age. I’m sure that, in this day and age, my son probably knows more about sex than I would like (I think every mum wants to keep their child a baby forever, right?) but I don’t think he’s in a position to understand how a young woman can find herself knocked up and alone, not without each answer resulting in another question.

  ‘Of course not, who told you that?’

  ‘Some of the kids were saying that they’d heard their mums talking about how my dad was in prison for murder!’

  It doesn’t matter how hot and sunny it is – I go freezing cold from head to toe.

  ‘I promise you that isn’t true, Frankie. I promise.’


  He nods in agreement. There’s a sad, confused look on his face, but I know that he believes me.

  ‘Things aren’t getting better, are they?’ I say. Frankie shakes his head. ‘Well, I can’t just leave the deli without someone to run it, but I can have a word with the bosses, tell them it’s not working out. In the meantime, what about if I ask Viv to come and stay with us, would you like that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frankie says enthusiastically. I wouldn’t say he sounds excited, it’s more relieved.

  ‘Yeah? She can help us out, while we sort things out, and I’ll see what the bosses say,’ I assure him.

  ‘Do you not like it here either?’ he asks.

  I could lie to him and hope that, if he thinks I like it, he’ll like it too, but the last thing I want is for him to think that there’s something wrong with him because, honestly, living here is a nightmare so far.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ I tell him honestly yet tactfully. ‘It’ll be great when Viv is here though, right? We always have fun when Viv is around.’

  ‘Yeah, like when she used to take me to karate every week and then we’d go to McDonald’s,’ he says. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s because she wanted to (and did) sleep with his karate teacher. Frankie absolutely loves Viv, and I don’t think he loses out by not having a little old knitting nana, I think he appreciates her even more for being younger and cooler than his friends’ grannies.

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be great,’ I assure him. Plus, it will be nice to have an ally – a real one, that isn’t just trying to bed the new girl in town.

  ‘Maybe we could go see Clara and Henry, get some chicken nuggets,’ I suggest. Well, it has been over a week since he had them last, so I’m sure Mrs Snowball won’t be calling Social Services in too much of a hurry if she gets wind of it.

  ‘Yes!’ Frankie cheers. I love that he’s so sweet and pure, that the day can be turned around with chicken nuggets.

  ‘Hey look, it’s Alfie,’ Frankie says excitedly, pointing over at his car.

  Alfie has pulled up alongside my Beetle and now he’s walking over to us.

  ‘You broken down again?’ he asks as he approaches us. ‘I’ll take it back for you, mechanic said he’d fixed the problem…’