The Lemon Tree Café

by Cathy Bramley

  Doreen was a hard worker and extremely loyal to Nonna. She wouldn’t complain without good reason. She shut the old-fashioned till with a clatter and came back over.

  ‘Take this morning, for instance,’ she said, checking over her shoulder that Nonna wasn’t within earshot. ‘She gave out thirteen pounds in change to someone, instead of three.’

  ‘Easy mistake,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘And I caught her filling the salt cellars with sugar last week.’

  I glanced over to where Nonna was seemingly wiping a clean table with her dirty cloth and making it ten times worse.

  ‘Perhaps she needs new glasses?’ I whispered back.

  Doreen shook her head sadly.

  ‘I thought I’d lost her yesterday; I found her half an hour later fast asleep on an upturned bucket in the courtyard. No, it’s not new glasses. She’s seventy-five. What she needs,’ she said, ‘is a rest. A permanent one. Called retirement.’

  My stomach plummeted. Nonna was as rest averse as me and didn’t take kindly to advice, no matter how well intended.

  ‘Have you tried telling her?’ I said weakly.

  ‘She doesn’t listen to us.’ Doreen huffed. ‘I can’t even make her take a proper lunch break and she won’t let Juliet and me take over the evening cleaning, she sends us home at four and does it herself. We do bits when we can without her noticing. But the griddle is in desperate need of a deep clean and the loos …’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘If the health inspector ever comes in, he’d have a field day. I can’t afford to lose this job, neither can Juliet.’

  Juliet was the other part-time staff member who worked when Doreen was off. But Nonna had always kept numbers to a minimum, claiming that she did the work of two people. Perhaps those days were gone, but I didn’t want to be the one to break that to Nonna.

  ‘I understand and I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ I gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Er … shall I, er, mention it to Mum?’

  ‘Not a good idea,’ Doreen said hastily. ‘Remember the last time your mum tried to help?’

  I grimaced. Who could forget? Mum had been made redundant from the council planning department and rather than look for another job had suggested that, seeing as Nonna was at retirement age, she should take over at the café. Nonna compromised and said Mum could work alongside her to learn the ropes. They fell out in the first week and Nonna gave Mum the sack. Things had been decidedly frosty at family get-togethers for the next six months.

  ‘The problem is,’ I said, trying to put it tactfully, ‘that they both like to be in charge.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ Doreen rolled her eyes. ‘Which reminds me: your mum is having her Women’s Institute meeting here in half an hour. I’d better go and set up the conservatory.’

  I pondered Doreen’s problem while I finished my toastie and looked round the Lemon Tree Café with fresh eyes.

  None of us had ever visited Nonna’s home town of Naples, but she said that the café reminded her of the house she grew up in. She didn’t have any living family, and she’d settled here in England with Mum in the 1960s after her husband died young. She came to the café as a waitress initially, then was promoted to manager and eventually took over the lease herself. The café was her little piece of Italy, she was fond of saying, and she never wanted to let it go.

  The walls were lined with old Italian posters advertising olive oil, flour and lemons, the tables were heavy and dark, the mismatched chairs were a little worn in places, but comfortable enough. A plain wooden dresser bulged with Italian crockery featuring lemons and an eclectic collection of jugs and vases filled the gaps in between the pots of herbs. The effect was a cross between a Mediterranean garden and an old lady’s kitchen: shabby chic with the emphasis on shabby.

  I could see what Doreen meant: the café was looking a bit tired and unloved. But it had so much potential. The place was in a perfect spot overlooking the village green; it had room on the pavement for a few tables in summer. It was a shame I was such a useless cook, or I could have offered to help out.

  ‘So what you gonna do now, eh?’ Nonna’s sharp voice in my ear jolted me out of my reverie.

  She propped herself up on the counter to study me and promptly knocked my coffee cup off with her elbow. I caught it in my lap.

  Doreen sighed despondently and handed me a napkin.

  ‘Well,’ I said brightly, ignoring that last thought about my culinary prowess, ‘I was rather hoping you’d let me work for you for a month.’

  Nonna’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t need—’

  ‘Free of charge, of course,’ I added. ‘You’d be doing me a favour. You know how I hate not being busy and it’ll look better on my CV than doing nothing.’

  Doreen put her hands together in a hopeful prayer while Nonna gave my proposal an awfully long consideration.

  ‘Okey cokey,’ she finally grumbled and wagged a finger. ‘But remember who is boss. No interfering.’

  I threw my arms round her neck and kissed her soft cheek.

  ‘Thank you!’ I winked at Doreen whose face could scarcely contain her pleasure. ‘And don’t worry about me interfering, I can’t even boil an egg, remember.’

  It might have been my imagination but Doreen’s smile seemed to slip a bit at that.

  Chapter 2

  I was quite looking forward to my first proper day in the café the next morning as I pulled up the collar on my coat against the biting wind and headed downhill from my tiny cottage. It would be a change from the deadlines and the demands of unrealistic clients who expected their brand to flourish after just a handful of sponsored tweets. This would be good for me; a bit of manual labour, an opportunity to brush up on my sorry cooking skills and, hopefully, the chance to have a subtle snoop at the running of the café while I was at it.

  As I approached the village green, I spotted a woman with a streak of pink hair going into Ken’s Mini Mart. That had to be my old school friend Gina. She’d been a colourful character at school too. It would be good to catch up with her now that I would be spending more time in the village. She’d moved back to Barnaby last year, the same as I had, after splitting up with her husband. But what with doing up the cottage and her setting up a new child-minding business, we’d barely had the chance to get together. I waved to Adrian, the landlord of the Cross Keys pub on the opposite side of the green, who was leaning in the pub doorway smoking an early-morning cigarette and chatting away to a couple of people while their dogs chased each other round in circles on the frosty grass.

  It was blissfully peaceful compared to my normal commute into Derby; I could hear nothing but the birds twittering in the hawthorn trees and the gentle trickle of the stream which bordered the green. None of the other shops were open yet. There were four including the café: Biddy’s Pets, The Heavenly Gift Shop and Nina’s Flowers. I was smiling at a handwritten sign in Biddy’s window – Pregnant rabbit for sale! Eight (approx.) for the price of one! – when my phone beeped with a text. I grinned when I saw it was from my friend, Verity.

  Good luck today! And if all else fails, serve ’em fish finger sandwiches xx

  As housemates, we’d hardly spent any time in our kitchen; we’d invariably relied on mountains of toast or, if we were really pushing the boat out, Verity’s speciality: fish finger sandwiches. Funny that we’d both ended up in food-related worlds: Verity at the cookery school and living with a chef, and me at the café. Mine, of course, was strictly on a temporary basis but she had always been a foodie at heart. It had only been when her best friend Mimi died suddenly, leaving a husband, Gabe, and little boy, Noah, that Verity had fallen out of love with cooking. Thankfully her passion returned when the opportunity to run the Plumberry School of Comfort Food came along.

  The sign on the café door still said ‘Closed’ but the lights were on. Good old Doreen had come in early to show me the ropes. Which was just as well, I thought, pushing open the glass door and hearing the bell ding, because I was going to need all th
e help I could get.

  While Nonna prepped the jacket potato fillings, Doreen had given me a cursory tour of the kitchen, pointing out all the bits that needed cleaning or in some cases replacing, introduced me to a rather bad-mannered Italian coffee machine and put me in charge of the griddle and making toast. I was surprisingly nervous and very relieved when the first customers through the door were my sister Lia and her six-month-old son Arlo.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lia, blinking at me in surprise. She peeled Arlo’s coat off him and pulled out various pieces of equipment and toys from a voluminous quilted bag. ‘You’re working here.’

  ‘I’m volunteering my services for a while,’ I said, cursing myself for not texting her last night. I’d been up until midnight working on my CV (and also watching YouTube videos of how to make patterns in the top of cappuccinos). I took Arlo from her and gave him a cuddle while she mixed milk powder with water in a baby bottle. ‘Just until I find another job.’

  ‘You won’t be on the shelf for long,’ said Lia when I’d explained why I’d walked out of Digital Horizons. ‘The job shelf, I mean,’ she added, going pink and then realizing that that made it worse. Her blush spread down her neck to her bosom as she held her arms out to take Arlo back for his feed. ‘Or any shelf.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said drily. ‘I think.’

  My inability to hold on to a boyfriend was a regular topic of conversation in our family. They all thought I was too choosy but the truth was that I preferred short, fun and flirty relationships that ended well before the ‘L’ word got bandied about. Love did strange things to people, in my experience, and I was better off without it.

  ‘And it’ll be lovely to see more of Auntie Rosie, won’t it?’ she said, smothering Arlo’s face with kisses. ‘We pop in most days. In fact, I feel a bit bad, Nonna. If I’d known you needed help, I’d have offered.’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ Nonna muttered darkly, plonking herself at Lia’s table.

  ‘Nonna’s doing me a favour, to keep me busy,’ I said smoothly. ‘And you’re already busy enough with Arlo.’

  Lia looked like she was about to argue, so I swiftly pulled my new order pad out of my apron pocket and grinned.

  ‘So, madam, can I get you some tea and toast?’

  ‘Please. Just one slice, though,’ she said settling Arlo on to her lap.

  ‘And espresso for me,’ Nonna added. ‘Double.’

  I hurried off with my first order and crossed my fingers that the coffee machine would be gentle with me.

  ‘I got the toilet rolls you asked for, Maria,’ said Doreen, bending to press a kiss to the top of Arlo’s head.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Nonna vaguely.

  Doreen hovered at the table and cleared her throat.

  ‘They cost four pounds for nine rolls,’ she added.

  ‘Good, good.’

  Doreen stood there for a few more seconds and then turned away and disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something under her breath.

  I took the tray over and set a plate of toast and some curls of butter in front of Lia who held up her hand.

  ‘Don’t tempt me with real butter. I’m trying to shift some timber,’ she said, sucking in her stomach. ‘And I’d better just have half a slice.’

  She was still carrying her baby weight, but then Arlo was only little. And she might be a bit rounder in places but I’d never seen her look lovelier.

  ‘Get away!’ Nonna flicked her cloth at her. ‘You eating for two.’

  ‘I am,’ she agreed. ‘Still. That’s the problem. He’s been eating for himself for some time now.’

  My sister was beautiful. She had fine golden curls, soft pink cheeks and a sunny personality which drew people to her like bumblebees to a sunflower. Whereas my black hair was cut into an angular, easy-to-control bob, I was quick-tempered and sharp-tongued. She went with the flow, opting for an easy life, whereas I was more like a spawning salmon: determined to swim upstream even if it killed me. We both had Mum’s brown eyes, shared a deep-rooted passion for Tom Hiddleston and ice cream of any flavour and alongside Verity, who I rarely saw these days, she was undoubtedly my best friend.

  Arlo made a contented slurping noise and my heart melted at the sight of him. He was chugging away at his bottle without a care in the world, one hand wound in his fluffy curls, the other cradling his bottle protectively. Maybe I was biased, but my nephew was the most adorable bundle of tiny boyhood on the planet.

  ‘I remember your mamma when she was that small.’ Nonna’s wrinkled face softened at the memory. ‘Before she learn to answer back. Happy times.’

  ‘It must have been so hard for you, losing Nonno so young and having to bring up a baby by yourself,’ I said, stroking a finger across my nephew’s velvety cheek.

  Nonna picked up a teaspoon and stirred her coffee so roughly that it slopped into the saucer. ‘Long time ago now.’

  ‘I swear I’d have lost my marbles in the first few weeks if I hadn’t had Ed there to fetch me a cup of tea during those long night feeds.’ Lia bit into her toast and closed her eyes. ‘Oh heaven.’

  Arlo pushed his bottle away and began to struggle to sit up. Lia crammed the rest of her toast in her mouth to begin the burping routine.

  ‘Don’t rush, let me have him.’ I put the little boy over my shoulder, snuggling into his neck and inhaling his sweet milky scent.

  ‘Look at you.’ Lia brushed the crumbs from her cleavage. ‘You’re a natural.’

  ‘A natural auntie, maybe,’ I said, forcing a smile.

  Motherhood had been part of the life I’d imagined for myself once but now I wasn’t so sure. For the last ten years I’d thrown myself into my professional life instead and I suppose now I was married to my career. I couldn’t see that changing anytime soon either.

  A few gentle pats to his back and Arlo produced a couple of soft burps and we all cheered. At which point he decided to go one step further and vomited down my back.

  ‘Cheers, buddy.’ I passed Arlo back to Lia to mop up and Nonna handed me her cloth.

  ‘Welcome to my world, Rosie.’ Lia laughed at my wrinkled nose as I peeled off my cardigan and rubbed off the worst of the milky goo. ‘That’s what I mean, Nonna – how did you cope on your own?’

  ‘I loved your mamma as hard as I could. I kept us both safe and warm and fed. That’s all.’ She shrugged. ‘And as soon as I have money, I come to England and start new life.’

  I balled up the cardigan and the dirty cloth, and gave Nonna a hug. ‘I’m proud of you. You were so brave.’

  There was a ding on the bell and a stockily built young man with a baby-soft face and huge feet entered.

  ‘Morning, Tyson,’ cried Nonna. ‘One egg or two today?’

  ‘Better make it two, Mrs Carloni.’ He rubbed his hands together and chose a table in the corner. ‘Busy day ahead at the garden centre, I’m moving all the big terracotta pots to the entrance ready for spring.’

  ‘Coming up. OK, Rosanna, your turn to be brave, eh?’ Nonna twinkled her eyes at me as I smoothed down my new black apron. ‘Can you do two fried eggs over easy?’

  ‘Me?’ I answered with a laugh as I scampered to the griddle for the first time. ‘A walk in the park.’

  Now they were the ones you had to flip, weren’t they, or was that sunny side up …?

  ‘You having fun time?’ Nonna asked, refilling the napkin holder on the counter as I took a quick coffee break at an empty table later on. ‘Better than that fancy office, eh?’

  ‘It’s trickier than I thought,’ I admitted, ‘keeping up with the orders and trying to have things ready at the same time.’

  ‘When I first take over the café, it is only me here on my own. No other staff.’ She shook her head, lost in her memories. ‘Now that is tricky.’

  The doorbell dinged and Nonna suddenly gasped and turned away from the door.

  ‘Oh no, he’s here again,’ she hissed, patting her hair.

  I glanced at the door to see a rot
und elderly gentleman with a white beard and a fringe of hair around a bald patch, holding the door for a departing customer. He was around Nonna’s age, carried a newspaper under one arm and had a yellow carnation in the buttonhole of his blazer.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Stanley Pigeon.’ Nonna pinched her cheeks to make them pink and then took an ancient lipstick out of her apron pocket and puckered up to apply it. ‘Such a nuisance.’

  I blinked at her; I’d never seen her wear make-up. Ever.

  The name rang a bell.

  ‘The postman?’

  ‘Retired now,’ she said. ‘Although he help out sometimes when new boy can’t find all the houses.’

  I shook my head and tried to suppress a smile. The ‘new boy’ was Dad’s age and he’d already been in this morning for a takeaway cup of tea and a plaster for his finger after an altercation with a particularly fierce letterbox.

  ‘And why is he a nuisance?’

  I remembered passing Stanley Pigeon on my way to school every day. He had kept mint toffees in one pocket and dog biscuits in the other. The best way to deal with any difficult situation, he’d told me once with a wink, was to feed your way out of it.

  ‘He always asking me for dates. Silly old fool.’ She sighed dramatically and then sneaked a look at him over her shoulder. ‘He looking for me?’

  None of us knew much about Nonna’s husband, my grandfather Lorenzo, other than that he’d been killed in an accident at work in Naples and that he had been her one true love. She had never remarried, nor, as far as I knew, even had a relationship since. And that was over fifty years ago. I’d never even seen her show a passing interest in another man.

  ‘I think so. Shall I go and ask what he wants?’ I watched as Stanley settled himself into one of the sagging armchairs near the window. ‘To save you having to talk to him?’

  ‘No, no, you too busy.’ She peeled her lips back. ‘Have I got lipstick on my teeth?’

  I shook my head and watched in amazement as she strutted over to him, one hand on her hip, broad bottom swinging from side to side. Stanley got up stiffly, kissed Nonna’s hand and presented her with his carnation buttonhole. I couldn’t hear what he said to her but she erupted into giggles, tucked the flower behind her ear and sat opposite him, crossing her legs and hitching her skirt up an inch. I was amazed.