Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

I felt that, given my little scene earlier, it was best we stay away from, well, whatever it was that was going down on the seafront. But, it turns out the main street is on the seafront, so we’re not having much luck finding somewhere to get dinner further inland. As you travel into Marram Bay, first you pass the farms, then you enter the residential area. If you keep going you’ll wind up in the touristy bit, where the seafront is, but trying to find somewhere to eat that isn’t in the heart of the town is proving difficult.

It seemed like Clara’s, a little café sitting between a row of cottages and a small park in the residential area, might be our saviour, but despite their opening hours including Sunday afternoons, the door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside.

‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Frankie says, tugging on the bottom of my jacket as I peer through the glass door, my face pressed as close to the glass as I can get it.

‘Can I help you?’ a man’s voice asks from behind us.

I turn around quickly to see a couple, maybe in their sixties, standing at the gate, at the bottom of the café’s little front garden. We’re on the main road into town but I didn’t hear them coming, which means they must have walked here – something that becomes more apparent when I realise the man is struggling to catch his breath. The man is wearing some kind of soldier outfit, just like I saw many people at the seafront wearing, and the woman is wearing a red dress teamed with red pumps, a white cardigan and a fox fur scarf that I so hope isn’t real. As they walk up the path I get a better look at the fox, which still has its face, its tail – even its claws. It’s not just an eerie sight, seeing its little face upsets me and makes me uncomfortable. The smiling faces of the couple make me feel more at ease.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally finding the words. ‘We just moved here and we were looking for somewhere to eat.’

‘We’re closed today,’ the man informs us. ‘Been down at the Forties Weekend.’

‘Oh, the Forties Weekend,’ I echo. ‘We wondered what was going on, didn’t we, kiddo?’

Frankie clings to my leg, silently.

‘Yeah, once a year we all get dressed up in our Forties best and we have a big celebration. We remember the war, raise money for charity – and, well, everyone goes so no point opening up today.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you.’

I usher Frankie along the path a little, only for the lady to gently place her hand on my forearm. I turn to face her, making eye contact with her fox for a moment, before shifting my glance to her eyes.

‘Don’t worry, my love, it’s not real. I got it from a fancy dress shop,’ she explains with a warm smile. ‘Come in, we can open up for Marram Bay’s newest family.’

‘Oh, no, please,’ I insist.

‘Mum,’ Frankie whispers. ‘I’m hungry.’

The lady smiles at me and there’s this warmth in her eyes…before I have a chance to think too much about it, I accept their generous offer.

Inside, Clara’s is exactly as you’d expect a country café to be. It’s cosy and kitsch, with no two pieces of crockery, cutlery, furniture of soft furnishings the same – even the windows have different curtains around them.

As the man ushers us towards one of the wooden tables, the woman fetches some menus and places them down in front of us.

‘I’m Clara,’ she says. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’

Henry gives us a nod as he takes a seat at the table next to us. He extends one leg out straight, which reminds me that I noticed he had a limp.

‘I’m Lily,’ I say. ‘And this is my son, Frankie. It’s so nice to meet you both.’

I glance over the menu.

‘So what can I get you?’ Clara asks as she removes her fox and fastens her apron.

‘What’s your poison, lad?’ Henry asks Frankie, lightly bumping his shoulder with a fist.

Frankie stares at me.

‘He’s asking what you want to drink,’ I assure him with a smile. ‘Juice?’

He nods. I reach across the table and brush his wild, curly brown hair away from his eyes. I am quite pale, with natural golden blonde hair – not that you can tell, because I have peroxide highlights – and green eyes, but Frankie takes after his dad. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slight natural tan. He’s so cute, with his little button nose and his cheeky little dimples. I still can’t believe I made him.

‘And to eat?’ Clara asks.

‘I only like McNuggets,’ Frankie informs them.

‘Is that right?’ Henry replies. ‘What if I told you that Clara makes chicken nuggets even better than McDonald’s, would you try them?’

‘Oh, no, please, we’ll just have sandwiches, don’t start cooking,’ I insist, but Clara is having none of it.

‘Nonsense,’ she replies with a bat of her hand. ‘Chicken nuggets for the boy, what about for Mum?’

‘Scrambled eggs on toast would be great, please,’ I reply, ordering from their all-day brunch menu.

‘Coming right up,’ she replies as she trots off to the kitchen in her kitten heels. ‘Talk amongst yourself, I’ll be able to chat from the kitchen.’

Clara disappears through a multi-coloured strip curtain before remerging behind a serving hatch.

‘Londoners?’ Henry asks.

‘Guilty,’ I reply with an awkward smile.

‘And you say you’ve just moved here?’ Clara quizzes.

‘Yes,’ I say. I feel like I’m being grilled, but I have nothing to hide. ‘We’re renting Apple Blossom Cottage.’

‘Oh, lovely place,’ she replies. ‘Just stunning.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, but my little white lie prickles my throat. I cough to clear it.

‘You not like it?’ Henry asks.

‘It’s so beautiful from the outside – Frankie has never seen anything like it…the inside is just a little sparse and it needs a good spring clean,’ I explain. ‘And there’s not really too much in it.’

‘It was the Nicholsons’ holiday home – they had it for years, but since it’s just been sat empty. I suspect they took all their mod cons with them.’

‘It seems that way,’ I reply.

Henry picks up a newspaper and begins to flick through the pages. The East Coast Chronicle looks like an interesting read. The front cover is an appeal for help to find Rufus the chocolate Labrador, who never came home after taking himself for his usual walk to the seafront. I’m guessing this is the dog we heard all about on the radio and it warms my heart to know that he’s back home safe. It also amuses me to see that this is front-page news here, rather than yet another story about gangs or tube strikes – further proof, if it were needed, that moving here was a great decision.

‘Well, I’m sure we can survive without a TV tonight.’ I look at Frankie, who swallows hard. I don’t think he’s convinced, but I’m sure he can go a night without playing Nintendo. ‘We definitely need to clean though, it’s far too dusty to sleep in. Is there a Co-op or a Tesco Express or something nearby?’

Henry scoffs.

‘We have a local shop but they’ll be closed,’ he replies.

‘Oh,’ I say, wondering if I can get the job done with hand sanitiser and toilet roll.

‘I can give you some cleaning products,’ Clara says as she places my food down in front of me. ‘Just a few more minutes for yours, my love.’

Frankie smiles politely. I’m proud of him for being a sweet kid with such great manners, but he’s got that unfiltered honesty that all kids have, and I’m worried about how he’s going to react to the not-McChicken nuggets that Clara is making him. The last time I tried to make him some – promising him they would be just as good – he told me they tasted like poison.

‘You’ve been so kind to us already,’ I insist, taken aback by the kindness these complete strangers are showing us. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘We’re neighbours now, think nothing of this,’ Clara says as she places Frankie’s dinner in front of him. ‘There you go, my love. My famous chicken nuggets.’

Frankie glances down at the plate of chicken nuggets, proper, thick-cut chips, peas and a large dollop of ketchup. Frankie loves ketchup, but – like most kids – he hates peas.

I raise my eyebrows at him, silently communicating for him to say thank you.

‘Thank you,’ he chimes politely.

‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, ruffling his hair. ‘I’ll go get you some drinks.’

With Clara in the kitchen and Henry distracted by his paper, I lean over to my son and whisper into his ear: ‘If you try it – or at least pretend you’re eating it – I’ll buy you a TV for your room.’

I think every good mum has bribed her child at some point. I know that I probably shouldn’t, but Clara and Henry have been so good to us, I don’t want to offend them.

Frankie nods, sighs and picks up his cutlery.

I finally tuck into my own food which is not only much needed after a long day, but absolutely delicious.

Clara places two glasses of apple juice down in front of us.

‘They’re from local trees,’ she tells us. ‘But let me know if you want anything else, or a nice cup of tea.’

‘Again – thank you so much,’ I say, starting to sound like a broken record, but I really can’t thank them enough.

I watch Frankie theatrically pretend to eat his food – it’s kind of cute – until he accidentally drops his knife, which makes a loud noise on the floor.

‘Not to worry,’ Henry says, pulling himself to his feet. He grabs a clean knife from another table, hobbles over to Frankie and begins to cut his food (which up until now had only been pushed around his plate) for him.

‘Try this,’ he says, stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork, offering it to Frankie.

Frankie looks over at me. I purse my lips and plead at him with my eyes once more.

I watch as my son takes the chicken, chews it and swallows with a much more convincing enthusiasm than before.

‘Try it with the peas, it tastes much better,’ Henry insists, stabbing another piece, this time making sure to get some peas with it.

Frankie looks back over at me, but he knows what he needs to do. With Nintendo on his mind, he takes the food down in one bite.

‘Good lad,’ Henry says, handing Frankie the cutlery back. As he does so, I notice Frankie staring at Henry’s hand. Upon closer inspection, I realise that he’s quite badly scarred from something.

Henry notices Frankie staring.

‘I got blown up,’ he tells him, before turning to me. ‘Falklands.’

As Henry hobbles past me he places a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear: ‘I have kids who didn’t used to eat their greens either.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Just heading to the little boys’ room.’

Clara, still wearing her Forties outfit under her apron, places a bag of cleaning supplies down next to me before taking a seat at the table next to us. She cradles her cup of tea in her hand as she chats.

‘Just the two of you moved here?’ she asks. She sounds friendly enough, but you’d be amazed at the variety of easy-to-read physical reactions you get from people when they find out you’re a 31-year-old single mum.

First there’s the unabashed judgemental response. You can practically see the mental mathematics going on behind their eyes, as they try and work out if a 31-year-old has an 8-year-old, how old was she when she irresponsibly got knocked up? For some it’s done with the ease of Will Hunting whereas you can see others itching to use their fingers. Twenty-two – that’s not so bad, is it? I see them wonder. These people will almost always decide that, yes, it probably is bad. Some people just think that kids should be born into loving, conventional family units and there’s nothing you can say that will change their minds.

Next up are the people who feel sorry for me, who think about how awful it must have been for me to find myself pregnant and alone, just 22 years old with my entire life ahead of me. You see their pity in turn of their mouth and the weight of their eyelids, and while it comes from a good place, it never makes me feel good.

Worst of all though, of the varying reactions to my ‘situation’ I’ve endured over the years, it’s the ones I receive from single men that bother me the most, because they don’t judge me, nor do they feel sorry for me. Instead they look at things from an entirely selfish point of view, quickly writing me off as ‘damaged goods’ because while I’m sure there are men out there who have taken, or would take on another man’s child, none of them have been any of the (four) men I have been on dates with since Frankie was born.

‘Yep, just us,’ I reply. ‘Always has been.’

I look over at my son fondly, only to see him wolfing down his food.

‘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.

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.