The Café in Fir Tree Park

“But don’t you go getting any ideas,” I say sternly, waggling my index finger in warning, “and don’t you dare breathe a word either. He’s a married man. That in itself means I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole, and you know how people around here love to gossip. I’ve been part of enough rumours to last a life time, so don’t go fuelling any more.”

“Hmmm,” Fern replies noncommittally. “But what if he wasn’t married? You must admit you’re attracted to him.”

“That’s neither here nor there: he’s a married man so there’s nothing to discuss. And that’s an end to it.”

Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath to prepare myself before walking into the café. Stealing one quick, stealthy glance at the Italian’s table, I see the little boy high-fiving the young man with the sweeping blonde hair and pierced lip before stepping out on to the terrace area, following his stunningly attractive father like an obedient puppy.

Pearl

“Stop pulling, Mitzi!”

I should get that put on loop on a tape so I can play it whenever I need to. It seems to be all I’m saying at the moment.

I knew a puppy would be hard work, especially as I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more. It’s eighteen years since Alf and I bought Bluey, our darling little Westie. He’d been a bundle of ruffled white fur, scruffy and cuddly and revelling in attention. Even as a pup he’d played on his cuteness, pricking his ears up and peering longingly at us with his head jauntily angled until we’d give him just one more titbit or allow him to sit up on the sofa with us. He’d been the baby we’d never had, although not for want of trying. Heck, we’d tried morning, noon and night for years. But it wasn’t meant to be, and in the end we decided enough was enough. Bluey might not have been a child, but he was a dog with real personality and charm, one that everyone would fuss over when we walked him in the park. Even when he was older and his fur turned a more silvery tone he’d had this perfect mix of cheekiness and elegance that drew park-goers to him. And he’d had a lovely temperament, always eager to please. He’d been the apple of our eyes.

Mitzi, on the other hand, is an absolute minx. She’s only six months old so has the excuse of still being a puppy, but she’s a total tearaway. Who’d have thought a miniature dachshund would be able to do so much damage? My poor slippers look like they’ve been mauled by a wild animal. She might only stand an inch or so off the ground but she’s a demanding little thing and hasn’t yet learned how to take no for an answer. And that’s not to mention the constant straining against the lead every time we’re out on a walk. For such a small creature, Mitzi’s surprisingly strong-willed.

She turns to look at me, all dark, wide eyes and open mouth, tongue hanging out like a strip of uncooked bacon.

“You can give me that look all you like,” I say sternly. “You’re a terror, and well you know it.”

It’s a warm afternoon. The sunshine reflecting off the lake causes me to squint and the ducks are dipping their heads under the water to keep cool. Mitzi’s probably in need of a drink too. After we’ve done the lap of the lake we’ll pop past the café, Maggie’s got a bowl of water outside ready for any thirsty pooches who happen to be passing. She’s thought of the lot, that one, which probably explains why the café’s so popular.

Mitzi’s still dragging me around, pulling the lead taut as her little legs scurry along the winding pathway. A young boy on one of those bikes without pedals comes zooming past and her head whips around in a flash. She’s nosey like that, desperate to know what’s going on.

The little boy’s feet are pushing him along, first the right foot and then the left. He’s going at quite a pace. He’s like Fred Flintstone in his Stone Age car, feet whirring until he picks up speed, and his parents smile on proudly at his achievements.

There’s an older girl too, probably around eight, but I’m terrible at estimating the ages of children. She’s bouncing a tennis ball as she walks, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump getting ever nearer.

The tug on the lead is more determined now, Mitzi’s long, lean body straining to play with the ball.

“Mitzi!” I chide. “For goodness’ sake. Behave!”

But my words are too little and too late, because the round black handle of the lead is already out of my hand, trailing along the floor behind my bouncy pup.

I give chase as best as I can, but for a dog with such short legs Mitzi is deceptively fast. It must be that boundless youthful vivacity, something I myself am rapidly losing.

She’s already sniffing around the little girl’s ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arm’s length. Mitzi thinks it’s all a game. Of course she does, everything’s a game to her, but I can see the girl’s nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.

When I finally reach her, flustered and out of puff, I apologise profusely to the girl and her parents for Mitzi’s exuberance. “She doesn’t mean to scare you though, she just wants to play. In dog years she’s still a child, like you.”

The girl looks at me thoughtfully. “So she wants to be my friend?”

“That’s right,” I say. “She’s not really used to being near children, so she gets excited when she thinks she’s found someone new to play with.” I smile. “Especially someone with a ball.”

“Don’t you have any children?” The girl’s face crinkles up, as though that’s almost inconceivable.

“No,” I reply sadly. “There’s only me and Mitzi.”

I swallow down the lump of grief that lodges in my throat. It’s still so very raw, being alone.

I can’t believe I’m a widow. When I was young I thought widows were old women with walking sticks and purple rinses, people who lived in ‘rest homes’. I’d laughed at that, thinking retirement would be a rest compared to the endless slog of first school, and then, in later years, work. I never thought Alf would die on me aged fifty-nine, when we were still wearing jeans and trainers and had all our proverbial marbles. My hair’s not even grey yet, let alone purple. The box of dye I buy from the chemist each month sees to that and does a reasonable job, although being blonde helps too. The greys are less obvious; they blend in.

“She’s cute,” says the girl, crouching down and tentatively reaching forward to stroke Mitzi’s smooth, brown coat. Mitzi’s tail wags happily from side to side at the attention. “I’d like to be friends with her.”

“Well, maybe we’ll see you in the park again. We’re here a lot, me and Mitzi. We only live over there.”

I gesture in the general direction of my back garden, the same house Alf and I bought soon after getting married. We’d never be able to afford it now, prices have gone silly. It was a stretch even then, but we were both working so we’d decided to take it. The three-storey villa had a curb appeal that was too hard to resist. Everything about it was attractive, from the pointed gable that crowned the building to the climbing peace roses around the front door that reminded me of dreamy summer sunsets. The bay windows had been the clincher though, huge glass panes that flooded the front room with light.

The house’s proximity to the park had been a draw too, back when we’d envisaged having a family of our own. We’d imagined lazy days in the sunshine with a picnic of jam sandwiches and savoury eggs. Alf and our children kicking a ball about. Hunting for squirrels as we walked through the wooded area at the far side of the park. As it turned out, children were never meant to be for us, but the park remained a blessing. It was perfect for dog walking for starters, a real community hub where I’d bump into people I knew, and on the rare occasions I cover a shift at the café it’s only a five-minute walk back home. I like having the greenery to look at too. It’s nice to be close to nature.

“See you,” the girl calls, waving as she chases after her brother.

I wrap Mitzi’s lead tightly around my hand, winding it twice so there’s no chance of her running free again. She’s a little Houdini, escape artist extraordinaire.

I’m thankful for the shade of the tall firs that line the pathway; it’s slap-bang in the middle of the day and exceptionally warm. It’s a little tricky with Mitzi pulling at the lead in my hand, but I manage to shuffle the sleeves of my blouse up so my forearms are exposed. I’m instantly convinced I can feel the heat prickling against my skin, despite the branches overhead offering protection from the scorching rays.

“Pearl!”

The voice rings out from the other side of the hedge in front of me and I spy the familiar face peeping out from over the dark green leaves.

“Oh. Hello, Carrick.”

He’s better prepared for the weather than I am, a floppy brown sun hat perched on top of his head. His skin’s already looking tan, as though he’s been away on his holiday already, but he’s always that shade. It comes from working outside, I suppose.

“How’s the tearaway?” he asks with a wink, nodding in Mitzi’s direction.

The tearaway is desperate to keep walking rather than stop to chat, but I don’t want to be rude.

“Oh, she’s fine. Already managed to give me the slip once this morning though,” I admit, lowering myself to scoop her silky body up in my arms.

He throws back his head and laughs. “She’s not like your Bluey, is she? A real rascal, this one. I think she likes keeping you on your toes.”

“She does that all right,” I smile, as a wet doggy tongue laps at my cheek. “Even though she’s a pain I can’t imagine not having her. The house was too quiet with just me rattling around in it.”

“It must be strange,” he ponders. “Being on your lonesome after all those years.”

“It’s taking some adjusting to,” I admit. “And it’s harder still without Bluey. But I’m keeping myself busy, you know how it is.”

He probably didn’t. Carrick’s the perpetual bachelor boy, and he’s not had a lady friend for years.

Alf had spent more time with Carrick than I had over recent years. They’d both been in the skittles team and had shared games of darts at the pub of an evening. They weren’t as close as they’d been in their youth, when they’d both represented the local cricket club, but they’d still enjoyed a chat over a pint. Alf said Carrick would fob off anyone who asked why he didn’t have a woman by his side. He had wondered if Carrick might secretly be gay. I knew that wasn’t the case.

“Well, if you’re ever after a bit of company, I can always pop in for a cuppa after my shift?”

There’s something in his eyes, a look that’s hopeful. Maybe he’s as lonely as I am. He doesn’t even have a canine companion, as far as I know, and his nieces are all grown up now with lives of their own. I’d heard on the grapevine that the oldest one, Dina, was getting married soon.

“That’d be nice,” I say as I pop a wriggly Mitzi down on the pavement, and I realise I mean it. Since Alf died I’ve done very little in the way of entertaining, but it’s the kind of house that needs people in it. Maybe if Carrick came over I could get the good china out of the cupboards; it’s been stashed away unused for far too long. “I’ll check my diary.” He needn’t know I had nothing more exciting than dog walking scheduled.

Carrick beams as he readjusts his sunhat. “Let me know when best suits. I’ll look forward to it.”

Mitzi tugs impatiently at the lead, the cord rubbing uncomfortably against my hand as she does so. “I’m going to have to go. Madam here doesn’t want to stand around chatting.”

“See you soon,” Carrick says with a courteous nod.

I have just enough time to hold up my free hand in a wave as Mitzi takes me on a walk towards The Lake House Café, probably longing to lap at the water that’s in a shiny silver bowl near the doorway. Carrick’s right back to work, secateurs in hand to deadhead the gorgeous dusky pink rosebush.

“We’re having a guest come and visit us soon,” I say breathily to Mitzi, who’s charging on ahead. “So you’ll need to be on your best behaviour.”

She twists her body round to the direction of my voice and pops her slathering tongue out of her mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was making fun of me.

Fern

Kelly’s blonde hair glimmers in the sun as she enters the café, a worried expression on her face. My stomach lurches. I’m not good at managing awkward conversations at the best of times and this is likely to be one of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had.

I’d told Kelly the cold hard facts on the phone, and she’d seemed to take it well. At least, she hadn’t broken down in tears or asked me questions I didn’t know the answers to. She’d replied with a quiet ‘okay’ at the end of each sentence and then thanked me for letting her know. Talking in person was going to be much harder than talking over the phone though. There’s something about seeing people’s expressions that makes it harder to control my own emotions.

“I can’t stay long,” she says in a whisper, her eyes flickering around the café. “If Mum sees me here she’ll go crazy. She thinks I’m at home revising. I was revising until I got your phone call. Now I can’t think of anything except Luke.”

Her expression is weary and pained and I can only imagine mine is worse. I had two hours of broken sleep last night, and my body can tell. It wants to curl up and shut down, but I’m not going to let it. I’ve got too much to do.

“I wish I hadn’t had to tell you, and I wish I had better news, but all we can do is wait for him to get over this infection so they can operate.”

“When I saw him on Thursday he was fine,” Kelly hisses through gritted teeth. “He told me the headaches had gone. I thought they were stress-related because he’s been working so hard lately. How wrong was I?”

I shrug.

“I don’t know, Kel. Maybe Thursday was a good day. All I know is that last night he was screaming in pain. I was lying in bed reading one minute and the next Luke was crying out for me to come and help him. The panic in his voice …” I shudder at the memory. “He thought he was going blind, said he couldn’t see anything but black. It was terrifying.”

“I should have been there for him. I’ve known for weeks that he’s not been right. If only I’d taken it more seriously…”

I hold my hand up to stop her mid-flow.

“There’s nothing you could have done, nothing any of us could have done. Luke has a brain tumour. We couldn’t have stopped it happening.”

I appreciate how helpless she feels. I’d had all the same thoughts myself last night, the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’, and the guilt had eroded my soul until I’d finally snatched a restless sleep leaning on my dad’s bony shoulder.

“I should have said something. Maybe if I’d told him to go to the doctor and get it checked out he’d have listened to me?”

“Kelly, please. Stop beating yourself up over this. If you’d tried to get him to go to the doctor he’d only have thought you were nagging. You know as well as I do that he hates making a fuss.”

“I can’t bear to think of him in hospital.” Kelly looks so unsure, her usual confident persona nowhere to be seen. “Poor Luke. Hospitals are depressing, full of old people waiting to die. He must be so scared. Can I go and see him?”

She’s looking at me with such hope, but I know there’s no way she can come to the hospital. My parents would hit the roof, especially in their current emotional state. “He’s not allowed visitors at the moment, because his immune system’s so low and they really need to get him back to full strength so they can operate.”

I’m not lying, but we both know it’s only half the reason. My dad had walked in on Kelly and Luke kissing at Luke’s eighteenth birthday party back in January. He’d been furious, despite both of them trying to explain that it was a typical drunken snog, the sort most teenagers have after a few too many alcopops.

I guess I’ve not been a typical teenager, holding out for someone who’s way out of my league, so my old-fashioned parents haven’t got experience in knowing what to expect from a hormone-addled adolescent. They’d already made it clear they thought it was outrageous that within Luke’s gang of closest friends there was a girl who identified as bisexual, and rather than being ashamed of her sexuality, openly revelled in it. Finding Luke kissing her was a complete shock for my prudish dad, so when they announced they were dating he took it as a personal insult. In his mind, Luke wasn’t seeing Kelly because he liked her, he was doing it just to wind him up.

Mum had inevitably sided with Dad in a bid to keep the peace, whereas I stood up for Luke. If it had been anyone other than Kelly that Luke had been dating there wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fuss; that was what got to me more than anything. Sometimes it’s as though Dad’s stuck in the dark ages. He didn’t believe Kelly would be able to ‘give up girls’ as though being monogamous and bi-sexual was as mythical as unicorns or fat-free donuts, rather than a perfectly normal way of life.

It all came to a head last month after a blazing row where Dad forbade Luke to spend any more time with Kelly, and since then they’ve been seeing each other in secret. My parents don’t have a clue that they’re still together. No one does, except me and their closest friends. Even Maggie believes they parted ways. She’s mentioned her fear of Kelly and miserable Mischa getting back in touch numerous times, and although I’ve wanted to reassure her there’s no chance of that happening I haven’t been able to. It’s not my place.

Kelly’s shoulders sink, as though she’s physically deflating. I can tell how much she wants to be able to support Luke, how now more than ever she longs to be able to tell the world that she’s his girlfriend.

“I wish I could see him. I wish I could give him a hug and tell him how much he means to me.”

I fix my eyes on hers.

“You don’t have to tell him anything. You’ve been together for months now, he knows how much you love him.”

Kelly shakes her head. “He doesn’t. He thinks I hate him.”

I can see she’s welling up and for one awful moment I think she might cry. I’ve seen enough tears in the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime, I don’t think I can take many more.

“He doesn’t think you hate him. He asked me to let you know what was going on. He wouldn’t have done that if he thought you wouldn’t care. You two have been through so much together already, and for what it’s worth I think you’re the perfect couple.”

“The perfect couple no one knows about,” Kelly replies sadly. “How am I supposed to support him when I’m not even allowed to be near him?”

“Bide your time. For now, I’ll be the messenger for you and I’m taking Luke’s phone to the hospital later too – we were in such a rush yesterday to get him checked out that we didn’t even think to take it. And I’m sure that one day Mum and Dad will get over it. If they saw how much love you two have for each other I know they’d give you both their blessing. They might be old-fashioned but they’re not monsters.”

Kelly looks away, shamefaced, but her words catch me unawares.

“You don’t understand. The last time I saw Luke we had this dreadful argument. He said he couldn’t cope with the secrecy any more and that we should either tell everyone about our relationship or else call it a day. And I got so angry. Not angry at him, more angry at the situation. Angry that my sexuality has caused so many problems for us. Something inside me just snapped, and I took it all out on Luke. Do you know what the last thing I said to him was?”

I shake my head.

“The last words I said to Luke were ‘drop dead’.”

And then the tears do start to fall, both mine and hers.

“Oh Fern, what if he does die? What have I done?”

Maggie

The sun’s shining for Fern’s 21st birthday, the bright morning at odds with the current mood around The Lake House Café. Things have been strained recently for everyone, with Luke in hospital. Emotions are running high. There have been times lately where I’ve felt like I’m treading on eggshells, but even so I couldn’t forget Fern’s birthday.

May 15th.

It’s Clint’s birthday too, although I push that thought to the back of my mind. I don’t want Fern’s celebration to be sullied, and certainly not by thoughts of him.

I had come in early especially to decorate the café in Fern’s honour, keen that our customers knew it was a special day. I’d pinned pretty bunting proclaiming ‘Happy Birthday Fern’ so the pastel triangles hung beneath the counter and wrestled with a canister of helium to fill dozens of shimmering lilac balloons. They were the centrepieces on each table, tied with silver florist ribbon that I’d painstakingly curled with a pair of scissors. It’s a good job I’m an early bird because the whole process had taken longer than I’d anticipated, but the effort was worth it. If anyone deserves a fuss it’s Fern.

I’d also, naturally, baked a cake – a gloriously rich red velvet cake topped with thick cream-cheese frosting. I’d known as I placed one spindly white candle at its centre what Fern’s wish would be. Luke had been deemed well enough to have the operation yesterday – a gruelling ten-hour ordeal that had obviously been a worry for everyone. I knew unequivocally what Fern’s wish would be for the operation to have been a success and for life to return to normal for the Hart family as quickly as possible. Thankfully early indications were that it had gone well, with the surgeon happy that the whole tumour had been successfully removed, but he’d been quick to remind Fern’s parents that there were no guarantees. Luke would be carefully monitored, both during his immediate recovery at the hospital and as an outpatient when he was well enough to return home.

The bell above the door jangles as Fern enters the café and I grin from ear to ear at her reaction. Her jaw physically drops in surprise. Individually the changes I made might only be small, but together they make quite an impact, transforming the café into a room worthy of a party. We might not have a knees-up planned, but I’m going to make sure every person who passes through that door wishes Fern a wonderful birthday full of happiness. She needs to know exactly how important she is to everyone, and especially to me.

“Happy birthday!” I exclaim, a ripple of pleasure rushing through me at Fern’s stunned response. She’s giggling in embarrassment at the realisation this is all for her. “Twenty-one today!”

“I know,” Fern groans. “Does this mean I’m officially a grown-up? Am I meant to suddenly have the answer to the meaning of life?”

I laugh. If only.

“I don’t think so, but if you find it, let me know. I’m still searching for that one myself. Now come here, you. Let me give you a birthday squeeze.”

Fern humours me, letting me wrap her up in a ginormous bear hug. Her body’s warm and soft, a joy to cuddle.

“I’ve got a present for you, too,” I say excitedly.

The younger girl’s eyes light up.

“You didn’t have to get me anything. I wasn’t expecting a present.”

“I know you weren’t, but I wanted to,” I insist. “Plus, I thought you might not have much to open. Your family have a lot on right now.”

There’s no point skirting around the issue. This has been a matter of life and death for Luke and as special as a big birthday is, I didn’t blame Fern’s parents for being distracted. Naturally Luke is at the forefront of their mind at the moment, being as poorly as he’s been.

Reaching beneath the counter, I pull out a neatly wrapped box. It’s not quite square (but near enough) and wrapped in tastefully ruched white tissue paper tied with a silky, pale purple ribbon that matches the balloons. What can I say? My eye for detail is impeccable. Handing it over with a grin, I watch as Fern carefully peels back the layers, waiting for the reaction.

As the birthday girl takes in the robin’s-egg-blue box, I know it was the perfect choice. Her eyes widen, she giggles nervously, and her hand reaches for her mouth, shocked.