New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse

by Nancy Barone

  Hopeful that up there someone was listening, I heaved a huge breath and turned the ignition key with one eye scrunched up. Dead flat, of course. No, no, no! Please God, spare me this one time. I’ll take this piece of junk to a mechanic’s, I swear to you, but please don’t let it die right now. Not yet. I can’t afford a taxi.

  ‘Mum, we’re going to be late!’ Chloe shrieked right next to me and I swear I felt the physical tear in my eardrum.

  I stopped long enough to wipe the hair off my already sticky forehead. ‘No, we won’t. Old Lottie’s just being a little fussy today, that’s all.’ Come on, you old, useless bitch, get a move on, or I’ll tear every wire out of your twisted, useless metal carcass.

  But when telepathic abuse didn’t work, I tried reasoning with her. Please, please, old Lottie, old girl? Have a heart. I’ve got fifty kilos of arancini to deliver all over the county before lunchtime! You’ve been a member of this family longer than my own children. Please help me out here? But the trollop wasn’t interested in the least.

  God, what I wouldn’t have given for a leisurely cup of coffee and some buttered toast on a nice, unchipped plate and a quiet kitchen all to myself, with the kids upstairs or, better still, in a parallel universe. For at least thirty minutes. Just enough time for me to take a couple of deep breaths in absolute solitude. That would have been heaven.

  But enough of dreaming. I had more impelling matters to tend to, like getting the day back onto the right foot. You know: Keep calm and carry on and all that. But I actually felt like bashing the car over the hood like John Cleese and screaming at the top of my lungs so they’d hear me all the way down the village. The image of me actually hitting this clunker with a branch made me giggle.

  Ben leaned over the seat. ‘What’s so funny, Mummy?’

  Chloe crossed her arms and gave me a filthy look as I tried the engine again and again and at every useless turn of the key, instead of breaking down into tears as would be expected, I cackled in delight as if I was insane. At this point I had to be. Or maybe it was just some twisted coping mechanism. Which frightened Chloe.

  ‘Can I please go get Jack?’ she begged.

  Meaning our neighbour on our left, and our knight in shining armour. The one who had practically single-handedly made our farmhouse watertight years ago.

  Even if we couldn’t see Jack’s farm because of a bend in the lane, it was comforting to know that he was always there to lend a hand.

  ‘Just one more try,’ I pleaded, more to the car than to Chloe, but she opened the car door and was off like a shot up to Jack’s farm before I could stop her.

  ‘Maybe it’s the carburettor,’ Ben suggested.

  ‘Well, it certainly sounds congested,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s just hope Jack’s still in.’

  And in he was, because about three minutes later Chloe appeared, her lowered hood bouncing around her shoulders as she rounded the bend, followed by Jack – tall, capable and strong – rolling up his sleeves while pushing back his dark mop of curls. And I already felt better. If anyone could help, it was him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said as he rested his hand on the hood. ‘What’s wrong with her this time?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I’m so sorry, Jack!’ I called through the open window as I popped the bonnet. It was a ritual between us by now. We’d be late and he’d come to the rescue. Textbook Monday mornings.

  ‘No worries!’ he called, his dark eyes twinkling at me through the windshield just before he disappeared into the bowels of my Ka. Good lad. He knew when it was time to chat and when not to. Not that he was much of a talker, Jack.

  ‘Try now,’ Jack said, and I turned on the ignition. The engine gave a phlegm-y cough, a sputter and then roared into life like it was a fricking Ferrari. Go figure.

  I stuck my head out the window to gawp at him as he closed the bonnet with a firm, satisfied shove. ‘What did you do this time?’ I asked in utter awe.

  ‘It was just a loose wire. Off you go.’

  Ben stuck his head out the window behind me. ‘You’re a genius, Jack! Maybe you might want to take a look at our barking fridge while you’re at it?’ he asked as I blew him a kiss and manoeuvred out onto the road.

  Jack’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Barking fridge?’

  I laughed out the window as I turned the steering wheel. ‘Yeah, it’s our new thing. Don’t worry about it. Thanks, Jack. I’m making shepherd’s pie tonight, care to join?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said with a grin as he wiped his now sooty hands on a rag hanging from his back pocket. ‘Have a great day, guys.’

  ‘Bye, Jack!’ Chloe and Ben called in unison as I charged down the hill, less than fashionably late for our day.

  At the gates of Northwood Academy, I pulled up alongside all kinds of sport and luxury cars, waved goodbye to my precious cargo, Ben blowing me fish-kisses and Chloe pretending not to know the crazy lady in the Ka flapping her arms like a headless chicken. That was my beloved brood, off to build their futures. And now to make my rounds of the restaurants, and then to the Hallowed Halls of Terror, i.e. the bank.

  2

  As Good As It Gets

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jenkins. There’s absolutely nothing I can do for you,’ the bank manager said right off the bat, leaning back as if we were already done. Maybe he was, but I was only starting.

  ‘It’s Conte, actually. Not Jenkins.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Ms Conte, but you are not eligible for another loan. With no substantial income and your present outgoings we cannot possibly lend you any more money than we already have…’

  Was it me or was he actually enjoying this? Human Resources should stop recruiting from the deepest pits of sadistic bastards. So I was not eligible. He was saying no. And even if he was only doing his job, I resented him for his attitude. I resented his smile, his expensive suit, his shiny watch and his long white fingers. Fingers that had never done a real day’s work in their life.

  He leaned forward, probably alarmed by the deadly look on my face.

  ‘Do you have any other income besides your royalties and your cooking?’

  ‘If I did I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ I snapped, only to apologise. ‘Sorry. That was out of order.’

  He watched me with surprised eyes that seemed to grow wider. And suddenly, kinder. ‘No worries. I’m just trying to think…’ He leaned back, steepling his index fingers and jamming them up into his bottom lip. ‘Have you any other assets?’

  Please see previous retort. I shook my head. ‘We had a flat in London but we sold it to pay for… some other things…’ Meaning Phil’s gambling debts. My eyes, suddenly heavy with moisture, dropped to the dark grey carpet patterned with the bank’s logo.

  If there is an even number of hexagons on the carpet from here to the door, I’ll be okay, I told myself.

  When he finally sighed and shook his head, I stood up, forced a smile and shook his outstretched hand firmly to let him know that I was no wimp. I would survive this one as well. Somehow.

  On my way home, I remembered we were out of milk, so I stopped off at old Alf’s Post Office, or, as the sign had read for the past few years, Post Of ice.

  After a morning of running around so other people could eat, I rummaged around in my bag until I found the slice of toast I’d wrapped in a paper towel and tore off a bite as I tried to ring Alice to check up on my royalties that were soon due. But I got my provider instead:

  Unfortunately, you don’t have enough credit to make your call.

  Ooh, goody. What next?

  As I squeezed the last of my coins out of my bag to pay for the milk, my mobile rang again. I chewed and swallowed.

  ‘H’llo?’ God, who was it now, Mephistopheles claiming my soul? Close. ‘Good morning, Ms Conte. I’m calling from Northwood Academy…’

  I jammed my little stash back into my bag, suddenly not hungry anymore.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Ms Conte…’ Not in the least. You just caught me in the middle of writing my suicide note…


  ‘… But there seems to be a problem with this term’s fees…’

  I swear I almost fell back against the dairy counter. ‘What? I mean, I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your cheque wasn’t, erm, honoured.’

  Oh God. It was the beginning of the end. This was the first time ever a cheque had bounced. How on earth had I fallen so low?

  ‘You’ll want to pop by and rectify by noon, Ms Conte…’

  Was that a threat? Next she was going to tell me how many kids were on the waiting list to get into Northwood.

  ‘Thank you. I will,’ I assured her, and hung up, only for my mobile to ring again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Jenkins?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s Conte,’ I said for the second time in a day. ‘Nina Conte. Who is calling, please?’

  ‘It’s Ray Givens, from C&C Surveyors?’

  Who?

  ‘We have been contacted by your husband, Mr Philip Jenkins, to evaluate your home for the sale? When would be a good time to come round?’

  Phil? Sale? Oh my God in Heaven.

  ‘Ms Conte?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr… er, sir, but our home is not for sale.’

  ‘Do you not live at Cornflower Cottage in Penworth Ford?’ he insisted.

  ‘Yes, but, again, our home is not for sale.’

  Silence, and then: ‘I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding.’

  ‘I’m sure there was. Good day,’ I said and hung up.

  The bastard. What the hell did Phil think he was doing, putting up our home for sale?

  Enough of this crap. It was now official. Without a loan, I couldn’t go on this way. I needed a second job if I was going to keep the house. Because as far as my writing career was concerned, for the life of me… I simply couldn’t write another word about love.

  *

  ‘That son of a bitch!’ Emma cried when I told her about Phil’s latest act of chivalry.

  A single mum herself, she worked as a wedding planner for a firm in Truro and avoided her own ex like the plague. Her goal was to start her own company, raise her daughter Chanel, and meet the man of her dreams. And meet him she would, because she was as determined as hell to bag an eligible bachelor who had it all – the looks, the money, and, above all, someone who loved Chanel as well.

  ‘He can’t do that! He can’t just put your house up for sale without your signature.’

  I squished my heavy eyelids with the tips of my fingers, every drop of energy drained from me. I needed to talk to the arsehole pronto. Use logic and persuasion. And possibly bring my butcher’s knife along, just in case.

  ‘And now we know why he’s been dragging the divorce all these years,’ I sighed. ‘He wants as much as he can take from me.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he man up and get himself a job rather than trying to sponge off you?’ she asked. Emma had been crazy in love with her husband Adam, but had kicked him out when she caught him cheating. Chanel wasn’t interested in ever seeing her father again, but I suspect that had a lot to do with Emma’s influence. Chanel emulated her mum in almost everything. They shared each other’s clothes and secrets and they were more like sisters than mother and daughter. But it worked for them. Me, I didn’t have the guts to explain to my children what their own father had done, partly because I didn’t want to break their hearts any further.

  ‘Well, if you need any help, I’m here for you,’ she said as Callie, our stray pup, crawled across the floorboards towards me, lodging herself between my feet.

  ‘Thanks, Emma, I’ll be fine.’

  What else could I do? Hire a hitman? I couldn’t afford one. Talking to Phil was all I had left, despite the fact that listening had never been his forte. He had the IQ of a doorknob and the attention span of a guppy.

  ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t get his hands on my royalties, for one thing. Luckily I’ve opened a separate account for that, but as we’re still married, I don’t know what he’ll do.’

  ‘Christ almighty, Nina. If you need anything. Anything at all…’

  I smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Em. I’m looking for another job. I don’t know that they’d choose me instead of a twenty-year-old, but I have to try everything.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ she said, pulling out a brochure from her bag. ‘I thought this might interest you.’

  I frowned. ‘Poldark Tours? I rather think this is your cup of tea.’

  ‘They’re hiring.’

  ‘Oh?’ If I could work for them in the mornings after dropping off the kids, maybe I could be home in time for them when they got in, and then continue prepping my arancini in the evenings.

  ‘Yeah. They’re looking for a tour guide fluent in Italian. Apparently Italians have cottoned on to the show. Something about tall, dark and handsome rings familiar with them, I guess. Anyway, the job sounds like it was made for you.’

  ‘Indeed it does. I’ll have a read. Thank you.’

  ‘But you need to have seen the series and know it inside out.’

  Which I hadn’t, except for a few excerpts Chanel had shown me on her phone. Mother and daughter were both obsessed.

  ‘Who’s got time for TV?’ I groaned.

  She looked at me, her eyes misting over. My Emma. ‘I hate him for everything he’s done to you,’ she whispered. ‘I wish he fell down the Trevose Head hole, and that the gulls picked every scrap of flesh off his bones.’

  And that was two of us.

  ‘Jesus. I think we need some wine,’ she said. ‘Drown our sorrows and all that.’

  ‘Too early. How about a nice cuppa instead? I’ve just bought some really good brownies from Old Nellie’s. Here,’ I said, opening the lid off the cake tin and switching the kettle on. ‘Eat up.’

  At those words, Callie and Minnie scrambled from their sleeping position to a begging one, their eyes following every bite Emma took.

  Emma ran a hand through her angelic blonde curls and sighed. ‘Chanel’s driving me nuts with her obsession with fashion.’

  ‘I thought you were happy that she takes after you.’

  ‘I was. But she copies everything I say and do. I want her to have her own personality. She looks like a mini-me.’

  I laughed. ‘She’ll grow out of it. If anything, at least you two get along. Chloe counters every single thing I say. To her, you are the cool mum.’

  ‘How about we swap, then? Just until they’re adults?’

  ‘Oh, I’d gladly take Chanel – and Chloe worships the ground you walk on.’

  ‘This game is just too hard, Nina. I’m getting old. Look at me.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re gorgeous,’ I said. She was. Fashionable, trendy with a face that wouldn’t look out of place in a magazine.

  ‘Once upon a time, maybe, but have you seen the wrinkles under my eyes? I’m absolutely knackered. This life is killing me.’

  And she only had one kid and a good, stable job.

  ‘How the hell do you manage?’ she asked and I snorted as the kettle boiled and I made our brews.

  ‘As you see, I don’t. Here.’

  She took a sip of her tea. ‘Thanks. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get back together with Adam, just so he could deal with some of the parenting. But then I remind myself of what he put me through.’

  I nodded. ‘I know, Em.’

  ‘And when I look around me,’ she said, reaching for a brownie, ‘I see that the pickings are slim. Mhhmmm, these are good!’

  ‘I’ve put some more for you in a Tupperware.’

  Emma was on the prowl, but I had neither the time nor the will, because the minute I took my foot off the pedal and got distracted, it was the moment the kids needed me most. I simply couldn’t do it. And besides, I had lost my, let’s call it, uhm, mojo. And it was fine. But Emma? She had a life, and in a way, I lived vicariously through her, and the restaurants she took her clients to, along with the castles and country houses and amazing venues she worked at on a regular basis. She was always glamorous
and her make-up flawless. She was the person I had always wanted to be.

  ‘In any case, you shouldn’t have any problems at all,’ she said. ‘You’re so gorgeous you don’t even need make-up, with your long black hair, pink pout and perky boobs. Mine need hiking up with a crane in the morning.’

  I laughed. ‘Nonsense. You are beautiful, Emma.’

  ‘I used to be. When was the last time you saw me without make-up?’

  ‘I can’t recall.’

  ‘Exactly. And you won’t either, not even at school events. Especially at Northwood school events, where all the single daddies are lurking.’

  ‘Ugh,’ I said instinctively. ‘Single daddies…’

  ‘It’s a shame there aren’t any handsome ones around at the moment. Better wait for the next round.’

  ‘The next round?’ I echoed.

  ‘Of divorces. Chanel brings home the full account of whose parents are splitting up, whose mum is getting married again to whose dad. By the way, Paul and Belinda Carruthers are having problems.’

  ‘Shame. They seemed happy.’

  ‘Exactly – seemed. Divorce is on the up, so next term… I’m banking on the wealthy Northwood fathers. Someone’s got to be viable, sooner or later, and when they are, I’ll be there – either as a wedding planner or a candidate. You should, too, Nina.’

  I had always wondered how she hadn’t yet bagged herself a man, what with all her connections. ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Divorced dads are too bitter. Almost as bitter as me. But seriously, Em, I thought you were holding out for the perfect man, someone like your Ross Poldark.’

  She pointed her brownie at me. ‘No one is like Ross Poldark.’

  I grinned. ‘You and your ideal men.’

  She slapped her forehead. ‘Shit, I forgot I have some calls to make before my suppliers close for the day. Gotta go. Thanks for these, luv, and everything else. I don’t know what the hell I’d do without you,’ she said as she shoved the Tupperware container into her bag and kissed me on the cheek, suddenly re-energised in the knowledge that she wasn’t the only parent floundering, and that we’d get through everything together.