New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse

by Nancy Barone

  ‘Read in public? Me? No, thank you, Vanessa. But I will be bringing some food.’

  ‘Oh, excellent. What are you bringing? Because I’ve already got Martha Treghenny on the sushi, and Teresa Marsden is doing the pastries.’

  ‘I’ll actually be bringing some arancini,’ I informed her, already relishing the look on her face.

  ‘Oh dear, are they organic? They sound very fattening. Remember that we parents are responsible for projecting an image of healthy eating. Although I suppose they are part of the Mediterranean so-called diet.’

  Unbelievable she was, that one. ‘Right. I must be off,’ she cut short, looking at Alf and his trio who were watching the exchange innocently, but I knew the minute Vanessa and Aimée left, they’d fall apart in hysterics.

  ‘Bye,’ they called, and as the door closed, they all hooted with laughter and I grinned. My silly, beautiful tribe.

  After that, I dropped Chloe off at the bakery shop with the very last of my coins to buy some fresh bread.

  ‘I’ll walk home, I want to look at some stuff,’ she barked as she jumped out. ‘Oh, and I’m staying at Chanel’s for the night.’

  Oh, so now she was telling me rather than asking? Better nip that one in the bud as well.

  ‘Sorry, Chloe. Emma’s got a long day tomorrow and doesn’t have the energy to deal with you as well as her own daughter. Maybe some other time.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why did I have to get the cheapest – and strictest – mother in the universe!’ she seethed, giving me one of her filthy looks before she slammed the car door shut, while Ben slid me a glance and squeezed my arm.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ I warned her.

  When I got home, I fed Minnie and Callie, who enjoyed watching me with her almond-shaped eyes from the space between the counter and the AGA. Minnie, a German Shepherd and too large to fit in such a small space, dolefully watched from under the table, her clever eyes not missing a move I made, waiting for her turn.

  As they devoured every single morsel, I leaned back against the counter, watching them. There was something so very satisfying in feeding a pet, something very rewarding, knowing that they felt safe and happy because of you. And that they loved you unconditionally, as opposed to Chloe. At least I was doing one thing right.

  I sighed and turned the oven off. My chicken potato vegetable bake was ready.

  ‘Ben,’ I called into the living room where he was doing his homework with his back propped up against the settee. ‘Can you please set the table, love? What’s keeping Chloe?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum. She’s probably drooling over the new cosmetics rack in Alf’s shop,’ Ben answered.

  ‘He has a cosmetics rack, now?’ Alf was one who didn’t like change.

  ‘It would be more appropriate to say that the Ice Cream Trio have. God knows why girls put all that guck on their faces,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not like it makes them any prettier.’

  I laughed. ‘Ben, my boy, you need to learn a thing or two about girls. And precisely what to keep to yourself.’

  As if on cue, the phone rang. It was Beverly, one of the Tregarth sisters who had opened, as a nod to Alf’s shop, the Post Of ice Cream Parlour. But as they had promised to sell only ice cream and not any of the same goods Alf stocked, he agreed not to make a fuss as, widowed some twenty years, Alf never went without a hot meal thanks to them, and his clothes were always clean and pressed.

  ‘Hello, pet…’

  ‘Bev, hi,’ I said, mentally searching my engagements. ‘Was I supposed to call you back about something?’

  ‘No, no, luv. Nothing like that. I… er, have Chloe here…’

  My eyebrows shot up. I could feel them. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve a bit of a problem…’

  ‘Oh God, is she okay?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, but Alf’s a bit upset. You see, dear, Chloe thought to, er, help herself to the new cosmetics section…’

  ‘Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I’ll obviously pay him back to the last penny. And I’ll punish her like she’ll never forget. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Ben rolled his eyes and removed Chloe’s place from the table.

  ‘No need to come down here, luv. Jack swung by to get some cinnamon for his apples. He’s going to attempt a pie. They’ll be there shortly.’

  Jack. Well, at least I knew he’d keep a secret, if any were to be kept in Penworth Ford.

  ‘Thank you, Bev. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course, luv. I’ll deal with Alf. Don’t you be too hard on her. She’s just a child.’

  ‘Yes, well, tomorrow then,’ I said and hung up. Child, my arse. At her age I was tending to my sick parents and hadn’t had half the fun my friends were having. I had been too indulgent after Phil left, and this was the result. From now on it was going to be tough love. As if there was anything such as easy love.

  About a minute later, as Ben finished setting the table, we heard the familiar crunching of gravel under Jack’s SUV as he stopped and took off again and in came Chloe with a bang of the door, her face red as she flounced off to her room without even saying hello.

  I dished up Ben’s meal and wiped my hands on the tea towel. Time for another sermon.

  I trudged upstairs and opened Chloe’s door without even knocking. She was on the phone with Chanel, of course.

  ‘Tell her you won’t be talking to her for a while and hang up,’ I said curtly.

  Chloe ignored me and continued to talk.

  ‘Now.’

  She stared at me, then rolled her eyes. ‘Chanel? Gotta go. Yeah, talk later.’

  That was what she thought.

  ‘Chloe, what were you thinking? When did I ever teach you that theft was acceptable? We don’t steal in this family.’

  She folded her arms and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done? You’ve hurt yourself, gone somewhere you never should have. Because now you can never undo it. And if Northwood finds out, they’ll kick you out! And by association, even Ben!’

  ‘Oh my God, chill!’ she yelled, bouncing onto her side away from me.

  But I wasn’t letting her off that easily. ‘Do you think I work this hard just so I can have my only daughter shoplifting? You’d better be grateful Alf is like a father to us.’

  ‘Oh my God, Mum! They’re not family, these people! They’re just a bunch of old weirdos who need Zimmer frames to get around and wouldn’t be able to survive in the real world.’

  ‘Chloe! How dare you speak of them like that. They love you to bits and we owe them more than you’ll ever know.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, the fire and the blankets and the gifts, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘And for your information, Chloe, this is the real world. Not the glossy paper dolls you see in your magazines, but an authentic world where people work and suffer and come together to help others. Not that you’d be familiar with the concept. I’m so disappointed in you right now, Chloe.’

  ‘You’re disappointed? What about me? What about that so-called family you promised us when you brought us into this shitty world? And this house? I hate this dump!’ she yelled, pushing the hair back from her face. ‘You go on and on talking about what a wonderful village this is and how you love everybody, but does anyone give us money?’

  I bristled. ‘We don’t need anyone’s money, Chloe. A hand babysitting the two of you from time to time, which I regularly repay in kind, yes. But we couldn’t accept anything more than friendship. Not from these people who have shown us nothing but kindness.’

  She threw her hands into the air. ‘Babysitting! You see? I’m thirteen!’

  ‘Yes, but you’re acting like you’re three.’

  ‘And you’re acting like an idiot. You say we don’t need any more money, but you always say no to everything I want!’

  I took a deep breath. When she went off on these tangents, hollering never did the job.

  ‘Chloe, if you’re referr
ing to the school trip to France, I said I was working on it.’ Literally. ‘But now, because of what you did, you have proven to me that I can’t trust you to walk around in your own village, let alone another country.’

  ‘Yada, yada, yada,’ she muttered to the wall. ‘I’m going to stay with Dad! At least, he lives in Truro and gives me everything I want!’

  I kept my cool. ‘Maybe he does. But he doesn’t give you what you need, and there is a very big difference. What you did today was very serious, and I’m going to treat you consequentially.’ There. If nothing, she’d learn a new word.

  ‘Oh, my God, Mum! It was just a bloody lipstick, not a car! You need to get off my case! All you do is nag, nag, nag, just like Dad says. I wish he’d never married you!’

  I opened and closed my mouth. Did my children actually think he was the better parent, and the breadwinner? That he gave me money to support them? They were much too young to know the truth about what he’d done to us. But now, I see it had been counterproductive. But could I lay that on my daughter’s – and my son’s – shoulders? Tell them how he had robbed us blind, and abandoned us in a caravan?

  ‘We’re done here, Chloe. You are grounded for a month. No internet. No magazines. And no phone. If you want to talk to Chanel, you can do that at school. From now on, you march to my tune. End of.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ she protested. ‘You haven’t got the balls!’

  I took her phone and her magazines and marched towards the door. ‘Watch me,’ I said, closing her door behind me, switching off the Wi-Fi on my way out.

  My own phone bleeped with an SMS from Jack:

  Keep your cool as always. You’ve got this. Jack xxx

  5

  It Could Happen To You

  The next morning Chloe was ready in ten minutes, a record for any teenager, let alone her. Still, she came down at the last moment, her face red from anger, but I refused to feel sorry for her. It was time she bulked up on reality and manners.

  There was a heavy silence in the car except for its usual coughing and spitting, but we made it all the way to the school gates where Ben leaned over to give me a silent kiss and Chloe slammed the door shut, but not too hard so as not to create a scene. After all, she still cared about her reputation here.

  Personally, I didn’t care what the Northwood parents said, because in my home, a good bollocking every now and then was mandatory.

  Back at the house, I sat at my War Desk and whipped out my financial ledger to see how deep in the shit I really was.

  Mortgage. Car tax. Car insurance. Council tax. School dinners for both Chloe and Ben. A ghastly total, even before I clothed them and put food on the table. Forget about me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought anything for myself.

  So, with Minnie lying on my feet, I dusted off my ancient Great Ideas notebook and pulled out my coloured pens in the hope of coming up with a new plot for another book.

  I turned to my window facing the garden for some inspiration. From here I could also see the front out to Meadowbank Lane, and from the side window I could see the fields and the bend in the road beyond which Jack’s farm lay. I loved the fact that this room was triple aspect. Imagine not being able to continue living here anymore and seeing this overwhelmingly beautiful gift. I swallowed the knot in my throat and began racking my brain for a happy, uplifting plot. If only I could come up with yet another laugh-out-loud, feel-good romantic comedy. But the feeling good and the laughing were long gone.

  *

  That evening, with nothing but doodles on my notepad, I was elbow deep in the kitchen sink scouring the crispy lasagne bits off the oven dish when I got a call from Alice. Knowing I owed her (and my bank account) that book, I debated whether to let it go to voicemail and go back to scrubbing, which presented far more enjoyment and satisfaction.

  But in the end I picked up, already dreading her pep talk about how a husband like Phil had given me the material to write hilarious stuff, which had been my lottery win.

  ‘Finally!’ she cried. ‘I have news for you, my girl! News that will blow your bloody mind!’

  ‘Oh, God, just give it to me straight – my sales have completely tanked, haven’t they?’

  ‘Nope!’

  ‘You’re dropping me?’

  ‘Silly. Try again.’

  ‘Someone – that horrible reviewer who always gives me one-stars – she’s written the review that will destroy my career once and for all, hasn’t she?’

  ‘You’d better sit down.’

  ‘I am sat down,’ I lied.

  ‘Okay! You are not going to believe this! Written In The Stars…?’

  Meaning my very first book. The heroine is in dire straits (sound familiar?) and writes a book about meeting an American poet, her true love. Who turns out to be a real arsehole. In the end she returns to her cottage in the English countryside with her two children and marries the village butcher. The meat man, not the assassin. Or had I changed him to a vet? Yes, I think I had. I never reread my books once they’re published, because by the time I’ve written and done all the edits, I’m sick to the back teeth of them.

  ‘Yeah…?’ I prompted.

  ‘Brace yourself! I got a call from a Hollywood producer. He wants to turn your book into a movie!’

  I sat down with a thump, nearly missing the chair. Someone wanted to turn my book into a movie? A Hollywood movie, with real actors and sets and… real royalties? But how could that be? There were millions of books out there – how did mine attract the attention of a Hollywood producer? That kind of stuff only happened, to the point, in the movies, and certainly not to someone like me.

  I instantly thought of J.K. Rowling. Sure, my books had nothing to do with the Harry Potter series, but if a movie had changed her entire life, maybe mine would go through some sort of improvement as well? I mean, anything was better than this. But to have your book become a film was every writer’s (especially a poor writer’s) dream.

  ‘Alice, if this is your idea of a joke or some sick, twisted way to get my creative juices flowing again, I swear I will choke you with your own hair extensions. I will shove them down your throat and watch you turn five thousand shades of purple.’ It was time to dump your agent when she started playing with your feelings.

  She laughed. ‘I’m not joking, promise. Things are about to change for you. Big time.’

  I pulled off my sudsy rubber gloves and took her off speakerphone. ‘He read the book and he loves it. He wants you to work on the script with— Nina? Are you still there?’

  I was still there, in the parallel universe where my life had taken all the right turns and I hadn’t met the wrong man and I was no longer a struggling single mum. Images of me striding into the secretary’s office at Northwood and dropping a fat cheque onto the desk crammed into my mind, alongside thoughts of taking the kids to get new uniforms, new sports equipment, getting the piping and roof fixed once and for all, seeing a proper, specialist doctor about Ben’s leg and maybe one about my allergies. Oh, and paying off the mortgage. Hell, no, move straight into a new build. One with a huge garden, the right postcode and… I had to calm down. There was no point in putting the cart in front of the horses.

  ‘How… how has this even happened, Alice?’

  ‘Does it matter, Nina? He’s flying us first class to LAX next week!’

  ‘Next week? I can’t believe it…’

  ‘Believe it. And get your hair done.’

  ‘My hair? What for? Besides, which producer are we talking about here?’

  ‘His name is Ben Stein.’

  Ben. Like my son. That had to be a good omen.

  ‘What difference does it make anyway?’ she wanted to know. ‘He’s a Hollywood producer!’

  ‘What difference does it make? If he’s some flake the whole project could go down the toilet – that’s the difference. I need someone with some clout.’

  ‘Listen to you, already making demands and you haven’t even left Cornwall yet.’


  I still couldn’t believe it. ‘Please tell me again that this is not a joke?’

  Alice giggled. ‘I’ll send you your tickets.’

  ‘Tickets? Plural?’

  ‘I told them you have two kids. They’re flying all of us.’

  ‘But… the kids… school…’

  ‘So take them out for the week! It’s almost summer, anyway. Now go get your hair done.’

  ‘Again with my hair. Why do I even have to meet these people? If they like my book can’t I just sign by proxy and—’

  ‘Nina, stop! Listen to yourself. Your book is going to be a movie. Your whole life just got made, and you don’t even want to meet Daddy Long Legs?’

  I was hoping for a female director. Someone fantastic like Nancy Meyers. Someone who knows What Women Want, that It’s Complicated and that, eventually, Something’s Gotta Give.

  ‘Of course I’ll meet him.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.’ And she rang off, leaving me sitting alone in the darkening kitchen still holding my sudsy rubber gloves and a greasy pan, and with a pounding heart.

  If any of this was true and the film actually made it to the cinemas (because we know all too well what happens to some movies that never make it off the producer’s desk) our whole lives would indeed be made.

  I’d be able to afford the kids a new lifestyle and be a new, angst-free mum who smiled a lot and took them to marvellous places and fed them good-quality food bought from Waitrose and independent shops and not the local joint down the road where you had to bring your own boxes.

  *

  When the kids were asleep, I sat back in my writing chair under the dining room window. Maybe this really was my lucky chair after all. It had seen me pound out the three novels that, as it turned out, gave me the much-needed money, my only money.

  I had already made a mental list of the improvements I’d make in the children’s lives and in our home. Even Minnie and Callie would get the best dog food, rather than the cheap store brand they seemed content with. Yes, life was looking like it had remembered me after all.