Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

by Portia MacIntosh

  I chase my son, who is currently part-boy, part-aeroplane, in the back garden.

  ‘Wow.’ My jaw drops.

  It is suddenly apparent where Apple Blossom Cottage gets its name from: the army of apple trees surrounding the garden, and the apple blossom plants scattered amongst the greenery and brightly coloured flowers, that I’m not even going to pretend I can identify. I don’t know much about apple trees, but I’m guessing early September is when these beauties are at their best, because there are apples everywhere.

  Frankie runs over to me with an apple in each hand.

  ‘Can we eat them?’ he asks.

  ‘We have to wash them first, but yes,’ I reply, delighted that my chicken nugget-craving son is suddenly thrilled at the thought of an endless supply of apples. ‘We could even bake an apple pie, would you like that?’

  Frankie nods.

  ‘Better than the ones at McDonald’s,’ I tell him, instantly regretting mentioning the ‘M’ word, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Baking is not something that I’m good at, but I’m sure it still counts if we buy readymade pastry and simply assemble the pie, right?

  I stroll over to the large pond at the end of the garden and lean over, looking at my reflection in the water. Maybe I can earn strong, single-woman, pie-baking, yummy-mummy status here – wouldn’t that be nice?

  ‘Can I unlock the door?’ Frankie asks excitedly.

  ‘Carefully,’ I tell him, handing him the keys from my bag. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  Inside my bag, in the hidden pocket usually reserved for ‘women’s things’ and the rape alarm I always felt an uneasy need to keep on me at all times in central London, the corner of a postcard pokes out. I quickly push it back inside and zip it up. I’ll worry about that later.

  Frankie flies off towards the front door excitedly as I try to keep up with him in my heels. I’m just walking around the corner when I hear his voice.

  ‘Er…Mum,’ he shouts, and I don’t like the sound of it at all.

  Chapter 2

  When my bosses showed me photos of Apple Blossom Cottage, I was so in awe of its beautiful exterior and ready for my fresh start that it didn’t even occur to me to ask for photos of the inside. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine my bosses saw photos of the interior either, because I feel like I’ve just walked into a nightmare, and there’s no way my bosses would knowingly send me to this.

  ‘Where’s all the stuff?’ Frankie asks.

  ‘I was just wondering that,’ I reply, strolling around, taking in my surroundings.

  An overly minimalist kitchen (what you’d call it if you were being kind) sits at the back of an open-plan living/dining area.

  The kitchen boasts a worktop, a small fridge freezer and what I’d guess is a gas cooker and oven. There’s a dining table with exactly three chairs, all of which have seen better days, and a living area that consists of a truly Eighties-style plush, grey three-seater sofa with a wood-and-brass trim, sitting across from a retro looking wooden TV cabinet (TV not included).

  To the left are three doors, which I’m guessing are the two bedrooms and the bathroom – please, God, let one of the rooms be a bathroom. I don’t think I noticed an outhouse in the garden, but I don’t think I’d be at all surprised to learn the place didn’t have any plumbing. Thankfully, there is one.

  A quick scout of all rooms confirms they are as minimal as the rest of the place but, worst of all, everything is so dusty. If this were an Airbnb rental, they would surely be getting an overly generous one-star rating from me – probably from Frankie too, who is currently coming down from his garden high as he tries to wrap his head around the indoor TV aerial. He extends the silver rods one at a time before quickly and carefully putting it down, just in case it’s something scary.

  I cast my mind back to what Eric, one of my bosses, told me about the cottage. He said it was an ex holiday home, and that it was furnished. I suppose it is furnished, technically, but I didn’t expect something so retro.

  Wow, did I just get catfished by a house? Now that I think about it, despite the cute, rural look of the outside of the cottage, perhaps the ivy might be the only thing holding the place together. This is a new low for me. I can’t wait to write this in my new diary.

  ‘This place sucks,’ Frankie says frankly.

  Any other day, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but my fresh-start enthusiasm is still surging through my veins. ‘It’s all easily fixable, kiddo. We’ll fill it with our own things, we’ll clean the place up, we’ll buy the things we don’t have. It’s going to be great. This way, we get to put even more of our own spin on the place and really make it our own.’

  Our moving van won’t be here until tomorrow, so for now we only have the essentials with us. But once we have all our own things, I’m sure we can make this place feel just like home.

  Frankie pulls a face. I don’t think he’s buying it. I believe what I’m saying though. I’ll bring our stuff in, we can go out for some food, I’ll buy some cleaning products and everything will be great. I just need to keep telling myself that. Everything will be great.

  Chapter 3

  I knew that Marram Bay was small, but it’s only now that I’m here, in it, that I can feel just how small it is.

  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 Marr
am 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 us
ed 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.