New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  Emma covers her face, as her shoulders heave up and down.

  ‘Emma, we’ll find a solution, don’t worry. There must be smaller tubs in the supermarket. I’ll go and buy four and we’ll repackage the ice cream. It’s not the end of the world.’ I gently rub her shoulders. I’m unsure whether a full-on hug is necessary, though given her loud sobs, it could be.

  This isn’t the Emma I’ve come to know. This Emma seems vulnerable and frustrated by life; stressed by the simplest error.

  ‘Emma, don’t.’ I wrap my arms about her shoulders and squeeze. ‘It isn’t ruined. Another ten minutes cooling on the worktop won’t hurt. I’ll nip to the Co-op and be back before you know it. It’ll taste as good as ever, no harm done.’

  She mumbles something into my shoulder, but I ignore her, knowing it’s probably negative given her current mood. I lead her into the dining room, pull out a chair at the large wooden table and plop her on to the seat, manoeuvring her like a rag doll.

  Who’d have thought it? Emma was so in control whilst blending and creating, but now she’s good for nothing.

  I return to the kitchen and rustle up a cup of tea before she can resume crying or deepen her negative thoughts.

  ‘There you go. Now have a quiet sit and a sip of that little beauty and I’ll be back in no time, OK?’ I quickly push my feet into my new trainers and grab my tote bag. ‘See you in a bit.’

  I open the front door, my plan fully formed to the point where I can see myself returning up the hill carrying a bag of plastic tubs. But before I’ve even stepped outside, my intended mad dash towards the shops and supermarket sweep for new plastic containers is wiped from my mind.

  ‘The Queen’s Arms,’ I whisper to myself.

  What a bloody good idea! I nip across the road and am dashing through the double doors into their lunchtime session quicker than a rat out of a trap. I make for the bar; it’s the same bartender as the other day. I wait patiently while she finishes serving her customer, then make my request.

  ‘Hello . . . it’s Marla, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Would you mind doing me a favour?’

  ‘Emma, we’re sorted.’ I dash into the dining room, delighted with my five minutes of work. ‘Grab the ice cream tubs and follow me – we’re going over the road.’

  Emma puts down her mug and stares.

  ‘Quickly, put your shoes on.’

  ‘Now’s not the time for a quick half! The ingredients will be ruined if—’

  ‘Hurry up, will you!’ I snort, my patience beginning to wear thin. ‘Follow me.’

  I pick up the first container with both hands and, careful not to slop it, walk through from kitchen to dining room towards the hallway, Emma following with the second tub. In the Queen’s Arms, Marla kindly beckons us through the bar’s hatchway and along a corridor towards the pub’s large kitchen – complete with huge catering freezer.

  I gently slide my plastic container on to the white wire shelf.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I ask as Emma follows suit with hers.

  ‘I’m sure. Two tubs hardly take up any space. I’ll mention it to the landlord when he drops in later, but it won’t be a problem,’ says Marla confidently.

  ‘Thank you. We owe you one,’ I say, before we retrace our steps back to the bar. ‘And you don’t mind if we nip over in an hour to check how it’s going?’

  ‘No problem. Just go through. I’ll warn the chef when he comes in later.’

  ‘You don’t serve food at lunchtime, do you?’ asks Emma, nervously anticipating another disaster.

  ‘Nope, only in the evenings. We offer bed and breakfast to our guests, but they tend to disappear out and about until early evening, and there’s really no call for food amongst the regulars.’

  ‘The tubs will be gone by then,’ I say, and we leave Marla to her bar of waiting customers.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Emma as we saunter back across the road to Rose Cottage.

  ‘No worries. You get het up about nothing, don’t you?’ I tease.

  ‘And you don’t?’ asks Emma, as we enter the cottage.

  ‘Not really. When you work for a temping agency, not knowing if you have work from one week to the next, you get used to living with the unknown. There’s no stability in my life. Yeah, I still live at home, and my mum’s unreliable due to her drinking. There have been so many times when we’ve switched roles and I’ve had to be the adult while she’s . . . well, inebriated. My brother’s hardly supportive or protective towards me either, so I just get on with life as best I can. You witnessed the phone call last night. I’ve survived by becoming stronger. I’m used to crisis – it’s all I’ve ever known.’ I fall silent to find Emma watching me; she’s calmer now but there’s a tiny glint in her eye.

  ‘Sounds . . . hard,’ she says, blinking quickly.

  I pause. ‘Yeah, it has been. I can’t plan for the future. I certainly can’t save on a basic wage, but hey, at least I have a reputation for being a good worker – which is why the agency keep calling me back to the factory.’

  ‘Good for you, Benni . . . that’s worth so much nowadays.’

  ‘It is, but it won’t ever provide me with a deposit for a property,’ I say, brushing away the image of me aged forty still living at my mother’s.

  Ruth

  Each step is a saunter; there’s no rush or hurry. I allow myself to wander through the streets towards the cottage. Without realising, I’ve taken a different route each time I’ve returned. This walk is no exception.

  The Quay Gallery stands directly before me, its vast window dominated by a painting of the lighthouse. I stop and admire it. The brushstrokes are proud and plentiful upon the wide canvas. The image depicts a choppy sea, which lifts and sprays a cacophony of colour against the aged sides of the lighthouse.

  It is quite a composition.

  If I ever paint anything as amazing as that . . .

  ‘Afternoon. Are you well?’

  His voice breaks into my thoughts.

  ‘Dean – you startled me! Yes, very well, thank you. I was admiring the lighthouse.’

  ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’

  ‘The way the artist has captured the fall of light on the textured rock face – quite amazing. I could never create something as impressive as that.’

  Dean pulls a face. ‘Of course you could. The sketch I saw the other day has the potential to capture light on the water in a similar way. Remember what I told you: don’t stop halfway . . . always complete each piece.’

  ‘Phuh!’ I shake my head and my cheeks colour. ‘I’m tempted to invest in a set of watercolours and start again, though it’s been decades since I last sat down with a brush and easel.’

  ‘Seriously, you could complete a piece in no time using watercolours. Practice is all it takes. Believe me.’

  I do believe him. I have no doubt that if I painted for twenty hours a week I would get better, decidedly better than the few days I can manage whilst on holiday. There’s no point making endless promises to myself to continue once I’m home. I know the first thing I’ll do after unpacking my pencils and sketchpad will be to push them aside before loading an economy wash. I’ll have good intentions of joining an art class, but I won’t. I know that life will resume as it was and I’ll return to my usual routine.

  ‘When will it be finished?’

  ‘I haven’t bought my watercolours or easel yet.’

  ‘What are you waiting for, Ruth? The young lady in the art shop will sort you out. She’s very talented, she knows her mater­ials. And please let me view the finished piece when it’s done. We can work on—’ He’s interrupted by the telephone ringing inside the gallery. ‘I must dash, but please bring it in and we’ll discuss your plans. Bye now.’ He gives a nod before heading inside.

  We’ll discuss your plans. His words swim about my head as I traipse towards
the art shop.

  I baulk at the idea. It’s one thing to paint for pleasure but an entirely different ball game to have a gallery display a finished piece for sale. The last composition I had displayed for an audience was a pasta creation way back in primary school that decorated the main corridor during parents’ evening. I’ve honed my talents since then, but even so.

  Benjamina

  ‘For the love of God, will you please hurry up!’ I squawk as Emma fiddles with the door lock. I have a tight grip of one of the ice cream tubs, which we’ve wrapped in newspaper to help insulation and prevent my warm hands from melting the product into a creamy goo during the ten-minute walk. ‘Now is not the time to faff!’

  ‘Look, I’m nervous, OK. It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like this. I’ve taken it from an idea to reality in less than twenty-four hours and you’re accusing me of faffing – seriously?’

  I begin to walk. Even given the steep incline of the roads, I still believe we’ll be cutting it fine. Why she wouldn’t order a taxi to deliver us and the product in perfect condition, I don’t know. Though I suppose she can’t really afford the taxi fare; considering the quantity and quality of the ingredients she’s used, she won’t exactly be making a huge profit.

  I can hear her pattering feet behind me. I don’t wait for her to catch up but continue on my way. I’m on a mission to deliver the ice cream in the best possible state.

  That’s when I hear the rumble of tiny plastic wheels.

  I turn and stare uphill. Emma is hot stepping as I imagined, but behind her snaking swiftly down the road, side to side, is Ziggy on his skateboard.

  I wave, and he skids to a halt after safely passing Emma.

  ‘Any chance you’re going into town?’ I ask, peering into his hazel eyes beneath the tumble of his dark fringe.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you could take this . . .’ I pass him my storage tub, ‘and this . . .’ I beckon to Emma, who hands her tub over as well, ‘to the ice cream parlour on the quay? We’ll make our own way there.’

  ‘Am I to stay and wait?’ he asks, looking from me to the two boxes he’s now cradling.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, unsure where my sudden confidence has arisen from.

  ‘Give them to Martin or Luca – either will do,’ calls Emma, as Ziggy kicks off his skateboard, cradling her precious cre­ation. Within seconds we’ve lost sight of him around the bend.

  ‘And how do you know that young man?’ asks Emma, her interest suddenly diverted.

  ‘He popped up during an early morning walk, if you must know.’

  ‘Did he now? I thought for a moment you had a secret agenda and he was the reason for holidaying solo in Brixham.’

  ‘Oh no. I literally began chatting with him two mornings ago. He’s the one who showed me round the fish market yesterday.’

  ‘Romantic,’ teases Emma, gently nudging my elbow as we stroll down the hill.

  ‘Nah, nothing like that,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s just a friendly guy, that’s all.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Emma taking in my profile, studying me. I stare ahead, refusing to catch her eye. Ziggy’s bright, full of life and seems very kind. Surely a girl can’t make too many new friends whilst holidaying in Brixham, can she?

  As soon as we enter the ice cream parlour, I know this should be my one and only visit: even the air is filled with calories. Ziggy is sitting at the nearest table, his skateboard propped across his lap, waiting patiently while Martin and Luca sample the ice cream with as much care and attention as I’ve seen dedicated to taste testing on Bake Off.

  ‘And?’ Emma doesn’t wait for pleasantries, standing before the counter and scrutinising their expressions.

  I make my way to Ziggy and sit at his table.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to him, ‘she’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof all morning.’

  ‘I thought I’d wait, watch the maestros at work. Look at the way Martin puckers up when tasting . . . how funny is that?’

  I watch as a bottom lip protrudes, glistening with beige cream. I assume that’s Martin.

  ‘Is he the owner?’ I ask, unsure who was who and what was what with regards to Emma’s agreement.

  Ziggy nods, his gaze still fixed on the tasting session.

  ‘He takes it so seriously. You’d think he was judging a technical challenge the way he’s contemplating his feedback.’

  I laugh.

  Emma’s expression is one of sheer frustration as she watches Martin, unsure whether to burst into rapturous delight or apologise profusely for darkening their doorstep with her culinary disaster. The tension builds.

  ‘Hurry up,’ shouts Ziggy, repositioning the board across his lap. ‘Some of us have lives we’d like to get on with.’

  I glance at him, at his broad grin, sparkling eyes and an energy I am badly in need of.

  ‘What are you doing after this?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Fancy a quick half along the front?’

  And there it is. The second invite I’ve ever received from a male of my generation.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ is all I can muster in reply. I’m not trying to act cool, just being realistic. The guy must have an empty afternoon, an hour to kill, or even be short of cash to have invited me for a drink but I don’t care. I’m happy to accept.

  ‘We’ll nip out once the Paul and Prue of the ice cream world have finished their deliberations,’ he jokes, shaking his head. ‘It’s ice cream, guys; you’d be better off asking us – your customers – what we think.’

  ‘I love it,’ I chime in, though I know my opinion counts for nothing.

  Emma is dancing on the spot with pent-up nerves. Martin and Luca exchange the briefest of glances before Luca throws his tasting spoon into the sink.

  ‘I sampled some yesterday, but is this the final product?’ asks Martin, a coy smile on his lips.

  Emma nods frantically.

  I’m unsure if Martin’s response is positive or negative. In the world of ice cream tasting, I am lost.

  ‘Bloody hurry up,’ grumbles Ziggy. ‘The ice cream man from Brixham, he says . . . what?’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaims Martin, bringing his fingertips to his mouth before kissing them in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Bellissimo! I love how you’ve scaled up the ingredients without losing the intensity of the flavours.’

  Emma reacts like a child at Christmas opening an unexpected bike.

  ‘So you’ll take it?’ she asks, looking from one to the other as if they are about to burst her bubble.

  ‘Sure will, this is divine,’ confirms Martin, glancing at Luca before disposing of his own tasting spoon.

  ‘It’s bloody gorgeous . . . as good as my mamma makes!’ says Luca, indicating that Emma should go into the back room. ‘Martin will deal with the cash situation while I find a suitable container to put this lovely lot in.’

  ‘Finally,’ sighs Ziggy, standing and pushing his chair in. ‘Are you coming?’

  I didn’t wish to presume, in case he’d changed his mind. I leap up as casually as a girl of my size can and shout my goodbyes towards Emma’s disappearing figure. She doesn’t even notice. So much for helping her out of a sticky situation.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ asks Ziggy as we stand at the bar waiting to be served.

  I glance at the optics, the chiller fridges and the shelves displaying every drink imaginable. Ziggy upends his skateboard to get it out of the way of passing customers.

  ‘I haven’t got one, to be honest. I usually just choose white wine.’ My ambivalence towards alcohol is hardly surprising given the damage it’s done to my family. How many school nights did I sit alone while my mum popped out to see her friends? How many birthday party invites did I refuse knowing there wasn’t any money available for even
the most modest present? I’ll never know how much her drinking has affected my development, my choices, even my outlook on life.

  Ziggy pulls a quizzical face. ‘Seriously, you haven’t got a favourite drink?’

  ‘Nope. You?’

  ‘Dry cider is always my first choice if I’m drinking . . .’ He stops and stares at me intently as if reading my thoughts. ‘You don’t do this sort of thing often, do you?’

  I blush. He knows. It isn’t difficult to work out – my awkwardness standing beside him screams self-conscious and naïve. ‘Not really . . .’ I stutter. I daren’t say but, again, this is pretty much a first for me.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asks the barman.

  ‘A large white wine, please, and a Coke,’ says Ziggy, adding, ‘A pint, no ice.’

  ‘Large?’ That isn’t my usual choice.

  ‘Relax, you can take your time. I’m free all afternoon.’

  He’s right. I should be relaxed, enjoying myself on holiday for the first time in years. And yet in the pit of my stomach my nerves are twitching at the prospect of sitting across a table from him and chatting.

  How pathetic am I?

  ‘Come on, follow me. I’ve got a favourite spot,’ says Ziggy, collecting the drinks and leading the way towards the table beside the window, before returning to pick up his skateboard from beside the bar.

  We settle ourselves at the table by the big window.

  ‘Cheers, Ziggy.’ I slowly lift the wine glass to my lips, watching the contents quiver. Can he see that I’m shaking?

  ‘Cheers yourself. What’s Benni short for?’

  ‘Benjamina. I’m named after my father. He died before I was born, so my mum thought it was fitting,’ I say, keeping my gaze low, focusing on the wooden tabletop. That’s my usual ploy when explaining our family history. It’s not because I get upset but rather to avoid the other person’s reaction. The surprise. The shock. Sometimes the pity as they swiftly calculate the kind of upbringing I must have had. Though the reality of life with an alcoholic mother and a wayward older brother is hard for anyone to imagine.