Authors: Cathy Bramley
‘Bright girl like you. You could be running your own business like my Anna. Or managing your own branch of Starbucks or …’
‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’ I said, giving her my fake haughty eyebrow raise.
‘Oh, Freya.’ She swiped a hand at me. ‘You’ve revamped the menu, you’ve organized the dreaded paperwork and now you’re even training new staff. I’m so grateful for all your hard work at my café.’
She pronounced it caff, which always made me smile. She leaned forward and mouthed with exaggerated facial expressions, ‘But I can’t pay you what you’re worth and that upsets me.’ She pressed a hand to her bosom. ‘You might want to buy a house, settle down—’
‘I’m not money-orientated, Shirley,’ I said. ‘I know people who are. People who put pursuit of wealth before happiness and, believe me, I have no desire to go down that route.’ I shuddered. My parents, for instance. ‘No, as the saying goes, “all you need is love”, as far as I’m concerned.’ I grinned at her as she rolled her eyes.
‘And as the other saying goes, “every little helps”,’ she retorted and we both laughed.
‘You’re a case, Freya Moorcroft, you really are.’ Shirley sighed.
I reached out and squeezed her hand, the one that wasn’t nestled on her cleavage. ‘Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.’
‘Be honest with yourself, Freya. Waitressing isn’t your future.’
The doorbell dinged and we both turned to see who it was. A familiar pink velour-clad bottom backed into the café, pulling a complicated-looking pushchair.
Saved by the bell before I talked myself out of a job.
‘Gemma!’ I cried, breathing an inward sigh of relief. I jumped up to help my friend and one of our regulars negotiate the door and the step.
‘Nightmare dot com,’ grunted Gemma, as she attempted a three-point turn with the pushchair. ‘You need a blooming HGV licence to drive this thing.’
‘Oh dear. Let me make you something healthy, herbal and foul-smelling in a mug.’ I heard Shirley huff at my alternative approach to hospitality as I kissed Gemma’s cheek. I stood back to let her manoeuvre herself and the baby past me and peered in at him. Parker was wide awake (hurray, I could have a cuddle!) and aiming a determined swipe at the toys suspended across his pushchair.
‘Actually, sorry to take liberties,’ said Gemma, making a beeline for the loos, ‘but I only came in to use the facilities. His Lordship’s nappy is beyond bearable and I say that as a mother with a very high threshold to bad smells.’
‘TMI, love, thank you very much,’ said Shirley with a wince. By comparison, Shirley had a low threshold to many things: smells, pain, loud music, most yellow foods … I once saw her nearly faint at the sight of mashed banana. Even a jacket potato gave her the shivers if it dared to err on the yellowy side.
‘Not even a quick herbal brew?’ I offered. I was due to meet Charlie at his allotment in half an hour and then I had the whole of the Easter weekend off, but I hadn’t seen Gemma since the baby’s christening and I wanted to hear her news. And get my mitts on Parker, obviously.
Gemma paused and then flapped a beautifully manicured hand, which made me tuck my own scruffy nails into my jeans pockets. ‘Go on then. Camomile if you’ve got it, please.’
Five minutes later I was sitting down with a freshly changed baby boy on my knee, watching Gemma squashing and swirling her tea bag round in her white mug.
I couldn’t abide those mugs.
Shirley and I had only clashed on a couple of things since I’d been here. I was Team vintage china, she was Team cheap-practical-and-dishwasher-proof. I’d suggested pretty mismatched cups and saucers, stacked on shelves in pastel shades of pink, yellow and blue. But Shirley had gone pale at the thought of crockery not matching and had put her foot down.
Parker was concentrating on scrunching up a fabric toy between his fingers, which made a rustling noise when it moved. Gemma and I exchanged smiles as he babbled away quietly to himself.
‘There’s one scone left, do you fancy sharing it?’ I said.
I made the café’s scones using my Auntie Sue’s recipe. The secret is in the mixing; over mix and you’ve got yourself a batch of primitive weapons. Mine, though I say so myself, are sultana-stuffed clouds of deliciousness.
Gemma shook her blonde curls and patted her stomach, which, given that Parker was only about four months old, was in pretty good shape. ‘I shouldn’t really … unless … does it come with clotted cream?’
I shook my head. ‘Whipped cream,’ I said, adding more loudly, ‘See, Shirley, someone else thinks it should be clotted cream.’
This, believe it or not, was the other thing we had disagreed on.
‘No. Not having clotted cream in my café. That yellow crusty bit … urgh.’ Shirley shuddered.
‘I’ll leave it then, thanks. Probably for the best,’ Gemma said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Anyway, what are you up to for Easter?’
The café would be closed on Good Friday, plus it was my weekend off, double-plus I’d tagged on an extra couple of days next week – my first proper break since working here.
‘Nothing much.’ I shrugged, wishing I’d bothered to organize an adventure or two. ‘Just chilling out with Charlie, hopefully.’
‘Bliss.’ Gemma sighed, her blue eyes going all dreamy for a second. ‘What I’d give to chill out. But with a fifteen-year-old daughter hell bent on making us suffer because
she’s
got exams and a husband who’s decided to dismantle a lawnmower in our back garden, I doubt very much that I’ll be doing much of that this weekend.’
I tightened my grip around Parker’s tummy with one hand and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with the other. ‘Just give me a shout if you want a babysitter for a few hours.’
Her face softened as she leaned forward to hand Parker back the toy he had just dropped.
‘Aww, thanks, Freya. Are you getting broody, by any chance?’
I thought about it for a moment.
‘Yes and no,’ I replied honestly. ‘I’m not ready to do the whole settling-down thing yet. But at some point, yes. I can see myself with a couple of munchkins, cottage in the country, a horse and a dog … But at the moment, I’m happy to borrow Parker every now and then.’
No idea why I’d suddenly blurted all that out. I felt my face redden. I’d never been conscious of this plan before. I did want to be a mother at some point, though. And at the risk of sounding a bit 1950s, I wanted to be the sort of mother who was there when my children got in from school, with a kiss and a cake straight out of the oven. Like my Auntie Sue. I’d have to work on the cakes bit; my repertoire consisted of one thing – scones.
‘Does Charlie know how you feel?’ Gemma asked, gazing at me wide-eyed.
The only problem with Kingsfield is that everyone else has been here for donkey’s years. I might only have met Charlie a few months ago, but Gemma’s known him for ages from Ivy Lane allotments. Unlikely as it seemed looking at those nails, Gemma had her own allotment plot until Parker came along.
‘Whoa! Steady on, Gem, we’ve only been together five minutes!’ I bent to brush my lips against Parker’s head to hide my hot cheeks. ‘I’m sure we’ll broach the subject when the time comes.’
‘It’s just that … oh, nothing,’ mumbled Gemma. She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped at her tea.
My stomach lurched. Just that what? But before I had chance to ask, Gemma squealed and reached into her bag.
‘I nearly forgot to show you this!’ She handed me a postcard with a picture of a tortoise on a deserted beach on it. ‘Came this morning, from Tilly and Aidan. Sounds like they’re having an amazing time in the Galloping-wotsit Islands. Aww,’ she sighed, lifting Parker from me and arranging him back in his pushchair, ‘they are such a perfect match, those two.’
My friend, the lovely Tilly Parker, the baby’s namesake, was another of the Ivy Lane allotment posse. She was the girl I credited with getting me and Charlie together and she met
her
fella, Aidan, when he came to Kingsfield last year as part of a film crew making a documentary about the allotment. He was filming something else now, in the Galápagos Islands, and Tilly had joined him for a holiday.
A perfect match.
The words ran rhythmically through my head while I read Tilly’s postcard and Gemma prepared to depart.
I waved her and Parker off with a smile. I didn’t feel overly smiley on the inside; I felt a bit churned up. Gemma hadn’t uttered the exact words and I might have been putting two and two together and making a fuss about nothing, but it felt as though she thought that in some way Charlie and I
weren’t
a perfect match. And as Shirley had pointed out only a few minutes ago, Shenton Road Café wasn’t my future.
My stomach flipped queasily. When I woke up this morning my life had seemed quite straightforward, but now … well, I wasn’t sure of anything.
By the time I’d finished up at the café, scurried along Shenton Road, into All Saints Road, down Ivy Lane and made it as far as the allotment gate I was back to my normal happy-go-lucky self and smiling at my own daft thoughts. What had all that self-doubt malarkey been about?
I pushed open the heavy gate and closed it behind me.
It wasn’t like me to over-analyse things; life’s far too short to agonize over my career choice or to worry about the state of my relationship. Or anything else, for that matter. Far better just to go with the flow. I loved my life and anyway, no one really has the perfect job and the perfect partner. Charlie and I were fine. No, better than fine – we were great, we made each other happy and we had a laugh together. And that was what made us so well-suited.
I half-walked, half-ran along the road towards Charlie’s plot and waved to Peter, the allotment committee chairman, as he appeared at the pavilion door, fastening the buttons of his anorak.
‘Afternoon, Freya. It’s a cool breeze, isn’t it? I think we might be in for a light frost tonight.’ He pulled a tweed flat cap out of his pocket and settled it on his balding head.
‘Hi, Pete. Yes, it is a bit chilly.’ I smiled and supressed a giggle. I’d yet to meet one member of the allotment community who wasn’t totally obsessed with the weather.
‘Changed your mind about joining the waiting list for your own plot yet?’ he called.
I laughed and shook my head. ‘No time, these days. I’m too busy being Charlie’s assistant gardener.’
Peter gave me a disappointed smile and touched his cap in a cute old-fashioned gesture, and I carried on my way.
He asked me the same question every time I saw him, hoping to change my mind. I’d toyed with the idea of having my own plot last year and he had shown me round. But I was glad I didn’t go for it in the end; helping Charlie on his plot was a much better solution. I got to spend time outdoors, which I loved; I got to spend time with Charlie-boy, which I also loved; and I only had to do the nice bits (planting seeds and picking stuff) and not the grotty bits (spreading muck and digging up weeds).
My stomach flipped as I spotted my gorgeous man further ahead in his greenhouse and I jogged the last few metres to join him. He was lifting huge bags of something or other onto shelves and didn’t spot me at first.
The air in the greenhouse was warm and tinged with the fragrance of tomato plants. I leaned on the open door frame and watched him for a couple of seconds while he arranged growbags in rows with his back to me. He was wearing his old gardening jumper with holes in the sleeves, a woolly hat, jeans and an old pair of boots.
‘Hey.’
Charlie turned around and grinned. ‘Hello, beautiful!’
I squealed as he scooped me up and spun me round, knocking over a watering can and several plant pots in the process.
‘Put me down this instant and kiss me,’ I giggled breathlessly.
‘I love it when you’re bossy,’ he murmured, his blue eyes crinkling with humour as he did as he was told and lowered me to the ground.
He unzipped my jacket and threaded his arms around my waist, pulling me close. I lifted my face to meet his and felt my body sigh as we kissed. His face was rough with stubble but his lips were full and soft. He smelled of earth and wood smoke and something sweeter … vanilla, maybe? Whatever it was, I approved. His kiss deepened and I stopped wondering about anything and reached up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck. When it was just us, him and me, close like this, it felt as if nothing could ever come between us, like we were the only two people in the universe who mattered.
‘What’s on the job list today, then?’ I asked, pulling back and smiling up at him. I snuggled my head against his chest and wriggled my fingers into the back pockets of his jeans while he rested his chin on my head.
‘Tomatoes,’ he said, easing us apart and dropping a kiss on my nose. ‘I thought you’d never come and help me plant them. I’ve got about twenty good ones to get in this afternoon. If you do a good job I’ll buy you a pint at The Feathers after.’
‘Payment in cider?’ I laughed, striking a pose and resting my hands on my hips. ‘What sort of girl do you think I am?’
Charlie winked at me. ‘The best sort. Come on, Green Eyes, here’s a trowel.’
He showed me the trays of seedlings and demonstrated how to lift them without damaging the soft stems and how to transplant them into the waiting growbags.
‘Is it me, or are there two different types here?’ I asked, looking from one tray to the other.
‘Clever girl,’ said Charlie, placing a soft kiss on the side of my neck, which gave me a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘These are Sungold, they’re sweet little cherry tomatoes. I’m hoping to get Ollie to try them. He reckons he doesn’t like tomatoes, but I might convert him with one of these.’
The warm feeling grew a bit bigger. Yet another reason to adore him. ‘The world’s greatest dad, you,’ I said, nudging him playfully. ‘What are these other bigger ones?’
Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Um, they’re Outdoor Girl. I saw the packet and thought of you.’
‘Me?’ I gasped. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
He shrugged and turned his face away but I could tell he’d gone a bit pink.
OK, so growing a variety of outdoor tomatoes in someone’s honour might not be everyone’s idea of a romantic gesture, but I knew how Charlie’s mind worked and my heart bounced all over the place. He worshipped his six-year-old son Ollie, who was quite literally at the centre of Charlie’s universe. So if he’d been thinking about both of us when he’d made his tomato choices, that must mean that I was special too, mustn’t it?