Chapter 4
A week later and crocuses were beginning to pop up through the grass on the village green; their zingy colours of yellow, purple and white made them look like mini Easter eggs peeping through the grass. Spring was on its way along with milder weather and lighter nights. The buds on my flowering cherry tree were almost ready to pop and despite Mum’s predictions, here in the café, in amongst the clink of spoons and the hiss and gurgle of the coffee machine, the romance between Nonna and Stanley was blossoming too.
He was here now sitting in his usual spot looking extra smart. He’d had a haircut and a beard trim and if the price tag at the back of his neck was anything to go by he was wearing a new jumper too. He’d ordered a pot of tea for two and had invited Nonna to join him. She’d been snoozing in the conservatory five minutes before he arrived, although she’d denied it, giving Juliet and I the chance to whip every item of crockery off the heavy Italian dresser, scrub down the shelves and replace everything again before she woke up. But now they were sharing a custard tart – one plate and two forks. It was all very sweet.
The breakfast trade fizzled out by half past ten and in the hiatus that followed, Juliet and I had the fairly easy job of serving up teas and coffees. Nonna went into the kitchen to load the dishwasher while Stanley lingered over the crossword, looking hopefully at the kitchen every time he heard her voice.
It was quiet enough that when Verity rang me on my mobile I was only too pleased to pour myself a coffee and curl up in a chair in the conservatory for a chat. She’d got a gap between cookery courses, she said, and wanted to check up on me.
The conservatory was the most private part of the café. There wasn’t much in the way of a view; the windows looked out on to the little courtyard at the back, but with the sun warming the terracotta floor tiles and the potted lemon trees softening the hard lines of the walls, it felt like a little Mediterranean paradise.
‘Just making sure you haven’t burned the place down with your dubious culinary talents,’ she said once I’d made myself comfortable.
‘You’d be amazed,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken to café life like a duck to water.’
‘Not amazed,’ she said. ‘I adore working in the food industry. Everyone arrives expecting to have a nice time; a break from the daily grind. Being at your café could be a treat to themselves after a hard day or perhaps a special celebration. Imagine an old person living alone whose first conversation of the day is with you. Just think of the difference you could make to someone’s life. Every day. Which makes it a nice place to spend time in.’
Verity had been a marketing manager in a financial services company before moving to Plumberry in Yorkshire to work at the cookery school and she’d never been happier.
‘I never thought of it like that,’ I agreed. ‘But being in the village has made me realize how much of my family life I used to miss when I worked in an office such long hours.’
‘Sounds like someone might stay on more than a month,’ she said in a singsong voice.
I looked around me at the faded decor, the tired menus, the sagging cushions, and felt my heart race. There was so much potential here, new houses were springing up all the time on the outskirts of Barnaby, city workers like me were moving further and further out into the countryside, all wanting a cute café for avocado on toast or bircher bowls, or warm salads. If this café were mine, I’d—
I shook myself. It was a ridiculous thought.
‘Nooo,’ I said, trying to convince myself as much as Verity. ‘I’m used to high-pressure pitches and interpreting impossible briefs and coming up with a creative solution so amazing that the client is rendered speechless.’
‘You can use all those skills there, can’t you?’
I pulled a waxy green leaf off a lemon tree and folded it between my fingers.
‘There is the small matter of Nonna and what to do about her,’ I conceded. ‘Now that needs a creative solution. She’s kidding herself that she still puts in a full day’s work, but she falls asleep as soon as she sits down and half the time when she serves customers she wanders off part way through and forgets what she’s doing. She doesn’t ever take a day off; she’s a workaholic.’
‘Sounds like someone else I know.’
I had to smile at that; I was guilty of doing the same. In my last job I’d always been getting email reminders to take my paid leave entitlement.
‘She’s seventy-five, Verity; even I might have called it a day by then.’
‘Or fallen madly in love and had loads of gorgeous dark-haired babies?’
‘We both know how unlikely that is.’
‘Rubbish, you just need to find the right man. Like me.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘Sorry, that sounded smug. Carry on. About Nonna.’
I suppressed a sigh. I was delighted that Verity was so happy with Tom, but love wasn’t on my agenda, nor did I appreciate being told that all my troubles would be over if only I met ‘The One’. And she knew that.
‘It’s just not fair on Juliet and Doreen,’ I began again. ‘At the moment we’re cramming as many spring-cleaning jobs in as we can without her noticing. But I’m only here for another couple of weeks, and then I’ll be off.’
Michael had called me with the details of a job in Manchester last night for a company called HitSquad. It was perfect, a bit further to commute, but I’d get used to it. And this job in the café had only ever been temporary. I was keeping everything crossed that I’d make the shortlist for an interview. It would be weird to wear my smart office clothes again and get on a train or a bus with the other office workers; I’d got quite used to a short hop across a dewy village green.
‘Have you got a new job? How exciting.’
‘Not yet, but I might have an interview. I need to start earning again. I used most of my savings buying the cottage last year.’
‘Hmm.’ Verity didn’t sound convinced. ‘Don’t be too quick to dismiss the café, Rosie. Knowing you, you’d have a chain of twenty of them within a year.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, distracted by a babble of conversation at the door. ‘Listen, all the teachers and staff from the local school are arriving for a celebratory lunch. I’ll have to go and serve, they’ve pre-ordered jacket potatoes and Juliet has already got a queue at the till.’
‘It’s not just a jacket potato, remember,’ she laughed, ‘it’s a celebratory jacket potato. Go and make their lunches special.’
‘I will,’ I promised. ‘I’ll even chop up some cress for an extra garnish.’
‘That’s my girl,’ she said, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘What are they celebrating?’
‘Excellence,’ I replied. ‘Our little village school has just had a visit from the inspector and it has passed with flying colours.’
‘Really? A primary school?’
‘Yes, the one I used to go to.’
‘Your village is lucky; I’m worried to death about the school Noah is supposed to be starting after Easter. Complete disaster, apparently. Gabe says it’s had an awful report and has gone into Special Measures.’
I had only met Gabe Green a handful of times but Verity was very close to him in a complicated sort of way. He’d been married to her best friend Mimi who died aged thirty leaving him to bring up their baby son, Noah. It had been desperately sad and Verity had been heartbroken at the time. Gabe had nearly drowned in sorrow too. He chucked in his job with a top law firm, moved on to a houseboat somewhere and now worked as a French polisher. Verity was Noah’s godmother and she and Gabe were both directors of the cookery school she ran. She loved that little boy as if he were her own.
‘Well, ours is outstanding, tell him,’ I said, ‘which bodes well for when my nephew enrols.’
‘And your own children, of course.’
I said nothing.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she cringed. ‘I’m going now.’
Juliet and I herded the triumphant school party into the conservatory. There was only one man amongst them: Mr Beecher, who’d been the school caretaker since I’d been there. In my day, all the kids were scared of him. He used to have red hair, a thick monobrow and a permanent scowl. His hair was mostly grey now and his ears were as whiskery as his eyebrows.
‘One potato with tuna?’ I called above the chattering about displays and assemblies and parent questionnaires.
Mr Beecher raised his hand.
‘That’s mine,’ he said and narrowed his eyes in recognition. ‘I remember you.’
‘Ditto,’ I said, setting the plate in front of him. ‘Mayonnaise is on the table. Enjoy.’
It was hardly surprising he remembered me: I don’t suppose there were many seven-year-olds who staged a rooftop protest to allow the ice-cream van into school because it was a hot day. He’d been furious at having to come up to get me. Mum had been furious too – sending me straight to my room after school – but Nonna had sneaked up with a small dish of ice cream, and told me to always stay brave, that if I believed something was right, or wrong, I should always take action and speak my mind. And mostly I’d managed it.
‘Thank you.’ His hooded eyes roamed the café. ‘So you’re back. You didn’t manage to scale to great heights in the end, then? Ha ha.’
‘We make a difference to people’s lives every day in this café, in lots of small ways,’ I said, paraphrasing Verity. ‘Which is quite a tall order, I think.’
‘Yes. It is. Sorry.’ He nodded meekly. ‘It was a joke, you know, because of the roof incident.’
‘I know,’ I said, allowing my lips to twitch into a smile. ‘I was always a bit scared of you after that.’
He chuckled then and his whole face changed and I realized he was just an old man with a lot of hair.
‘I was a bit wary of you too, lass. Got any salad cream? I hate this fancy new mayonnaise.’
‘Of course.’ I smiled.
Mayonnaise was new, was it? Perhaps I was being a bit optimistic with the bircher bowl idea …
Half an hour later, the school group was tucking into a cake that the dinner ladies had made as a surprise and Stanley was still here. I made two coffees, two pots of tea, a custard tart, soup with soft white bread, a slice of apple pie and ice cream and an Eccles cake.
‘Eh, Rosanna?’ Nonna yelled from her chair opposite him. ‘More milk for Stanley, please.’
‘Is Stanley all right?’ I asked Juliet as we cleared away the teachers’ plates and mugs.
‘I was going to ask you the same question, hen,’ Juliet said, tugging her bra strap up under her T-shirt. ‘He seems a bit on edge.’
She stacked a pile of plates on the arm with the thistle tattoo on it and scooped up five mugs with the hand that had ‘Dean’ inked across her knuckles. I piled some empties on a tray and followed her.
‘And he’s been here even longer than usual,’ I said, glancing over on my way to the kitchen. Nonna was still talking at him and there was a pile of shredded napkins on the placemat in front of him.
‘Where’s that milk?’ Nonna tutted, trying to catch my eye. ‘You milking the cow yourself?’
‘Coming,’ I yelled back.
The school lot started making noises about getting back before the dinner bell rang. Chairs scraped across the tiled conservatory floor, bags were retrieved from under chairs and people groaned and laughed about eating too much.
I filled a small jug with milk and took it over.
‘Everything OK?’ I said when Nonna had stopped talking. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘I’ll get out of your way in a minute,’ said Stanley, adding a drop of milk to the dregs of his tea. ‘I’ll just, er …’
‘No rush, no rush.’ Nonna flapped a hand. ‘You very welcome in the café.’
Stanley turned beetroot red.
‘Thank you very much, well, in that case …’ He paused and reached into the pocket of his jacket.
But before he could find what he was looking for, Tyson barged through the door, pushing all the teachers aside. He ran in, wild-eyed and panting, and lunged at the counter. The teachers tutted and shook their heads until one of them noticed the time and they all galloped off across the green towards school.
‘I need brandy. Large. For the shock,’ Tyson demanded before bursting into loud rasping sobs.
Nonna and I were at his side in seconds. Tyson was a lovely lad with lovely manners if rather mucky fingernails.
‘What’s wrong, boy, what is it?’ Nonna cried.
Juliet poured him some tea.
‘Large, with plenty of sugar,’ she said, pushing a mug towards him. ‘For the shock.’
He eyed the mug with disappointment and sniffed. I handed him a tissue.
‘It’s Clarence,’ he sobbed, a bubble of snot appearing at one nostril. I handed him another tissue. ‘He’s dead. Lifted a bag of pea gravel into the back of a Land Rover and keeled over.’
‘Signore mio.’ Nonna made the sign of the cross. ‘Poor man. Poor Clementine.’
‘Oh no,’ said Juliet and I together. ‘Sounds like a heart attack.’
‘Just like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Fell to the floor with the gravel on top of him.’
Clarence Fearnley was the owner of Fearnley’s Garden Centre half a mile away at the edge of the village. Nonna was good friends with his wife, Clementine.
‘What’s going to happen to the garden centre? What’s going to happen to me?’ Tyson sobbed into his sleeve. ‘Best job I ever had.’
Juliet and I exchanged sympathetic looks; he was only young, it was probably the only job he’d ever had.
‘Try not to worry, Tyson,’ I said, putting my arm around his broad shoulders.
‘He only young. Not even seventy.’ Nonna picked up her coat from the coat stand and thrust her arms into it. ‘I get down there and stay with her. She has no family. No one.’
The doorbell rang and in stumbled Stella Derry, Mum’s deputy at the Women’s Institute. She was breathless and perspiring and the button across the front of her blouse had popped open.
‘I’ve got some terrible news,’ she gasped, looking round to check she had our attention. She braced herself on the counter to catch her breath, bent double, as if she’d just completed her first triathlon. ‘Clarence F—’
‘We know,’ said Juliet.
‘Already?’ Stella pouted, her double chin wobbling with indignation.
‘Here,’ I said, taking the remains of a cheese-and-broccoli flan from the counter. ‘Take this, Nonna. She might not fancy eating but …’
Nonna pressed a hand to my cheek and I laid my own over it, thinking as I did so how lucky I was to still have her so very much alive.
‘You good girl, Rosanna. You sure you two can manage without me?’
If it hadn’t been such a sombre occasion, Juliet and I might have sniggered at that.
‘We’ll cope,’ I said.
She turned to the door and one of our regulars, Barry, jumped to his feet, wiping crumbs from his mouth.
‘Wait,’ he said, snatching up his keys. ‘I’ll run you down there.’
‘You OK?’ I asked Tyson, patting his arm once they’d gone.
He nodded. ‘Although I think I need more sugar. Perhaps a chocolate brownie?’
‘Make that two,’ said Stella. ‘On me. Come and tell me all about it, Tyson. It’ll do you good to talk.’
I left Juliet serving them a large square of brownie each and went back to collect Stanley’s empty plate. He looked distraught.
‘I feel awfully sorry for poor Clarence,’ he said with a sigh, ‘but his timing is dreadful.’
‘Oh?’
Stanley laid two cinema tickets down on the table in front of him.
‘I’ve been working up to asking Maria out all morning.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘And now it’s too late.’
I could have hugged him; no wonder he’d been here so long.
‘Nonna’s very fond of you,’ I said with an encouraging smile. ‘Maybe today just wasn’t to be. But I wouldn’t give up hope.’
His face brightened. ‘Really?’
‘Really. It’s never too late to start something new. To let someone know that you care.’
I didn’t really know if that was right or not, but it was what Stanley needed to hear and it was a nice thought; because it meant that there was hope for me yet …