Chapter 5
March was nearly over and spring had definitely given winter the elbow. Trees were cloaked in blossom and men from the council had been out to give the village green its first haircut of the season. It looked very smart out there now except for the few shaggy clumps left long where the wild cowslips were still in bloom.
Juliet had made delicate lemon cupcakes topped with crystallized flowers on pale yellow frosting, and for our younger-at-heart customers, chocolate Easter cakes filled with mini eggs ready for Easter next weekend.
But today was a celebration of a different kind: a celebration of Clarence Fearnley’s life and the café was a hive of activity.
‘When life hands you lemons, make cake,’ said Juliet, whipping the lid off a container with a flourish to reveal a lemon drizzle traybake big enough to feed the five thousand, or fifty mourners at the very least.
‘Oh yes,’ Doreen straightened up from the counter where she was stacking Eccles cakes, ‘we should have that made into a sign for the café.’
Nonna hung her nose over the cake and inhaled. ‘My favourite smell in whole world. Remind me of home and the lemon groves near our house and the limoncello we make in big buckets every year. Delizioso.’
Limoncello was still Nonna’s favourite tipple. She claimed a glass of it before bed was her secret to long life. There might be something in it too, I thought, watching my grandmother pick up a heavy watering can and carry it into the conservatory. She had the strength of an ox, was rarely ill and was still pretty switched on for her age.
‘Tell us about Naples, Nonna,’ I said, looking up from slicing cucumbers into translucent slivers, ‘and the lemon groves.’
‘Long time ago. Can’t remember,’ she said, clamping her lips shut.
‘You had lemon groves at the end of your street?’ I prompted.
She glanced sideways to me and then turned to the window.
‘Mamma mia! Clementine is here and the food not ready,’ she said, ignoring the question.
Clementine Fearnley parked her van outside the café, slammed the door and went round to the boot.
‘More work, less talk,’ barked Nonna. ‘You not finish those sandwiches yet.’
‘I almost have.’ I eyed her beadily and began to slice faster, wondering for the umpteenth time why she changed the subject whenever I asked about Italy. She claimed that the smell of lemons reminded her of home and then in the next breath pretended not to be able to remember it at all. It didn’t add up.
Juliet put the lid back on the cake and stacked the box on top of the others.
‘The sausage rolls are cooling, Maria,’ she said. ‘The fruit scones are still baking, but they won’t take a minute.’
Clementine had asked the Lemon Tree Café to do the catering for Clarence’s wake. Nonna had jumped at the chance to do something useful for her friend. But we’d needed an extra pair of hands so Juliet, who had been baking all weekend for it, had come in on her day off to help me prepare a hundred rounds of sandwiches and two hundred sausage rolls while Doreen served the café’s usual customers.
Eighty rounds of egg and cress, cheese and pickle, ham and mustard and coronation chicken were under cling film in the fridge and the tuna-and-cucumber sandwiches were under construction.
Nonna scurried over to open the door for Clementine. She came in with a bag of compost slung over her shoulder as if it weighed nothing. She wore a shabby dark coat that was several sizes too big for her, thick black tights with a small run in the back and a pair of chunky black brogues.
I didn’t know her very well and she never normally came into the café because the garden centre took up her every waking hour. It was closed this week, unsurprisingly, and Tyson had come in earlier this morning for a single egg on toast. He was economizing, he’d explained, in case Clementine closed the garden centre for good.
‘You think a woman can’t run a business, eh?’ Nonna had said, flicking him with her tea towel and stomping off to the kitchen mumbling something rude in Italian under her breath. He left soon after that and didn’t even eat his crusts.
Nonna tried to give her old friend a hug, but it was a bit awkward with the heavy load on her shoulder so she patted her arm instead.
‘Morning, everyone,’ said Clementine to the café in general, taking care not to meet anyone’s eye.
She was a good ten years younger than Nonna, but she looked old and drawn today. They made an odd pair: Nonna short and plump with long hair wound into a bun, Clementine, tall and spare with short hair which I suspected she might cut herself with secateurs.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I said, giving Clementine a sad smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Catnip if you’ve got it.’
I shook my head not entirely sure if that was a joke. ‘I don’t think …’
‘Or valerian? Lemon balm? Skullcap?’ Her disappointment deepened as I continued to shake my head. ‘What have you got to soothe and calm nerves?’
‘Um.’ I looked at Doreen who was chewing her lip in a way that made me think she was stifling a smirk. ‘How about camomile?’
‘That’ll have to do, I suppose,’ Clementine replied and turned away to accept condolences from Biddy from the pet shop.
‘Skullcap.’ Juliet tutted, adding with a mutter, ‘She’s one of those herbalists.’
She always had something to say about customers who didn’t want a straightforward cup of Twinings. ‘Brews her own tonics from plants. Some say she studies witch—’
‘But only those who have nothing better to do with their time than gossip.’ Doreen glowered at her before sniffing the air. ‘And your scones are burning.’
Juliet’s face turned as red as her hair and she marched off to the kitchen.
‘For your lemon pots, Maria.’ Clementine rolled the bag of compost off her shoulder and on to the floor. ‘Top them up with a good couple of inches. They’ll need a nitrogen feed soon too. Where do you want it?’
Nonna pointed to the conservatory. Clementine dragged it through with Nonna following behind, wiping up flecks of compost from the floor with a cloth.
‘Thank you.’ Nonna kissed her friend on both cheeks, much to the discomfort of the younger woman, and brushed clumps of soil from her coat. ‘Everything okey cokey?’
‘I can’t take it in.’ Clementine looked down at her hands, dirt ingrained in the creases of her fingers and under her nails after years of working outdoors. ‘I sprang out of bed this morning and on the way to the bathroom I shouted over my shoulder, “Look lively, Clarrie, no lie-in for you today, it’s the funeral.” And then I remembered: it’s his funeral. He’s gone, Maria.’
‘I know, cara,’ Nonna said. ‘I remember the pain of it like it yesterday. Like someone tear your heart out with bare hand. Go sit down for minute.’
‘Can’t. Too much to do.’
Nonna flapped a hand at her friend until Clementine shrugged in defeat and sat at an empty table.
‘Clarence was my first boyfriend, you know. Never known another man, if you catch my drift. He was a lazy arse, crap with money and had a fondness for a flutter on the horses. But he was my lazy arse. And I loved him.’
Nonna looked over at the counter shiftily and then leaned down to speak in Clementine’s ear. I strained to listen as I searched through the boxes of tea for the camomile.
‘I also only love one man but I lose him very young.’
A rush of warmth flooded through me for my lovely grandmother; she might be guarded about her life in Italy, but it was good to know that she’d been happy, even if it was only for a short time.
Clementine sighed. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Maria. Run this business single-handedly. I think you’re amazing.’
‘It is my life.’ Nonna tipped two pieces of hazelnut biscotti on a plate and sat down heavily beside her. ‘I don’t think of it as work. Even though I always rush, rush, rush on my feet.’
Doreen and I raised eyebrows at each other. Clementine slipped her coat off to reveal bony shoulders and a scrawny neck.
‘You’re a marvel,’ she said. ‘And you’ve always got a steady flow of customers. The garden centre can go for hours without seeing a single soul. I’ve never understood how we made a profit, but Clarence always took care of that side of things. Oh hell.’
Two large tears dripped on to the table and she covered her face with her hands. Nonna dabbed them up with her cloth, smearing the table with a thin layer of compost as she did so.
‘What am I going to do? What if—’
Nonna patted her hand. ‘These problems are for another day. And if you need help with business, we all help you, all other shops. Won’t we, Nina?’
This last comment was addressed to Nina from the florist’s next door, who’d come in carrying a thermos cup and was wrapped from head to toe in layers of wool.
‘Course we will, Clem,’ she cried, unravelling a long scarf from around her face.
Clementine, who Nonna said hated having her name shortened, scowled and tried to cover up her tears. ‘Oh good.’
‘I always appreciate that you’ve never gone into cut flowers like a lot of garden centres; it’s hard enough without competition on the doorstep,’ Nina went on brightly. She perched her bottom on the empty chair next to Clementine. ‘So I’m happy to pass on any tips. Although,’ she cupped a hand to her mouth and leaned forward, ‘we’ve never actually made a profit. Anyway. Small businesses unite! Yay!’ She punched a hand encased in a fingerless glove into the air militantly.
‘Thank you,’ said Clementine graciously, leaning away from Nina. ‘That is kind.’
‘What can I get you?’ I called, conscious that Nina was invading Clementine’s personal space.
She bounded over and set the cup on the counter.
‘Soup, please.’ She shivered, peeled off her gloves and pressed her hands round our old-fashioned radiators. ‘Working with flowers is a lovely, lovely thing,’ she said, examining her red raw fingers, ‘but I think it’s very inconsiderate of them to wilt if exposed to warmth of over one degree.’
‘It is,’ said Clementine, with a ghost of a smile now that Nina was further away. ‘Which is exactly why I like to work with plants; a lot more resilient to changes in temperature. Disappearing into a polytunnel to hand-pollinate twenty rows of tomatoes on a cold day is such a treat.’
‘Blimey. What does that involve?’ I said, setting her camomile tea in front of her.
‘It’s a very delicate operation,’ she replied, mashing the tea bag violently against the side of the cup with a spoon to make it stronger. ‘One plant at a time.’
Stanley walked in at this point, dressed sombrely in black. He raised a hand and advanced towards his usual chair with a deferential, ‘Good morning, ladies.’
‘Morning, Stanley,’ we chorused.
‘Mrs Fearnley,’ he said reverently, stopping briefly by her table and removing his hat, ‘you have my deepest sympathies. It has been five years since I lost my dear Winnie yet I still feel the pain of her loss as if it was yesterday. Would anyone care for a Werther’s?’
His sentiment echoed Nonna’s almost word for word and I felt a tug at my heart for them all. He handed round a packet of sweets and both ladies took one.
‘Thank you, Mr Pigeon.’ Clementine blew her nose and cleared her throat before unwrapping the butterscotch.
‘Stanley, please.’ He bowed sweetly to Nonna and murmured that she was looking lovely today. She giggled and flapped a hand at him and he left them to it, unwrapping a sweet for himself.
‘As I was saying,’ Clementine continued, ‘it takes a gentle grip, a cotton swab and plenty of stamina. Like this.’ She curled her fingers around an imaginary stem and mimed an up and down motion. ‘Shaky-shaky. Or if it’s too big a job I use an electric vibrator.’
‘I like to see that,’ said Nonna, who grew tomatoes in her greenhouse. ‘I do this sometimes, but mine smaller. I use a feather. A little tickle do the job.’
‘Good heavens,’ muttered Stanley, choking on his sweet. He sank down in his chair and tugged at his collar. ‘Oh my.’
I handed Nina her soup and we stuffed napkins in our mouths to stop ourselves from laughing. Poor Stanley.
‘I’ve just put the greenery into your Clarence’s wreath, Clem,’ said Nina, when she’d got her breath back. ‘Good choice on the old-fashioned roses, they are to DIE for.’
Clementine gave Nina the biggest stink eye I’d ever seen.
‘Oh balls. Sorry.’ She pulled a horrified face at me and pretended to put a gun to her head.
‘I’d better get back,’ she said, handing me some money. ‘Still got a couple of the smaller tributes to do. Give me a can of Coke as well. In case I warm up later.’
Clementine pulled her sleeve up and looked at her watch. It was an old-fashioned man’s watch with a large face and a stretchy gold strap. ‘Ought to be off myself; I’ve got three thousand courgette seedlings to water before the funeral car arrives.’
‘Do you want a hand to the car with these?’ said Juliet, who’d boxed up the food for the buffet while I’d been enjoying the tomato pollinating story. She was making an effort to be polite for once, I noticed, probably under instruction from Doreen.
‘Two ticks.’ Clementine gulped down her tea in one and stood up, slipping her arms into her oversized coat.
There was a revving noise outside and we all looked out to see Lia trying to jam her Mini into a small space behind Clementine’s parked van. She waved as she climbed out and held up some carrier bags from a posh supermarket before stowing them in the boot and coming in.
‘Been shopping?’ I asked.
‘Yes. On my own! Now Mum’s looking after Arlo I’ve decided to splash out on something nice for dinner.’
‘Lucky Ed.’
We smiled at each other with wonders-will-never-cease looks.
‘It’ll be our belated Valentine’s dinner. I was going to do this fancy lamb thing then, I had all sorts of romantic plans, but Arlo was ill and by the time I got round to reading the recipe I realized it needed four hours in the oven. So that was that. We had beans on toast in the end.’
‘I didn’t realize you were such a keen cook?’ I said, surprised.
I drew her to the counter where I needed to clear up from my mammoth sandwich session.
‘I’m more of an armchair enthusiast at the moment, I admit, but,’ Lia leaned in towards me, ‘since we had that little chat about my body shape, I’ve realized that starving myself was just making me miserable and actually, when I cook properly, I eat better and feel healthier for it.’
‘Good for you, sis.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s made me think that instead of just watching cooking shows, I should get in the kitchen and go for it.’
I grinned and handed her a damp cloth. ‘You can get in this kitchen and go for it right now if you like?’
She pulled a face. ‘I was thinking more this side of the counter with a chic little coffee while I research some recipes on my phone. I want to find a couscous dish to go with the lamb.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said and began to tackle the crumbs myself.
‘Before you go, Clementine,’ Nonna plucked a ripe lemon from one of her trees and handed it to her friend, ‘take this with you to make lemon tea. Do you good, full of vitamins.’
‘Ooh, I love lemons,’ said Lia. ‘In fact, I could eat a slice right now.’
‘If you crave lemon, you know what that means,’ Clementine said.
Juliet, who’d been valiantly holding a heavy box of food to stash in the van, slumped on the counter over the box of food.
‘Here we go, brace yourselves for some hocus-pocus,’ she muttered, earning herself a dig in the ribs from Doreen.
‘It isn’t a pregnancy craving, is it?’ said Lia, going pale. ‘Because my body hasn’t sprung back after the last one yet, another baby would probably just drop straight out.’
‘Thanks for that vivid image,’ I winced. ‘What does it mean, Clementine?’
‘The lemon is a powerful symbol in herbalism, mythology and even folklore,’ she said, holding up the fruit between her forefinger and thumb. ‘One theory is that eating lemons reflects the need to purify yourself.’
‘That’s me.’ Doreen gave a dirty chuckle. ‘I had very impure thoughts about Leonardo DiCaprio last night.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Nonna, ‘I have those all the time.’
‘Nonna!’ Lia squealed and jammed her fingers in her ears.
There was a choking sound from behind Stanley’s newspaper.
‘And another interesting one,’ Clementine continued, ‘is that they symbolize clearing and cleansing to separate a person from their ties to the past.’
‘So you’d surround yourself with lemons, if you wanted to make a fresh start?’ I pondered, with a sweeping glance round the café at the lemon trees and the crockery adorned with lemons and the lemon-themed pictures on the wall.
Nonna’s eyes narrowed and then she flapped a hand at her friend.
‘Juliet is right,’ she said with a harsh laugh, ‘hocus-pocus. Now come on, everybody; back to work.’
At quarter to two, the church bells began to ring out a solemn toll. It was nearly time for Clarence Fearnley’s send-off and both Nonna and Stanley reached for their coats.
‘Maria, would you care to come to the funeral with me?’ Stanley said, tucking his scarf into the top of his coat.
‘Stanley Pigeon!’ huffed Nonna as she pinned a black feathered hat over her tidy white bun. ‘What you suggesting?’
Stanley looked at the feather in her hat warily.
‘Nothing!’ he insisted, shaking his head. ‘I just thought … But nothing.’
To his surprise she tucked her arm through his.
‘I go to the funeral. You go to the funeral. We walk to church together if you want. But I not care to come with you, no.’
‘Rightio.’ Stanley glanced down at Nonna’s hand on his arm, looking utterly baffled.
‘It is not a date, nothing like that.’ She wagged a finger at him.
‘Good grief,’ spluttered Stanley, ‘the very idea.’
They reached the door and he held it open for her.
‘Although,’ he said in a wavering voice, ‘while we’re on the subject—’
The door banged shut and the end of his sentence was cut off.
‘Oh my God,’ Lia giggled, ‘he’s asking her out!’
We grinned at each other as the pair of them strolled towards the church arm in arm.
‘How cute are they?’ I said, resting my elbows on the counter.
‘Hashtag old-age goals,’ said Lia with a sigh. ‘Anyway, talking of true love, the way to my man’s heart is through his stomach, so forget the coffee, I’d better get home and start marinating that lamb.’
‘Good luck with the cooking,’ I said, pressing a swift kiss to her cheek. ‘I think it’s fab that you’re trying something new.’
‘Oh thanks,’ said Lia, going pink. ‘That means a lot.’
I walked her to the door and waved her off, then, still smiling, I turned back to the counter to commence cleaning duties. And what I saw sent chills down my spine: Doreen and Juliet were helping themselves to cash from the till and stuffing notes into their own purses.