Ivy Lane: Winter: (13 page)

Amy glanced over her shoulder at Shirley and then looked back at me. ‘I can only work here until I leave sixth form. I’m going to study architecture and it takes seven years to qualify then I want to move to London, so I really need to save up.’

‘Right. Well, good luck!’ I swallowed, smiled and shuffled off.

Flippin’ ’eck. Sixteen and she’d got a ten-year plan. I thought I was being organized if I had a ten-
day
plan.

A career butterfly, that was me. I couldn’t seem to help it. I’d start a job full of enthusiasm, throw myself into it, loving the whole ‘new challenge’ thing. Then as soon as I’d mastered it and put my own spin on the role, for some reason I sprouted wings and an urge to fly off somewhere new.

Uncle Arthur reckoned that one day I’d find my niche and my career would take off. My father, on the other hand, put my transient tendencies down to lack of ambition and commitment. I hoped Uncle Arthur was right because I couldn’t bear it if Dad was.

The edited highlights of my career included: apple picker in New Zealand, stable hand in Dubai, chalet girl in Austria, bar maid in Cornwall (eighteen months – a personal record for me, largely down to a lifeguard called Ivan), a short-lived stint as a tour guide at a pencil museum and now here, waitress in the Shenton Road café in Kingsfield.

I was sure all the random experience I’d gained was preparing me for something, I just wished I knew what. I dropped down into the empty chair opposite my boss and pondered whether to tell her that it might be time for me to move on. Or whether I should perhaps, for once, keep my ponderings to myself.

‘You’re wasted here, you know that, don’t you?’ Shirley said without looking up. Which was just as well because my face was now as red as my hair.

I shifted in my seat. Shirley Maxwell should never, ever be underestimated. She had an uncanny knack of reading minds. Not that I’d been thinking that I was wasted, just a bit... unchallenged.

‘Meaning?’ I asked, playing for time. I pulled the sugar bowl towards me and started mashing the crystals against the side of the bowl.

Shirley dropped her pen on the table, looked at me and exhaled in a ‘what are we going to do with you’ sort of way. She moved the sugar bowl out of my reach and I folded my arms.

‘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, helped organize the dreaded paperwork and now you’re even training new staff. I’m 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... once I 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 at the weekend 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 envisaged 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 was in the mixing; over mix and you’ve got yourself a batch of primitive weapons. Mine, though I said so myself, were sultana-stuffed clouds of deliciousness.

Gemma shook her blonde curls and patted her stomach, which given that Parker was only about five 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... eurghh.’ 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?’

Tomorrow was Good Friday and the café was closed, 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,’ sighed Gemma, 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 round 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 leant 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 for now, I’m happy to borrow Parker 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; I had a repertoire of one thing – scones.

‘Does Charlie know how you feel?’ asked Gemma, gazing at me wide-eyed.

The only problem with Kingsfield was that everyone else had been here for donkey’s years. I might only have met Charlie a few months ago, but Gemma had known him for ages from Ivy Lane allotments. Unlikely as it seemed looking at those nails, Gemma had had her own allotment plot until Parker had come 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 turtle 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 Galapagos 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 she thought that in some way Charlie and me 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 been quite straightforward, but now... well, I wasn’t sure of anything.

Chapter 2

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 gates 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 the heavy gate open and closed it behind me.

It wasn’t like me to over-analyze things; life was 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 to just go with the flow. I loved my life and, anyway, no one really had the perfect job and the perfect partner. Charlie and me 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, supressing 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 onwards.

He asked me the same question every time I saw him, hoping to change my mind. I’d toyed with the idea having my own plot last year and he had shown me round. 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 on to 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 had his back to me arranging grow bags in rows. 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 round and grinned. ‘Hello, beautiful!’

I squealed as he scooped me up and span 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 round 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 smelt 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.