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Fern (#ulink_d697b254-872d-5cda-9e40-0b5290d1121c)
If Maggie looks stunned by my revelation, she can’t feel as shocked as I do. It’s still sinking in that this is actually happening to my brother.
It had been one hell of a night, with all of us sat on uncomfortable plastic seats in a strip-lit hospital corridor while we waited for any scrap of information we could garner from the white-coated medics that hurried past us. Mum had started wailing at one point, a deep and hollow baying cry that echoed horrifically around the clinical grey hallway while I’d stared at a poster about diabetes testing for three hours solid because if I focussed on that I didn’t have to think about all the awful tests Luke was so bravely enduring in another room. It had been, without a doubt, the worst night of my life.
“They’re going to operate on him as soon as they can, but he’s too run down right now. They’re not sure he’s strong enough to survive a ten-hour operation, so they’re treating the infection first.” I laugh, but it sounds empty and joyless. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that he’s got a bundle of cells attacking his brain and trying to kill him but they can’t try and remove it because he’s got a runny nose and a tickly cough.”
“The specialists at that hospital are nothing short of amazing. Honestly, they’re some of the best in the world. They know what they’re doing.” Maggie’s calm reassurance is exactly what I need. She’s the voice of reason. “So when are they hoping to operate?”
I shrug. “It’s hard to know. As soon as he’s well enough for the anaesthetic to not be a danger, I think. Days rather than weeks, from what they were saying.”
Repeating this information to Maggie keeps me centred. It’s almost as though when I’m relaying the cold, hard facts of the story it isn’t real, as though my baby brother isn’t lying on a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of his body and drips pumping him full of medication. I can pretend everything’s fine here, away from the stark, cold corridors of the hospital. I’m glad to be at the café and especially glad to be away from my parents, so I don’t have to watch them crumble for another minute. I’d never seen my dad cry before, but last night he must have cried every tear he’d stored up inside.
“It’s not going to affect my work though, I promise. The customers don’t need to know anything’s changed. I’ll still be here on time every day and I won’t be a misery. I won’t let you down.”
Maggie places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You wouldn’t be letting me down by putting your family first, Fern. If you need to be at the hospital, you go. This should be the last place on your mind with Luke so poorly. Pearl can always do a few shifts if we need an extra pair of hands, so cover’s not an issue. I think she’s lonely, being on her own. She’d be glad to help out.”
“I’d rather be here,” I admit. “Although it’s good to know that Pearl’s available. I’d hate to leave you in the lurch if I need to dash off for whatever reason.”
I resist the urge to check my phone for the millionth time, just in case. I’d turned the ringer up to the highest volume and made my mum promise to call me if there was any news, no matter how small.
“Pearl’s more than happy to come whenever. That’s the thing about having family close by, they’re always on hand in an emergency.”
Pearl’s related to Maggie by marriage – she’s Maggie’s ex-husband’s aunt – and is a warm-hearted woman with a friendly smile. She’s usually being dragged around the park by her dachshund puppy, and has admitted that she sees the shifts she helps out with at The Lake House Café as some much-needed respite from her livewire canine companion.
“Hopefully there won’t be any emergencies,” I say grimly. “At the hospital we’re sitting around waiting for news and the time goes so slowly. I kept looking at my watch and the hands were moving that slowly I thought it had stopped. At least here I can find things to keep me busy, and it’ll do me good to see happy faces rather than wallow in self-pity all day long.”
“If you’re absolutely sure, then I’m always glad to have you. You know I couldn’t run this place without your input. But any time you need to dash off, you go. You don’t even need to tell me, just whip off your apron and get out of that door. Family’s important, Fern. I’m an only child, but I know that the bond between siblings is strong. Even though Kelly and Josh are tearing each other to shreds half the time, they’d be devastated if anything happened to the other.”
My heart sinks, Maggie’s words reminding me of my promise. I’ve got a phone call to make.
“Can I just have five minutes before I start my shift? I told Luke I’d ring someone to let them know what’s happening…”
“You take your time,” Maggie says soothingly, before switching on the radio. It’s playing a rock-and-roll song, the kind that’d normally have me tapping my feet along to the beat. Today I don’t feel like dancing. I don’t feel like much at all.
“I’ll go and clear that table,” she adds, humming quietly as she starts stacking the plates left by some of the morning’s early-bird customers.
Retrieving my phone from my pocket, relieved not to have any missed calls or messages, I scroll through the list of names. Café. Dad. Dentist. Doctor. They all flash before me before I see the name I’m searching for. I press the call icon, dread eating me up from the inside. I swallow as the phone rings once, twice, three times, and then a familiar voice answers with a sharp, and slightly irritated, hello.
“Kelly? It’s me, Fern. Luke asked me to call you…”
Lacey (#ulink_fa9bdd51-b25c-575e-8c48-202d7ae946a4)
There’s a nagging burning sensation nipping at my waist, the familiar gripe of a stitch building in my muscle. I’ve tried pinching it between my fingers and blowing out, something my old PE teacher used to insist was an instacure, but it’s not helping. I tried massaging it with my fingertips too, but that didn’t solve the problem either. There’s nothing for it but to slow down to a walk. The aches and pains are obviously my body’s way of telling me it’s had enough for today.
I’ve been running for a month now, which is approximately three weeks longer than I expected to stick at it. I made the rookie mistake of telling anyone who’d listen that I was doing a charity run, and because I have kind and generous (and borderline sadistic) friends and family they’d all been thrusting fivers at me and congratulating me on doing something so impressive. Admittedly, there were a few people who laughed in my face – namely my boss, who told me he’d offer sponsorship of a hundred pounds on behalf of Fine Time Events so long as I ran the whole half-marathon, obviously insinuating that he didn’t think I’d be capable. Well, I’ll bloody show him. There’s another nine weeks until the half-marathon. That’s plenty of time to up the mileage and my fitness, so long as I can find a way to get rid of this stitch.
“Lacey!” The cheery voice lifts my spirits and brings a smile to my face. The familiar tone wraps me up, warming and reassuring. “Don’t you go overdoing it, now.”
“Don’t worry, Uncle Carrick,” I say with a grin. “I know my limits. I managed forty minutes’ running today before I had to stop though, so I must be getting fitter.”
I’d been delighted with the improvement. My first ‘running’ session had been almost entirely walking, and whilst I still jog with a lolloping, ungainly gait, at least I’m picking up speed and covering more ground.
My uncle beams back, his wonky grin and twinkly eyes as sunny as the weather. “She’d be so proud of you for getting out there and doing something proactive. She was all about fighting for change, was Marilyn.”
“I think of her all the time,” I confess. “She inspires me to keep going when my legs are telling me to give up.”
I’d loved my aunt so much. Now, when my feet were aching and my thighs burning with pain, I close my eyes and imagine her face. Somehow it makes everything seem just that bit more manageable.
“It’s funny how you and her are so different to Dad,” I muse. “He’s always been so serious and strait-laced. It’s hard to believe you all have the same parents.”
Uncle Carrick snorts. “Well, Terrence always had ideas above his station. He was never going to be the type to settle for staying around these parts. Me and Marilyn, we were home birds, but your dad was forever talking about getting away. It was no surprise when he joined the army. Your Grandma Braithwaite told anyone who’d listen about how wonderful he was. He was her favourite. Youngest child by a country mile, see. Spoilt rotten.”
“I’m the youngest too, but I’m not spoilt.”
I know I sound defensive, but my parents have always been more lenient when it comes to my sister, Dina, even though she’s wilder than I am. She was the one that school would be making calls home about because she’d pierced her ears with a needle (and that one time she pierced someone else’s ears with a needle – it looked like someone had committed murder in their dorm, there was that much blood), or dyed her hair turquoise. The boarding school Dad had chosen for us was strict, and the headmistress a stickler for the rules. I lived for the weekends when I could escape the prison-like confines and stay with Uncle Carrick. It’s probably because of those weekends together that we’re so close now.
He’d never had children of his own, which was a shame as he was a natural with kids. He’d listened to me and Dina, valuing our opinions and not just humouring them like Dad did when he made his weekly phone calls from wherever he was stationed at that time. Uncle Carrick had encouraged thought and debate and offered a safe place for us to form our own opinions. Those weekends had been my highlight, when Auntie Marilyn and Uncle Lenny would pop over too with a hearty vegetable pie and we’d stay up late playing board games and laughing at Carry On films, even though I didn’t understand half the bawdy jokes. Those joy-filled Saturdays and Sundays had almost made boarding school worth it, and were far more fun than the holidays where we’d get shipped back ‘home’ to wherever Mum and Dad were at the time.
“Your dad wouldn’t know how to spoil anyone,” Uncle Carrick replies pointedly, pulling out a packet of mints and offering me one, before thinking better of it, taking one for himself then folding the half-empty packet into my hand. “He only ever looks out for number one.”
“And Mum,” I say defensively, although I don’t know why I’m standing up for Dad. “He looks out for her too.”
“He does,” Uncle Carrick concedes with a nod. “I just wish he was able to show you and Dina how much he loves you both. One of these days he’s going to regret missing out on your childhoods.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing, sending us to St. Eugenia’s. It’s an outstanding school.”
Everyone knew of my alma mater. There was a reason it was regarded as one of the top all-girls schools in England. The extortionate fees were offset by the fact they were top of the national results tables that were printed in the broadsheets each summer.
What people didn’t know was how miserable it was for some of the girls there, especially those like me and Dina. Our family weren’t poor by any stretch, but we didn’t have the country mansion and the London flat that the wealthiest girls had, or stables full of ponies, or Daddy picking us up in one of the cars from the collection of vintage autos in the family garage. Fellow pupils had teased us for having Uncle Carrick turn up in his sea-green Ford Fiesta, and when Auntie Marilyn showed up for prize giving wearing a gaudy paisley-print sundress and a wide-brimmed sunhat that she’d bought especially for the occasion, they’d made snide remarks about her bohemian appearance. Their words had hurt at the time, but now I realise I was far richer than those girls would ever be, because whilst they might have possessions, I’d been brought up with love and laughter by my extended family. Love was something some of them obviously lacked, if their ability to show compassion and empathy was anything to go by; not to mention their pompous, judgmental asses.
“At least going there meant I got to spend more time with you,” I grin, peeling a mint out of the silvery wrapper.
“And for that I’ll always be grateful, Lacey-Lou.”
His eyes are misting up, and he examines the roses he’d been pruning particularly carefully.
“I’m going to see Uncle Lenny later, if you want to come?” I offer. “I’d be glad of the company.”
It’s still strange going back to Auntie Marilyn’s house and seeing all her nick-nacks on display when she’s no longer there. She collected all sorts of oddities; paperweights and ornaments and clocks that hadn’t worked in years. Jumble, most people would call it. Or tat. Anything she thought was beautiful would be displayed for all to see, even if it had been unloved by its previous owner. Much like Uncle Lenny actually, who’d been divorced twice by the time Auntie Marilyn took him in.
“I’ve got a bottle of that whisky you like too?” I add, hoping the bribe might swing it.
“Go on then,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You know the way to win me over.”
“Too right I do.”
I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. He brushes it off with the back of his gardening glove, never one for public displays of affection, but he doesn’t need my hugs and kisses to know how much I love and appreciate him. I tell him all the time, even though the bond between us is so strong we don’t need words. Somehow we intuitively ‘get’ each other.
“Meet you there at eight?” I say. “We can watch that quiz show he likes then.”
Uncle Carrick groans. “I can’t bear that programme. The questions are too easy. I think that’s the only reason he likes it, makes him feel clever when he gets the answers right.”
“Think of the whisky!” I shout over my shoulder with a laugh.
“I might need a whole bottle to myself to put up with Lenny!” he calls jovially.
I smile as I head towards home, the thought of a fun evening with two of my favourite people bringing a spring back into my step. It’s almost enough to make me break into a run.
Almost.
Fern (#ulink_624fe8e1-2609-5f71-aef4-a3c45f511227)
“Yes, Jasper, yes! That’s much better!”
The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. That’s why the rich tone of the Italian’s voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.
Maggie’s had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. It’s obvious she’s got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention she’d given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but hadn’t questioned Maggie’s reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. He’s waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggie’s preparing.
After the eventful night at the hospital I’m glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to say what I need to say to her.
The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if I’d seen him before I’d have definitely remembered him. He’s got this sort of edgy look that’s slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m hardly Lady Gaga myself – but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hair’s a fraction too white to be natural, as though it’s aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced through his bottom lip. It keeps quivering as though he’s moving his tongue against it in the hollow of his mouth, which is kind of distracting.
He’s so far removed from the kind of boy I usually go for that I can’t decide whether he’s good looking or not. I never fancy anyone, except the same person I’ve had a painful crush on since the first day at secondary school. I’d fallen so hard and so deep that I’d never wavered. My heart had one not-so-careful owner who couldn’t care less that he held it captive.
I cast my eyes around the café for the edgy boy’s skateboard, assuming he’s one of the hip kids that hangs out at the purpose-built skate park on the other side of the boating lake. The stuff they do is frightening: dangerous flips and tricks that look like they belong in a music video. Just watching them makes my stomach turn with fear. I can’t see a board though, not even tucked under the table.
“Can you serve this to the gentleman in the window, please?” Maggie asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I carefully carry the gleaming silver coffee pot over to the man.
Ah, there’s a flash of navy blue polo shirt peeping out beneath the red and black flannel of his shirt, a giveaway that he works in the park. All the sports coaches, maintenance staff and gardeners wear the same style. They’re standard-issue, regulation and dull.
Memories of the uniform I wore at secondary school flood back to me. I’d hated it. The other girls had dressed in miniskirts that barely covered their tiny, shapely bottoms, with socks pulled up to their knees in a bid to look sexy. I hadn’t. I’d worn a knee-length skirt with an elasticated waist, the only grey skirt on the High Street that fit my large frame. It was hideous and unflattering and saddled me with the cruel nickname ‘Fernephant’ for all five miserable years I was there.
Thankfully Maggie’s stance on workwear is fairly laid back. As far as she’s concerned staff at the café can wear whatever we like, so long as it’s white on top, black on the bottom, and clean and pressed. I’m still fat, but black trousers are easy enough to come by. School uniforms are difficult to buy for those of us who carry extra weight, unless you accidentally click on those dodgy fetish websites that pop up when your laptop protection expires. At least black trousers are a wardrobe staple.
I place the coffee pot down on the table in front of the guy, cringing at the dull clunk it makes as it lands on the shiny surface of the tablecloth. It goes right through me, setting my teeth on edge.
“Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone. He’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading, silently mouthing words I’m unable to decipher. Lip-reading’s not a skill I’ve mastered.
I stand awkwardly for a moment, shifting on the spot as I wait for eye contact that doesn’t come. Most customers offer at least a cursory smile, but not this one. He doesn’t even look up.
Eventually I give up waiting, but still smile politely even though I know he won’t see. I wish I could be a bit less well-mannered, replying with a clipped “Enjoy,” or something, because it’s downright rude not to acknowledge the wait staff, but it’s too ingrained. I’ve been brought up to be civil regardless of how I’m treated, which is probably why I was such an easy target for the bullies at school. They knew they could say whatever they damn well pleased because I’d never have the guts to fight back.
As I walk back to the counter I wonder about his role. Most of the staff at the park have been here for years, the same familiar faces as much a part of the landscape as the imposing bandstand and the large boating lake. I remember Carrick Braithwaite, the friendly gentleman who tends the walled garden near the main entrance, from when I was young. He’d share interesting snippets of information about the roses he carefully pruned, such as how there were over a hundred species of roses and that it was England’s national flower. Maggie said he’d done the same for her when she was young too, and some mornings on my way to the café I see him passing on his wealth of knowledge to the next generation of curious children. The familiarity in the scene cheers me and although over the years Mr Braithwaite’s hair has changed from mousey brown to silvery grey to the brilliant white it now is, he’s still as friendly and upbeat as ever. He’s part of the park. I selfishly hope he’ll never stop clipping those plants with those secateurs of his, even though he must be closing in on retirement age.
I sneak one last look over at the edgy boy. It’s likely I’ll see him again if he’s working here all summer. Most of the park staff are much older than I am, but he looks a similar age, twentyish. Even if we never become best buddies, it might be nice to have someone else around who knows about chart music and the latest films. If he ever bothers to speak at all, that is, I think sulkily. Maggie tries her best to keep up with the trends but it’s not the same, and although Kelly helps out with the odd shift she’s not around enough. She’s always got her head down, revising for her exams.
I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me. What’s going to happen to Luke now? He won’t be able to sit his exams if he’s recovering from brain surgery, and without A-levels he’ll not be able to take up his place at Nottingham. The letter had been very clear – ‘conditional offer’. Will they let him defer until next year instead, if he’s well enough? Or is that it, his one chance blown because of some freak of nature that he can’t control? It doesn’t seem fair, but having never had any desire to go to university I have no idea how it works. Maybe that’s something I can ask Kelly when she arrives.
Moving towards the window, I tap Maggie on the shoulder with the tip of my index finger. She throws me a look, a warning, as she turns, spotting the knowing smile that’s playing out on my lips. I can’t help it. It’s so cute how enamoured with the handsome coach she is. I can tell by the rosy pink glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, so she can deny it as much as she likes – I still won’t believe her.
“Tell me the truth this time,” I say with a grin, “is it the kids you’re watching or the coach?”
Maggie’s cheeks flush further, until they resemble two red apples on the sides of her face. That’s my answer right there. She’s smitten.
“No, no, I was just looking…” Maggie stumbles over her words, knowing she’s been rumbled.
Peering out of the window, I follow her gaze to where the coach is patiently demonstrating to the kids how to pass the ball with the inside of the foot. His lean body moves nimbly, and his young students flock around him in admiration. He’s a footballing Pied Piper. With a sweep of his hand he nonchalantly flicks his long, dark hair out of his eyes. It’s like a scene from a shampoo ad, and although Maggie’s trying to play it cool I hear her inhale sharply at the motion.
“I suppose he’s quite good looking for an older man,” I think out loud.
“He’s probably only in his thirties, it’s hardly like he’s taking out his pension!” Maggie scoffs, fanning her face with her hand. She’s still a bit pink. “Older man indeed,” she adds, rolling her eyes.
“But he is older.”
“Older than you, maybe. I’d hazard a guess I’ve got a good few years on him.”
“He’s in good shape too,” I muse, hoping to coax her feelings out of her. “And those European men take good care of themselves. There was something about it on that breakfast show; apparently, men on the continent are more likely to cleanse, tone and moisturise than men here in Britain. Looking after your skin is vital if you want to keep a youthful glow.”
My hand automatically reaches for my face. Fortunately, my skin is one of my best features. Even during the height of puberty I rarely suffered spots and blemishes. It’s more the result of good genes and good luck than beauty products, though; Luke’s been blessed with good skin too. It’s probably just as well. I’ve neither the time nor the money to splash out on unnecessary, overpriced creams. Soap and water are good enough for me.
Maggie’s eyes twinkle mischievously, the first hint of a crease wrinkling at their outer corners. “Are you trying to tell me I’m looking old?”
The thought I may have caused offence horrifies me. I don’t want to insult anyone, and certainly not Maggie who’s both a boss and a friend.
“No, no, not at all! You’re always really well presented, but then you’re one of those young, funky mums, not like mine. You’re far more open-minded than either of my parents. And you don’t look forty; if I didn’t know you had a son my age, I’d think you were much younger.”
Now it’s my turn to flush red; I can feel the heat spreading up my neck and I silently curse as the familiar flaming sensation takes over. It’s bloody annoying how I can’t stop it happening. But thoughts of Joshua Thornhill have a nasty habit of turning me into a gibbering wreck, and add to that the fear of causing offence, my cheeks don’t stand a chance.
“I’m teasing, Fern,” Maggie replies, reassuringly placing her hand on my shoulder. “And although I’m delighted that you think I’m young and funky, my main concern is this place.” She gestures around the café, to where the young man in the window is still engrossed in whatever he’s reading and a group of middle-aged women are huddled around the long table near the door, sipping cups of tea whilst putting the world to rights. Her eyes rest on the large clock on the back wall. It’s already twenty past eleven. “Speaking of which, the football mums will be coming in any minute now. Would you be a doll and fill up the water jugs? Those little ones look so tired after all that running about and it’s so warm out there. I bet they’ll come in desperate for a glass of water.”
I hurry off, keen to please, but not before catching Maggie sneaking another discreet look at the coach.
She can deny it all she wants – my boss has a crush on him, I’m certain of it. I only hope it’ll be more fruitful than the one I’ve been harbouring for years.
Maggie (#ulink_76ba3cbe-dd11-59f2-bc58-3a003b13890d)
I’m fussing, fidgeting with the collar of my frilly white blouse, but that doesn’t stop me grasping the opportunity to steal one last glance out towards the football session before heading back into the kitchen to rescue a batch of fruit scones from the oven. The coach is smiling broadly as he holds open a large net bag and the boys and girls are gathering up the balls, helpfully putting them away as their training session draws to a close. His head lifts, his angular jaw and high cheekbones visible even from this distance, and I swear he’s looking straight at me. Then he nods, a half nod of acknowledgement that causes me to quickly turn away in embarrassment. I busy my hands by sorting the condiments that sit in a small silver bucket on the table, checking the use-by dates closely although there’s no need. I only bought them last week. If they’re out of date already, the wholesalers will be getting an earful.
How can I let someone I hardly know affect me like this? My stomach’s knotted, my heart pounding wildly. All that over a man I’ve spoken to a handful of times, and then only to say ‘that’s £2.49, please’? What an absolute fool I am. It’s ridiculously childish.
I make my way back to the kitchen, my haven, basking in the pleasurable aroma of the scones.
The kitchen is a safe place to hide, and being out here will give me a chance to regain my composure. I don’t want to be caught eyeing up the toy boy football coach even if Fern does think I’m young and funky.
I know the truth. I’m far too long in the tooth to do something as ridiculous as fall in love.
The lunchtime sun streams in through the window, flooding the café with waves of light. The whole room looks cheerful and welcoming with the natural illumination. The off-white walls radiate warmth, the slivers of thin red curtain that frame the windows casting a soft rosy hue.
