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‘Where?’ I ask curiously, although I’m pretty sure his fourth favourite friend from school isn’t the right person to be taking this kind of advice from.
‘The north,’ he replies.
I can’t help but laugh.
‘The north is pretty big, kiddo. And maybe it was boring because he was visiting his grandparents’ house – grandparents are boring.’
‘Viv isn’t boring,’ Frankie insists.
‘No, she certainly isn’t,’ I reply.
My mum, Vivien, isn’t at all grandma-ish – she won’t even let Frankie call her Gran, she says she looks too young, and, in her defence, she does. She’s always been conscious of showing her age, insisting I call her Viv instead of Mum. She puts her all into being a cool grandparent and, to be fair, she’s great at it. She was a cool mum too, much to my embarrassment. It’s going to be weird, not being just a short train ride away from her.
After driving through nothing but green fields and dry stone walls for a while, Marram Bay is suddenly visible in the distance.
There are two ways we can go; one of them seems the right way, but the satnav insists we go the other, so I stick to what the map tells me and head for the town centre.
‘We’re here, kiddo,’ I announce.
‘It looks boring,’ Frankie says with a sigh.
At the start of the trip he seemed excited. In fact, I think we spent the first hour of the journey singing along to the radio.
To try and distract my son, I flick the radio back on.
‘…and I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear that Rufus the Labrador is safely back at home now. And that completes today’s breaking news,’ a voice on the radio says. I make eye contact with Frankie in my rear-view mirror. He looks just as confused as I do.
‘We’ll be finishing the show earlier today, to join in with the festivities on the front. Tune in tomorrow to hear all about it. Ta-ra.’
‘So I’m guessing that’s the local radio station,’ I laugh. ‘Wanna go check out the festivities?’
Frankie sighs.
‘OK.’
Marram Bay is such a beautiful town. It’s small – even smaller than I expected. The town is cute, like something fresh out of a romantic movie – with ivy creeping up the walls and around the sweet little windows of the houses sitting at the top of perfectly tended gardens. Few houses look the same here, which I like. Everywhere has so much individuality and character.
It takes us no time to go from green, open space, to farmhouses, to cottages, and finally to the seafront with its cute, quirky little shops.
‘Erm…’ I can’t help but say, catching sight of the bizarre festivities on the seafront.
‘Where are we?’ Frankie asks.
‘When are we?’ I laugh to myself.
Upon closer inspection the town doesn’t just look old-fashioned – it looks like the setting for a Second World War book. The windows are covered with white tape, everyone is dressed in out-of-date clothing and the place is overrun with soldiers and army vehicles.
As we crawl along the road running alongside the seafront, we catch the attention of a woman in her late thirties. She’s wearing a blue and white polka dot tea dress teamed with navy gloves, complemented by her brown hair that is neatly pinned into victory rolls. I stop the car at the side of the road, just as our eyes meet.
‘Are we in the past?’ Frankie asks.
Of course, I know that we’re not – that we couldn’t possibly be, unless we’ve wandered into some sort of Goodnight Sweetheart portal – but I don’t really have an answer for him.
I smile at the pinup girl at the side of the road, only for her to cock her head in puzzlement. Why is she confused? I’m the one suddenly in the past. She calls over her friends – a land girl and an apparent member of the WRAF – who join her in staring over at us, chatting amongst themselves.
‘Maybe we should go,’ I say, but as I go to drive away, I – of course – stall my car again. Come to think of it, the lime-green, company-branded Beetle is probably the reason everyone is staring at us.
After another judder, it occurs to me that my loud (both in volume and colour), German car is probably ruining the war-era aesthetic of the festivities.
‘Ship, ship, ship,’ I say repeatedly, until I finally get the car moving and drive off.
‘Swears!’ Frankie chastises me.
‘I said “ship”,’ I point out. ‘Remind me who is the kid and who is the mum?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replies.
Frankie is smart for an 8-year-old, however, as a by-product of this intellect, he thinks he is much smarter than he is. I know that I should probably be the one keeping Frankie in check but he’s no bother at all…which is probably why he ends up keeping me in check instead.
‘Let’s go see the house,’ I say cheerily. ‘We’ll meet the locals some other time.’
Like, I don’t know, maybe this decade instead.
After spending the past few weeks – and a chunk of our journey here – trying to convince my son that we would be moving somewhere wonderful, I’ve driven him straight into some kind of weird place that seems to be literally stuck in the past. But in two minutes we’ll be at the beautifully titled Apple Blossom Cottage.
I glance quickly between my satnav and the road until we approach our destination. I spot the cottage of my dreams, hiding away behind a wall of leafy trees. Through the green leaves, the stone bungalow almost looks like part of the landscape. I’m so used to living in London, surrounded by either ugly old office blocks or new, ultra-modern, sky-grazing skyscrapers. Outside the garden walls, Apple Blossom Cottage is enclosed by nothing but fields – this change of scenery is exactly what I need.
It’s a small, but gorgeous little cottage, just perfect for the two of us. The stone walls are covered with all different kinds of climbing plants, from ivy to roses, giving it a uniquely colourful beauty that I haven’t seen before. The white-framed windows are small, peeping out from behind the plants. The frames look like perhaps they need replacing – not that I’m an expert, they just look a little tired. Then again, I imagine that’s what you’d think if you looked at me at the moment, courtesy of the bout of stress I’m suffering. I’m hoping that as soon as we get our things moved in, I can finally let go of my stress and relax into country life.
The place reminds me so much of a smaller version of Kate Winslet’s cottage from The Holiday (only with a far superior garden), and while I’d always thought of myself as more of a Cameron Diaz type, I feel like this is the place for me.
I step out of the car and take a photo on my phone. I want to remember my first glimpse of our new home for the rest of my life. I don’t just feel like I’ve arrived – I’ve arrived. I’m here, outside this perfect house, in a gorgeous small coastal town, about to start my dream job with my healthy, intelligent son by my side. Maybe it is possible to have it all…at least, that’s what How to Have It All, another of my hastily bought self-help books, has been trying to tell me. Packing up and starting your life again is a big deal, so I wanted to do some reading, make sure I was prepared for anything and everything. This job is so important to me, but Frankie is even more important. I just want to be a good mum – preferably one of those ones you see on Instagram with an adorable baby in one arm, and a wooden spoon in the other, standing in their immaculate kitchen (bigger than all the rooms in my London flat added together), posing in a way that makes them look like a Victoria’s Secret model.
My proportions are more Victoria sponge cake, than Victoria’s Secret model. Sure, we’re a society who celebrates the ‘dad bod’ (Leonardo DiCaprio is like a fine wine, only growing more devastatingly gorgeous by the moment) but they won’t be putting my ‘mum bod’ on any catwalks in barely there underwear anytime soon. But each stretchmark and varicose vein maps the journey I went on to come back with my son, and I’d take that over a Victoria’s Secret model body any day – even if it would significantly increase my chances with the aforementioned Mr DiCaprio.
I chase my son, who is currently part-boy, part-aeroplane, in the back garden.
‘Wow.’ My jaw drops.
It is suddenly apparent where Apple Blossom Cottage gets its name from: the army of apple trees surrounding the garden, and the apple blossom plants scattered amongst the greenery and brightly coloured flowers, that I’m not even going to pretend I can identify. I don’t know much about apple trees, but I’m guessing early September is when these beauties are at their best, because there are apples everywhere.
Frankie runs over to me with an apple in each hand.
‘Can we eat them?’ he asks.
‘We have to wash them first, but yes,’ I reply, delighted that my chicken nugget-craving son is suddenly thrilled at the thought of an endless supply of apples. ‘We could even bake an apple pie, would you like that?’
Frankie nods.
‘Better than the ones at McDonald’s,’ I tell him, instantly regretting mentioning the ‘M’ word, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Baking is not something that I’m good at, but I’m sure it still counts if we buy readymade pastry and simply assemble the pie, right?
I stroll over to the large pond at the end of the garden and lean over, looking at my reflection in the water. Maybe I can earn strong, single-woman, pie-baking, yummy-mummy status here – wouldn’t that be nice?
‘Can I unlock the door?’ Frankie asks excitedly.
‘Carefully,’ I tell him, handing him the keys from my bag. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Inside my bag, in the hidden pocket usually reserved for ‘women’s things’ and the rape alarm I always felt an uneasy need to keep on me at all times in central London, the corner of a postcard pokes out. I quickly push it back inside and zip it up. I’ll worry about that later.
Frankie flies off towards the front door excitedly as I try to keep up with him in my heels. I’m just walking around the corner when I hear his voice.
‘Er…Mum,’ he shouts, and I don’t like the sound of it at all.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_876cc89d-8583-5cc6-8efa-79d1ac8e06b7)
When my bosses showed me photos of Apple Blossom Cottage, I was so in awe of its beautiful exterior and ready for my fresh start that it didn’t even occur to me to ask for photos of the inside. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine my bosses saw photos of the interior either, because I feel like I’ve just walked into a nightmare, and there’s no way my bosses would knowingly send me to this.
‘Where’s all the stuff?’ Frankie asks.
‘I was just wondering that,’ I reply, strolling around, taking in my surroundings.
An overly minimalist kitchen (what you’d call it if you were being kind) sits at the back of an open-plan living/dining area.
The kitchen boasts a worktop, a small fridge freezer and what I’d guess is a gas cooker and oven. There’s a dining table with exactly three chairs, all of which have seen better days, and a living area that consists of a truly Eighties-style plush, grey three-seater sofa with a wood-and-brass trim, sitting across from a retro looking wooden TV cabinet (TV not included).
To the left are three doors, which I’m guessing are the two bedrooms and the bathroom – please, God, let one of the rooms be a bathroom. I don’t think I noticed an outhouse in the garden, but I don’t think I’d be at all surprised to learn the place didn’t have any plumbing. Thankfully, there is one.
A quick scout of all rooms confirms they are as minimal as the rest of the place but, worst of all, everything is so dusty. If this were an Airbnb rental, they would surely be getting an overly generous one-star rating from me – probably from Frankie too, who is currently coming down from his garden high as he tries to wrap his head around the indoor TV aerial. He extends the silver rods one at a time before quickly and carefully putting it down, just in case it’s something scary.
I cast my mind back to what Eric, one of my bosses, told me about the cottage. He said it was an ex holiday home, and that it was furnished. I suppose it is furnished, technically, but I didn’t expect something so retro.
Wow, did I just get catfished by a house? Now that I think about it, despite the cute, rural look of the outside of the cottage, perhaps the ivy might be the only thing holding the place together. This is a new low for me. I can’t wait to write this in my new diary.
‘This place sucks,’ Frankie says frankly.
Any other day, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but my fresh-start enthusiasm is still surging through my veins. ‘It’s all easily fixable, kiddo. We’ll fill it with our own things, we’ll clean the place up, we’ll buy the things we don’t have. It’s going to be great. This way, we get to put even more of our own spin on the place and really make it our own.’
Our moving van won’t be here until tomorrow, so for now we only have the essentials with us. But once we have all our own things, I’m sure we can make this place feel just like home.
Frankie pulls a face. I don’t think he’s buying it. I believe what I’m saying though. I’ll bring our stuff in, we can go out for some food, I’ll buy some cleaning products and everything will be great. I just need to keep telling myself that. Everything will be great.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_28d515a7-a331-5744-8697-c6d9a4756542)
I knew that Marram Bay was small, but it’s only now that I’m here, in it, that I can feel just how small it is.
I felt that, given my little scene earlier, it was best we stay away from, well, whatever it was that was going down on the seafront. But, it turns out the main street is on the seafront, so we’re not having much luck finding somewhere to get dinner further inland. As you travel into Marram Bay, first you pass the farms, then you enter the residential area. If you keep going you’ll wind up in the touristy bit, where the seafront is, but trying to find somewhere to eat that isn’t in the heart of the town is proving difficult.
It seemed like Clara’s, a little café sitting between a row of cottages and a small park in the residential area, might be our saviour, but despite their opening hours including Sunday afternoons, the door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside.
‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Frankie says, tugging on the bottom of my jacket as I peer through the glass door, my face pressed as close to the glass as I can get it.
‘Can I help you?’ a man’s voice asks from behind us.
I turn around quickly to see a couple, maybe in their sixties, standing at the gate, at the bottom of the café’s little front garden. We’re on the main road into town but I didn’t hear them coming, which means they must have walked here – something that becomes more apparent when I realise the man is struggling to catch his breath. The man is wearing some kind of soldier outfit, just like I saw many people at the seafront wearing, and the woman is wearing a red dress teamed with red pumps, a white cardigan and a fox fur scarf that I so hope isn’t real. As they walk up the path I get a better look at the fox, which still has its face, its tail – even its claws. It’s not just an eerie sight, seeing its little face upsets me and makes me uncomfortable. The smiling faces of the couple make me feel more at ease.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally finding the words. ‘We just moved here and we were looking for somewhere to eat.’
‘We’re closed today,’ the man informs us. ‘Been down at the Forties Weekend.’
‘Oh, the Forties Weekend,’ I echo. ‘We wondered what was going on, didn’t we, kiddo?’
Frankie clings to my leg, silently.
‘Yeah, once a year we all get dressed up in our Forties best and we have a big celebration. We remember the war, raise money for charity – and, well, everyone goes so no point opening up today.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you.’
I usher Frankie along the path a little, only for the lady to gently place her hand on my forearm. I turn to face her, making eye contact with her fox for a moment, before shifting my glance to her eyes.
‘Don’t worry, my love, it’s not real. I got it from a fancy dress shop,’ she explains with a warm smile. ‘Come in, we can open up for Marram Bay’s newest family.’
‘Oh, no, please,’ I insist.
‘Mum,’ Frankie whispers. ‘I’m hungry.’
The lady smiles at me and there’s this warmth in her eyes…before I have a chance to think too much about it, I accept their generous offer.
Inside, Clara’s is exactly as you’d expect a country café to be. It’s cosy and kitsch, with no two pieces of crockery, cutlery, furniture of soft furnishings the same – even the windows have different curtains around them.
As the man ushers us towards one of the wooden tables, the woman fetches some menus and places them down in front of us.
‘I’m Clara,’ she says. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’
Henry gives us a nod as he takes a seat at the table next to us. He extends one leg out straight, which reminds me that I noticed he had a limp.
‘I’m Lily,’ I say. ‘And this is my son, Frankie. It’s so nice to meet you both.’
I glance over the menu.
‘So what can I get you?’ Clara asks as she removes her fox and fastens her apron.
‘What’s your poison, lad?’ Henry asks Frankie, lightly bumping his shoulder with a fist.
Frankie stares at me.
‘He’s asking what you want to drink,’ I assure him with a smile. ‘Juice?’
He nods. I reach across the table and brush his wild, curly brown hair away from his eyes. I am quite pale, with natural golden blonde hair – not that you can tell, because I have peroxide highlights – and green eyes, but Frankie takes after his dad. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slight natural tan. He’s so cute, with his little button nose and his cheeky little dimples. I still can’t believe I made him.
