that would make him happy.’
‘He’s a big boy, Lily. He doesn’t need coddling.’
‘No, he needs feeding,’ I tell her. ‘You really thought it would be better for him not to have anything?’
‘Of course not,’ she replies. ‘I got him a bowl of vegetable soup.’
‘Eight-year-olds don’t eat soup,’ I point out.
‘No, they eat the equivalent of three slices of bread, a few grams of saturated fats and a bar of chocolate, shaped like a frog.’
‘What’s wrong with Freddo?’ I ask, defensively. Freddo is iconic – he was a part of my childhood too. I won’t have a word said against him.
‘They give junk food pretty packages and cute characters to appeal to children and it’s not right,’ she rants. ‘Do you really think this chocolate would appeal to him as much, were it not in the shape of a frog?’
I don’t point out to her that, last Christmas, someone bought him a poop emoji shaped chocolate, which we both gleefully ate as we watched Home Alone and Home Alone 2 back to back in our pyjamas.
‘It was his first day,’ I point out. ‘He also mentioned that none of the other kids would play with him, he said they knew who he was…’
‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Snowball removes her glasses from her nose, allowing them to hang on their chain, around her neck. ‘It would seem that the locals are familiar with your agenda in our town, and no one is happy. Children’s brains are like sponges, if they hear their parents talking about the new family that’s moved in to threaten jobs, well, they’re going to pick up on that.’
‘Mrs Snowball, that is not what is going to happen,’ I insist. ‘He said the kids are saying I’m evil. Don’t you think that’s extreme?’
‘Simon Dawson’s dad is our local butcher,’ she points out. ‘Ella Carr’s dad is the baker.’
‘Whose dad makes the candlesticks?’ I quip. Gosh, I really need to quit cracking these jokes.
‘Bart and Bernadette’s parents are responsible for all of our milk, cheese and yogurt.’
Wow, they sound like cool parents. Not.
‘I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but I haven’t come here to take over from these people. I run a deli. We don’t sell four pints of milk, we sell speciality products, make sandwiches with them…’
‘There’s a lovely old lady called Clara who runs a café – how do you think she’ll feel about you selling sandwiches?’
The thought of upsetting Clara, after she was so lovely to me, breaks my heart a little.
‘We’re living in a tourist town,’ I point out. ‘There’s more than enough room for all of us.’
‘Well.’ Mrs Snowball claps her hand as she stands up. ‘I’m just the messenger. And I’ll try and help Frankie to make some friends today.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And, if you could let him eat his lunch…’
‘Is there a bagel in there?’
No, just a couple of lines of coke and a Stanley knife for playtime.
‘No bagel today,’ I reply. ‘Just two slices of bread.’
‘Well, OK then. Work today, is it?’ she asks, ushering me towards the door.
‘Yes,’ I reply, glancing at my watch. ‘Actually, I’d better get a move on, or I’m going to be late.’
‘Oh yes,’ she laughs. ‘Punctuality doesn’t seem to be your strong suit, does it?’
Nope. Making awkward jokes and killing my child with carbs is my thing.
I smile and say goodbye, before I’m tempted to play Godzilla with her little village.
I walk out of the school gates, passing a few mums on my way. I pass a gaggle of four of them, only to feel their eyes burning holes into my back. I turn around and smile, only to see them hurry inside the building. I’m guessing they’ve heard of me.
Oh, I so hope Frankie makes some friends today. It seems so unfair, that just because of my job, no one is being nice to him.
Life in Marram Bay is proving to be much harder than I thought it would be. Still, we’re better off here than we were in London. Safer too, given recent events.
I pull the sleeve of my black jumper dress down over my hand before placing it over my nose. I’ve never been great with strong smells, least of all the smell currently coming from the deli bathroom. Sadly, it’s not a very thick dress – it is still summer after all – so it’s not doing much to disguise the pong.
‘It’s the drains,’ Mike insists. ‘Someone flushed the lav today, not knowing about the drain problems we’ve been having.’
‘So when is it getting fixed?’ I ask from behind my hand.
‘Well, that’s the problem, darling. No one wants to fix it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
Mike, clearly unfazed by the smell, grabs a doughnut from a box on the side and chomps down on it as we chat.
Mike, who is in his forties, has got that rough and ready workman look and charm, only made even friendlier by his jolly apples-and-pears accent. His dimpled cheeks give him this cheeky glimmer than makes you instantly warm to him, even when he’s giving you news you don’t want to hear.
‘We’re having a bit of bother with local tradesmen,’ he explains. ‘None of them want to help us out.’
‘I mean…they know they’ll get paid, right?’
‘’Course,’ Mike replies. ‘Even tried offering them extra.’
‘So they’re turning work down because they protest the deli?’
He nods.
Well, isn’t that just a special kind of stupid? These people are so worried that the deli will harm local businesses, they’re actively turning down business – which is harming local businesses. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.
‘The gaffer thought it might help sweeten up the locals, to hire some of them for work, but they ain’t having it,’ Mike says, reaching for a second doughnut. I suppose doing a job like his burns a lot of calories – maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. Still, I’m not about to go and dabble in the drains.
‘OK, well, I guess you’ll have to hire the tradesmen you need from outside the town,’ I say plainly.
‘Do you think they’ll like that?’ he chuckles.
‘Probably
