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.
‘And to eat?’ Clara asks.
‘I only like McNuggets,’ Frankie informs them.
‘Is that right?’ Henry replies. ‘What if I told you that Clara makes chicken nuggets even better than McDonald’s, would you try them?’
‘Oh, no, please, we’ll just have sandwiches, don’t start cooking,’ I insist, but Clara is having none of it.
‘Nonsense,’ she replies with a bat of her hand. ‘Chicken nuggets for the boy, what about for Mum?’
‘Scrambled eggs on toast would be great, please,’ I reply, ordering from their all-day brunch menu.
‘Coming right up,’ she replies as she trots off to the kitchen in her kitten heels. ‘Talk amongst yourself, I’ll be able to chat from the kitchen.’
Clara disappears through a multi-coloured strip curtain before remerging behind a serving hatch.
‘Londoners?’ Henry asks.
‘Guilty,’ I reply with an awkward smile.
‘And you say you’ve just moved here?’ Clara quizzes.
‘Yes,’ I say. I feel like I’m being grilled, but I have nothing to hide. ‘We’re renting Apple Blossom Cottage.’
‘Oh, lovely place,’ she replies. ‘Just stunning.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, but my little white lie prickles my throat. I cough to clear it.
‘You not like it?’ Henry asks.
‘It’s so beautiful from the outside – Frankie has never seen anything like it…the inside is just a little sparse and it needs a good spring clean,’ I explain. ‘And there’s not really too much in it.’
‘It was the Nicholsons’ holiday home – they had it for years, but since it’s just been sat empty. I suspect they took all their mod cons with them.’
‘It seems that way,’ I reply.
Henry picks up a newspaper and begins to flick through the pages. The East Coast Chronicle looks like an interesting read. The front cover is an appeal for help to find Rufus the chocolate Labrador, who never came home after taking himself for his usual walk to the seafront. I’m guessing this is the dog we heard all about on the radio and it warms my heart to know that he’s back home safe. It also amuses me to see that this is front-page news here, rather than yet another story about gangs or tube strikes – further proof, if it were needed, that moving here was a great decision.
‘Well, I’m sure we can survive without a TV tonight.’ I look at Frankie, who swallows hard. I don’t think he’s convinced, but I’m sure he can go a night without playing Nintendo. ‘We definitely need to clean though, it’s far too dusty to sleep in. Is there a Co-op or a Tesco Express or something nearby?’
Henry scoffs.
‘We have a local shop but they’ll be closed,’ he replies.
‘Oh,’ I say, wondering if I can get the job done with hand sanitiser and toilet roll.
‘I can give you some cleaning products,’ Clara says as she places my food down in front of me. ‘Just a few more minutes for yours, my love.’
Frankie smiles politely. I’m proud of him for being a sweet kid with such great manners, but he’s got that unfiltered honesty that all kids have, and I’m worried about how he’s going to react to the not-McChicken nuggets that Clara is making him. The last time I tried to make him some – promising him they would be just as good – he told me they tasted like poison.
‘You’ve been so kind to us already,’ I insist, taken aback by the kindness these complete strangers are showing us. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘We’re neighbours now, think nothing of this,’ Clara says as she places Frankie’s dinner in front of him. ‘There you go, my love. My famous chicken nuggets.’
Frankie glances down at the plate of
