for him to say thank you.
‘Thank you,’ he chimes politely.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, ruffling his hair. ‘I’ll go get you some drinks.’
With Clara in the kitchen and Henry distracted by his paper, I lean over to my son and whisper into his ear: ‘If you try it – or at least pretend you’re eating it – I’ll buy you a TV for your room.’
I think every good mum has bribed her child at some point. I know that I probably shouldn’t, but Clara and Henry have been so good to us, I don’t want to offend them.
Frankie nods, sighs and picks up his cutlery.
I finally tuck into my own food which is not only much needed after a long day, but absolutely delicious.
Clara places two glasses of apple juice down in front of us.
‘They’re from local trees,’ she tells us. ‘But let me know if you want anything else, or a nice cup of tea.’
‘Again – thank you so much,’ I say, starting to sound like a broken record, but I really can’t thank them enough.
I watch Frankie theatrically pretend to eat his food – it’s kind of cute – until he accidentally drops his knife, which makes a loud noise on the floor.
‘Not to worry,’ Henry says, pulling himself to his feet. He grabs a clean knife from another table, hobbles over to Frankie and begins to cut his food (which up until now had only been pushed around his plate) for him.
‘Try this,’ he says, stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork, offering it to Frankie.
Frankie looks over at me. I purse my lips and plead at him with my eyes once more.
I watch as my son takes the chicken, chews it and swallows with a much more convincing enthusiasm than before.
‘Try it with the peas, it tastes much better,’ Henry insists, stabbing another piece, this time making sure to get some peas with it.
Frankie looks back over at me, but he knows what he needs to do. With Nintendo on his mind, he takes the food down in one bite.
‘Good lad,’ Henry says, handing Frankie the cutlery back. As he does so, I notice Frankie staring at Henry’s hand. Upon closer inspection, I realise that he’s quite badly scarred from something.
Henry notices Frankie staring.
‘I got blown up,’ he tells him, before turning to me. ‘Falklands.’
As Henry hobbles past me he places a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear: ‘I have kids who didn’t used to eat their greens either.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Just heading to the little boys’ room.’
Clara, still wearing her Forties outfit under her apron, places a bag of cleaning supplies down next to me before taking a seat at the table next to us. She cradles her cup of tea in her hand as she chats.
‘Just the two of you moved here?’ she asks. She sounds friendly enough, but you’d be amazed at the variety of easy-to-read physical reactions you get from people when they find out you’re a 31-year-old single mum.
First there’s the unabashed judgemental response. You can practically see the mental mathematics going on behind their eyes, as they try and work out if a 31-year-old has an 8-year-old, how old was she when she irresponsibly got knocked up? For some it’s done with the ease of Will Hunting whereas you can see others itching to use their fingers. Twenty-two – that’s not so bad, is it? I see them wonder. These people will almost always decide that, yes, it probably is bad. Some people just think that kids should be born into loving, conventional family units and there’s nothing you can say that will change their minds.
Next up are the people who feel sorry for me, who think about how awful it must have been for me to find myself pregnant and alone, just 22 years old with my entire life ahead of me. You see their pity in turn of their mouth and the weight of their eyelids, and while it comes from a good place, it never makes me feel good.
Worst of all though, of the varying reactions to my ‘situation’ I’ve endured over the years, it’s the ones I receive from single men that bother me the most, because they don’t judge me, nor do they feel sorry for me. Instead they look at things from an entirely selfish point of view, quickly writing me off as ‘damaged goods’ because while I’m sure there are men out there who have taken, or would take on another man’s child, none of them have been any of the (four) men I have been on dates with since Frankie was born.
‘Yep, just us,’ I reply. ‘Always has been.’
I look over at my son fondly, only to see him wolfing down his food.
‘Frankie,’ I squeak. ‘Are you enjoying that?’
‘Yes,’ he says almost reluctantly, looking at his plate as he responds. He’s always maintained that he would never find a chicken nugget to rival his beloved McDonald’s, but he has insisted even harder that he would never enjoy a vegetable of any description – obviously, excluding chips and the occasional roast potato. I’ve tried covering his broccoli in cheese, hiding carrots in his pasta sauce, and even roasting parsnips and trying to convince him they were chips, but my tricks have always failed me. And yet here he is, consciously and contently eating peas.
‘He doesn’t usually like vegetables,’ I tell Clara, unable to hide my happiness.
‘I cook them with bacon and a bit of honey,’ she explains. ‘I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love my peas.’
‘Well you’ve definitely got yourself some new, regular customers,’ I laugh.
‘You’re not customers today,’ she says. ‘Consider this our “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift to you.’
‘Clara, you’ve done so much for us!’
‘You’re our neighbour now,’ she points out. ‘Think nothing of it.’
I pick up my apple juice and take a sip – it’s delicious. I can’t wait to get to see what I can do with the ones in my garden…not that I’m an especially good cook. I’m just excited to try. Things maybe have got off to a bumpy start but I really do feel like we’re going to be happy here.
‘So, what brings you here then?’ Clara asks. ‘Just a fresh start?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, although that’s not strictly true.
Nervously, I take a long drink from my glass and, thankfully, by the time I come out of hiding from behind my apple juice, Clara has shifted her attention to Frankie, asking him questions about his hobbies.
Now isn’t the time to tell a woman I’ve just met about what I’m hiding from.
I run a hand over the perfectly clean kitchen worktop, marvelling at my own handiwork.
