no, eat your cereal, not your lunch,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Did you brush your teeth?’
‘Oops,’ Frankie says. I can’t really blame him today, we were running so late. Running my tongue across my own teeth reminds me that brushing my teeth was something I forgot to do too.
I stop the car and glance around, looking for something that isn’t a field.
‘Oh, there we go,’ I say, pointing ahead.
Acorn School is an old Victorian stone building with a slate roof and sash windows. It even has a little tower – I’ll bet this was some house back in the day. But while it has the grandeur and proportions of an amazing Victorian era house, as far as schools go it’s positively tiny. Acorn School is the only school for kids Frankie’s age for miles, but it didn’t bother me too much when I enrolled him because the school has a glowing track record and rave reviews. I suppose, because it’s so small, there are much fewer students and therefore each kid can get much more attention and support.
I hurry Frankie out of the car, through the heavy metal gate and up the stone steps into the playground.
‘This way,’ I instruct, pointing towards the main door.
We must be extremely late, because there’s no sign of any kids – or even any parents on their way out.
There is no way I could have known the large wooden door led straight into their (little) main hall, and that assembly would be well underway. No more than forty kids are sitting on the floor, singing along to ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, which is being played on a piano at the front of the room by a person who is far too short for me to see over the top of the instrument. Leading the assembly is a woman, maybe in her fifties, conducting the children with her hands. She’s quite tall, and on the broad side, which makes her appear intimidatingly large next to the little kids, although I imagine if I were to stand alongside her in my four-inch heels, she probably wouldn’t seem like such a giant. She’s kind of old-fashioned, and a little on the drab side, wearing navy blue trousers, a white shirt and a navy Aran cardigan. She has a pair of glasses hanging around her neck on a chain – something I didn’t realise people did in real life, I assumed this was a look reserved for librarians in movies. She has an especially short auburn bob, just skimming her ears, which only adds to her stern, harsh appearance.
As she glances over at us, it confirms one thing, that no matter how old I get, I will always recognise one look: the look from a teacher that lets you know you’re in trouble.
As we wait for the song to end, I place an arm around Frankie protectively – or maybe I’m just hoping she’ll go easier on me if I use my child as a shield. What is it about teachers and the slightly terrifying air of authority they give off? I can feel it from across the room.
‘Well, children, first of all Ms Berry is going to talk to you about all the wonderful things we have in store for you this term. I need to go and welcome our new – slightly late – pupil,’ the teacher says, gesturing towards us.
Everyone turns around to look at us so I give an awkward wave.
‘Miss Holmes, I presume,’ she says as she approaches us.
‘Hello, yes, I’m so sorry we’re late,’ I babble as she ushers us into a classroom. ‘We only arrived yesterday and we had a late night sorting the cottage out, didn’t we?’
I hear a weird crunching sound, which I quickly realise is coming from my son, who is finally eating his Frosties. I die inside.
‘Hello, Frankie,’ the teacher says, crouching down next in front of him. ‘My name is Mrs Snowball, I’m the headteacher here at Acorn School. I’m also going to be your teacher.’
Mrs Snowball? Really? I couldn’t think of a more cutesy name for a teacher if I tried.
Frankie nods in acknowledgement as he crunches his dry cereal.
‘Is that your breakfast?’ she asks him, returning to my level without waiting for an answer. ‘Is that his breakfast?’
‘Yes, we were in such a hurry this morning,’ I explain. ‘He did have the milk before we left.’
Mrs Snowball scrunches up her face.
‘I’ll get you some nice fruit once Mum has gone,’ she tells Frankie.
Good luck with that, darling.
‘I can’t apologise enough for being late,’ I say again, not that I think it’s doing me much good.
‘Well, I was hoping to show you both around, but I’m not sure there’s time now,’ Mrs Snowball says. ‘How about I go get Frankie a real breakfast and show him the ropes. And then, when you come to collect him after school, I’ll show you around.’
‘OK, sure,’ I reply. ‘That OK, kiddo?’
‘Come on now, Mum, he’s not a baby. You’re fine, aren’t you, Frankie? What’s Frankie short for?’ she asks me.
‘Probably because he’s only 8,’ I quip, laughing at my own joke, but I’m getting nothing from my audience. Mrs Snowball clearly has a different sense of humour to me, I must remember that when I do what I always do and fill awkward encounters with terrible gags.
‘I meant his name,’ she says, not at all amused by me.
‘Sorry, just a joke. Frankie is his name.’
‘Exotic,’ she replies.
‘Well, be a good boy,’ I say, because I feel like that’s a parent-y thing to say. ‘And you know that if you need me, Mrs Snowball has my number.’
‘He’s not going to need you,’ she laughs, ushering Frankie away from me. ‘We’ll see you at three.’
Back in my car, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror. Why did you have to be late today, Lily? Why? Of all the days, it just had to be Frankie’s first day of school and my first day of work.
Speaking of which, I am now twenty minutes late to meet the site manager at the deli.
My first job, after I had Frankie, was working behind the counter in a YumYum deli. Back then there were only three branches, all in London, but now they’re popping up all over England as the business rapidly expands.
No one grows up with big dreams of working in the deli business, do they? I can’t say it had ever crossed my mind. I only (reluctantly) took the job because I was a single mum and it was close to home, but it turned out to be a perfect fit for me in many ways.
I’ve always had a passion for food – a fact my thighs will attest to – and working in the deli, I got to share this passion with the customers, giving them recommendations on what to buy and making suggestions for their lunch. I loved the work, I loved the customers and most importantly I loved all the delicious food.
While I was working there I got to know the bosses, Eric and Amanda, a married couple who had no idea that, when they opened their first deli, they would one day be sitting in a swanky central London office, with a thriving deli chain. I think the fact that they didn’t expect their success is why they’re probably still so humble and generous. Eric and
