Twenty-Two
SAMANTHA TONGE
lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and a cat who thinks it’s a dog. Along with writing, her days are spent willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels is her passion.
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New beginnings indeed – with heartfelt thanks to Angela, Karen, Mark, Mary and Michelle.
I looked at Mum and we grinned. Every time I made fairy cakes, flour somehow ended up on my face. The giveaway? Like the Easter bunny’s, my nose twitched from side to side.
‘Just look at the state of you, Jenny Jarvis,’ she teased and rolled her eyes. All crinkly around the edges, they looked tired. It was Easter Sunday and Mum had looked after my grandparents all weekend. They were still in bed. We’d got up early to make chocolate mini-egg cakes. They were my favourite and Mum had baked them for my last birthday, when I turned ten. I’m not a stickler for tradition, she would say, and we sometimes had turkey roast with all the trimmings, months away from Christmas. Dad said that was one of the reasons he loved her to bits. She’d always make a big batch of his favourite festive figgy puddings, so that he could also eat them in summer, autumn, and spring.
My chest glowed as I watched her hum a cheerful song, whilst doing the washing up. Strong. Comforting. Cuddly. Mum was like the best teddy bear in the world. I breathed in the yummy cocoa smells that wafted from the oven.
‘Keep beating, sweetheart – the butter and sugar won’t cream themselves.’
As Mum hummed increasingly loudly, I bit my bottom lip and my arm moved faster. Finally the ingredients came together and the icing looked all shiny and smooth.
She passed over a mini-egg and winked. ‘We ought to try one each – just to check they’re okay.’
I giggled. Mum could obviously read my mind as well. I popped it into my mouth. My teeth cracked the outer shell and as the gooey insides melted across my tongue, I glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock.
‘Will we have time to fill the bird feeders, before Granny and Granddad come down? Those goldfinches need to keep up their strength to care for the chicks. They looked so cute, last week, hopping across the lawn after Dad mowed it.’ I gazed out of the window, to see a blue sky and sunrays lighting up the oak’s new leaves. Attached to the trunk was a bird box Mum had assembled from a kit.
She was clever like that. Did amazing things with craft stuff and food. Worked part-time as a receptionist, at the local vet’s. The kitchen always smelt tasty and the garden overflowed with life.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll make sure they also get Easter treats.’ Mum brushed straggly curls out of her eyes. She didn’t wear much make-up but, I reckoned, was the prettiest person in the world. Of course, we had our fallouts. She didn’t look quite so pretty when she was cross with me for not doing my homework. And she could be annoying, like insisting I tidy my room, even though I knew exactly where I’d put everything. But Mum believed in keeping things simple. Appreciating nature. Making instead of buying. That made life fun.
I smiled to myself, at how she often brushed off compliments – or went bright red. Like when Daddy once told her that she had a heart bigger than a whale’s … Mind you, that hadn’t sounded especially romantic. Playfully she’d punched his arm and we’d all laughed.
‘Right, let’s check those cakes, Jenny. We don’t want them burnt or too flat. I’ll take them out of the oven. You can press the sponge, with your fingers, and decide if they are ready yet.’
I did as I was told. ‘They feel all springy – like my bed mattress.’
‘Perfect. Just like you.’ She took off the oven gloves and gave me a hug.
Feeling safer than a baby kangaroo in its mummy’s pouch, I closed my eyes and held her ever so tight. No, you’re the perfect one, I thought, and if I ever have a daughter, I’m going to be exactly the same sort of mum as you …
Celebrity glossy hair. Cerise-pink painted nails. A beige dress with matching nude sandals. I tore my gaze away from April and felt a lump in my throat – she looked so grown-up. It was hard to believe my daughter was only ten.
My friend Chanelle, who owned this nail salon, had just thrown a party for her little girl, Skye. I say little girl, but as I gazed at the posse of mothers and daughters, preening in front of large mirrors, apart from their height they all looked the same. I’m talking designer handbags, straightened hair, and the most on-trend clothes, as if it was just a different uniform to wear, outside of the girls’ posh private school. But it made me feel comfortable, contented, to belong to some sort of clan.
A border full of plants in bud promising a colourful summer caught my attention. It reminded me of my own childhood building treehouses and getting close to nature in the field behind our two-up, two-down. Once I’d caught a frog to see if it really would turn into a prince. My gentle kiss on its head left me disappointed, and with a slimy lip-gloss effect that made Mum laugh hard.
How I’d loved baking with her and making feeders for birds. It had taken me a while to get used to the highflying life of my husband. I rarely cooked now. Nor spent much time in the garden. A heavy sensation briefly tickled my chest. I’m
