Home to Appleby Farm

by Cathy Bramley

Genres: Friendship; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Sometimes the life you want isn't the one you need... Freya Moorcroft has wild red hair, mischievous green eyes, a warm smile and a heart of gold. She's been happy working at the café round the corner from Ivy Lane allotments and her romance with her new boyfriend is going well, she thinks, but a part of her still misses the beautiful rolling hills of her Cumbrian childhood home: Appleby Farm. Then a phone call out of the blue and a desperate plea for help change everything... The farm is in financial trouble, and it's taking its toll on the aunt and uncle who raised Freya. Heading home to lend a hand, Freya quickly learns that things are worse than she first thought. As she summons up all her creativity and determination to turn things around, Freya is surprised as her own dreams for the future begin to take shape. Freya knows that love, not money, makes the world go round. But will saving Appleby Farm and following her heart come at a price? *Published in the UK as Appleby Farm * *** Readers are captivated by Cathy Bramley's heartwarming stories: 'Funny and sweet and as satisfying as a homemade apple pie' Milly Johnson 'As comforting as hot tea and toast made on the Aga!' Veronica Henry 'A delicious tale of friendship, family and baking... I loved its warmth and charm' Cathy Woodman 'Delightfully warm with plenty twists and turns' Trisha Ashley

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 362

Sample

The door opened with a ding of the bell, letting in a welcome blast of fresh air as a group of teenage girls left the café.

‘Adios, amigos!’ I called. ‘Ciao, bellas!’

It was the Thursday before the Easter weekend, children were off school and the spring sunshine had brought us a steady stream of customers all day long. Now, at four o’clock, we were having a quiet spell, which was just as well, because the service side of the counter, where I stood, looked like a scene out of Titanic.

I had spent the last hour training Amy, our new recruit, in the art of making espressos, cappuccinos and lattes. The work area was awash with her efforts; we were marooned in a sea of brown liquid, puddles of spilt milk and numerous abandoned mugs, spoons and jugs. The pair of us were looking a bit worse for the experience, too: my red hair had turned to frizz after repeated exposure to random gusts of steam and Amy had a streak of coffee across her forehead like a third eyebrow.

On the plus side, despite the steamy atmosphere, there was a heavenly aroma of fresh coffee and I’d felt enormous satisfaction from seeing Amy get the hang of the equipment – eventually. I watched over her shoulder, a bit close, actually, seeing as her short ponytail was tickling my nose, as she poured steamed milk from a stainless-steel jug into a tall glass.

‘Yay! Perfect,’ I cheered. ‘That’s it; nice and slow so you don’t spoil the foamy bit on top.’ Phew! I thought she was never going to get there.

Amy placed the jug on the counter with a shaky hand and exhaled. We both examined her first latte.

‘What do you think?’ She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and wrinkled her smeared brow.

‘I think you’ve cracked it,’ I said, and grinned.

Just in time, because I was hanging up my apron any second, leaving early and then she would be on her own behind the counter. I flung an arm around her shoulders and gave the sixteen-year-old a squeeze. ‘But now you’ve got to pass the boss’s taste test.’

I nodded towards the far corner of the café. Shirley, head down over a pile of invoices, sat at a small table with one foot raised on the chair beside her. Her ankle was completely better now; it was simply a habit she’d fallen into after being told to keep it raised when she broke it last autumn.

That foot was the reason I was here. Shirley’s daughter, Anna, is a friend of mine and when Shirley had her accident, Anna begged me to come and help out in the café for a few months until her mum was back on her feet. At the time I was working in promotions, handing out free samples and money-off coupons in supermarkets around Manchester – a job that had lost its sparkle early on. So I moved to Kingsfield, a small town on the outskirts of Derbyshire, and into Anna’s spare room, and I’d been working at the café ever since.

I watched Amy creep towards Shirley, the tall glass rattling in its saucer as she placed one foot cautiously in front of the other. I held my breath; it was like witnessing a tight-rope walker crossing Niagara Falls.

‘Delicious. Well done, both of you,’ Shirley declared, lifting the latte in approval. ‘Amy, you’re now officially allowed to use the coffee machine and, FYI, I like three sugars in mine.’

‘Go Amy, go Amy,’ I hollered, waving my fist in the air as my student smiled bashfully, dipped her head and twisted one foot behind her other leg, looking far younger than sixteen all of a sudden.

I also dropped into a curtsey, holding out an imaginary skirt with my fingertips. ‘And my work here is done.’

Shirley chuckled, shook her head and went back to her paperwork.

Is it?

As soon as the words were out of my mouth a fluttering sensation worked its way from my head to my heart. Was my work here actually done? Was it time to move on? Again? Eek! I stared at the top of Shirley’s bowed head until it dawned on me that Amy was looking at me rather oddly.

I gave myself a shake, pointed Amy in the direction of the floor mop and, leaving her to soak up the spillages, went to clear the table vacated by the teenagers.

Yikes. My face felt scarlet now after that unbidden thought, which, seeing as I almost qualified for official albino status in the pale skin department, was pretty hard to hide.

Freya Moorcroft, you are up to your old tricks. Can’t you stick at a job for more than five minutes? And anyway, what about you-know-who? Aren’t you in L.O.V.E.?

I puffed out my cheeks and began to stack plates loudly to crowd out my snarky inner thoughts.

Shirley’s café was booming. And without being big-headed about it, the boom had something to do with me. When I arrived six months ago the coffee had been instant, the menu consisted almost entirely of jacket potatoes and barely any customers bothered coming to the café after two o’clock.

Now we had a fancy chrome coffee machine hissing like a contemptuous goose on the counter, a panini grill permanently making posh toasties and we did a roaring trade in afternoon tea. The free WiFi, which I’d suggested we install, had also proved a hit, especially with teenagers. The café was heaving with youthful hormones for an hour after school, earning us the reputation of being the place to hang out and doubling our sales of hot chocolate and smoothies. A win-win, as far as I was concerned.

It had been a whirlwind few months, which was exactly how I liked my life to be. The whirlier the better, in fact. Shirley had pretty much let me have free rein once I’d convinced her to pimp the place up a bit and I’d had a ball. And, outside of work, my life was good too. I loved living with Anna, I’d made loads of new friends and, most importantly, I’d met Charlie, my boyfriend of four months.

Charlie.

You know those ads for yogurt where the actors go all dreamy when the spoon goes into their mouths? Well, that’s what happens to me just thinking about him. Tall, fit, amazing blue eyes, the cheekiest smile in the universe and, to top it all, he’s a fireman. I mean, hello?

So yep, my life in Kingsfield’s pretty good.

But now … I paused from swiping cake crumbs into my hand and glanced out of the window at the row of shops, the pub on the corner, the parked cars, the total lack of greenery. It was the same view I’d been looking at since October. I could do the job standing on my head. Blindfolded. One hand tied behind my back.

Unlike Amy, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, who was making hard work of clearing up the kitchen.

I took the dirty crockery over to the counter and handed it to her. ‘So how has your first day been?’ I asked. ‘Can you see yourself as a waitress? Or have I scared you off with caffeine-options overload?’

‘It’s OK,’ she replied, nodding earnestly. ‘As a part-time job. Till I go to uni.’

‘Great.’ I suppressed a smile but I must have raised my eyebrows higher than I’d intended because Amy blushed. There’s nothing like being told by a teenager that your career choice is merely their stepping stone to greater things.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, plunging her arms into the sink. ‘That came out wrong. Not that there’s anything wrong … Oh God.’ She bent low over the sink so I couldn’t see her face.

‘Hey, no worries,’ I laughed. ‘Good on you for knowing what you want to do with your life. I got the grades at A level to go to uni, but I had no idea what to study.’ I shrugged. ‘So I opted for a gap year instead.’

Ten gap years, as it turned out …

Auntie Sue referred to my decision to go travelling after sixth form as studying at the university of life. My mother called it a waste of a private education.

Amy glanced over her shoulder at Shirley and then looked back at me. ‘I can only work here until I leave sixth form. I’m going to study architecture and it takes seven years to qualify, and then I want to move to London, so I really need to save up.’

‘Right. Well, good luck!’ I swallowed, smiled and shuffled off.

Flippin’ heck. Sixteen and she’d got a ten-year plan. I thought I was being organized when I had a ten-day plan.

A career butterf ly, that was me. I couldn’t seem to help it. I’d start a job full of enthusiasm, throw myself into it, loving the whole ‘new challenge’ thing. Then, as soon as I’d mastered it and put my own spin on the role, for some reason I sprouted wings and an urge to fly off somewhere new.

Uncle Arthur reckoned that one day I’d find my niche and my career would take off. My father, on the other hand, put my transient tendencies down to lack of ambition and commitment. I hoped Uncle Arthur was right because I couldn’t bear it if Dad was.

The edited highlights of my career included: apple picker in New Zealand, stablehand in Dubai, chalet girl in Austria, barmaid in Cornwall (eighteen months – a personal record for me, largely down to a lifeguard called Ivan), a short-lived stint as a tour guide at a pencil museum and now here, waitress in the Shenton Road Café in Kingsfield.

I was sure all the random experience I’d gained was preparing me for something; I just wished I knew what that something was. I dropped down into the empty chair opposite my boss and pondered whether to tell her that it might be time for me to move on. Or should I, for once, keep my ponderings to myself?

‘You’re wasted here; you know that, don’t you?’ Shirley said without looking up. Which was just as well because my face was now as red as my hair.

I shifted in my seat. Shirley Maxwell should never, ever, be underestimated. She had an uncanny knack for reading minds. Not that I’d been thinking that I was wasted, just a bit … unchallenged.

‘Meaning?’ I asked, playing for time. I pulled the sugar bowl towards me and started mashing the crystals against the side of the bowl.

Shirley dropped her pen on the table, looked at me and exhaled in a ‘what are we going to do with you?’ sort of way. She moved the sugar bowl out of my reach and I folded my arms.

‘Bright girl like you. You could be running your own business like my Anna. Or managing your own branch of Starbucks or …’

‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’ I said, giving her my fake haughty eyebrow raise.

‘Oh, Freya.’ She swiped a hand at me. ‘You’ve revamped the menu, you’ve organized the dreaded paperwork and now you’re even training new staff. I’m so grateful for all your hard work at my café.’

She pronounced it caff, which always made me smile. She leaned forward and mouthed with exaggerated facial expressions, ‘But I can’t pay you what you’re worth and that upsets me.’ She pressed a hand to her bosom. ‘You might want to buy a house, settle down—’

‘I’m not money-orientated, Shirley,’ I said. ‘I know people who are. People who put pursuit of wealth before happiness and, believe me, I have no desire to go down that route.’ I shuddered. My parents, for instance. ‘No, as the saying goes, “all you need is love”, as far as I’m concerned.’ I grinned at her as she rolled her eyes.

‘And as the other saying goes, “every little helps”,’ she retorted and we both laughed.

‘You’re a case, Freya Moorcroft, you really are.’ Shirley sighed.

I reached out and squeezed her hand, the one that wasn’t nestled on her cleavage. ‘Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.’

‘Be honest with yourself, Freya. Waitressing isn’t your future.’

The doorbell dinged and we both turned to see who it was. A familiar pink velour-clad bottom backed into the café, pulling a complicated-looking pushchair.

Saved by the bell before I talked myself out of a job.

‘Gemma!’ I cried, breathing an inward sigh of relief. I jumped up to help my friend and one of our regulars negotiate the door and the step.

‘Nightmare dot com,’ grunted Gemma, as she attempted a three-point turn with the pushchair. ‘You need a blooming HGV licence to drive this thing.’

‘Oh dear. Let me make you something healthy, herbal and foul-smelling in a mug.’ I heard Shirley huff at my alternative approach to hospitality as I kissed Gemma’s cheek. I stood back to let her manoeuvre herself and the baby past me and peered in at him. Parker was wide awake (hurray, I could have a cuddle!) and aiming a determined swipe at the toys suspended across his pushchair.

‘Actually, sorry to take liberties,’ said Gemma, making a beeline for the loos, ‘but I only came in to use the facilities. His Lordship’s nappy is beyond bearable and I say that as a mother with a very high threshold to bad smells.’

‘TMI, love, thank you very much,’ said Shirley with a wince. By comparison, Shirley had a low threshold to many things: smells, pain, loud music, most yellow foods … I once saw her nearly faint at the sight of mashed banana. Even a jacket potato gave her the shivers if it dared to err on the yellowy side.

‘Not even a quick herbal brew?’ I offered. I was due to meet Charlie at his allotment in half an hour and then I had the whole of the Easter weekend off, but I hadn’t seen Gemma since the baby’s christening and I wanted to hear her news. And get my mitts on Parker, obviously.

Gemma paused and then flapped a beautifully manicured hand, which made me tuck my own scruffy nails into my jeans pockets. ‘Go on then. Camomile if you’ve got it, please.’

Five minutes later I was sitting down with a freshly changed baby boy on my knee, watching Gemma squashing and swirling her tea bag round in her white mug.

I couldn’t abide those mugs.

Shirley and I had only clashed on a couple of things since I’d been here. I was Team vintage china, she was Team cheap-practical-and-dishwasher-proof. I’d suggested pretty mismatched cups and saucers, stacked on shelves in pastel shades of pink, yellow and blue. But Shirley had gone pale at the thought of crockery not matching and had put her foot down.

Parker was concentrating on scrunching up a fabric toy between his fingers, which made a rustling noise when it moved. Gemma and I exchanged smiles as he babbled away quietly to himself.

‘There’s one scone left, do you fancy sharing it?’ I said.

I made the café’s scones using my Auntie Sue’s recipe. The secret is in the mixing; over mix and you’ve got yourself a batch of primitive weapons. Mine, though I say so myself, are sultana-stuffed clouds of deliciousness.

Gemma shook her blonde curls and patted her stomach, which, given that Parker was only about four months old, was in pretty good shape. ‘I shouldn’t really … unless … does it come with clotted cream?’

I shook my head. ‘Whipped cream,’ I said, adding more loudly, ‘See, Shirley, someone else thinks it should be clotted cream.’

This, believe it or not, was the other thing we had disagreed on.

‘No. Not having clotted cream in my café. That yellow crusty bit … urgh.’ Shirley shuddered.

‘I’ll leave it then, thanks. Probably for the best,’ Gemma said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Anyway, what are you up to for Easter?’

The café would be closed on Good Friday, plus it was my weekend off, double-plus I’d tagged on an extra couple of days next week – my first proper break since working here.

‘Nothing much.’ I shrugged, wishing I’d bothered to organize an adventure or two. ‘Just chilling out with Charlie, hopefully.’

‘Bliss.’ Gemma sighed, her blue eyes going all dreamy for a second. ‘What I’d give to chill out. But with a fifteenyear-old daughter hell bent on making us suffer because she’s got exams and a husband who’s decided to dismantle a lawnmower in our back garden, I doubt very much that I’ll be doing much of that this weekend.’

I tightened my grip around Parker’s tummy with one hand and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with the other. ‘Just give me a shout if you want a babysitter for a few hours.’

Her face softened as she leaned forward to hand Parker back the toy he had just dropped.

‘Aww, thanks, Freya. Are you getting broody, by any chance?’

I thought about it for a moment.

‘Yes and no,’ I replied honestly. ‘I’m not ready to do the whole settling-down thing yet. But at some point, yes. I can see myself with a couple of munchkins, cottage in the country, a horse and a dog … But at the moment, I’m happy to borrow Parker every now and then.’

No idea why I’d suddenly blurted all that out. I felt my face redden. I’d never been conscious of this plan before. I did want to be a mother at some point, though. And at the risk of sounding a bit 1950s, I wanted to be the sort of mother who was there when my children got in from school, with a kiss and a cake straight out of the oven. Like my Auntie Sue. I’d have to work on the cakes bit; my repertoire consisted of one thing – scones.

‘Does Charlie know how you feel?’ Gemma asked, gazing at me wide-eyed.

The only problem with Kingsfield is that everyone else has been here for donkey’s years. I might only have met Charlie a few months ago, but Gemma’s known him for ages from Ivy Lane allotments. Unlikely as it seemed looking at those nails, Gemma had her own allotment plot until Parker came along.

‘Whoa! Steady on, Gem, we’ve only been together five minutes!’ I bent to brush my lips against Parker’s head to hide my hot cheeks. ‘I’m sure we’ll broach the subject when the time comes.’

‘It’s just that … oh, nothing,’ mumbled Gemma. She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped at her tea.

My stomach lurched. Just that what? But before I had chance to ask, Gemma squealed and reached into her bag.

‘I nearly forgot to show you this!’ She handed me a postcard with a picture of a tortoise on a deserted beach on it. ‘Came this morning, from Tilly and Aidan. Sounds like they’re having an amazing time in the Gallopingwotsit Islands. Aww,’ she sighed, lifting Parker from me and arranging him back in his pushchair, ‘they are such a perfect match, those two.’

My friend, the lovely Tilly Parker, the baby’s namesake, was another of the Ivy Lane allotment posse. She was the girl I credited with getting me and Charlie together and she met her fella, Aidan, when he came to Kingsfield last year as part of a film crew making a documentary about the allotment. He was filming something else now, in the Galápagos Islands, and Tilly had joined him for a holiday.

A perfect match. The words ran rhythmically through my head while I read Tilly’s postcard and Gemma prepared to depart.

I waved her and Parker off with a smile. I didn’t feel overly smiley on the inside; I felt a bit churned up. Gemma hadn’t uttered the exact words and I might have been putting two and two together and making a fuss about nothing, but it felt as though she thought that in some way Charlie and I weren’t a perfect match. And as Shirley had pointed out only a few minutes ago, Shenton Road Café wasn’t my future.

My stomach flipped queasily. When I woke up this morning my life had seemed quite straightforward, but now … well, I wasn’t sure of anything.

By the time I’d finished up at the café, scurried along Shenton Road, into All Saints Road, down Ivy Lane and made it as far as the allotment gate I was back to my normal happy-go-lucky self and smiling at my own daft thoughts. What had all that self-doubt malarkey been about?

I pushed open the heavy gate and closed it behind me.

It wasn’t like me to over-analyse things; life’s far too short to agonize over my career choice or to worry about the state of my relationship. Or anything else, for that matter. Far better just to go with the flow. I loved my life and anyway, no one really has the perfect job and the perfect partner. Charlie and I were fine. No, better than fine – we were great, we made each other happy and we had a laugh together. And that was what made us so well-suited.

I half-walked, half-ran along the road towards Charlie’s plot and waved to Peter, the allotment committee chairman, as he appeared at the pavilion door, fastening the buttons of his anorak.

‘Afternoon, Freya. It’s a cool breeze, isn’t it? I think we might be in for a light frost tonight.’ He pulled a tweed flat cap out of his pocket and settled it on his balding head.

‘Hi, Pete. Yes, it is a bit chilly.’ I smiled and supressed a giggle. I’d yet to meet one member of the allotment community who wasn’t totally obsessed with the weather.

‘Changed your mind about joining the waiting list for your own plot yet?’ he called.

I laughed and shook my head. ‘No time, these days. I’m too busy being Charlie’s assistant gardener.’

Peter gave me a disappointed smile and touched his cap in a cute old-fashioned gesture, and I carried on my way.

He asked me the same question every time I saw him, hoping to change my mind. I’d toyed with the idea of having my own plot last year and he had shown me round. But I was glad I didn’t go for it in the end; helping Charlie on his plot was a much better solution. I got to spend time outdoors, which I loved; I got to spend time with Charlie-boy, which I also loved; and I only had to do the nice bits (planting seeds and picking stuff) and not the grotty bits (spreading muck and digging up weeds).

My stomach flipped as I spotted my gorgeous man further ahead in his greenhouse and I jogged the last few metres to join him. He was lifting huge bags of something or other onto shelves and didn’t spot me at first.

The air in the greenhouse was warm and tinged with the fragrance of tomato plants. I leaned on the open door frame and watched him for a couple of seconds while he arranged growbags in rows with his back to me. He was wearing his old gardening jumper with holes in the sleeves, a woolly hat, jeans and an old pair of boots.

‘Hey.’

Charlie turned around and grinned. ‘Hello, beautiful!’

I squealed as he scooped me up and spun me round, knocking over a watering can and several plant pots in the process.

‘Put me down this instant and kiss me,’ I giggled breathlessly.

‘I love it when you’re bossy,’ he murmured, his blue eyes crinkling with humour as he did as he was told and lowered me to the ground.

He unzipped my jacket and threaded his arms around my waist, pulling me close. I lifted my face to meet his and felt my body sigh as we kissed. His face was rough with stubble but his lips were full and soft. He smelled of earth and wood smoke and something sweeter … vanilla, maybe? Whatever it was, I approved. His kiss deepened and I stopped wondering about anything and reached up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck. When it was just us, him and me, close like this, it felt as if nothing could ever come between us, like we were the only two people in the universe who mattered.

‘What’s on the job list today, then?’ I asked, pulling back and smiling up at him. I snuggled my head against his chest and wriggled my fingers into the back pockets of his jeans while he rested his chin on my head.

‘Tomatoes,’ he said, easing us apart and dropping a kiss on my nose. ‘I thought you’d never come and help me plant them. I’ve got about twenty good ones to get in this afternoon. If you do a good job I’ll buy you a pint at The Feathers after.’

‘Payment in cider?’ I laughed, striking a pose and resting my hands on my hips. ‘What sort of girl do you think I am?’

Charlie winked at me. ‘The best sort. Come on, Green Eyes, here’s a trowel.’

He showed me the trays of seedlings and demonstrated how to lift them without damaging the soft stems and how to transplant them into the waiting growbags.

‘Is it me, or are there two different types here?’ I asked, looking from one tray to the other.

‘Clever girl,’ said Charlie, placing a soft kiss on the side of my neck, which gave me a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘These are Sungold, they’re sweet little cherry tomatoes. I’m hoping to get Ollie to try them. He reckons he doesn’t like tomatoes, but I might convert him with one of these.’

The warm feeling grew a bit bigger. Yet another reason to adore him. ‘The world’s greatest dad, you,’ I said, nudging him playfully. ‘What are these other bigger ones?’

Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Um, they’re Outdoor Girl. I saw the packet and thought of you.’

‘Me?’ I gasped. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

He shrugged and turned his face away but I could tell he’d gone a bit pink.

OK, so growing a variety of outdoor tomatoes in someone’s honour might not be everyone’s idea of a romantic gesture, but I knew how Charlie’s mind worked and my heart bounced all over the place. He worshipped his six-year-old son Ollie, who was quite literally at the centre of Charlie’s universe. So if he’d been thinking about both of us when he’d made his tomato choices, that must mean that I was special too, mustn’t it?

More than that, I loved the fact that he knew me so well. My favourite jobs have been those where I could spend time outside. My idea of absolute hell is being desk-bound like my housemate, Anna, who is a web designer and barely moves more than five metres in an entire day.

‘Can I plant them outside, then?’ I said, dragging my eyes back to the seedlings. ‘I quite fancy a bit of fresh air.’

Charlie rolled his eyes and chuckled. ‘I don’t know why you work in a café when you’re so mad keen on the great outdoors. You should be a park ranger or a policewoman or something. But no, sorry, they’re not hardened off yet. Here, stick these in instead.’

‘Peas! Oh, I love these!’ I said as he handed me a tray of sturdy pea plants. A picture of me hiding in Auntie Sue’s veggie patch floated into my head, sitting in the sunshine, popping fat peapods with my thumbs and eating the contents like sweets.

Charlie chuckled indulgently. He dispatched me towards a wigwam of bamboo canes and we both settled into our tasks. I knelt down in a patch of low sun and began to dig a small hole. I sprinkled a bit of fairy dust into it and then placed a tiny pea plant into its new home. I knew it wasn’t fairy dust. Obviously. It was just far nicer to think of that than what it actually was, which might have been very nutritious for plants but absolutely stank.

Policewoman. I started to laugh.

‘It’s the handcuffs, isn’t it?’ I shouted over my shoulder.

‘What is?’

‘That’s why you imagined me as a policewoman. So that you can play with the handcuffs. I know your game, mister.’

‘Er, excuse me, Miss Moorcroft,’ Charlie laughed indignantly, ‘it wasn’t my idea to stay in bed all last Sunday and look at pictures of you naked. That was entirely your doing.’

The patch of sunlight that had been warming my back suddenly disappeared and I heard a discreet cough. A prickle of embarrassment ran along my spine as I turned around to see Christine, the allotment secretary and coincidentally Gemma’s mum, standing at the end of Charlie’s plot. My eyes made their way from her wellingtons to her quilted jacket and up to her bobble hat. I scanned her face, holding my breath in case there was a sliver of hope that she hadn’t overheard.

‘Lovely looking beetroot, so it is,’ said Christine in her broad Irish accent, smirking away to herself.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, unsure whether Charlie grew beetroot or whether it was simply a blunt observation about the state of my face. ‘It was my baby album,’ I spluttered. ‘That’s why I was naked. And not in all of them, obviously …’ I trailed off as Christine’s shoulders began to shake with laughter.

‘Ah, you youngsters. It’s a long time since my husband Roy and I spent the day doing that.’

I gulped and laughed nervously. TMI, as Shirley would say.

‘Hello, Christine,’ said Charlie, joining us both, totally oblivious to my discomfort. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Grand, so it is.’ She nodded. ‘Just came by to remind you about Sunday. The Easter egg hunt. Great fun for the kiddies. Gemma will be here. Come if you can, won’t you? Ollie would love it.’

Charlie and I made the right noises and Christine bustled off in the direction of the pavilion.

‘You’ve got the weekend off, haven’t you?’ I said, a picture forming in my head of him and me under a huge blue sky with no buildings or people for miles.

‘I have.’ He nodded, his expression knotted in concentration as he took a piece of string from his pocket and gently tied my newly bedded pea plant to its cane. ‘Four days off. Can’t wait.’

‘Remember that deal we made, when I came cycling with you even though I didn’t want to and in return you promised to come horse riding with me?’

‘Ye-s,’ Charlie replied, not meeting my eye as he straightened up. I abandoned my planting, hooked my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and stepped towards him, closing the gap between us until I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.

‘Well, we could do that, this weekend. I found some stables just outside Kingsfield that said I could go and ride their horses. What do you think?’

I stared up at him and held my breath. I knew what he thought. He thought horses were all teeth and nostrils, but a deal was a deal and there was nothing – nothing – I’d rather do over the Easter weekend than canter through fields with the wind in my hair and Charlie by my side.

He pressed his lips to my forehead and shook his head. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. I’m having Ollie over for a few days. In fact, I might bring him here to the Easter egg hunt. What do you reckon?’

My happy bubble burst and I felt my shoulders sag.

But you had him last weekend.

Eek! I very ne