Читать книгу Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli: A laugh out loud feel-good romance perfect for summer - Portia MacIntosh, Portia MacIntosh - Страница 14

Chapter 6

After a long day of hurdle after hurdle at the deli, I pull up outside the school to find that, yet again, there’s no one to be seen. I know there aren’t many kids who go here, but shouldn’t there be parents around?

I hurry up the steps as carefully as I can in my heels, only to see Frankie standing in the playground on his own.

‘Hey, kiddo, where is everyone?’

‘They went home at three,’ he says, not sounding his usual self.

‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, realising it was his previous school where he finished at 3.20 p.m.

‘Swears,’ he ticks me off.

‘Sugar, sorry,’ I apologise, forgetting that, in this family, we substitute our swear words with similar sounding, inoffensive words. I’d say it was our compromise, but it’s actually just the only realistic way for me not to swear in front of my kid. Frankie is always telling me off for swearing, but it doesn’t seem like his heart is in it today.

‘You OK, kiddo? You don’t seem yourself.’

‘Yeah, I just wanna go home,’ he replies.

‘OK, sure,’ I say, ushering him towards the car. I suppose I’ve missed my tour slot, being late again.

As we make the short journey home, I look at him the rear-view mirror. He’s looking down at his feet with a glum look on his face.

‘How was your first day then?’ I ask.

‘OK,’ Frankie replies, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.

‘Are you sure?’ I persist.

‘Yes.’

I’m not sure I believe him, but I don’t want to push him. Maybe once we get home he’ll open up a little.

I unlock the door and watch Frankie walk inside, excited for his reaction when he realises he can play video games, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

‘I set everything up for you,’ I point out, not that he couldn’t have noticed. ‘Do you want to play some games and just let me know when you want dinner?’

‘Can we have it now please?’ he asks.

‘Erm, yeah, sure. You hungry now?’

He nods.

‘OK, go play, I’ll make us some food. What do you fancy?’

Frankie shrugs.

‘Beans on toast?’ I suggest, knowing that one of his favourite dishes is bound to put a smile on his face.

He nods.

I pull a face as I head towards the kitchen and, while I prepare dinner, I watch him like a hawk. He’s far too young to be starting the moody teenager act. I wonder what’s wrong with him.

It’s off, for Frankie to be so quiet at home. Sure, he can be shy around new people, but when it’s just us, he’s usually anything but quiet.

‘So there was a bit of a hitch with the deli,’ I tell him, not that he’s going to be all that interested. I don’t have anyone else to tell about my day though. I didn’t have any proper friends in London, not really. My uni friends were all out living young people’s lives, while I was at home with my baby, and all the people I met through work, well, they already had full lives, with partners and friends. Maybe I isolate myself sometimes – I’m not sure if it’s because I always put Frankie first or because of my trust issues.

I chat out loud about the deli, unconcerned with whether or not he is listening – I imagine having a husband is a little bit like this, if what you see on TV is anything to go by. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really had a man around.

When I found out I was pregnant with Frankie, I knew that I was going to have to raise him alone but I knew that I was up to the job, that if I gave it my everything I could do it alone, just like my mum did. I don’t know who had it worse, me or my mum, because I might have done the whole thing without a man while my mum had my dad for the first year of my life, but he died when his bike was hit by a car. My mum had to cope with a baby and a bereavement, when she was a little over twenty, and I just knew that if my mum was made of such strong stuff, then I was too.

As I carry two plates of beans on toast over to the table, I notice that my son has his head in his hands.

‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I ask him.

‘It’s been a bad day,’ he says as he skulks over to the table.

‘You’re eight,’ I remind him. ‘You’re too young to have bad days.’

Frankie sits at the table and begins wolfing down his food.

‘Steady on, kid,’ I say, worried he might choke if he doesn’t slow down. ‘You gonna tell me what’s wrong?’

‘No one likes me,’ he solemnly.

‘It’s your first day,’ I assure him. ‘No one knows you yet.’

‘They do,’ he says. ‘They know who you are too. They said you’re evil.’

‘What?’ I squeak, laughing nervously. ‘I’m evil?’

‘Because of the shop,’ he tells me. ‘It’s gonna close all the other shops.’

‘Sweetheart.’ I grab his hand. ‘It isn’t, I promise you. And their parents will realise that. They’re kids, they don’t know what they’re talking about. They’ve just heard their mums and dads saying things. Did Mrs Snowball not help you make friends?’

‘She doesn’t like me either,’ he says, eating a quarter slice of toast practically in one bite.

‘Of course she does,’ I insist. ‘She’s the headteacher, she likes all the kids.’

‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunch,’ he tells me.

‘She what?’ I ask angrily.

‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunchbox.’

‘Why the truck not?’ I ask, remembering to edit my outburst this time.

Frankie shrugs.

‘Is this why you’re so hungry?’

He nods.

Oh, my poor little baby, why on earth wouldn’t she let him eat his lunch?

‘Everything is going to be better tomorrow,’ I promise him.

After we finish up our food Frankie gets back to his game. I retrieve his lunchbox from the floor by the front door, and look inside, just to make sure. Sure enough, there’s his lunch, untouched.

I grab the chocolate and toss it to him.

‘Here you go, kiddo,’ I say.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, without the usual enthusiasm you expect from kids on the receiving end of chocolate.

I make myself a cup of tea, grab my laptop and take a seat on the sofa. I connect my laptop to my phone, because there’s no Wi-Fi here yet, and begin researching the area, trying to work out some kind of plan to get the locals on board. I can’t get Mrs Snowball out of my mind. Why did she think it would be OK to tell my son that he couldn’t eat his lunch? And the fact that the kids wouldn’t talk to him today, because of me…

I grab my phone and set an alarm for the morning, to make sure that I arrive at school early enough to have a word with Mrs Snowball. No one messes with my kid.