Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli: A laugh out loud feel-good romance perfect for summer. Portia MacIntosh

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СКАЧАТЬ off, but here everything is strange and new. Still, we weren’t up long enough to turn things on, so I’m sure everything is fine.

      I fasten Frankie into the back of the car, climb into the front seat and set the destination on my phone. Acorn School isn’t too far away but I don’t know the area yet, so better to be sure of where we’re going than to explore and hope we find it.

      Marram Bay is a strange combination of coastal town and countryside. The seafront is the touristy part, with the pretty views and the cute little shops. Then, as you travel further inland, you approach the homes where the locals live. Finally, you reach the part of Marram Bay that is mostly farmland and fields, with the occasional cottage or school dotted in the middle of nowhere.

      At the end of the road where our cottage sits, is a huge, contemporary house. I glance at the sign outside which reads ‘Westwood Farm’, though it doesn’t look much like any farm I’ve ever seen.

      ‘Whoa,’ Frankie says. ‘That’s a cool house.’

      ‘It is,’ I reply, a pinch of salt in my words, given our current living situation. Obviously the closest thing we’ve got to a next-door neighbour lives in a house that was most likely on Grand Designs. ‘We can’t stop and stare though, kiddo, we’re late. Make sure you eat your breakfast.’

      ‘Yes, crisps,’ he chirps.

      ‘Oi, 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.’

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