‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Just heading to the little boys’ room.’
Clara, still wearing her Forties outfit under her apron, places a bag of cleaning supplies down next to me before taking a seat at the table next to us. She cradles her cup of tea in her hand as she chats.
‘Just the two of you moved here?’ she asks. She sounds friendly enough, but you’d be amazed at the variety of easy-to-read physical reactions you get from people when they find out you’re a 31-year-old single mum.
First there’s the unabashed judgemental response. You can practically see the mental mathematics going on behind their eyes, as they try and work out if a 31-year-old has an 8-year-old, how old was she when she irresponsibly got knocked up? For some it’s done with the ease of Will Hunting whereas you can see others itching to use their fingers. Twenty-two – that’s not so bad, is it? I see them wonder. These people will almost always decide that, yes, it probably is bad. Some people just think that kids should be born into loving, conventional family units and there’s nothing you can say that will change their minds.
Next up are the people who feel sorry for me, who think about how awful it must have been for me to find myself pregnant and alone, just 22 years old with my entire life ahead of me. You see their pity in turn of their mouth and the weight of their eyelids, and while it comes from a good place, it never makes me feel good.
Worst of all though, of the varying reactions to my ‘situation’ I’ve endured over the years, it’s the ones I receive from single men that bother me the most, because they don’t judge me, nor do they feel sorry for me. Instead they look at things from an entirely selfish point of view, quickly writing me off as ‘damaged goods’ because while I’m sure there are men out there who have taken, or would take on another man’s child, none of them have been any of the (four) men I have been on dates with since Frankie was born.
‘Yep, just us,’ I reply. ‘Always has been.’
I look over at my son fondly, only to see him wolfing down his food.
‘Frankie,’ I squeak. ‘Are you enjoying that?’
‘Yes,’ he says almost reluctantly, looking at his plate as he responds. He’s always maintained that he would never find a chicken nugget to rival his beloved McDonald’s, but he has insisted even harder that he would never enjoy a vegetable of any description – obviously, excluding chips and the occasional roast potato. I’ve tried covering his broccoli in cheese, hiding carrots in his pasta sauce, and even roasting parsnips and trying to convince him they were chips, but my tricks have always failed me. And yet here he is, consciously and contently eating peas.
‘He doesn’t usually like vegetables,’ I tell Clara, unable to hide my happiness.
‘I cook them with bacon and a bit of honey,’ she explains. ‘I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love my peas.’
‘Well you’ve definitely got yourself some new, regular customers,’ I laugh.
‘You’re not customers today,’ she says. ‘Consider this our “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift to you.’
‘Clara, you’ve done so much for us!’
‘You’re our neighbour now,’ she points out. ‘Think nothing of it.’
I pick up my apple juice and take a sip – it’s delicious. I can’t wait to get to see what I can do with the ones in my garden…not that I’m an especially good cook. I’m just excited to try. Things maybe have got off to a bumpy start but I really do feel like we’re going to be happy here.
‘So, what brings you here then?’ Clara asks. ‘Just a fresh start?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, although that’s not strictly true.
Nervously, I take a long drink from my glass and, thankfully, by the time I come out of hiding from behind my apple juice, Clara has shifted her attention to Frankie, asking him questions about his hobbies.
Now isn’t the time to tell a woman I’ve just met about what I’m hiding from.
I run a hand over the perfectly clean kitchen worktop, marvelling at my own handiwork. I’ve never really been a Good Housekeeping kind of woman. My cooking skills are pretty basic, my cleaning abilities are adequate and as for all the helpful extras, like being able to sew – well, I’ve never really had time for that.
This kitchen though, it’s spotless. From the floor, to the surfaces, to the windows (which, truth be told, I don’t even remember cleaning), everything looks great.
What really catches my attention though, is the man in the back garden. I didn’t know this place had a gardener, but I suppose it makes sense, with all the beautiful plants, the neatly trimmed lawns and the pond to take care of.
The shirtless gardener is reaching up and plucking apples from the tree. I can’t help but stare at his bulging biceps, watching them flex as he extends his arm to grab an apple, before tossing it into the basket on the ground.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped outside the backdoor and called out to him.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
The man turns around and if he wasn’t picking apples in my back garden, in the arse-end of nowhere, I would swear it was Daniel Craig, with his chiselled good looks, his blond hair and his buff Bond-worthy body.
The man doesn’t reply. He reaches up, plucks a bright red apple from the tree and tosses it over to me, which I catch with an unusual ease. I’m not usually this coordinated…or confident, for that matter.
I raise the apple to my mouth to take a bite, stopping just before it touches my lips. Bizarrely, it doesn’t smell like I was expecting it to; in fact, it smells like lemons. I take another big whiff, only to wake up suddenly, in my new bed, with my Marigold-clad hands wrapped around a can of lemon Pledge. So not only did I fall asleep cleaning, but I dreamt the whole sexy gardener thing! I suppose it all makes sense now. I don’t approach men or have a perfectly tidy kitchen, and, now that I think about it, Daniel Craig trimming my bushes in his iconic blue swimming trunks doesn’t sound all that realistic.
Disappointed, I place the Pledge and the gloves down on my (half-polished) bedside table and stretch out my neck and my back before unplugging my phone. I’m just about to mindlessly scroll social networks for a few minutes, like I do every morning, when I see the time. Shit! I’ve overslept! And not only am I going to be late for my first day on the job, but Frankie is going to be late for his first day of school.
I dash to the kitchen and, although it is clean, it’s not as sparkling as it was in my dream and stupidly I can’t help but feel a little disheartened. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with milk from the fridge before charging into Frankie’s room. He’s sleeping so peacefully, I almost don’t want to wake him up. I hope it’s because the bed is comfortable and not because I blitzed his room with too many cleaning products before I put him to bed last night.
‘Wake up, kiddo, we’re late,’ I babble as I place the milk down next to him. ‘Drink milk, brush teeth, put clothes on and meet me in the kitchen.’
‘What?’ Frankie asks, rubbing his eyes.
‘We’re going to be late,’ I tell him. ‘Quick, quick.’
‘Fine,’ he says, sounding a little too much like a moody teenager for my liking.
I dash back into the kitchen, grab his lunchbox and quickly fill it with a ham and cheese bagel, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and one of those little Freddo chocolate bars – his favourite three things, to make him feel as comfortable as possible on his first day. Frankie has never been through anything