When her cupboards were filled and the teas were made, she ushered me through to the tropical heat of her living room. She sat in her favourite chair as I allowed her too-squashy sofa to attempt to eat me alive.
‘I found these at the weekend,’ she said, turning over the yellowing photo album pages with her blue-veined fingers until she found what she was looking for. ‘There –look at this.’
She swung the album to face me and prodded at a photograph. It was a black and white image of an opulent-looking hall filled with a huge crowd of couples, each one solemnly face to face in stiff ballroom holds.
‘This is The Rialto Ballroom in Truro,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s long gone, of course. But believe it or not, this was the happening night spot when I was young.’
‘When was this picture taken?’
‘July 1951. Two months before I left for Canada.’ Her smile carried the wistfulness of many years. ‘I used to dance there twice a week: Wednesday nights when they taught old-time ballroom to a hall full of girls and, of course, Saturday nights when you got to practice with the real thing.’ She winked at me. ‘Saturdays were when the magic happened.’
I looked at the girls with their almost identical dresses and the men looking awkward in ill-fitting suits. ‘So who danced with you?’
She flushed slightly, a wicked glint in her watery blue eyes. ‘Anyone who’d have me.’
‘Mrs C! You little scoundrel!’
‘We-ell, I was young, we’d not long come out of the war and suddenly a lot of young chaps were back on the scene. It would’ve been rude not to indulge.’ She tapped the side of her nose with her finger. ‘But it was only dancing, mind. None of that heavy petting nonsense you see young kids doing today.’
I took a sip of tea and felt the high caffeine content clunk against my teeth. ‘I’m sure you were the perfect picture of virtue.’
She nodded. ‘I was back then. It was only when I came home after Alfie died that I gave proper hanky-panky a go. Couldn’t believe what I’d missed out on…’
I was still reeling from the revelation of Mrs Clements’ late-flowering libido as I drove to my next customer. The warm September sun bathed the villages and fields whizzing past my window in a beautiful light, and I thanked heaven that I was lucky enough to work in such a breathtaking part of the world. After ten miles, the road rose steeply as I approached one of my favourite views: a sudden expanse of Cornish coastline appearing on my left; jagged cliffs falling away from the lush green above, with the wide sweep of perfect blue ocean beyond.
Inevitably, the scene brought bittersweet memories as Isaac’s face flashed into my mind. My Isaac. Until last summer the one and only love of my life. When we were together we would park not far from the road here and stride across the thick, waving grass down to the cliff path, while Django –our over-excitable Jack Russell –bounced around our feet.
I had dealt with a lot of my feelings for Isaac Pemberthy since he’d unceremoniously dumped Django and me, but somehow this single memory refused to budge. Even my dog had something of Isaac he couldn’t let go of. He refused to be parted from one of Isaac’s old socks even though it was now more chewed hole than knitted acrylic. At least Django understood. Maybe that was why I loved spending time on my rounds rather than with my friends, who still saw Isaac occasionally. Maybe I was as lonely as some of Sunnyside’s customers…
Mr Arbuthnot was in a bit of a hurry when I arrived with his delivery, so I quickly unpacked his meals and said goodbye, accepting an old Roses tin full of stodgy homemade flapjacks as his apology for not being able to chat longer. It’s so sweet when my customers make me something, which many of them do. And I’ll always eat it, even if it means I subsequently keep Gaviscon in business for the next few days. Placing the tin carefully on the passenger seat of the van, I set off again.
Mrs Wilson was next. A formidable former headmistress whose husband Eric was apparently so terrified of being in the same room as her that he almost always hid in his shed. Today, he appeared just long enough to pass a lightning-fast comment about the pleasant weather before scurrying back to the safety of the blue larch-lap hut at the bottom of the garden.
‘Always under my feet,’ Mrs Wilson tutted, at which I had to pretend to cough so that she wouldn’t see my smile. ‘Now, how’s your love life, young lady?’
Being quizzed by Mrs Wilson was a little like facing an Eastex-suited firing squad, so I felt compelled to answer. ‘Still quiet, I’m afraid.’
‘I have somebody in mind for you,’ she barked, and the appearance of what I have learned is her version of a smile flashed across her face. ‘My daughter’s boy. Lawyer. Sensible. Probably good-looking. Thoughts?’
‘I’ll certainly bear him in mind,’ I replied, not wanting to hurt her feelings but terrified by the thought of Mrs Wilson as a grandmother-in-law. ‘But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.’
‘Nonsense!’ She stirred her tea with military precision. ‘There’s no such thing as being ready when it comes to courtship. When Eric told me we were getting married I wept myself to sleep for weeks. But he was right. And here we are.’
Eric Wilson told his wife they were getting married? Today was certainly the day for revelations. The thought of the timid, pale-faced old man doing his best Rhett Butler impression amused me all the way to the next address on my list.
The address belonged to a Mr Timothy Gardner –a name I wasn’t familiar with. Smiling to myself as I parked beside a small, whitewashed fisherman’s cottage at the head of a tiny fishing village, I set the stopwatch on my mobile phone.
Seven-point-five minutes with the new customer. We’ll see about that, Trev.
I knocked several times before the door opened, revealing a tall, slender-limbed man with stunning blue eyes and a dramatic sweep of white hair forming an impressive quiff. He was dressed in a faded granddad shirt over corduroy trousers with bare feet, and immediately stood out from my other customers because I found it impossible to guess his age.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Emily from Sunnyside Meals on Wheels?’
He pushed his reading glasses up onto the top of his head and jutted out his hand in a hurried handshake.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said, a blush creeping across his tanned face. ‘I must confess this is the first time I’ve done this. Since my hip trouble I’ve been finding it difficult to get out. Can’t drive, you see. Doctor’s orders. I’ve only just moved back to the area after living in the States for thirty years, so I’m still finding my feet in the village. And those online delivery things scare me to death…Oh.’ His eyes fell on the heavy box in my hands as I waited politely on the doorstep and he quickly invited me inside. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, do come in.’
His walk was stilted and painful, leaning heavily on a polished mahogany walking cane in his left hand as he made slow progress towards the kitchen at the rear of the cottage. I followed at a respectful distance, not wanting to pressure him or draw attention to his snail-like pace.
The kitchen was bright and airy: teal painted bespoke units, a Belfast sink and a large Aga-style stove nestled around a central island illuminated by halogen spotlights embedded into the low ceiling. I could imagine Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall cooking with uncontrolled glee in a room like this and Mr Gardner appeared quite at home in it. He opened a large cupboard door, which concealed a full-height fridge.
‘If you could pop the meals in here, that would be wonderful.’
‘No problem.’ I opened the box and began to stock