‘Where’s all the stuff?’ Frankie asks.
‘I was just wondering that,’ I reply, strolling around, taking in my surroundings.
An overly minimalist kitchen (what you’d call it if you were being kind) sits at the back of an open-plan living/dining area.
The kitchen boasts a worktop, a small fridge freezer and what I’d guess is a gas cooker and oven. There’s a dining table with exactly three chairs, all of which have seen better days, and a living area that consists of a truly Eighties-style plush, grey three-seater sofa with a wood-and-brass trim, sitting across from a retro looking wooden TV cabinet (TV not included).
To the left are three doors, which I’m guessing are the two bedrooms and the bathroom – please, God, let one of the rooms be a bathroom. I don’t think I noticed an outhouse in the garden, but I don’t think I’d be at all surprised to learn the place didn’t have any plumbing. Thankfully, there is one.
A quick scout of all rooms confirms they are as minimal as the rest of the place but, worst of all, everything is so dusty. If this were an Airbnb rental, they would surely be getting an overly generous one-star rating from me – probably from Frankie too, who is currently coming down from his garden high as he tries to wrap his head around the indoor TV aerial. He extends the silver rods one at a time before quickly and carefully putting it down, just in case it’s something scary.
I cast my mind back to what Eric, one of my bosses, told me about the cottage. He said it was an ex holiday home, and that it was furnished. I suppose it is furnished, technically, but I didn’t expect something so retro.
Wow, did I just get catfished by a house? Now that I think about it, despite the cute, rural look of the outside of the cottage, perhaps the ivy might be the only thing holding the place together. This is a new low for me. I can’t wait to write this in my new diary.
‘This place sucks,’ Frankie says frankly.
Any other day, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but my fresh-start enthusiasm is still surging through my veins. ‘It’s all easily fixable, kiddo. We’ll fill it with our own things, we’ll clean the place up, we’ll buy the things we don’t have. It’s going to be great. This way, we get to put even more of our own spin on the place and really make it our own.’
Our moving van won’t be here until tomorrow, so for now we only have the essentials with us. But once we have all our own things, I’m sure we can make this place feel just like home.
Frankie pulls a face. I don’t think he’s buying it. I believe what I’m saying though. I’ll bring our stuff in, we can go out for some food, I’ll buy some cleaning products and everything will be great. I just need to keep telling myself that. Everything will be great.
I knew that Marram Bay was small, but it’s only now that I’m here, in it, that I can feel just how small it is.
I felt that, given my little scene earlier, it was best we stay away from, well, whatever it was that was going down on the seafront. But, it turns out the main street is on the seafront, so we’re not having much luck finding somewhere to get dinner further inland. As you travel into Marram Bay, first you pass the farms, then you enter the residential area. If you keep going you’ll wind up in the touristy bit, where the seafront is, but trying to find somewhere to eat that isn’t in the heart of the town is proving difficult.
It seemed like Clara’s, a little café sitting between a row of cottages and a small park in the residential area, might be our saviour, but despite their opening hours including Sunday afternoons, the door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside.
‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Frankie says, tugging on the bottom of my jacket as I peer through the glass door, my face pressed as close to the glass as I can get it.
‘Can I help you?’ a man’s voice asks from behind us.
I turn around quickly to see a couple, maybe in their sixties, standing at the gate, at the bottom of the café’s little front garden. We’re on the main road into town but I didn’t hear them coming, which means they must have walked here – something that becomes more apparent when I realise the man is struggling to catch his breath. The man is wearing some kind of soldier outfit, just like I saw many people at the seafront wearing, and the woman is wearing a red dress teamed with red pumps, a white cardigan and a fox fur scarf that I so hope isn’t real. As they walk up the path I get a better look at the fox, which still has its face, its tail – even its claws. It’s not just an eerie sight, seeing its little face upsets me and makes me uncomfortable. The smiling faces of the couple make me feel more at ease.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally finding the words. ‘We just moved here and we were looking for somewhere to eat.’
‘We’re closed today,’ the man informs us. ‘Been down at the Forties Weekend.’
‘Oh, the Forties Weekend,’ I echo. ‘We wondered what was going on, didn’t we, kiddo?’
Frankie clings to my leg, silently.
‘Yeah, once a year we all get dressed up in our Forties best and we have a big celebration. We remember the war, raise money for charity – and, well, everyone goes so no point opening up today.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you.’
I usher Frankie along the path a little, only for the lady to gently place her hand on my forearm. I turn to face her, making eye contact with her fox for a moment, before shifting my glance to her eyes.
‘Don’t worry, my love, it’s not real. I got it from a fancy dress shop,’ she explains with a warm smile. ‘Come in, we can open up for Marram Bay’s newest family.’
‘Oh, no, please,’ I insist.
‘Mum,’ Frankie whispers. ‘I’m hungry.’
The lady smiles at me and there’s this warmth in her eyes…before I have a chance to think too much about it, I accept their generous offer.
Inside, Clara’s is exactly as you’d expect a country café to be. It’s cosy and kitsch, with no two pieces of crockery, cutlery, furniture of soft furnishings the same – even the windows have different curtains around them.
As the man ushers us towards one of the wooden tables, the woman fetches some menus and places them down in front of us.
‘I’m Clara,’ she says. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’
Henry gives us a nod as he takes a seat at the table next to us. He extends one leg out straight, which reminds me that I noticed he had a limp.
‘I’m Lily,’ I say. ‘And this is my son, Frankie. It’s so nice to meet you both.’
I glance over the menu.
‘So what can I get you?’ Clara asks as she removes her fox and fastens her apron.
‘What’s your poison, lad?’ Henry asks Frankie, lightly bumping his shoulder with a fist.
Frankie stares at me.
‘He’s asking what you want to drink,’ I assure him with a smile. ‘Juice?’
He nods. I reach across the table and brush his wild, curly brown hair away from his eyes. I am quite pale, with natural golden blonde hair – not that you can tell, because I have peroxide highlights – and green eyes, but Frankie takes after his dad. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slight natural tan. He’s so cute, with his little button nose and his cheeky little dimples. I still can’t believe I made him.
‘And to eat?’