Read Online The Grand Reopening of Dandelion Café by Jenny Oliver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenny Oliver
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they’ll be clean in a jiffy. I’ll do it,’ she said, getting an apron, a bottle of Cif and some rubber gloves out of her bag like Mary Poppins. The whole thing was clearly completely premeditated but unmentionable.
Annie left her mum to it and glanced around for her next job. Martha was scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees with a tea towel wrapped round her hair like Cinderella, Ludo was clearing out the kitchen with a newly clean Buster bashing about with pans and tins and jars making an absolute racket, Holly had arrived an hour previously with a load of picture frames she didn’t need and was working with River to reframe some of the old black and white Cherry Pie Island photographs that had been dotted about on the walls. Buster, to whom Holly was second favourite only to Matthew, came bounding out of the kitchen, moving faster than Annie had ever seen him, and wound his way around and through Holly’s legs until she eventually picked him up and allowed him to snuggle into her neck.
As the dog was making himself comfortable, Annie examined Holly from a distance, tried to see if there was a baby bump underneath her sweatshirt. She decided there was no way she was pregnant. No way at all. Holly didn’t have long-term boyfriends. She had men who fell head over heels in love with her that she occasionally deigned to go for a drink with. She was terrified of commitment and hid it under a veneer of pickiness. Always had. Ever since her mum had left. The closest Holly got to a relationship was picking Buster up off the floor.
‘You OK?’ Annie asked, sidling up next to her, wondering whether to just come right out and ask whether she was with child.
Holly glanced up from where the dog was nuzzling her neck, a bit taken aback by the question, ‘Yes thanks, Annie.’
‘Good, good, just checking. Just checking,’ Annie said, and pretended to be more interested in the photographs on the table. Pictures which, when she did actually look at them properly, turned out to capture beautifully the history of the island.
There were photos of the men up ladders, picking the cherries, eight-piece hats on and braces, big wide grins for the camera. Others were of the women making the pies that used to be sold to visiting boats or boxed up and driven away in Cherry Pie vans to all the bakeries and corner shops. There was one of the cafe, Enid wearing a fifties jumpsuit, grey with cropped trousers, her hair set in black curls with a scarf tied in a bow on the top of her head, baby Martha in her arms, standing outside the gleaming windows of the brand-new cafe. Annie’s grandfather was standing next to her, and her father as a boy pulling a wooden duck on a string. Behind them she could just make out the cherry trees, some tall, craggy and old, some newly planted. The sycamore was barely visible. The area around the cafe was completely undeveloped and the orchard floor sprawled forth onto the rubble path; cowslips, daisies and dandelions scattered among the too-long grass. She took the photo from River as she looked over his shoulder and he waited silently as she stared at it, moved her fingers from each face.
‘That’s my dad,’ she said as she gave it back. ‘There, the little kid. That was my dad.’
River nodded.
‘It would have been cool if he’d seen this,’ she said, looking up at the renovations. ‘God, you really don’t know how much you’re going to miss someone till they’re gone,’ she said, then added, ‘Make the most of them while you have them.’
River looked at her with one brow raised, his expression exactly like his dad’s.
Annie smiled as innocently as she could, knowing she’d laid it on a bit thick, but feeling sentimental.
‘Let me see!’ Her mother called, completely ruining the moment. ‘Bring it over here, let me see him.’
River took the photo over and her mum paused in her wall-scrubbing, held the corner of the picture between the finger and thumb of her rubber glove
Annie left her mum to it and glanced around for her next job. Martha was scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees with a tea towel wrapped round her hair like Cinderella, Ludo was clearing out the kitchen with a newly clean Buster bashing about with pans and tins and jars making an absolute racket, Holly had arrived an hour previously with a load of picture frames she didn’t need and was working with River to reframe some of the old black and white Cherry Pie Island photographs that had been dotted about on the walls. Buster, to whom Holly was second favourite only to Matthew, came bounding out of the kitchen, moving faster than Annie had ever seen him, and wound his way around and through Holly’s legs until she eventually picked him up and allowed him to snuggle into her neck.
As the dog was making himself comfortable, Annie examined Holly from a distance, tried to see if there was a baby bump underneath her sweatshirt. She decided there was no way she was pregnant. No way at all. Holly didn’t have long-term boyfriends. She had men who fell head over heels in love with her that she occasionally deigned to go for a drink with. She was terrified of commitment and hid it under a veneer of pickiness. Always had. Ever since her mum had left. The closest Holly got to a relationship was picking Buster up off the floor.
‘You OK?’ Annie asked, sidling up next to her, wondering whether to just come right out and ask whether she was with child.
Holly glanced up from where the dog was nuzzling her neck, a bit taken aback by the question, ‘Yes thanks, Annie.’
‘Good, good, just checking. Just checking,’ Annie said, and pretended to be more interested in the photographs on the table. Pictures which, when she did actually look at them properly, turned out to capture beautifully the history of the island.
There were photos of the men up ladders, picking the cherries, eight-piece hats on and braces, big wide grins for the camera. Others were of the women making the pies that used to be sold to visiting boats or boxed up and driven away in Cherry Pie vans to all the bakeries and corner shops. There was one of the cafe, Enid wearing a fifties jumpsuit, grey with cropped trousers, her hair set in black curls with a scarf tied in a bow on the top of her head, baby Martha in her arms, standing outside the gleaming windows of the brand-new cafe. Annie’s grandfather was standing next to her, and her father as a boy pulling a wooden duck on a string. Behind them she could just make out the cherry trees, some tall, craggy and old, some newly planted. The sycamore was barely visible. The area around the cafe was completely undeveloped and the orchard floor sprawled forth onto the rubble path; cowslips, daisies and dandelions scattered among the too-long grass. She took the photo from River as she looked over his shoulder and he waited silently as she stared at it, moved her fingers from each face.
‘That’s my dad,’ she said as she gave it back. ‘There, the little kid. That was my dad.’
River nodded.
‘It would have been cool if he’d seen this,’ she said, looking up at the renovations. ‘God, you really don’t know how much you’re going to miss someone till they’re gone,’ she said, then added, ‘Make the most of them while you have them.’
River looked at her with one brow raised, his expression exactly like his dad’s.
Annie smiled as innocently as she could, knowing she’d laid it on a bit thick, but feeling sentimental.
‘Let me see!’ Her mother called, completely ruining the moment. ‘Bring it over here, let me see him.’
River took the photo over and her mum paused in her wall-scrubbing, held the corner of the picture between the finger and thumb of her rubber glove
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