Portia MacIntosh - Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

I grab my phone and set an alarm for the morning, to make sure that I arrive at school early enough to have a word with Mrs Snowball. No one messes with my kid.

Chapter 7

Sitting outside the headteacher’s office is not something I ever thought I’d be doing again, not with Frankie being such a little angel.

Back in my school days, my mum would often find herself sitting outside the headteacher’s office with me, waiting to find out what I’d done now . I wasn’t a bad kid, I was just a bit of a rebel.

Looking at me today, you wouldn’t believe what I used to look like. I’m five foot eight, which I’ve always known was tall for a woman, but I only recently learned that my height puts me four inches above the national average, and four inches is a lot – in this context at least. I’m a good shape, I think. Things could be smoother or tighter, but I think everyone thinks that and, anyway, I think my curves complement the girly-girl (creeping into high-maintenance) look I have these days. I like to look good, with my highlighted hair, manicured nails and nice outfits.

Back when I was a teenager though, I was so thin that I looked unhealthy, being so tall. My natural dirty blonde locks were dyed a multitude of colours, sometimes all at once, and my face was a mess of too much eyeliner and plum lipstick, finished off with a nose ring – fake, of course, because for some reason my young, hip, liberal mum wouldn’t let me make holes in my face, and for that I’m extremely thankful now.

I was a young rebel, an activist, a bit of a hippy…I thought I was going to change the world, one small protest at a time. Of course, I was never going to change the world by fighting to make the school kitchen use free range eggs, or switch the floodlit school sign off at night to save electricity, but it felt important for me to make a difference, so I tried. Anytime I was in trouble and my mum was called in, it wasn’t because I was a bad kid, it was usually just because I’d kicked up a fuss about them cutting down a tree in the car park, or because I’d used a black glitter gel pen to draw the anarchy symbol on the back of my hand. Of course, there was that one time 15-year-old me called our geography teacher, Mr Adler, a bastard because he brought a real ivory pen in to show the class – a story which I mistakenly told Frankie, because now he jokes that, so long as he never does anything worse than that, he can never really be in trouble with me.

Sitting here before school starts, waiting for Mrs Snowball to see us, gives me major flashbacks, except this time I’m not in trouble, she is. I still can’t believe she didn’t let my son eat his lunch and the longer I sit out here waiting to speak to Mrs Snowball, the angrier I get.

‘Good morning, Holmes family,’ she says brightly as she opens her office door.

‘Good morning,’ I say politely. ‘I was hoping to have a word about yesterday.’

‘Not a problem,’ Mrs Snowball replies, before turning to her secretary. ‘Tilly, why don’t you take Frankie and get him some breakfast.’

I bite my tongue. Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation without Frankie around.

‘Miss Holmes, step into my office, take a seat,’ Mrs Snowball instructs. ‘It is Miss, isn’t it?’

‘Call me Lily,’ I insist.

‘Lily,’ she says softly, taking a seat behind her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

I glance around Mrs Snowball’s office as I take a seat opposite her. Her office isn’t what I expected, with not a single scrap of paperwork anywhere – everything must be neatly filed. Instead, the desk, cabinets and shelves are all covered with tiny ornamental cottages, each one unique, and with such intricate detail.

Mrs Snowball catches me staring.

‘Do you like my Lilliput Lane collection?’ she asks. ‘Each cottage is a replica of real cottages and scenery in England and Wales. I’ve been collecting them since the Eighties – they stopped making them in 2016, you know, so they mean even more to me now. They bring me such joy.’

I contemplate for a moment exactly how these tiny cottages bring Mrs Snowball so much joy, and I wonder if maybe sometimes she lays them all out on the floor and walks around, pretending to be a giant. I watch as she lightly brushes the rooftop of the snow-covered cottage that sits on her desk with her fingertip. I’m not sure if she’s dusting it or petting it, but it knocks any thoughts of Mrs Snowball playing Gulliver’s Travels out of my head.

‘I wanted to see you, just to see if you could shed any light on what happened yesterday,’ I start. ‘Frankie was starving when he got home from school and, it turns out he hadn’t had any lunch. I asked him why not and, well, he said you wouldn’t let him. I figured it must be a misunderstanding but—’

‘No, that is correct. I confiscated his lunchbox,’ she says firmly.

I can’t help but cock my head.

‘You—’

‘I confiscated his lunch,’ she says again, a little slower this time.

‘Why?’ I ask, absolutely bewildered.

‘He had a bagel.’

I snort with laughter, until I realise she’s being serious.

‘Yeah…so…sorry, I’m so confused. It’s a bagel, not a bomb.’

‘A bagel is the equivalent of three slices of bread, Lily,’ she replies seriously.

‘So is a glass of wine, but he knocks them back, no problem.’

Mrs Snowball scowls at my joke. Jokes are how I deal with confrontation, awkwardness and disagreements, and this situation is all three.

‘And there was chocolate, and crisps .’

‘Oh my gosh, crisps!’ I mock. ‘Not crisps.’

‘Lily, with respect, his lunch was unhealthy and I couldn’t sit by and watch him eat it. I have a moral and legal obligation—’

‘To stop kids eating bagels?’ I interrupt. ‘Look, it was his first day, he was nervous, I just wanted to pack him something nice to cheer him up at lunchtime. Something familiar that would make him happy.’

‘He’s a big boy, Lily. He doesn’t need coddling.’

‘No, he needs feeding,’ I tell her. ‘You really thought it would be better for him not to have anything?’

‘Of course not,’ she replies. ‘I got him a bowl of vegetable soup.’

‘Eight-year-olds don’t eat soup,’ I point out.

‘No, they eat the equivalent of three slices of bread, a few grams of saturated fats and a bar of chocolate, shaped like a frog.’

‘What’s wrong with Freddo?’ I ask, defensively. Freddo is iconic – he was a part of my childhood too. I won’t have a word said against him.

‘They give junk food pretty packages and cute characters to appeal to children and it’s not right,’ she rants. ‘Do you really think this chocolate would appeal to him as much, were it not in the shape of a frog?’

I don’t point out to her that, last Christmas, someone bought him a poop emoji shaped chocolate, which we both gleefully ate as we watched Home Alone and Home Alone 2 back to back in our pyjamas.

‘It was his first day,’ I point out. ‘He also mentioned that none of the other kids would play with him, he said they knew who he was…’

‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Snowball removes her glasses from her nose, allowing them to hang on their chain, around her neck. ‘It would seem that the locals are familiar with your agenda in our town, and no one is happy. Children’s brains are like sponges, if they hear their parents talking about the new family that’s moved in to threaten jobs, well, they’re going to pick up on that.’

‘Mrs Snowball, that is not what is going to happen,’ I insist. ‘He said the kids are saying I’m evil. Don’t you think that’s extreme?’

‘Simon Dawson’s dad is our local butcher,’ she points out. ‘Ella Carr’s dad is the baker.’