Poppy Blake - The Windmill Café - Summer Breeze

‘I hope there are enough sandwiches to go round. Do you think I should make a few more of the salmon and cucumber?’

‘Stop fretting, Rosie. Everything’s perfect!’

Rosie didn’t share her friend’s optimism. Life just wasn’t like that – or rather, hers wasn’t. She often felt like she was one of those characters from a comic book who walked around with a rain cloud dangling over her head whilst everyone else basked in glorious sunshine.

Nevertheless, it looked like her luck might be changing at last, or maybe old Mrs Faversham, one of the Windmill Café’s regular customers, was onto something. That day’s sunrise had brought a clear blue sky and the barest whisper of a breeze. Perfect for an end-of-summer garden party, but not so ideal if you worked in a kitchen. And a tiny one at that. Well, what did she expect when she chose to earn her living in a café in a windmill? Bijoux was overstating it!

However, apart from the heat, she adored the quirky teashop with its circular whitewashed walls – inside and out – and the most fabulous sails that she had persuaded Graham to paint a cool peppermint green. Only, the colour choice wasn’t doing its job today. Temperatures had soared during the last week and it was on course to be the hottest August on record.

Since moving to Willerby, Rosie had become an expert on the weather. She had to be. It was a skill required of anyone in charge of a café in the Norfolk countryside that was frequented by tourists, ramblers, and most of the patrons of the outward-bound activity centre on the outskirts of the village. What the meteorological gods had planned for any given day was a favourite topic of conversation and one she usually enjoyed discussing – except when the mercury recorded thirty-two degrees and she was melting like a discarded ice cream. She knew her cheeks were glowing – not an attractive sight alongside her amber curls.

‘Do you think it would be rude to ask Suki Richards for her autograph?’ asked Mia biting into a cucumber sandwich, her pinkie fingers sticking out at right-angles.

With her long mahogany waves held back in an Alice band of daisies and dressed in a flared summer cotton jumpsuit, Mia looked every inch a Sixties flower child – despite the fact that she hadn’t even been born then. As slender as a shop mannequin, she bounded through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Her talents were many; not only was she famous for the lightness of her cheese scones, she also designed her own wide selection of aprons. She showcased a different one every day, mostly made from fabric she bought from market stalls. Only that morning, as they prepared to whip up a batch of the mini-Victoria sponge cakes for the garden party, Rosie had been forced to perform a double-take when Mia tied her apron strings around her midriff – only heaving a sigh of relief when she worked out that the pattern was, in fact, links of sausages and not something altogether more risqué.

‘Maybe you should wait until later when everyone’s finished eating, when the wine is flowing, and the vibe is more relaxed?’

‘Good idea. Oh, hello there, vicar. Are you having fun?’

‘I am indeed, Mia, thank you,’ smiled the vicar, smoothing his palm over his comb-over before turning his attention to Rosie. ‘The flower arrangements are absolutely wonderful, my dear. I particularly like what you’ve done with the bamboo. Very creative, I must say. In fact, the whole afternoon is an absolute triumph!’

‘Thank you, Reverend. I am hoping that if the inaugural summer party is a success, Graham might be more inclined to change his mind about the Hallowe’en and Christmas parties I’ve got planned.’

‘Gosh, you are a busy bee!’

‘I just want to give something back to the village. I’ve only been here for a few months and already it feels like home. I want people to know how much I love Willerby and how grateful I am for their unwavering support. But tell me one thing. Is it always so hot here? I know I asked for sunshine this afternoon, but this heat is bordering on tropical!’

‘Best be careful! If the weather gods hear you criticizing them, they may decide to take their revenge. We don’t want a wash-out like we had at the church fête last month, do we?’

‘Definitely not! I had visions of the holiday lodges floating out of the field like miniature houseboats on a tidal wave!’

As Reverend Coulson strolled away in search of a cup of his favourite camomile tea, Rosie glanced over Mia’s shoulder at the upmarket holiday site behind the windmill where six luxury lodges – along with a gorgeous shepherd’s hut painted peppermint-and-white – could be hired by affluent holidaymakers who craved a taste of the English countryside but refused to ditch the luxury lifestyle. Each lodge had been crafted from the best Scandinavian pine to produce a hi-spec home-away-from-home, equipped with SMEG appliances, Gaggia coffee machines, thousand-thread-count sheets and fluffy white Christy towels that were changed every day irrespective of whether the occupants had used them.

She sighed. How wonderful it would be to live in one of those wooden cabins, to be able to relax in the outdoor spa after a long, hard day slaving away in the café, gazing up at the stars with a glass of prosecco in one hand and a cookery book in the other.

But she couldn’t complain; she loved the tiny, perfectly circular studio that came with the job of café manager, baker, waitress, and reluctant washer-upper because Graham steadfastly refused to install a dishwasher. From her kitchen sink, she had an uninterrupted view of a patchwork of fields and woodland, stitched together with emerald hedgerows, and if she spun around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, she could feast her eyes on an endless stretch of silver-blue sea sparkling with a sheen of iridescent pearls.

When she had walked out of her life in London, she had never in her wildest dreams thought she would be fortunate enough to live in a converted windmill. The flat was the ideal retreat for a heartbroken ex-florist who had left behind all the hurt and recriminations and, against the odds, managed to get her life back on track in a tiny village in the Norfolk countryside. She still sent up regular missives of effusive thanks to her guardian angel for returning to duty in the nick of time.

‘So, Mia,’ giggled Rosie, ‘which of old Mrs Faversham’s suggestions for a sun-filled afternoon did you try out in the end? Did you dance naked under a silver moon with marigolds in your hair? Or maybe you decided to go with rustling up one of her herbal recipes as a peace offering to the “rain nymphs”? Both are ridiculous, if you ask me.’

‘Well, whatever your opinion of the dark arts, her magic seems to have worked! Come on, let’s grab Matt and Freddie before they disappear. Maybe we can persuade them to help us with the tidying up and then we can all go for a celebratory drink in the Drunken Duck afterwards. I’ve noticed how well you and Matt have been getting on recently,’ Mia added, an impish glint in her eye. ‘Just say if the two of you would rather be alone .’

Rosie rolled her eyes at her friend and shook her head. Whilst she was grateful for Mia’s easy acceptance of a new arrival in her friendship group, if she thought she was setting her up with the local Action Man, she would be sorely disappointed.

She’d had it with love.

‘Hey, Rosie, great party!’ declared Freddie, hoovering up the leftover desserts like he was on a gastronomic safari. ‘Did I ever tell you that you make the most amazing cakes?’

‘Oh, but Rosie is a woman of many talents, Freddie,’ said Mia, casting a surreptitious glance in Matt’s direction to make sure he was listening whilst she listed her friend’s numerous attributes. ‘Not only is she a brilliant baker, she’s a fabulous café manager, a demon organizer, and don’t forget she used to be a super-talented florist in London. She was even commissioned to design the bouquets and bridesmaids’ posies for the weddings of several TV stars.’