Katey Lovell - The Café in Fir Tree Park

“I’ll do my best, for them and for you. I promise you, Pearl, I’ll never let you down.”

The words are so beautiful that I want to make the same promise back, but I can’t bring myself to speak. I’m not the person Alf thinks I am. By keeping the secrets of two summers ago from him I’ve already let him down.

But I did it to protect him, because it would break his heart if he knew. That’s why he must never find out. He must never know that I am already a mother.

Fir Tree Park’s one of those delightful places that exudes beauty whatever the season, and I know how lucky I am to work here. I’m blessed with the opportunity to appreciate its magnificence all year round; when the muted blanket of fallen leaves coats the weaving paths and walkways in autumn (well worthy of the admiration they get from welly-wearing dog walkers and exuberant toddlers alike) and when the icy layer atop the lake sparkles with winter wonder, pretty enough to adorn any Christmas card. And spring’s pale pink buds of cherry blossom are a welcome vision, cheery and uplifting in the extreme.

But during the summer months there’s something extra special about the park. It’s abuzz with life, more so than at any other point in the year. Once the days become longer crowds come out of hibernation, everyone keen to capitalize on the extra hours of sunlight. The armies of new mums pushing the latest must-have buggies walk with increased purpose and drive, office workers bring their sandwiches and cans of Coke on to the flat plain of grass in front of the café at lunchtime instead of wolfing their food down at their desks, and the fair-weather joggers whose trainers haven’t seen any action since the clocks went back – they all return to the park as the weather brightens up.

As the owner of The Lake House Café, a popular meeting point in Fir Tree Park, I’m delighted to see the park at its busiest. Busy means business and that can only be a good thing. But there’s more to it than that. It gives me a warm glow to see the masses celebrating the great outdoors; the children splashing in the waterpark, the keen-to-please parents puffing away as they exhaust themselves on the pedalos and rickety rowing boats, the dogs chasing their tails on the large, lush lawn. These people are my people. There’s an affinity between us. Knowing the café is at the heart of both the park and the community makes me so proud I could burst.

Every day starts the same way, with me rustling up cakes in the small yet pristine kitchen at the back of the café.

“Looks like it’ll be another busy one,” I call out to my eighteen-year-old daughter, Kelly. She’s up bright and early especially to help me set up for the day ahead. “I might have to conjure up another lemon drizzle cake.”

Even the thought of running out of cakes brings me out in a cold sweat. Heaven forbid it actually happens: there’d be nothing worse than demand outstripping supply. When I opened the café my mission was for every customer to leave happy, satisfied and itching to return. It’s still my aim now, nine years on.

Kelly’s laugh rings out as she continues to wipe the red and white polka dot oilcloths that cover the tables. I can see her smirking through the serving hatch. “There’s no chance you’ll sell out of cake. You’re a baking machine!”

Deep down I know she’s right – once I get started I can’t stop myself – but there’s a loyal band of customers who come to the café year-round in order to satisfy their sweet tooth. It’s all about giving them a varied choice, ensuring people can have the old favourites if they so choose with a few more experimental options thrown in for the more adventurous clientele.

That’s why from the moment I arrive at the café each morning and pull my cream chef’s apron over my head I’m in the kitchen mixing up batters and doughs like a whirling dervish. By the time the doors open at 8.30am a deliciously sweet smell permeates the air – people say that’s what makes it nigh on impossible to resist my wares. The baking continues on and off all day, even if the café’s already well-stocked with an array of yummy cakes and biscuits. The waft of sugar lingers so you can taste it with each breath, tempting customers to buy a slice of sponge for the road as well as one to go with their drink-in cappuccino. It’s a happy, homely scent. The kind those reed diffusers try (and fail) to mimic.

My over-baking is a source of great amusement to everyone. Staff often end up taking brown paper bags stuffed full of the leftover goodies home with them at the end of the day – chocolate chip cookies that don’t snap until they’re almost bent double; rich chocolate cupcakes with lavish buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles; and of course, generous wedges of my signature lemon drizzle cake. They say it’s a perk of the job, taking the unsold goods home. I say it gives me a chance to do more baking the next day, so it’s win-win.

“The day we run out of cake is the day hell freezes over,” Kelly calls out. She’s facing the other way, yet I can almost hear the sarcastic eyeroll that no doubt accompanies her words. “It’ll never happen.”

“I hope you’re right,” I answer cheerily, “but I might do something quick, just to be on the safe side. Another Malteser fridge cake, maybe?”

Kelly pops her head into the kitchen and lets out a long, purposeful sigh. Even when frustrated and flustered she looks beautiful – blonde, lean and glowing. Youth wrapped up in a neat daughter-sized package. “I know you’ll not listen to a word I say, but there’s plenty, and you’ve got a fridge full of millionaire’s shortbread too, remember? You’re making work for yourself again, Mum.”

“It keeps me busy. Stops me having time to worry about you.”

It’s a tongue-in-cheek remark, but the truth nonetheless. Being a parent is terrifying at the best of times, and when exams are looming and you can do nothing to help but provide them with tea and cake, parenting is ramped up to a whole new level. If I’d known how much brain-space kids take up, I’d have thought longer and harder before having them. Not that I regret Josh and Kelly, not for a minute, but I had them young – too young probably – and now I’m a forty-year-old single parent on the verge of an empty nest.

I’ve done my best for the pair of them, but there have been many, many times I’ve fallen short. The days they had to wear their grubby school sweaters for a third time because I’d not had chance to put a wash on, or when I was forced to serve beans on toast for tea four nights in a row because I couldn’t afford anything more substantial. Things have been tight over the years, in terms of both time and money, and I never understood it before, but I realise now that sometimes you can be doing your best and it’s still not enough.

“When you get home you can knuckle down to that history revision. There’s only three weeks until your exam, remember.” I throw a pointed look in my daughter’s direction, willing her into action.

“I am aware,” Kelly says brusquely, every inch the know-it-all teenager.

It’s a funny age, eighteen. She looks like a young woman but still has the capability to act like a petulant child. Her long blonde hair’s cascading down her back and her hand’s jauntily placed on her hip. Attitude aplenty, although she’s a good girl, mostly.

“It’s me that’s going to be panicking about it, not you,” she fires.

‘Ha, that’s what you think,’ I want to say. It might be Kelly revising long into the night and it might be her again, sat at a small, square desk to frantically scribble down everything she remembers about World War I and the Industrial Revolution on exam day, but I’ll have as many sleepless nights over these A-levels as she will. They’re all-consuming, I remember how it was with Josh.