Romantic Association - Truly, Madly, Deeply

Mr Arbuthnot was in a bit of a hurry when I arrived with his delivery, so I quickly unpacked his meals and said goodbye, accepting an old Roses tin full of stodgy homemade flapjacks as his apology for not being able to chat longer. It’s so sweet when my customers make me something, which many of them do. And I’ll always eat it, even if it means I subsequently keep Gaviscon in business for the next few days. Placing the tin carefully on the passenger seat of the van, I set off again.

Mrs Wilson was next. A formidable former headmistress whose husband Eric was apparently so terrified of being in the same room as her that he almost always hid in his shed. Today, he appeared just long enough to pass a lightning-fast comment about the pleasant weather before scurrying back to the safety of the blue larch-lap hut at the bottom of the garden.

‘Always under my feet,’ Mrs Wilson tutted, at which I had to pretend to cough so that she wouldn’t see my smile. ‘Now, how’s your love life, young lady?’

Being quizzed by Mrs Wilson was a little like facing an Eastex-suited firing squad, so I felt compelled to answer. ‘Still quiet, I’m afraid.’

‘I have somebody in mind for you,’ she barked, and the appearance of what I have learned is her version of a smile flashed across her face. ‘My daughter’s boy. Lawyer. Sensible. Probably good-looking. Thoughts?’

‘I’ll certainly bear him in mind,’ I replied, not wanting to hurt her feelings but terrified by the thought of Mrs Wilson as a grandmother-in-law. ‘But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.’

‘Nonsense!’ She stirred her tea with military precision. ‘There’s no such thing as being ready when it comes to courtship. When Eric told me we were getting married I wept myself to sleep for weeks. But he was right. And here we are.’

Eric Wilson told his wife they were getting married? Today was certainly the day for revelations. The thought of the timid, pale-faced old man doing his best Rhett Butler impression amused me all the way to the next address on my list.

The address belonged to a Mr Timothy Gardner –a name I wasn’t familiar with. Smiling to myself as I parked beside a small, whitewashed fisherman’s cottage at the head of a tiny fishing village, I set the stopwatch on my mobile phone.

Seven-point-five minutes with the new customer. We’ll see about that, Trev .

I knocked several times before the door opened, revealing a tall, slender-limbed man with stunning blue eyes and a dramatic sweep of white hair forming an impressive quiff. He was dressed in a faded granddad shirt over corduroy trousers with bare feet, and immediately stood out from my other customers because I found it impossible to guess his age.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Emily from Sunnyside Meals on Wheels?’

He pushed his reading glasses up onto the top of his head and jutted out his hand in a hurried handshake.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said, a blush creeping across his tanned face. ‘I must confess this is the first time I’ve done this. Since my hip trouble I’ve been finding it difficult to get out. Can’t drive, you see. Doctor’s orders. I’ve only just moved back to the area after living in the States for thirty years, so I’m still finding my feet in the village. And those online delivery things scare me to death…Oh.’ His eyes fell on the heavy box in my hands as I waited politely on the doorstep and he quickly invited me inside. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, do come in.’

His walk was stilted and painful, leaning heavily on a polished mahogany walking cane in his left hand as he made slow progress towards the kitchen at the rear of the cottage. I followed at a respectful distance, not wanting to pressure him or draw attention to his snail-like pace.

The kitchen was bright and airy: teal painted bespoke units, a Belfast sink and a large Aga-style stove nestled around a central island illuminated by halogen spotlights embedded into the low ceiling. I could imagine Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall cooking with uncontrolled glee in a room like this and Mr Gardner appeared quite at home in it. He opened a large cupboard door, which concealed a full-height fridge.

‘If you could pop the meals in here, that would be wonderful.’

‘No problem.’ I opened the box and began to stock his fridge with Sunnyside’s finest meal selection, noticing that he had opted for the ‘deluxe’ menu. Not many of our customers could afford this top-of-the-range option. In fact, only Mrs Clements had ever ordered it before, and that was after she won a couple of hundred pounds from a bet on the Grand National last year. No wonder Mum and Trev were keen for me to impress our new customer.

Closing the fridge door, I turned back to Mr Gardner and smiled. ‘You’re all stocked for the week, Mr Gardner.’

‘Tim, please. Mr Gardner makes me sound like my father and he’s been dead over twenty years. Look, I don’t suppose you have time for a cuppa? I’ve not long boiled the kettle and it’d be lovely to share it with someone.’

I thought about the stopwatch on my mobile monitoring the precious Sunnyside seconds being wasted in the name of good manners. Sod it . Mum and Trev weren’t to know whether I was delayed by illegal conversations or backed-up traffic caused by a farm tractor.

‘That sounds wonderful.’

He appeared both genuinely shocked and delighted at once. ‘Great. That’s great!’

We sat on stools at the wide kitchen island and I thanked him as he passed me tea in an Emma Bridgewater mug. ‘How long have you been in St Merryn?’ I asked.

‘Four months. My son brokered the deal for me while I was still in California selling my house and wrapping up the business. I sold it for a song,’ he grinned and I found myself grinning back.

My mobile phone began to ring and I glanced at the screen: Trevor Mitchell calling.

Honestly, the nerve of the man! Barely six months with my mum and suddenly he was muscling in on her business. Well, until the odious busybody was paying my wages, he could stick his opinions right up his…

‘So what made you decide to return?’ I asked Tim, even more determined now to smash boring Trev’s seven-point-five minute target.

‘Nostalgia, I suppose. I’m a Cornishman: it was inevitable Kernow would call me back eventually. And I wanted to be close to Ethan, my son. I’ve always loved St Merryn and thanks to the success of my business sale I can finally afford to live here.’

My phone buzzed angrily: New message from Trevor Mitchell.

I ignored it. ‘Well, you have a lovely home.’ Remembering my job, I added, ‘Let me know if there are any changes you’d like to make for next week’s menu. Here’s my number.’

He accepted my business card. ‘Thank you. Hey, I don’t suppose you know anywhere that does old-time ballroom dancing around here, do you? Call it nostalgia but I was remembering my misspent youth today and suddenly had a hankering for a dance. I know The Rialto Ballroom in Truro closed years ago.’

I stared at him, amused. ‘It’s funny you should mention that. One of my other clients showed me a photo of The Rialto this morning.’

‘Well I never. Do you know when it was taken?’

I thought back to my conversation with Mrs C. ‘1951. July, I think.’

His smile vanished. ‘Really? How – strange…’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t know if this breaks any confidentiality rules but is there any way your customer would lend it to me? Just to have a look?’

I hesitated. ‘I’m not really sure…’ It was Mrs C’s personal memory she had shared with me and I didn’t think I could promise something that wasn’t mine to offer.

‘I’d be really interested to see it again. The time it was taken –Well, it’s uncanny. There’s a reason I loved that place: a very good reason…’