The Cafe in Sweet Meadow Park (Sweet Meadow Park #2)

Chapter 1

Fiona Tedstone peered through the net curtain out of her bedroom window and scowled. Rapping sharply on the glass, she yelled, ‘Scat! Go away,’ then muttered, ‘I hate that cat,’ as she watched the ginger tom saunter down her path, waving its tail in the air and giving her a bird’s eye view of its bottom. No doubt it had just done its business in her flower beds.

She glared at it until it had slunk through a hole in the fence and disappeared, her scowl deepening. It looked like she would have to have a word with the cat’s owner. Again.

It never did any good, but at least she tried. Fiona didn’t see why the woman couldn’t keep it indoors, or make sure it pooed in its own garden and not Fiona’s. At the very least, the animal’s owner could clean up after it. Fiona had even offered to supply the poo bags, but the scorn that had been rained down on her had taken her aback. Dog owners were expected to pick up their pet’s mess. Why weren’t cat owners?

And why did the annoying creature choose her garden? What was wrong with its own? Or the park? She wasn’t advocating that it left its mess on the paths, but there was the meadow and all that woodland it could use as a litter tray.

She would phone the council and make them aware of her displeasure, and maybe they would do something about it. She wasn’t going to hold her breath, though. Look at all the times she’d phoned them about the state of Sweet Meadow Park, and they hadn’t lifted a finger. It had taken a slip of a girl (Fiona was allowed to call Molly that because she was more than old enough to be her mother) to tidy it up and breathe life back into it. The council ought to be ashamed of itself.

Mind you, Molly had had some help. Bill Greaves, the grumpy old so-and-so, had surprised Fiona by rousing the townsfolk and rounding up some volunteers. But what had beggared belief as far as Fiona was concerned, was that Molly’s fella actually worked for the council – and in the very department responsible for the park’s maintenance!

She must have left him a hundred messages, but he hadn’t got back to her once. Still, he seemed nice enough when you got to know him, despite his inability to return a phone call. And she supposed he had tried to help with the issue of kids hanging around the park in the evenings and causing havoc, by locking the park gates at night. He had landed himself in hot water with the council over that, although no one mentioned it because he’d saved that boy from drowning in the pond. As far as Fiona was concerned, the silly boy had no business being in the park at that time of night. Where were his parents, she wanted to know. Kids these days have no boundaries and no consequences, she grumbled to herself, although that cheeky little bugger – what was his name? Liam, that was it! – had helped Bill round up some of the local residents and persuaded them to pull their fingers out and help sort out the damned park. That had been a good day. Fiona had been in her element making hot dogs for everyone. It had felt nice to be needed.

Which reminded her… she was supposed to be meeting Molly outside the park’s boarded-up cafe this morning. Molly had a mad-cap idea to get it running again, and she wanted Fiona’s input. But that wasn’t all Molly wanted. Fiona distinctly remembered Molly suggesting that Fiona would be just the person to run it.

Huh! Not on your nelly! She’d had enough of running cafes. After all, she had owned the one in the square for more years than she cared to remember. She’d sold it so she could have a bit of time for herself to enjoy her remaining years, not to work in a damned cafe in the middle of the town’s park. A thankless task that would be. Anyway, the building was in a state, so it was going to take more than wishful thinking on Molly’s part to get it up and running again.

As Fiona sat on the bottom stair to put her shoes on, a memory of her mum (God rest her soul) buying Fiona an ice cream from the cafe popped into her mind. It had been homemade, with a sprinkle of hundreds and thousands sticking to the looped swirls of raspberry sauce that had been squirted over the scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Her mouth abruptly watered at the remembered flavours from her childhood, and she could have sworn she could hear a fading echo of the chrome and steel coffee machine with its pipes and spitting steam, that had been the pride of the cafe’s owners.

Getting awkwardly to her feet, she smiled as she recalled how scared she had been of it – yet fascinated too. It had been a thing of beauty, not like the coffee machines of today. She seemed to remember that it had been imported from Italy, along with the black wrought iron tables and chairs which used to be set out on the small terrace in the summer. She wondered what had happened to them and guessed that they’d probably been nabbed by the scrap man.

Whatever Molly intended to do with the old cafe, Fiona highly doubted it would be a patch on how it had once looked. And neither would the food and definitely not the coffee.

Fiona hurried out of the house and down the road, heading for one of the park’s smaller gates and the path that led past the ramshackle bandstand. She scowled at it in disgust. That was yet another part of the park that needed sorting out. Molly and her fella were doing their best, bless them, but even with help from the locals there was a lot still to be done. The flower beds near the main gates looked pretty though, and the pond was no longer a cesspit of discarded tyres and shopping trolleys.

A newt had been responsible for that, would you believe! It had turned out to be a protected species, so the council hadn’t been able to go ahead with their plans to drain the pond and fill it in. Fiona had seen the newt with her own eyes but it hadn’t been anything to write home about, being an ugly, slimy little thing. It was fair to say that she hadn’t been impressed. But if it meant that the pond looked pretty, she was all for it.

The cafe loomed into view and Fiona was surprised to see that boards covering the door and windows had been removed. But even so, it would take more than the discovery of an endangered newt to lick that into shape. It would take a builder and a tonne of money. But if Molly wanted an expert opinion or some advice, Fiona was more than happy to give it; on the cafe side of things obviously, not the building works. Fiona had never so much as put up a shelf, and she didn’t intend to start now.

Molly was standing outside looking up at the old building, but when she noticed Fiona she hurried over to give her a hug. Fiona enjoyed the brief contact, and when Molly released her, she experienced a momentary pang. When was the last time anyone’s arms had been around her, aside from David’s? Fiona struggled to remember.

‘You came!’ Molly cried.

‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ She was only here because it was something to do on a Saturday morning.

‘Yes, but— Never mind. You’re here.’ Molly turned her eager gaze to the former cafe. ‘What do you think?’

‘It needs pulling down, that’s what I think.’

‘Aw, don’t be like that! Imagine it with a fresh coat of paint – a nice bright shade of blue, I had in mind – and the terrace area jet-washed and free of weeds. It would look lovely.’

‘Hmph.’

‘And you could have chairs and tables outside, and there would be an awning—’

‘You?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said you , as in me .’

‘That’s right, you. I thought we’d agreed that you would run the place.’

‘You thought wrong. I didn’t agree to any such thing.’

‘Oh, I… Hmm.’

‘I assumed you wanted my advice, not to work myself to the bone to keep this place going. Running a cafe is hard work, you know. I’m too old for all that nonsense.’

‘I bet you still bake a mean lemon drizzle. And you used to do those fairy cakes with the pink icing; I used to love those. Your cafe isn’t the same since the new owner took over.’

‘You’ve been there?’ Fiona’s tone was sharp.

‘I had to try it out. If you ask me, it’s lost some of its charm since you left. And the new owner changed the name.’

Fiona scowled. It used to be called Clover Cafe, because it was located in Clover Square, but Pamela Edwards, the woman who Fiona had sold it to, had changed it to Best Bites. Fiona thought the name change was unnecessary, and who was to say that Pamela’s bites were the best anyway? As far as Fiona could tell, Pamela’s food was nothing to shout about.

Sometimes, like today, she regretted selling her cafe, and she especially regretted selling it to the likes of Pamela Edwards. But it had all been done through an estate agent, the same one Molly worked for, so she didn’t get to vet the buyer beforehand. Pamela Edwards wouldn’t have been her first choice. Mind you, Fiona suspected that she wouldn’t have been happy with whoever had bought her cafe, but she’d not had much choice: running it had become too much for her towards the end.

It was sadly ironic though, that she now had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with. Which was one of the reasons she was in Sweet Meadow Park on a Saturday morning, staring at a building that would be better off being flattened. It would be a shame, but it would take too much money to sort it out and, as everyone knew, the council barely had the funds to fill in a pothole or two, let alone restore a rundown cafe in a park it had washed its hands of years ago.

Boredom wasn’t the only reason Fiona was here this morning. She had a lot of respect for Molly. ‘If you’re trying to butter me up, you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ she said, but there wasn’t any bite to her words.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Molly gave her arm a squeeze. ‘But don’t dismiss the idea just yet, please?’ She held up a set of keys. ‘And I bet you’d like to take a look inside.’

Fiona couldn’t deny it. She was curious. The building wasn’t as big as the cafe in Clover Square, but as far as she could remember the park’s cafe used to have about eight tables and a marvellous marble counter.

Fiona sucked in a sharp breath when she caught her first glimpse of the inside and let it out slowly as she stepped over the threshold. ‘Goodness gracious me!’

***

Bill Greaves tried to ignore the dilapidated children’s play area and concentrated on the revitalised flower beds up ahead instead. Patch seemed just as eager to hurry past the broken swings, and he tugged on his lead, his tail wagging. It wasn’t the bright new blooms that the dog was happy about though, it was the possibility that he might see his friend Jet. Jet was Molly and Jack’s dog. Formerly a stray, the greyhound-Labrador-cross had made himself at home in the cottage in Sweet Meadow Park when Molly had adopted him, and Patch and Jet had become firm friends despite the size difference. Patch, being a Jack Russell terrier, was a fraction of the size of Jet, but Patch ruled the roost and made sure Jet didn’t get so boisterous that he bowled him over.

Patch paused by the little picket fence and gazed hopefully into the garden. Both cars were there, but the cottage door was shut and there was no sign of Jet or his owners.

‘You’re out of luck today, fella,’ Bill said. ‘Maybe we’ll see him when we come for our evening walk.’

Bill walked Patch twice a day, every day. Sometimes more if he got fed up with his own company and needed to get out of the house. Today might be one of those days, but he’d see how he felt when he went home. He had a few bits and pieces to be getting on with, so it wasn’t as though he would be sitting on his backside twiddling his thumbs.

For nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, the park was quieter than he’d expected. He usually encountered a couple of joggers and a handful of dog walkers, but so far this morning all he’d seen was a woman pushing a buggy containing a red-faced bawling toddler and a man in a high-viz jacket who appeared to be on his way to work. Idly Bill wondered what the chap’s job was. It was a pity the man wasn’t in the park to do something about the kiddie’s play area, but being realistic it would take more than one fellow in neon yellow to put it to rights. It would take a few quid, too.

No doubt Molly would get around to it; she had a tendency to get things done – with a bit of help from her friends. Bill would like to think that he fitted into that category.

Rounding a bend in the path, the boarded-up cafe caught his attention. And the reason it did was because the boards had been taken down.

Well, well, well… He increased his pace when he noticed the open door, and the unmistakable figures of Molly and Fiona Tedstone heading inside.

So, Fiona had thrown her cap in with Molly’s scheme, had she?

He must admit that he was surprised. He didn’t think she had it in her anymore. Maybe providing the food when all those people had turned up to help tidy the park had made her realise what she’d been missing since she handed Clover Cafe’s reins to someone else.

He hoped Fiona was seriously thinking about resurrecting the cafe. It might cheer her up a bit. He didn’t know her very well at all, but as far as he could tell she had become a right miserable so-and-so since she’d retired. A bit like him, he supposed.

He hurried up to the cafe’s door and poked his head around it. ‘Gotcha!’ he cried and sniggered when both women almost jumped out of their skins.

‘Bloody hell, Bill! You silly old git. You could have given me a heart attack.’ Fiona had a hand on her chest, and an irritated look on her face. She often wore the same expression, but on the rare occasion she didn’t, she was an attractive woman. In her late sixties, she was short and plump, with wiry grey hair styled into a neat bob framing a pretty face that looked infinitely better when it smiled.

However, Bill’s attention was on the room before him, not on Fiona, although he noticed her bend down to pet Patch, which he thoroughly approved of.

‘The roof leaks,’ he pointed out, seeing a damp patch on the ceiling.

‘Is that all you can say?’ Molly asked. ‘What about the lovely marble counter and the coffee machine-thingy?’ She turned to Fiona. ‘Is that the original one, do you think?’

Fiona nodded. ‘I believe it is.’

‘It’ll need a new roof,’ Bill persisted. Never mind marble counters if the roof wasn’t sound. ‘And rewiring.’

Fiona glared at him. ‘You’re all doom and gloom today, aren’t you?’

‘You think with a bit of mop around and a flick of a duster it’ll be good to go,’ he shot back.

‘I’m not that daft. I can see that work needs to be done.’

‘Who is going to do it, that’s what I want to know,’ Bill demanded. ‘And more to the point, who is going to pay for it?’ He homed in on Molly. ‘If you ask me, it’ll take too much money, time and effort, and I bet your chap won’t be able to persuade the council to pitch in.’

‘No one’s asking you,’ Fiona muttered.

Bill gave her the side-eye. She was just jealous because he was the one who had rounded up all those people to help when Molly had been in danger of packing in her plans to make Sweet Meadow Park beautiful again.

Molly said, ‘I don’t expect Jack to help in an official capacity. You know as well as I that the council doesn’t have any spare cash. I’ll put the word out; there are bound to be a couple of people who’ll want to help.’

‘There’ll be many more that won’t,’ Bill retorted.

There was no point in having false hope. He was, on the whole, a cup-half-full bloke, but he knew what people were like. They would want the park nice but wouldn’t be prepared to put their hands in their pockets to make it that way.

‘I’m not expecting the whole town to pitch in,’ Molly said.

Bill shrugged. ‘That’s good, because if you did, you’d be disappointed.’

Fiona shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘My, my, who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’

‘Mark my words, you’re setting yourselves up for a fall, the pair of you.’

‘At least we’ll have tried, and not sat on our arses grizzling about it,’ Fiona retorted.

Bill saw Molly’s face light up. ‘Does that mean you’re on board?’ Molly asked her.

Fiona sniffed, her nose in the air. ‘I’ll think about it. I’m not promising anything at this stage.’

Bill couldn’t resist. ‘You’re not promising anything because you know it’ll never get off the ground. It needs too much work.’

‘So you keep saying.’ Fiona was holding her handbag in a white-knuckled grip, and Bill had a feeling she would like to clobber him over the head with it.

Maybe it was time he beat a hasty retreat. He had given them his opinion and it was up to them whether they took any notice of it. They probably wouldn’t. Molly was young and headstrong and believed anything was possible. And although Fiona might be elderly, she could be stubborn.

As Bill made his slow deliberate way home, Patch at his heels, he let out a sigh.

It was an envious one, because if Fiona did involve herself in Molly’s mad idea, it would give her something to do. Bill would sell his soul to have a project like that.