The Single Mums’ Picnic Club: A perfectly uplifting beach-read for 2018!. Jennifer Joyce
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spent hours on the treadmills and cross trainers back then in the hope of glimpsing Bradley and his toned-to-perfection body. She never would have plucked up the courage to speak to him had it not been for the malfunctioning treadmill that sent her flying when it suddenly cut off without warning when she was sprinting (she always upped her speed when she spotted Bradley in order to impress him). He’d rushed over to help her, and although she’d been embarrassed after going arse over tit, she did end up with his phone number (as well as a grazed chin). Before the twins, they’d led an active lifestyle, running half-marathons, abseiling, whitewater rafting, even bungee jumping from the Colorado River in Costa Rica. They’d taken risks Frankie wouldn’t even dream of taking now.
She felt herself slowing as she made the ascent and she half-ran, half-ambled her way up to the top of the cliff, her chest heaving as she looked out across the sea, a safe distance from the edge. The view was amazing from up here. You could see all the way to the opposite end of the beach, with the pier jutting out into the sea, the Ferris wheel still now the kids were back in school. She turned, taking in the view of the town. The hotel, pub and shops along the seafront, the pretty Georgian houses, the rooftops of the mishmash of properties beyond. Frankie could stand there taking it all in forever, but she had to buy her lunch and get back to work before the weather nudged from the threat of rain to a downpour.
Her trip down the cliff was much quicker than her trek up had been, but she slowed down once she reached the pavement at the bottom, clutching her side as she sucked air into her lungs as though it was her first introduction to oxygen. She jogged slowly along the seafront, heading towards the pier, where she knew there was a sandwich shop nearby that, according to her brother, was to die for. She found the shop and ordered a hot Cumberland sausage and egg roll (as recommended by Isaac) but it had started to rain while she was inside. She sheltered under the awning of the neighbouring shop until the rain had abated and she started her jog back home, taking a small detour via the beach. The sand was wet, and the wind was a bit wild down there, but she was hooked on the feeling of freedom now she’d had a taste. She felt like her old self again. The Frankie she knew before, the Frankie who thought nothing of throwing herself from bridges with nothing but an elasticated cord preventing death.
‘Whoa!’ Too late, she spotted the furry missile heading straight for her. She didn’t have a chance to dodge out of the way, so one minute Frankie was jogging – albeit slowly along the wet sand – and the next she was on the ground, her knee throbbing with the impact while her assailant nudged its way into the paper bag it had knocked out of her hand.
‘Oh, shit!’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Are you okay?’
She heard a chorus of voices as she heaved herself up into a sitting position, hissing as pain shot through her left knee.
‘I am so sorry. The mad bastard is out of control.’ A hand appeared, which she took, swearing under her breath as she was helped to her feet. The dog, she noticed, was tucking into her sausage and egg roll. Unforgivable!
‘Can you walk?’ her helper asked. (Could he be classed as a helper when it was his dog that had caused her to splat on the sand in such an ungainly fashion?)
‘I think so.’ She took a tentative step but collapsed against the stupid dog’s owner as pain sliced through her knee. Jeez, that hurt. She hoped the bloody sandwich was worth it!
‘Come and sit down in my beach hut. It’s just over here.’ Another set of arms was holding her up, and she somehow managed to hobble – painfully, through gritted teeth – to the nearby hut. She dropped onto the cushioned bench, grateful to take the weight off her knee.
‘Jake, you are the worst dog ever!’ the dog walker shouted over his shoulder as he hovered outside the hut, but the dog, now rolling on his back on the sand having wolfed down the entire sandwich, clearly didn’t give a hoot. The owner turned back to Frankie, eyebrows pulled down with concern. ‘I really am sorry. He’s not even mine. I’m only looking after him while my sister’s on holiday. I can’t wait until she’s back. He is completely out of control.’ He yelled the last bit over his shoulder, but the dog was sniffing his own arse now and wasn’t listening.
‘It’s fine.’ Frankie pressed her foot gently to the ground to test her knee. ‘Ow!’
‘That knee isn’t fine.’ The woman who’d helped her pulled out a mobile and started tapping at its screen. ‘I’m going to phone the doctor.’
‘No, it’s fine, honestly.’ Frankie grasped the phone before she could make the call. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
The woman smiled and patted Frankie’s shoulder. ‘It’s no trouble. You need it looking at.’
‘It’ll be okay in a minute or two.’ Frankie flexed the joint to demonstrate, holding back a wince.
The woman’s brow furrow. ‘Are you sure?’
Frankie nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ She thought about flexing again but decided against it. ‘You don’t mind if I rest it though? Just for a few minutes?’ Until the throbbing subsided.
‘Of course not. Take all the time you need. In fact.’ The woman reached for a floral-patterned tin and eased the lid off. ‘Why don’t you have a slice of cake while you wait? There’s plenty.’
Frankie’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten lunch yet – unlike the daft dog who was trying to nudge his way into the hut now he’d sniffed something tasty in the air.
‘It’s really good.’ The other woman currently squeezed into the hut eyed the tin. ‘Best Victoria sponge I’ve ever had, hands down.’
‘Well then.’ Frankie shrugged. ‘How can I refuse?’
The cake really was good, with just the right amount of buttercream to jam ratio. The women introduced themselves to Frankie while she ate; George, the owner of the beach hut and Victoria sponge baker extraordinaire, and Katie, the Victoria sponge enthusiast. The dog, she could see between the gap in the doorway, was bounding away towards the sea having realised he wasn’t getting a crumb, but the owner hadn’t noticed. He’d dropped onto the bench beside Frankie and was now shaking his head.
‘I really am sorry about the dog. He somehow yanked himself free of his lead and… Oh, God. Where’s he got to now?’
Frankie couldn’t help giggling as he sprang up, turning this way and that in the small space. ‘He’s over there.’ She pointed out of the door, down towards the shallows, where Jake was attempting to burrow down to Australia.
‘Oh, God.’ With a groan, he sprinted off, calling over his shoulder that he’d be back in a minute.
The dog was restrained on his lead by the time Frankie started to tuck into another slice of cake (George had insisted, and Frankie hadn’t put up much of a fight), though Jake wasn’t at all happy about it, as evidenced by his constant yapping and tugging. His temporary caregiver – Alexander Greyson, as he introduced himself once the dog was under control (sort of) – had insisted on sticking around, to make sure she wasn’t maimed for life.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to be concerned about,’ George said as Frankie took her first tentative step. ‘It isn’t swollen, and you say the pain is easing off?’
Frankie nodded and flexed the joint a couple of times to demonstrate. She felt bad for wasting everyone’s time, but she didn’t regret the cake.
‘Make sure you rest it as much as possible.’ George had adopted a matronly tone, almost finger-wagging as she doled out her advice. ‘And if the pain does persist – or gets worse – then pop in to see your GP.’
Frankie nodded. ‘I will. I promise.’ She took another step and although she was a bit wobbly, the pain was definitely more bearable now.
‘Can I help you home?’ Alexander offered, but George held up a hand.
‘There’s no need. I’ll make sure she gets home safe