15 April
I stood before the peeling door of Café Cosy. The paint was flaking, the letters crooked, and the y in Cosy seemed to cling on for dear life. A few wilted lilac bushes, a rusted bin and a pair of pigeons basking in the autumn sun kept me company.
Welcome, new life, I muttered, slipping the key into the lock.
The air inside was damp, tinged with mould and old spices. I sneezed, cracked the windows, took a deep breath and rolled up my sleeves.
Are you out of your mind? shouted Lucy on the phone. You bought a café? In this part of town? Did the layoff drive you mad?
Its better to bake rolls than to count other peoples pounds, I sighed, wiping the tables. Besides, Ive always dreamed of it. Remember how Gran used to bake?
I remember. Dreams are one thing, a shed is another, she replied.
Its not a shed. Its my bakery.
I christened it Mandarin Bread because Gran Agnes always added grated mandarin zest to her cinnamon rolls. In winter the house would smell of citrus and fresh dough, and I longed to bring that warmth back.
The first week brought no customers. The café sat on the edge of town, only the locals who knew the shortcuts ever passed by. I rose at five, kneaded dough, baked, washed up, and tested recipes. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla mingled with fresh coffee. I placed a pot of mandarins on the sill and stuck a sign on the window: Come in you wont regret it.
Gran, help me, I whispered, laying out a fresh batch of buttery snails.
As if on cue, that very evening Gran Agnes from the house next door stepped in.
Is that you baking rolls? I was passing by, caught the smell. Let me try one.
I handed her a piece; she squinted, chewed, and nodded.
Delicious. Real deal. Tomorrow Ill bring the ladies for a game of noughtsandcrosses. Youll have the coffee ready.
The next day three elderly women with a lifetime of stories arrived. A week later three university students stopped in. Then a courier, then a mother with a pram. Word spread quietly but steadily through the neighbourhood.
I refreshed the shopfront. Instead of Cosy it now read: Mandarin Bread Bakery. James, one of the students, offered to help.
You a designer? I asked.
Not yet. Im still studying. But your buns are divine. Id love to design the sign too.
For the first time in ages I felt needed. By evening James introduced his friend Emma, a photographer, saying, Shell set up our social media.
I almost burst into tears.
Good afternoon, a trembling voice called from the doorway. MMilly?
I turned. In the doorway stood Mark, my exboyfriend, the one whod disappeared a year ago to think things over and had taken a job with a colleague.
What are you doing here? his tone was dry.
I heard you opened a café. Thought Id have a look.
Just looking. Bye.
Wait. We once
You once told me I was too boring. Now youre bored, arent you? he sneered.
He tried to smile crookedly. Never mind that. Ive heard youve invested a lot. You know, until were legally divorced, everything you own is still joint property.
Youre serious?
I dont want a fight, but perhaps we can strike a deal? Ill help with repairs for a few percent
I stayed silent, then slipped off my apron, walked to the door and flung it open wide.
Mark, the doors right there. Get out. And dont come back.
He took a step forward, but Gran Agnes appeared with a couple of neighbours.
Whos this meddling? Off you go, love. This is a ladys realm.
Mark muttered something and left.
Who was that? one of the neighbours asked.
An exboyfriend, come for his share.
Doesnt he have enough? Gran Agnes chuckled, snatching another roll from the tray.
Mom called later. Milly, whats happening? Mark called. He says you shouted at him.
Mum, he showed up demanding a cut of the café. Do you think thats right?
Hes practically my husband. Maybe youll get back together. Youre not getting any younger
I built this place from scratch, Mum. Im happy. Cant you be proud?
I worry about you. A café in a rough area, a divorce, and your savings are a joke. Thats not a life.
This is my life, Mum, and I chose it.
Fine. If you go bust, dont call me.
I hung up, stared at an empty mug and thought, May I come in? Emma asked, peeking in after a photo shoot. Youre crying?
Just remembering what Gran taught me: if the dough sticks, you must be patient. It isnt ready yet.
Youre strong, Milly. Were with you. She hugged me and showed her phone. We posted the first pictures. Already a hundred followers.
Spring brought a line of people stretching around the corner for the mandarin rolls. New items appeared: poppy seed rolls, ricotta twists, apple strudels. The bakery thrummed with life.
One evening a gentleman with a bouquet knocked.
May I? he asked. Im John, Emmas father. My daughter moved to Manchester, but she tells me everything. Im a retired baker, retired with nothing to do. Could I help?
I nodded.
Now each morning we kneaded together. He told stories, I listened and learned. New faces drifted in: hungry patrons, wanderers seeking shelter.
Milly, Ive been thinking should I quit my accounting job? Lucy asked over the phone.
Do you love baking?
Its not the word. Will you take me on?
I looked around the freshly painted, spacious shop, tables full of customers, mandarin scent filling the air, a folder of expansion plans on the counter.
Ill take you. Just buy your own apron.
I laughed.
Outside a gentle spring rain fell. The bakery lived. People came and stayed. For the first time I wasnt afraid of the future because I finally had
