an evening to remember, don’t forget.
You’re always at home with Maple Gold.
The headteacher took out her programme to introduce the first act.
Greta’s eyes kept sliding sideways to check again that her mum really was still sitting next to her. She wanted to reach out and grab her arm to check she was real.
Everything about her was just how Greta remembered. The same gentle expression, the same perfume, the way she rested her hands on her lap.
Jim didn’t seem remotely surprised by Marjorie’s arrival. He leaned forward, greeted her with a smile, then focused on the stage.
The performers ranged in age from eleven to sixteen. A boy glided around on a unicycle, juggling oranges with ease. Another performed hundreds of keepy-uppies with a football, a feat that was impressive but seemed never-ending.
Next came a tap-dancing trio, a violin solo, and a young comedian whose jokes left the audience in stitches, despite being the kind found inside Christmas crackers.
Each act was accomplished, but none had the charm and spontaneity Greta remembered from Lottie’s school productions in Longmill. She’d sat through several pantomimes or plays where Santa had fallen over a cardboard chimney, the kids had forgotten their lines, someone dressed as an angel had picked their nose on stage, or a bawling baby in the audience drowned out the performance. It had all added to the fun and charm.
Here, everything ran like clockwork, each act outshining the next. The students were all talented, though their acts lacked emotion and spontaneity.
When Lottie finally stepped onto the stage, she radiated confidence and poise, without a hint of stage fright in sight. She wore a purple satin cape, tied at the neck, draped over her pink plaid skirt suit.
A thrill surged through Greta when her daughter launched into her magic act without a hiccup. Lottie made balls vanish under cups, dazzled the audience with a complex card trick, then produced a top hat. With a flourish of a magic wand, she peered inside and pulled out a white rabbit.
Greta fixed her eyes on the bunny. Was it another reminder that time was running out? She stared as Lottie handed the rabbit to the headteacher, who whisked it off the stage.
Next, Lottie settled at the piano. ‘Here’s a little song I wrote myself,’ she announced. Her voice filled the air, melodic and pitch-perfect, while her fingers flew effortlessly across the keys.
Greta thought she couldn’t feel any prouder until Lottie stepped up to the microphone at the front of the stage. She recited a Shakespearean sonnet with such emotional depth it sent shivers down Greta’s spine. Tears blurred her vision, and beside her, her mum also let out a sniffle.
As the last note faded, Lottie gave a low bow. The entire room erupted into a standing ovation. Greta leaped to her feet, too, clapping until her hands hurt. She almost burst with pride when the headteacher presented Lottie with a trophy.
Yet beneath it all, Greta couldn’t shake a niggling doubt. That this polished version of her daughter felt remarkably like the idealised child producers had wanted for the Maple Gold commercials.
The headteacher returned to the stage, clasping her hands together. ‘That was absolutely brilliant, Charlotte,’ she said, using the full name Lottie never went by. ‘You all performed wonderfully and have bright futures ahead of you in the spotlight.’
While everyone began gathering their hats and coats, Marjorie leaned in to talk to Greta. ‘Lottie was absolutely marvellous,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘You must be so proud.’
Greta swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I am.’
Lottie headed their way, wearing a wide grin. ‘Hey, Mum and Dad, thanks for coming.’ She turned and gave Marjorie a big hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you, Grandma.’
Greta felt a rush of fierce love. Lottie had been devastated when Marjorie passed away, shutting herself away in her bedroom for days and refusing to eat. Now, in Mapleville, they all had a second chance to be together.
‘I’m going to stay and help tidy up,’ Lottie said. ‘Dad’s staying, too. Is that okay? We’ll see you at home later.’
‘Of course it is,’ Greta replied, her gaze lingering on her daughter. She was aware of every minute ticking away, toward her staying or leaving.
She turned back to her mum. ‘Why don’t we go and grab a coffee, Mum?’
Marjorie’s face lit up. ‘Yes, how lovely. Maple Gold?’
Greta smiled, with a wistful edge to it. Something about this moment felt fragile and precious. This might be the last time she’d ever spend with her mum, or it could be the start of many coffee dates together in Mapleville.
‘Maple Gold sounds perfect,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 32
THE BELL ABOVEthe café door jingled as Greta and Marjorie stepped inside. Soft jazz played in the background, and the cakes in the counter display had the plumpest scarlet cherries on top. Even the chocolate powder dusted on top of their coffees formed perfect heart shapes. Everything was free.
