Christmas at the Marshmallow Cafe (Delightful Christmas Book 4)

by CP Ward

  Bonnie lifted a hand. ‘Just to make a couple of clarifications there … I’m fifty-two. Yes, I’m single, but I’m also divorced, which is like having a medal around your neck with “worthless” written on it. My husband ran off with a hat saleswoman he met when he was buying me a hat for Christmas because he didn’t like my hair and wanted something to cover it on the rare occasions we ever went out. I’m a homeowner only because he took all our savings in the divorce in exchange for letting me keep the house … and the mortgage I can barely pay on my pathetic Morrico salary. And both my kids took his side. Said I should have dressed better. I’m lucky if I get a card for my birthday now.’

  Debbie stared at her for a long time. Finally an eyebrow lifted. ‘I know all that,’ she said. ‘I was paraphrasing for the sake of clarity.’

  ‘Thanks. Can’t you paraphrase my age downwards in future?’

  ‘Fifty-five can be anything in the fifties, but if I say you’re forty-nine that’s an outright lie.’

  Bonnie shrugged. Lifting the can of Guinness, she swallowed as much as she could in a single gulp. It was only about a quarter of the can, but it took her so long that Debbie gave a respectful nod.

  ‘We need more booze,’ she said. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  At the door, Debbie kicked the cluster of circulars into a pile and scooped them up. ‘Shall I dump them into next door’s dustbin on the way out? You know clutter just bugs me. I think it’s my OCD.’

  ‘Next door’s is your mother’s.’

  ‘On the other side.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Debbie gave the letters a quick shuffle as though looking for any coupons. She frowned and lifted an official letter which had been hidden at the bottom.

  ‘Oooh. Franklin & Sons. A letter from a lawyer. Perhaps you’re being repossessed.’

  ‘Let me take a look. It’s probably just advertising.’

  Debbie stood patiently as Bonnie ripped open the letter, unfolded it, and skim-read the contents. Reaching the bottom, she frowned, then read it over again.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

  3

  A Treasured Memory

  Debbie had gone for the booze, promising to bring back ‘something girly’ for Bonnie in addition to whatever black-coloured liquid she planned on getting for herself. Bonnie sat on the sofa, reading the letter over and over, still not believing that it was real, and if it was, what she was going to do about it.

  She barely even remembered Uncle Mervin. He was her dad’s older brother, but the most recent occasion she could remember meeting him had been when she was twelve. Not that they’d had much interaction; he had stopped in for a coffee with her mother on his way to somewhere and Bonnie had been called out of her room to say a brief hello.

  Forty years ago.

  In the years since she didn’t think he’d ever crossed her mind.

  By some randomness of fate and family trees, he had died and left her all his worldly possessions.

  Well, sort of.

  Had he left her a lump sum it might have been useful, but according to the lawyer’s deeds, the most prominent thing he had left her was the remainder of a hundred-year lease on a business.

  A shop, to be exact.

  The lawyer’s letter was maddening light on detail, providing only basic information. The business was described as retail: confectionary. An address, somewhere in the Lake District. At least the location sounded nice. The details of the lease described the shop as being part of a larger retail park, the lease one that while technically lasting a lifetime, could not be sold, only given away upon its leaseholder’s death.

  The door went, Debbie returning. After removing her coat and shoes—she had borrowed a pair of Bonnie’s trainers for the short trip to the corner shop because ‘the coat’ll cover them in the dark’—she marched into the living room and held up a plastic bag.

  ‘I got you some red.’

  ‘Wine?’

  Debbie grinned. ‘Aftershock. No, only joking, yeah, course it’s wine. It was on special so I got you two bottles. And biscuits. Yours are plain, mine are the dark chocolate chip.’ She started to sit down before noticing the letter. ‘Oh, did you read it? Do tell.’

  Bonnie paraphrased the contents. ‘So, basically, a relative I can barely remember has left me a property I’m not allowed to sell.’

  ‘Sweet. In the Lake District? Do they have pubs up there?’

  ‘I would imagine so.’

  ‘Awesome. So, what kind of shop is it?’

  ‘Confectionary.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  Bonnie held up a chocolate bar. ‘You’re looking at it.’

  ‘Cool. So, you’re going to quit your job and go and run it?’

  Bonnie frowned. She hadn’t yet thought about what she was going to do. She figured that in the morning she would have to call the lawyer and talk over the finer details. Sure, she was in receipt of the property, but did that mean she had to pay rates or taxes on it? What had at first seemed like a surprise windfall was looking more like a monkey on her back. The Lake District was at the other end of the country. She couldn’t just drop everything and drive up there, assuming, of course, her little Metro could even survive the journey. The Old Ragtag prohibited any personal days off between October and Christmas, and the way her shifts were spread out meant she’d have to be up and back in a thirty-six hour window.

  Debbie was still staring at her. ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it to make that kind of decision. The pig I used to be married to left me with a mortgage on this place and nothing in the bank. If I quit my job I’ll lose my house.’

  ‘You said you had an address, didn’t you? Let’s have a look on the net and see if we can get a bit more info.’

  ‘All right.’

  Bonnie retrieved the old laptop she rarely used from a cupboard and loaded it up. Debbie sniggered as an ancient-looking Windows XP logo appeared.

  ‘Like watching a calving glacier,’ Debbie said. ‘Are you sure you don’t need to wind it up a bit more?’

  After a painstaking age of waiting for the computer to load, during which time Debbie sank two cans of stout and Bonnie a glass and a half of wine, they finally got online. Debbie pulled up a map program and after another age of waiting for everything to load, they found an aerial view of the property.

  ‘It’s in some kind of theme park,’ Debbie said. ‘Look, that wiggly thing is either a giant snake or a rollercoaster, and I reckon the news would have mentioned a giant snake. Let’s see if we can get a street view. Jesus, if I’d have known it would take six years to load, I would have gone and got my smartphone.’

  ‘I don’t have much use for technology,’ Bonnie said, giving Debbie a wink. ‘I’m a grandmother, don’t you know?’

  ‘Ah, you’re doing all right,’ Debbie said. ‘Wow, look at that. Good god, is this some kind of a joke?’

  The street view had appeared. A medieval-styled building stood in the foreground, a café premises large enough to have a living area attached. It’s pointed roof, black and white design and faux wooden eaves made both Bonnie and Debbie coo with excitement.

  ‘That’s totally convertible into a rock club,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Can you zoom in on the sign over the door?’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  The view enlarged. Bonnie let out a chuckle as the sign over the entrance came into focus. The writing was all gothic, but the meaning was not.

  Mervin’s Marshmallow Café.

  ‘What’s that small line over the top?’ Debbie said. ‘Welcome to—’

  Bonnie almost dropped her glass, catching it with her other hand and receiving a slosh of wine over her fingers. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘All these years … and it did exist after all.’

  ‘What?’

  Bonnie wiped away a tear, thinking of long ago evenings when her dad would tell her stories before bed. S
at in a chair beside her, his hands would gesture wildly as he told her fantastical tales of a place he had claimed was real and would one day take her. It had never happened, her dad dying of cancer when she was twelve. That would have been the reason for Uncle Mervin’s last visit, now that she thought about it; her dad’s funeral. His death had left Bonnie heartbroken; while she treasured the memories she had of him, she had locked them away to keep them safe, in the same way she had let go of the name of the semi-mythical place.

  Christmas Land.

  4

  Elopement Plans

  Debbie spat beer all over the carpet, drawing a scowl from Bonnie. ‘Christmas Land? Are you having a laugh? You’ve inherited a marshmallow café in a theme park called Christmas Land? Come on, this is hilarious.’

  ‘My dad used to tell me stories about it,’ Bonnie said. ‘He said it was in the north, and it was the most magical place in the world. He said it was a place you could visit all year round, but the true magic only happened at Christmas. When snow blanketed the ground, herds of reindeer would run among the shops and rides, and on Christmas Eve, Father Christmas himself would arrive, to hand out presents too all the visitors. He said that one day, when I was old enough to truly appreciate its magic, we would all go together.’

  ‘I’m guessing you never got there,’ Debbie said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My dad died. Mum struggled to makes ends meet, so I worked part time after school. We didn’t really have any magic in our family after that. We got by, we loved each other, but life wasn’t easy.’

  Debbie shook her head. ‘Life sucks,’ she said. ‘We’re literally put here to suffer.’

  ‘And then we go to heaven, right?’

  Debbie shook her head. ‘Hell. Just to rub it in that we spent all that time feeling miserable, when in actually fact, that torment was the good part.’ She shrugged. ‘At least they should have decent music down there.’

  Bonnie smiled. ‘Dad never mentioned Uncle Mervin actually lived at Christmas Land,’ she said. ‘No wonder he never visited. He probably couldn’t bear to leave.’

  Debbie leaned over the computer. ‘Let’s check out the online reviews of this place,’ she said, grimacing as a reviews website took its time to lead. ‘Ah, here we are. “If I could give it zero I would.” “Most rides were closed.” “Dirty, litter everywhere.” “Father Christmas was drunk and threw up over my kid.” “Overpriced and understaffed.” “They should bulldoze it. A landfill would be more exciting.” “The so-called turkey was chicken and it gave me food-poisoning.” “Christmasless Land.”’ She looked up at Bonnie. ‘What do you think?’

  Bonnie grimaced. ‘It doesn’t sound too promising, does it?’

  ‘You reckon?’ Debbie’s eyes gleamed. ‘It sounds absolutely awesome. Come on, you totally have to jack in your job and go check it out. I’ll come with you if you like. I need to get my dole check just after nine but we can leave straight after.’ She nudged Bonnie’s arm. ‘Come on. You know you want to.’

  Bonnie closed her eyes. From as young as she could remember up until her father’s death, she had dreamed of visiting Christmas Land. Forty years later, she now knew it existed, and she even had a reason to go. But … could she? There was no way the place could ever live up to the images that had once filled her head. She was headed for certain disappointment.

  ‘I’ll call the lawyer tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if there’s some way I can donate the lease to charity or leave it in a trust. The whole thing is just silly. I can’t just take off halfway across the country on a whim. It’s not … me.’

  Debbie put her beer can down on the coffee table with a crack loud enough to make Bonnie jump. Swiping braids out of her eyes, Debbie shook her head.

  ‘Did I just hear you correctly?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘Come on, Bon. Stop thinking like an old fart.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got to think like the youth.’ Debbie poked herself in the tunic with one black-fingernailed thumb. ‘Think like me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that—’

  ‘You don’t have to quit your job just to go and take a look. Pull a sickie. Or two. Or take a whole week. You have influenza. We’ll get my dole cheque, then we’ll drive up and check this place out, see what we make of it.’

  ‘I need a sick note to take a week off with flu.’

  Debbie grinned. ‘You can get one off the internet. Well, not this internet, but one that works. I’ll print one off and bring it over in the morning. Until then, though, might be a good idea to look a bit sick, just in case your boss calls.’ She held up her can. ‘Down the hatch.’

  Bonnie grimanced. ‘I’m fifty-two years old, I don’t do down the hatch.’

  ‘Well, take a matronly sip then.’

  Bonnie lifted her glass. ‘I must be out of my mind letting you talk me into this,’ she said, taking as big a sip as she could handle. ‘When I got up this morning, I had no idea I’d be getting drunk with a girl young enough to be my daughter and planning to take off after a childhood dream.’

  ‘I didn’t talk you into it,’ Debbie said. ‘I just gave you room to convince yourself. It’s basic psychology, you know, brains and stuff? Delay the no long enough and it turns into a yes.’

  ‘Is that really ethical?’

  Debbie shrugged. ‘Who knows? Are you going to eat those biscuits or not?’

  5

  On the Road

  The way Bonnie felt the next morning, she might as well have had influenza. She crawled out of bed, threw up in the bathroom and then staggered downstairs just in time to answer her doorbell.

  Debbie stood there, a suitcase at her feet. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Huh? I just got up.’

  With a sigh, Debbie marched inside and begun painstakingly unlacing her boots. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she said, catching Bonnie watching. ‘Make coffee. I’ll pack for you.’

  ‘How do you know what I’ll need?’

  Debbie rolled her eyes. ‘I have a mother, don’t I? The same stuff I’d have to pack for her.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Debbie came back down the stairs carrying a suitcase. Bonnie had managed to shower and change, and had returned to the kitchen table to nurse her hangover over a second cup of coffee.

  ‘Right, you’re all ready,’ Debbie said.

  Bonnie looked up, trying to focus. Stumbling up to bed sometime after one a.m., she had forgotten to take out her contact lenses. Now, peering through the glasses she rarely wore, she wished the world would stop swaying from side to side.

  ‘What did you pack for me?’

  ‘Underwear and a jacket. We can pick anything else we’ll need up on the way. They’ll have charity shops in the Lake District.’

  ‘Charity shops?’

  Debbie glared at her and lifted her arms. ‘You think this comes from the corporate machine? Free trade, baby. Charity shops and the net. I wouldn’t be seen dead shopping anywhere else.’

  ‘I would. In fact, I could handle death right about now.’

  ‘Well, we’re going in your car so it’ll be nearby, that’s for sure. You sure we can’t go on B-roads?’

  ‘It’ll take a week to get there.’

  ‘Ah, but Stephen King says it’s all about the journey.’

  ‘That’s only because he can’t write endings.’

  ‘Dark Tower rocked. He must have had balls like a space hopper to dare pull that after seven books. Respect.’

  ‘Dreamcatcher sucked.’

  ‘Ah, but Dreamcatcher isn’t classic era. It doesn’t count.’

  Bonnie lifted a tired hand. ‘Okay. We can discuss Stephen King on the way.’ Despite her hangover, she was quite excited about a long drive with Debbie. While their music tastes were polar opposites, they were perfectly aligned when it came to books. So much so, that they often swapped books they had recently read, or warned each other off books which had fallen short of expectations.

  ‘Let’s move. I need to
be outside the job centre at nine. Did you call off work yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t start until eleven.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get on the road before you do it. That way you can’t chicken out.’

  An hour later they were heading north through gradually thinning traffic. Debbie, wearing a smug grin after collecting her dole cheque far more quickly than usual, and managing to escape with an offhand ‘I’ve been applying for jobs,’ rather than be submitted to the usual interrogation, pointed at a service area sign.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Mickey D’s. I need breakie.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t do corporations?’

  Debbie shrugged. ‘I make exceptions for food. The taste alone is punishment enough.’

  Bonnie pulled off the motorway and into the service area. While she couldn’t quite face the same stack of hamburgers Debbie procured from MacDonald’s, she felt a little better after a couple of sandwiches from a bakery. Sitting in a communal restaurant seating area, she finished her sandwich and sighed.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this. This is what young people do.’

  Debbie shrugged. ‘You can consider it kidnap if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘I suppose being kidnapped by a vampire is definitely something for the bucket list.’

  Debbie stuffed one last hamburger into her mouth, manipulating it to get the whole thing inside at once. Bonnie stared at the figure squeezed into the leather tunic. There were fashion models more overweight than Debbie. With a smile she gave a bemused shake of the head.

  Behind them, a chair scraped as a group of three lads got up. All designer jumpers and Men’s Health haircuts, they looked on their way to an audition for Love Island. One of them glanced over his shoulder and noticed Bonnie and Debbie sitting nearby.

  ‘Hey, Sharon Osborne!’ he called, as the others laughed. ‘Can you sign my bum cheek?’