Christmas at the Marshmallow Cafe (Delightful Christmas Book 4)

by CP Ward

  Debbie, still chewing around a hamburger, glared at him. ‘I’ll sign it with a rusty harpoon,’ she shouted.

  ‘Ooh,’ the first lad said, as the others laughed again. ‘Hey, Grandma, better tie your dog up to your wheelchair.’

  Debbie grabbed a plate and lifted it like a frizbee. ‘I keep human heads as prizes,’ she snapped, shaping to throw. Clearly alarmed, the lads backed away through the tables, their laughter turned nervous. Debbie, a snarl on her face, held the pose until they’d headed back out into the car park.

  ‘I bet your mum feels safe with you around,’ Bonnie said. ‘Better than a guard dog.’

  Debbie sat back down. ‘I could have taken them,’ she said. ‘I was school discus champion.’

  Bonnie lifted an eyebrow. ‘For once, you surprise me. You, doing sports?’

  ‘I mended the error of my ways after I bought my first Sabbath album,’ Debbie said.

  ‘So you considered being called Sharon Osborne a compliment?’

  Debbie scowled. ‘She’s about nine hundred years old.’

  ‘From the look of you, you could be too.’

  Debbie rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Grandma. Let’s get back on the road.’

  A couple of hours later, after they had just got through roadworks outside Birmingham, Bonnie let out a sudden cry, thumping the wheel as she did so and beeping the horn by accident. She lifted a hand as the driver of the car in front gave her a middle finger.

  ‘Look at that butt hole,’ Debbie said. ‘We should run him off the road. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I forgot to call in sick.’

  Debbie grinned. ‘We’ve got this. Next service area.’

  ‘They pulled in at a small services and Bonnie took out her phone. Her hands were shaking; she was half an hour late already. She typed in the supermarket’s number while beside her Debbie sniggered at her ancient phone. Scowling, Bonnie lifted it to her ear.

  ‘I supposed it doesn’t have a speaker, so I can’t listen in,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Just be quiet a minute.’

  ‘Hello? Morrico, Western-Super-Mare branch, store manager Cyril Reeves speaking. How may I be of assistance?’

  Bonnie faked a cough. ‘Um, hi Cyril … uh, Mr. Reeves. It’s Bonnie. I’m afraid I can’t make it in today. I’m sick. I think I have flu.’

  ‘What? You’ve never taken a day sick in seven years. In 2014 you even worked for six days with a plaster cast on your ankle. What’s going on?’

  Bonnie scowled. Trust the old fart to know. He hadn’t even been working there that long, yet he somehow knew her historical record. She’d got drunk on cheap wine in the aftermath of her husband leaving and tripped on the front step. The doctor had signed her off for a week but she couldn’t bear the thought of being in her empty house all alone, so she had staggered into work.

  ‘I don’t want to pass it on. The doctor’s given me a note.’

  ‘Well, can you drop it in?’

  ‘Um, I’ll get someone to stop by later. It’s highly contagious.’

  ‘It’s a piece of bloody paper.’

  ‘The flu, I mean.’

  ‘All right, well, take care of yourself. We’ll see you in a few days.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She hung up, then leaned back in the seat, breathing out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Boom,’ Debbie said. ‘I told you it was easy. The day you bend to the corporate machine is the day your soul dies.’

  ‘He said we’ll see you in a few days.’

  ‘Nice. You’re good to next Monday at least, and then we’ll assess the situation. We might have to upgrade you to swine flu, or failing that, the bubonic plague.’

  ‘Can you get doctors’ notes for that?’

  Debbie grinned. ‘You can get everything on the internet.’

  They set off again, leaving the smoke and urban sprawl of Birmingham behind. Countryside spread out around them as they headed further north. Debbie began to doze against the window, the ball-bearings in her hair rattling against the glass. Bonnie, keeping the Metro at a steady sixty—the fastest she could go without fearing it would fall apart—gazed out at the rolling hills on either side of the motorway, trying to remember if she’d ever been this far north before. As Debbie began to snore, the tales her father had told her about Christmas Land slowly began to return.

  ‘There’s a lake in the centre in the design of a heart. In winter it freezes over, and the water becomes as icy-blue as the sky. If you get up just before dawn and look out of the window, you’ll see elves in green and gold racing across it, enjoying themselves before heading to the toy workshops to begin their day’s work.’

  Bonnie smiled. When she looked back on it now, the stories were cringe-worthy, storybook fantasy. At the time, though, she had hung on her father’s every word.

  ‘When you first awake and draw back the curtains of your chalet, you’ll immediately be blinded by the snow glittering off the trees as the sun rises. Despite the cold—far colder than you could ever expect in England, because this is a special place, remember—you must certainly open your window, and drop a few seeds out onto the window ledge for the local robins. Each chalet has a resident bird which will surely come to see you. While not quite tame enough to touch, it will still give you the honour of its company before it sets off on its errands for the day. And then, listen quietly, for in the still of the morning before the park really wakes up, you can hear the reindeer calling each other among the trees.’

  Bonnie sighed and wiped a tear from her eye. At the end of each story, he had left her with the same promise.

  ‘And when you’re old enough to appreciate it, we’ll all go to Christmas Land together, where you can experience the magic of Christmas at any time of the year.’

  He had died before fulfilling his promise. Bonnie didn’t blame him, of course, but he had taken the magic of her childhood with him to the grave. The real world had rushed in, filling her life with the chores of washing plates and picking up dirty glasses, stuffing soiled sheets into industrial washers and scrubbing the crust off toilets. She had saved enough to pay her way into college and had dreamed of becoming a nurse. Donald had wanted her as a stay-at-home mum, however, and she had been happy, raising her children. She hadn’t even noticed that none of his promises—of a better life, a nicer street, a bigger house and a newer car—ever materialised. At least not for her. He had saved plenty to keep his new hat lady happy, leaving Bonnie as a forty-something with no qualifications forced to sit behind a checkout at Morrico to keep her head above the waters of her mortgage.

  And the worst thing was that her children blamed her for everything.

  She was still reminiscing on the past when a large white billboard came up on the left-hand side.

  CHRISTMAS LAND

  WHERE DREAMS COME TRUE

  14 MILES – TURN LEFT NEXT JUNCTION

  Bonnie shoved Debbie to wake her, slowing the car at the same time.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing as they passed the billboard, its chipped paint and one rusted metal leg horrifyingly apparent. Someone had thrown a bag of trash at it at some point, and now a plastic supermarket bag hung from a splinter of wood next to the word TRUE. It felt like a sign, all right.

  As Debbie groaned, her head lolling, Bonnie thought it better to let her go back to sleep.

  6

  Stuck in the Muck

  After taking the junction for Christmas Land, Bonnie began to see more signs. The landscape had changed, becoming beautiful, all rolling hills and moorland as they entered the Lake District. In the distance she caught glimpses of glittering water whenever they crested a rise. After a while she nudged Debbie awake. The younger girl looked up blearily, grinned, and said, ‘Are we there yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but nearly. Isn’t it pretty?’

  Debbie looked around. ‘Where did all the hedges go?’

  Dry stone walls had replaced the grassy hedgerows, the roads narrowing in many places to a single lane punctuat
ed by small passing places.

  ‘It’s so charming,’ Bonnie said, unable to keep a grin off her face. ‘All these hills and lakes—’

  ‘Fells and meres, Bon,’ Debbie said.

  Bonnie frowned. ‘What? You fell where?’

  Debbie shook her head. ‘The hills are called “fells”, and they call the lakes “meres”, “waters” or “tarns”.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the expert?’

  Debbie grinned. ‘Countryfile. Got to do something with my unemployment. You know, when I was a kid growing up, I used to fantasize about John Craven dressing in black and fronting a goth band.’

  ‘So no My Little Ponies, then?’

  ‘Had one once. I cut off its hair and painted it red.’

  ‘I bet you were popular in playschool.’

  Debbie grinned. ‘No one ever pushed me off the slide.’

  They passed another Christmas Land sign, poking out of an overgrown verge. Someone had scrawled Father Christmas is dead in red paint diagonally across it. Debbie glanced at Bonnie and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘So it looks like this mythical place really does exist.’

  ‘Well, it did, at least.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of place,’ Debbie said.

  ‘I’d turn back, but the tank’s low and I haven’t seen a petrol station in miles,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m counting on them to have one.’

  ‘All or nothing,’ Debbie said. ‘Have you seen Deliverance?’

  Bonnie groaned. ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘What about Wrong Turn?’

  Bonnie shook her head. ‘I’m not familiar with that one.’

  ‘It’s about these kids who break down and end up caught by a family of rednecks—’

  Bonnie put up a hand. ‘I can imagine. Can’t we talk about mince pies or something?’

  ‘There’s a man flagging us down up ahead,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Is he wearing a Christmas hat?’

  ‘No, but he has some kind of stick.’

  Debbie was right. An old man in Wellington boots, a tweed jacket and a flat cap was waving a stick at the car.

  ‘Lock the doors,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bonnie said. ‘I think it’s just a local farmer.’ She pulled up alongside the man and wound down the window. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Cows coming through,’ the man said. ‘Might wanna pull a little thing like this over to that passing place there.’

  All Bonnie saw was a patch of grass verge slightly wider than the rest. Grimacing, she backed her car up while Debbie stared with horror as the road ahead filled with trotting, jostling cattle.

  ‘They’ll crush us,’ she gasped, opening the door to get out, but Bonnie, laughing put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Just relax,’ she said. ‘You’re safer inside.’ She reached across and pulled Debbie’s door shut, cutting off the head of a large thistle which landed on Debbie’s lap. The girl stared at it, eyes wide.

  ‘It’s a sign,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the country,’ Bonnie said, as the nearest cows bumped past, a couple pressing against the window. One, pushed into their way by the others, actually put its front hooves up on the bonnet, before slipping off and turning on its way. Another, backing up against them, lifted its tail and let rip with a cascade of brown sauce all over the rear driver’s side window.

  ‘Oh, that’s rank,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Isn’t that your thing?’ Bonnie asked. ‘You know, biting the heads off chickens and all that?’

  ‘We don’t take a dump on someone’s car,’ Debbie said, nose wrinkling.

  The parade lasted for several minutes, but finally it came to an end. A couple of darting sheepdogs brought up the rear, followed by a young boy who had to be the old man’s grandson. He gave them a cheerful wave as he walked past.

  ‘I suppose they don’t have schools round here,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Only the school of life,’ Bonnie answered. ‘Might do you some good.’

  Debbie ignored her. ‘You reckon we might get another service area before we get there? I need to take a leak.’

  Bonnie cringed. ‘I doubt it.’

  She let off the handbrake and put the car into gear, but when she engaged the accelerator, all she heard was the spinning of the rear wheels.

  ‘Please don’t tell me we’re stuck,’ Debbie said.

  ‘We’re stuck.’

  Bonnie climbed out then helped Debbie to climb over the gearbox and out of the driver’s side. The back wheels of the car were deep in boggy mud. Bonnie looked at Debbie and grinned.

  ‘Part of the adventure,’ she said.

  Debbie shook her head. ‘One of us—by default me, since it’s your car—could get in there and push, and get absolutely covered in crap … or we could just call an Uber.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An Uber. It’s like a private taxi service. People use their own cars to make money on the side.’ She pulled her smartphone out of her pocket and held it up. ‘Awesome. No signal. Right. You go for help, and I’ll stay with the car.’

  Bonnie shook her head. ‘You talked me into this. We’ll both go.’

  ‘But what if we see some more cows?’

  Bonnie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, we’ll climb a tree or something.’

  ‘There aren’t any. It’s all moor.’

  ‘Then we’ll climb up one of these stone walls and have a look. Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘This isn’t quite what I imagined.’

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘No!’ Debbie shrugged. ‘Okay, I’ll just get my CDs.’ She leaned back into the car, retrieved a CD carry case and made it disappear somewhere inside her coat. ‘Will we need weapons?’

  ‘Why, what have you got hidden in there?’

  Debbie pulled out a small black rectangle. ‘I’ve got a taser.’

  Bonnie laughed. ‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

  They set off along the road. The last sign Bonnie remembered seeing had said three miles. As the road meandered between towering hedgerows broken by occasional gates giving a glimpse of farmland, she wondered if they had a different scale of measurement out here in the countryside. The walk wasn’t unpleasant, though. Bonnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d breathed air so fresh, and her ears had been unencumbered by the constant clatter of voices or traffic. Beside her, even Debbie had gone quiet, the black-clad girl huffing a little, but with the hint of a smile on her face.

  Finally, they crested a rise, and found themselves looking downhill at a little village nestled in a forested valley. A church stood in the centre, tall trees filling its grounds like the leaves around a bouquet. A few houses were visible, but the village was so quaint and compact it looked like it would sit in the palm of one’s hand.

  ‘Is that it?’ Debbie said. ‘It’s prettier than I’d expected, but I don’t see any fairground rides.’

  And after your hot chocolate and warm toast drenched in delicious local butter, why not try the forest coaster for your first thrill of the day? Winding through the trees among herds of wandering reindeer and culminating in a jaw-dropping loop, it’s a Christmas thrill like no other.

  Bonnie shook her head. ‘I don’t think this is it,’ she said.

  Around the next bend in the road they passed a sign.

  WELCOME TO QUIMBECK

  Enjoy your visit

  Take nothing but photographs

  Leave nothing but memories

  ‘Sounds delightful,’ Debbie said, rolling her eyes. Then, turning to Bonnie, she grinned. ‘But I see something that’ll perk us up. Look, there between those trees, just a couple of doors down from the church.’

  Bonnie squinted. ‘What? Your eyes are better than mine.’

  ‘Salvation,’ Debbie said. ‘A pub.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There. The King’s Thistle. That’ll do.’

  They walked down into the village, all narrow cobblestone streets
packed with local craft shops, with a pretty river flowing through its centre. Bonnie saw several groups of ducks, and even a pair of swans.

  ‘We could just stay here a few days,’ she said. ‘It seems pleasant enough. I’m sure they’ve got a B&B somewhere.’

  Quimbeck was clearly a tourist village on the Lake District’s hiking circuit, because they passed several groups of middle-aged hikers all in recently purchased gear, striding up and down the roads alongside the river and clustering outside the trinket shops and cafés. For Bonnie, who had spent her whole life being a dutiful and later rejected wife as well as an attentive and later rejected mother, and as a result had rarely ventured outside the town she grew up in, it was a delightful sight. She only wished she’d dressed a little better for it. In jeans and a Morrico own-brand jumper she felt at least half as wealthy as anyone they passed. When one elderly gentleman actually said ‘How do you do?’ as they passed and tipped a fisherman’s hat, she turned to Debbie and shook her head.

  ‘I think I want to go home,’ she said.

  ‘Why? We only just arrived. I’m only just getting movement back in my bum after sitting in your car for the last fifty years.’

  ‘I feel so out of place.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Debbie spread her arms. ‘I am literally the walking dead. No one’s looking at you because they’re too scared to look away from me. Come on, let’s get a pint and see if we can find someone who’ll tow your car.’

  They headed for the pub. A sign indicated a beer garden to the rear, but after one quick glance, Debbie shook her head. ‘Toffs,’ she said. ‘A sea of them. We’ll sit inside.’

  The darker confines of a pub that proudly claimed to be over four hundred years old seemed to cater more to locals than to the steady stream of tourists. The beer garden turned out to be the overflow seating for a restaurant at the rear, which also had an attached bar area. Staying in the main bar, though, Debbie pointed to a narrow window seat between two fruit machines. From the scored and scared table they could see the street, where couples and small groups ambled up and down narrow alleyways between old stone buildings, sometimes pausing to peer at a guidebook or map.