They couldn’t. All we could do was play along with the fake smiles and the charade of familial unity she chose to present to us, and help out with the kids as much as we could. The real Laura, the one that was suffering, was buried beneath the school runs and the domestic-goddess cooking and the relentless walking of an old, fat dog.
Now, though, Matt had managed the impossible – he’d reached her. They all had, all of these people, here, gathered around this table, in this café. Closed to the public now, open just to us, celebrating something odd – my arrival in Budbury. The prodigal sister, joining in the feast.
Cherie is at the head of the table, sipping her wine and laughing joyfully at something Frank has just whispered to her. Frank himself – always known as Farmer Frank to me – is also grinning, his weather-worn face a road map of lines and experience, his blue eyes shining almost as brightly as the silver of his hair. His grandson, Luke, is with him – an eighteen-year-old sunshine kid who grew up in Australia, but is staying with him for a while, doing work experience with Matt on his gap year.
There’s the Scrumpy Jones collective, as they’re nicknamed. Joe, the dad, lean and dark and speaking with a Dorset accent so thick I can barely understand him. Joe runs the Cider Cave, and his wife, Joanne, is a frosted piece of eighties hair who looks unhappy to be out in company. Their son, Josh, is Lizzie’s boyfriend – a lanky beanpole of a sixteen-year-old, wearing a beanie hat and a checked shirt that looks like it needs a wash.
Lizzie is by his side, doing something with her phone, occasionally flashing him a smile that tells me he is the absolute centre of her entire world. Scary, that look – I used it once before, myself, when I wasn’t much older than her. When a boy like Josh was the centre of my entire world too. He’s a manager at the local Aldi now, Shaun, and I sometimes bump into him when I’m shopping.
We both pretend we haven’t seen each other – him bustling away to make an announcement at the check-out, me taking a sudden interest in the sweet potatoes. Even after all these years, all this life, it still cuts. Still stirs up thoughts and feelings that I know will derail me if I let them. I can only hope that Lizzie has a happier ending than I did, and be there for her if she doesn’t.
Willow, the pink-haired supermodel from the future who works at the café, is sitting with Nate. She has tattoos and piercings and generally looks like a handful of trouble. I’m pretty sure we’ll get on well. The two of them are playing noughts and crosses, and the bet seems to be for who loads the dishwasher once our feast is over.
Next to me is Edie May. I can’t put into words how much I already love Edie May. She is ninety years old and looks like a naughty imp. Her grey hair is permed and cut close to her tiny head.
Every one of these people already feels familiar to me through Lizzie’s summer photos and my conversations with Laura. I know that each of them has a very special comfort food that the café provides – for Frank, it’s the burned bacon butties his late wife used to serve up for him. For Joe, it’s the almond biscotti that remind him of his childhood holidays with family in Italy.
For Edie, it’s an extra portion of whatever’s going – to be taken back to her tiny house in the village, as a treat for the fiancé who was killed in the war. To Edie, though, he’s still real – and who am I to disagree?
‘You’re not eating much of your lasagne, my love,’ she says, pointing at my plate. She’s right. I’ve been squishing it around for a while, hoping nobody will notice. It’s a great lasagne. Laura made it, so of course it is. But I’m feeling a little… well, trapped. I’m used to my own company. To dinners for one in front of the TV. To doing whatever the hell I like.
Here, I am surrounded by people who expect… well, I have no idea what they expect. They clearly all love and adore Laura and are willing to love and adore me by default. The problem is, I am nowhere near as lovable as my sister, and am sure to say or do something inappropriate that proves it before very long.
‘I ate earlier, Edie,’ I reply, meeting wise old eyes that are submerged in a layer of lines and creases. ‘In fact I’ve been eating all day. From the moment I got here, I seem to have been presented with nothing but food…’
‘Well, that’s the nature of the beast, my dear. It’s how those ladies over there – your sister, Cherie – show that they care about us, isn’t it? If they were florists, we’d all be draped in roses, wouldn’t we? Anyway. Pudding’s coming now. At least you saved a space, eh?’
She gives me a little wink and I automatically wink back. She winks again and I return it. We sit there, twitching at each other, for a good minute or so, until we both dissolve into laughter at how silly we’re being. If this is what being in your nineties is like, it might be worth hanging around for.
I feel a soft, wet touch on my ankle and realise that the dog is under the table. At least I hope he is. Midgebo is a delightful bringer of chaos – not yet one, but huge, all shiny black fur and typical Labrador energy. I sneak a chunk of bread down by my side and he almost takes my hand off. He has yet to develop table manners, it seems, and is probably having a fine old time under there, minesweeping.
Willow’s dog – a Border Terrier called Bella Swan – is tucked away in her basket in the corner of the room, far too classy to get involved in such degrading shenanigans.
Willow herself is now clearing the table, with Nate and Lizzie’s help, as Cherie emerges from the kitchen with an enormous trifle. I see that it is made with chocolate custard, and understand immediately that Laura has made it just for me. It was always my favourite when I was growing up. I used to make it with packets of Angel Delight and eat a whole bowl to myself, locked in the airing cupboard, emerging covered in gunk and holding a sore tummy. I was a delightful child.
This is a posher version, but essentially the same. Comfort food, of course.
Cherie plonks it down on the table and starts to scoop huge portions out into glass bowls. There is low music playing in the background – something a tiny bit jazzy – and everyone is chattering away among themselves. They’ve all been drinking for some time now, at least the adults have, and there is a lot of loud, raucous laughter.
The lighting is low, and the views out of the patio windows down to the bay are amazing. It is, I think, pretty much perfect. I can see why Laura never wanted to leave.
On cue, she walks over, sitting on the other side of me at the table, delivering a vast acreage of trifle and a bottle of Prosecco.
‘You okay?’ she asks, a slight frown on her face.
‘Of course I am,’ I reply. ‘I don’t care what the scientists say. That alien abduction last week did me no harm at all.’
‘Oh,’ she replies, eyes widening. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been abducted by aliens again. I hope they didn’t get anal on you?’
‘No. It was all very civilised. They just wanted me to design them a new poster for their Martian Cup football tournament.’
‘That’s all right, then. Drink?’
She tilts the bottle towards my glass, but I quickly put my hand over it. Laura, of course, has no idea that I don’t drink any more. That I don’t smoke any more. That I don’t indulge in any slightly illegal pharmaceuticals any more. It was a decision I made the day David died, but one I kept very quiet.
Partly, I just didn’t want to set myself up to fail, to disappoint people I’d disappointed so many times before. Partly, she was simply too lost in her own wilderness to notice me trying to navigate mine.
She looks momentarily confused, but tops her own glass up anyway. That’s good. She’s a heck of a lot of fun when she’s drunk, my sister. We can anticipate dancing on the tabletops before long.
‘So, what do you think?’ she asks, glancing around at her gathered friends. Nate has gone over to sit with Bella Swan, who is regally ignoring him, and Midgebo is prancing around them both, sniffing and snorting and wagging his tail so fast it’s just a shady blur.
‘I think you’re happy. And that makes me happy.’
&nb
sp; She nods and quietly sips her wine.
‘Sometimes,’ she says, after a few beats of silence, ‘I think maybe I’m too happy. I’m here, with a new life. A new man. Even a new dog, for goodness’ sake. And I feel… guilty. Sad that David’s not here, ashamed that occasionally, I go a whole morning without thinking about him…’
‘Hmm… did you ever meet David?’ I ask, which is obviously a stupid question as she had two kids with him. ‘Because the David I knew wouldn’t have wanted anything else. The David I knew would be wishing you well, cheering you on, proud of you. I’ve not seen Lizzie and Nate so happy for years. I’ve not seen you like this for just as long. Moving on doesn’t mean you’re leaving him behind.’
‘I know…’ she replies, and I see a sheen of tears in her green eyes. ‘You’re right, the logical part of me gets that. I’m so lucky, to have found this place. These people. But hey, we’re not always logical, are we?’
‘I for one pride myself on never being logical. It’s one of my most endearing qualities, as you know. But even my screwed-up view of life doesn’t allow you to feel guilty about this – about living. So put a sock in it and have another drink.’
She laughs and does exactly that. I make the most of the pause to shove a huge spoonful of trifle in my mouth and she makes the most of that to start talking again.
‘So. On a totally different subject – Sam will be getting here later. He’s been in London for a week, doing Jurassic Coast workshops with kids in museums and libraries – drove off into the sunset with a big van of fossils… anyway, I can’t wait for you to meet him.’
She raises her eyebrows and does a kind of Benny Hill face, suggesting that by the word ‘meet’, she actually means ‘shag the arse off’. I can understand why she thinks this is likely. I have, to put it politely, played the field in my time.
It must all have looked like great fun to her. She was busy changing nappies and I was picking up Brazilian exchange students in nightclubs. And for a while, it was fun. Until… well, until it wasn’t. Until it started to make me feel even lonelier than being on my own. Until the emptiness of it started to bite, and I’d find myself in tears, waking up with yet another piece of divine manhood whose name I didn’t know.
What can I say? It wasn’t pretty. And yet another part of my life that is now well and truly over.
Sam – known as Surfer Sam – is another one of her Budbury friends. Lizzie sent me loads of pictures of him over the summer, sun-dappled and hot on his bodyboard, all shaggy blonde hair and dimples and long, lean muscles. Laura was blatantly pimping him out, and he didn’t seem to mind. I played along and made all the right appreciative noises – which was fine when I was safely tucked away in Manchester. Now I’m here, I need to nip it in the bud before she goes all Jane Austen’s Emma on our asses.
I slurp down the last bit of trifle, which is, incidentally, delicious, and say: ‘Don’t get any ideas, sis. You should know I’m on a diet.’
‘It’s hard to take that statement seriously when you have chocolate custard smeared all over your face,’ she replies, passing me a napkin so I can wipe it off.
‘I mean a sex diet. Gorgeous as your Surfer Sam might be, bonking is not on the menu – so stop trying to ram him down my throat. As it were.’
She pauses, inspects my face, and uses another napkin to dab at the bit I’ve missed. Sometimes she is so much like my mother I could happily throttle her. I suppose I’m lucky she didn’t spit on it first.
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I’ve never known you to stick to any kind of diet before for the whole of your life. And you’ve not even met him yet. He might sweep you off your feet. That kind of thing can happen here. And at Christmas.’
She looks so convinced of all of this – so sure that she understands me and what I need – that I feel like a complete heel for keeping things from her. Now she’s healthier, perhaps I should be more honest. That, though, will take some thought – and some solitude. For now, I need to get through the night.
‘I applaud your faith in miracles, Laura, I really do,’ I say. ‘But no. Just no. And now… well, I’m just nipping outside for a bit, all right?’
‘Fag break?’ she asks.
‘No, I just need to shoot up a bit of heroin, okay? And I’m taking one of these spoons.’
I grab a spoon – which is downright silly, as it too is coated in chocolate custard – and make for the door.
Once I’m outside, I feel free. Like I can breathe again. I also feel, it has to be noted, bloody freezing. The snow that has been floating around off and on all day has lowered the temperature right down, and I’m wearing skinny jeans and a blouse. I’ve left my sweater over the back of the chair, and my skin immediately puckers up with the cold as I lick the chocolate off the spoon and shove it into my pocket.
Still, I needed the break. I glance down at the bay, at the moonlight reflecting off the waves, at the wide open space and the completely deserted beach, and it calms me down. I love my sister, and her kids, and I genuinely like everyone I’ve met in Budbury so far. But there just comes a point where I need to suck in oxygen alone.
I’ve been this way since being a small child and it’s unlikely to change. Laura’s always been more sociable than me. More friendly. More likable, basically. I always get to a stage where no matter how much I’m enjoying myself, I make a run for it – whether that’s for the garden outside a clifftop café or jumping into a black cab and leaving my friends in a busy bar in Manchester.
For a moment, I wish I was still a smoker. That was always a fabulous reason to nip out for a minute – but the downside of lung cancer and COPD just doesn’t seem to be worth it.
Instead, I pause for a second, bathed in the lights shining from inside the café, listening to the chatter and the music and the laughter and cursing myself for not being able to be part of that world. Then I go through one of my more insane rituals – I pull a fictional cigarette packet from my jeans pocket, followed by my fictional cigarette lighter. A really nice Zippo, because if you’re going to have a fictional lighter, it might as well be a good one.
I extract a fictional Marlborough Light from the pack and put it in my mouth. I spark up the lighter and take my first glorious puff. And there I stand, pretending I’m smoking, like the loon that I am.
I have been doing this for a few seconds when I hear the footsteps. Boots crunching on frosty grass, walking towards me from the darkened corner of building. I adopt my Manchester street stance and wonder if I should have a key grasped between my knuckles like my mother always taught me.
I look cautiously at the figure that’s approaching. Male. Tall. Blonde. Pretty damn gorgeous. And very obviously amused.
‘Hey,’ he says, coming to a halt in front of me. ‘Would you mind if I had one of your imaginary cigarettes?’
Oh good. Not a serial killer, but a witness to behaviour I’d much rather remain unwitnessed.
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply, my voice catching up with my brain. ‘Just let me check how many I’ve got left.’
I look in the imaginary packet and nod, pulling one out for him.
Sam – and I know it is him. I recognise him from the photos – graciously accepts it, pops it in his mouth and waits for me to light it for him.
He takes a long, exaggerated drag, and I have to laugh. Clearly he’s as bonkers as I am.
‘I thought I’d just about given up as well…’ he says, his tone a perfect mix of pleasure and disappointment.
He drops the cigarette-that-doesn’t-exist and pretends to grind it out with his big, muddy boot.
‘I’m Sam,’ he says, offering a hand to shake. ‘And I’m guessing you must be Becca.’
He smiles and it is dazzling. He has a blissfully lovely Irish accent, his blue eyes are bright and mischievous, and his fingers around mine are strong and welcomingly warm. Straight away I feel a spark between us, brighter than the flame from my imaginary Zippo.
Oh shit, I think, as I eventually follow h
im back into the café. That kind of spark doesn’t bode well for me at all.
Neither does the fact that the table is being cleared, and what looks like a very spirited – and by that I mean drunk – game of charades is in progress. I guess you have to make your own fun when you live in the middle of nowhere.
I settle back down in my chair, aware of the fact that Sam is going around the room getting hugs from everyone, and hoping he doesn’t come and sit next to me. I need time to calm down after that spark-y thing.
Approximately two minutes later, of course, he sits down at my side. He’s shed the winter jacket and the beanie hat, and beneath he is wearing a form-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt with Japanese writing on it. It probably translates as ‘Dangerously Hot Dude’.
He gives me a cheeky wink, and I can’t help but smile back at him. He’s one of those people who is so infectiously happy that you’d have to work very hard not to go along with it.
‘This,’ he says, leaning towards me and whispering, ‘is what passes for a wild night out round here. Be prepared to be blown away.’
‘I already am,’ I reply, pointing at Cherie, who is currently miming what appears to be a crazed serial killer repeatedly attacking a dwarf. She has an imaginary weapon in her hand, possibly a sword or an axe or an especially sharp pencil, and is slashing away at thin air with it. People are randomly shouting out the names of films, like Psycho and The Shining, and each time she shakes her head in frustration.
She then grabs her hair in one hand, and holds it up in the air until it’s in one thick strand pointing skywards. The whole thing is mystifying and making me laugh so much my chair is rattling.
Eventually, after breaking down the little words and doing some kind of Indian-warrior hand-on-mouth movement, Frank finally gets it: The Last of the Mohicans. Of course. Why didn’t we get that?
Sam nudges me, and I see that he is also cracking up. We are the only truly sober people here, which somehow makes it all even funnier.
Laura is up next, and I see her face crease into a grimace as she picks her crumpled bit of paper from the tobacco box where they’re stored. We’ve played this game more times than I care to remember, and suspect I will have a head start on everyone else, knowing how her mind works.
Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 5
