The Comfort Food Café, page 11
‘Tea?’ I ask, holding up a mug, as though demonstrating what ‘tea’ looks like.
‘No. Thank you. Look, I just wanted to tell you that you might hear me moving around in the night. I don’t sleep much. So, that’s it. Goodnight.’
He nods, as though satisfied that he’s delivered his message, and disappears off up the stairs.
‘He’s so weird,’ whispers Sophie as we sit down. ‘But I think I like him.’
Chapter Eight
My first day working at the Comfort Food Café is a mixed bag, but on the whole has to go in the ‘win’ column on the spreadsheet of life.
My usual working hours are set as eight until three, with every Monday off and one other day as well, sorted between us. When I arrive, Laura is already there, creating something that smells of apples and cinnamon in a mixing bowl. As soon as she sees me, she wipes her floury hands down on her apron, and comes over to chat.
‘How was your first night at Gabriel’s?’ she asks, a slight hint of concern in her voice.
‘It was fine,’ I say. ‘Ate your excellent lasagne. Watched badgers. Slept like a baby.’
The last part isn’t entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know that. It always takes me some time to settle into a new place. I’m the same even when we go on holiday. Every building has its own character, its own creaks and groans, and until I’m accustomed to them I seem to have some kind of adrenaline reaction. I did hear Gabriel as well, doors opening and closing, him coming up and down the stairs a few times. Gary is in with me, and every time it happened, he tried to get out and find him, which didn’t help. I suppose it will just take time, and we’re not going to be there for long.
He was already up and out by the time I staggered into the kitchen on my traditional coffee hunt, leaving behind a few signs of his presence: a single washed mug by the sink and the smell of toast in the air. I was relieved he wasn’t there, to be honest, because he’s unpredictable, and I’m not good in the mornings. Plus, I was wearing a ratty old dressing gown and looked like poo.
Sophie comes into work with me, and has a busy day planned. She’s taking Gary up into the village to explore ‘the shops’—which I can’t imagine will take her long—and then is coming back to set herself and her laptop up to do some school work. Her teacher has set her up for her online courses—psychology, English lit and history—and she seems very determined about it. I’m pleased. She’s been a little directionless of late, and it’s good to see her so motivated.
She could have found a uni course that would have accepted her with her lower grades, but came up with some very logical reasons why it wasn’t a good idea: the cost, mainly, and the fear of ending up massively in debt with a degree that wasn’t much use to her.
I’d assured her there was money in the savings pot if she wanted to go, but she still stayed at home. She said she just wasn’t ready but I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that she actually meant I wasn’t ready. I think she was worried about leaving me when I was vulnerable, and that is a topsy-turvy relationship dynamic that has always upset me. If nothing else comes of our adventure in Dorset, at least she’ll know that I’m now capable of change, of embracing life, of building something new.
She called in briefly to say hello to Laura, then disappeared off up towards the village, basking in a burst of autumn sunshine. It’s a glorious day, a vague chill in the air, but the pastel-blue skies make up for it. Down on the beach, I can see plenty of people walking and playing, dogs and toddlers and couples, already out and making the most of the weather. At this time of year, with October staring us in the face, every warm day feels like a gift.
Once she’s gone, Laura gives me a brief tour of the café kitchens, which I note with surprise are decked out with all mod cons. The main café itself might be quirky and cluttered, but the business end of things is a different matter.
‘We won’t get many customers in for another half-hour or so,’ she explains. ‘So for now, it’s all about the prep!’
I follow her instructions and start chopping salad and plating up sandwiches for the cooler, and putting jacket spuds into the potato oven for later. She’s making muffins, and has already got a raspberry cheesecake chilling in the fridge. As we work, she tells me about her plans to test out a Halloween menu, and completely loses herself in her enthusiasm for it.
I smile as she goes into ecstasies about pumpkin spiced soup and cookies in the shape of ghosts and Red Velvet cake designed so it looks like it’s dripping in blood. Laura is a woman who was born to do this job; I’m just a woman who can do this job, but will never feel it in my bones like she does.
We pass the time in pleasant companionship, and once I’m done in the kitchen, I go out into the café and check everything is shipshape. I notice more random items that hadn’t registered before: an antique sewing machine, a giant conch shell, a collection of tiny silver spoons, and a few framed photos from what looks like the Second World War.
When I ask about them, Laura tells me that one of the girls in the pictures is our very own Edie May, back when she was in the Timber Corps, which was like the Land Army but with more trees. Edie is apparently ninety-eight, which is astonishing—she seems fitter than I am.
Our first customer of the day is Becca, Laura’s sister, who calls in after dropping her daughter and Ruby and Rose off at school. She looks nothing like Laura, really, and it’s only the easy banter they share that tips you off about their relationship.
‘Mum and Dad want to know if they can have the girls for a couple of nights in half term,’ she says, sipping her coffee and perching on one of the tall stools by the counter. ‘I’ve told them they can have Little Edie permanently if they like.’
‘You don’t mean that!’ says Laura, flicking her with a tea towel. ‘What would you do without her?’
‘I’d watch TV that doesn’t feature cartoons or annoyingly perky presenters, read books, go for long walks, eat cake, have enormous soaks in the bath, go to art galleries, visit the cinema, take a trip to London and see a show, have lie-ins, go clubbing, learn how to ride a Segway, and have spectacular sex with my boyfriend without having to be quiet. Especially that last one. I’d do that a lot.’
I can’t argue with that list, and Laura gives up and laughs.
‘Okay, fair enough. Tell Mum and Dad it’s a yes from me. I also have a husband I’d like to enjoy some personal time with. Do you think they’d take Midgebo as well?’
‘No, because they’re not stupid. I think you’re stuck with your hooligan animal. You’ll just have to shut the door while you and Matt have a bonkathon. How’s it going, Max? Settling in? Overwhelmed by the Budbury madness? Feeling like the world and his wife wants to know every last thing about you?’
‘Well,’ I say, wiping down the counter in the absence of anything else to do, ‘I’m staying with Gabriel, so no to the last question.’
‘Ah yes. Gabriel Moran, Mystery Man. He’s quite the enigma, hidden inside a puzzle, and wrapped in a stud-muffin exterior. He’s nice enough, just takes a bit of getting used to.’
I nod, and leave it at that. I can already see Laura’s gossip antenna whirring inside her brain and don’t want to fuel it. I’m also strangely relieved that he’s not actually called Pumpwell.
After Becca, a few other people start arriving, fresh from early-morning walks and looking to warm up with a cosy hot chocolate and a treat. I make toast, and grill bacon, and serve up muffins, and generally make myself as useful as I can be. Sophie comes back just before lunch, and bags herself and Gary a little table in the corner, where she works at her laptop. It’s nice having them there.
The work is pretty plain sailing, and as it gets busier, I enjoy it more. Sophie was right about me, of course: I am nosy, and I do like chatting to people. I suppose I’d just forgotten that about myself, wallowing in self-pity as I was. I’m a far happier person when I have something useful to do, and ideally people to talk to while I do it. This isn’t unlike my old job on the tills, but with more cake and walking around.
By half past two, the lunch rush has passed, and we mainly just have a few stragglers coming in looking for sustenance. Pretty much all of the fresh food for the day has sold, and Laura is clearing up outside.
While she’s doing that, I’m attempting to make a takeaway latte for one of the last customers, which is probably foolish as I’ve had minimal training, and the coffee machine looks like something from a steampunk convention. It’s huge, intimidatingly loud, and has more metal tubes and buttons than I know what to do with.
Everything seems to be going well until there’s a big gust of steam, and the machine starts making a low-pitched hissing sound. I suddenly remember this bit from my instructions, but can’t remember what I’m supposed to do when it happens.
I faff around randomly pressing things, dodging the steam and apologising to the customer, all while the hissing noise is getting higher and higher. Much like my stress levels.
I’m about to run out into the garden and scream Laura’s name when Cherie appears at my side. She’s popped down from her flat a few times, but retired for a ‘siesta’ a while ago. She looks bleary-eyed now as she strides towards me, grabbing hold of a small hammer that’s hanging from a chain next to the coffee machine. She gives the machine a giant whack on the top, and the hissing sound immediately stops. Unfortunately, other sounds begin … like the sound of Cherie crying.
It starts slowly, a few tears trickling out of the sides of her eyes, followed by a sad sigh. Then she cries a bit more, and pretty soon she is standing there in front of the coffee machine, holding the hammer in shaking hands, full-on sobbing. I quickly finish up the latte for the customer, giving it to them on the house, and turn my attention back to Cherie.
I take the hammer from her hands, and put it back on its hook. She’s holding her face in her fingers, and the tears are streaming, and her whole body is trembling. She’s a large woman, but I try and put my arms around her and console her, patting her back and telling her everything is okay. I’ve no idea what’s going on, but her pain is contagious, and I’m desperate to comfort her. She lets out a soul-splitting cry and throws her head down on my shoulder, her arms around my waist.
I simply let her sob, stroking her hair and waiting until the moment passes. Eventually it does, and she pulls away from me, taking a deep breath and making a very obvious effort to calm herself down. Sophie is looking on in concern, and I give her a nod to tell her everything is all right.
Cherie smoothes stray strands of silver-grey hair from the sides of her face, and swipes at her eyes. She gazes down at me, and suddenly lets out a very unexpected laugh.
‘I’m so sorry, my love!’ she says, pointing at my T-shirt. ‘I’ve gone and got you all soggy, haven’t I?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ I reply, shaking my head dismissively. ‘It’ll save me having a shower later. Are you okay?’
‘Course I am … now. Snuck up on me, that one did. That was Frank’s job, see? Looking after the coffee machine. He could dismantle it and put it back together again quick as you like, that man. Always said it was temperamental, like a woman, the cheeky bugger. I need to replace it really, it’s old as the hills, but … well…’
‘It’d be like replacing a bit of him?’
‘Exactly, my sweet. You understand. And although I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of that little display, thank you for your kindness. I’ve spent years comforting other people in this place, and now suddenly it feels like I’m always the one in need of a soft word and a shoulder to cry on. I’m not sure I like it, to be honest. Makes me feel less super-human than usual!’
‘Well, your secret’s safe with me, Wonder Woman,’ I reply. ‘Don’t worry. I have two shoulders, and they’re both always available to cry on, all right? We all need a little weep now and then.’
She nods, and reaches out to stroke my cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, warm and motherly.
‘See?’ she says wisely. ‘I knew Laura hadn’t got it wrong about you. Now, tell me, what else have you got planned for the day?’
At that moment Laura walks back in, and does a quick scan of the two of us.
‘You both okay?’ she asks. ‘Do I need to crack out the emergency Baby Guinness supplies and get the shot glasses?’
‘It’s all good, love,’ Cherie says, winking at me. ‘There was just a bit of a malfunction. Mechanical and human. Max here was just about to tell me what she has in store for the rest of the day.’
‘Well,’ I tell them, ‘I was going to pick up a bit of food from the farm shop, and I was wondering if one of you could show me how to use an Aga at some point? I’ve watched a few YouTube videos but it’d be much easier with some pro tips, and I’m sure you’re both pros. Gabriel only uses the microwave.’
‘Oh I know!’ exclaims Cherie, horrified. ‘We send him out care packages, but he’s a prickly one, just like Mr Pumpwell was. Took us ages to wear him down as well. Nice bit of home-cooked food will be just what the doctor ordered. I’ll come, love. Laura’s got the girls, and I’m at a loose end. Shall I meet you there in an hour or so?’
Sophie and I make our farewells and drive home, calling off at the shop for some supplies on the way. I don’t mind the occasional TV dinner, but it seems a shame to have that beautiful Aga, and not use it. The kitchen is beautiful, and it should feel like the heart of the home. I can only hope that making some tasty meals will result in that, and not in me burning the place down.
I’ve bought some fresh carrots for Belle, and when she sees me at the side of the paddock she runs at me at top speed. It’s terrifying to be honest, especially when she bares her massive teeth, and for a moment I think she’s going to crash through the fence and eat me alive. Instead, she slows down right in front of me, and lets out a sound that’s half-bray, half-scream. I hold the carrot towards her and she snatches it from me, missing my fingertips by an inch. As before, while she’s distracted I stroke her head, and this time she stays for a few more seconds before she snubs me. Slowly, slowly, catchee donkey.
There’s no sight of Gabriel when we get back inside the cottage, so I make the most of the chance to jump in the shower and change clothes. It’s been a while since I did a day’s work, or did anything new, and I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty knackered. But in a good way. A satisfying kind of knackered.
I’ve just put the kettle on when Cherie arrives, tooting her car horn in a way I am starting to realise is traditional out in the wilderness, a way of saying, ‘Hi, I’m here!’
She seems a lot more together now, and is wearing a spectacular maxidress covered in sunflowers. She also comes bearing cake, of course, and lays it down on the table before she inspects the Aga.
‘Oh, this is nice,’ she comments, after poking and prodding it a bit. ‘The range itself is old, and I’d guess originally it used coal. But somewhere along the line it’s been converted to gas, which is a lot easier. It’s in good nick. Mr P must have looked after it. Just needs a bit of a clean … and to be honest, love, probably a service as well. You don’t want to mess around with this stuff, and I wouldn’t recommend using it straight away. Once it’s up and running, though, it’ll work a treat!’
She gives me a little guide on how to use it, and although there’s a lot to remember, it’s not that complicated really. She talks me through how the stove-top hot plates can be used, and the different functions of the various oven compartments. It’s a lot more versatile than the little four-ringed cooker we have at home, and I can see why it was beloved of olden-days families cooking all their meals from scratch. This is a mighty beast, made for multi-tasking and heating a home.
For the time being, we’re stuck with what we’ve got.
‘I’ll make a stew,’ says Sophie, peering into our bag of food. ‘There’s chicken and veg, and even Gabriel has salt and pepper. I can do it on the little hob thing. We can dip that crusty bread we got into it. It’ll be delish! Plenty for all of us.’
I leave her to it—she enjoys cooking—and accompany Cherie as she walks around the downstairs of the house. It feels weird having her here, and I wonder if I’m breaking some kind of rule by inviting a guest. Then I remember the things Gabriel said when he was talking in Laura’s kitchen that night; he is clearly fond of Cherie.
She pulls a face at the living room, and says: ‘Bit basic, isn’t it? I know he’s a man and all, but still. It needs more … everything!’
‘I know. It’s a gorgeous room, and so full of light. I’d get some new curtains for a start, maybe deep green velvet to go with the floor. I’d leave the stone walls—I think they look lovely—but the beams need a bit of attention. They’ve obviously been painted at some point in the past, and it needs stripping off. And look at that, just a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling! That’s barbaric! It needs a shade, and the whole room would be much nicer at night with some lamps, making it all cosy. Then I’d add a nice rug in the middle of the room, maybe even something a bit exotic, with an Aladdin vibe? The room’s big enough to carry that.’
I walk around, visualising it all, and add: ‘It needs some proper furniture, obviously. Doesn’t need to match, but you could easily have two sofas in here. Big ones, pale colours, don’t you think? And some bookcases. Pine would look best. You have some gorgeous framed photos of the coast and countryside in the café. Imagine bigger versions of those on the walls, maybe even canvas rather than frames? It’d be such a lovely combination: the traditional beams and walls, but with that modern touch? And flowers. Every room looks better with flowers, doesn’t it? You could have a little table here by the window, and vases full of them…’
Cherie looks bemused as I wander around the room, gesturing and imagining. I suddenly feel embarrassed, and shut up.
