The Comfort Food Café, page 6
‘So,’ Laura says, chattering on, raising her voice over the gusts of wind, ‘it’s a nice little cottage, and more private because it’s tucked away back here. Three bedrooms, so big enough in case your son comes to stay, and you have your own garden at the back where you can see the best sunsets. Obviously this isn’t ideal weather, but it’s only September, and there’ll be plenty of nice days left once the storm passes. You can sit out and have a glass of wine and watch the birds; it’s really lovely. Plus it’s the perfect size, you know—you won’t feel crowded, but it’s also really cosy, and—’
She halts abruptly as we turn the corner, and stops dead in her tracks. I walk right into the back of her, and Sophie walks into the back of me. Gary looks up at us with his wise golden eyes like we’re all idiots.
I follow her gaze, my hair whipping in the wind, and see that Hyacinth House does not look cosy at all. In fact it barely looks like a house. Something has gone badly wrong, and the ground in front of it is strewn with smashed tiles and broken masonry and chunks of plaster.
More tiles are still falling, some catching on the wind and flying, and it looks like the tall brick chimney stack has collapsed, smashing open the roof on its way down. The little planter trough outside the door has been broken in two, pottery and squashed flowers mashed up by the falling roof tiles, and one of the windows has been broken, the lights shining from inside illuminating the wreckage.
‘Oh no! Oh no!’ mutters Laura, her hand going to her face, tears in her eyes. ‘What’s happened?’
She looks utterly devastated, and I suppose she is seeing a little piece of her personal history falling to pieces before her eyes. I move us all back a bit, not wanting to get caught by a flying brick, and stare at the scene in front of us. I can see, through that broken window, how lovely it is inside—or at least how lovely it was.
Fresh flowers had been placed on the table, but the wind has blown the vase over, and water is dripping onto the floor. A bottle of wine has fallen onto its side, and the chintzy sofa nearest the window is covered in rain and bits of rubble that have been blown inside.
If I ignore all of that, and focus on the wood-burning fire and the basket full of logs, I can see that it would have been the perfect cosy refuge for us. That effect is ruined by the disintegrating roof, and the fact that the floral curtains are twisting around in the wind, as though they’re trying to warn us off.
‘I think, um, maybe there’s been an accident?’ I say, lamely. Sophie gives me a ‘you think?’ look, and I shake my head at her. This is bad—no getting away from it—but for us it’s just an inconvenience. We can find a hotel, or at worst sleep in the car. For Laura, this is something more.
An especially powerful gust of wind howls around us, and more tiles slip from the top of the building, shattering into pieces when they crash to the ground. I put my arm around Laura, and steer her away from the cottage, back towards the path. She barely resists, and I can feel her body trembling beneath my hands.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, voice weak with emotion. ‘I wanted it to be perfect for you, just like it was for me. I wanted everything to be right.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, leading her back around to the lawn, heading towards Black Rose. ‘It can all be fixed, I’m sure. Everything looks worse at night. Come on, let’s get you home now.’
She seems to pull herself together a bit, either because of my words or because she doesn’t want to risk her girls seeing her so upset. She nods, and manages to reply: ‘You’re right. I’m sure it’ll be okay with a glue gun and a bit of TLC.’
Sophie and I share a look at this, because there’s no way that roof is going back on with a glue gun. This isn’t the time to mention that, though, as Laura is just about holding all her pieces in.
When we walk through the door to Black Rose, Midegbo greets us with a woof and an excited gambol towards Gary. Our poor little fella is a soggy doggy again, and I know exactly how he feels. As the warmth of Laura’s home hits me, I realise exactly how cold I am. I glance at Sophie, and see that her teeth are chattering. I usher her towards the fire that is roaring away in the living room just as Matt walks in, barefoot in pyjamas. He does a bit of a double-take when he sees us all standing in front of the fire warming our extremities, which is understandable.
I only met him very briefly earlier, and he spoke maybe four words to me. It’s not that he was rude, just quiet. Probably that works well for him in Budbury, because everyone else seems to talk all the time. He nods at me, quickly covering up his confusion, his eyes going straight to his wife.
She runs towards him and into his arms, and despite the fact that she is soaked wet through, he simply wraps her up in an embrace. He drops a kiss on her curls, and murmurs comforting words, even though he presumably has no idea what’s wrong. As I watch her cling to him, see him offer such sweet consolation, I feel a flutter of envy. It’s not my proudest moment, and obviously it’s not that I don’t want Laura and Matt to be happy… I suppose it’s just that I miss having that myself. It’s only when you’re single that you realise the world is full of couples.
Sophie and I stand by the fire, looking away from them, because it somehow seems like an intrusion to watch. After a few more moments, I hear him ask: ‘Okay, so is somebody going to tell me what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Hyacinth!’ Laura says. ‘She’s fallen down!’
Hyacinth is a girl, apparently.
‘It’s not that bad, I don’t think,’ I chip in. ‘Looks like the chimney stack has been blown down, and it’s taken most of the roof with it. Lots of loose tiles, some damage downstairs. Might be a bit of a mess upstairs, I’d imagine, but it’s still standing! It’ll be all right, Laura.’
Somehow, I realise that I feel guilty. Like it’s my fault that her favourite building in the whole world collapsed on the night we were supposed to move in.
She swipes tears away from her eyes, and comes over to give me a hug.
‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I’m just being a drama queen because I love it so much. And thank you for reacting like you have. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your first night in your new home, and I can’t imagine how it must have felt seeing that instead. Don’t worry. We’ll sort you out.’
Even as she says this, I see a flicker of doubt cross her face. She’d be terrible at poker, I think, because she’s clearly not good at hiding what’s worrying her.
Matt has listened to all of this while getting a big waxed jacket from the hallway and putting it on, along with a pair of wellies.
‘The girls are asleep,’ he says, gesturing upstairs. ‘I’m going to go and check out the damage, and I’ll call Gabriel and see if he can come round. We might need to try and get a tarp up, or at least fence it all off so nobody tries to use the pool in the morning.’
‘But it’s so late!’ Laura replies, looking aghast.
‘It’s only just gone ten, and you know what he’s like. He won’t be asleep anyway. Neither will Cherie if you want to call her. You stay here, and get some hot drinks and snacks going, okay?’
That is exactly the right thing to say to Laura, and evidence of how well Matt knows his wife. As soon as he mentions catering, she seems to transform into a different person: suddenly steady and calm, because now she knows what she has to do, and she is perfectly capable of doing it.
She gives Matt a kiss and tells him to be careful, blocking Midgebo from the door as he tries to follow him, and tells us she’ll be back in a jiffy.
As she bustles around in the kitchen, and we sit close to the fire, I look around properly for the first time. It’s a big room, but also a full room—five-year-old twins will do that to a place. But behind the clutter, I see good proportions, a nice high ceiling, a big bay window that looks out to the green. Nothing matches—the curtains, the wallpaper, the furniture—but somehow that adds to its charm. It’d be called ‘eclectic’ on one of the shows I watch.
If I was doing it up, I’d get some shelving built in to the alcoves—something nice, high quality crafts, dark wood—and then the random books and games and photo albums would have somewhere to call home. I’d probably paint it all, maybe a rich deep burgundy, and an old leather Chesterfield would look fabulous in here. At the moment there’s a carpet, and a couple of rugs that I suspect have been strategically positioned to hide the signs of wear that young kids and lively Labradors tend to leave. I’d get rid of that, sand down the floorboards, and varnish them.
Laura and Matt’s house is, of course, gorgeous the way it is; it is a lived-in family home drenched in comfort and familiarity, a place full of laughter and love and belonging. My little mental survey of ‘what I’d do’ isn’t to criticise them; it’s to calm my own mind. It’s a thing I enjoy doing wherever I go, to distract myself. During my lowest moments, I’ve actually been known to browse the Rightmove website, looking for dilapidated houses and imagining how I’d redesign them. Sad but true.
Right now, I need that distraction, because I am starting to feel the aftereffects of seeing our alleged new home collapsing before my eyes.
I’d focused on Laura right then, because she was a mess, but now I feel a low-level tremble spreading through my body. It’s mainly internal, a kind of hum of anxiety, but as Laura passes me a huge mug of tea, I see that my hands are shaking slightly. Sophie has crashed out in a big armchair and has her eyes closed, her skin pale and wisps of dark hair glued to the side of her face. She’s almost asleep; I can tell from her breathing.
Laura seems fully recovered from her shock, just in time for me to start experiencing my own. We’re like a tag team. I sip my tea, and after a few moments I ask: ‘Who’s Gabriel?’
‘Oh! Well, he’s relatively new here—by which I mean he’s been around for a year or so. He inherited a little smallholding a few miles outside the village, from Mr Pumpwell.’
I bite my lip and try not to laugh at the name. Pumpwell? That’s so funny, and now I know Sophie is definitely asleep, or she’d be on that straight away. I remind myself that if Gabriel inherited a property, then Mr Pumpwell is sadly no longer with us, and I need to show some respect. Still, though.
‘We were all a bit surprised, because none of us even knew he had relatives—he was a bit of a loner, Mr Pumpwell. Pumpwell, Pumpwell, Pumpwell. Yes, I see you there, Maxine Connolly, trying not to giggle! Anyway, Auburn, Willow’s sister—redhead, sang “A Whole New World”—was pretty close to him. She used to take him his prescriptions and have a chat, and … well, I don’t suppose that matters. He was in his late eighties, so it wasn’t exactly a shock when he died, but it’s never nice, is it? Everyone stepped in to re-home most of his animals, and take care of the one that was left, and the farmhouse was mothballed.
‘Then one day—this was high drama in Budbury, as you can imagine—a mysterious stranger drove into town…’
‘Are you sure he drove? Didn’t he actually ride in on a piebald pony, then walk into the local saloon and ask for a sarsaparilla?’
‘Hush now! And kind of. He was driving an old-fashioned Land Rover and came into the café and asked for a coffee. Turns out he was Mr Pumpwell’s great-nephew, and he’d been living abroad. Nobody really knows, there are all kinds of rumours about him. Like he was in the SAS, or M15, or the French Foreign Legion.’
‘Why? Is he soldier-y?’
‘Well, not really, not to look at. But there’s something about him that’s a bit different, I suppose. He’s very private!’
She says this as though it is the worst thing that has happened, ever, in the entire universe. I get the feeling that although the Budbury ladies are absolutely adorable, they make my levels of nosiness look like disinterest. I can only imagine how much of a torment it’s been to have this man so close, and for him to remain a mystery—and that’s resulted in them creating a mythical history that casts him as Jack Reacher. It’s funny, and I can’t keep the smile off my face.
‘Right. I feel your pain. So why is Matt calling him now?’
‘Because he’s also single-handedly renovated Mr Pumpwell’s place, and also done some other building jobs around the village, and he’s just one of those blokes, you know? The ones who always know which wall is a structural wall, and who has ladders that go to the moon, and can just fix anything?’
‘You sound like you’re in love with him, Laura. Or at least like he could be the star of one of those rude movies where a hot man comes around to fix the washing machine, and ends up taking a spin cycle in the bedroom…’
She laughs, blushes slightly, and replies: ‘I know what you mean. Though to be honest, I’d prefer a man who just fixed the washing machine and left. But what can I say? I’m only flesh and blood … and he is easy on the eye. Like a combination of Poldark and the guy out of The Last Kingdom. Did you ever watch that?’
She sounds a little dreamy as she asks, and I second that emotion. There’s not a boxed set out there I haven’t watched, and I spent a delightful few months lost in the world of the Vikings and Anglo-Saxon England not so long ago.
‘Oh yes. Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I wouldn’t mind him fixing my washer.’
We both giggle like schoolgirls, and I’m glad Sophie is asleep. She is but young, and she doesn’t quite understand that just because women hit their later years, they don’t magically grow up. Inside, our teenaged selves are always lurking, waiting for the chance to escape.
It’s a pleasant distraction, and one that I needed. I’m exhausted now, and the creeping doubts that I’d only just started to shed are sneaking back into my mind. Has this all been a terrible mistake? Is it too late to cancel the tenants? Am I the world’s unluckiest woman?
Some of this must show on my face, because Laura reaches out to pat my hand, and says, ‘It’ll all be okay. What’s life without a few challenges?’
‘I don’t know. Easy?’
‘Easy is overrated. Look, you guys can stay here tonight, Lizzie and Nate’s rooms are free. And longer term, we’ll sort something, all right? This is Budbury. There’s always a solution. Don’t sit there fretting, wondering if you’ve cocked up, because you haven’t. It’s just a storm, not a cosmic message. I know I overreacted when I saw what had happened, but I’m made entirely of mush. Everything will be good in the end. I need to make a few calls, and maybe have a hot shower. Are you okay down here for a bit? The kitchen’s just through there if you want anything, and there’s a fresh Victoria sponge on the counter. Help yourself, but just make sure you don’t leave anything within Midgebo reach, okay?’
The dog, who is lying with Gary in front of the fire, looks up at the mention of his name. One ear twitches, and his eyes seem to say ‘who me?’
I nod, and assure her that we will be fine. I finish my tea, and feel comfy enough here to put my feet up on the sofa. That is my last memory for an unspecified amount of time, as I seem to defy all the odds and drift off to sleep. It could have been for a minute, or it could have been for hours, but when I wake up my eyes are crusted together and I have drool on my chin. Nice.
I glance over to Sophie, see that she is still in the land of nod, and begin the process of stretching out my limbs and reacquainting myself with reality. I can hear quiet voices coming from the nearby kitchen, and listen in.
‘All the cottages at the Rockery are booked,’ Laura says. ‘I checked with Cherie, and we’d only blocked out Hyacinth. She called Cal, but the farmhouse is full—Frank’s grandson is over from Australia, Martha’s back, and they’ve hired some new hands for the season.’
‘What about Tom’s place? Briarwood?’ Matt asks.
‘Also full. Apparently they just got a fresh batch of residents in. Edie has a spare bedroom, but only the one, and nowhere else in the village is empty. There’s Tom’s motorhome, but that’s only got one bed too. What are we going to do? I feel so bad for them!’
I hate being the source of this whispered debate, and get to my feet to join them. Gary comes over and gives my hand a lick, fulfilling his role as my moral support dog.
A new voice chips in, deep and male and unrecognised as I make my way to the kitchen.
‘She can stay at mine if she wants to. It’s not luxurious, but there are bedrooms that are just about usable. I don’t have beds, or blankets, or any of that stuff, though.’
I presume this is the mysterious Gabriel, and I pause a few feet away to listen in. He sounds grumpy, and the offer he’s just made doesn’t sound enticing.
‘Beds or blankets or that stuff’—he says this as though it’s a spa bath and underfloor heating, not a basic necessity. More than that, though, I am taken aback by the reluctance I hear in his tone. Everyone I’ve met here so far has been so welcoming, so friendly, and this man speaks as though he’s just offered himself up to be injected with a live dose of ebola. But what do I know? Maybe he sounds like that even when he’s opening his Christmas presents.
‘Well, we could get the furniture, that wouldn’t be an issue,’ Laura replies, and I can almost hear her brain working. ‘That’s a manageable hurdle. But are you sure? I know you, erm, like your own space … and she does have a dog, too?’
There’s a pause before he replies, and when it comes it’s a humdinger: ‘The dog isn’t a problem. And yes, I do like my own space … but the house is big enough that I can avoid them. They just need to try and stay out of my way. I’m not a nanny.’
Wow. I feel a flush of anger, and am considering marching in there and telling him he’s more than welcome to his solitude. I think I’d rather go back to Birmingham than be such an inconvenience.
‘Okay, well, maybe that could work,’ says Laura, sounding relieved. ‘I really want it to work. She’s so nice, and so is Sophie, and I’m … well, let’s just say that I’m emotionally invested! I want this to work out, for them and for us—we do need the help at the café now Willow’s leaving, and Cherie likes her too. She’s not been herself since Frank died last year, and I think having someone new around will be good for her. She really perked up once she started chatting to Max on video call. Like it gave her something different to think about. She’s not been firing on all cylinders for a while now.’
